18-Apr-15 6:40:31 AM ¶ ●

Rose Lalonde and Her Untimely Death is now finished!

Otherwise known as: an “Urban Myth”-genre fic where I try desperately to justify why Rose wouldn’t be a writer, Kanaya does some weird shit, they make out, and then Rose dies.

Click here to start at the beginning!

Click here for the latest and last chapter!

21-Apr-15 4:52:51 AM ¶ ●

## Terezi Pyrope and the Strider Manpain Out of Hell

aka holy fuck am I glad I didn’t choose to write this series with the kids/trolls positions reversed, because 25,000 words of Dave being a Pissy Immortal Brat would be. completely unnecessary.

This is an AU of an AU. THIS WILL NOT MAKE ANY SENSE UNLESS YOU’VE READ THE ENTIRETY OF Dave Strider and the Bat Out of Hell. Seriously, don’t even click the read more, you’ll spoil things for yourself and you will be lost!

Stand with your cane to the ground, held like a broadsword, legs apart, a powerstance to show you’re in charge of the situation. You’re not, but ‘fake it until you make it’ is a noble goal you can get behind. While you are skilled in the arts of ‘picking a direction and staging a speedy tactical retreat despite being legally blind,’ this predator appears as though he’d be able to catch you distressingly easy! You can only see the shadow-y outline of him, made even harder to discern by how dark it is in your apartment parking lot, but he appears lithe and built, like he could break your teeny tiny Terezi body in two with a snap of his fingers.

“Dave Strider,” he says, with his odd, rhythmic accent. “My real name is long and all your racist American asses can’t pronounce it, so swanky alias it is. Just picture me like one of your beautician babes, like this is my ‘Jennifer Starr’ or whatever.”

“That sounds like someone who would be in the adult entertainment industry! Not cutting my hair.”

“Porn star names aside, let’s get to the point of why I’m cornering you in a parking lot like you’re Deepthroat and I’m the hard-hitting journalists investigating the Watergate scandal. In this case, the information I need from you, Blindeye-”

“Good name! Really original!”

“-relates to my wife. The daring oral report issued from your mouthhole will deal with the scandal of her leaving me. And, you see, I think this story’s going to be a hit with the public, because it’s got that ‘mysticism mystery spooky scary’ flair that the kiddos just love these days.”

He puts his hand on your shoulder, not in a friendly way, and you don’t dare move it.

“You see, and I’m not pushing petals here,” he says. “I’m a god. A pretty old one. But I’ve been jumping around timelines and all sorts of shirt so I’m not feelin’ the senility just yet. I’m the god of time, music, and regrets. The last one is kind of like my food source, actually, I feed off of it like some kind of sad emo vampire.”

“You’re insane,” you say, brushing his hand off your shoulder. You might be terrified, but you have morals to uphold! “I will not help you stalk that poor girl.”

“Oh, ha, sorry, did I say this was an option? Because it’s not, babe.”

And he does something then, you see him move through your barely working eyes, and your body stops. Your hands freeze around your cane, your arms and legs cease pumping blood through them, you heart goes silent, your breath and lungs halt in place. For a brief moment, you think you’re dead, but the gears in your head still work and you come to the entirely logical conclusion that…

Dave Strider just stopped your time.

“You’ve got my wife’s time signature on you,” he says. “So we’re going to do some wacky Doctor Who style timeline-hopping together until we can figure out where the fuck she is. Then, I’ll let you fly free to whatever you want to do, and we both kick it our separate ways. Hell, you’ll probably get something out of the deal, if you want, because I’ve got a heck of a lot of extra power to burn due to, well… You know how many people ‘regret’ running into me? It’s a whole lot. You’re doing it right now, and god, let me tell you, it tastes delish.”

You might have made a tiny mistake in your calculations by taking a shortcut across the parking lot tonight.

