#dave writes things

[tgcg]

you've probs been told this alot but you're amazing at writing these characters!! theyre so accurate to how they actually are in homestuck its crazy did you find out andrew hussie's secret Are u andrew hussie irl?? also youre just like a super chill sweet dude you seem like the friend ever i hope you have a good day!! and i guess for a prompt could you perhaps draw out nepeta interacting with dave in some way? id like to see how you think they would!! you dont have to though

cant refuse that request... these two are a goldmine. thaks so much also that is insanely high praise i hope u realise... seriously thanks take care yourself

[chessb0r3d]

i cracked the code.

[osonyah]

Day 2 — GAME: Scribbl Io

For @davekatweek

I had a vision and ran with it. Crashed into a tree on my way here but there it is.

[hazy-egg]

Day 20: Vegas

This fucking line man.

[red-elric]

dave who learned imitation as a survival method....... dave getting into turntables and music mixing bc thats the one thing he can do with his bro without getting stressed out, getting into swords and ‘cool guy’ things bc when he acts like his bro and impresses him he gets hurt less, learning to act dry and emotionally disconnected from john bc john is well liked among his friends (and he likes john, too), learning to psychoanalyze by imitating rose because rose will back off if he manages to pick at one of HER sore spots for once....... dave realizing he doesnt want to be that person anymore on the meteor but not having any other method of becoming well-liked. dave imitating romcom protagonists to get karkat’s attention, becoming more and more grumpy and animated and dramatic bc of all the time he’s spent around karkat, dave’s dry humor getting more and more developed as he spends more time with rose and kanaya. dave who has a crisis (at least in another timeline) because at age sixteen he’s standing in his childhood bedroom and surrounded by interests he hasn’t pursued in years and sobbing because he doesn’t know who he is without trying to make someone like him. he doesn’t know which interests, if any, were ones he would have had if he’d grown up with a guardian that didn’t hate him, if the world hadn’t ended and if he wasn’t one of the sole survivors dedicating his childhood to creating a new universe, if he’d just been a normal kid. 

dave, age sixteen, who has no idea who he is or what he wants from life.

(https://www.homestuck.com/story/6306)

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

ROSE: Don't you understand!? The human race IS an endless number of monkeys. And every day we produce an endless number of words. And one of us already wrote Hamlet!

[mirkhammett]

champagne coast / kirk

there’s a specific vibe i went for in this, and i don’t know if i manage to express it properly but..those coming of age movie parties with jeff buckley in the soundtrack ^.^ you get me?? this is my first time trying to write something longer than 400 words in a looong while, so pls bare with me and my clusters of infinite mistakes lol

reblogs, likes, comments and asks are all highly appreciated! if this gets some interactions i may do a part 2 with..fun stuff wink wink!! i also apologise for how rushed the ending is, but i gave up lol

summary: you meet a cute guitarist at a party, that’s about it ^.^

word count; 4.2k

warnings; mentions of drugs, smoking (tobacco+marijuana, reader+kirk smoke cigs)

i have not proofread this yet so expect mistakes!!

the summer breeze is discouraging. desolate plants are surviving just barely under the malicious sun, like a record that just keeps on playing; the aftermath of the music, the seconds of muffled silence as the vinyl spins effortlessly, and you know you should just get up and remove the stylus, because the impracticalness of such a simple act of futility, could end up with a damaged record. and no one wants a damaged record.

there’s often a local yearn for the heat, summer always seeming too far away in winter, as the miserable humidity is replaced with a sharp winter, ice flakes cutting like blades, which to some, would be considered worse. and to this sum, the summer breeze may be a blessing.

everything about this place could be deemed as overstimulating. from the immense mass of people, all in garments that would never live to see the day in a public place, with such little material- could these things really be considered as clothes? and judging by the majority of party-goers, your opinion would be considered unpopular.

the concrete is hot to touch- the unsteady porch not doing much to help. it’s slightly better than inside the house, though.

it isn’t too big, it’s just too small. a perfectly adequate residence for someone in their mid 20s to occupy, and it looks it too. the entryway of the house is not only filled with coats and others of the sort, but all 4 of the cream coloured walls are adorned in posters. some are easily known- you recognise one in particular as a promotional poster for a new thrash band, the logo on the corner signifying that whoever owns this, got it fresh from a record store window.

entering though the hallway into the kitchen felt like a treacherous task for you, under the oppressive temperatures. sporting this thin sweater may have not been the right choice, you criticise.

there’s a table in the kitchen. well, the remains of a table. empty beer cans are scattered across, and a half full bowl of punch sits, patiently waiting for its next victim to intoxicate with its high levels of ethanol, and god knows what else. you pondered if fresh orange juice was used, or artificial.

you feel their eyes on you before you see it. and then a hands reaching out to you. skinny, nimble fingers connected to a tanned wrist, paired with a couple dainty, gold, probably fake, bracelets. and that tanned wrist connects to an equally tan body, (of course.)

you look at her quizzically. she’s got flowing hair, brown ribbons of curl that shone with an orange tint under the shitty, dingy lamp illuminating the cramped room. and then you gazed up at her again.

do you know her? does she know you?

staring unblinkingly at her, you realise, is probably very much off putting. it’s hard to take kindness from strangers, well, for most people. it’s even harder to tell if that kindness is genuine. you believe in the idea, quality, or quantity. at least that’s what you tell yourself- and it maybe the whole reason you ended up in this predicament.

she’s got a man on her arm. he’s tall, well, he’s taller than both you, and her. his long, blonde hair is looking a little ratty, and you know she must have thought the same too. you can also tell he’s been trying to grow out a ‘horse-shoe’ moustache, judging by the minor prickles of hair, and the subtle shaping.

he’s looking at you like a guard dog- and his expression is fully straight. you can’t tell if he’s one of those people, that show a hard exterior, but really, is the complete opposite, or, if he is really a dick and is gonna punch you if you stare any longer. choosing a safe option, you glance back at her.

“here,” she nudges you again. oh, she’s got a cup. it’s one of those cheap, red plastic cups you always see in the movies- the frat party ones. her presence is warm. she smiles warmly. is that a thing?

“get yourself a drink.” and then she’s opening up the palm of your hand, and tightening your fingers around the plastic rim.

you hum in surprise. it’s not every day a complete stranger is nice to you. infact, you can only count one specific time where this happened before. the one time that led to you coming to this party, through the kindness of a once mutual, now, you felt comfortable enough to consider, just a friend.

