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boxwinebaddie · 2 months

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NINNAAAA WHATS SPCD STAND FOR??

oh, it's not that exciting, it's actualy awful. i mentioned it towards the tail end of chapter five of rm. it's basically what cartman used to call kyle when they were growing up. a really cruel fucked up nickname.

the s.p.c.d,

or rather,

the south park city dump. :(

the sp boys used to be fucking horrible to kyle because cartman ruled their elementary/middle school. and when cartman and the boys saw kyle in the hallway they were like "what are you doing here, broflovski? trash day's tomorrow" or omg whenever he walked ANYWHERE they made the "Beep! Beep! Beep!" trash truck noises, but worst of all was that they used to dump out...Full Trashcans On Him. like spoiled milk, rotted food stuffs, glass bottles that werent put in recycling, crushed aluminum cans that cut his cheeks, all kinds of awful, foul smelling sludge...sigh. :/ ily so much baby jersey.

also, if you want to cry extra hard, i think that being covered in all that disgusting lunchroom trash, feeling it soak thru his shirt, stink down to the skin, pool around his shoes, get buried in his hair -- just feeling that dirty and disgusting and Unclean was one of the factors that made his ocd so severe and it's a large part as to why he takes scorching showers and rubs his skin raw bc especially if he smells something weird or its trash day, he gets triggered & has to SCRUB.

but anygays! you bet your ass that tiny lil stan was giving them ALL the business rippin around on his bike brandishing his hockey stick like a big sword, running them out of town and back to their mommas crying and screaming bloody murder all in that giant wayne gretsky *ravenstan vc* yersey...they were SCARED, lolllll!!!

which is a very interesting juxtaposition to sweet, gentle stan very lovingly picking all the food debris out of his kyles beautiful curly whirly hair before marching him over to the bathroom where while kyle showers, stan always sits on the toliet bc their running joke is that kyle might drown ( yes yersey also can't swim ) while stan listens to rock n colors his nails in w/ sharpie or stolen nail polish from shell.

and he's just like "dude, Fuck them, kyle! those fkn gilipollas are just mad because theyre all total perros and you're the most handsome guy in school, hands down." wHICH? AAA??? tbf stan does say shit like that all the time & Means It bc ravenstan has loved jers from the moment he Heard him but kyle thinks he's fuckin w/ him

bc haha!

very fun joke, stan! hit on the weird, overweight, clunky, awkward, nerdy loser boy to make him feel better about himself! great joke, bro!

bUT ITS NOT A JOKE, BESTIE!!!!

HE WANTS TO KISS YOU SO BAD!!!!!!!!

not them both bein secretly and painfully in love with each other but convinced that acting on their feelings would ruin their friendship/be unrequited and both of them being like "he is perfect, what would he want with a fuckin Loser like me?" :/ </3 WERE IN HELL!!!

regardless of thinking it was a joke, it totally made kyle blush, my rosecea king and stan was sooo nervous like oh my god, you are SO stupid, stanley marsh!!!!! guapo??? gUAPO BITCH??!!!! ARE U ACTUALLY INSANE!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU??!!!

i love nervous ass tiny stan with his massive universe sized crush on kyle broflovski that he carries around in his black jansport backpack at all times...along with the weight of the world, ofc. we know this.

but anyways..off topic.

closing thoughts?

fuck you fartman.

-uncle nina, tiny but big baby jersey kyle defense club

( don't touch my sweet son!!! MY BABY!!!!! )

p.s. i'm sorry i just started making new sections without warning. i wanted a way to post about what the boys looked or acted like during different periods of their lives -- so like, satana ( which is what stans mom called him ) refers to the period of time before the fire and kyle's 'the s.p.c.d.' section also refers to that period of time.

it's cool you guys are so perceptive tho! i hope you like them <333 you're always welcome to ask me questions about them xx