***********

((((((((((scene #2, because the world is definitely in need of more strider manpain because I have no self control)))))))))))))))

**********

You hide behind a mysterious tropical plant that smells like bubblegum and hope to high heavens it doesn’t give you a rash while waiting for Dave’s scene to end. You can’t understand a lick of it, and you can’t particularly see them either, but you’re getting the general gist of the debacale based on lumps of people-sized fog and the tone of voices and the smell of death in the air.

Dave’s friend is dead. The wife is chewing him out about it. You discern, logically and through unsaid statements, that Dave tried desperately to prevent this death. Tried to keep his poor friend alive through many, many time travellings and other nonsense and never got to save those close to him. You come to a realization that this part of his life is where it all fell apart, where he lost everyone. Pitiful.

You hear the crack of his wife’s teleportation. You decide that enough is enough, time loops and inconsistencies be damned, and you stand up. You walk towards Dave, cane clacking against the stone of the mountain. You give him a curious tap, and it appears he’s kneeling upright, so you circle around to the front of him and reach out to his face. You don’t miss, your hand settling against against his cheek. You haven’t felt out what he looks like, so it comes as a surprise to feel his slim jawline– you thought it’d be more defined. It fits nicely in the cup of your palm.

“Poor little god-boy,” you say. “Berating me for my lovelife and my self-worth, when he has none of his own.”

“Tzintiquxletzilequi takixhiwzcotfi TZ.”

Ah, good, he recognizes you. “I like your language, Mr. Strider. It sings just like you do. The pretend language barrier you’re giving yourself also prevents you from interrupting dramatic speeches I will make that will follow shortly! I expect you to listen, because I have important things to say.”

You press both your hands on his cheeks, stand so close to him you feel his chest on your stomach, his chin tilted up and almost touching your rather nonexistent breasts. “Did you know? I just broke up with a boyfriend of six years because I knew I was dependant upon him. I knew I had grown complacent, fragile, and worthless through faults of my own and my interactions with him. I was very, very sad when I left, and I am still very, very sad! I can guarantee, however, he does not at all feel the same sadness as I do. And… I suppose I have to thank you, that the little time travel adventure brought out something important, something I never realized I didn’t learn. I am currently in the midst of learning a lesson, a very, very important lesson.

“Dave, I am learning I do not need him. I just need me.” You slip your fingers through his soft, lovely hair. Then, quietly, as so not to push him further than he can handle, you say, “You don’t need her to make you whole.”

You brush your thumbs against his cheeks, and wetness hits them. He’s crying. You want to lick the tears away, taste the despair and sadness, but you resist. He wraps his arms behind your knees and around your waist, hugs you close so his chin really is against your breasts and he’s looking up at you. You like it, you like feeling him raw and open because you get to examine every part of him languidly before you help put him back together.

“God-boy,” you say, and you lean back and down to him. “I could eat you up.”

You want to kiss him. You want to kiss him before he puts his mask on again, before he stands on his feet. You want to kiss the salt on his mouth, kiss it all away before he forces it together again. His breath is soft on your lips, and you brush against them as he says with a whisper, “Don’t. You’ll regret it. Everyone does.”

“Oh, god-kid, how insulting. If anything, you’ll regret me.”

21-Apr-15 5:40:25 AM ¶ ●

## Kanaya Maryam and the Tagged For Body Horror

I got two sentences into “My name is Rose Lalonde and I put the clouds in the sky” “Fuck no, I’m not becoming a meteorologist, Kanaya OOOOUUUUTTT” so this is……… totally different than the original fic. im sorry. i couldn’t do it.

This fic is an AU of an AU. It won’t make ANY sense unless you’ve read Rose Lalonde and Her Untimely Death, so don’t even click the readmore if you haven’t read the fic yet~! (also warning for body horror)

“Read my story,” she says one lovely sunny day on the beach.

“Again?” you sigh. This fine young lady has been pestering you for weeks now. Well, you would not actually define it as ‘pestering,’ as you are the one actively and probably awkwardly texting her to have playdates with you, but that vocabulary helps stave off the horrible realization you have a big whopping crush on dear, pretentious Rose. Oh, oops, did you think that out loud?