“oh! thank you.” you give the best, closed mouth wide smile you can, though it seems more like a grimace.

she doesn’t care. they’re already gone.

the next room is slightly more interesting than the last, a blue strobe light left in the corner. thought it’s not glowing in multi colours like it should be, instead it’s just illuminating the room, which could be the antithesis of something spacious, in a pale blue hue. it’s reflecting off onto an old, worn leather couch with multiple holes, which you can only assume are from cigarette stubs.

the whole house has some sort of retro style, which you appreciate.

the summer breeze, once discouraging, now borderlining on something sinister. could the sun really have malicious intent? or is the world just hell bent against you?- with your fashion choices not accommodated to the ever changing weather.

you pass a couple of groups- they don’t look older than you, though they don’t look younger. but the bodies on bodies is all too much to handle, when everyone’s body temperature has accumulated into one big cacophony, a spell for disaster.

every thing was getting too much.

the grandfather clock standing proud, ticking in a futile rhythm, back and forth, on and off, a constant reminder of the stench of sweat covered bodies and the metallic aroma of almost empty cans of beer, for the sticky residue left behind, which had escaped out of one too many discarded cans, and seeped into possibly every material in this cramped hole of a living space. the longer this party would go on, the harder it would be to call this room a living space. scrap that, this is an un-liveable space.

the atmosphere was fine. the people were fine. everything was fine minding it’s own, but together, seeming like a recipe for a symphony of destruction.

luckily for you, there was an out.

big wooden doors, with bigger glass panels, providing the only symbol of a once eloquent residence. the whole house was, well, not modern, but in a sense it didn’t carry this vintage-ness; like the decorations of choice did- so it was a nice touch. at least you thought.

and those big wooden doors, led you to your freedom, or in other words, the patio.

upon first examination, the garden was split into two groups. the outdoor couch sitting area, which provided just as many cigarette burns as the excuse of a couch inside, but longer, presenting itself in an ‘L’ shape. and on this couch, sprawled out were a group of people, all comfortable in very, odd? positions. wait, on a different thought, not all.

he was very pretty from a first glance, his chocolate curls fading into something more, like black ribbons of coal, though they shone with a red tinge under the harsh glow from the ongoing sunset.

you never stopped to notice the sunset.

but he looked almost rigid. he seemed reserved. he seemed different. it was like he had purposely tried to squeeze himself down the cracks of the sofa, for it to swallow him whole. but then again, he didn’t seem anxious.

he held a joint between nimble fingers. from a distance, you could make out the red rashes lining them, small bloody scars, in such a recognisable pattern that you just knew all too well, he had to play guitar. often. he was having trouble smoking it, though. intimate breaths of wind cascaded his locks to cover his pretty features, sticking to his chapped lips as he brought up the blunt and examined, close and personal.

you pondered if maybe, just maybe, he was like you too. practically a stranger to this new world before your eyes, lacking the confidence to do anything to change it. sure, you were confident in yourself, there was no reason for you not to be. just, in social situations like this, it would tend to falter.

oh, wait. no, you take it back.

the guard dog from before-hand sits tall beside the curly brunette. he seems to be ranting about something. the nice girls not by his side anymore. you wonder if anything happened between them.

the ratty blonde sported a goofy grin. so you were right. a labrador in disguise. you stole a few more glances, before continuing down your trail.

you didn’t think you’d fit into other group either. this was was more, energetic, a pile of sweaty messes, a cheap speaker blasting heavy metal, with a crispness to the speaker that could never be recreated with a new one, nor the sense of comfort that comes with it. something worn down, worn with love, like a jacket, peeling at the seams. a jacket that’s been well loved by someone, despite its flaws.

it was hard to concentrate on your thoughts and breathe pure air properly with the booming deathly melodie’s of ozzy osbourne blasting, the bass managing to shake a loose rope swing hanging from an old oak tree. you thought it must’ve been a gentle reminder of childhood.

the path continued to trail on, the melancholic rock dying it by a couple slight octaves. then it ended. a large, unsteady fence stood tall, and not very proud. a bench resided, with 2 more oak trees, one on each side, in a way to protect the bench, preserve the wood from heavy sunlight.

the bench wasn’t the most comfortable, but it served for what it could. it was obviously aged down through the years, so really, you couldn’t complain.

the view was pretty. the sun going down, with all these people enjoying themselves, it was a gorgeous sight. though it was funny you still hadn’t wandered into the small minority you knew yet. though you were growing impatient under this blanket of loneliness, itching for something that would burn, something to exhale.

the pocket of your worn jeans were loose- loose enough to know that if something wanted to fall out, by all means it could. and now, after futile attempts to find your lighter, you prayed to anyone that would listen, please say i haven’t lost it.

but alas, the gods still weren’t on your side. maybe it was something in the air, which bubbled up into a fit of internal rage, your three-quarters empty pack providing a strong sense of tobacco, laying lifeless in your rigid lap.

“need a light?”

he walked up awkwardly, intertwining his hands together. his blunt was gone, whether he had finished it himself or passed it on, you didn’t know. he smiled warmly, and if you blinked you would’ve missed it.

and all of a sudden the unbearable heat was back, sending a tinge to yours cheeks, feeling like being trapped inside a car under the scorching sun- but he didn’t look affected by the heat, in his black button up (half un-buttoned), infact, he looked angelic under the hues of reds, purples, and yellows, and whatever else fit into the mix.

he seemed nice; nice enough, to even suggest such an offer to a stranger.

“please.” you mumbled, and he warmly reached his hand out, a battered, black lighter, one of the cheap ones from the convenience stores, clasped loosely. he wiggled his fingers. revealing the lighter to your gaze, he emitted that same, goofy smile, only now revealing his crooked pearls.

he sat down on the bench.

“you don’t know many people here, huh?” he questioned. though his voice wasn’t judgy, nor threatening.

well, it’s great that your efforts to stay on the down low went out the door. it’s even greater to know that people have noticed your outstanding loneliness.

“is it that obvious?”

he stifled a laugh, shrugging slightly, sporting a wide grin. “that’s okay,” he muttered. “you know, i don’t know many either.”

the reality seemed embarrassing, and with anyone else, you would never, on your own life, admit it. but somehow, in this moment, everything was different.

he fixed his posture, resting his hands in his lap, his head turned towards you. you pursed your lips, a small smile gracing. he looked down to your lap, cigarette still in your hand, and signalled for you to raise it.

you quickly caught on, assuming he would just hand you the lighter after you placed the cigarette between your lips. he did not.

instead he leaned in closer, bringing one hand to cover one side of the cigarette, the other to light it up effortlessly. oh, i guess that works too.

you took a puff, the inhale longer than the exhale, the smoke a delicious burn in your lungs. resting the cigarette between 2 nimble fingers, you bit your chapped lip.

“i’m kirk, by the way.”

“hi kirk,” you grinned, and told him your name. he grinned back.

he fiddled with his fingers, cracking his knuckles with expertise. and then he points at your shirt. “i like fleetwood mac, too.”

hanging with kirk wasn’t so bad. actually it wasn’t bad, not at all. somehow minutes turned into shorter minutes, 60 seconds seeming to pass all too quick. and those minutes were quickly consumed by a larger number, a black hole that could be called hours.

the night air had turned chilly, the effects of a bipolar summer very clear. the arrival of goosebumps took place, and so did a great warmth, the crackle of a fire pit, and the smell of fresh wood, the aroma of smoke. legs now touching one another’s as a multitude of different people sat around in criss-cross positions.

but that wasn’t where you found yourself.

sitting in the passenger seat of his run down black 70s capri, a heavy scent of cologne mixed with a faint essence of weed, hanging lowly, stuck into the leather seats. the key clattered as he pushed it into the lock, the engine starting up with a fierce roar.

a conversation about music had somehow led you here, sitting almost shyly in his car, legs folded upon one another. it all started with a singular comment about fleetwood mac, and in a matter of minutes you found yourself immersed in conversation, somehow sitting close together than you had before, the heat of his breath radiating closely as he enthusiastically ranted about led zeppelin IV. and then some more, about who he believed to be his biggest inspiration, jimi hendrix.

oh yeah, you learnt he plays guitar too.

and with a declaration that he was hungry, sported with his reddened eyes, you were off. well, you were never really given the choice. your hand grasped tightly in his, excitedly taken back through the garden, through the shitty cramped living space, (and him accidentally walking into the smaller couch), back through the kitchen with bottles now empty, red plastic cups now scattered, through to the entry way. with that same, sweet thrash poster now hanging on.

and as the car roared up, so did the symphonies of rolling stones, because you can’t always get what you want.

