mushroom cap

misc. writing crap by atomictictacs

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

It’s Still Cold

at first it was only a low burning flame a tiny, little thing that you kept safe tucked away in a little jar

then they came along and you saw how they shivered murmuring about the cold

you wrap your arms around them but it was only warm enough to thaw out their tears and they cried from being painfully cold

so you reluctantly take out the flame carefully pouring it out telling them it will be okay telling yourself it would be okay

the fire spills and burns bright but you dont see because youre looking at them anxiously watching for improvement

but they still felt cold

you feed the flame until it grows sparking and crackling with warmth

and yet it still wasnt enough

you feed the fire until you run out of wood then you look over only to see their shoulders still tremble with cold

the fire's grown and you feel the heat licking your face in waves it stings and sweat trickles into your eyes salty droplets of water dripping from the corners

but they were still cold and you had nothing left to feed the fire

you glance at them one more time softly assuring them that it will be alright

and slowly step into the flames

its hot and it burns and it consumes you it hurts and you’re in pain but you did this you did this with a smile on your face with the promise that it will be okay it will be alright i will keep you warm no matter what it takes i will keep you warm

the fire takes everything you had the fire takes you but when the flame dies down and there was nothing left

they stood and walked over to the embers and a tremble shook their shoulders

"It's still cold..."

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

ive been thinking of writing a short and simple version of the dragon story to make into like a children's book or something tbh

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

You're bent double over the sink, gagging, tears streaming from your eyes, one drop after the other rolling down your cheeks. Another wave of nausea passes, and you just want to get it over with, but you're choking on nothing but air and unsaid words that catch in your throat. Your hands are shaking, your breaths come short, and you barely keep yourself standing upright, fingers tightly gripping the counter to steady yourself.

It's hard to swallow.

Every attempt is met with resistance from another dry heave, another futile attempt by your body to try and be rid of the blockage in your throat that isn't even physical.

How the fuck do you get rid of a psychological choking hazard.

How long has it been? Thirty minutes? An hour? Two hours?

Still, you gag and choke out sobs, uncontrollably crying for who the fuck knows how long, for who the fuck knows how much longer.

It was okay. You were okay. Everything was fine a while ago.

But it never stays that way for too long.

It was just one of those days.

The lump in your throat feels too real to be a figment of your troubled imagination.

It's difficult to swallow around it.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

the dragon/prince story's gonna get continued but we're probs not gonna release much until we get more substantial work done, as i will be doing the main literary part and aze (papabrotiger /wink) is gonna do illustrations and providing me with worlding details :^)

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

au of what happens to alpha!Dave before, during, and after the fight w the Condesce??? yeah a+ summary

It’s a struggle to gasp for breath when you’ve got about six inches, maybe more, of steel embedded into your chest.

—

Days. Weeks. Months. Years?

You’re not entirely sure how long it’s been since the rooftop showdown with the juggalos.  You’re not entirely sure how long it’s been since the rebellion’s regrouped and decided to go straight for the Condesce.  You’re not entirely sure how long it’s been since you’ve last messaged your brother. You’re not entirely sure how long you’ve been lying in the ground, swimming in and out of consciousness, with the broken half of your own sword sticking out of your chest.

Days. Weeks. Months. Years? Maybe..?

Keeping real track of time wasn’t easy in between restless resting periods and fighting for your life, for others’ lives, for humanity, for Dirk.

Your heart had been pounding when you ollied from the roof after the fight with the Juggalos, face calm and collected, void of expression even with your pulse racing. You won, you won, and Dirk was safe for a while longer. 

But you couldn’t go back. Not just yet.

He was probably looking for you. You’d promised to be there with him, for him when he got his first tattoo, because it meant something important to him, and you promised.

He was probably going to end up getting it without you. Everyone probably knows how well you keep your promises by now. Him, especially.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your sword, and you ride Unreal Air to where you’d be in hiding while everyone regrouped. No one was to see you ever again. Glimpses would be easy to wave off, but no hard evidence would be found. No one would know if you were truly dead or alive.

That wouldn’t matter. Not really.

—

There she was. The Condesce. Cocky grin, gold bangles, what was left of her personal guard standing behind her.

It was just you and Rose standing side by side.

Then the clash began.

—

It was all over too soon, and yet not soon enough.

Bodies, blood, and fallen weapons were scattered everywhere. Most of the guards were dead. Rose was dead.

The Condesce got away.

You lay in a puddle of your own blood, gasping for air that couldn’t seem to make it through your system.

Rose’s pale form wasn’t too far away, and you could feel her own blood slowly trickling to your broken arm that lay outstretched towards her. She didn’t look that much different in death as she did in life. Only a tinge more grey.

You hoped Roxy, her daughter, would find solace in Dirk. They could be there for each other when the two of you were gone.

—

Gone. Not gone. Gone. Not gone.

You weren’t gone.

