#things i writed

[nameonthespine]

Distance is a curse-

a four letter word stretched four too long

like the miles stretch between us.

I wish I could backspace kilometers

the way I backspace letters

until “d-i-s-t-a-n-c-e” is gone

and I am right next to you.

[nameonthespine]

So I was talking with Jolt last night and we were just headcanon-ing about PMAR, and I accidentally this big string of crappy, shippy poems.

They're not very good, but they're kinda cute and you can read'em if you want?

  Dear AR,

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Nothing beats the mail

Except maybe you.

Love, PM

Dear PM,

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I like guns

And I like you?

Love, AR

  Dear, AR

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

You stole my rhyme,

But I like you too.

Love, PM

  Dear, PM

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I’ll rhyme what I want

And I’ll rhyme with you.

Love, AR

  Dear, AR

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I’m no police officer,

but I think the over-use of “you” is cruel.

Love, PM

  Dear, PM

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I am the law,

and that’s not true.

Love, AR.

  Dear, AR

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

You’re a lot of things,

Can “mine” be one too?

Love, PM.

  Dear, PM 

Roses are red,

Violet literally means purple,

I’m a bad poet,

But I love you.

Love, AR.

                                       Dear, AR,

Roses are red,

Violets are purple,

We can look up flower colors later,

I love you too.

Love, PM.

[nameonthespine]

This song just reminds me a shitton of GamKar, so I had to write something even though I don't really like the ship.

I might do more with it, but idk, this is what I have for now and I think it's all right.

  Karbro’s asleep in your horn pile again. You take a peek through the vents and nearly choke on your spit because he looks so goddamn pitiful. He was always more of a chubby guy, but he has that baggy skeletal look, like he lost a lot of weight too fast and like he hasn’t slept in sweeps. You bet he needs this nap.

Before you can tell yourself not to, you’re picking at the screws with your fingernails. They’re overgrown and sharp; just another sign that you need someone to take care of you. Karkat always took care of you. Now he needs you.

That’s how moirallegence works, doesn’t it? You take care of each other. You’ve been a pretty shitty moirail lately, and you know it.  Actually, you can't remember a time when you were a decent moirail. He took care of you, but you... never did much for him.

You push the vent down, letting it clatter to the ground knowing Karkat’s too heavy a sleeper to be disturbed by it.

You’re not sure what to do now. There was no plan, it probably wasn’t a good idea to sneak in here and oh god, he’s gonna to tear you a new one. Hesitantly, you tiptoe towards him and just pap his hair a bit. It’s just as thick as you remember and you chuckle a nervous honk.

“I’m motherfucking sorry,” you whisper. He doesn’t move. Your fingers start weaving through his hair, making it an even bigger mess but getting a few of the knots out. You kneel next to him and start to braid it, and while you do you tell him about what you’ve been doing since you left.

“The mirthful messiahs have motherfucking called to me, bro,” you tell him. He’s still except for sleepy breathing, but you know if he was awake he’d be happy for you. “They want me to do their bidding. I up and gotta do it, you know?”

You bet he would understand if you would actually tell him. You just don’t want him to get angry. Stress is written all over his face even though he’s been asleep for hours, you don’t want to do anything that could make him even angrier. Plus, you hate being on the receiving end of his screaming. Confrontation just isn’t your thing.

After his whole head is a mess of short braids, slowly undoing themselves from lack of attention and hair ties, you don’t want to leave. You’ve missed him so much.

As quietly as possible, you curl on to the horn pile next to him. His face gets pulled into your chest, and you wish your t-shirt didn’t reek of face paint, blood and sweat. You lightly run your claws down his back, in as calming a motion as you can manage. After a few seconds you think you start to purr a little.

You didn’t realize how much you missed this. How much you missed him. It feels stupidly miraculous to be back with him, even for a second.

Then he starts to stir. You don’t notice until he yawns, but then you know it’s time to get lost. Silently, you untangle yourself from him and the horns and race for the vent, picking it up and holding it in place as he continues to wake up.

It takes a few minutes, and in them you manage to screw the vent back into place.

Karkat yawns a few more times, and then stretches his back out like a cat. “Gamzee?” he asks once sleepily, but thinking you were there must have snapped him into complete consciousness, because his eyes go wide and he sounds more desperate. “Gamzee, you clown-fucking puss-filled little shit, are you here?”

His hands find his hair, and his fingers comb through destroying most of the braids, but they’re still curled a bit and his fingers clench to his scalp. “I-I know you were here! You fucking shitbag. Why aren’t you here now?”

You pray to the messiahs he doesn’t look for you in the vent, but you think his focus is on the part of the horn pile you laid on, that was still warm.

“It must have been a dream. I must have rolled over,” he mumbles to himself, hand over the warm spot. “And it was just a damn dream.”

You think you see him cry a little, but he just rubs his face and leaves. You want to hang around, but you don’t have much business here anymore. You’re a busy guy; there are people to see, a mission to complete. There’s no time for this stuff, especially when you're such a piss-poor moirail.

[nameonthespine]

Trope up Bioshock real quick. And Mario AND Luigi.

(All righty. 1st Person POV from Luigi. And I had to google this shit, so if it's inaccurate/total bullshit I at least tried.)

My brother, Mario, had always been the one to protect and nurture me, when no one else could; and even when I didn’t need to be nurtured. But that Splicer cut right through him- the guy who I thought would always be there for me to depend on- and left him dead and bleeding at my feet before scuttling back to whatever pit of this hell it came from. Now, I’m alone in this wasteland called Rapture; and I have to survive without him.