“so the blonde one, he’s your friend?”

the melody of the rolling stones, switching to the doors, a mix-tape he probably burnt himself, disrupted. god bless jim morrison.

he raised a brow, though still looking at the road ahead, answering quizzically. “which blonde one?”

you bit back a smile. “the scary blonde one, with long hair. and the pretty girlfriend.”

this caused kirk to grin, shaking his head slightly to stop his hair from disrupting his view of the darkened roads. the streetlights didn’t go much to help accommodate pedestrians, nor drivers. the headlights of his vintage vehicle were slightly darker than the average, but he seemed used to it.

“ah, james. he’s my bandmate. scary, no, long hair, yes, girlfriend, no. he doesn’t do girlfriends,” he hummed lowly. “he’s one of my bestfriends.” james. you wondered if he was still with the girl you earlier assumed to be his girlfriend.

and then you sat in silence for maybe 30 seconds, maybe a full minute, pondering your next words. he didn’t seem to mind, waiting just slightly impatiently for the red light to turn green and give the get go. he rolled down the window.

“do you do girlfriends?” you asked suddenly. the longer it took for him to form a response, the more you regretted ever asking. maybe that was too forward for a guy you hadn’t even known for a full day. but then you could argue that him taking you out for dinner was even worse.

he was caught off guard, quickly masking his suprise. “i…don’t know,” he spun the wheel with skill as he turned left into a parking lot of a 50s presenting dinner, sporting a glowing red sign, walls painted once white now a light yellow. he stopped the car as he pulled into a parking spot, twisting the keys. the engine abruptly stopped, and so did the music. and then he turned to look at you, with a small smile. “do you do boyfriends?” and that was when you finally made eye contact.

shrugging slightly, you looked from his eyes to your lap, and back up to his eyes again. “i don’t know.”

his grin widened, and you return the gesture.

the gleaming lights of the diner held a stark contrast to the gloomy sky, the current time being in the early hours of the morning very obvious- and in a couple hours you’d start to hear the birds cheep and the sky lighten, and determine it time for bed.

he led you into the diner, holding the door open for you like a gentleman, the little bell on top of the door chiming in recognition of your arrival.

and from there he traveled with experience of the 24-hour diner, to a booth hidden in the corner, though still visible under the cream glare of the flickering lights; almost too visible, you thought, the brightness of the lights already forming a subtle headache in the back of your mind. the two comforts of the booth were separated with a nimble oak wood table, the sturdiness of it which had definitely gone down in its many years of occupying this place.

he grabs two menus before sitting down on one side of the booth, and you follow, sitting down on the other. he hands you one menu, and opens his own.

“i want a milkshake.” he murmurs, his eyes still scanning over the menu. you lean over the table, your menu left unopened, shifting slightly to examine the contents of drinks he was looking at.

“which flavour?” you question, slumping back into your seat.

“dunno,” he puts the menu down, looking up at you. “what flavour do you want?”

his eye contact is almost too much to handle, causing you to look back down at your hands. he doesn’t comment on it, that is if he ever even noticed the slight tint of blush on your cheeks.

“vanilla.” throughout the options of chocolate, strawberry, and banana, there’s a clear winner.

“then that’s what we’ll get.” he smiles, his red hued eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins. you bite the side of your lip, suppressing a grin, sporting a one sided, shy smile as you try to resettle your composure.

you open the menu, trying to distract yourself from the flush on your cheeks and the man sitting infront of you. his curls drop down as he tries to push them out of his face, watching you almost shyly.

“what are you gonna get?” you voice, finally looking up from the menu.

he tucks his black coils behind his ears. “the burger,” and then leans down slightly, his elbows making contact with the table, his eyes still on you. “do you wanna share?”

you nod, grinning widely. “okay, we’ll share.”

the diner lights flicker again, as well as the chime of the door, the slight rush of wind causing an appreciate breeze. there’s an empty coffee cup on the bar side, and an imprint in a red stool.

adorned in a teal coloured uniform, a tired, and pissed, (probably a college student), waitress takes your order. she doesn’t bother to put on a fake persona, and you don’t blame her. infact, you almost feel sorry that her nap in the staff room was cut short, by the puffiness of her eyes. as for kirk, he doesn’t even bat an eye at her as you order politely, his eyes still fixtated on you.

and in mere minutes the food arrives, a vanilla milkshake with a candied red cherry on top already in your grasp. kirk has taken to the task of trying to cut the burger evenly into 2 pieces, through frowns when he’s cut one slice bigger than the other. you take the smaller piece, knowing the effects of weed on your hunger. when he realises this, he pouts. “i’m not that hungry,” you explain, taking your first bite.

he pushes the fries further towards you. they’re in a wooden tray, with a tissue adorned with patterns of red and white squares underneath. you chew throughly before swallowing, setting the burger back down on the plate.

he reaches out for a fry, surprising you when he reaches even further towards you, bringing the fry up to your mouth. you take it, giggling.

while you chew on the fry with one hand, you pick up the milkshake with the other and bring the straw to his mouth, mimicking his previous movements. he smiles widely as he takes down a big gulp, laughing through his closed mouth. “wait, that’s so good.”

“i know!” you exclaim, taking a couple of salty fries from the bunch.

you dip a handful of fries into the milkshake, and he grimaces. “that’s criminal!”

you roll your eyes, giggling. “no it’s not,” you dip another one in. “you just don’t have taste.” he finishes his part of the burger ravenously, and you push the plate with your half eaten burger towards him.

“are you sure?” he questions, looking for any signs of unsureness on your face.

“only if i can have the cherry.” you bargain.

“deal,” he picks the cherry off from the top of the milkshake, wiping the whipped cream off from it with his finger, then bringing his finger to his mouth. he reaches out to give you the cherry. “here you go, m’lady.”

you let out another high pitched laugh, bringing the cherry to your plump lips and nibbling on the stem. the waitress cringes at the sound, leaning her head down in her hands and closing her eyes. you pity her.

kirk finishes the burger quickly, his next mission being reaching out for the fries. you’re not sure if he’s just got the munchies, or if he’s also even eaten today.

and soon enough, you’re flopping back into your seat, empty dishes covering the table. kirk is leaning towards you, smiling softly. you yawn, covering your face with a soft hand.

“you tired?” he murmurs, tilting his head as he smiles sweetly. you make a quiet sound, similar to a hum, and his smile grows. “okay,” he reaches over the table for your hand. “let me take you home.”

and then once again, your back in his passenger seat, the smell of cologne and marijuana now comforting. he puts the key in as softly as he can, and the second the car roars to life he takes it to himself to turn the radio down to the lowest level, looking over at you. you’re slumped in the seat, your head towards the window. he just grins.

the sky isn’t so dark anymore, a greyish dark blue, with a slint orange before sunrise. “i’m gonna need you to give me directions, ‘mkay?” he pulls out of the car park as you respond quietly, giving him the directions.

a few minutes into the ride, you realise he’s going miles below the speed limit, to keep the car steady, and not pull you out of your sleepy state. he’s humming along to the radio, his finger tapping the wheel at every beat.

trees pass in a flash, so do streetlights and benches, sets of three drains, and a couple single drains too.

then time flashes again and he’s pulling up outside your apartment, already outside the passenger door and beating you to open it. he walks you to the doorway of the building, stopping and playing with his hands.

you look up at him, smiling shyly. he does the same. “thank you for tonight, kirk,” you hesitantly open the building door. “do you wanna, maybe, do this again?”

