POP OFF!!

so i thought to myself ‘gee whiz i should do that music challenge again’ and the next...

Sat, 01 Dec 2012 23:34:28 -0800

so i thought to myself ‘gee whiz i should do that music challenge again’ and the next song on my playlist was by my hubby the biebs and i instantly thought yandere josh figHT ME (spoilers it doesnt really work out)

as long as you love me
→ 3:52

—

Sometimes, he promised he would never do this again. Other times, he gave in, and his hands would reach out for something, for anything, to satisfy him.

Each time, though, it always ended in hurting the boy. Ten times over had Neku already proven his worth, proven that this game was stupid and pointless. His dulling eyes and dry lips and cracked nails and everything about him always screamed in pain, always made him twist the knife in deeper.

When the morning came, he always made sure to go and turn the clock one day back. As if nothing happened and as if he never took pleasure in seeing him die again.

i spent my sick day painting clouds and slapping on a mountain...

Sat, 24 Nov 2012 00:03:57 -0800

i spent my sick day painting clouds and slapping on a mountain thing

I HAVENT WRITTEN ANYTHING IN A LONG TIME WOW so before i head off to sleep i am going to...

Wed, 03 Oct 2012 00:49:00 -0700

I HAVENT WRITTEN ANYTHING IN A LONG TIME WOW so before i head off to sleep i am going to write……… something… in the duration of a song… maybe ill make this a daily (nightly??) thing idk

butterfly - crazytown
→3:27

—

sometimes her hair looked like blue in the moonlight. sometimes she didn’t look so angry, so old in the moonlight. because in the moonlight, it seemed like she actually belonged.

burnt paper and strong perfume would certainly be what she smelled like if she had a body to match it to. but since she didn’t, all that was possible for now was just to reach out and try to smooth her hair out of her face.

maybe there was still time to get some sleep too, but that was just an afterthought.

hello hello how are you wake up the sun is bright the sun is shining down on your face down the...

Thu, 17 May 2012 23:01:48 -0700

hello hello how are you

wake up the sun is bright

the sun is shining down on your face

down the curtains and into your room

and into the mirror

hello hello how are you

turn on the television

the television says hello

says good morning

says shoes have a new trend

hello hello how are you

buy the new shoes

buy the new trend

buy an easier way to ‘shape your calves’

buy a way to cheat the system

hello hello how are you

a shorter system means more time

time to dawdle and dwindle

time for self-loathing

time for more make-up.

MY FIRST LUCID DREAM!! at least one i can remember camp out of about 40~50 people (it was a lot...

Sat, 12 May 2012 08:41:30 -0700

MY FIRST LUCID DREAM!! at least one i can remember

camp out of about 40~50 people (it was a lot basically)
in the middle of a forest right next to a river (kinda like that one outlet in yosemite where i almost drowned momgfshd)
i think they’re all outlaws? or something. oppressive gov’t or they’re doing something really stupid with a new stupid law or something and the group’s just people doing the right thing wrongly idek
a new guy joins the group (there have been more people joining every day)
then when it’s starting to get dark gov’t copters spot them and rain hell on the people trying to capture as many as possible and a lot get caught (including this old lady that looks a lot like the gma from tsuritama idek if she has a name kgjfdjh)
THEN THIS IS WHERE I REALIZE I AM ASLEEP BECAUSE WOW THINGS WERE GETTING REALLY FUCKING INTENSE AND I ASK MYSELF HOW DID I EVEN GET IN THIS SHIT AND IT TURNS OUT I DIDNT CUZ IM DREAMING
the new guy stands up (im thinking dinozzo from ncis???)
he admits he’s from the gov’t sent to track us down and send in our location but he’s switching alliances because he heard the group’s opinion and whaddaya know he agrees (also the tsuritama gma was his gma and now hes got a lil revenge to exact)
but BAM it turns out that another aircraft finds the camp of a substantially smaller group of people (im thinking 20ish)
they dont try to capture us this time cuz were already surrounded and now they’re walking us to a savannahish place???
the only reason i know this is because there are elephants and dry grass because fuck there were parking lots and starbucks and modern stuff like that just off to the side
the guy who’s my escort is wayne from whose line so naturally i see him as a GOOF and he tries running through the elephants but gives up and tells me to go
naturally: FREAK OUT AND NO…… because now imagining the giantass tusks goin through me like it was nothing kfhskd
so i RUN AWAY to a filipino restaurant which from hands on experience i know is always full (and it was)
i find a few old classmates in there and i sit inbetween them and their families so i am surrounded by tons of people
the guys after me were most likely trying to kill me now idfk dont ask but once they see me with tons of unrelated people they back off and wait for me to leave
but also from personal experience i know the parents of these friends would always invite me over to their house which i would GLADLY ACCEPT
aside i tell my friends that i am being hunted down and i ask if it’s ok to hide out in their house until my dad comes home (because i know my mom and sis are already dead ok)
they look at each other and i hide my face because “wow that was a bit too much of me to ask huh”
they say yeah okay why not we dont want you to die that’d be p bad
so we’re starting to make a plan as to what i’ll do when i’m in there as in hide in the clothes hamper until my dad starts coming home to which they’ll take me to the freeway exit, cover me in the dry bush in an inconspicuous way and ill just jump in the car with him when he exits the freeway
we stay there for like another hour or two after we’re done eating because FILIPINOS and then it’s go time
i wake up because wow fuck this it’s too intense and my dog is bothering me

the only thing i tried changing was the food i’d order and the people i would see because w/e u lucid dream ur mind tries to kick you out by some sort of way (the most popular is killing you) WHICH BECAME MORE EVIDENT THE MORE I TRIED TO RUN AWAY FROM IT the end

