MSPA Fanfiction VI: Trashy Rainbow Drinker Fanfiction

[sarasvati]

Oh dear. I'm terrible at commenting but I've really been enjoying What It Takes and Hot Blooded and adorable shipping and Lantadyme just beating me about the head and shoulders with the awesomestick, and just damn, y'all. Also, I did a thing again, hope you don't mind:

Walking Far from Home: Sinner's Music (iv)

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Three blocks left and then you’ll stand on the doorstep of the shambling brick apartment building with the tube metal swingset. Hopefully, the kid will be swinging on it or playing in the muddy sandpit or something and you won’t have to go in. The woman who runs the joint always looks at you slant-eyed through a haze of cigarette smoke and it makes you feel like an asshole for having anything to do with her fly by night daycare bullshit, but she doesn’t ever come out into the yard where the kids play. It’s alright though, the high fence was what sold you on the whole operation.

One block away, you light a smoke and duck down a cross street. You never let him see you do it; he’s gonna have enough bad habits, though you know he can smell it and this gross babysitting venture isn’t exactly sparing him the secondhand anyway. Still, you need to keep a few boundaries intact.

You inhale deeply, only a little rattle in your chest, and you turn your face up to the warm late afternoon sun. It’s that part of spring, your favorite, where the buds on the sparse trees are about to just about to burst into bright green. You’ll be sure to watch when they actually do and take the little man to the park by the river, take the kendo sticks, maybe, or just sit out for a while. Kid’s too pale and you’re tired of the view from the roof. You need to see something alive.

You flick the butt in the gutter and start towards the building. No kids outside, damn. Witch is probably going to want to get paid, too, and you ain’t got any loot. Bouncing at that joint on the Richmond Strip’s been pretty alright, but this whole afterschool deal has been a necessary but unwelcomed payout. Your day job at the Chevron keeps you away and though you half-heartedly courted some quid pro quo childcare arrangement with the single mom downstairs who works nights, you couldn’t go through with it. Her eyes were too sad and searching and you were definitely not ready to take your game to that cruel a place.

Up in the old lady’s place, there’s a half dozen kids loudly vrooming matchbox cars around the dirty carpet. Yours, though, is sitting in the corner reading a comic book. He’s got his shades pushed up high on his nose like you taught him, no peeking while he’s got his head down. He’s a little too small yet, hasn’t trained enough to hold off the asshole big kids who wouldn’t be able to let freaky albino eyes go uncommented on. Hasn’t learned to check his temper enough to not throw the first punch, either. After that…well, he’s fast, but you can only run so long.

“Hey, little man. Let’s blow this joint.”

He looks up at you and smiles brightly, an old-school marquee missing bulbs. Lost another tooth today, then. You think it might kill you to hold it in, but you don’t smile back.

He’s grabbing his backpack —motherfuckin’ Dora the Explorer: he wouldn’t talk to you for a while even after you explained the irony of the purchase, the truth of it is if the bullies wanted a reason, might as well make it your fault, not something about him he can’t change— but before he can get to you, the hag calls your name from the kitchen.

You deal with her pretty easily, a pay-you-next-week dodge she scowls at but doesn’t protest. The kid’s already out in the hall waiting, and you two head down to the street in silence. The sun’s lower now and throwing pinks behind you as you walk toward the deepening blue.

Six blocks away now and you figure it’s time to do the little routine you both been practicing since he started kindergarten in the fall.

“How was school?”

“Sucky.”

“And afterschool?”

“Suckier.”

Like a fucking haiku. You grin and step into his path a little to shake him up. He swerves towards edge of the sidewalk, no sweat, but not smiling. His gears are working, troubled thoughts looks like. You put arm down near him and bump him a bit; he instinctively reaches up and puts his hand in yours. It’s part of the poem too.

You’ve turned up your street when he speaks again. “Emily R. said her dad got her a TV in her room.”

“Yeah? Who’s she, your girlfriend?”

“Nah.”

“’Kay.” He’s walking a little slower so you shorten your stride. Another block, three to go.

“Why don’t I have one, Bro?”

“Your own TV? Come on man, living room’s not that far away. I let you watch cartoons all the time.”

“No. A dad.”

Fuck. Maybe you were wrong about the kid’s fighting technique, because you are winded and bruised and you drop his hand like it burns you. Fuck. What do you say to that?

Nothing for another block while you think of a good lie. You’ve got dozens of backstories spread around, to the cops or DFPS, landlords, chicks who want to know why you’ve got a little boy’s picture in your wallet when you go looking for rubbers. So many different ways to spin it but you know when you look in his face you’ll forget them all. Maybe you should tell the real story, the bizarre little fairytale you’ve lived for six years now. The one you’ve been writing together.

“Hey.” You stop and crouch to him, steadying yourself on his slight shoulders. He just looks at you and you can still see he’s unhappy even though he’s playing at a blank face.

“Do you—do you want a dad, little man?”

“Yeah.” He looks embarrassed, whether for himself or you, you can’t tell. “Duh.”

“Why duh?”

“Everybody’s got a dad.”

“I guess. But does everybody have a bad-ass bro? Does everybody have a sick ninja beatmachine looking out for them?” You consider bringing up the other caregiver in your household. Nah, best to leave Cal out of it.

The kid shifts and fidgets. He won’t look at you as he says, “No. And that’s cool. But…didn’t I have a dad? Why isn’t he here?”

And there’s the original lie, rising up and choking you. Did he have a father? You found him in a hole in the ground. Probably three months old already. You have no idea where he came from or why or who made him.

But that’s not the truth either. Because he’s got your eyes and coloring and the slope of his jaw is softer but you two could have swapped chins like a Mr. Potatohead mix up and nobody would notice. Because you found your old shades in a box a few days before and felt fucking compelled to keep them with you. And that day you carelessly put a divot in your favorite record and then had to go to your favorite record shop…

And when you saw him, you knew.

So what now? How do you explain that instant jolt and how you denied it? Killed it and buried it and said “bro” instead of “son”. How you picked a path—easier for you, not him—and kept up the illusion even now, even though you know better than anyone that kids need dads. Duh, everybody’s got a dad, and there aren’t grants given to out to study the lack of cool martial arts ventriloquists in the home.

While you’ve been trying to beat back that feeling, that undeniable connection you’ve been venerating and denying in equal parts since that first day, he’s been looking down, and he’s started to cry.

“Dave. Hey. Listen: I’m sorry you don’t have a dad, and if I could – could find one for you, I would. But little man, we’re doing alright, you and me. Shit is pretty excellent, considering. You don’t want to hear my war stories from the group home, yo. Hey. Look at me.”

He obeys. There’s two thick wet tracks running down his face and his lips are trembling, but he does look you in the eye. Christ only knows what he sees.

Your half-gloved hands are cupping his face; you’re always shocked at how soft he is, how pliant, and every touch astonishes you. Fucking kid, man. Your thumbs snake up his cheeks, under the rim of his glasses until you can feel his eyelashes brush their tips. No need to take the shades off to wipe his tears, you’ve been reading his face like a fucking Bible for so long. You could guess the distance from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his eye straight up to the big freckle over his eyebrow with a carnie’s freakish accuracy.

“We’re going to be okay, you and me. I know it’s rough sometimes, and I’m trying. It sucks not having parents, I fuckin’ know it. But I’m gonna do right by you. You’re gonna be okay, promise. Ya heard?”

“I heard.”

He shakes his head a little and sniffles while you straighten up and offer him a fist. His watery but sincere grin as he pounds it is the best thing you’ve ever seen.

*****

You watch this touching little scene crouched behind a mailbox kittycorner to their – your – position and don’t know what to think. At all. You’ve followed past-you since shit got wonky on the playground; Emily R. and your best nap-time bud Matt – he moved in second grade, you recall bitterly – were swinging, engaging in a friendly boast-off. Emily’s family/appliance situation won, of course, and you felt jealousy like heartburn rise up and etch itself into your chest. So damn unfair.

The whole memory is so clear, so vivid to you. You’ve dreamt of that day over and over again, trying to place it in how the story shook out, trying to fit together the unalloyed trust you felt in Bro when he made you that promise and then all the bullshit that came after. You’d tried to hold him to it, little Lalonde-esque guilt trips and Keri Strug type flip-outs every once in a while, but from where you stand, hiding like a chump scarcely a hundred feet away, you were so pitifully unsuccessful you aren’t even sure if he remembered what he swore to.

But it looks he did, right? Because this third person eagle eye shit proves you aren’t that kid, not anymore. You’re wearing the black and purple-trimmed suit you alchemized in the last hours of the Reckoning and you’ve got a slice across your Adam’s apple. You aren’t the one making an ass of yourself crying about wanting a father right in front of that very same dickhead deadbeat. Before the whole ectobiology reveal went down, you didn’t have any clue how deep Bro’s Master of Irony title actually went. Now watching from outside, you feel queasy, like you had old coffee grounds for breakfast.

It has to be his memory. One of the hims floating around in this eldritch spaghetti-armed bubble bath, who knows, maybe a past-him, an alternate-him, a dead-him. Rose was right: the whole fucking point of this Godawful game seemed to be finding out how bizarre the string of adjectives you used to define yourself could get. Self-realization through crappy challenges as labyrinthine and circuitous as the stable loops you wove and ultimately fucked up.

Didn’t really matter, though. Every Bro you know of made that same promise, sealed it with a BUNP, and promptly broke it a thousand ways every chance he got. Sometimes because he had to, you guess, but too often he did it gleefully, grinning and pushing you and basically daring you to hate him. You’ve never been so close to doing so as right fucking now, watching this tiny past-you smile and believe him and feel relieved for Christssakes. Now you know better. Asshole. You’re sick of this, would even rather go hang out with the dead horse-dick troll than watch, but when they resume walking and enter the apartment lobby, your feet follow on their own.

While Bro has his back to the door hovering over the stove stirring up generic cheezepowder into some overcooked noodles and little-you is curled up on the futon watching Power Rangers (you knew at the time that you had to be ironic about it, but you honestly found the battles in the fake cardboard town awesome), you sneak through the apartment and hide yourself behind the cracked-open bathroom door.