A painful, shuddering gasp rattled through your lungs, chest expanding with the breath, only to be met by the resistance of bandages wrapped around your torso.

You were alive. Just barely.

The last remaining members of the rebellion found you and did their best to undo what they could.

As big of a dent as you had put in her plans, the Batterwitch won. The humans lost. There weren’t enough of you left to put up a proper fight. You’d already lost Rose. With her at least, you could’ve kept going, insisting that it was okay, the two of you could handle it, you were an unbeatable force together. At least, until you were beaten, and Rose was the one who had to take one for the team.

It was over for you. The story would live on, but the man behind it? He was done. You were done. As far as everyone knew, you were already dead.

Looks like this was ironically the day Dirk has been looking forward to.

The day you go home for good. There was no point left in staying out here. It’s just that you wished things turned out more differently.

At least you could still protect the last remainder of what mattered to you. But it was over for everything else.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

wherein dave takes his anger out on a tree i just kind of wanted to practice writing strifes/action scenes

A soft breeze blew by. Leaves rustled. A swish of movement, followed by the barely audible patter of sneakers on the ground.

Your hand closed on the handle of your sword as it materialized in your hand.

It’s been a while since you’ve actually taken out your strife specibus.

It’s been a while since your last strife.

Your jaw clenched, muscles tensed, vision briefly melting into a blur of colors as you flashstepped again, bringing the blade into an arc, cutting deep into your target just as you turn, quickly calculating in your mind and muttering a word that acted as a command, launching a handful of shuriken, each sinking with precision into the target.

Dodge. Side strafe. Flashstep back half a step.

Pointless.

You shift to a one handed grip, freeing up your left hand to close on another sword from your½bladekind specibus. Caledscratch. You remember how this used to feel so heavy in your hands when you were younger. Now it was barely a stretch to say that you strained to wield it simultaneously with another sword.

Two slashes and a pulse of light. Caledscratch is whole, right before you thrust it deep into your target and drawing it back out without so much as a grunt of effort.

You could almost feel the blaze of heat when the exertion reminded you of fighting on LOHAC.

If anything, it was more of the anger that bubbled in the pit of your stomach that was at odds with the almost cold, exacting glint in your eyes.

A jump back and another wide arc, one sword after the other, hacking off a limb and unsettling leaves that don’t touch the ground before your feet do, and you finally let out an enraged snarl and throw the first sword, point first at the target, blade wobbling minutely as it cleanly sank in, right before you flashstep again.

Caledscratch flares once, twice, thrice, cycling through its timeline, transforming into its various forms, broken, unbroken, old and rusted, and finally, newly forged, blade gleaming as you bring it into a strong, solid side slash and cut your opponent in half—

There was a beat of silence as you flashstep back.

A creak.

Then the crash of a fallen tree.

You were barely out of breath, barely sweating, barely worn out.

Strifing against an inanimate object wasn’t the same, wasn’t as satisfying.

But no way in hell were you going to ask for a strife from anyone when your violent moods struck.

Thank fuck that those were much rare and few in between now.

You store your weapons back in each respective specibus, light a cigarette, and make your way back home.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

glove/leather kink? man who knows

The last time Bro came over, he had taken off his gloves before touching your face. The gesture wasn’t lost on you, don’t get things wrong, but his gloves were just about as much of a trademark as were his shades.

Tender, sappy moments that followed afterwards aside, you focus on a memory brought along by the absence, rather than the presence of his gloves over your skin.

—

“Ya see where my gloves go, Lil’ man?”

You were much younger then, when he came into your room one late afternoon, asking about the aforementioned missing articles. A non-committal shrug answered his question, your eyes never leaving your computer’s screen when you say, “Hell if I know.”

Lying to Bro was never easy.

At least he seemed to buy it this time, because he stared at you for a few good seconds before padding off back to his room to dig around for his spares.

You’d hoped he didn’t see the way your eyes darted to his bare hands as he turned away— it was a rare sight, and you sometimes wondered if his palms were rough from handling swords, or soft from being protected by worn leather.

As soon as he headed out, presumably on some DJing gig, you stare at the clock on your computer, waiting precisely ten minutes for him to be well out of the apartment building, and on his way to work before sliding open a drawer.

The hurried way you tossed his gloves in there (albeit with some guilt— you would’ve treated them with more respect, considering who they belonged to) made it look like they had invisible hands in them, patiently folded together, waiting for you to return.

With another wary glance back at your door, you lift them out, feeling the soft leather under your fingers as you did. The door was locked, but your heart was still racing with nervousness; it didn’t matter if it seemed like you were home alone— Bro always just showed up at hella inopportune moments, and this would definitely count as one, locked door be damned.

Soon, you’re unclasping and pulling them on, a tiny smile playing at your lips at how nicely the material yielded when you flex your fingers. It could’ve been like when you were a kid and he let you play with a few of his things, and you’d embarrassingly declare that you wanted to be just like him when you grew up.