#the spcd nickname always makes me want to cry #i love you baby jersey kyle he is my angel #the world was so cruel to him #just for being fat too like #everyone who has ever hurt jersey can go hell right after they meet with me and i beat the living shit out of them...til they Die #stan was mad over protective too and stan was weird but he had Clout from being pretty so he was like IF I SEE THAT SHIT AGAIN ITS OVER #and then goes to lovingly tend to kyle like dude im so sorry you dont deserve this shit look im gonna tell their moms #and theyre gonna get so busted and have to pay you back for al your clothes...then we pretend to hit the gap and go to good will instead #and use the rest to buy tokens at the arcade or buy the new mario game and see who can finish a pizza faster its me btw #theyre in love ur honor like why didnt i give them a chance like they were...so married #ALSO AN ANON ASKED ME ABOUT BALLET KY #YES JERSEY TOOK BALLET it wasn't his idea it was an accident bc they were marking electives #and ballet was RIGHT next to basketball and then basketbal got full and sheila was like I ALREADY BOUGHT YOU SHOES UR GOING #and like at first it was really awkward but i think kyle actually really liked the structure of ballet and when u dance beautifully #what he found is that no one had anything to say about his weight just that his pirouette was perfect it was freeing #he dropped it during the kyley b era #but picked it up again in college and its kind of a form of self harm and he fucks up his feet very badly trying to be perfect #also hes like fuck all those people who laughed at me im perfect now im fucking perfect i have to show them i have to be the best #sigh...kyle kyle kyle...ill elaborate on that more in one of the ballet kyle asks but kyle loves ballet and going to preformances #ice skating and dainty refined stuff which is cute bc theyre very nosm like jers on ice skates and stan w the hockey stick during winter

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whispers-of-masser · 11 months

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Poor Form

✧ Nebarra x human!LDB, ft. Xelzaz & Khash ✧ Fluff, maybe angst (if you squint), slow-burn with tension; 2k+ word count ✧ Mentions of blood, (poorly written) fantasy violence ♫ "Ritual" - AWAY, Echos ✒ @dalishthunder come take responsibility for this

It was the grey hour when you woke, the quiet lull between full night and the oncoming dawn. From where you lay in the tent, the only sounds you could hear were the steady breaths of your companions, the breeze rustling by outside, and the lone call of a bird, faint and dim in the distance.

Slowly, you sat up, grimacing at your sore neck and shoulders – though you had long since grown accustomed to sleeping on the ground, that didn't mean you, or your body, appreciated it. You'd have to look into getting some bed cots instead. Until then, though...

At least we stay warm through the night. The oiled leather tent kept out most of the wind, and the beasts you'd felled along the journey had long since become the bedding everyone slept on.

A sudden snore drew your attention to where Khash lay, bundled in her sleeping bag beside you, red eyes shut tight and jaw slightly parted, her sharp little teeth on display. Across from her was Xelzaz, sleeping quietly on his side with his back turned towards you; you could just make out the lump of his tail beneath the blankets. And next to him...

...was an empty bed roll, the fur still fluffed, apparently untouched through the night.

Frowning, you pushed back the blankets, habitually reaching for your sword as you rose – just in case, always just in case – and, taking care not to wake Khash, crawled quietly out of the tent.

The morning had teeth. You felt it the moment you stepped outside, the cold biting into your bare arms, gnawing through the fabric of your tunic and raising goosebumps across your skin. Your breath plumed white amidst the grey, and the dirt underfoot was cold and hard; not even the morning dew had loosened it. You found yourself wanting retreat back into the tent and burrow under your furs once more, pulling them all the way over your head and falling asleep beneath their warmth. Any other morning, you might have done just that. But...

The empty, untouched bedroll.

You squinted into the mist, eyes searching, searching... there. A figure, seated on a rock several metres away, smudged and blurred in the gloom, but glinting a familiar gold.

As you lowered your sword, a sigh slipped from your lips, drawn from some strange mix of frustration, concern, and relief.

"...How long have you been out here, Nebarra?"

"Morning to you too, guar-face," the elf drawled, and though he didn't rise, his helmeted head turned towards you. A thin layer of condensation covered the metal, droplets falling at his movement; his bangs, escaping through the visor, were damp and plastered to his helm. "And all night, to answer your question. Somebody has to keep watch."

"Obviously. But you volunteered for the first shift last night." Frowning, you looked him up and down, not bothering to mask your concerned displeasure. "Why didn't you wake me or Xelzaz? We could have relieved you. We were supposed to relieve you."

"Oh yes, a human and a lizard! I'm certain I'd feel very safe with you two on watch. Your species' eyesight is so much better than an Altmer's, after all."

Your frown deepened, brow furrowing as you stared him down. It was too early in the morning for his snark.

Wordlessly, you brought up your sword and levelled it at his throat. "I can see that gap in your armor just fine. I could kill you right now – and the same goes for whatever may have come up on us in the night."

Nebarra gave a disdainful snort, gloved hand clamping down on your blade and giving a sharp tug. Unprepared, reflexes still sluggish from sleep, you stumbled a whole two steps forward before managing to check yourself.

"Poor form," the elf sneered. "You won't be killing anything like that."

Your nostrils flared, a dozen retorts surging to your lips, but you held them all in.