You remember so clearly, relived this so often, it feels stupid to actually look: Bro is going to give you a bowl of mac’n’cheese and jump over the futon’s back and land heavily. He’s right up close to you, invading your space, and remembering how glad you were to feel his heat makes you ache with embarrassment. Even then, you knew he was full of it, kind of. Maybe. Why’d you ever give a shit?

He makes fun of the show, disparaging the overdubs more gently than you thought at the time, and you don’t need to see Little Dave’s face to know it’s red and downcast. You know how you stammered to deny, pretended to hate what made you happy. Constant reversals like burying yourself in a grave he wouldn’t let you stop digging. Your hand goes to the Snoop Snowcone Machete and you’re already in the hall when you come to your senses and realize cutting Bro’s throat wouldn’t actually mean anything here.

Tuck back against the wall and keep yourself hidden, try to calm down, because what’s coming next is going to fucking kill you, you know it. 11 minutes 46 seconds until dude is just going to destroy you. More shit and lies. It’s an eon of sick anticipation and desperately trying to slow your pulse, to wrestle back control, and then he rises, cracks his knuckles over his head, and heads over to the turntables. He leisurely selects some records, plugs some shit into a stripped surge protector then clears his throat.

“Hey, dude, I’m about to drop a illcrazy mix. You wanna help?”

The kid on the couch says nothing; you were literally dumbstruck. Every time you’d gotten within a foot of his equipment, he’d shouted curses and threats and quips about peanut butter residue gumming up the moving parts and you’d retreated sheepishly. Why would he now ask you to join, to put your hands on what was most precious? In the hall, you still have no clue, but you know how you swelled with pride as you clicked the TV off. How grateful you felt, and grown up. Now it’s so empty, such a cruel gesture; you dig your nails into your palms to fight back angry tears.

The little kid stands tentatively to his big brother’s left, stares hawklike at the turntables, memorizing their surfaces and jutting knobs. Bro places the first two LPs on the spindles and starts them rotating; the kid steps up to within arm’s reach confidently. It’s just bravado: you were terrified. Your game face is on and you are ready to be the big man, but you can’t even reach the platter comfortably. Bro laughs and steps away, in second he’ll come back with a milk crate for you to stand on.

You hold your breath and sink towards your bedroom. If he looks the wrong way and notices you this whole thing would come crashing down, and you wouldn’t get to hear it. Yet he doesn’t and the joint hallucination just keeps unspooling. Exhaling slowly, you feel stupid for worrying about it.

When he stands beside little-you like a boxer, feet apart and ready to strike, you stop listening and only watch. You know the audio by heart: he’s going to explain beat matching, the essence of a choice sample, the theory behind when to scratch and when to just let the beat speak for itself. He effortless blends so-called “dope dogma” and practice, and you remember desperately trying to absorb as he moved quickly between lessons; now you can tell he moved impossibly slow, restraining himself. You try so hard to focus, to pick either then or now but find yourself drifting between the admiration coupled with a burning desire to please you felt, and… whatever this is. You’re still pissed for all that will come after, but there’s something else, too. Completely foreign. Your ears are hot and the temporal dissonance has you shook up like a two-liter in a paint mixer.

The only thing that’s the same is the sound and the rapt attention you pay him, as a child to his hands, now to his face. Your past-self, so trusting and (ugh) sensitive, looks up to him with his lips pursed, but the adoration, the hunger there could be seen from space. When you put your tiny fingers to the vinyl for the first time, Bro’s proud, paternal smile is fucking unbearable.

******

You don’t get too far into the lesson, maybe two or three minutes, when you see a pantleg and a purple shoe in the hall. You grumble “What the balls?” and move to take out your sword, but it happens too fast: the stranger in the hall steps forward and your sword isn’t there and the blood staining his suit brings you around to your own death.

Little man next to you winks out of existence mid-scratch, but you hardly spare a look. Usually when that happens, when you wake up to the surreal nature of this place, you freak out and try to keep the kid with you. Always grasping and pleading and failing, eventually forgetting and starting again. But the boy at the turntables isn’t the real Dave here, you guess, and you don't try to keep him.

The real one, the one who looks so much older, the one you hopehopehope isn’t the Alpha stands at the corner of the futon and just stares at you levelly. Casual observers would note that his face is empty and apathetic. You see that he is Having A Time. There’s rage and hurt and sadness, maybe a couple little notes of sheer surprise. Violent overtones. Oaky finish. You just stare blankly back, tense and waiting for him to rush you.

But he doesn’t. He breaks the silence, all faux nonchalance and angry confidence.

“Sup, cocksucker. How’s being dead treating you?”

“Ah, just chillin’ with my Lovecraftian homeboys. That life flashing before your eyes shit: it keeps happening. You know.” You emphasize that last bit, maybe it will get him to open up about his own situation. You feel tight in your back, nervous, waiting to hear the worst—it was all worthless, you bought him time but not a way out, you didn’t teach him enough or do enough and now he’s dead for real.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t been here long. Lost a handle on a loop and got doomslashed.” Thank fucking Jesus. You can finally breathe. “Came to in a bubble watching your maudlin bullshit. This how you’re spending the afterlife? Reliving the good times, when you were a huge jagoff and fucked me up forever?”

You start to respond with a chuckle and choke. Keen-eyed motherfucker, your kid is. You really try to hold it together but your eyes are stinging and voice trembling.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

******

What the fuck?

Your fucking Bro is crying. Like a little girl or that fucking blubbering asshole from Ol’ Yeller. Well, maybe not full on bitch-type weeping; it’s still kind of a manly thing, just a few tears and emotion breaking his throat, his head is still up and he’s looking at you. You don’t know what to do with this information.

It probably should mean something more than it does. If this were one of John’s shitty movies, you would immediately feel relieved, feel like all the hard and sharp shit you’ve been carrying inside is irrelevant. The anger would melt away or some similar nonsense. It doesn’t and you still haven’t ruled out just full on clocking him in the face or screaming 'til your eyes pop or throwing something heavy and fragile.

But yeah, you aren’t doing that. Blame it on the shock, because watching him get upset is like bleeding out. The point of your dramatic reveal/confrontation move was a little vague, sure. You weren’t looking for this and you have no idea what the next step is after your dead clone-dad abusive-brother gets misty.

When he says your name, though, it’s clearer. He’s sounds like a wounded animal. Fuck, this is exactly like Ol’ Yeller.

You blink fast behind your cracked shades. So what, you're supposed to make him feel better? Shit’s a lot easier when it’s about a dog and shotgun and a sappy coming of age tale that teaches you about being a man. You’re pretty sure neither of you know fuckall about that, right now: you feel tiny in his shadow again and he's fucking crying.

So, you run down the list of possible actions. Not gonna hit him or hurt him, not going to bitch at him more, not going to open a dialogue about your painful little fee-fees or his, sure as fuck not going to hug it out. It’s making your head hurt to see him suffering so obviously, but you don’t really want him to stop either. So comfort’s out and escalating’s out and just standing there like a dumbass is feeling stupider every second.

You’re not sure why, but the look on Bro’s face when you brush past him and pick up a new record sleeve makes you think you’ve done the right thing. Like just a downgrade of tensions, down to yellow alert, not red.

It’s not hard to recreate the jam: you could pull the next samples blindfolded. This particular sequence was the first thing you recorded when Bro got you your own equipment, trying to get it just right again. You weren’t quite fast enough to make up for that extra set of hands and you’d be fucked before you’d admit that you were resurrecting that first collaboration. Before you’d admit what it meant. How it was the last thing you heard before you fell asleep, every night.

Looks like you don’t have to. Bro sniffles loudly once, ironic snot maybe, as he slides up next to you. His hands are steady and he knows what comes next, when to switch the vinyl or just let you do it yourself. Sometimes you throw in little flourishes, tweaks, shit you didn’t learn ‘til much later, some of it not even from him. He just bounces with the beat and does his thing, faster now, not holding back. It’s the same but better somehow, and it’s starting to sound really fucking cool.

Eventually, even you don’t know how long time is here, you get to the point where the memory and music end. He declared bedtime and unplugged the equipment, and you were disappointed but undeniably tired. The two of you had brushed your teeth at the same time, him looming over you and jokingly threatening to spit paste on you. He’d tucked you in and crouched down and put his hand on your head, palm on your ear and fingers stroking your hair. He was smiling when you closed your eyes.

Fuck. That. Noise. You reach beside you and grab whatever, flipping it up on the platter quickly. You slam the fader over immediately, no fucking room for silence, and the effect is a little jarring but still good. Your goddamn brother, or who cares what else, hisses an appreciative “dude.” His voice is cracking a bit again, aggressively emotional. It mostly sounds like a green light to rock the fucking house.

******

When the kitchen starts to snow, thick fluffy clumps floating down fast —reminds you of Goldschlager as it settles after a pour— you grab at Dave and fold him in your arms. The records screech, but he doesn’t resist. Watching the white flakes build and spread, you put your lips close to his ear; no lies left, you whisper just what you feel, always felt. The rhythms of your hearts sync when he finally encircles your waist with his arms.

Shivering, speaking that old promise over and over again, louder and louder, you shut your eyes, daring the enclosing cold to prove you a liar. Your stomach turns and your chest aches and your head is swimming but your heart shouts in time with his: Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it you bastards. Just you fucking try.

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These stories: therere just so damn many guys and theyre not gettin any less bloody long is the thing. Also, I'm starting to see an end and a shape and an order to them, and this will be very much at the end, but I finished it before some others and didn't want to sit on it anymore; this one's got the shade of another song up in it, too. Any constructive crit is very welcomed, but it's occurred to that I've been pushy in my need for feedback, and I'm sorry for it.

YOU MOTHERFUCKER WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO MY HEART??? oh my god this is so agonizingly good fuck AUUUUUUUUUUGH

i can't believe i had to pick this time to post something new, how do i even follow up something that good i mean really

alright here's a ridiculously monstrous jade-growing-up story. tiny hints of dave/jade but it's not the focus. initially started as a songfic to blinding by florence + the machine but i don't think songfics are allowed to be 7000 words.

stitching up the circuitboards
she sits and she waits for her story to start.