“o-of course. i’d love to.” if you blinked, you would’ve missed the slight flush tinting his cheeks, rushing down into his neck and shoulders. he fumbles in his pocket for a piece of ripped newspaper and a pen, scribbling down his home phone number in messy writing, and if it was anything but numbers you’d have a hard time reading it. “call me, okay?”

“okay.” you grin softly, stepping into the doorway.

he backs up, smiling as he waves you off. “okay.”

and then the door shuts.

[phantomsf0rever]

unpopular opinion maybe but i don't acknowledge dave filoni's interpretation of a lot of things and i ESPECIALLY don't acknowledge his characterization of anakin. who the fuck is that

[brinkle-brackle]

family

(a/n: SURPRISE FIC!!!!!!!! I wrote this prose poem thingy for a class writing exercise last semester and I'm very proud of it, and I wanted to put something out for bttf day so here it is now :) I hope yall enjoy it!!)

- - - - -

I have a father. A father who I am unsure if I will ever truly know in any real way. His eyes have been fixed to the television every night for as long as I can remember. He blinks in tandem with the static. He is wired, he laughs along with the laugh track. He is wired to cringe and cower beneath and stutter and laugh and laugh and laugh. His laugh, what a shaky, unsure laugh. He laughs and nods and laughs, full of fear. "Yes, sir, of course, sir, I know, sir-- hah, ouch-- yes, sir, I know, sir. You can- can count on me, sir." I ask him why he does what he does. He tells me he can do nothing else.

I have a mother, although I wonder if I ever truly had a mother. I wonder if this was something that developed as I grew up. Maybe it is just that I cannot remember her for who she used to be, or maybe she has always been like this. So jaded, so distant. A haze lies over her eyes, they are glass. Every evening they become glass. Tonight she is two vodkas in.

I have a brother who does not take his life as seriously as he should. Ever since graduating he has sat in the same place, flipping and frying. He does not like effort. He tells me that he is content as he is. A lazy smile, the stench of grease lingering from the spot he stands in even long after he has left. It is everywhere in his room. It creeps out in the wash and corrupts the rest of our clothes and bedsheets. He is turning gray before my eyes. Any longer, and I fear he will become a stone.

I have a sister, and she is miserable. Wanting and yearning, yet stifled. Aware, though. She is aware of what our parents have and what they do not have, and what they do not have she wants for herself. Her heart calls out. It tires of living in such a perpetual state of stillness, it wants to beat. A companion. A dinner for two, caring not if it will work out, just to try. That is what she wants: to try.

I have a family, and they are not you.

I have a girlfriend and she is my world. She is the sun when the clouds get thick and the clouds when the sun gets hot. She is musical laughter and stolen kisses before algebra class. She is planned-out road trips and a walk hand in hand through the town square. She is off-key, loudly-sung ABBA under the stars after leaving the cinema. She is a ride through the neighborhood, a skateboard date to 7-Eleven at twilight. She has been in the front row of every gig I have ever done (exactly two). She sings along when I practice my guitar-- not loudly, not off-key-- but just right. From her heart. She is solace.

She is everything to me, but not in the same way you are.

I sit down at the dinner table. My brother eats, but my sister prefers talking over chewing. I do not blame her, I am not hungry either. My fork becomes a rake on my plate with its slow and languid movements. Our mother speaks of her brother who will be visiting tomorrow. My sister makes a snarky comment, a blunt knife shot from between her teeth. Our mother just laughs, and it is the closest thing to genuinity I have heard from her in a long time, although it is not quite there. She calls out to our father. He does not answer, he has wired himself up to the television the way he does every night. Our mother waits, but he does not answer. He laughs along with the laugh track.

I have a father, and he is not you.

Stomach turning, I retreat to my room for the evening. I play my guitar until I hear my sister snap through the wall for me to quiet down. I prop my guitar against the wall and dial on my landline, and it rings one, two times before you answer. You greet me with warmth in your voice, you ask me how my day was. I tell you. You ask me about algebra, and I make a strange noise. You help me with my homework, we are on the phone for hours as numbers clash and meld together in my mind's eye. It is late now, and you can hear the tiredness in my voice. The math book is long gone, but we are still talking, although there are more pauses in our voices. Tomorrow is my audition, I say. You know, you remember. Come by my garage in the morning before school, you tell me-- I made something for you that might help you out with practicing. You can play without having to worry about waking your family up.

I have a father, and he is not you. But he does not ask me about my day with genuine interest. He does not help me with my algebra homework. He does not tell me his dreams and aspirations, and he does not encourage mine with equal enthusiasm. He does not give me pep talks. He does not get Burger King and offer to watch cheesy older movies with me when I have had a bad day. He does not put his heart into everything he does and include me in all of it. He does not stay on the line with me until I fall asleep, smile on my face and phone resting limply in my hand.

I am not in his world and he is not in mine. But you and I, we are engrained, woven into each others'.

I have a father, and he is not you. But family is not always the thing written in one's blood.

[undertheopensky]

Memento

Whumptober Day 22: Glass Shard

Characters: Four, Sky, everyone else is there

Trigger warnings: Self-harm, it’s unintentional but it’s there, minor nudity, panic attacks, a special kind of unreliable narrator, many bad decisions are made

Read on Ao3!

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The portal looks like any other. It’s only as he steps through that Four registers something – off – as his awareness stretches and spirals and f r a y s

They’re scattered in the void between stars, drowning and endless, flecks of insignificance against a being so much greater that the scale of it is lost to them.

OUTSIDE EQUIPMENT IS FORBIDDEN.

Their body doesn’t exist right now. It’s so easy for the entity to strip them down to their essentials, their skin and their blood and their bones, leaving everything else behind in the void. Peeling away everything that isn’t them, their sword, their tunics, the cord at their throat –

No!

In this moment-between-moments they’re barely a spark of thoughts, a soul in potentia, and every fibre of their being curls tight and defensive against the gentle tug. Over their heart, they wrap threads of lightning and fire around a faint and faded glimmer. They resist.

The entity tugs again.

No no no don’t take it please don’t take it I can’t lose it I can’t lose him I can’t –

The entity… pauses.

They cling tighter. I won’t let you take it.

ALL OUTSIDE EQUIPMENT IS FORBIDDEN.

They keen in soundless protest. Mine-his-only-thing-left-grief-and-horror-and-mourning–

…ALL OUTSIDE EQUIPMENT IS FORBIDDEN. BUT A TRINKET THAT GRANTS NO ADVANTAGE… THAT, I CAN ALLOW.

And they’re flooded with relief a split second before they’re flooded with sound and light and ow.

Everything always tingles for a few seconds, after teleportation. All his pieces realising they’re still alive, registering protests about the sand beneath him, the chill of the air, the ache in his tightly-clenched hand –

“What the fuck –”

“Who took my rings –”

“WHERE IN DIN’S NAME ARE MY PANTS?!”