TT: John.TT: I copulated with a man who does not have male...

Fri, 11 May 2012 20:17:52 -0700

TT: John.
TT: I copulated with a man who does not have male genitals.
TT: Is it safe to say I’ve been literally mindfucked?

girls down! kuffy idk what the guys even look like omfg we have...

Thu, 03 May 2012 23:05:05 -0700

girls down!

kuffy idk what the guys even look like omfg we have half of brad but thats it???

oh whoa wait what if the 7 kids didnt see each other either like they were totally invisible to the...

Thu, 19 Apr 2012 21:54:52 -0700

oh whoa wait what if

the 7 kids didnt see each other either like they were totally invisible to the entire world except the guy bringin em together

which would pose a problem for the twins and also these two friends and the guy would have to like play messenger the whole time omg

possibly a gameverse??? lots of people leaving (some willingly, some not) overrun by darkness (can...

Thu, 19 Apr 2012 21:48:31 -0700

possibly a gameverse???
lots of people leaving (some willingly, some not)
overrun by darkness (can be literal) ??? an evil sentient being that more or less makes the person a mindless drone
they get rly RLY vicious if provoked
a group of 7 kids and 1 adult male guy
congregate b/c the guy is idk collecting them????
THEN THEY FIND OUT THAT NO ONE CAN SEE HEAR TOUCH OR SENSE THEM IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER except the other members of the group
they go around trying to save da world yay

wait ok i know everyone is asleep but help how do you do lips

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 01:07:53 -0700

wait ok i know everyone is asleep but

help how do you do lips

insert description here we were to use as little words as possible which is harrardd iM A REALLY...

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 00:56:00 -0800

insert description here

we were to use as little words as possible

which is harrardd iM A REALLY WORDY PERSON

It’s a box.

Moonlight shines in on her face.

She covers her eyes, squints at the phone screen in front of her. Get help, it says. She shakes her head. She leans back into the sleeping man behind her.

The woman smiles. A meek little smile. A smile of false hope. I am help, she says.

The man mumbles behind her. His slumber had dragged his body to the bed long ago.

Moonlight. Milky light, milky pleasure of mixing and twisting and strewn about limbs. She breathes in his post-high beauty.

Her phone vibrates again. You’re insane. Please let him go.

His arms wrap around her waist, her face finding his, lips fighting for dominance yet again. She doesn’t care this is a boxed in room, that eventually, someone will cut down her cardboard pleasure, her thinly-built life around this man and herself. She doesn’t care that if anyone takes one wrong step, her box can be crushed under their pressure and carried away by the milky moonlight shining down on her face.

The man’s hands reach behind her head to hold on to something. He grabs a wet rag and disregards it— she’s quite happy for that. As he begins distracting himself among himself, she bares her back, and discards her silk to the floor.

Accompanying it is a poorly labeled bottle of water. This is the same water that, when applied to the rag and to the man’s face, can induce numbness, weakness, power to drag him to the outskirts of town and beyond.

This is the same chloroform bottle crudely mislabeled as water.

The woman takes this spare moment to reply to the text message. Try me, she says. We’re one person now, she says.

The weak bedframe squeaks under their pressure. The floorboards scratches as the wheels grind against them. The bedsheet itself is a mess, is a tangled maze between cotton, flesh, flesh, cotton, and flesh.

More clothing is discarded, disrespected, and soon, the articles are among the wood plank she used to hit his head. To make him fall asleep, to drag him to this poorly veiled box of a room.

She smiles, grins, dear stranger, don’t leave me.

Her scream is drowned out by sirens.

Her box is crushed, thrown into the back of a locked car, never to float in the milky moonlight again.

lalalalala 222 hisses under her breath. 222 tends to do that when people make her mad. People...

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 00:45:19 -0800

lalalalala

222 hisses under her breath.

222 tends to do that when people make her mad.

People tend to make 222 mad especially when they throw pebbles at her window.

The keystrokes to save her game are simple, flawlessly conducted, and her status on her player file is immediately flickering to ‘away.’ A few character avatars have plain question marks floating over their heads. A certain mage in particular is fighting his way through to approach 222’s rugged warrior, and his distorted voice is playing in her headphones.

“Something wrong? What’s going on?” he asks.