[lantadyme]

@MyCurrentObsession: Oh, poor Sollux. :[

@wilySubversionist: Oh heck. I really love your prose, man. I cannot stop grinning at the way you loop words together and it is just so lovely to read. And you are beating out my favorite topics so beautifully and I cannot get enough of this thing, holy cow. Just. Guh, wonderful. You definitely need a reread because you skip words on occasion, but who doesn't do that?

@Graven: This looks like a darn cool series and I look forward to the next installment. Hivemind Aradia is a really cool concept, honestly.

[catastrophicGenesis]

wilySubversionist: ...Wow. Heartstrings were definitely tugged, seriously.

draconicAlgorithm: Yes~! More Vampire Kanaya =D Evil Vriska is creepy.

PingZing: I am reading this! I'm liking it more with every chapter, especially with all the KanayaAncestor KarkatAncestor.

Hazel: ...Captchalogue? =3

[wilySubversionist]

YOU MOTHERFUCKER WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO MY HEART???

OH PLEASE, DO NOT START WITH ME. I have adamantly disliked Jade from the moment she first pestered and have been a stalwart Dave literally ANYBODY but Jade shipper, but I knew you were coming for me with your insight and your poignant scenes and lovely taut phrases and GAH. Well, you finally did it with this one. I finally get Jade enough to care about her, and wouldn't just flip my shit if she was canonshipped with Dave. I hope you're happy (because I am. Really, it was marvelous and touching and I salute you.) Also, thank you very much.

@lantadyme Oh, crap, that is hell of embarrassing. I'll be sure to reread, but considering how obsessively I edit, I am sheepish as all get out right now. Thank you very much as well! So glad you liked it.

@catastrophicGenesis Thank you! I appreciate that it hit the right tone for you.

@graven I'm looking forward to the next one as well, really nice.

[Latia]

Sup, kids, I bring you two John/Rose fics.

First is in response to a captchalogue request: Red Velvet, Black Velvet

And Be Diplomats, an absolutely ridiculous and stupidly long fic that spun out of control on my very warped take on a somewhat questionable prompt. (I promise though, no actual questionable content!)

(Yeah, may have not been working on silly/fluffy fic as my own personal tentacletherapy regarding recent updates ;_; )

[ceruleanTresses]

@wilySubversionist: HOW IS EVERYTHING YOU WRITE SO AWESOME.

(Also I am still working on that lyric rewrite, I promise! It is just taking a long time because there are too many...TROLLS and VESRES. I've finished Karkat's, Aradia's, and Vriska's verses and I have chunks of most of the others.)

[PingZing]

Oh shiiiiiit plot twist!!!

Seriously though, PingZing, this is by far the best ancestor fic I've read. I am eagerly awaiting the next installment!

what, me, blushing, no way it's just hot or something

I've been reading this and waiting for something to happen...and boy did it happen! I'm squealing with glee right now.

*happen*

Yeah, with any luck the story's going to get more interesting in the next few chapters. Stay tuned, same bat-place, same bat-time.

@PingZing: "tanneruinators" . It's just hitting me that Trolls must have terribly destructive titles for all their jobs. Nurseviserator. Graphic Designeutralizer. What a wonderful world they live it. Now just to see what the plan is to do with Tarfus in it...

It took me an embarrassingly long time to come up with "tanneruniator". It was literally like, the last thing I wrote in that chapter, I just had "(troll tanner)" as a placeholder for the longest damn time. Coming up with troll professions is definitely a lot of fun though, it's all about how ridiculous I can get away with being.

The Empress' plan is subtle, insidious and probably underdeveloped because the author's still working on it nuanced.

Comments!

wilySubversionist - Every chapter of this has been excellent in some way or another, and your latest one doesn't disappoint. The longer the better, if you ask me =P

Resf - I liked it! Terezi's viewpoint is notoriously hard to write because of the weird synesthesia thing she's got going on, and I think you did a pretty good job.

draconicAlgorithm - Oh snaaaap, are we about to see ourselves some Vampros? For what it's worth, I thing the final scene tied the chapter together nicely.

sarasvati - Everything you do is amazing. You stop that this instant, before I explode from sheer force of envy/amazement.

~EDIT~Latias - Oh man, I'd been reading Red Velvet, Black Velvet, but hadn't seen it finished. I got to the Mr. Egbert's message and lost it. It's been a very long time since anything's been able to make me burst out laughing like that. Well done.

[ProspitDreamer]

@wilySubversionist You need feedback? Here is your feedback: I'm not fit to write another word after that. *stares in awe*. That was the amazingest thing. Descriptive, real, heavy with emotion; I'm a changed person for having read that. Seriously. That was art.

@draconicAlgorithm- You were going to cut the creepy Vriska scene? It was the best part! I mean, the whole thing was the best part but that was the best best part! I love this whole thing. You may not stop writing more of this.

Okay, now after wily's impossible act to follow, here is my sheepish attempt at putting words in an order that makes sense called a story.
Oh, and also, since the last chapter was full of plot, this one has none of it. Wily there is no way I can ever repay you for that amazing masterpiece, but as an attempt, here is Dave notJade fluff.

What It Takes
Chapter 8

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“OOOH, LOOK, 1T’S TH3 OFF1C14L D4V3 STR1D3R B34T M1X3R!”

“Yeah. Don’t break it.”

“OOOH, LOOK! 1T’S TH3 OFF1C14L D4V3 STR1D3R 3NT3RT41NM3NT ST4T1ON!!!”

“I’m not telling you my password.”

She jammed the keys anyway, causing his computer to beep angrily at her. She turned to the next thing and gasped.

“OOH, 4 R34L COPY OF 4N 4CTU4L G4M3BRO!”

“Yeah, that’s crap. Don’t read that.”

She grinned, opened the first page and stared blindly at it. Then she looked up at Dave, raised an eyebrow, and before he could protest, she licked the page.

She made a face of utter distaste and threw it to the floor. He laughed. She fucking made him laugh.

“OOOH, LOOK! SB4HJ!” she said, rummaging through a box under his bed. And he was letting her. Why was he letting an overexcitable, extremely loud and hyperactive alien rifle through his private belongings while he lounged on the bean bag chair in the corner of his room?

Because Dave Strider was in fucking love.

He still couldn’t really believe himself. He couldn’t fathom that this situation was real; any of it; least of all the way he felt about it. Yeah, it was pretty amazing that she fawned over his stuff like he was some kind of movie star and would probably pay a thousand boondollars to buy a plastic fork he once held, or something, the way John drooled over that stupid Nicholas Cage rabbit. But as good as that felt, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t the reason.

She stepped backwards and her heel came down on a squishy magenta rubber thing which squeaked. She picked it up and turned it around and around in her hands, sniffed it, then licked it.

“OH, 1T’S ONE OF YOUR PUPPETS.”

“One of my Bro’s puppets.” he corrected, munching on a bag of licorice he’d been wise enough to captchalog the code for before devouring, so he had an endless supply.

“1T’S SO D1FFERENT BE1NG 4BL3 TO 4CTU4LLY F33L 4ND TOUCH 4ND T4ST3 1T 4LL. 3V3RYON3 3LS3 G3TS TO S33 YOUR ROOM PL41N 4S N1GHT ON TH31R V13WPORT BUT WH4T 1 S33 1SN’T TH3 S4M3 4S R34L L1F3. 1T DO3SN’T C4PTUR3 TH3 R34L D4V3 STR1D3R 1N H1S FULL GLOR1OUS 3SS3NC3.”

"Damn right." he said. She grinned.

“TH3S3 4CTU4LLY R3M1ND M3 OF MY SC4L3M4T3S. 1 PL4Y THR3SH3CUT1ON3RS W1TH TH3M 4LL TH3 T1M3.” she turned to him with a maniacal, crazed grin. “W4NN4 PL4Y THR3SHCUT1ON3RS, D4V3?”

“Not really.”

She cackled. He popped a licorice in his mouth.

“WH4T DO YOU PL4Y W1TH TH3S3, D4V3?”

He shrugged.

“’Bro, get these things the fuck out of my room’, mostly.”

Terezi cackled, that weird, dry laugh that he was now completely used to, and he tried to smile, but suddenly, he couldn’t.

Her face grew serious.

“OH. YOU M1SS H1M.”

Dave didn’t say anything. He stared at the floor. She put the puppet down and walked over, sitting on the floor beside him.

“1 KNOW…1 KNOW H3 W4S K1ND4 L1K3 YOUR LUSUS.” she said, her voice softer, even though the text played across his eyes the same. “BUT 1 KNOW TH4T’S K1ND4 NOT 4CCUR4T3, 31TH3R. 1 KNOW HUM4NS…HUM4NS 4R3 MOR3 4TT4CH3D TO TH31R GU4RD14NS TH4N TROLLS. YOU DON’T OUTGROW TH3M TH3 W4Y W3 DO. YOU LOV3 TH3M FOR3V3R. L1K3…L1K3…MOR41LS, OR SOM3TH1NG. W3LL…1 K1ND4 G3T 1T. 1 M34N, 1…1 W4S R34LLY 4TT4CH3D TO MY LUSUS, TOO. SH3 T4UGHT M3 HOW TO B3 BL1ND. SH3 T4UGHT M3 3V3RYTH1NG 1 LOV3 4BOUT HOW 1 S33 TH3 WORLD. 4 B1G P4RT OF WHO 1 4M 1S H3R. SO…1’M SORRY, D4V3.”

That was the reason. The reason he wanted her around; the reason it made him feel good to talk to her. Because she could read him like he was Braille. Around Terezi he felt like a piece of perfect glass that she could see through when no one else could. She knew him. She knew him like he knew her.

She picked up one of Bro’s old sneakers that Dave couldn’t bring himself to remove from the room.

“Don’t lick it.” he said, before she even opened her mouth, and she sheepishly put it back down on the floor. He popped a licorice into his mouth.

“C4N 1 T4ST3 TH4T?”

He shrugged.

“You’re supposed to taste these. Doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.”

She cackled.

He picked one out of the bag and tossed it her way. She caught it in her mouth and chewed.

Her entire face lit up.

“MMMMMM!!!! 1 LOV3 HUM4N C4NDY!”

He rolled his eyes.

