Shawn Jackson and Hasse Bernfield, better known as Whit and Slug. These two are Nana’s adopted grandsons, and certified little shits– ESPECIALLY Whit. Both of them have spent most of their lives on the planet too.
Whit came to the planet with their (rich) family to live in one of the colony. They got their nickname because of the old Whitworth rifle they carried around: it’s a family heirloom and they would always brag that they would inherit it and use it one day. They’re kind of annoying, 110% sass, and a joker. It was them who told Nana all that dumb shit that she totally believes.
Slug’s parents died in a mining accident and he became a bit of an outcast in the community. He wouldn’t let anyone near him and ended up bullying kids out of food and money. When he tried to steal from Whit, an outcast in their own right, they became fast friends. He got his name from his weapon of choice: the shotgun.
-Hardly ever eye contact, averts eye contact. (looks to the side) but he mostly looks down because it scares him to look straight at them -Always has his hands in his pockets, makes him feel assured or at least slightly more comfortable -He slouchest, a lot. He doesn’t look up, therfore he also doesnt stand up straight, or “prideful” -he’s always nervous and has his little nervous laughs and smiles -Actually has pretty stiff shoulders, sorta i guess, mostly cus he’s always alert and can’t relax
WOAH IT’S LYCAN!FRISK AND SANS (he found out about their abilities somehow) !!! (Sans is more of a dunkle in this set… not really Frans unless you want to interpret it that way. )The pictures weren’t really meant to have an order but it kinda worked out that way, huh. I added captions to those on the computer version and captions are below for those on mobile (bc I wanted to save y’all from my cruddy “handwriting” 0_0)
Frisk: Ghgh! Sans… It’s happening!
Sans: *wut? oh god.
Sans: *we’re almost there… keep goin’. use your tail as a balance.
Frisk: Ghng… (haha what is with me and these sounds?)
Sans: *shhshhshh, you’re doin’ great kiddo. ke-keep it up.
Blaine considered ignoring it and pretending he was still sleeping; maybe if he tried hard enough, he could still salvage some rest. He was debating whether or not to open his eyes when he heard Kurt’s voice at the foot of the bed:
“Promise you won’t get mad at me.”
Instantly, Blaine was wide awake. He bolted upright and opened his eyes, squinting for a moment as the light assaulted his eyes and Kurt came into a blurry half-focus in front of him. He fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand and slid them on, trying to get a sense of how Kurt was feeling.
The only expressions on his husband’s face were guilt and shame, broadcasted and obvious and undeniable. Blaine’s heart dropped to his feet and his throat tightened so suddenly and harshly that it was hard to breathe. “What–what happened?” he rasped, voice scratchy from sleep and dehydration. “What did you do? And why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
“I need you to promise me first that you won’t … freak out,” said Kurt, staring down at his hands and refusing to make eye contact. “Don’t start yelling, or anything. It might take some adjusting, but I really want you to see this as a good thing.”
Oh my god oh my god he cheated on me he’s divorcing me he found somebody else, Blaine’s mind chanted, in a vicious loop that wouldn’t let up no matter how hard he tried to throw it out of his mind. “Okay,” he said cautiously, leaning forward on the bed until he was half-kneeling, heels tucked beneath his thighs. “I won’t.”
Kurt blew out a breath and shook his head, preparing himself to deliver a piece of news with unknown consequences. “Okay,” he said, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides and still not looking up at Blaine. “So you know how we talked that one time about tattoos, and which kinds are classy, and which kinds are completely trashy or cliche?”
“What?” This, compared to what Blaine had been imagining Kurt to say, was so random and unexpected that it caught him off guard. “I mean–yeah, I remember it, but I don’t know what that has to do with this conversation.”
“Well, do you remember the rules we made about getting tattoos after the whole Bette Midler incident?” Kurt reached back to touch his shoulder absentmindedly, where a drunk night and encouragement from a friend had made its permanent mark on him.
“Sure,” Blaine said slowly, still trying to wrap his head around the turn the conversation had taken. “No faces, no lower back tattoos, no names–”
“And no tattoos more than an inch tall,” Kurt finished, unable to wait for his husband’s sleep-slowed brain to finish listing them. “Yeah. Well. I, um, broke three of those rules tonight.”