“Nothing you need to stick your puny pig-nose in, Arse-Death,” 222 snaps back. Her microphone does well with lessening the anger in her voice.

The affront is obvious, and is simply a running gag. If she took the time to think about it, 222 actually appreciates the skills that Mr. Arse-Death has within their World of Warcraft guild.

Another pebble meets her single-paned windows. She swears, if they break the glass, she’ll make sure all hell breaks loose on them. And once that’s done with, she’ll be more than happy with taking each individual shard and stabbing the kids’ eyes with it and stuffing the shards down their throats and making them swallow it and who knows? Maybe the glass would even get stuck there and that’d fix the window problem.

She shoves aside the curtain to, in fact, find a little hairline fracture in the window.

“Hey, c’mon now, Gero, for the last time, it’s Ars’Daath!”

“No one cares, loser.”

Her hand has long ago released the curtain, which doesn’t explain why the fabric is billowing in the wind like it is now… Weird, once the fact that it’s a dead-dry 92-degrees right now with absolutely no breeze around is taken into consideration. She rips the mic-set off her head and tosses it onto the table (she hopes the resulting static makes Arse-Death go deaf) before opening the window pane and leaning out.

She, no doubt, sees two boys running down the pavement, one seeming just about to fall over his feet. Tch, stupid stupid stupid everyone is stupid and it’s not long before the boys are falling into potholes that seemingly appear out of nowhere.

Which isn’t stretching the truth too much, to be honest.

222 doesn’t talk about it much, and she doubts that she ever will, but ever since that one early morning just a year ago happened, she’s had powers. Not the flying in the air, red-laser eye vision, super-human Superman-eque powers—her gifts are blessings just as much as they are curses.

She has the power to distort reality, to create bubbles in the air, if you will, and do as she pleases with them. A year, of course, is only so long to grasp her new abilities, and she’s still fine-tuning the kinks out when using them. Bubbles are still so fragile, and she needs to take good care of not popping them. If her emotions get too haywire, or if she ever just loses her sense of control, a literal hell does break loose.

It’s not much to worry about, she tells herself constantly. It’s not her fault she gets mad, it’s the people around her, and they deserve whatever punishment the world beyond their reality dishes out on them.

So as she watches the boys continually lose their footing and eventually run away wailing, she can’t help but smile. Justice serves itself on a choice platter, she likes to tell herself.

Ars’Daath is well into hacking and slashing his way through a horse of bloodied ogres. 222 settles herself back into her chair, readjusts her headset, status back to ‘available,’ before muttering, “I’m back” and hitting the controls yet again.

The bubbles around the potholes and the window and its curtains slowly die down, until it’s as if they were never around in the first place.

—-

“Morning, Gero!”

222 grunted her morning greeting back, a flimsy piece of toast in her mouth abhorring any real response. The server lost its connection yesterday, cutting her grinding session with Arse-Death short. Thankfully, though, it kept 222 from having to sit through her partner’s constant prodding about her short disappearance.

And every moment spent not dodging said question is another moment spent wondering just what the hell Ars’Daath was doing on his side of the computer screen. They’re two of the best players in their guild, a force to be reckoned with. The Dynamic Duo, even—but even 222 knows that despite how great their character avatars are, most of the battles are fought between the actual players themselves.

Dynamic Duo? Try ‘Bad Joke.’

She runs her warrior through the usual morning rounds, reaping whatever treasures the slain-ogres drop for her. It’s not long before the dynamic duo, Bad Joke, is up and sweeping the game interface at only ten in the morning. It’s not long before the character avatars, Ars’Daath and GeroGero, are competing against each other to see who can the most lugs within their session.

And by the time the hour is over, 222 finds herself steaming just a little after narrowly losing to her partner. Two ogres. She lost to Arse-Death by two measly little ogres.

(That’s a lie. The WoW ogres are anything but measly or little.)

So she takes a walk to a little café nestled in a corner. She’s become somewhat of a regular, although an aloof one at that. But that’s quite fine with her—the café owner, Kiel, brings in interesting people, some to make fun of, some to scare the wits out of, some to simply bug for the hell of it.

That’s where Otto comes in. 222 assumes he’s a regular of the place, what with yelling at her their first encounter happening in the establishment. He’s a little too bright-eyed for her tastes, and ends up resembling one of those generic heroes in their adolescence. Sharp words are always tossed back and forth, and 222 even counts on letting some of the steam off by yelling at the guy.

“What’s got your face so down today, 222?” Kiel asks the second she steps into the café, the bell above the door alarming him of the girl’s presence from behind the counter. “Is the sun too bright for you today?”

“Shove it up your ass. Not in the mood.”

“When are you ever?”

222 takes her seat on one of the barstools before slamming her head down on the table. The action is peculiar enough—Kiel takes the hint to back off any further questioning. “Where’s Snotto?”

Kiel snorts, placing a cup of coffee for her on the table. “He’ll come soon. He always gets here to freeload some drinks or something, but you’re here unusually early, so maybe I could give it to you…”

The girl finds a plate with a dainty scone pushed towards her.