“G1V3 M3 4NOTH3R ON3, D4V3.”

“What? I have a limited supply of these. Hell no.”

“YOU 4LR34DY TOLD M3 YOU C4N 4LCH3M1Z3 TH3M, L14R. 4ND 4NYW4Y…”

“You can smell lies.”

“1 C4N SM3LL…OH.”

He grinned. She reached out to snatch the bag from him, but he expected her to do that too, and lifted it out of her reach. She jumped and he fluidly tossed it to his other hand, where it was again out of her reach. This repeated a few times, Dave always one step ahead of her.

“I’ll let you lick the picture on the bag, that’s the same thing for you, isn’t it?”

She grunted, a horrific, hair-curling noise, and he winced at the noise.

“1 COULD JUST T34R YOUR 4RMS OFF. HUM4NS 4PP34R TO COM3 4P4RT 34S1LY.”

“You could.” he said. “Or you could have this one.” He held up a piece in front of her face and then deliberately popped it into his mouth, where he held it between his teeth. Terezi at first didn’t get his meaning- he blamed alien culture- and reached for it with her hand, which he caught in his own. He then pulled her on top of him. She squeaked when she fell and then realized the proximity of their faces.

“OH.” she said, and he saw the teal blood rush to her face as she blushed, and he kissed her, and gave her the licorice.

[ceruleanTresses]

@sarasvati: Oh my god, that Jade fic is so good! I love the attention to detail, like with all the things she had to learn to survive, and the kids' voices were absolutely perfect!

@ProspitDreamer: Oh hell yes, more What It Takes! I love these!

[SkaianRedeemer]

@Latia: In-character and hilarious, please keep posting here too, when appropriate!

[ceruleanTresses]

Oh man, I just got to "Be Diplomats." This is freaking hilarious. "MOST BITCHING," ahahahahahahahaha!

Edit: Oh my god, Rose's rant at the end of Part 1 is so funny!

Edit: How does it continue to get more hilarious? IT KEEPS HAPPENING.

Edit again: Now I read Red Velvet, Black Velvet. When I got to the punchline, I almost died. Oh my god you are a comedic genius.

[chumpofshoosh]

Alright, so I decided to try and write something a little more lighthearted. Here's a silly little AU fic, in a high school!

I dunno, it seems like something that's been done before, but I wanted to take a stab at it. It is short but maybe I'll write more??

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"come on shut up and do it"

"really? this is how you want to ring in the new school year?"

"itll be hilarious and these guys all look like chumps anyways"

John knew the first day of high school would be stressful, but he figured it'd be because he didn't know anybody. He didn't expect to be caught up in this troublemaker's schemes.

"pick up a water balloon already jesus do you want to be cool or not"

"how about i just watch you be cool?"

"whatever your loss"

His plan was to pelt the seniors with water balloons. He had brought an entire bucket of them to school, already filled. Lord knows how he snuck it onto the bus. Kept going on about how awesome and ironic it would be. But when he saw this lonely-looking dude, he felt compelled to take him under his wing. Sort of like an apprenticeship in things that actually mattered. Except it was starting to look like he was wasting his time with this guy.

"alright check out this flighty broad"

"which one?"

"the blonde one with the books talking to the girl with long dark hair"

"aw, no, come on!! they've gotta be like our age!"

"too late ive already picked up the water balloon"

Dave wanted to make a good first impression. He asked his Bro for tips -- who else would know better than his bro? In all his coolness, he suggested this brilliant prank. Now, how drenching the seniors with water balloons would earn him respect was not entirely clear to Dave. Or John, for that matter. In fact, Dave feared that his Bro maybe -- juuuust maybe -- was pulling his leg. But he sure as hell wasn't gonna back down to a challenge. Why, it wouldn't be ironic at all.

"i know i told you i like pranks, but this is stupid and mean!! we're right out in the open!! look, everyone can see us!!!"

"they should feel lucky for being allowed to watch an ice cold motherfucker like myself SHIT"

The balloon slipped out of his arm early, and hit the dark-haired girl instead. She stood there, flabbergasted and confused. This was not a good start to her first day of high school. Who would do such a thing? Her binders were all wet! Her eyes landed on two doofy-looking freshmen, one looking as shocked as she was, the other whistling nonchalantly. She handed her binders to her friend and marched straight to the boys.

"hey, assholes!!!!!!"

"hey sup"

"what the hell!!! you owe me a fresh set of binders!!!!!!"

"wait do you think that i threw that"

"are you serious?? YOU'RE STANDING NEXT TO A BUCKET OF WATER BALLOONS!!!!!!"

The parking lot was silent. The blonde girl chuckled to herself quietly. John had never felt so uncomfortable in his life.

"yeah so what if i did im just showing you fancy seniors how impossibly radical this freshman is"

"i'm a freshman too, you idiot!!!!"

"oh"

A silence.

"welp"

"yeah, you jerk!!! and what if i was a senior? what do you think would happen then? do you think my reaction would be better, you idiot???"

"so uh how much did the binders cost"

"god you're just a big jerk!!!! why are you even wearing those sunglasses, anyways?? you wanna look cool??? IT'S LIKE THE CLOUDIEST DAY EVER!!!"

She stormed off to find a teacher. The other students slowly went back to talking amongst themselves. Dave and John shared the longest thirty seconds of silence ever, until Dave finally picked up his bucket.

"i told you it was a bad idea, man!"

"thanks for the protips buddy obviously now i realize how fucking stupid that was"

"then why'd you even go through with it?"

"i dunno its just something my bro told me -- hold on a sec"

"what?"

"that flighty broad is coming over here"

"please stop calling her that."

Sure enough, the blonde girl was slowly approaching the boys, still clutching the dark-haired girl's binders, smiling mischieviously.

"Hello."

"uh, hi?"

"These binders belong to that girl you just upset. If I'm not mistaken, they'll set you back about twenty dollars. You can find them at the arts and crafts store down the road."

"oh, okay. thanks!"

John never was great at making friends.

"um, my name's john!"

"Nice to meet you, John. I'm Rose. And the girl that Shades McCoolkid soaked is named Jade, just so you know."

"hey i have a name dave strider at your service"

"The pleasure's all mine, Shades."

She turned and entered the school without saying another word.

"she seems nice!"

"yeah whatever are you gonna pitch in ten bucks for her dumb binders"

"are you serious? you cannot be serious."

"dont worry ill go to the store and pick them out you dont have to worry about any of that crap"

"alright, well, i'm just gonna not talk to you ever again, if that's cool with you!"

"aw come on youre not even gonna help me with getting rid of these balloons are you"

"bluh... fine."

Some notes I guess:

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-I don't really know how to write, uh, normal dialogue that isn't in chatlog form? I just find it easier to not dress it up with '...said John' '...replied Dave' and such. And that's probably pretty bad writing, but I let it slide cause homestuck is kind of a weird case wherein you can tell who is talking without me actually telling you, thanks to the way they type! But still I'm not sure if that bare-bones style of writing dialogue works that well... what do you guys think? Is it fine, or should I flesh it out?

-Uh, that's about it. I'm not used to writing just silly light-hearted stuff like this! It was fun, just writing something derpy and not worrying about Sad Times and whatnot.

[ProspitDreamer]

YOU MOTHERFUCKER WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO MY HEART??? oh my god this is so agonizingly good fuck AUUUUUUUUUUGH

i can't believe i had to pick this time to post something new, how do i even follow up something that good i mean really

alright here's a ridiculously monstrous jade-growing-up story. tiny hints of dave/jade but it's not the focus. initially started as a songfic to blinding by florence + the machine but i don't think songfics are allowed to be 7000 words.

stitching up the circuitboards
she sits and she waits for her story to start.

OH wow, I loved this. I don't think I've read anything that's dug so deeply into Jade's character like this. And listening to the song the entire time definitely set the mood, too! Thank you for this.

[apocalypticCritic]

@Latia:

"John’s mouth twitches—he seems conflicted between smiling and frowning. 'Rose.' And his voice comes out so solemn she almost laughs. 'You are not a frog.'"

This made me literally laugh out loud. I shot cheez-it crumbs all over my keyboard. I need to take a brush to my bed now, it is covered in crumbs. YOU MAKE MY LIFE SO DIFFICULT.

Never stop.

EDIT: "Mr. Egbert’s face is oddly complacent, as if he’s used to John’s impudence about baked goods. He simply goes about the kitchen, cleaning up various utensils and ingredients all while John goes on with his rant of oh my god you said you weren’t and I can’t believe you did this when she was still in the house she is going to see this and she will think we’re a family of weirdass baking friars or something and AGAIN with the cake what IS it with you and CAKE MAN it’s like-"

That's another dusting of crumbs. I really need to stop eating food in bed....

EDIT EDIT: I just nearly died of laughter. That punchline... oh gog. I choked.

[wilySubversionist]

@ceruleanTresses: Thank you! And don't worry about it, I'm excited to see it, but you don't have to rush at all!
@Latia: Jesus in fucking Christland, that was hilarious! Keep it up!
@PingZing: Oh, thanks so much, but don't encourage me about the length. I can't wait to be a longwinded piece of shit all day and write all these longfics.
@ProspitDreamer: Oh jeez. No one can beat you in an effusive praise-off; you're simply the best there is. I'm very grateful and blushing up in here. Seriously though, loved that chapter, so sweet and in character and I grinned through the whole thing. Plot or fluff, I like the cut of your jib.
@chumpofshoosh: That was super cute, I liked it a lot. And the premise was gold: Bro would totally ironically set Dave up to get his ass kicked the first day of high school, and of course Dave wouldn't figure it out until he's already kinda screwed. Commitment, thy name is Strider.

[Hazel]

Curse you Hazel you've disrupted my shipping wall!
Seriously though, that was incredibly cute, and you managed to make the pairing viable despite only one canon interaction between the two. Very nicely done.

Thank you! It is my aim to make every pairing, no matter how random, imminently shippable. Rose/Aradia was actually really easy because their only pesterlog provided a perfect lede. I figure if there's one thing Rose goes for, it's the mysterious and unknown.

Hazel: ...Captchalogue? =3

Oh yeah. If I don't get prompts, I can't come up with troll fic, just weird stuff about Rose's Mom and WQ.