He's right, and you both know it.

"I wasn't ready", "I'm still waking up", "I wasn't serious" – excuses that could get you, and maybe the others, killed. How long had Nebarra seen this in you? Why was he only mentioning it now? Why hadn't you realised it on your own, that despite your confidence, your skills, your strength – you were still very much mortal? And when had that confidence become something more dangerous – arrogance?

"...What?" Nebarra asked suddenly, drawing you from your reverie. "You have that expression again. The one where you're about to do something stupid."

"Spar with me."

"Terrible idea, absolu... wait. What?"

"Spar with me," you repeated, staring into the black of his visor. "I'm getting rusty, fighting nothing but bandits and mindless undead. This just proved it."

Nebarra was silent for a beat, his head tilting to the side. Something about the motion reminded you of a bird; the eagle-shaped helm only added to the effect. You waited patiently for his answer, wondering what exactly he had to consider –

Metal, arcing toward your sword arm.

You barely managed a dodge and a weak parry with the flat of your blade – you'd been holding it low, unready. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Clearly, Nebarra was done thinking – the two of you were sparring now.

Fair enough. Enemies wouldn't be so polite as to give you time to gear up, either. And now, for once, the odds weren't in your favour: a fully-armoured Altmer veteran with decades of experience, versus you, young, disoriented, and unarmored, only a single blade in hand.

It was thrilling.

You sidestepped another swing of Nebarra's blade – only to connect with it a moment later, coming out of the feint you had failed to read.

Sharp, stinging pain. Scarlet, dripping from your arm.

He was trying to hurt you. And you were giving him ample opportunity.

You needed to ground yourself, regain your rhythm – something you couldn't do without an opening, and Nebarra wasn't giving you any.

A glint of metal on the left – block, step back. Movement overhead, an oncoming blow – raise your sword, throw your weight behind it, disrupt his momentum.

At least, you tried. Fully armoured as he was, Nebarra had an extra thousand angaids of weight behind his swing, if not more. The sheer force of his blow knock your sword out of your hands, sending you staggering back. But the grass underfoot was slick with the morning's dew, and you were moving too fast, too unsteadily. Before you knew it, your back was colliding with the ground, and all you could see was grey sky overhead – and a golden sword coming down.

Careless.

But there was still a chance.

Contorting violently, you grabbed Nebarra's arm as the blade sailed by, nicking your face as it passed. You didn't let go of his arm just yet, though. Instead, you pulled, leveraging your weight against his, abdomen taut as you used him to haul yourself upright. Nebarra, clearly not expecting such a move, found himself betrayed by his own momentum, drawing him forward and down, aided by your weight. Gravity took care of the rest, and he crashed towards the earth, twisting even as he fell to avoid face-planting into the ground.

As he struggled to right himself, you rushed to retrieve your sword; Nebarra was already rising by the time you turned back to him.

"No you don't," you growled, charging the mer, sword raised.

His hand shot out, a ward rippling to life, though it buckled slightly under your sword's impact. Nebarra staggered, his half-risen stance precarious, unbalanced.

Now. Now. Now.

Once, twice, thrice more your sword glanced off the ward – and on the fourth blow, it shattered, leaving the Altmer open to your assault.

Metal clanged as you brought your sword down, colliding with his gauntlet as he struggled to block with it, not given enough time to raise his own sword in defense. You let the blade slide off, intending to follow up with its momentum, but Nebarra didn't give you a chance. The moment the sword glanced off his gauntlet, he lunged, catching you in the abdomen and bringing the both of you to the ground.

The tussle that followed was a blur.

His sword arcing down, yours blocking. Hilts catching, blades flying, yanked out of your grasp and his.

Panted breaths, heaving chests, grappling and rolling across the grass.

A glint caught your eye – your sword and Nebarra's, just within reach.

He saw it too, the both of you reaching out in unison for your weapons, desperate to be faster than the other.

Leather-bound metal brushed against your palm – the hilt. Your hand closed around it, drawing it in close. Brought it swiftly upwards, blade against Nebarra's neck.

At its touch, he froze – and so did you. Because resting against your own neck, biting into the tender flesh, was the edge of Nebarra's blade.

Stalemate.

Ears ringing, heart racing, you shift your gaze from the sword to the one holding it.

Hunched over and straddling you, a leg to either side of your waist, there was hardly any distance between your bodies. The beak of his helm was close enough to brush your nose; your breath fogged on the metal. His gasping breaths may has well have been your own – you could feel them, swift and hot, slipping through the gold feathers that covered his face, carrying the faint scent of wine.