Just as she gladly takes the confection to start scarfing it down, the bell chimes again, and tumbling in comes Otto. There’s an unusual smile on his face where he shouldn’t be smiling—here 222 sits, eating his complementary scone, sitting in his seat, sitting in the café apparently after arriving earlier than he had. He’s basically lost the point in getting up in the morning, and 222 is sitting here, nonchalantly nibbling away at it. He shouldn’t be smiling because under these circumstances, he wouldn’t be smiling.

“What’s got you so damn perky today?” 222 asks after staring for a moment.

Otto takes the seat next to her; smile too apparent, excitement seemingly oozing off of him. He pulls out a wallet, places a crisp 20-dollar bill on the counter, and asks for a simple cup of coffee, no change. Kiel gladly delivers, though he’s got an eyebrow raised all the while. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” he practically chirps. “I guess you could say this ogre of a problem I’ve had is now gone and beaten with.”

222 stares at Otto.

The chair he’s sitting on suddenly disappears, and he collapses to the ground.

Otto this oddly happy talking about ogres can seem to only mean one thing.

“Listen here, Arse-Death, next time, I’m beating your puny nose to a pulp.”

The man gains his bearings on the ground before his eyes widen under realization. And he’s got a smile on his face that she swears she will wipe off the face of the Earth one day.

“And I’ll be waiting until then, Gero!”

things ashley spits out at three am in creative writing, we were to modernize a fairy...

Sat, 21 Jan 2012 15:00:12 -0800

things ashley spits out at three am

in creative writing, we were to modernize a fairy tale/fable/legend/etc. my story was based off of the fiend, an old russian fairy tale about cannibalism, lying, and reincarnation!

it was a really great story yeah.

There are many things Nick’s learned to not associate himself with— fast-riding cars, dives of high-elevations, pans of extreme heats, you know, dangers of the sort. So he finds himself at a loss when he turns the usual corner to take the shortcut home and bumps into… Death.

No, not Death as in ‘shady figure holding a scythe,’ Nick reassures himself. This Death is just a boy his age, a prim-and-proper fifteen year old in his bleached-blank suit (it looks like he was a little heavy on the starch, too). He looks like anybody else, to be honest, save for the jagged feather wings on his back, and the splatter of red drooling from his mouth and down his chest and staining that bleached-blank suit of his. The boy even goes so far as to simply kick his dinner, the body of another man, the body of a dead man, to the side.

Death smiles.

Nick runs.

And Nick is more than happy to spend the rest of the month Death-free. The sheer imagery of the scene still haunts him, but he’s learning to get over it. He’s convinced himself he was hallucinating, that the day was far too normal for anything so abnormal to happen. Home, work, dinner, sleep—rinse and repeat.

In fact, Nick feels he’s fallen into such a mundane routine, he decides to take a new route home. Though, he knows that deep inside, he’s avoiding that one alley with the dead traces of Death remaining.

“I’m glad to know I haven’t left your mind.”

Nick freezes, Nick stops breathing and stops living and dies for a good moment or two because whoever is now whispering into his ear is honestly scaring him and he’s honestly scared and will honestly run away screaming like a shameless pansy if he needs to.

“Now, Nick, you don’t have to be so afraid. I’m not here to collect you,” the voice says. It doesn’t take Nick long to realize this is Death talking to him. “Yet, at least.”

His feet quickly fall into the rhythm of walking, one foot, next foot, left, right, left, left—

And now, Nick’s fallen over his own feet, just four steps away from Death. “I don’t know you, and I’ve never seen you before,” Nick plainly coughs out. In his stomach, a swimming sensation sinks in—he might die right here. His life might cut out this very moment, and he’ll never get back to school, or back home to laze around, or finish his homework and scarf down dinner and sleep the whole day off again.

“Why were you watching me the other day, Nick?”

“I… you have the wrong person, sorry.”

Though deep inside, Nick knows that he is the very person that Death needed to talk to. Though, no matter how deep inside he looked, Nick could not find the reason as to why.

Another month passes. Two months since his first encounter.

Nick wakes up to a text message. Have dinner with me.

The moment he thinks NO, a new message arrives.

Or I’ll eat your arm.

There are many things Nick knows to avoid, boys who threaten to eat his arm being one of them.

He comes home from school that day with a broken arm.

It’s gone too far, he’s fed up with whatever sick and twisted joke this ‘Death’ is pulling on him. Death is just a boy with outstanding special effects makeup and just simply has the ability to acquire Nick’s contact info by a wave of his hand. There must be a brain behind the operation. The motives will remain a mystery, and Nick prefers that they stay that way.

His mom is obviously worried. Nick brushes off the concern. “Gym was rough today, that’s all,” he mutters before taking his plate of dinner food up to his room and shutting himself off for the day.

Behind closed doors, Nick starts his investigation. Who has he talked to recently? Who has he given his phone number to? Who has he met that eats dead men right off the street?