Now I gotta catch up on all the sweet fic.

[Summergale]

sarasvati you are pretty much one of my favourite authors ever, this has to be my favourite fanfic so farrrrrr ♥♥♥♥

everyone else is also awesome ♥♥♥

Oh yeah and this was inspired by talk in the Romart thread about Gamzee♥Nepeta being the best murdersquad ever.

Rage and Heart

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He corners her, two hours after the cobalt blood has dried. Close to six sweeps spent under the calming influence of him, of the peasant-blood who didn't know his own strength. He wasn't the one who needed saving. It was her. A wild huntress, set free and fleeing, tearing holes in anything she can in a desperate attempt to free her grief. Maybe she's making up for lost time, those six sweeps trapped inside herself - just like he was.

She's a kindred soul, Gamzee thinks, only far more angrily because he's just like she is, when the quadrants are peeled away. So he picks her up and watches her thrash, lash out at him with sobbing mewls until eventually she tires. He rummages in the Miracle Modus for some things, finds bandages, straight lengths of wood, captchalogued in a drugged haze. No more holes in his brainpan and he puts two and two together; for once he gets four instead of a miracle and manages to splint the broken wrist after briefly checking for the important things. Growing up by yourself, you learn these things, and he hauls the tired and wounded cat-girl somewhere else after she passes out from the pain.

While he waits for her to wake he finds a husktop, looks at a few timelines and smiles at the miracle of a new beginning. A tower he doesn't recognise lit by green lightning, playing across his bloodied face. For a moment he's his old self, breathing a single word at the beautiful sight, but then there's a noise behind him - rustling cloth, a tiny gasp of pain - and he whips around.

"G-Gamzee?" she whispers, struggling to rise. "Where... Where are we?"
He doesn't answer, instead picking something up off the floor and pushing it onto her hand. Her claws, dropped when he brought her here. She can be the raging beast she's wanted to be for six sweeps, unrestrained in her feral fury. Her wrist complicates matters but that's what he's there for. He murmurs something that, even if anyone else was there, only Nepeta could hear.

She nods with a smile. The memories are quick to fade.

[Graven_Image]

@Latias: Red Velvet, Black Velvet is hilarious. I wish my parents baked me a cake whenever I made out with a girl.

Also, Be Diplomats was absolutely ridiculous. I couldn't even read the second part because it was simply too painful. I mean this in a good way, though.

[wilySubversionist]

Okay. So, I am about to do a thousand things I hate, but:
I got struck with some inspiration around 1 am and worked through and did this thing and I'm going to spam y'all with two monstrosities within like 16 hrs and I hope to god you like it. So gently, gently, dear readers, because I built this like a bomb and it could crack into a million pieces.

In the way I hate chefs who tell you how to eat, I hate authors who tell you how to read, but: seriously, cue this up when you start and press play at the end of the 4th pesterlog.

ETA: One of the other things I hate is sharing drafts before their time. I've gone through and made some serious adjustments, and I'm much happier with it. Note to self: manic energy is bogus without revision.

Walking Far from Home: Prisoner's Pistol (xiv)

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turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]
TG: where the hell are you
TG: did you just pull some kind of rock and roll evacuation on your whole damn compound
TG: just fucking absconding the hell out of there on a plane with buddy holly and the big bopper
TG: singing lame tunes about holding hands with boys
TG: because oh shit your house is in the eye of a dude trying to get a hold of you hurricane
TT: I found a library. It’s in one of the game’s aborted notions of a temple.
TG: ok
TT: It’s quite interesting and presumably it’s exploration will be useful to our mutual purpose.
TG: ok
TT: But, alas, it is also not situated in my living room.
TG: god ok i get it
TT: And so it has deigned to thwart your stealthy snooping.
TG: fuck lalonde put a handknitted magic sock in it
TG: i just wanted to report some serious fucking news here
TG: im putting out an early morning special edition running the presses nonstop
TG: because i just did something stupid cool
TG: it is literally retarded how good at this game i am
TT: So, you got your class’ power item. Some sort of hip hop time machine?
TG: fuck
TG: howd you scoop me girl friday
TT: There was a chest in the library that contained a crystal ball.
TG: fuck really a chest
TG: god this game is so fucking lame
TG: is there a fairy kid with a boomerang and a bunch of fey looking maybe japanese guys running around your loser planet just opening containers willy nilly
TT: Yes, indeed! One of them finally prised the lid off a jar of preserves I had been pining for.
TT: Regardless how contrived the conveyance, I’m glad to have the scrying device in question. It evens the playing field for surreptitious surveillance.
TG: great so since your bullshit game critical item ruined the surprise
TG: seriously how fucking sweet are these timestables
TT: I am absolutely ecstatic that you’ve finally realized your true potential as the Knight.
TG: fuck finally
TG: shit only took like four days
TT: A bit longer than I had dared to hope.
TG: whatever
TT: Though I suppose now that you have our temporal existence at your fingertips, we can begin to make real progress.
TG: for sure
TG: i can go back and make egbert realize how stupid it is to listen to random ass kindergartners on the internet
TT: I was meaning in learning the systems and intricacies of the game.
TT: But yes, also that.
TG: oh
TG: so you want to stick around?
TT: I think in this generally pointless and untenable situation, we’ve been handed a boon. We can use our now unlimited time to fully explore and unravel this game before we do anything rash that will completely alter our course.
TG: i guess
TG: so we should just keep playing
TT: Yes, that’s what I advise.
TG: aight
TG: that isnt the dumbest fucking idea ever
TT: Prototyping that sprite your brother’s ‘gangsta’ marionette still holds that dubious distinction.
TG: fuck you
TG: chilling with calsprite on lohac has been tight as hell
TG: we be best dawgs up in here
TT: Whatever you say, Dave.
TT: Now that you literally have all the time in the world, wouldn’t you rather abandon your nightmarish hellscape and seek out more pleasant climes?
TG: like where
TG: are you proposing some sort of sleep over on your planet
TG: i know youre just dying to braid my hair compare cup sizes and shit
TG: but dont you see plenty of me already when we throw our crunkmagic dance parties on derse

No. You and Dave are the only people still living, and you can’t possibly see enough of him. Your respective caretakers have left traces but are for all purposes gone; John was literally trolled to death, Jade doomed by his poor judgment. Though you enjoy your planet’s color scheme and the turtles are pleasant enough consorts, you don’t think you could ever get your fill of Dave’s smirk, his smooth, pale and slightly freckled visage.

It had nothing to do with his particular face, however. You’d feel this desperate for companionship no matter who the other last survivor of your species might be. You are certain of this.

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]
TT: Dave.
TT: What exactly do you think you’re doing?
TG: trying to get this conksuck sword out of this fucking rock
TG: shit is unreasonable tight which is a bad thing
TT: Your browser history belies such a possibility.
TG: no fuck
TG: wrong
TG: you are wrong in a lot of ways right now
TT: Your current efforts seem to be fruitless.
TG: i guess
TT: Do you have an alternative strategy?
TG: im about two seconds away from getting uncannyathletic and doing the most limber fucking handspring off this goddamn sword hilt
TT: Of course your personalized quest would involve finding inventive new ways to fly off handles. Have you and the mysterious Sburb programmers colluded to sap my will to live?
TG: hey don’t knock it until ive tried it
TT: I’ll wait.
-- turntechGodhead [TG] is now an idle chum! --
TT: That looked ten times more painful than it did effective.
TT: Though if it was an attempt to amuse me, I appreciate it.
TG: yuk it up lalonde
TG: not everybody can have every damn thing just handed to them by this stupid game
TT: I resent your implication that I haven’t pulled my own weight in this endeavor.
TG: go ahead resent away
TG: yeah actually thats a good thing
TG: i hope you’ve got some industrial strength huffiness going on there
TG: get yourself in a tizzy thats caustic as fuck then send me the captchacode
TG: i need your most acidic horseshit to eat away at this arthurian stupidity
TT: Hmm.
TT: Perhaps the basis for this task is the Sword in the Stone legend. Maybe you need to be pure of heart to release the weapon.
TG: yeah ok
TG: good call
TG: ima gonna run around kissing baby crocs and putting out lavafires until i am a goddamn 24 carat hero
TG: wait
TG: nevermind
TT: I don’t think that snapping the legendary artifact tied to your growth as a player in half was the best solution there.
TG: welp
TG: at least ive got this legendary piece of shit in hand now
TT: I suppose. I’m sure if you were less impetuous we could have jointly come to a less destructive solution.
TG: i didnt see any of your brilliant ideas in a timely manner amazing encyclopedia of strategy that you are
TG: so fuck it
TT. Indeed. Fuck it.
tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering ]turntechGodhead[TG]

An encyclopedia. It smarts like a rap to the knuckles. Your pride is wounded, but you aren’t immediately sure why.

You realized that bitterly some days ago that your practice pool for you psychoanalytic skills had dwindled, and you more and more frequently turned them on yourself. Since "What is Dave's fucking problem?" is a much more complex query, needing close observation he is denying you, you think it wise to try a different tack.

Obviously, you're upset because that is how he’s treated you, like a reference book on shelf. Like you're handy to keep tucked away, but basically useless. It’s an uncomfortable irony (the dictionary variety): you are the one who reads others, even before you came into your own as a Seer. But in the weeks since you and Dave have begun to unravel Sburb’s inner workings, you feel as open as a trashy paperback with a broken spine. At times, he's painfully flippant, far beyond the normal Strider spitefulness. He ridicules your input as if he believes he’s gleaned all he can from your pages and has impatiently cast you aside.

Of course, this only perturbs you very slightly and it's reasonable to expect that your constrained intimacy would eventually chafe you both. He, naturally, would have had more time to adjust to your unfortunate circumstance, so your —near continual— desire for contact must appear desperate and needy. In honest moments, you admit that the appearance is rooted in truth. You are grasping in your loneliness and to counteract, you think long and hard before you pester him; you’ve restricted yourself to either exceedingly good news or dire emergencies.