[nameonthespine]

How about some Dave/Aradia in an AU where the Alternian military has taken over Earth?

(I went with the age-old "Police State with Imperial Drone collection"-thing, hope it's not too cliche to enjoy :/)

The redbloods, one human and one troll, huddled behind the craggy old hivestem dressed in the rags of their castes as the buzz of Imperil drones thundered overhead, perhaps the last time they’ll hear it. The Condesce had won, had captured the Earth and worked them until the light left their eyes and an eternal hunch crept into their backs, more into Aradia’s than Dave’s; as the duties of a fertile troll hung over her head. In the shadows, they hunch into each other, knowing they’ve waited too long, the Material Collection has begun, they’re doomed- but they ignore it, and as the start to creep from the shadows to become a handholding couple in the mass of the sidewalk towards the suburbs, Dave whispers, “We’ll be out of the city soon, Aradia; and we’ll be safe once we’re gone.”

[nameonthespine]

Let's play a game of "Alex has weird and sad headcanons!" In which Mom Lalonde is a lonely and scared woman, with a big job, gender issues, and a baby that fell of an asteroid that she is destined to raise.

So yeah, warning for references to boozin' and cussin'.

Tell me if it sucks?

Your name is Roxanne Lalonde, and you have a shit ton of regrets. There’s only one of you, but you’re trying to do the responsibilities of three women. It’s hard, and you chase away anyone who could possibly understand because of your universe-given responsibility of raising a child you're not even sure you are capable of mothering. It stresses you out to no end, and you’re just happy that you can drink despite all of the hormones you’re on.

It’s noon on a Tuesday. You wake up and roll of the couch, as usual. The back of your throat feels like cotton, as usual, so you try to block it out with a swig of the vodka bottle you left on the coffee table, where it usually is. It burned a thousand years ago, but now it just makes your stomach drop a bit.

God, you’re a piece of shit.

The skirt you’re wearing is too tight and it takes you five minutes to stand up with your raging hangover, so you waddle to the kitchen for some bread and Advil. They both take a minute to choke down, but it’s all relatively painless compared to the headache, and whatever the fuck you did to your ankle. You think your collapse on to the couch might have been a daring one.

Work’s going to be hard as fuck with this headache. You’ve got requests for materials to file and send, as well as numbers to crunch. It’s so mind-numbing, but you need to do it if you’re going to give Rosie a good life. The kind she deserves, before-

Rosie!

Shitshitshit, did you put her in her crib? Did she eat? Is she warm, and safe and oh fucking Christ, you’re the worst parent.

Headache damned to hell and ankle pain along for the ride, you shuffle-run as fast as you can manage up the stairs and to the nursery. Nervously you creak the door open.

Rosie’s awake, and she’s fine. You hear her before you see her, and she gurgles at you from the crib, where she’s supposed to be. You breathe a sigh of relief, before continuing in a less-frenzied state to her side.

“Good morning, angel,” you coo. She smiles at you with her toothless grin, and waves her hands at you, wanting to be picked up. You don’t trust yourself at the moment with her. Maybe in a few hours.

“Mama loves you. Do you love Mama?” She shrieks back a baby giggle, smart enough already to know when to respond. You brush one strand of her white-blonde hair behind her ear. You wonder if it’ll get darker. For all you know, she’ll be brunette by second grade. She’ll be gorgeous whether or not it does. Her little fingers curl around one of yours, the tips just barely reaching her crinkled, dark-pink palm.

You throw caution to the wind and pick her up. “I know you love Mama,” you whisper. Her face is only a few inches from yours, and when you speak she flinches from your breath. You realize you must reek of vodka and morning breath and a bunch of things she shouldn’t have to worry about yet. She doesn’t seem upset, just kind of stoic. Like she’s used to it.

You walk her over to your office, where you keep a playpen full of a few stuffed animals, and put her down on a blanket without saying another word. She makes a noise as you turn to walk away.

“Mama’s right here,” you whisper, kneeling so your face is placed right over the lip of the pen. “She just needs to get to work. She’s working for you, you know.”

Your baby just stares at you, pink eyes wide.

“I’m going to make you the happiest little girl in the world, Rose Lalonde,” you whisper, more to yourself than her. It’s a goddamn promise, and you intend to do everything in your power to keep it. “After all, a mother does what is best for her children.”

With a sigh and a crick in your knees you didn’t have five years ago, you stand up and go to your desk to start a day of sciencing. You’ve got a mug half full of boxed wine next to your computer that’s still cold from yesterday. The sound of Rose playing is in the background. You sigh, take a sip and wonder if the Universe made the right decision in giving you this meteoritic angel.

[nameonthespine]

Water

Water is gutter sludge,

Like quicksand, always slopping,

No mercy, never stopping,

While we trudge.

Water is rain from the sky,

On rooftops, always pittering,

Long hours, only pattering,

While we cry.

  Water is a river,

So restless, always rushing,

So careless, always crushing,

While we search for cover.

  Water is a rainbow on a cloudy day,

Your life raft, no more drowning,

Only smiles, no more frowning,

A few days ago I said I was writing a poem and then never actually posted it. I guess since everyone whose already read it liked it, and I recently reunited with a writer who I looked up to in the past (she follows me now. And will probably see this note. Fuck yeah), so I figured I'll post it :3