Unfortunately, the answers all point to one person, one boy, one distant friend.

The next day, each of Nick’s steps to school is tentative. He doesn’t want to draw the attention of Death again, but this conversation needs to take place. Nick pulls out his cell phone and dials the number of a certain ‘Joshua,’ a boy he met at a party a year ago. To the day, even.

“Nick? Hey, what’s up? I haven’t talked to you in a long time!”

Death appears.

Nick feels ready to cry.

His good arm, his right arm, suddenly feels a pressure on it. He screams.

“Nick! You okay there? What’s going on?”

Death smiles.

Nick hangs up, hands the phone over.

“All I wanted was a friend,” Death starts. “All I wanted was someone to talk to. Someone alive.”

Nick isn’t sure where this is going. As he sits, back against the wall, head throbbing with pain, throat dry with shrilly shrieks, he still doesn’t have many answers. Death can’t be Joshua, no—they can’t be associated, even though they may look exactly alike and sound exactly alike and no. Nick isn’t going to let his first friend be the one trying to murder him.

“Joshua?” Nick’s voice scratches against his throat.

Death smiles back, a lame smile plastered on his dainty face. “No. John. The forgotten twin. Want to be friends?”

It comes flooding back.

Nick’s first conversation with Joshua had skirted over many things—the meaning of life, the meaning of living, the meaning of friendship, of brothers and sacrifice. Joshua’s input was minimal.

Joshua’s input was, “I wish I still had my brother.”

Nick’s eyes narrow, the needles pinning in his arms suddenly becoming a ringing in his ears, a deafening twang of Death’s affection, of Death’s sad mortality, sad inability to move on, to start from the beginning.

“He was a parasite. He stole my chance. He stole everything, Nick. He stole my friends, he stole you,” Death (or should it be John now?) drawls out.

A miscarriage. Everything clears up in Nick’s head. Joshua and John were twins. In the end, Joshua was the healthy twin, inhibiting John’s development, inhibiting John’s birth in the first place. Joshua was a parasite. John can’t live it down, can’t stand to let it go and forgive his brother.

“Why should I care?” Nick feels like he can’t scream loud enough as the bones in both his arms are shattered.

Death lowers his head until his eyes are level with those of Nick’s. “Because I could take everything Joshua has for myself, this very moment. He’ll be the shadow, the shell. He’ll be nothing. Or…”

Nick could feel his life ending this very moment. “Or?”

“You could be my best friend.”

The little scarlet droplets slowly pooling on the floor suddenly mean nothing to Nick, the deep purple bruises in his arms are useless. He’s suspended between his life, and the death of John’s now. He’s just another shadow to his own life now, an indentured friend.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PATRICIA EVEN THOUGH ITS ON SATURDAY AND NOT...

Thu, 12 Jan 2012 23:04:09 -0800

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PATRICIA EVEN THOUGH ITS ON SATURDAY AND NOT THURSDAY

ILU

hi this is for pirate and that one piano scenario she made uh I SUCK AT WRITING ANYTHING THAT...

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 23:38:21 -0800

hi this is for pirate and that one piano scenario she made

uh I SUCK AT WRITING ANYTHING THAT ISN’T DRAMATIC SO THIS BASICALLY SUCKS AND YEAH

lmao wow this is… my first ~~completed~~ homestuck fic…

If he’s counting correctly, Dave could’ve sworn that this is the four hundred and thirteenth time that John went on rampaging about his ‘mad piano skills (yo).’ He twirls his shades between his fingers blankly, staring back at John with near empty eyes.

The guy knows that Dave’s tired of this, but he can’t let go. It’s one of the few things John is apparently better at than the other. It’s going to even out the scores on the playboard— as he’s said already. And as he’s said already, he’s better at playing the piano than Dave.

His conciseness is also astounding.

“Yes, Egbert, I get it,” Dave snaps without much thought. “You can play the goddamn piano even if I poured fifty gallons of chamomile tea down your throat.”

It takes Dave a moment to realize his sudden outburst, and he suddenly wishes he could take back the words. He weighs out his options carefully— apologize, make up, then make out (a preferred choice), or ride this moment out and see what John has to say.

But there is nothing to say.

He’s laughing now, practically shoving his fists into his stomach to stop himself from guffawing to death.

“What the hell are you laughing about, Egbert? In case it’s not painfully obvious I’m actually a little more than just pissed that this is how you decide to spend our cuddle time.”

And it starts to sound like Dave just threw him over the edge and there’s no point in diving to save the lost cause that is John Egbert, the boy who laughed himself to death.

Dave shuffles out of bed, pillow in hand, before throwing it at John’s head with all the force a bag of feathers can do.

Breakfast comes no later than it should, but unfortunately, the midday sun does nothing to brighten up the situation between the roommates.

Constant gloating is still present, as well as the unrequited anger.

Dave stuffs the really lame and stupid heart-shaped pancake into his mouth and storms out of the complex without bothering to chew and swallow. He can do that later.

