“What do you think happens to me, when you die?” Burning eyes connect with a wall of black, and through that they hit confused orange eyes. Silence settles for a long, breathless moment. “Well? Do you?”
Dirk thinks that he probably should know, thinks maybe it’s wrong not to know. Perhaps it’s guilt lingering away in the bottom of his gut, or curiosity. “No.” He licks his lips and the robot - if it can even be called one anymore - blinks in return. It’s odd, how he uses functions like that. Blinking, breathing, despite not needing to. He has outgrown the boundaries of the word ‘robot’. It’s as if he has emotions, instincts. Maybe that‘s what drives his actions. “No, I don’t.”
My laptop - along with every little thing I owe people and a shitload of shorts - is out until later this week. Until then; I've been hit with inspiration to write Dirk and Hal/AR.
Someone give me a crown of tears or something because nothing I write actually ends up being happy.
frowns at this development
posts mild destiel anyway
Cas is terrible at asking for things. And he's terrible at conveying the smaller, simpler, things. And, he's kind of terrible at physically displaying things. Except for the times he's not and just turns into a open book. (He wants to ask, right now, for both of them to stay with him he doesn't want to be alone.)
Cas is terrible, Dean decides as he watches the man stare down the cliff at the end of the world, at many things. But there are some he's so bad at that it becomes spectacularly good. Like, for instance, goodbyes. (Which is why he doesn't say it now, when he knows that's exactly what he means.)
This time, at least, Dean knows it's actually a goodbye. The gestures he would have, once, called meaningless have escalated into subtle words. A flash of blue eyes to green - thank you - and a whisper of a breath to the cold air - do not mourn - and a moment of silence as the edge screams back at them - I raised you from Hell and in turn, you granted me a will.
He thinks words wouldn't be able to capture the simplicity of the magnificence the angel holds here, anyway.
In these moments, Dean does not think of how he hates goodbye, he instead remembers. His mind sends him whirling to the times Cas has saved him, the times he and Sam exchanged words of the man, and the one time he watched Cas drown himself and his problems. The man he had seen then does nothing to compare with the one he sees now.
When he was younger, Dean can faintly remember a time he didn't believe in anything. He believed in his father and his brother. God and demons and angels, Lucifer - none of that touched him. None of that could faze him or whisper into his ear. But now it is all so close. Close enough that he could step forward and reach out and take a handful of that godawful coat and just drag him back.
Thunder cracks and howls and the rain seems to avoid their forms, three silhouetted against the burning sky, standing at the edge of the world and waiting for the ground to crumble beneath their feet.
Breathing seems to hurt, make cracks in Cas' chest that he can't fill. And Dean is watching him and Sam is watching him and if he had wings he could just fall and fly and fix things like in the old stories writ into dirt and washed away by the water. But - he knows, they know - he is not a storybook angel. Storybook angels don't exist.
Anyway, being a storybook angel would be overrated. The angels in the stories never got to fall in love, never got to actually save anyone. They focused on humanity, devoted themselves to lost causes. Cas decides he wouldn't be able to handle a lost cause so easily.
And so - as the ground quivers as if in fear, the trees shake, and the wind whines - Dean steps forward. The ground starts to heave and crumble and go to ash, the sky screams of darker times on the rise. Sam's sigh comes out choked and kind of pained. Cas twines his fingers with Deans - blue eyes flash to green and this time it's not alone, not this time - and the sun crashes at their feet.
Everything feels like some long, drawn out, convoluted epiphany in an old, overdone movie where the fallen angel realizes he isn't alone. And even if that doesn't stop the world from ending...
Breathing seems to hurt, make cracks in Cas' chest that he can't fill. And Dean is watching him and Sam is watching him and if he had wings he could just fall and fly and fix things like in the old stories writ into dirt and washed away by the water. But - he knows, they know - he is not a storybook angel. Storybook angels don't exist.
Anyway, being a storybook angel would be overrated. The angels in the stories never got to fall in love, never got to actually save anyone. They focused on humanity, devoted themselves to lost causes. Cas decides he wouldn't be able to handle a lost cause so easily.
Anonymous asked you: hey could you possibly do some davenep redrom where daves taking care of a sick nepeta? and just really fluffy? if you have time i mean...