You say could’ve been, because there was another reason for your swiping.

Lately, Bro’s been even more cagey about physical contact. He used to ruffle your hair to piss you off, get more hand-to-hand in a strife, but now he was either using Cal as a proxy, or made very minimal contact.

It bothered you, because you wanted that contact. You weren’t getting more than that from him, that was for sure, but it was better than nothing, or even the near-nothing that you were getting now.

Now that you had his gloves, you could at least pretend.

You let your eyes slide closed, and bring a hand up to your cheek, the faint smell of the leather drifting to your nose. He would never touch you like this— you wanted him to — but you might as well, seeing as it was just pretend anyway.

You imagined him towering over you, hand on your cheek, sliding down to your neck, fingers loosely curling in a subtly possessive hold. His fingertips were more calloused than yours, but the gloves helped you imagine better.

His hand would smooth down from your neck, fingers playing along collarbones before sliding back up, under your shirt this time, and it makes you shiver, now that the leather had warmed up to your hands— his hands. You bite your lip, brows furrowing as the other hand came down to undo your jeans, palming you through boxers, and you could almost see him smirk when you squirm in response.

The hand that was beneath your shirt comes out and up to cradle your cheek again, thumb swiping over your lip, gently tugging it out from between your teeth to take its place, and you imagine the way he looks at you, silently commanding you to suck, and you do, lips brushing against leather.

You moan quietly around the digit in your mouth when the other leather clad palm wraps around your cock and starts slowly pumping your length, the material feeling delicious against your skin—

— Oh fuck this.

Who needed to imagine when you can get the real thing now?

Maybe you ought to pay him a visit. He was always the one coming over to your apartment anyway, might as well return the favor for once.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

It’s a crippling insecurity that never left you.

No matter how hard you tried to act like you were hot shit, it never stopped you from feeling like you wereactual shit.

Everyone was always better, everyone earned what they got, they were worthy of the good that happened to them. Everyone had what you didn’t.

You? You never deserved anything.

You liked to act like you were important, that you had a role to play, that someone, somewhere, needed you.

The day you admitted to yourself that everyone could get along just fine without you was the day everything started crumbling to pieces.

No one needed you.

Sure, you never let anyone see it happening, and the only real witness was John when he caught you unawares while having a breakdown of sorts, but it was there. It worsened by the day, the hour, the minute, the second.

Fuck, let’s just be goddamn honest and say it now that it plagued you for every fucking millisecond, every instance, every moment that passed since the day you admitted it to yourself.

It was hard to stop lying to yourself. It was all you had. It was all you ever had.

The day you were having a breakdown was the day you looked at your ironic selfies, staring down at your younger self through the years and bitterly thinking, 'I'm a joke.'

You laughed, because it was you, you were the joke, everything you did was laughable, pointless. Who cared?

No one.

How many times have you died by then? How many timelines have you jumped to and fro, only to realize in the end, that nothing you did changed anything?

You laughed until tears started streaming down your face; you laughed, and you laughed, and you cried, and you laughed.

——————————

It never left you.

Even after Jade came to you, said some words about your purpose, about your abilities, it wasn’t you, it was your goddamn sword. Anyone could’ve held it; the fact that it was in your hand made no difference.

Even after the game ended, the session was won, and you were thrust back into ordinary living. No one knew that a group of unsuspecting teenagers had rebuilt the universe, not a single one of you were worshiped as gods and saviours, and none of you wanted them to. Not that that would make a difference if they did. The people would flock to John, the leader, to Rose, the strategist, to Jade, the one who was actually behind the creation of the genesis frog that your universe sat comfortably in at this very moment.

While you stood in the background.

——————————

Alternates started cropping up.

Maybe that one was your fault.

Timelines were probably left in a mess in your wake, and began crossing paths in ways they weren’t supposed to.

There were multiples of everyone, but most of all…

There were multiples of you.

And by some sick, twisted joke, even they were better than you. They were you in a sense, but better.

It bothered you, haunted you, plagued you.

Everyone, everyone, every-fucking-one was always better, always deserving, always a star in their own right, while you sat there, watching from the sidelines, not knowing what to do but feel like a worthless piece of shit, and no one would’ve believed you because you spent your entire life building an indifferentpersona that everyone was so convinced was the proverbial truth of who you were, no one knew what went on in your head, no one understood that you hated it, that you didn’t want it, whatever the hell it was, because there was no point, that it didn’t matter, what you wanted, because everything you did was fucking inconsequential in the greater scheme of things—

and you only wanted out.

——————————

You holed yourself in the apartment for days, dark thoughts filling your head, clouding your mind like a horrible maelstrom that threatened to break you, impairing your choices, and in the end?

It did break you. No one really knew. Even if they did, they would never be able to fully grasp to what degree this affected every single moment of your life, waking or sleeping.

