biznasty writings

Watch as I unceremoniously dump writing onto this blog. And by dump, I really mean dump. No other verb seems appropriate. Although, vomit might work too.

[thepimpslayer]

Not Again

Fandom: Homestuck

Characters/Notable Pairings: Dave-centric, some of the survivors (Beta-verse)

Warnings: None (Unless mentions of blood counts?)

A/N: Probably not the best time to post this since it's tumblr dead hour, and the current situation with the homestuck tags, but whatever. Based on this picture. Unedited.

--

A screech jumps through your head and colours begin dancing into the black.

Everything hurts, and you feel like you're about to black out again. Your eyes are weakly blinking, and the light is flickering in and out of your sight. Clarity increases when you hear another screech.

You've always had an affinity with fire; that's probably why your planet was the Land of Heat and Clockwork, and probably why your entire body burns with a searing pain. Your palm digs into the ground, and you struggle to even sit up. A bead of sweat rolls down your head and curls into the corner of your lip-- it has a metallic taste to it, and that's when you realize that it's actually blood. Jack really did a number on you.

Your foot slowly brings itself under you, and starts to push you up-- but you stumble back onto the ground. Knives shoot through your back and you let out a pathetic cry. That really hurt. You remember that you're not the only one here when you hear a thud a little ways away. Rolling onto your side, you squint your eyes at the others. It's pretty dark so it's hard to make out some of them, but you see Kanaya and Karkat huddled around Terezi. She doesn't look too good. To their right you see Gamzee seated on the floor, also in bad shape. Jade is tending to Rose, who's bleeding on the floor. And then--

John is blown into the air, blood splashing onto the floor; Jack stands with his sword up, likely from a swift upward blow. He lands a couple feet away from you.

You hiss and search the surrounding area for your broken blade. It's behind you, but you quickly grab and use it to assist you standing up. Due to it's broken nature, it can only help you so far, but it's enough to get you on your feet-- even if you stumble a bit. Your lungs bleed and scream, and your body begs you to rest, but you ignore the pain. Just for a little longer, you'll put your pain aside. Blood rolls down the cuts on your arms, and drips off your hands; you weakly shuffle in front of John, dragging the cut up leg behind you. Shakily, you take in a heated breath, and make a defensive stance. Jack has been watching you, sickly amused by your attempts at protecting John.

But you're not going to let him die. You hear him shuffle at your back. He tells you in a croak that it's okay, because he'll just come back to life like before; he's stupid that way, always has been, but you know better. As Jack advances, he begs for you to stop trying to protect him, but you grit your teeth and force your burning hands to tighten around your blade.

You lost him once, back when you all first started this.

You won't lose him again.

[thepimpslayer]

Memorabilia

Fandom: Homestuck

Characters/Notable Pairings: Dave Strider (Post-Scratch)

Warnings: Sadstuck(?)

A/N: Something to start this blog off! A small drabble I wrote for a friend a while ago; it's nothing particularly big. Slightly edited from the original version. I probably missed things.

--

Sometimes, when you’re having a really good day, you decide to go to your private room. Your younger brother, or rather, your ectobiological son likes to call it a museum of your weird obsessions, but that’s just stupid. It’s just a room with some of your most prized possessions, no big deal.

It’s situated in your room, and was probably supposed to have been a large walk-in closet. A dim light hangs from the ceiling, and you shut the door behind you; there isn't any need to close the door, since your younger brother isn’t even home, but it would have felt too exposing to leave it open. There’s a small array of glass cases here, two small sized ones and one larger one. The two smaller glass cases stand facing each other on the sides of the room, while the larger sits straight ahead of you. On days like these, you don’t rush it; on a good day like this, where everything seems to be going right for you, you always move slowly while you're here.

You step forward and move with an instinct to glance at the case on the left. You tense at the sight of the aquatic, tangled plush buddies. Those were Jade’s weird looking toys— Squickles, or something akin to that; you don’t really care what they were called, because what’s important is that they were Jade’s. God you miss her. You almost look away, but you force yourself to remember; you reminisce about her, and her weird sleeping schedule, and her sweetness. It hurts, and you let it hurt.

You turn to look at the second case, and you try to swallow the lump in your throat. It’s just some yarn and knitting needles— except you know they’re more than just simple inanimate objects. They all are. Sometimes you wish Rose would talk to you like before; you want to hear her nag, and quip, and psychoanalyze you. From what your little bro tells you, it sounds like his friend is probably Rose’s mom as a kid; meaning Rose is the kid’s mom, if what you believe about everyone's situations is correct. You spoke to her before, under the pretense that you were making sure your little bro’s friend was real and what not. You slip in some questions about before the scratch, but she has no idea what 'the scratch' is. Sometimes you talk to her; on days like this, you do. You let out a shaky breath, and move to the last case.

There’s no surprise when your breathing catches, and a heat pricks at your eyes. You move the glass case off the display, and stare at the tattered bunny sitting there. It’s old, and normally you wouldn’t give a damn about some stupid bunny, but this was for him— for John. You proceed with your routine, and take off your shades, setting them on their display next to the rabbit. It’s gross, and you kind of wish you didn’t do it, but you take the rabbit into your arms and you sit on the floor. It doesn’t help push away the pain, but you feel a bit more at ease when you hold the plush toy. You talk to the John that isn’t there with you, arms tight around the soft toy, and -like always- you cry. You cry as you tell him about your day, about your little brother, about how much you miss him, about how much you wish everyone was here, and about how much you wish you could all go back to your old lives.

Sometimes, when you’re having a really good day, you remember that it’s not really a good day at all, because it used to be so much better.