Everyone else is discovering they’ve been stripped of their equipment and are reacting accordingly. Four sits up slowly, flexes his throbbing fingers just enough to check –

A thin cord tugs at his neck; razor edges bite into his palm. The necklace is safe. He didn’t lose it. It’s safe.

He shudders out a sigh, hot and cold playing over his bare skin. After the panic attack, all of them slammed together in united desperation, everything feels kind of muffled. There, but unimportant. Even everyone’s noisy agitation isn’t worth responding to – no one is missing, no one is hurt, they’re just upset. They don’t need him for that.

“Four – shit, Four, you’re bleeding–!”

He realises what they’re reaching for almost too late. “No!” he yelps. “No don’t touch it it’s mine don’t take it no no no–” The sand is cool and slippery under their feet as they scrabble back. There’s a wall, there’s a corner, there’s nowhere to run so they huddle instead, curled protectively around the hand holding his necklace and keening high and panicked.

“Don’t take it,” he gasps, “please don’t.”

“It’s okay,” someone soothes, “it’s okay. I won’t take it. I’m just worried about your hand. It’s bleeding; are you hurt? I’m not going to take anything from you. I just want to see your hand. Do you think you can do that?”

Panting, Four peeks out of his defensive ball. Sky is there, not too close, crouched far enough away to give him some space. His tentative smile widens when he sees Four looking back at him.

“I promise I won’t take it,” he repeats. “Can you take a deep breath for me? Please?”

Aware he’s being handled and annoyed by it, Four obeys only out of spite. Breathing the full depth of his lungs hurts. It takes a few gasping starts to get all the way down, and by then the green-grey panic has faded from the edges of his vision.

“I hate that this shit works,” he says in a sapphire-tinted growl.

Sky is infuriatingly patient. “If it didn’t work, we wouldn’t ask you to do it. Do you think I’d be able to take a look at your hand now? Please?”

As the adrenaline fades it is starting to hurt. And… it’s Sky. He… they trust Sky.

Mostly, indigo murmurs.

Slowly he uncurls his fingers, wincing crimson as the pain flares. Blood runs down his bare arm. It’s still a struggle to let go enough to switch the blood-streaked pendant to his other hand. His heart drops into freefall for the instant it takes his fingers to close, only steadies when the edges bite just enough to register. Only then does he let Sky take him by the wrist.

Welling up from the ragged cuts, blood drips to the sand; Sky frowns in concern. “Some of these look deep… does anyone have a potion? Bandages, even? I seem to have misplaced my kit…”

“No,” says Wild, grimacing. “It’s… I’ve only ever seen one of these before, but the shrine keeper takes everything as you come in. Weapons, equipment, armour.”

“Fucking clothes,” Legend mutters.

“You don’t even wear pants to start with, Legend,” says Twilight.

“That doesn’t mean I want to go naked!”

“Magic’s probably still on the table, if you have the strength for it.” Wild shoots Hyrule a hopeful look.

Without meaning to Four tenses when Hyrule gets close.

“I’m not going to take it from you,” Hyrule says, repeating Sky’s words from earlier.

Four flushes with dull embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry for scaring you.” Moving more slowly, Hyrule carefully lays his fingertips on Four’s bleeding hand. They start to glow, a gentle spring green, and Four watches the self-inflicted cuts fade away, leaving smears of blood behind.

“Thanks,” he says. Then, to avoid the inevitable questions, he forces himself to stand, looks straight at Wild, and ploughs onwards: “So, how do we get out of here?”

“Well, assuming this is some kind of shrine, it could vary. Sometimes they’re… moving puzzles. Like, you have to move a ball down a path, but there are lasers in the way that will knock you into a pit if you don’t block them somehow. Or you have to reach a high area but there’s no ladder, but there are things that you can pile up into like a really lopsided set of stairs. Other times they’re combat trials – you have to defeat a certain monster, or a group of monsters, to make the final door open.”

Wind makes a noise of understanding. “Oh, so it’s just a dungeon then. Cool.”

Wild frowns. “I… dunno? You guys always made dungeons sound, like, super drawn out. These are like. Two, maybe three tasks, and you’re done. The steals-all-your-shit shrine was the worst for that alone but it was also a combined combat-puzzle thing. I guess you didn’t have to fight the monsters to get the balls, but it was a lot easier carrying them around if you didn’t also have to dodge arrow fire.”

“And you did this without armour or a sword?” says Warriors, somewhere between aghast and impressed.

“I broke a lot of sticks,” Wild agrees. “I would have given so much for even the crappiest sword, but I’ve never been able to get anything past the shrine keeper.”

“Thought you said you’d only seen one of these?” Legend runs his fingers over his knuckles again. It’s an unconscious motion, missing his rings.

“Well I ran the first time, didn’t I?” says Wild reasonably. “Panicked and ran for it. When I got far enough away the monk gave me all my shit back. I tried a couple times to sneak stuff in, throw it from the raft or whatever, but no dice. How’d you do it, Four?”

Four’s hand tightens. Hot blood starts to seep into the spaces between his fingers, something sharp like panic coiling around his heart.

“Steady, Four,” says Sky. “Deep breaths. Shit, you’re bleeding again – Wild!”

“I’m sorry! I was just curious!”

Four wants this over with. Why can’t they just leave them alone, fuck, they’re always asking and poking and so goddamn nosy, they never let things go, he can see their burning curiosity and knows what they want, he can feel it pressing in on his heart –

If he doesn’t think about it too hard, the words can stumble out. “I felt it – and – I fought it.”

Legend frowns. “You fought it for your necklace? Why not your sword – hell, your shirt?”

“How did you even feel it?” Wind demands. “One second we were walking into a portal and the next we’re stripped to our skivvies! There was no time!”

“Time’s more flexible than you think,” they say absently. Their fingers shift, making glass cut twilight-sharp, and their heart steadies.

“When the portal – when we entered the shrine – there was a moment where – Wild called it the shrine keeper – I – felt it. Taking everything away. Bag. Sword. Clothing. But –” his hand twitches again. Sky hisses as more blood hits the sand. “I couldn’t let them take this. It’s the only thing I have of my best friend.”

The words fall from his lips in blood red and bruise purple and he meant to say them but he didn’t and he regrets them but he doesn’t. The pendant is important, they can’t lose it, they need the others to understand that –

Their mind turns inward. What if they hadn’t – convinced them? What if the shrine keeper had taken the fragile shard of glass –

Give it back! It’s like an echo of a memory, too-sharp and too-clear. Please give it back, please!

Their fingers tighten. Pain swells, drowns out the almost-memories, and stays a constant drumming throb even when they relax.

Unease runs viridian.

“–our, I need you to take a breath for me, can you do that? C’mon, head up, you can do it –”

Calm and steady, Sky’s voice draws them from the almost-flashback. It’s harder this time – they hurt, and they’re tired, and the grief isn’t lurking so much as clawing up their spine. The world presses in on them. They hurt, Green-Red-Blue-Vio all caught up in we-miss-him-we-miss-him-we-miss-him. It makes everything harder, when all they want to do is fall deep and curl up in mirror-shard memories that hurt the same way they do. (The pain is comforting.) (They know it shouldn’t be.)

When they’re like this, when they can’t find the balance that lets them be Four instead of four, when they don’t even want to – someone has to take the reins. Someone who’s capable of at least pretending to be a person, for a while – and this time, that’s Red. Red, who feels things so intensely he circles right back around to ‘functional’. Who manages to take a full breath of air even through the tears, making Sky smile encouragement.

