#braym

((Well! If something's going to blow up, I know exactly which OCs that should be...))

"Sorry! So sorry. Everyone okay?"

Allura looked to the apologizing man. He was pale skinned, dark haired, wearing a long dark coat over a vest, shirt, and pants. He also had some sort of... contraption where one of his legs should be. Well, just the lower part of his leg. He sounded almost Altean, but didn't look it at all. He looked... well, human. Perhaps this explains the strange accent the paladins adopt when they're imitating Coran. She tried to say something, but all the came out was a cough.

"If anyone is in need of healing..." the other man began. He had slightly pointed and sort of...downward facing? ears but didn't sound Altean at all. He also had blue hair in tight locs. His skin was dark and he was wearing a button-down shirt over blue pants of a more rugged cloth.

"I think we're okay, thanks," Shiro said, dusting off his uniform. Most of the white parts had gone black thanks to... whatever that was. Speaking of which...

"What just happened?" she asked politely, trying to see to her own flight suit.

"Well, I'm not sure how you two got here," the first man said, "but then that's IOU for you. As to what happened, I was testing a piece of equipment and it blew." He sighed. "I'm just not a builder of things."

"You don't have to be," the other man said, voice soft as he laid a gentle hand on the first man's shoulder. Allura glanced between them and the look they exchanged - a longer-than-usual gaze, a tentative smile - and couldn't help smiling herself. "Let WUSE handle that."

"I get extra credit if I build my own device."

"Do you need the extra..."

"YES," the first man insisted.

"So can we back up to where you said we are?" Shiro asked.

"Oh, yes. Illuminati University."

"Wasn't there an 'O' in there?" Allura gave up trying to clean herself off; she was really just moving the ...soot? around.

"You're not cleared for that," the blue-haired man said kindly.

Shiro glanced at her and then back at them. "Not cleared for what?"

"To know what the 'O' stands for," came the answer.

"Don't worry about it; fair sure they just say that to be funny," the first man told them. "Sense of humor around here is a bit... different."

It didn't really matter. "We're on a college campus?" Shiro pursued.

Both men nodded.

"How do we get back to where we were?" Allura inquired politely. "It's just that we're trying to save the universe and..."

"Depends," the first man told her, "on how you got here. Magic, tech, some mix of the two?"

She'd heard Shiro call it 'magitech' enough times that she answered, "A mix."

"Ah, well that'll complicate things. But either WUSE or CoM will be the likeliest help. If it can be done."

"It has to be done. We have a team to get back to," Shiro told them.

"Everyone has something to get back to," he was informed. "But we'll try to see you right. Least I can do for letting my sad attempt at machinery explode all over you." He looked to his partner. "Where should we start, do you think?"

"WUSE, I should think. And they'll mind less about the mess."

"WUSE?" Allura asked.

WHERE THIS FANDOM AT?!?! (art by the wonderful and inimitable @duckydrawsart - Ducky needs more fandom, too)

I’m with @tybunnythehellmoose on this: the idea of Bram having a throng of fangirls following him around is hilarious. They skip classes and follow him around, send tweets about where he’s at and what he’s doing, and there’s a quiet but high-pitched squealing every time he kisses Ray in public or even something as simple as holds his hand.

Anyway, it can be a slightly off-putting experience to those new to the centre, and it doesn’t help that there are also academic classes being taught there and new hires coming in and out all the time, too. The reputation of the place on the IOU campus is, “Duuuuude, did you know there’s a whorehouse?! BESIDES Sigma Epsilon Chi?” So walking into a slightly more clinical setting often throws people off.

And while Greek parties are still the best place for casual (and free) hook-ups and the so-called “whorehouse” charges money, the latter doesn’t smell like stale beer and also has cookies.

I dithered a bit on whether to put this on the smut blog, but, honestly? Discussion of the mere existence of sex workers-slash-sex researchers isn’t “smutty.” There’s no actual boinking going on in this.

@tybunnythehellmoose‘s reply on this post

I have no idea why they’d hire another violin teacher, but I kind of want them to just so it’ll be some prim proper person and Cora behaves at first, but there’s always SOME POINT in the lesson when she starts fiddling and ignoring her teacher and they’re about to tear their hair out they’re so annoyed, and Cora just thinks it’s funny.

“NO. I’M NOT WATCHING BLOODY EUROVISION!” came the shouted answer.

“WHY NOT?!” Dean wanted to know.

“First of all, stop yelling,” British Dad said, limping into the room, cane firmly in hand and in use. “You’re getting too much like Percy.”

“That’s not really a bad thing,” Dean muttered in reply.

“Second of all, I’m not watching Eurovision because Great Bri-...” He tsked and corrected himself, “the United Kingdom never enters anyone worth a damn anyway.” His version of England had only annexed Scotland, and sometimes he forgot which titles went with which dimensions/timelines/etc.

“Have you seen who they entered this year?” he challenged his father. “Or heard the song?” He was right, of course: it was a ballad by some singer who was probably approaching the centenarian mark. There was no way in hell it was going to win, but Dean knew he hadn’t even checked.

“And third of all,” he replied instead of answering, “I already know who wins, and it’s not the UK, so I don’t care.”

“UGH!” Dean literally threw his hands up and looked back to the television, still playing the trumpeting Eurovision Song Contest march over and over again. “WHY would you go ahead and find out?!”

“TO SEE IF MY COUNTRY WON!”

“Technically,” Ray pointed out in his usual even and mild tones, “it’s not yours.”

“All the more reason!”

Dean sighed and gave up. “Okay, fine. You don’t want to watch Eurovision with us, fine. But at least don’t spoil it? I bet Cora 10 Nourellian Sparknotes that Iceland wins.”

“Oh, is that why she was asking?” 

Dean’s eyes went wide and he whipped around to face his dad again, already howling, “BETRAYAL!”

His father chuckled paternally. “Don’t worry, Dean. I told her San Marino wins.”

He hesitated. “They... don’t, do they?”

He snorted and stomped over to tousle his son’s hair. 

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaad,” he protested. He heard Alien Dad chuckling now, in the background. In the language his human dad referred to as “Raylienese”, he muttered, <<Make him stop messing with my hair.>>

<<I wouldn’t do that even if I could. It’s sweet and paternal. Let him have this. Hairstyle is fixable,>> came the response.

“San Marino doesn’t win,” he was informed. “Stop complaining about me to your father and enjoy the show.”

“I thought you didn’t know it?” He was finger-combing his hair back into proper place.

“I know my kids. Do you want popcorn? I can make you some.”

“Closer to voting,” he said, smiling, offense of the hair tousling forgiven with the offer of popcorn. “Thank you.”