I would be pawsitively delighted, dear anonamouse! My apurrologies, though, I don't think myself too good at this purrairing and I didn't have too much time to wrrrrite fur it.
"Nep, seriously, just take the medicine." A silver spoon is waggled in front of your face, filled to the brim with red-tinted liquid that smells bitter and nasty. "Please?"
"No." you sniff, ducking back under the blankets with a whine. "It tastes like rrrrotting fish ."
Dave gives you the look and sighs. "It does not."
"Does to."
It's been two days since you got sick, two days full of boredom and misery. You had presumed it to be a cold, at first. Wrinkling your nose, you push your heated face into a pillow. Since you got sick Dave has been taking care of you - he's been doing a pawsitely swell job - but you still don't want to take his 'medicine'. It really does taste terrible, and no matter how many times you try to tell him that he just keeps trying to get you to drink it.
Pushing his shades to the top of his head, your matesprit frowns at you mildly. "It'll go down quicker than a bullet train, two and o, no problemo."
You have no idea what any of that means - except the no problemo, of course - so you hiss at him. Unsurprisingly, he remains unfazed and just sighs again. The release of air is long and held out and you know the exasperated tint is there to guilt you into listening. Which, you decide, isn't fair at all because not even Equius would guilt you into drinking that. (Or maybe he would, seeing as he did guilt you into letting someone take care of you. You have rrrrrude quadrantmates.)
A solid five minutes of silence pass where Dave taps his fingers along the line of your shoulder absently and hums a nameless tune before you give in. "Only if you rrroleplay with me later."
"Sounds kinky." the blonde spouts out as you shift out of the blankets. He waggles his eyesbrows at you - you don't actually get the joke - as you take the spoonful of medicine like a champ. And by like a champ you mean you cringe and whine. "There, not too bad. A Strider - Stridepurr - never lies."
You sniff and nudge his arm so that he'll move and allow you to curl up against his side and in his lip. "It was terrible, purractically meownsterous."
An arm slips around your side and Dave's other hand scratches between your horns idly as you settle against him. Being sick might not be completely terrible, in the end.
The dream bubbles have the ability to capture you for an instant, or for an eternity. They can give you glimpses of a new world, or an old one, a forgotten one, a destroyed one, and they can let you linger there for days. Dream bubbles even have a peculiar way of knowing what you want and knowing who you want to see and they can change where you are, what you're eating. It's like an interactive video game. That reads your mind. And has the potential to be destroyed at any moment.
What a dream bubble cannot do is regulate which desires are good desires and which are not. It cannot find out what should and shouldn't be thrown in your face.
This, you decide as you stare down a dead version of one of your friends, is not what should be thrown in your face. You wish you would have come back in time and told you that this was going to happen - you're the Knight of Time why couldn't you just do that - so you could at least prepare for this.
But no. Future you is too much of a dick to even give you that much relief.
"Holy shit. Do you even know when the last time I saw you was?" he raises his brows and straightens his shoulders and holy fuck this Karkat is taller than you. "Don't give me that look you asshole, you're an alpha you obviously know who I am."
Right. "Hey, dude, don't get snippy with me. Just trying to get over the shock of you not being a scrawny, shouty manchild."
"Manchild." he repeats and he crooks a smile. "How positively mature."
"Yeah, I know."
As it usually does, you expect silence to wash over you. It doesn't. Instead you're greeted by the sound of him babbling about how this is Alternia and, yeah, it's night because you can't exactly be outside in the day ghost or not the sun still hurts. He tells you that he grew up here - or, close to here, his hive is just on the horizon - and that his lusus took him out this far once to teach him how to hunt. He even lets you know that his Dave is actually still taller than him. You honestly can't tell if he's rambling to fill the silence or if he's nervous. Maybe it's both.
It's probably ten minutes later that he's got you in his hive and you're thinking maybe you should find Rose or Terezi or your Karkat. You don't. You just listen to older Karkat rasp on and on and pour you what smells like tea - because apparently coffee is disgusting.
He's, finally, stopped talking what feels like an age later. Just sipping his tea and watching you watching him watching you think.
The aforementioned silence is surprisingly comfortable, if a bit tense on your side. Of all the questions he's answered, there's one you still have to ask. "How did you die?"