“Good! Good job, just keep it up, you’re alright.”

Red wants the smile, wants the comfort just as much as he hates it. It’s wrong. Too big, the wrong shape, smells of feathers and sunlight instead of smoke and steel. Another stuttering breath rips through his chest. He misses them so much – misses them all, even when they’re right there with him because it’s not the same. And there’s nothing he can do about it except breathe, and cry, and wait for the storm to pass.

Hyrule inches closer. “Four, you’re bleeding again. Can I see your hand?”

Red breathes through the avalanche of fear and hurt and no. Checks – the bleeding isn’t bad – before shaking his head. “S’fine.”

“I don’t want to leave you in pain. Please?”

“No.” It comes out harsher than he intends.

“Okay, not right now. Can you let me know when you’re ready?”

Red hums agreement. Presses the hand against his sternum, feels the way it makes glass shift in his fingers.

“Just make sure you get it treated, little one,” Time says from nearby, deep and slow. “That’s your sword hand.” He’s – closer than Red had realised. They all are, actually.

“You gotta look after yourself!” Wild adds.

That is possibly the most hypocritical thing he’s ever heard Wild say, and for a moment he just stares. Then he gets distracted by Wind, bouncing and clearly relieved Four is looking more stable.

“It’s okay, Four! Wild says these don’t take long, so we’ll be out of here and back to normal in no time!” His eyes catch on Four’s hand – still clenched tight, still bleeding – and flicker uncertainly. Then he squeaks and flails in protest as Warriors scrubs a hand through his hair.

“Sailor’s right, it’ll be okay. Maybe talk to your friend next time you’re home? See about getting a spare – or somewhere safer to keep it?”

Twilight makes a noise of agreement. “Your friend must be real important to ya,” he says, “but you haven’t mentioned ‘em before. Can you tell us about them?”

Embers spark.

“He killed himself,” Four says boldly, “to save my life.”

There’s a brief, horrified silence.

Then everyone bursts out talking at once, Twilight’s frantic apologies mixing with Wind telling him off, Hyrule pleading to let him help, Warriors protesting something that gets lost in the commotion. They’re guilty, apologetic, desperately trying to help.

Red doesn’t care.

“I can’t just – get a new one, because it was his, and now he’s gone. He saved me – he saved all of fucking Hyrule – and people call me a hero when I couldn’t – I couldn’t even save him.” Under a layer of numb his skin is burning, with hurt, with anger, with the grief he holds close. He still feels so cold. It isn’t fair.

Time interrupts before he can dig his heels too deep. “How old were you?” His voice is gentle, almost distant.

“We were – we were both thirteen.” His voice cracks and he has to use his free hand to dash away angry tears. This is why he doesn’t talk about it, dammit.

Sky hugs him.

It’s more awkward than usual, without all their layers in the way – why does skin have to be so warm, and slightly sticky, ugh – but Sky is determined, and Four – doesn’t have it in him to protest, right now. Leaning into Sky’s chest, he lets himself relax – lets his fingers loosen, just a little, on the shard of mirror-glass.

They just want this to be over.

-----

When Four doesn’t fight him, just lets himself be held, Sky fixes the rest of the group with a sharp eye. “Wild, how fast can you get us through this?”

Wild’s back goes straight. “Depends on the tasks, usually doesn’t take more than an hour or two.”

“How do we get out afterwards?”

Wild glances around, grimacing. “Well, usually there’s a – a platform that carries you up and down, but I don’t see one here – this looks really different to what I’m used to, but it – it feels the same, I guess?”

Sky stays focused on problem solving. “Any other ways out?”

“The shrine keeper. When you approach them, the shrine keeper teleports you out.”

“Can we bypass the dungeon and go straight for the exit that way?”

“No, they – they’re always blocked off, you have to – the shrine wants you to do something, and you have to figure it out and – and actually do it, before the path opens – sometimes the problem is the path –”

“Okay, so it is like a dungeon,” says Legend. He’s tense, keeps flicking quick looks at Four and the way he’s standing unprotestingly in Sky’s hold. “How fast d’you think we can get through with multiple people helping?”

“Only one way to find out!” says Sky with false cheer.

Quickly they get themselves organised. There’s no equipment to outfit themselves with, no armour to check; all they can do is split into smaller groups to hopefully cover all corners as fast as possible. Legend makes a point of putting Warriors in the only group of three. Warriors complains, but’s mostly a front. He’s never experienced a dungeon before and is rightly wary, so putting him with two other people who have only makes sense.

Sky they leave to babysit Four, whose empty expression and slow reflexes are not convincing anyone that he’s capable of a dungeon run. Some traps have genuinely murderous timing. He’s also still refusing to let go of his necklace, which cuts him deep enough to bleed every time something makes him startle.

Once they’re gone, and the sandy hallway has gone still, Sky gently rocks on his feet, moving Four with him. “Hey, Four? You with me at all?”

Four gives a displeased grunt.

“Yeah, I know.” Sky’s heart hurts. “C’mon, let’s sit down again. The others will come get us later.”

Four goes with him when he tugs, crouching and then tumbling into a clumsy sit. His knees draw close to his face, seemingly without thought, going back to the defensive huddle with his bloodied hand at the centre. Stormy grey is alert, if sullen. Mostly Four just looks tired.

Sky sits beside him, not wanting to overwhelm him further. “It’s okay. They’re a lot sometimes, but they mean well.”

Four’s response is too muffled to translate.

“Sorry, Four, I didn’t catch that.”

“I’m tired of them asking!” he bursts out. “I’m tired of them asking about – about friends, and family, and do you have someone special waiting for you at home, and – it hurts, and I’m tired of it, and they won’t stop!”

And of course that was the danger in Red fronting when they were this emotional – what came out was what they felt, no deflecting or sugar coating, no way to hide after.

“I’m sorry,” Sky says. “I didn’t realise it was bothering you so much. I can talk to the others about it and make sure everyone stops.”

If they haven’t sworn off it already. Blue, sardonic, even through the grey haze cloaking their mind.

I feel bad, Green murmurs, they were just trying to help.

After such an outburst? Doubtless they feel worse than you do, says Vio.

“They should feel guilty,” Red mutters, and it’s shot through with indigo venom. “Maybe now they’ll shut up.”

Sky tightens the arm across his shoulders. “It’ll be okay.”

He feels helpless. Four isn’t usually – vindictive, like this. Nor prone to outbursts and fits of temper. Being stripped mostly naked would knock anyone off-balance, to say nothing of the desperate way Four is protecting his necklace, but – Sky just doesn’t know what to do. Four’s a lot more functional than he would be, after three panic attacks back-to-back, but how much of that is just a mask? How much is he really struggling to hold it together?

(Would Sky even be able to tell, when Four’s been hiding this for so long?)

He runs a hand through his hair, absent-minded, and catches on the lack of catching at his ears. “Aw, man. It even took my earrings. Wild did say it would give them back after, right?”

“…yeah.”

His sigh of relief is only slightly exaggerated. “That’s good. Those weren’t easy to get, you know.”

Four’s tired blink isn’t the most rousing expression of interest, but Sky launches into the story anyway. He has to let go of Four to make the gestures his hands want to, and – it’s fine. Four doesn’t collapse in on himself at the loss of contact. All he does is turn his head to watch Sky talk, eyes still a little too sharp.