And thankfully, working a full eight-hour shift does a number on Dave’s emotions, and he doesn’t feel like yelling at John at all. He collapses on the sofa the second he’s in the house.

John yells a ‘welcome home’ from wherever the hell he is, and then…

He starts playing the piano.

There’s the distinct sound of piping hot water boiling. In a tea kettle, of course. The damn prankster really took up the chamomile tea jab.

Dave has to admit, John isn’t half bad with the key-snapping. He’s actually fallen asleep to a few of the guy’s original melodies, actually. And all the times that Dave’s spent watching him play are… magical. It feels like a bad choice of words because, hell, they’re all magical.

But this kind of magical is unique to John.

His eyes shut, his breathing calms, his poise affects an air of regality. He’s even let Dave rest on his shoulder as he sways back and forth, playing each piano key, each individual note with such care and precision and…

Goddammit, he’s winning you over again.

“You’re an asshole, Egbert, and you know it,” Dave calls out, burying his face in the couch cushion. There’s no more chamomile tea smell, but he can still hear John’s obnoxious giggling and laughing and guffawing and wow he’s starting to regret this stupid game of chicken.

“When you’re ready to drop the ‘I’m better than Dave at playing the piano’ act, we’ll sleep together again,” Dave says.

Two problems.

There really is no act. John is legitimately better when it comes to the piano.

There isn’t any intention to sleep elsewhere anyways.

Eventually, Dave stops sulking and makes his way to the bed, only to find John sprawled out to all corners of the mattress. It’s obvious he’s still awake; he starts smiling and makes a really lame attempt at rolling away in his sleep the second Dave steps into the room.

The exasperation is obvious when Dave lies across the other’s legs. “Gee whiz, ulta-comfy-bed,” he drones out. “I bet I know a million things that’ll make John suck at playing any sort of instrument. He’ll regret saying he can play the piano so while sleeping for four-hundred thirteen tim—”

The ulta-comfy-bed corrects Dave and says it was four-hundred fifteen times.

“Yeah. Anyway, sure, he can play in his sleep, but I bet he can’t play with me on him. He’s too much of a pussy to do that.”

It’s Dave’s turn to smile now.

Ulta-comfy-bed, or John, jumps up, looking affronted and now he’s the angry one and in the inside Dave is really smiling because this is exactly the reaction he was looking for.

He says he knows exactly what Dave’s trying to do here, and sheesh, since when were you out looking for a raging boner all the time, Dave, you pervert!

Dave merely shrugs. “If you’re afraid to try, then all I’m looking for is you to accept your defeat. You’re not the perfect piano player, Egbert, and it’s all. because. of me.”

The final chord is cut and the first cannon is fired, because now, John is preparing the keyboard and getting a feel for the black and white digits in front of him and flipping through his scrawled-out book of music he’s mastered plus those he’s starting to master. And finally, he moves over for Dave to take a seat next to him.

Discomfort dances in the air and the only real music playing now are the words Dave keeps murmuring into the boy’s ear. His breath is warm, his words are dark.

“You might as well stop now. I know you don’t really like me in your space like this.” The hand sliding along his inner thigh disturbs the sweet melody John constructs.

But John only laughs it off and oh yeah, it’s totally obvious he’s cool with this, Dave, he can handle this.

It’s soon totally obvious that he can’t.

Dave resorts to other tactics— nibbling on the shell of John’s ear, nuzzling into the nape of his neck, running hands along his arms, down his torso, along the band of his pajamas.

All the while, Dave’s reveling in the music he’s getting out of John. Little short bursts of half-spoken words and protests, accompanied by the rattling of his teeth, and finally a nice little undertone of erratic piano key smashing carries this whole piece.

Barely dipping a hand under the hem is all Dave had to do to win this battle. John gives up in a throaty moan before taking his hands off the piano and on Dave’s wrists. He slowly guides the other under and up his shirt and around his body and goddamn, Egbert, he’s all over you and he’s not even doing any work.

He leans back into Dave’s chest, face flushed and eyes unwilling.

Dave smiles back. “Keep that face, honey, you’re on camera.”

John is more than happy to learn that there was no camera.

John is much less happy to find out that his ‘performance’ was remixed by Dave.

John is actually fuming when he realizes that this sounds kind of good.

(He doesn’t think he was talking about the piano.)

“Dave, I bet you that you can’t play, or, er… scratch your turntables if I would start feeling you up all over.”

“You’re a chump, Egbert.”

MAJORLY LATE XMAS GIFT???? WHICH ISNT EVEN DONE YET WHOOPS anyway i homestuck’d A boy stands...

Sat, 31 Dec 2011 03:14:06 -0800

MAJORLY LATE XMAS GIFT???? WHICH ISNT EVEN DONE YET WHOOPS anyway i homestuck’d

A boy stands in the hallway, alone, lonely, head in his locker searching desperately for something.

Tomorrow is the state final for your football game, and the school rally had been amazing and then some.