Even still, you resent your extended periods of solitude. And so you sleep, communing with the Outer Gods until such time that he dozes. Then he unfailingly comes to you. Your dreamself, at least, is at no loss of company, at least since he tossed a stream of puppets at your head and bonked you awake. You smile and nestle into a cozy pile of woolens; there is some comfort in the fact that it keeps happening, no matter what his waking mood.

It’s some comfort, too, that he’s wrong. There are whole volumes to Rose Fucking Lalonde that Dave’s never even guessed at. You have all sorts of depths he's ignorant of, so far. And you take great pride in knowing, even through his feigned independence, he will invariably seek them out. Dave might not be an avid reader, but he is certainly drawn in by a serial. He’s of the reoccurring kind.

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead[TG]
TT: Based off of your recent experience with your denizen, is there any point in engaging mine?
TG: oh hell no
TG: if yours is half as surly and worthless well both be better off if you give that motherfucker a wide berth
TG: useless hammering asshole
TT: Well, I imagine mine wouldn’t be vexing in that specific way. But if you think it will be fruitless, I’ll not seek Cetus out.
TG: yeah fuck it no reason for you to go fight some deadly douchebag what would you get anyhow grist
TG: dont need it denizens blow end of story
TG: are you taking notes
TG: get one of your horrorterror issue squid ink pens start taking some notes here
TT: I assure you, I have made ample notes.
TT: You hardly know whether you are coming or going, so someone must take up the slack.
TG: yeah yeah
TG: gotta admit im a little bushed after being chased around by a giant maniac with a mallet
TG: so ima gonna take a nap
TT: Fair enough.
TT: I’ll see you there.
turntechGodhead[TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

The dream meet-ups keep happening though you worried they would taper off over the weeks, happy rendezvous full of frantic dance and unchecked feeling. You both cut loose in your pajamas within those towers on the fluorescent purple moon; it feels so safe there.

You don’t know if he could just tell you preferred the riotgrrl style that peaked just before you both were born and therefore conjured up new records from alchemy or dream shenanigans or if he shared you passion for the rushing rhythm of Le Tigre and L7 and Veruca Salt. Didn’t matter. You both danced until you felt refreshed, rejuvenated, then woke to the tedium of well-documented scientific inquiry and guarded communiqué. God, how you wished he was as free awake as when he dreamed.

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead[TG]
TT: I was wondering.
TG: oh god
TG: terrible sign
TG: what unbelievably twisted thing is on your mind now
TG: dont you ever think about normal shit like ponies or kittens or justin bieber
TT: I’m afraid your implication is so wild, I am missing it completely.
TT: My extraordinary speculation stopping prowess is worthless when you toss such baseless accusations.
TT: They keep ricocheting off the backstop of my insight.
TG: baseball metaphors really
TT: I have diverse interests.
TG: im just saying youve never wondered about a good thing ever not in your whole life
TG: the goddamn nightmare cephalopods have had you in a hentai headlock since the day you were fucking born
TT: If my questions are so ghastly unpleasant, I’ll keep them to myself.
-- tentacleTherapist [TT] is now an idle chum! --
TG: rose
TG: rose no
TG: I was just saying
TT: I know what you were saying.
TT: And I judge that it was meant to antagonize me and perhaps even injure my feelings.
TG: fine i was being an asshole caught me dickhanded
TG: but go ahead lay your dark ponderings on me
TG: like an exquisitely knitted afghan made by a thousand psychic grandmas in diabetic comas
TT: How do you even know what an afghan is?
TT: Am I rubbing off on you? Will we two form the first craft circle in the Outer Ring?
TG: i guess though its more of a craft line
TG: if i was as lame as jade i would make a stupid smiley with a tongue
TT:…
TG: sorry
TG: still hard to accept shes gone
TT: Yeah.
TG: anyway you were saying
TT: I am not a masochist, Dave.
TT: I have no desire to share my musings with the unwilling or the mocking.
TG: christ rose
TG: im listening
TG: im even caring
TG: do you see this im giving a fuck as hard as i can
TT: Very well.
TT: I just wanted to know your thoughts on ‘The Complacency of the Learned’.
TG:…
TG: what
TT: What did you think of the contents of my notebook?
TG: you really are asking me this
TT: Yes. Or at least attempting.
TG: honestly it was a little dense
TG: maybe if i was raised by a wizardfucker it would be easier to get into
TT: So fiction without puppets can’t hold your interest?
TG: what god no
TT: If I were Jade, there would be some semicolons indicating jest at the end of that statement.
TG: oh
TG: well i guess anyhow
TG: i couldnt get down with it but your style is pretty good
TG: seriously the ridiculous dry shit you write is wasted on beardy fanfic
TG: you could be trolling the shit out of rubes with your sat words and your fucking haughty tone
TG: you’ve got talent kid
TG: time to spread it around
TT: And who would I troll?
TT: You?
TG: i mean all that is assuming better circumstances of course
TT: Of course. I'd forgotten your unassailable faith in our victorious return home.
TT: Well, I appreciate your sincere assessment.
TG:…
TT: What?
TG: its just weird
TG: i thought we had a pact
TT: Pact?
TG: yeah a motherfucking treaty up in here new pen for every letter
TG: you know i stole your notebooks and i know that you know and i thought we both agreed just not to mention it
TT: Let’s say my curiosity for your critique outweighed the potential breakdown of peace accords regarding my personal journals/state secrets and your larcenous behavior.
TG: ok cool
TG: i did kind of like it
TT: ?
TG: i just wish you would lighten up sometimes
TT: ??
TG: even when youre on about wizards
TG: the most whimsical shit this side of labyrinth muppets all up in david bowies bulge doing magic baby stealing leaps and shit
TG: youre still so goddamned serious
TT:…
TT: And you’re still preoccupied with puppets.
TT: Can we ever have a conversation where your perversions don’t take center stage?
TG: that’s it im coming over there to slap you in your dirty whore mouth
TT: Do it.
TT: I dare you.
TT: You still have yet to visit me in a waking state. I can only assume you’re too frightened of my glittery rainclouds to come.
TT: I will up the ante by employing twin canines.
TT: This is now a double dog dare.
turntechGodhead[TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

At first, you're miffed —okay, you are riotously pissed— that six full weeks had passed and he still had not come to LOLAR. Though, as time passes, you suspect its less as a fault of your surroundings or person, but rather a lack of courage on his end. He is cagey and vague, less hostile than before, interspersed with sprinklings of unforeseen earnestness. It has to mean something, but you fear your interpretations are uneven and easy prey for confirmation bias towards your favored theory.

Not that you don’t have some empirical bases. After a while, when you gathered to chat with the “Cash Money Calamari ”, you both retired to a spire on Derse's moon and often unwound with quiet pursuits — reading or gin rummy, knitting and drawing or the like. So many dance parties later, Dave ran out of ideas for fresh beats and bumping singles. You enjoyed your two-person raves, but were excited that this meant less… frantic pastimes.

Your favorite was when you would lean your head on his abdomen like a living pillow and read to him aloud; he played aloof, always protested at the start, but when you hit an excellent phrase or a good plot twist, he would invariably inhale sharply. You’d come to associate the quick downward jerking of your head with particularly powerful writing, and you’re certain he enjoyed recitations as much (probably more) than you did. The closeness felt like a cold compress over your eyes. When he’d take the book from you, it felt like taking sweet cough syrup, a bracing and soothing remedy. His voice enlivening your favorite stories—it made you feel less caged by fate. Every time, no matter what book, it was still what you wanted to hear.

But no, the lack of sweet tunes didn’t bring the gentle repose you craved. Dave instead moved on to whatever the hell record was laying around, the mellow stuff. New Orleans' soft funeral brass; raunchy-hilarious slow jams of the late-90’s; Patsy Cline ballads (you figured they were issued with birth certificates in Texas); your favorite was the lilting almost-all-instrumental prog-rock.

And after the record started, he’d take your hand, leading you through fumbling, revolving steps. Dave actually dancing was too much to handle, and you’d offended him with insuppressible giggles more than once.

“Hey,” he’d barked. “I still plan on banging the prom queen in five years. If you want to be ready for real life, Lalonde, you better get with the program and practice.”

You did your damnedest to stifle yourself, but the best times were when you couldn’t hold it in, and he started laughing with you as you moved in wide, faltering circles.

You still hadn’t formulated an intelligent response for the instances he leaned close to you and whispered. So soft it barely happened. One hand in his, the other resting semi-coiled on his chest. You learned to decipher his breath curling in your ear and sliding past to your neck rather than strain to hear his actual voice. If you shivered against him, he was gentleman (or scared shitless) enough to never let on.

“This is the American Analog Set,” he’d say, naming the band playing, a different one every time; not once did you know who the hell he was talking about. Maybe that was okay, because the more you shook your head from ignorance, the wider he’d grin and the more draw you close and whisper.

Even still, through all these sleepwalking moments, and the bond you built, he’s always eschewed visiting you while awake. You have your surmises, your hopeful anecdata, but most times, you feel beyond any sort of optimism. No way to be certain, and there had to be some surety before anything else…

You always wake feeling empty and alone and fighting to go back to sleep. You sometimes think of Jade, and what a blessing narcolepsy would be now. Your only consolation is your daydreams. The kind you are too embarrassed to yet bring to Derse.

TT: What do you think I should do?
TG: try going to sleep
TG: our dream selves kind of operate outside the normal time continuum i think
TG: so if part of you from this timelines going to persist thats probably the way to make it happen
TT: Ok.
TG: and hey you might even be able to help your past dream self wake up sooner without all that fuss you went through
TT: I think the true purpose of this game is to see how many qualifiers we can get to precede the word "self" and still understand what we're talking about.
TG: the true purpose is to make a sprite that doesnt make me want to flog myself raw with my own brain stem
TG: anything else is gravy
TT: If my past self can wake up sooner, maybe I'll be the one to visit you first this time.
TT: I'll fly by and remind you you're already awake and don't know it.
TG: yeah thatd be cool i guess
TG: im gonna go now
TT: Good luck.

No. You feel your refusal vibrate deep within your body, radiating out. A tsunami of negation. Everything in you, everything you are is screaming: No. You won’t let it all slip away, a bright dream receding as you wake. A fantasy perhaps held on to lightly, like a beautiful sunset still too soon forgotten and replaced by others, perhaps only half-remembered and shaken loose when you rub your eyes.