Sky hopes the distraction helps. Involving Four hadn’t worked, but something completely outside of himself, something new to hold onto? Maybe it will help him calm down from the edge of panic he’s been riding since they first stumbled out of the portal.

It’s as he’s describing Scrapper and the Mogmas that Wind’s shout draws them both to look up. “Hey, guys! Legend cracked it!” He waves enthusiastically, like maybe they hadn’t yet noticed him standing in his skivvies at the end of the hall. “There’s a big statue but Wild doesn’t wanna mess with it ‘til everyone’s there! C’mon!”

Four refuses Sky’s hand to get up, though he’s a little shaky on his feet. Sky tries not to hover. He knows how annoying it is, having people looming close just waiting for you to fail, and at the same time, he doesn’t want Four to hurt himself if he stumbles and falls.

Wild was right: this isn’t nearly as long and complex as a dungeon. According to Wind, who chatters on as they make their way up the spiralling collection of ramps, they’d had to do a fair bit of work pulling things apart to make it traversable for anyone who wasn’t Wild. “It took him and Twilight and Legend with his power bracelets to move that block,” he waves at the massive piece of stone they’re walking over to the next bridge-like panel. “And then Wild used his slate for these metal pieces, except he kept dropping them, and his aim is shit, so Wars nearly fell in that pool getting out of the way.”

Sky snorts at the mental image.

When they make it to the top, they find the others loosely gathered around some kind of blocky statue. It looks like a cross between an owl, a fox, and a rabbit. What even needs ears that long?

Wild flashes them a strained grin over his shoulder. “So! Usually I find a ten-thousand-year-old Sheikah monk at the end of these things, but it’s got kinda the same feel to it, so we’re gonna try anyway. Just in case, everyone grab hold of me.”

That isn’t easy. Eight different people have to crowd around Wild’s back and sides to make sure everyone has a hand on him. Sky spots Four’s hand in the crush, still streaked with drying blood, and his stomach rolls.

“Okay, everyone ready? Here goes nothing.” Wild reaches out towards the statue.

For a long moment, nothing happens.

Then the world twists like a Time Gate, several things happening at once. A panel goes red – lights up green – a glimmering box of blue light shatters, flinging threads of glass before they freeze in midair – an angry buzzing noise – chiming fairy bells –

The statue smiles.

WELL DONE.

And as suddenly as it started, it all stops.

Sky fumbles a bit at the added weight, his sailcloth dragging at his shoulders and his earrings suddenly heavy in his ears. Time’s armour makes a crashing noise like it had been dropped from a height; Time grunts.

They’re outside, grass under their feet and a weird teardrop-shaped stone building behind them. Sky doesn’t know where they are – it’s all hills and fields and low-hanging trees – but there’s no monsters in eyeshot so he uses the opportunity to double check all his belongings were returned. Earrings, sailcloth, clothes – check. Bag – check, and it looks like the contents are intact. Master Sword and scabbard, fucking goddessdamned check. He did not appreciate losing her, even for a couple of hours.

Around him the others are doing much the same, adjusting clothes and checking packs. Legend’s running his fingers over his rings like he’s counting them, while Warriors struggles to get his mail to sit right over his bad shoulder.

And Four –

All Sky catches a glimpse of is black and glossy and strangely clean of blood before Four is shoving the pendant down the neck of his tunic, out of sight.

The difference is immense. All the tension drops out of his shoulders, he stops standing hunched in on himself, even his face relaxes from its hard, suspicious lines. There’s still creases around his too-red eyes – he’s still feeling the effects of the panic and stress of the day – but he looks more himself.

He even smiles at Wind’s little dance of happiness at getting his pants back. “Aren’t you the first one to strip every time we find a lake?”

Brightening at the sound of his voice, Wind spins to face him and beams. “Yeah, but that’s different! Lakes are fun! This was just annoying.”

“You shoulda heard him whine when we asked him to scale that rope,” says Legend.

Wind makes an outraged noise. “You try climbing coarse hemp with no pants! I ain’t a fan of splinters in me privates!”

The laughter and bickering is slightly strained. Even as Hyrule creeps up and is finally, finally allowed to heal his torn-up hand and wipe away the blood, everyone’s giving Four his space. Not pushing, not demanding things of him, just letting him exist with them.

Good. Sky will still catch them up individually, make sure everyone knows Four’s had enough of personal questions, but for now at least, everything is okay.

Wild finishes what he was doing – taking photographs of the weird building? – and waves his Slate at everyone. “Definitely my Hyrule! If we head north, we should make it to Castle Town by nightfall.”

“Isn’t your Castle Town still mostly construction site?” Legend says, and Wild shrugs.

“If you wanna spend two days walking to Kakariko, be my guest, but there’s at least a temporary stable and inn at Castle Town.”

“I vote beds,” says Wind immediately.

Sky agrees – from the look of the sun, they’re mid-afternoon, so being just a couple of hours away from safety is very appealing. It only takes a little debate for Legend to give in, since he doesn’t want to sleep on the ground if he doesn’t have to, either. As they set off through the grass, Sky scans the group one last time.

Twilight’s up the front with Wild, Hyrule looking on in fascination as Wild waves at a herd of horses and threatens to catch one. Warriors is close enough to intervene if necessary, while Legend is deliberately ignoring them in favour of studying the landscape – in the opposite direction of Wild’s horses. Wind has dragged Time into a conversation about his armour, with Four – steady and reserved once more – chiming in here and there about plate maintenance.

Sky takes a deep breath, and lets the tension run out of him as he exhales.

For now, everything’s okay.

[sonicboomseason3]

Sonic Boom - Theft

NOTE: Here you guys are, a random excerpt from the larger Sonic Boom Season 3 project I've been working on! If people like this one, then I'm down to share more in the future as well (but only occasionally because I don't want to clog up any of the tags). But yeah, I'm not usually someone who's super confident in my writing, but I genuinely did like how this one ended up, and I want to test the waters with this so. lol.

Some context for this: Shadow has a part-time job at Meh Burger. and it's a running bit for Sonic to have a shitty time every time he tries ordering from him, but people who have been on my blog long enough already know about that particular lore. Also, sometime before this, Meh Burger replaced all of their menus with thin slabs of steel with words etched into them due to Reasons. Don't worry about it. Smiles.

--

“Uh…” Sonic faltered when he noticed that Shadow’s expression was visibly stormier than it usually was. “You… okay?”

“Where are my gloves.”

“Come again?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, hedgehog,” Shadow snapped. He pointed an accusatory finger right between Sonic’s eyes, causing him to go cross-eyed. “I haven’t been able to find them since this morning, and so I’ve had no other choice but to wear a backup pair provided by Meh Burger. Where are they.”

It took Sonic another moment to register the words coming out of Shadow’s mouth. Indeed, the latter was wearing the standard white gloves that everyone else wore instead of those weird gauntlet things. Aside from the golden rings clamped around his wrists, Shadow’s whole look was suddenly looking very, very plain.

“I… don’t know?” Sonic slowly replied, pushing Shadow’s finger back towards its owner. “What makes you think I have anything to do with that?”

Shadow scoffed and crossed his arms, clearly not believing him. “Because you are the one who would gain the most out of stealing from me. You want my gloves to enhance your own gear, which will in turn make your battles more efficient.”