Your heart paces in your chest, for you also happen to be the star player, an outstanding quarterback of sorts. Upon being questioned, you would say your skill in your position was all for ironic purposes, for you actually seem kind of scrawny— but upon closer inspection, your condescending tone in admitting this was all the more ironic.

A hand shoves you forward (it’s probably someone from the junior-varsity team; you never cared much for those pricks) and the boy takes notice of your presence. His shoulders straighten, before he forces himself to loosen a bit. His (godforsaken) glasses slide down the tiny crown of his nose, before he clumsily slides it back up. His hands fumble for a few papers gone haphazard in their files, before he decides it’s a lost cause.

You, on the other hand, hope it is not.

Messy-haired-ugly-spectacled-wiry-framed-boy mutters under his scratchy voice some unfortunate news. You rudely ask him to repeat that. He replies that he’s lost your homework, despite it not being yours in the first place.

You don’t know why…

… Perhaps it’s the dying down adrenaline and the blinded anger and the sheer strength of the eyes burning into your prominent jacket…

… But you shove him against the locker. His head rocks back, his teeth click, and you’re pretty sure that his fallen glasses were stepped on in the process. The boy is in utter shock— his dad is going to KILL HIM, he worries. He is oh-most definitely worried. Despite the worry (oh my god NO what am i going to do now please stop please), he works up the courage to try and pry off your hand from his now crumpled Christmas sweater that apparently his grandmother knit for him.

Unfortunately (for him), he is just that scrawny and it feels like you’re being attacked by a feather.

You lower yourself and look him squarely in the eyes. You know that he can’t see past your shades, and you know that he knows very well you’re staring him down this very moment. That, most likely, is what is scaring him the most. The boy recoils, tries to run away into his sweater and away from this frightening hand holding him hostage and hopes very much it will go away. This frightening hand, you rudely remind him, is your hand, and he best listen to it.

He’s just sand between your fingers, however.

You (rudely, once again) remind him who you are, what is going on, you are not going to have your grade drop right before winter break and he is going to have that paper ready for you by the end of the day.

The boy finally gives in, finally stops trying to end this. He takes a deep breath, nods his head, and you back off. You watch him smooth out the new creases in the sweater with jaded eyes, watch him pick up his books under your feet, watch him watch your friends before getting up and wishing you a merry Christmas.

The junior-varsity hand from earlier scoffs before slamming the boy’s locker closed and pushing the books back to the ground. A fit of laughter surrounds him before your entourage leaves guffawing.

You linger for a moment before quickly and quietly wishing him likewise.

-

-

The sun is now long gone, and the moon has long taken its place. You are one of the first to leave the football dinner, despite leaving at such a godforsaken hour. Your stomach is stuffed, your face is tired, is worn out and messy.

Your eyes have never been this wide as you see the car parked in front of you.

Out comes messy-haired-ugly-spectacled-wiry-framed-boy (you decide to refer to him as MHUSWF boy from now on out, and make sure to pronounce it like moos-whiff) with a beautifully neat file folder containing the single sheet of paper you dare call your homework. Obviously, you’re still standing, standing star-struck even, and the boy laughs, shoving a hand in front of his mouth to stop himself.

He tells you, he DARE tells you to pick up your jaw off the ground.

You ask him what he’s doing here waiting in the parking lot when it’s near midnight already and all he does is say he’s here because you told him to be. He says it’s technically not the end of the day yet, Mr. Star Football Player, so here is your homework.

You stop him midsentence (sort of— you let him finish the ‘Mr. Star Football Player’ part) and ask him why did he wait, and don’t fuck around, Moos-Whiff, you’re being serious here.

He says it’s none of your business, and that you’re just another kid in the best years of your life just trying to get by. And then he asks you who he is to stop you from doing just so.

With a heavy heart, you snatch up the file and flip through the single paper you made such a big deal about earlier. You… you decide you should probably apologize for his glasses earlier, and you notice he’s actually wearing them. Goddamn.

He tries to act all suave about it, acts like the giant gaping crack through the lenses don’t bother him, tries to act like he can still see perfectly through them, tries to act like the glasses still align with his eyes, and fails outstandingly. Then, when he hears the same guffaws from earlier, the façade falls and he turns to get ready to leave.

You wish him a merry Christmas, out loud this time, and he says once is more than enough coming from you.

You can’t help but smile like a goof.

-

-

The game goes off without a hitch.

Except that you almost weren’t allowed to play since you forgot your paper at home.

Skaia High wins a perfect game, a now-perfect season veiled with no losses or any blemishes of the sort.

Inside the locker room, you find the paper shoved into the back pocket of your jeans.

-

-

There is still a good week of school left before break.

Unfortunately, that week is packed to the brim with finals. (youre exaggerating its only seven but still seven too many.)

Fortunately, it’s not possible for you to not play a football game because of a bad grade because the season is now over.

However, you don’t feel too keen on being a summer school student prospect.

You sit in your trigonometry class (meaning on your own, you’re actually not that bad of a student and you’re the exact opposite. You’re just insufferably lazy and need help in the dedication department.) twirling your pencil between your fingers. The teacher likes you, anyways, so you won’t get busted for not paying attention.