TT: Dave!
TT: Wait.
TG: what

Magical flight via needlewands makes reaching the gate easy, and if you were being totally honest with yourself, you’d plotted the route and imagined your trip to LOHAC dozens of times before. There isno fucking way you would be trapped here, a lone prisoner (solitary, the box, forever dark), without some sort of resistance. Music, joining your voice to his, can be revolution, you think confusedly. Insurrection, especially against fate, can be beautiful. You shoot towards it, finally sure enough.

As you come plummeting down towards a tar-paper roof, you barely slow your descent with the wizarding power Dave declared masterfully ironic despite never having seen it up close. You see him there in a stiff white and black tuxedo, so much more dashing but you miss the well-known and loved purple pajamas. He gapes like an idiot or an Egbert.

You regain your feet and then your breath, panting a little. Close but not close enough. You marshal all your fortitude and speak.

“Dave. I couldn’t let you go without really seeing you.”

It sounds pathetic and completely unironic and maybe he'll laugh and you don’t give a shit. He looks as flustered as you, even though he’s not had any breakneck flight through the Incipisphere. You don’t let yourself read into it, you're here, ready, but you swear on everything you can think of you will not be broken by this moment.

“Right. It would have been dumb to say goodbye without saying hello first, I guess.”

His accent was more pronounced than when he was asleep; you smiled, because it was your second favorite thing when he drawled unexpectedly or slipped up and announced things to a non-existant “y’all”. Jesus, you stared and stared, waiting, not for him, but for your stomach to catch up to your head and your heart and all the rest of you. Your mind is in complete tumult, seasick but sure: You. Will. You will. You. Will you. Will.

Thankfully your hands, maybe in muscle memory-practice from all that knitting, all that clasping in dance, knew what to do first. They reached unbidden for his face, pulling you both. As you closed the indomitable space —whole planets, not five minutes before— between the two of you, your lips figured out your hands’ plan and pressed into his.

He was certainly surprised, and it took a second (a fucking lifetime) for him to press back into you. As your mouths blossomed into each other, your tongues wilted and touched, arms like vines entwined and circled. One of your hands stayed at his face, tracing the plastic arm of his iShades like it was flesh.

He breaks the kiss, which is good, you thought then, because, God, you never would have. His glasses are askew and you looked in each other’s eyes and tried to absorb, to drink as deep as possible.

You have to wake up. One of you has to wake up. Because you will kiss him again and break off and he will kiss you again, again and again until he says, “Remember, Rose. You have to remember.” And it’s already a command you can’t break; to hear it again will crack you all over again. You must wake up.

For now, all you feel is his heat against you, but you struggle to beat it back. To wake out of this horrible limbo, possible while both you and your doppleganger in the Dersian tower dream of the same unreal moment, a memory you share. One of you has to wake up, because you have to keep going. You have to implement the plan, have to gather necessary information, converse with the white text informant. You have to reach Dave, the Dave who never danced with you and doesn’t know your touch, so that you can break the world and remake it, in the image of your own heart.

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This is one of the first things I thought of when I was getting ideas and then it got so hard to start but once started I could not stop, probably even if I was on fire. I hope you enjoy.

Oh, and though I started out with the one song as a jumping off point, there are two more songs up in this one, besides the two painfully obvious that I've linked to. I'm curious to know if anyone else is into that kind of shit.

[lucidSeraph]

oghgjd too many good fics

@wilySubversionist - that was my heart I needed that for living and also emoting :|

@sarasvati - HOLY FUCK WOMAN. "No one’s coming for her--least of all this prince who talks with knives." I AM FALLING DOWN ALL THESE POIGNANT METAPHORS AND ALLUSIONS, JEGUS.

[battlerek]

Another Crew: Another Sleuth

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Retainer's men were baffled. How could Clubs Deuce have robbed the bank from the inside? Security tapes showed that no one who looked like Clubs Deuce, or looked like Clubs Deuce in disguise entered the bank during the last 48 hours. The guards were actually well-paid and had more benefits than the clerks, so they werent going to just abandon their posts. And it happened in broad daylight, so her sneaking in was out of the question. Hell, a peacock with a large sparkly hat was better at stealth than Clubs Deuce.

There was only one person who was not affected by the plague of baffle, and that was Problem Sleuth. If it were possible for her to be baffled, then she wouldn't be the best Sleuth in the city. No, the Orangutan case didn't count, nor did the one with the penguins.

Problem Sleuth and Arbritrating Retainer were now inside Sleuth's office, the only place she felt secure enough to divulge any secrets, games with Spades Slick involving hammers notwithstanding. It was small and crammed full of 'mementos' from Sleuth's old cases. Right now Retainer was holding her latest souvenir, a fancy orb she claimed to have found in a garbage bin outside the auction house.

"So what do you think of the Crew's latest caper?"

"Remember those chessboards I was telling you about?"

"Yeah."

"I got a feeling that one of them's a fancy teleporter that the Midnight Crew have under their control."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Well how else could Clubs Deuce materialize in the middle of a bank vault with a ton of explosives?"

Retainer sighed. It was impossible, he thought. Teleporters? Really? Then again Sleuth did have those dice of hers, and there was Droog's magic wand. A teleporter wouldn't be farfetched.

"We've got to get that device out of Slick's hands." Retainer said.

"Agreed. I'll do what I can to take it out of his hands. But first, I need a favor."

He raised his eyebrows. Owing a favor from Sleuth was the same as being marked for dead by Mobster Kingpin. "What do you want Sleuth?"

"Nothing much. I just want to do some inventory."
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Ace Dick was a lesson in judging a book by its cover. While it was true that the Chronicles of Dick is banned in several countries and decreed heretical by most religions, there were a few pages that one wouldn't expect to find inside it. Take for example, Chapter 12, Page 413; In which the troubled rogue reveals his heart of gold.

"Good to see you Mr. Dick. I have to say your son is doing very well now." The school principal said as he spoke with Ace Dick inside his office.

"What!?"

"Yes sir. He has been very disciplined as of late. Why, I only had to send him to detention once this week, and all he did was kick the janitor's shins."

Ace Dick scowled. "Anything else, you faggot?"

The Principal decided it was smart to ignore that last statement, if he didn't want to get dragged to court. Again. "Well, no. I just wanted to inform you of your son's progress. Your wife-"

"Ex-wife."

"Your ex-wife." The Principal corrected. "is very happy with your son's recent change of personality and credits his existing attitude with falling under the tutelage of her brother."

"Fuck, that bitch is scarring my boy forever like a, like a, damnit." Ace Dick cursed. "Like something that gets scratched real easy. Ya got anything else to tell me?"

"No, Mr. Dick. You're free to leave. And once again I thank you for your time, and for refraining from punching old Mr. Tutor. Again."

"The fuckass flunked me in algebra twenty years ago! He deserved it."

Ace Dick left the Principal's office and lingered just outside school. After a few hours the bell rang, and the students were dismissed. He watched as a couple of children came out, followed by a stout young child with a bat-shaped hood on her head. The other kids seemed to avoid him, partly out of fear and partly out of respect. The loner walked towards Ace Dick and punched him in the gut. Ace Dick, in return nudged him gently in the face.

"I heard your mom is making you act nice."

"Yes."

"Poor kid, why'd you let that bitch order you around!? And she's even making you go to your fucking uncle!"

"I kick uncle's shins a lot when mom makes me go there."

Something closely resembling a smile of pride appeared on Ace Dick's face. "Ha! And Pickle Inspector said I made a horrible father! Come on, dad's going to go take you someplace nice today."

"You're taking me to the bank to get your weekly alimony check?"

"Yes, dad's eating fancy to-wait a fucking second who fucking told you that godamn conksucking lie? I'm the one making godamn money and putting food on yours and your nookeating bitch of a mother's plate, understand! Now who the hell told you that conksucking lie!" Ace Dick's face had by now returned to its usual form of badly-contained rage.

"Mom did."

"Oh fuck that bitch."

"See, I told uncle you still liked mom."

Ace Dick wasn't going to take this lying down. He took his son to his car, and after making sure child services weren't nearby again, punched his son's snout to establish paternity. "Now come on son, I'm taking you to work." And so Ace Dick drove back to Sleuth's office until he had to stop the car half-way, because he hit a fire hydrant.

Bathearst suggested that they take the bus next time. Ace Dick replied by re-establishing paternity, this time with his foot.

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Father and son entered Sleuth's office to see her and Pickle Inspector poring over some copies of files Ace Dick did not have the interest nor intellect to read.

"What the hell are you guys doing!? I thought we were going to shoot the fuck out of the Midnight Crew's goons and try to flush some answers from them!?"

"Shut it, Dick." Problem Sleuth said. She looked really irritated right now, and wished she had a sub-group of analysts, but she at least had Pickle Inspector, whose main advantage over experts who knew their way around a filing cabinet was that he was a lot faster at making connections and a lot smarter, but this did not offset the fact that he had the disadvantage of being Pickle Inspector.

"Oh hey Ace Dick." Pickle Inspector nodded to his fellow PI before returning to work. "So as I was saying I'm really confused Sleuth. On one hand this friend of my friend understands him, He really feels like w-they have a connection. And he loves his friend's mysteriousness, but he's also kinda afraid of him because of that you know? And he's not sure if he should like him that way, because he's not sure his friend swings that way, or if he does if he likes him too. You know what I mean?"

"Inspector will you stop whining about your identity crisis and get back to work?" Sleuth snapped.

Frowning, Pickle Inspector went back to reading some files about shipments. Why did Human Romance have to be so difficult?

"So what are you assholes looking for anyway?"

"Clues." Pickle Inspector said. "We're looking for information regarding the chessboards. Arbritrating Retainer was kind enough to contribute some old files regarding mysterious cases, but so far we've only uncovered two pertinent leads.

"A case over a decade ago concerning the appearance of 'monsters' that attacked and killed the owner of an inn outside the city and several guests, and the case of an entire yacht disappearing, only to materialize in the middle of a parking lot. There's also an apartment that mysteriously collapsed years back, but I've told you two that already."

"You want me to go take a look around those places?" Ace Dick asked.

