Kote’s House
Kote’s first house is a pathetic thing, and he is incurably proud of it. The twi’lek he purchased it from very evidently could not make up his mind what to do with a man that grinned while he haggled, but it was the first time Kote had haggled over a purchase of his very own. He had thoroughly enjoyed it.
The house is built for one being, and a compact being at that, but Kote doesn’t have much. Moving in is quick, and most of his efforts during the next few days after go into attempting ambitious repairs for things he doesn’t know the first thing about.
His plumbing is an issue, he knows. Something is getting blocked up. Somehow while trying to fix the kitchen tumbler, his fresher spout explodes.
He hadn’t kept his new house a secret from anyone by any means, but it is still surprising when Fox barges in through his jamming front door. He finds Kote on the floor in his cramped kitchen while the fresher rains water in the adjacent room, laughing so hard and so crippled with delight that he can’t get up.
He tries to explain how wonderful it is —
“I-I have to fix my plumbing on my own, vod—”
—but judging by Fox’s single raised eyebrow he knows it doesn’t translate.
Fox, it turns out, is moving into the neighborhood. Kote doesn’t ask about the house Fox already has — the house he has visited, which is very nice and fancy — or point out that Fox’s contract there cannot possibly be up, which begs the question of why he’s here in Kote’s neighborhood — except that Kote already knows the answer to that question. So he doesn’t ask.
Fox doesn’t show him any grace or forbearance, though.
“Don’t even know how to fix a damn pipe, front lining show-off—” His brother snarls, but it is muffled; his top half had to go down beneath the floor they’d pried up to get at the plumbing issue.
“So that’s what they had you doing all these years.” Kote says, because he really is in a criminally good mood. He barely ducks the foot-long pipe Fox throws at his head, feeling giddy.
He makes dinner that night in thanks. Fox stays, ostensibly because now that he’s fixed the fresher he intends to use it, because his new house isn’t hooked up properly yet to all the supply lines and power grids.
They choke on homemade tiingilar (vode-style; Kote can’t pretend at the real thing yet) so heavily spiced it’s got grit to it that sticks between the teeth. It’s disgusting, but Cody had bought fifteen different spices and while usually he likes to keep his approach to the unknown more cautious, more methodical, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do more than use them all at once for the first time.
Wolffe joins them not long after; brings a few others along by recommending the apartment he picks out, so that soon most of the complex is taken up by vode, Kote hears, but he doesn’t visit yet. Everyone’s too busy coming over to his house, it seems; filling up his kitchen and asking why he hasn’t fixed the trash disposal yet, why he doesn’t have a couch, doesn’t he know they’re all the rage among civilized folk?
Kote fixes the trash disposal with Rex, who is better at it than he is but says it’s only due to Skywalker’s influence on managing all things mechanical.
“How is Skywalker?” Kote asks, and gets more than he bargained for over the next hour. At first he’s a bit off-put, because he’s trying to get dinner sorted again and he’s not been very fond of Skywalker at the best of times, but Rex is snorting out a story and laughing and it’s contagious, so Kote just resigns himself and settles in to enjoy.
Skywalker has little ones, now. Obi-Wan is the only one that can get them to sleep. Ahsoka is distressed; she knows better, but every instinct in her is apparently in agony over the little ones’ inability to eat meat yet. She obsesses over nutrients in their diet — which, given what tiny natborn humans primarily ingest in the early stages, makes for some slightly awkward conversations.
Rex helps with dinner afterward, and they take turns being incredulous over natborn baby facts, shoving around one another in the tiny, uncomfortable kitchen.
“What’s your next project?” Rex asks at one point, glancing sidelong with a cheeky look, and Kote levels his vegetable knife at him (he’s got a vegetable knife. Specifically for vegetables. It’s a very new concept).
“I make everyone’s dinner on Tuangsdays.” He says. “I’m productive.”
Rex’s sharp-toothed grin turns thoughtful. “Yeah” He says. “Everyone loves coming here, you know. You could be the new 79’s.”
Kote knows. He plans and plots, and puts more work into researching recipes than he’s put into any research whatsoever in months. It feels a bit like coming out of a shore leave; his thoughts quicken and his excitement grows. He hunts down a market. He brings a bag. He shops, bargains, and returns victorious.
He sends out a few comms., and can’t help but shake his head and grin at how different the responses are.
What a marvelous idea, Cody. His general — ex-general — says.
Yus pls, Ahsoka sends back, with some sort of strange tooka vidclip that dances with wiggly gyrations Kote can only assume indicate excitement.
Where is your house, Anakin says, blunt and to the point, and Kote can appreciate that.
He sends the address. He cooks all day. The sun sets, and Fox and Wolffe arrive, already bickering, Rex trailing behind with a long-suffering look sent to Kote, begging commiseration.
“Ugh, don’t you ever stop smiling, now?” He gripes when Kote just grins at him.
“Nope,” Kote says, unrepentantly.