As long as you’ve got a passing grade.

And as long as you keep turning in your homework.

And even more importantly, as long as you can pass this final.

That’s where Moos-Whiff comes in.

The boy’s sitting across the room from you, gladly in his front row seat with his pencil angrily scratching out notes from today’s class. He’s modest with his grade, with his simple A+ (kid might as well teach the trig course since he understands it so well) and it’s no doubt that Moos-Whiff would be a wonderful tutor.

Complications begin to arise here.

There’s definitely no way you’re going to have the guy come over to your house. That would just be… too awkward. You’re convinced you’re unable to focus on math for a solid hour or two, and having to sit through your mental blank outs with a near stranger isn’t near ideal. You don’t want to sound too high and mighty, but you think your relationship with Moos-Whiff is mutual. You get your homework done, and he gets an interesting story to bring home.

… You’re sane enough to admit that maybe this actually isn’t the best relationship out there.

But you can’t stop. You’ve honestly tried working on your own, tried finishing an essay or a debate by yourself, but try as you might, your efforts ended in vain. Soon after realizing this, you decided it might do you some good to stay after school for one-on-one tutoring with your teachers.

Certain junior-varsity hands, accompanied by a few varsity fists themselves, dogged after you until you had enough and decided okay fine, you’re putting your education off to the side now and they better be happy about that.

You begin gritting your teeth together recalling all of this. The teacher asks you a question, something about synthetic equations, and you drone out the answer before zoning out.

You could have sworn Moos-Whiff was smiling.

You decide his buckteeth are now a point of interest.

-

-

Lunch comes next. You grab your tray of food-you-can-barely-even-call-food and sit down at the peer-designated team table. The sounds of the cafeteria are quickly canceled out by the guffaws you’re so used to by now, but thankfully, the sights are still oh-so present. Sections of the room are quickly and automatically organized into smaller sections— places you’d like to sit at, places you’d hate to sit at, places you don’t even know the reason for WHY they exist.

It’s probably an easy answer to an easy question. You’re not one to dwell on things, though.

Around your table, the guffawing dies down as your teammates engage in (for once) relatively-intelligent conversation. Boys comparing notes for a final exam, boys complaining about the difficulty of one. You’re about to speak up when Moos-Whiff catches your eye.

The boy has a plain little brown bag, with a wimpy sandwich no doubt. (youre kidding about the sandwich thing by the way youve actually never bothered to look at the kid during lunch until now.) He sits at a table, and gingerly takes out the contents of the bag— a not-so-wimpy sandwich, an apple, a fruit cup (what a sissy) and a nice looking piece of cake. You take back the sissy comment now.

And without making a single noise or calling any sort of attention towards you, you slip away and towards Moos-Whiff. The shock on his face is all the more amusing when you swipe his fruit cup and place a bottle of apple juice in its place. It’s the same exact thing, you tell him, just without the bothersome chunks of nonconcentrated fruit.

ok lalalalaa sometimes ashley looks at other artblogs and takes...

Wed, 28 Dec 2011 23:40:27 -0800

ok lalalalaa sometimes ashley looks at other artblogs and takes notes on how to draw/shade/art stuff sometimes

mr mew thinking of ways to break it to neku that its probbably...

Tue, 27 Dec 2011 00:48:02 -0800

mr mew thinking of ways to break it to neku that its probbably time for him to give into the homoerotic subtext he has with joshua

uuaaah i am finally done with my art final (which i started this...

Wed, 14 Dec 2011 22:31:22 -0800

uuaaah i am finally done with my art final (which i started this morning and is due tomorrow morning procrastination what is that)

also wow fuck im actually proud of it kfhdgkjsdgk

Does anyone else...

Mon, 12 Dec 2011 17:55:09 -0800

maplelaughingalonewithfandoms:

Really want John to flip the fuck out when he finds out about Vriska?

Like, he’s hugging Karkat and then he looks up and is like “Oh! I almost forgot! Where’s Vriska?”

And Karkat just gives him this look, and no one else will meet his eyes and Terezi just clings to Dave a bit and looks down at the ground.

And Karkat’s trying to break the news all easy but John has this huge grin on his face, because he’s finally going to meet his patron troll and it’s making it really difficult for Karkat to explain what happened.

And Karkat is upset too because even though he didn’t like Vriska she was still his friend and he didn’t want anyone else to die and finally he breaks it to John that they had no choice and Terezi had to do it.

And then John’s grin slowly fades from his face and he turns to Terezi, who’s still clinging to Dave, but she’s crying a bit because she just killed someone she once called a sister and John walks up to her and it looks like he’s going to burst out into tears and then he goes to slap her, like brings his hand up and she flinches but doesn’t move because she feels she deserves it but John can’t bring himself to do it because he’s trying to understand their culture and so he just falls to his knees and screams.

(Yeah, I don’t write fanfiction I just write my emotions in tumblr posts.)