Of course, he'd been drinking. It had probably kept him warm through the night – and he'd still managed to keep you off-balanced for most of the fight.

You were in worse shape than you'd thought.

That, or... maybe Nebarra was better than he'd ever let on.

"...Tonight," you breathed, staring up at him. "Let's... spar again tonight."

Nebarra grunted; you could hear the sound echo faintly in his helmet. "Fine. Don't expect me to go easy on you."

A smile tugged at your mouth – you could feel your lips crack and stretch at the motion, dried out in the cold; you gave them a brief lick before answering. "What, and this was?"

Another affirmative grunt. "I'll be sober by tonight. Unfortunately."

You snorted, then fell silent once more. With your eyes, you found yourself tracing the curves of his helm, pausing at the sight of his bangs peeking through, dark and tangled threads of gold. Something about them was like an itch you couldn't scratch, and you had the sudden urge to brush them aside, or at least tuck them back into his helm.

As your gaze drifted upward, toward the visor, a glint in its shadows caught your eye. Again, you paused, staring intently into the dark.

A reflective sheen, a gleam of crimson –

"Are you done breathing on one another, yet?"

Xelzaz's voice shattered your focus, and both you and Nebarra snapped your heads toward the sound.

The Argonian stood just outside the tent, arms crossed, head bare of its usual hood, scales shimmering in the pale light. Beside him was Khash, a shadowy smudge in the mist; her wide red eyes seemed to float amidst the grey.

"Good morning," you said stupidly, even as Nebarra scrambled to get off you.

"Why were you fighting?" Khash asked. "Did something happen?"

"For your – obviously necessary – information," Nebarra sniffed, dusting off his armour, "we were sparring. And you had better get used to it. Our dear Dragonborn and I will continue to do so, apparently, starting today."

As you sat up, you distinctly heard Xelzaz mutter, "By the Hist." When he turned his head to you once more, there was something incredibly deadpan about his gaze, an unspoken, "Really?" in his eyes.

"What?" you mouthed back, blinking at him in confusion. He only shook his head, and have no answer.

"Right... Well, let's get the fire going again, and I'll see about getting us all breakfast."

At that, Khash's gaze snapped towards him. "Ohh, Xelzaz, can I have some Hackle-lo with it?"

"Khash, you've eaten almost my whole stock."

"Oh..."

"...I'll see if I can't spare a few more."

"Yay! Heh."

"Horker stew for you, Nebarra?"

"I'm too tired to say no... but I'll watch you every moment of its making."

"Yes, yes, as usual. And what of you, friend?" Xelzaz turned towards you, and for a moment, you couldn't answer him – you'd been too distracted watching the scene unfold, a smile on your face.

"Ah... it doesn't matter to me, I suppose. Surprise me."

And so, thirty minutes later, as the sun climbed through the sky and burned away the mist, breakfast was served.

But for some strange reason, all throughout the meal, you found your gaze drawn... repeatedly...

...to Nebarra.

#nebarra #nebarra skyrim #skyrim nebarra #skyrim #i havent written action in YEARS i hope its passable #i tried to remember what my two whole gumdo lessons were like back in high school :DDD #also fyi i know ZILCH abt tes lore n stuff so uhhh pls be gentle w me on that front #i literally spent ten minutes looking up tamrielic weight measurements and then trying to convert that it to pounds and back #and apparently its only referenced in a book that appears in like four of the games so its clearly an OLD book #likely that tamriel doesnt even use that unit of measurement anymore but damnit i wanted to get SOMETHING accurate #anyway that was quite enough research for me tyvm #like mate i just wanna romance this sardonic sunflower #speaking of which i wanna give him flowers?? dont ask me why i just do #give him a boquet of yellow mountain flowers like #'i saw them and thought they looked like u'#to which he scoffs and VERY GRUDGINGLY accepts ONE #prolly tells us to give the rest to khash or xelzaz #fast forward several to months later and somehow we find that one flower v carefully pressed n preserved amongst his belongings #dont touch me i just made myself sOFT thinking about this #im literally gonna have to write it now dammit #dali this is all ur fault u have unleashed the floodgates of my garbage bin brain #........thank u :D #anyway yeah this was originally written for my ldb oc which is why the personality of the ldb here may be a bit.... specific? idk #just swapped pronouns to make it more self-insert/other people's oc friendly #anyway thank god its finally done; only took me three days #not super happy with the ending but oh well #'swhat happens when u dont write for over a year #rUST #rusty as lbd's fighting in this fic #whisper writes

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