"We'll be going to the inn tomorrow." Problem Sleuth said. "The parking lot's been turned into a deli, but we'll see if we can find anything."

"Did you check the evidence the police collected from the cases, Ms. Sleuth?" Bathearst inquired.

"I had Inspector look at them today, kid." Sleuth said. Humoring kids was often relaxing. " The coppers found nothing important."

"Mom says that most cases are usually won by looking at evidence from a different perspective."

"No offense kid, but your mom ain't no professional sleuth." Still, there was some merit to the kid's words. Perhaps they'll check the evidence again after they found more information.

"I still think it would be prudent to check the ruins of the apartment." Pickle Inspector said.

Problem Sleuth glared at Inspector. "We've been over this, man. There ain't nothing there! We already checked the place last week, and it's a fucking construction site! Everything that might be useful for us there is gone!"

"It would not hurt to look again." Inspector said, almost pleadingly.

"We got better things to do than that. Tomorrow we got to get up bright and early so we can search the inn as soon as possible, and after that we might need to check the evidence again."

"You're taking Bathearst's advice!?"

"Why not? His dad may be an idiot but his mom's pretty sharp."

Ace Dick almost dropped the fancy ball from the auction house before beginning a stream of profanities.

"Yeah, yeah. Now you two get back to your houses and get some rest. We've got some sleuthing to do tomorrow."

Ace Dick and his son opened the door to Sleuth's office and stepped out. "Hey, any of you two fuckasses want to go out for dinner? My treat."

"Ah, I see you have acquired your alimony check today." Pickle Inspector said. That last comment prompted Ace Dick to give him a fist full of his wife's dollars.


When they had finished eating and went off to their homes, Pickle Inspector passed by the Wrathful Cherub to take a drink. He really did not like the way his 'friends' were treating him. Something in Pickle Inspector's instincts was telling him there was more to that apartmen collapse than meets the eye, and his friends should've been more supportive, or at least acted like they were.

"Had a hard time today, Mr. Inspector?" The Debonair Dandy, who to Inspector's surprise was walking down the street to the Wrathful Cherub and had decided to have a drink with him asked.

"Nothing much, really. Uncovered anything new lately?"

"Nope, sorry."

Pickle Inspector sighed. "It's tough being a detective. It's tough and nobody understands."

Debonair Dandy's hand moved on top of Pickle Inspector's arm. He smiled reassuringly. "I think I can. Tell me everything, Pickle Inspector. Everything."

A/N

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This was supposed to be more fluff-ish, just something to get me inspired to write more chapters for this fic, but then I got to writing Ace Dick and I figured I could do more. There's almost no appearance from the Midnight Crew, but they'll be back in the limelight next chapter.

[Path]

Shipping crossdressedRose/Pickle Inspector now, thanks a lot battlerek. You give me the weirdest frickin pairings.

This is weak, but the manips were fun.

Shipping Charts For Morons

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"I think you like her," Kanaya said. "She seems like a good friend."

"That's stupid," Karkat had replied. "Nobody's becoming friends with any freakish aliens. Especially not me. That's a law now, we're all following it. No becoming friends with humans."

"That is a terrible law." Kanaya smiled, that subtle annoying smile where she knew you were just going to turn around and do what she said as soon as she left, and she'd know it when it happened, and then she'd smile like that again. "But if you say so, leader, I suppose I must obey. I will terminate any burgeoning friendships I may have with the aliens and get back to doing whatever falls into approved behaviour laws according to you."

Karkat had glared. His mouth twisted up into something angry (but not really angry, because it was Kanaya, after all), and he growled something stupid and left. Kanaya had smiled again. It was infuriating.

So now he's clicking around on his computer for want of a better thing to do, trying not to talk with Jade now that she's finally messaging him back, because he feels stupid about it now that Kanaya's called all this attention to it. So stupid. GG is pestering him. He ignores it despite the immediate flare in his chest somewhere, and opens some file of unlabelled stupid crap. He clicks a file open at random.

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Oh, this fucking thing. He feels angrier just looking at it. Stupid, stupid fucking Dave. And John. Both of them are complete idiots. But Dave is the biggest idiot. He can't explain how much Dave infuriates him, even to himself. He scribbles over his crappy drawing of Dave's coolkid face with that stupid disgusting candy red, until there's just red and no Dave.

He glances over his shoulder. Nobody else is around.

He scribbles something quickly. He doesn't exactly smile at it. But his expression relaxes.

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Then he makes another change, and sort of laughs to himself for a minute.

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Yeah, Vantas, like that'd ever happen.

Then there's a pop and sizz, and Terezi comes through the transportalizer, and Karkat closes the picture without thinking. She's blind, stupid. Like she was going to see what you drew.

"Kaaarkles," she sings, "what are you doing?" She runs toward him, giving a sort of token few taps around with her cane as if she's trying to remember that's what blind people do. Karkat pushes by her, afraid of... he doesn't know, really.

"Nothing, Gog," he says, and steps into the transportalizer.

He wanders around for about twenty minutes before he realizes he left his computer, his pesterchum, and Terezi all hanging around together, and runs back.

Terezi is gone when he gets there. But his screen is covered in saliva and tongue marks, ugh, and the stupid drawing (why did he save it, stupid fucking idiot) is now his wallpaper, though it's been mangled almost beyond recognition.

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He seriously has no idea how she does this. She's fucking blind and she draws better than I do.

[Cathartes]

This thread is full of awesome fanfic, hopefully this won't lower the rating too much.

[Untitled]

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Grey, black, dark. Not worth noting, not really, the darker shadows and the bright highlights outline the world, something more than just flat colour.

Nothing new and everything old, even the face she had just left behind. Old and well known, brown (fudge and mud) with large blurs of orange, the defining features.

The colour is stuck there now and will not move again, no use dwelling on the stale old smells that will soon fade away.

She is on the hunt, her deduction points to the blue. Grey, grey and black but no blue yet. She knows where she is going, back to the grey room with the glowing screens (hers was red when she left it).

A familiar room, the dark grey outlines her destination, a few steps forward - weightlessness and she is there.

The colours hit her at once, familiar and old but the arrangement is new. The palette carefully selected but the colours have been smeared. They spread across the canvas and now she can add the royal purple to her list. Another dead, but there will never be time to truly care.

A cause of death indentified and conclusions drawn, nothing solid, nothing she can taste. She tracks down the familiar smell of her computer - the delicious red misplaced (gone, lost? Elsewhere). The grey does not answer but the yellow (mustard and appleberry blast) is more than willing.

The colour is the same but the rest is different, changed. Someone else to learn to taste and to smell to see with all the colours and details previously beyond comprehension, robbed from them by normal sight. A trade of vision, a fair deal.

There is a new colour in the room and it is spreading. It is bright, and it should be familiar but she is blinded in every sense as it takes up her vision. Who, what and where is all lost as the light bears down upon her.

(For the second time in her life she is blinded, the colours return slowly and unwillingly. Something has changed.)

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I wanted to explore the idea of how Terezi sees, I think I managed to do that at least, but at the cost of personality. And the English language. I really shouldn't be writing at midnight.
Set from Tavros' death to when she gets Kanaya'd. (Not going to lie, I didn't check the comic when I wrote this so there are going to be inaccuracies galore.)
I did something kind of weird with my writing style in this one, not sure how to feel about that.
Now I'll just... scuttle away before I realise that I just posted.

I thought this was pretty good. Keep writing. With practice, you could do even better!

[sarasvati]

wilySubversionist I WILL FITE YOU. lovely taut phrases is this some kind of irony. but no really, i'm glad my fic could do that for you! for how much of my stuff revolves around dave, jade has always been my favorite and i have no idea why it's taken me this long to do a legit character study of her. thank you! <3 (also re: your latest: i have kind of anti-shipped dave/rose since the beginning, but this fic made me buy it, if only briefly. i am an audiophile beyond all reason and the song you linked was fucking incredible in setting the tone and augh it hurt me so much. if i were to nitpick at all, it would be your pesterlog dave; you've got his phrasing down pat, but the way his sentences are broken up hurts the flow a lot. otherwise just a solid, excellent job and i'm jealous of the fact that you can knock out that good of a story so quickly ffffffff)

PingZing: I WILL CEASE POSTHASTE. but thank you!!

ceruleanTresses: thanks! <3 (i am glad someone enjoys the details because the amount of time i put into research just to satisfy my completely OCD research quirk is just depressing)

prospitDreamer: thank you! believe it or not "i don't think i've read anything that's dug so deeply into jade's character" was literally the only thing that prompted me to write this, haha. (and i'm glad the song set the mood, sometimes i feel like i'm the only person it does anything for whoops >_>)

summergale: you are so sweet thank you!! <3 (and yes gamzee/nepeta would definitely be the best murdersquad ever what are these things that i am thinking)

lucidSeraph: I'M SORRY, IT KEEPS HAPPENING D: D: D:

[wilySubversionist]

@lucidSeraph: I'm sorry. :/ Maybe we can find someone who is good at robotics to replace it? I guess if I don't want to make people sad, I should stop writing such sad shit.

@sarasvati:WE DUEL AT DAWN! Name your second and your weapon. I'm gonna bring some of your sentences tied to a stick and shoot arrows like lasers at you all day long.

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[No really, your style has a flow, kind of like (stupid analogy alert) keeping gauge in crochet, where it's loose loose loose then pap, you get hit in the face with a phrase that is tight and dense and makes you sit up and listen. I love that. ("Princesses, she thinks, do not have any power to cry over." I don't even care if you are the author, you can't tell me there isn't a helluva lot going on in those 11 words. ) But even in the looser sections, there really aren't words that don't need to be there. Economy of language is a fantastic thing.]

And you are totally right about the pesterDave; he got kinda Karkat-choppy in there. Don't know what I was thinking, but I'm gonna go rereadsearch and then fix-er-up. That one really wasn't so much ready for primetime, but I was just so excited. Seriously, thank you for the crit! Also, I'm so glad you liked the song! It came up pretty randomly and I could just see it in there. I think the music/fiction thing is pretty excellent, always adds to the enjoyment, and of course I love Florence, so that was a big check plus for the Jade piece.