——————————

So you try, and you try, and you try to push the thoughts away, but nothing worked well enough.

At the end of the day, you always only had one thought left in your head:

It wouldn’t matter if I took myself out of the equation.

It would be nice and permanent now. No godtier to save you, to undo any harm you did to yourself. It was a one way ticket, and the only path you could see was the one that it brought you to.

So you take it.

——————————

You took the dark turn, and yet here you were, months later, curled up in an armchair in your new apartment, staring out the window, watching the rain fall.

The swelling on your newest tattoos had gone down, laying the design flush against your forearms, the details intricate enough to distract from the scars that raised your skin in ugly gashes.

You couldn’t even take the way out right.

You couldn’t do a single thing right.

No one knew.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

soulmates black and white blahblah too rp-centered to tag properly blah

You remember what it was like before you saw in color. What it was like when everything was in dull shades of grey, and how you were used to it, but it still felt like something was missing.

You remember when you met Davesprite, how the two of you used to talk, how you used to tease each other, how you promised him pizza and fell through with it.

You remember how you started to fall for him.

You remember how he had teased you about kissing, and how you brashly took it as a challenge. How you came over, and your pulse was echoing in your ears when you leaned in for that first nervous kiss.

It happened, and many more followed.

Outside of those moments, the two of you pretended like it wasn’t something that was becoming a regular occurrence. Like it was totally normal for two friends to share makeouts whenever.

You remember one of those times ending with him somehow getting you to confess to him, but you didn’t say everything.

Just that you liked him.

The teasing became a shared inside joke; both of you meant every word of every offhandedly made compliment, every comment that bordered on sexual.

You remember him going blind, and how you offered to live with him for a while to help around.

That time spent with him only made it clearer: you didn’t just like him.

You remember telling him that you loved him, but he didn’t say it back. Not immediately.

It hurt, and you didn’t bring it up anymore, choosing to keep quiet about it, because even if it stung, you still wanted to stay to take care of him.

You remember, somewhere in between those two confessions, a time when you lifted his shades and looked directly into his eyes for the first time before your lips had pressed onto his.

How color had begun to seep into everything you saw. How he changed your point of view. How he brought and gave that to you.

Maybe that’s why it hurt a lot more when he didn’t return your feelings right away, when you didn’t know he eventually would.

—

You remember how his cheeks looked, flushed with color the first time he let you have sex with him.

—

You remember the bright hue of his blood on the day it happened. How you wished you couldn’t see in color anymore, so you could pretend it was soap mixed into the water, not his blood.

How you cried and eventually moved his body, so lifeless and dull, nothing like the strong color his skin usually bore.

How it scared you for a while that he was gone, even if it didn’t last, and he came back.

—

You remember how your mind started getting clouded by dark thoughts again. How colors seemed so faded, a mere shadow of how they used to be.

You remember his pale yellow orange tears when he cried as you attempted to tie up loose ends, breaking up with him in the process.

—

You remember the bright red that bled into the water on the very same day.

You remember how colors diminished until you blacked out, just before the paramedics found you.

—

Looking at that one vibrant orange feather in your hand wasn’t the only reminder. Everything, everything that you looked at, everything that was suffused with color…

Reminded you of what you lost.

…

Sometimes you still wished that you couldn’t see colors anymore.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

one of those prompts about people seeing in black and white until they meet their soulmate, then they start seeing in color

Bro knew from the very start.

That’s why he taught you to wear shades at all times. That’s why he taught you how to strife, to fight to defend yourself.

He knew there was something different about you.

You never questioned his authority; you thought it was just because you were colorblind.

‘Is it something that makes me a freak?’, you asked once.

Bro just frowned (a rare sighting), and shook his head. He never explained it himself until you were a bit older, but you still didn’t understand, so it was easy to shrug off.

He had said your eyes were red, and confessed that while you had been blissfully ignorant as a child, walking around with bare eyes for everyone to see, he could hear other parents whispering about you. You didn’t know what red eyes looked like; when you looked into a mirror, all you saw was a dark grey.

So the only thing you asked was why he wore shades all the time.

He simply said that his eyes were bright orange, almost an unnatural shade of it too. He figured things out for himself and chose to wear the pointy shades, but for you, he wanted to protect you.

You didn’t ask anymore after that.

Not until you were even older, when the way you looked at him changed, and it frustrated you.

It was a terrible longing, to see what he saw, to know what his eyes looked like. It didn’t matter that you knew they would look like some shade of grey, just like everything else, but that wasn’t the point.

The point was that you wanted to see his eyes, to be intimately close enough to remove his shades, to have him allow you to do so.

When you mustered the courage to ask, you saw the way his brows had briefly knit together, and for some reason, that disheartened you more than expected. He doesn’t answer for a while, so you shrug, let out a sigh, and mumble, "Forget about it."

But then he stops you.