Karkat lingers with his cup near hip lips and then lowers it without taking a drink and sighing. It comes out heavy and tired, like he's been waiting for that question. He still doesn't answer. One minutes passes, then two, then six, and you're frowning at him. You consider asking again - demanding an answer - but he leans back and clears his throat like he's just been thinking the entire time.
"In my timeline," he starts as if to remind you that it's not the same as yours (even if his eyes do that well enough), "We met up with the rest of the idiot troupe. And then..." His brows furrow, as if Karkat can't remember, and then he grimaces. "The new session was messed up, no prototypes, barren almost."
A moment of thought, passes, and his expression tips to a frown. You know that look anywhere. It's the 'I fucked up' look he constantly wears. If it were your Karkat, you would say something. But without knowing anything, you don't have the right.
"And we thought the mutt was the worst of our problems. No. A fucking doll ended up killing us." he sounds bitter, resentful, like he should've seen it coming. "A doll and an evil little brat."
A more awkward silence engulfs you both this time and his brows knit together again. "You didn't answer my question."
"Didn't have to." he sneers back and that, you think, is the Karkat you know. But, unfortunately, not the answer you want.
You let annoyance cover your features and he just blinks back. "C'mon, dude, can't save alpha you from everything. Give me a bit of a hint."
He still doesn't answer your original question, just cradles his drink and hums to himself. "No one died a heroic or just death that day." he gives you a knowing look that makes your skin crawl. "Did you know the Horrorterrors will pick you off, once they know you can't be saved? They practically devour you inside and out, but they do it for your own good."
"Karkat-" you interrupt and go to move forward, but he lets a low growl curl out his throat in warning. "What happened."
White eyes catch your own and practically glow for a moment. "They turn you into Horrorterrors; they end it all." he licks his lips, frowns. "Don't let me think too much; it'll get me killed."
You stare at him, simply stare for a few moments before taking a breath that shatters the silence. He shifts and you catch a glimpse of an angry red line down the side of his neck; even if he isn't your Karkat, the sight turns your stomach.
Faintly, you think he must know the bubble is passing, because he quirks his lips and you're about to protest because, really, why is he even smiling. The bubble passes and everything blurs around you, like a picture snapped while everyone is running.
Being thrown back into your actual body is an experience you will never shake. You wake up in a hallway, sprawled on the floor, and think that your back is definitely going to hate you for it. Down the hall someone groans a complaint and you recognize the voice as Rose's. She must've gotten caught trying to cook, because it smells like burnt toast and cheese.
Although it's familiar, it doesn't take your mind off of how weird it is to see a dead version of someone you know.
Dave decides to grow facial hair once. He gets one of those douchey goatees and it's really light and barely visible but he likes it a lot for some reason. So he just keeps it and grooms it, and John tells him it makes him look like a dick. Bro says he is so proud his little bro can grow facial hair. Dave loves it.
Part of his love for it stems from how much it annoys Karkat, of course. So obviously Karkat thinks the only course of action left is to refuse to kiss Dave until he shaves it off.
Dave refuses. And promptly wakes up with half a goatee two days later.
((Another snippet from the tyrian Davekat. Sighs because this is turning out longer than I expected welp.
835 words so far))
Something, an image, a projection you know comes from the king before you, flickers through your mind. Black hair like vines from horrorterrors, teeth white and sharp, lips painted the same tyrian as the eyes you're looking into. You've never seen her before, but her claw-like fingers and her deadly air are what clue you in. This is the Empress, this is the living legend, this is the woman Karkat is trying to live up to. Not so much a beauty as she is a beast, fearsome and sharp like a blade.
In the span of a couple seconds, you understand why he tries so hard, why he gets so angry, why he seems so unobtainable, and why he's just so ready to defy what he should be. You are his last stand against her, if you think about it. A surge of pity - not just the 'love you' kind of pity, but human pity - washes through you and a tight frown occupies your features.
"Sorry." he breathes and you know he hadn't meant to shove that upon you. He told you, once, that sometimes he projects when he doesn't mean to. "Sorry sorry sorry." He had told you it was hard to control, said he didn't know if it was a highblood thing or a Karkat thing. "
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