“What?” Blaine demanded, mind racing with all the deformed face tattoos he had seen in Facebook videos and the horror stories of misspelled names in obvious places. “Kurt, what did you do?”
“You promised not to get mad,” he reminded him, then took a step closer to the foot of the bed, biting his lip as he considered how graphic to get with the details of the truth. “So, you know I had to work late tonight, but I ended up working late-late, and by the time I finally got out of there, I was beat.”
“Understandable, but get to the point, please,” said Blaine, chewing on his fingernail even though he knew he shouldn’t. He’d been trying to break the habit ever since he and Kurt had a two-hour long fight over it.
Kurt sighed, his face a mask of pained embarrassment, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay. On the way home, I was really tired, and crabby because nothing went right today, and I was considering just quitting my job and moving to Antarctica and never speaking to anyone again, but then I started thinking. And I realized that I didn’t want to move to Antarctica, because, one, it’s fucking cold there, but more importantly … you.”
“You’re the thing that keeps me going,” said Kurt. “Whenever I have a rough day at work, or I’m lonely when you’re out promoting your next Broadway show, I can just think that I get to be with you for the rest of my life, and then it doesn’t seem so bad. And that’s the way I felt tonight.”
“Let me finish,” Kurt snapped, but his eyes were amused. “And I went to the tattoo place–”
“Was it the Bette Midler place?”
“I told you to let me finish, and it doesn’t really matter, but yes–”
“Would you let me talk for a minute?”
Silence. “Sorry. Go on.”
“Okay. So anyway, I went to the tattoo place, and I didn’t really know what I was doing there, but I thought, hey, why don’t I be ambitious and fun and sweet for once? And I wanted to get something to remind me of you, but I couldn’t think of any symbol or word that would represent you. And you know there’s a policy at work about not showing tattoos, so I figured I needed a good place to hide it … and as for the size thing, that was just a mistake on my part. So please don’t get mad.”
“Oh, my God,” Blaine breathed, eyes widening in horror. “Did you get my face tattooed on your back? Oh, God, please don’t tell me–”
“No!” Kurt said quickly, face wrinkling in disgust. “I wouldn’t break that rule. And if I were going to get someone’s face tattooed on my body, well, it probably wouldn’t be yours.”
“Anyway,” said Kurt, and turned around to show him his tattoo.
Blaine scrawled out in bold cursive across the bottom of Kurt’s back, looping and neat and beautiful in a reluctant kind of way. Their anniversary–not their wedding date, the day they met at Dalton all those years ago, which Kurt had always thought was more important–was printed beneath it in tiny, fragile script, not a detail missed or a dot of ink smudged. Tears, unexpected and somewhat annoying, sprung to Blaine’s eyes, and he blinked quickly to drive them away. As much as he preached about following the “tattoo rules”, he couldn’t be caught being touched by Kurt breaking three of the four.
“What do you think?” Kurt asked, still facing the opposite direction. His voice shook slightly, like he was expecting the worst and wanted to get this part over with. “Are you mad?”
“No,” Blaine said without hesitation, hoping that no traces of crying remained in his voice. “I’m not–wait a minute, does that say plain?”
“What?!” Kurt twisted back and forth in a vain attempt to see his own back, gasping as he imagined the worst-case scenario. “Oh my God, I’m gonna go back to that place and kill that guy! I wasn’t even drunk this time, it wasn’t my fault–”
“I’m just kidding,” said Blaine, laughing so hard tears were streaming down his face and his mouth hurt from smiling. “You totally believed me! That was perfect.”
Kurt picked up a pillow and threw it at Blaine, pouting and locating a mirror to make sure he wasn’t being lied to. “That was cruel,” he said, shaking his head and sighing in relief when the actual tattoo came into view.
“You deserved it,” said Blaine, swiping under his eyes and taking deep breaths to calm himself down. “You broke three of the tattoo rules! We spent hours on those! If we’re just going to throw them out the window, I wonder if Quinn still has the number for the guy who did her Ryan Seacrest tattoo …”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I wouldn’t. I love you, Kurt.”
Kurt turned around and smiled, relieved and still a little embarrassed. “I love you, too.”