He hunkers down so you could reach his face, silently giving you the go ahead.

They weren’t grey.

His eyes weren’t grey, and if he really knew what he was talking about, then his eyes were definitely orange.

Your eyebrows furrowed, heart pounding as you leaned in, one hand brushing away stray locks of hair (why was his hair not light grey anymore..?) on his face.

Bro’s voice brings you snapping back to reality when he asks what was up, why you suddenly seemed so transfixed. As far as you knew, he didn’t know what had happened.

You could see in what could only be color, and it takes you a few more weeks of quietly reveling in seeing everything differently before you think to ask about it.

You feign ignorance and ask why he could see in color, when you couldn’t. When he brushes it off with the usual explanation of colorblindness, you cut him off, telling him to cut the crap, you looked up the defect and found out that wasn’t how it worked.

And he explains.

He explains that he used to be unable to see in colors too. He recounts the time he first saw a person he loved dearly, face to face, recalls looking into their eyes, feeling his heart race, and colors started flooding his vision.

It makes your own heart ache.

The story just confirmed everything you felt about Bro, and you couldn’t tell him.

You were just his little brother, and it was messed up.

He already had a soulmate, and it was never going to be you.

He’s your brother, you loved him, he was meant for you, but he was meant for someone else.

What kind of a fucked up joke was that.

—

So you never tell him.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

another prompted drabble; DavespriteDave

Leave a “Quiet Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character trying to calm yours down

Leave a “Tell Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character confessing something to yours

It started with a casual, “hey”, but like the last handful of attempts to talk to him, it ended up taking a downhill tumble.

You only said hey, but paused for perhaps too long. There was an intent to ask if he’d gone to the therapist yet, just to check, but you had paused to mull over wording, how to make it sound nonchalant, as if you were just wondering, not that you were too concerned. After all, you did keep saying it was his choice whether or not to go.

Almost as if out of nowhere, he asks you how you’ve been, if you’ve been making new friends. It confuses you for a while, answering that you were doing okay, and somewhere along the way of mentioning the new people you’ve met, you tell him in passing that you’ve met one of his alts.

It angers him.

Apparently Davesprite saw the exchange from the time you had talked about wanting cuddles; he admitted jealousy, and you get just about as upset as he does. He doesn’t know it, but you bitterly think that he had no right to say that; he did— does the same thing, but you never let it show that it bothered you.

It’s a force of habit, and you’ve apologized for it numerous times as of late, but you put him first. Again.

You try to placate him, telling him that you hadn’t chosen his alt on purpose; he’d volunteered for it, and you didn’t want to reject the offer. It wasn’t because you wanted to incite the jealousy, it was mere coincidence.

You were supposed to be calming him down, but in the process, of course you let something more slip.

The next message was already sent, it was too late to take it back. Now he’s probably read it, now he knows that you had brought cuddles up in the first place because you felt lonely.

That you missed him.

And that you still wished to be able to go back to those times where you could just come to him to snuggle whenever you wanted. You hadn’t had that particular kind of contact ever since the two of you broke up.

You missed him terribly, and cuddling with his alt only made the feeling worse.

It wasn’t the same.

You don’t wait for him to reply. You just immediately set your phone down, leaving it behind on the table when you go up to the roof for a smoke.

He doesn’t reply anymore after that.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

random number generator prompt drabble thing; got finger kisses

It was a lazy day. Normally the two of you would be doing things together like playing video games or strifing (you had to check on his progress; it was bro duty), but here you were, sprawled on the futon, watching Dirk tinker with his robots on the floor.

The robotics thing was something you’d initially left for him on a whim when you started leaving. He picked up on it pretty quick for a kid back then too. Personally, you weren’t that good at it yourself, but watching him work was nice; it made you feel a little proud of him for figuring these things out by himself. It gave him something to do, and while it wasn’t the same as having you around, it also gave him company in the form of the robots he’s made over the years.

You were spacing out a little, the sounds of metal parts clinking lulling you into almost-drowsiness, when one loud pop and a hiss was followed by a wisp of smoke and Dirk muttering profanities under his breath. Must’ve short-circuited something, and by the looks of the hand he was shaking, it probably got him in the crossfire.

Maybe it was the fact that you weren’t all there at the moment, but it was like you forgot he was a teenager, confused him for the little kid you helped with building his first robot when you reached forward and grabbed his hand, pulled it towards you, and kissed his injured fingers.

That was all you were doing though; you remembered just in time that he wasn’t a kid anymore. He can get his own first aid.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

The next time you opened your eyes, you weren’t staring down into water that had been slowly getting flooded with your own blood. You were staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, lying in an unfamiliar bed. The one attempt you made to sit up barely even happened, because you couldn’t feel your hands, and your arms were swathed in bandages. A needle stuck into you fed whatever amount of blood you had lost before you suddenly panicked and grabbed for your phone with numbing fingers to call for 911. Thank god, you had kept your phone nearby out of habit.