“Are you serious, Shadow? I don’t even know where to begin with any of that,” Sonic said, beginning to get annoyed at all the hoops Shadow was jumping through just to blame him for his personal problems. “One, if I really felt like upgrading anything, I would’ve just asked Tails instead of going through all that trouble. Two, I have a perfectly good pair of gloves that I’ve been wearing for years, and I have zero problems with them. No holes, no chafing, no nothin’. I don’t even see what makes your gloves so special.”

“Of course they’re special. They’re the only pair in existence, unlike your inferior ones.”

Sonic’s eye twitched. “Yeah, well, at least mine don’t make me look like I’m wearing a couple of toilet plungers on my hands.”

“What?”

Honestly, Sonic didn’t really think that Shadow’s gloves were that bad, but he had his limits to how much he would take lying down before dishing right back. While he was definitely getting better at the whole ‘ordering Meh Burger when Shadow was on his shift’ thing, there were still times when he lost his patience. This was one of those times.

“Hey, can you exchange insults somewhere else?” Dave, showing up out of nowhere to stand next to Shadow, whined. “I’m sick of doing overtime cleaning up after your fights.”

Sonic supposed he should feel some semblance of gratitude towards Dave for preventing the fistfight that had definitely been about to happen, but he was still too irritated at being falsely accused. “Dave, tell Shadow it makes no sense for me to steal his gloves.”

Dave turned to Shadow with an eyebrow raised. “Your gloves are missing?”

“Since this morning. And if it truly wasn’t Sonic who took them—”

“Dude, for the millionth time, it wasn’t.”

“—then I will hunt down this unknown thief if it’s the last thing I do,” Shadow finished, completely ignoring Sonic. “And they will pay for daring to steal from me.”

“Wow, it’d sure suck to be them then,” Dave yawned, raising a hand to cover his mouth. The other two immediately took notice of the fact that he had on a very familiar red, black, and white gauntlet. “Too bad I don’t know anything.”

Sonic stared at Dave’s hand shielding his yawn, and then stared at his other hand hanging by his side. Sure enough, there was Shadow’s other glove. “Seriously?”

“David,” Shadow ground out through clenched teeth as he reached for one of Meh Burger’s steel menus.

To Dave’s credit, he didn’t even flinch at the realization that he had been found out. Instead, he closed his eyes in acceptance right as Shadow smacked him in the side of the head with the menu, the CLANG resounding throughout the entire restaurant. He fell to the floor, out cold.

“What’s wrong with you, Shadow?” Sonic asked in exasperation. “You’ve been here with him for hours at this point. How in the heck did you not notice until now?”

Shadow didn’t reply, only gazing down at Dave’s unconscious form with open disdain. Something else in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and his scowl deepened. “Sonic,” he snarled, his mood worsening even more. “My air shoes are missing.”

“Come again?”

Shadow, growling like a wild animal and possessing more flexibility than a limp pool noodle, kicked his leg high up in the air and slammed it down on the counter for Sonic to see.

Thankfully, he had socks on, but Sonic still could have gone on with his life without the increased proximity to Shadow’s unshod foot. “Oh my god, dude, don’t—”

“I said my air shoes are missing,” Shadow repeated dangerously, his leg still resting on the counter. The counter where food was supposed to be served. “If you have something to do with this, say so now.”

Sonic threw his hands up in the air. “We’ve already proven I didn’t steal your gloves, so why would I steal your stupid shoes?! And again, how do you go around not noticing this stuff?!”

Shadow opened his mouth say something, but the sound of an evil laugh coming from above cut him off. They both looked up at the sky and saw Eggman hovering in the air… with some newly acquired footwear and not his Eggmobile. Sonic slapped a palm to his forehead as Shadow’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“There you are, Sonic! Behold, my greatest plan yet!” Eggman announced smugly, descending to the ground and striking a pose in front of his foe. He was trying to look cool, but the effect was slightly dimmed by how he was clearly in pain despite all his gusto. Of course he was, given that Shadow’s shoes were a few sizes smaller than his own. “I’ve figured out a way to match your speed, and now I can finally defeat you, thanks to my new roller skates! Don’t even try to stop me—”

“Trust me, I don’t have to,” Sonic sighed, hand running down his face.

“Wait, what?”

“They’re air shoes,”came three menacing words from right behind Eggman. Eggman barely had the chance to realize that Shadow had teleported from his spot at the counter before another CLANG even louder than the last one rang out. Down the street, a few villagers in their homes opened their windows, poking their heads out in confusion.

“This pathetic island is populated by trash and trash only,” Shadow sniffed. He threw the menu off to the side and bent down to take his shoes back. When he couldn’t remove them so easily, he growled again and resorted to yanking on them with so much force that Sonic was surprised that Eggman’s feet didn’t pop off with them. Putting them under one of his arms, he stomped back over to Dave’s body to do the same with his gloves. With all his gear now back in his hands, he glanced over his shoulder at Sonic. “I’m out of here. You can go get your swill elsewhere. Or starve. It makes no difference to me.”

He teleported away to who even knew where, leaving Meh Burger completely unmanned by anyone still lucid.

Sonic stood quietly for a second before looking down at Eggman, who was face down on the floor with his butt in the air, his toes red from being crammed into ill-fitting shoes, and his hands covering the rapidly forming bruise on the back of his head. “You okay, Egghead?”

“Mombot…” Eggman whimpered, dazed. “I want Mombot…”

“Yeah, I dunno how you thought that could’ve ended any other way, to be honest.”

[the-acid-pear]

Dave and Steven's relationship is so fucking mental literally THE toxicest of yaois 💥

[maretriarch]

i think rosemary would have a cold war when getting ready for their wedding. as in they love each other. they do want to get married (as much as any...what. they were 17 or whatever in the credits?) can but I think looking down the barrel of commitment makes rose start to tweak about completely unimportant things like the floral arrangements and its like 9 pm 3 hours before their last chance at cancellation with no fees or delay to the service and she's like Kanaya my dear I will not let you ruin our sacred union with those centerpieces. Have you even thought about how'd they'd look against the tablecloth. we'd have to burn the photographs. we'd have to turn people away at the door before they saw. and kanaya is like Lalonde Why Are You Fucking With Me On This

[dyketennant]

oh i can already tell i’m about to have some really unpopular opinions about the edge of sleep tv show

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

SOLLUX: two whom iit may concern:

SOLLUX: ju2t a 2ugge2tiion, or gentle recommendatiion, but iif youre wriitiing code for a 2ciientiifiic 2tudy of any kiind, maybe con2iider, po22iibly, liimiitiing the number of 2wear word2 iin 2aiid code. becau2e now many journal2 now requiire you two have your code publiicly avaiilable iin order two publii2h, and iif that2 the ca2e, then youll have two 2pend MANY HOUR2 ediitiing out all the 2wear word2 you put iintwo your code or rii2k gettiing rejected by the journal that you already paiid way two much money two iin order two 2ubmiit your paper.

SOLLUX: 2iincerely,

SOLLUX: the 2ciientii2t currently cur2iing hii2 pa2t code-wriitiing 2elf.

// submitted by @firefox9090

[nyaslashthreat]

okay but genuinely all i Really was hoping for from this season was like. a more substantial dave presence than season 3. like i didn't even need him back i just wanted more than two mentions, one not by name and the other so indistinct i didn't catch it until my third watch through. and then we barely even got the dog tags.