He leaves the soup on the stove, simmering, and takes his cup of caf to the window. He leans on it, breathing in cool air, and just listens — listens to the squabbling as Wolffe gets on Fox’s case for not washing Kote’s dishes correctly the last time they visited. Hears the soft thumps of Rex sneaking into the cramped room Kote has set aside for plants and the sole pet he has; a pastel goullian, fins swaying ever so gently, permanent scowl in place. Thinks he catches, distantly, the sound of his remaining three guests (Padme couldn’t attend, and had made him feel very awkward by how thoughtfully she apologized for it) plodding up the hill.
“Cody!” Ahsoka cries, coming into view and waving.
Kote’s cheeks have stopped aching from all the smiling he’s gotten used to, so it’s easy to let another through.
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Thinking again how it would feel infinitely more realistic if any given installment of Fallout included multiple Pip-Boy models. Like, 2000, 2000-VI, 3000, 3000-IV, etc etc. Why is there only one model type visible in a given installment? Design simplicity? Surely, like how some people have the newest iPhone, and others still have their fifteen year old Razr, different models could've gotten scavenged. One area ever only getting a single model distributed feels... so unrealistic in a hyper-capitalist setting.
More NPCs should also have one. I know they're supposed to be incredibly rare (and potentially difficult to refurb/restore) but that doesn't mean it's prohibitively impossible for a non-Vault Dweller to have one. Esp. when NPCs on multiple occasions will insinuate you must've killed someone for the one you're currently wearing, or at the very least, someone died for you to get it.
I really wish we could see someone with a jury-rigged refurb Pip-Boy that's held together with bubblegum and spite. Someone whose Pip-Boy only works if it's plugged into a terminal. People with a newer or older model than the one your character's been given at the beginning. Being offered more chances than just the Pimp-Boy to change which one you've got.
It's kind of disappointing that 76 doesn't have Pip-Boy skins that make them look like other models, or even plans that let you craft other models that you can skin. (My line of thinking with this is many things--e.g. the Secret Service Underarmor, Binoculars, Jetpacks, etc.--come in multiple colors/patterns, but instead of recoloring the base one, you craft a new one. The ATX recolors for the Ranger Outfit feels pertinent precedent too somehow, but I can't put a finger on it.)
Anyway. More Pip-Boy variation within a single game setting pls.
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Hey Ghoul I hope your doing well!
I had a question about Fae!Soap.... What did you mean when you said he 'eats' his darlings?
Like did you mean he physically eats them whole and leaves nothing behind as in they're dead?
Or do you mean it in the sense that he devours their very being, their essence, their soul leaving them an empty shell once the dept is repaid.
Because I thought Fae Ghost and Konig were scary but I'm more afraid of soap now thinking he's done this to multiple ex darlings.
I got literal shivers when you said he eats them
Hi! Hello! I'm doing well, back in the states and eagerly typing away as I am meant to be. I had a lot of fun but it's nice to be home again!
Soap is a Leannán Sídhe, he is made to consume your very essence and being. He's made to be a muse, to inspire fits of mania and inspiration that will eventually drain their artist dry down to their very soul. His Darlings live very brief but very productive lives, and in those lives his only desire is making them produce more faster for him with little care the toll it takes on them. I'm gonna write some fae!Soap horror with a previous darling now.
Your shoulders are stiff, your mind sluggish, you haven't been sleeping well. Every time your head hits the pillow you're struck by another idea that you have to write down. You're too worried about losing it, inspiration has always been so fleeting for you, and your memory isn't what it was a few months ago. You rub at your eyes, scratching the corners with the edge of your nail. You hiss when the skin drags too harshly, pressing your finger against the sting that stops your work.
Soap's fingers grip your chin, pulling you to let him look in at your eye. His gaze is electric green, it's mesmerizing as his eyes flick over your face. Electric green, that's good, you should write that down. He doesn't let you go, his attention pulling you away from your work long enough to remind you of your rapidly approaching migraine. Have you eaten anything today? When is the last time you even touched food?
When is the last time you got up from your desk?
Soap smiles at you, a warm but pitying thing. When did he start staying with you? Why can't you remember the last time you saw your friends? The last time your phone buzzed with a new message from anyone but your editor? Had you even sent your last draft to anyone?
Soap nods, nods your head with his firm fingers. Is he doing this?
He opens his mouth when you do, the words catching in your throat at the way his teeth shine. The second set of molars that he has catching your eyes as you look up at him. That would be good, you think, for an unassuming monster. A nice detail.
You're breathing with your stomach, a conscious, forceful movement to keep air circulating. Soap leans down and kisses you so terribly gently, his tongue swiping through the blood that's started to drip from your nose.
"Think you're almost cooked Bonnie," he murmurs turning you back to your desk, "dinnae want you knocking it before you finish this draft though, I quite like this one."
You raise shaking hands to your keyboard, reading through the last lines of what you'd been working on to find your place again. Soap kisses your temple, easy as can be.
You don't know what you're so nervous about. Soap's fingers massage your shoulders, thumbs pressing on either side of your spine, dragging the ache from your neck. You almost feel bad that you haven't been paying much attention to him recently, not very good partner behavior on your part. You'll do better once you finish this draft, you think he'll like it. It's inspire by him after all.
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