Your head swam when you tried to recall anything else. Help had come almost way too close to call, but it was with a slight bitterness that you realize that you were likely under suicide watch at this moment. It would’ve gone quicker with a gun, but the Striders were a sword family, there were no firearms, only a myriad of blades. That just gave you the margin of time to chicken out at the last minute.

It wasn’t like before when you cut yourself; no, this time, you had almost meant it. You weren’t getting better; you were getting worse. The longer you spent time alone, slipping away from people who weren’t aware of what was happening to you, the more you convinced yourself that the only thing you could do was to remove yourself from their lives.

‘Everything will be better once I’m gone’ was what you kept telling yourself. It was likely the work of some underlying issue left over from personally seeing yourself die countless times in countless timelines. You knew, you always knew that when you fuck up, a Dave would die, and you learn from that. Where one Dave dies, another would pick up where things were left off, except better, because he would know what to do next time. Getting used to that messed with your head, and it all lead to that moment. The moment you thought that you were done with colossally fucking up, but it was the universe’s biggest ironic joke to keep you alive, kicking, and constantly messing things up as you went along. So maybe it was time to take matters into your own hands.

Your thought processes were still a little woozy; you think it was whatever medication they had on you to keep you under control during and after fixing the latest thing you did wrong.

All you knew was that it was something someone said before you came back to the apartment to get it over with. Someone had said something to you that made you hesitate, and later change your mind.

You still felt empty, but maybe it really wasn’t your time to die just yet. 

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

You were already slowly getting over your inability to sleep. The nights where you actually got to rest were increasing, and it helped that you had someone to hold to keep your restlessness in control.

Although when he died and somehow came back a few days later, it was as if all that time you had spent recovering had been for nothing.

It wasn’t just your sleeping problem either. It was the thing about seeing someone you loved, dead, right in front of you. The memory of Bro’s dead body was abruptly refreshed in your mind, and you suddenly remember everything vividly. Except now, you also had the image of Davesprite, lying dead in the tub branded into your consciousness as well.

When you received another message from him, you realized with a jolt that it was a lot more coherent than the previous ones you’ve gotten ever since you found his body. You had fumbled your phone in your haste to answer, nearly dropping it on your face, as you had yet to still move from your position on the guest room bed. When he asks you to come upstairs, you had actually felt a scream try to form in your throat. There was no way any of this pointed to signs that said you were still sane.

Still, you dared to come back to your one last bit of logic. Sprite things you didn’t know about.

You spent some time, just sitting on the edge of the bed, running your fingers through your hair, tugging lightly on the strands before making your way upstairs.

True enough, there he was where you left him, only he was alive again. Seeing him smile at you like that, seeing the barely healed gashes on his arms broke you in a different way from how you broke when you saw him dead. You cried, but there was no tearful clinging, no embraces were to be had. You just sobbed into your hands, not even daring to come more than some distance away.

Another thing you took note of was the fact that you had gotten more queasy lately, stomach twisting up harshly at the sight of his wounds. It wasn’t like when you saw Bro; the sword had been pushed deep enough into him to conceal the opening. Davesprite’s wounds were open, and you could see exactly how deep he had cut.

Fuck, there’s even a bit of visible bone there, what the fuck.

Still, you were honest, and you quietly admitted that you expected yourself to be doing what you weren’t; holding him close, not wanting to let go now that he wasn’t gone after all. It upset him. He had been expecting you to do that as well. Yet you kept your distance, and you were so neutral that it was even almost a little cold.

You were afraid to touch him.

What if this was just a dream? What if you were just seeing things? What if none of this was real?

It hurt him when you confessed those thoughts as well.

Angry tears, you guessed, had begun to form in his eyes, and he rubbed them away harshly, nicking his cheek in the process with one talon. After all that blood you had to clean up by yourself in the bathroom, the sight of that tiny droplet oozing from the cut made your expression more withdrawn. You didn’t want to see that anymore.

It was more out of wanting to keep his blood gone from your sight than anything else when you reach out to cup his cheek, thumb gently swiping away the drop. You apologize for how you were acting at the moment, but he ended up blaming himself. The two of you talk it over a bit more, and your hands wander down to slip beneath your sleeve, fingertips slowly tracing a raised scar on your wrist. Specifically, the one that had tilted more vertical than the others. Seeing it used to make you hate yourself for even trying to bail out on people; it made you feel bad that they were trying so hard to be there for you. You tried your best to stay alive, if only for them.

Now it made you feel sick as well.

Davesprite was more or less in the same boat as you, but he still did it anyway, and he actually killed himself. He doesn’t even remember what had happened. That was when you realized why you were acting so cold.

You were tired.

Tired of trying your hardest to get through each day for people who just ended up bailing on you anyway.

Bro had found out about your depression, and you swore you’d try to get better. The moment you made progress, you find him dead.