It’s just a bit odd, as you rarely get crushes on others, and you want to spite your brain every day for choosing the odd Renaissance festival fortune teller who somehow makes a living as an author of horror stories.

This story is short at least, only five pages, single spaced and double sided. You begin reading with the sun on your back and a beautiful girl in a swimsuit next to you and you couldn’t be happier. You enjoy her stories after all, even though you prefer the… er… Romantic genre of horror more than what Rose writes. She writes these very, very long and elaborate tales, filled with sweeping metaphors and eerie comparisons to real life and is simply brilliant.

This story is a little different though. This story makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up unattractively. This story sends a little shiver down your spine in the hot sun. This story makes your eyes dart back and forth to make sure no one’s watching. This story is about a goddess, or a god in female form you suppose, who on the surface is a god of light. Of all things in the sun, of knowledge and writing. But she has a secret aspect underneath, something no one but her and her most secret dark initiates know of.

She is the god of Things That Go Bump In The Night.

A dual-faced god, one who uses her machinations not only to bring light to the world, but also nightmares and terrors and giant Lovecraftian things who lurk just out of the corners of your eyes. You hurry through the rest of the story, something about how this god ruled the empire through her tactics, and hand it back to Rose.

“That was quite creepy,” you say, and you very much mean it. “Will that go in a journal as well?”

She laughs, her charming, ringing laugh. “No, Kanaya. That was an autobiography.”

And for a second, just a blip on the screen of life, Rose changes. Her skin goes as gray as the static on a ancient television. Her hair goes white as though she died of old age. Her nails grow and grow until the tips are cracked and yellow in the barren sand. A innards-filled void opens on the side of her forehead, her skin no longer resisting the ravages of time. Two eyes blink in the hollows of each cheek, with thick engorged lids stretching open with a sick string of fluids between the lashes. Her jaw drops, hanging on muscles long rotten and unused, holes from worms burrowed in the plum-brown sides.

She tilts her head, inquisitively, and it’s gone. “Something wrong, Kanaya? I was just kidding.”

You might need to get out of the sun.

23-Apr-15 6:38:05 AM ¶ ●

won’t someone please think of poor miss harley?

(we are one step closer to the “choice babe on each arm” ideal state of being)

24-Apr-15 4:39:16 AM ¶ ●

I wanted to document this teeny snippet of writing because it won’t be used anywhere and I find Karkat Vantas: Dead Yet Again hilarious and want to look back on his many unused death tantrum scenes with fondness.

won’t make sense unless you’ve read the pride and joy of my jadekat fic life, Cum mortuis in lingua mortua. this was from…… some point in the sequel, but I cut the scene after thinking of a better way to present it. karkat’s pov.

…you were almost looking forward to an eternal loss of consciousness, some great void to swallow all your problems and excessive worries. What you find instead is the *same fucking thing you’ve seen every fucking time you’ve fucking died.*
“Oh my god,” you say to Death. “Fuck off.”
The Lord scowls. “IS THAT ANY WAY TO TALK TO YOUR RULERS OF LIFE AND DEATH. EXCUSE. YOU. WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THE GODS OF DEATH.”
“Not… today?” you say. “Wait, no, it is today. Look, just run through your generic speech, yadda yadda, I know what I’m picking this time. Let me pick it before sinking regret cascades down through my bloodpusher and I make a ridiculous choice like being [REDACTED]’s bitch toy forever.”

29-Apr-15 1:17:39 AM ¶ ●

*aggressively makes fantasy aus where Jade Harley gets swole, is loved, generally has a nice time, and overcomes her problems like a champ*

(because how dare canon not do that. how dare I have to)

30-Apr-15 6:16:54 AM ¶ ●

## John Egbert and the Fall of Man

> You meet a dead girl with a body like fire who throws you into her really, really weird plans.

Part 4 of the Underworld series has begun! You can read this one first if you haven’t read any of the others :)

I feel like this fic can best be described as: *oxfordroulette plants her feet on the ground, tenses up her arms, throws her head towards the sky, and begins to laugh*