Davesprite found out about your cutting, your anxieties, your depression that still haunted you, your insecurities, and said he’d always be there for you. When you’ve finally wholeheartedly believed him, you find him dead as well.

You felt that you were entitled to feel the way you did at the very least. Why should you immediately believe that any of this was real, that he wasn’t going to just up and go again any time soon?

The silence probably went on pretty long, because your hands were clenching and unclenching into fists on your lap, and he asks if you were okay.

Of course you weren’t okay.

Things get briefly talked over some more before you finally get a reason to excuse yourself. You were going to get some bandages and medicine for his arms. In all honestly, you had felt relieved for the chance to get away for a while. You were still on edge about the entire thing, and who was to say you still didn’t quite believe that any of this was real?

Once you come back, you wrap up his arms, and after some hesitation, press light kisses to each bandaged arm. You quietly beg him not to do that again, and he makes a promise to you.

There was still some ways for you to fully accept what had happened, but it was a start.

—

Now you lie in bed, silently looking over at his huddled form under the blankets. He had always laughed at how easily you got cold, boasted being warm enough for the two of you. Now he was still weak, not quite as warm as he used to be, and sometimes his skin was even a little clammy to the touch.

You weren’t snuggled up to him, but you loosely twined your fingers with his. Your grip tightens by a fraction, gently squeezing his hand as he lay there.

You couldn’t sleep. You were still afraid that none of this was real.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

kinda long for a drabble since it's 2 parts that im just reposting as a single post; also slightly too rp-centered to make full sense of the events but i still liked writing this lmao (also luna = their cat so like ye)

It was a pretty good day today. For once you didn’t feel the tiniest bit depressed about things; maybe it was the fact that Davesprite had been in a good mood for the past few days, and it was rubbing off on you, plus the fact that you were barely hiding anything from him anymore and that just made you feel better about a lot of things. It helped. It helped that he knew what you went through, what you were going through, and you hadn’t done anything remotely terrible to yourself ever since you told him.

Earlier that day, you had been lying in bed, browsing the internet in the dead of night as usual when he had stumbled in, tired, messaging you even though you were only a few feet away from him, before promptly crashing down beside you and falling asleep. So you had taken his shades off, and curled up with him to sleep as well. Nothing really out of place there. Even when he had woken up later on, the two of you talked in sleepy hushed tones, exchanged a few small laughs, cuddled… Still nothing seemed wrong. He had fallen asleep again soon enough, and you let him, seeing as he was so exhausted that he didn’t wake up when Luna came into the room, complaining about not being fed.

You were still feeling good about today as you disentangled yourself from sheets and orange limbs to go feed Luna and to check on the dog. You figured Davesprite was still going to sleep a few more hours, and going for a short walk wouldn’t do any harm. There was a field you normally hung out at, and it was a place you wanted to take him to one of these days. It was quiet here, and this was where you often came to think whenever the walls seemed to close in, and maybe Davesprite knew that feeling, and you wanted to share your safe place with him.

More time passed than you had anticipated, and you realize that he was probably awake already, but now there was a weight slowly settling in the pit of your stomach that you couldn’t explain. He’d normally message you when he wakes up without you in bed, either to make you come back, or to ask where you were.

Your phone was silent the entire time.

-----------------

The weight in your stomach just seemed to get heavier the closer you came to home. The first thing you saw upon coming inside was Luna pacing around, agitated, meowing at you insistently, and that did nothing to calm your nerves that were slowly getting worked up. You didn’t even know why, it was just happening. The heaviness curled up in your midsection was starting to get overwhelming, and you still had no idea why this was happening, but you felt like you were going to be sick.

To make matters worse, that was when you saw the stray orange feathers on the floor.

Small down feathers were fine; those naturally came loose every now and then, but the ones on the floor were the bigger feathers. The ones you remember getting pulled out in agitation that time Davesprite had been so stressed out.

"Dove…?"

Your voice had come out a little hoarse when you hesitantly called out for him.

There was no answer.

Worry was clawing at your insides; you thought you had already established enough trust between you two to agree to come to the other if something was wrong, but you haven’t heard from him since early that morning. The two of you constantly talked; the only time a long stretch of silence passed between you was when one or both of you were asleep. There was definitely something very wrong.

Luna kept pawing at a feather and looking up at you, and that further established that the next logical step was to follow the feathers, even though dread had decided to join in on gnawing at your insides.

You follow the trail, turning the corner to find that the last few lay before the downstairs bathroom door that was ajar. Strange. No one’s really used that one ever since you stopped being a mere guest in his house.

Apprehension decided to join in on the horrible party going on in your stomach, as you came closer to the door, slowly reaching out to push it wider open.

Yellow.

Yellow was everywhere.

There were droplets on the floor, punctuated by bits of blue, but you couldn’t quite remember what those were right now, because your eyes were instantly drawn to the place where there was the most yellow.

He was in the tub.

It wasn’t filled with bubbles, and he wasn’t sitting there, messing with the foam.

For all that time you spent with Davesprite, you had grown used to the way he glowed, the way his cheeks would stain a soft yellow when he blushed, but now the color seemed blinding in that much excess.

You wanted to turn away, you wanted to leave, you wanted to run; anything, anything to not look at your boyfriend’s dead body lying in the water flooded with his own blood. Your legs refused to cooperate, and it was like you were in a daze when you slowly approached, almost stumbling the last few steps before dropping down to your knees by the edge of the tub. You could feel a few drops of what could have been water or blood, or even both, seeping into the knees of your jeans.

His skin was pale, the color having been tugged away by the water for who knows how long ago. Your hands were shaking uncontrollably when you slowly reach out to cup his face, brushing back his hair, remembering how you had done that just mere hours ago when he had woken up, when he had been alive.

You wanted to scream, to cry, to plead for him to not really be dead, but your voice died in your throat that had tightened up, and it was hard to breathe. You could feel the tears stinging in the back of your eyes, but they refused to fall. It was as if your own body was working against you, telling you it was pointless, as if asking what was the point. Your hands were shaking even worse than before by the time a tiny choked sob managed to squeeze its way past your lips as you continued to slowly run your fingers through his hair.

Tears still refused to fall, and you were even half expecting Terezi to message you the way she did when you found Bro’s dead body. It was the second time you’ve found someone you loved dead, but the difference was that Davesprite had done this to himself.

…And you blamed yourself for it.

You thought you were doing good, that he was doing better, and you always made sure to be there for him if anything happened, and then shit definitely happened, and you were nowhere to be found. You didn’t even know how long whatever this was had been going on. Maybe there was a lot more he had been hiding from you, and all you could think of was the fact that it took you too long to help him let you in, and now he’s done this.

Your eyes were hurting from the unshed tears, and you just wanted to cry, but all you could do was heave pathetic, dry sobs as you knelt by the tub.

Your hands still cupped his face, which had once been pleasantly warm, palms still softly pressing against his cheeks, as if you could will his life back.

Now he was almost ice cold in death.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

No Sleep

He fell asleep a couple of hours ago, but you’re still wide awake. It’s well past midnight, and you’ve been staring at the wall for hours on end, thoughts swirling around in quick succession because you don’t want to linger on one for too long. They were eating at you again, and you didn’t want to wake Davesprite up for this, especially since he’s the reason for a majority of them.

You carefully maneuver yourself out of his arms, shivering slightly when you lose the warm contact. He’s been keeping you warm this entire time. One of the blankets you’ve had piled on you gets taken; he wouldn’t mind, he was plenty warm on his own. A faint smile makes its way onto your lips, because Davesprite’s actually sleeping on the bed this time instead of in his nest because you had asked him to cuddle with you there, unable to give him the courtesy to move to his nest because of the cold. You knew he didn’t really like sleeping on beds much, but he put up with it anyway. You’d like to think that he did that for you.

With that thought, the smile slips from your face, and the blanket gets wrapped around your shoulders as you pad out of the room. Using your phone to send him a message, you tell him you’ll just be on the porch, in case he suddenly panics when he wakes and finds you gone. Not that you’re all that convinced he would panic, but for some reason, he seemed really scared of the idea of you leaving him after everything that happened last night.

It’s a lot colder outside. You draw the blankets tighter about you before curling up in a chair, drawing your knees up to your chest, and staring out at the view from the treehouse.

He said he didn’t love you back. At least, not yet. He just likes you. He said he could, but not just yet. Maybe over time. He said he really believed he could. You’re not entirely convinced, but you still held onto that; desperately clinging to that thought, only because he said he didn’t love you back, but you still loved him anyway.

You don’t know why he still kept you around though, after that shitstorm you caused. Hearing him say that hurt like a bitch, similar to when your timeline’s John rejected you, but different because at least Davesprite let you hope. He didn’t quite outright reject you.

…Then again, you don’t know if that’s a good thing either.

You’re just maybe a little too convinced that he’s just holding onto you like that so you wouldn’t leave, because he’s gotten attached to you, but not the way you were attached to him.

Tears were starting to well up in your eyes. You’ve been thinking about it too long again, and you learned that this would happen every time you did that. Your chest still ached just from remembering what had happened.

You stay curled up there on the porch for the rest of the night, occasionally shivering a bit from the cold, staring out in the distance until the sun started to peek over the horizon.

You still felt completely awful, even when you smiled and snuggled up to him like nothing happened earlier that day.

Davesprite had warned you that he gets attached to people too quickly, but that was nothing compared to how quickly you managed to fall for him.

[reesesbeeses-blog-blog]

vaguely considering reblogging some of the drabbles i wrote in my rp blog just to archive them here lmao