#its a tangled mess of yarn anyways | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alittlebitmaybe · 3 years

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tying you to me

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: crafting

Pairing: Geraskier, implied Geralt/Yen in one line

Rating: T for language

Warnings: None

Summary:

As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

Or: Geralt doesn't know about the boyfriend sweater curse.

Read more on AO3 or below the cut!

Geralt learned to knit out of necessity. Winters in Kaedwen, especially up in the mountains, are bitter cold, and require not only animal skins but woolen socks, hats, scarves, blankets. They keep a flock of sheep for the very purpose. And before—when there were others, even occasionally a proper staff—it would be part of the normal workings of the castle to have several sets of hands dedicated to knitting up useful garments to keep them from freezing their balls off when the frost came.

There are fewer hands now, but also fewer balls in danger of freezing. Geralt and Vesemir handle the bulk of it, these days—Eskel with fingers too big and clumsy to be much help, Lambert too fidgety and quick to rip out all his progress into a tangled mess of wool in a fit of frustration. In the evenings they sit by the great hall fire in mostly silence and take turns spinning the roving into yarn, winding skeins, chipping away at the endless miles of plain stocking stitch, and seaming panels together. (Sometimes Geralt will embellish the design with cables, or a moss stitch—unconventional patterns he’s started to see in the larger cities, sold by the fancier merchants. He may have paid a few crowns for the scroll describing the pattern for one particular sweater he saw in a shop in Novigrad. He has not mentioned this to Vesemir.)

It may be necessity, but Geralt would choose it even if it wasn’t. These are the things his hands are good for: wielding a sword; harvesting various glands and organs; curling into fists; crushing windpipes; skinning rabbits. Bandaging Ciri’s scrapes. Bringing Yen’s pleasure. Curling around the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing their lips together. And, when it’s over, when there’s nothing to kill and no one to care for, he can create. He can put it all to the side and count off to himself, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit, knit, knit, around and around, back and forth, and this thing will grow from the rhythm of his fingers, from the steady loop and pull that he’s done thousands of times, taught by some witcher instructor decades ago whose name he no longer recalls. He had bushy eyebrows that waggled as he worked. That’s all the memory that’s left of him.

Anyway, it’s easy to allow the hours to pass until Vesemir excuses himself to bed and the fire burns down and takes the light with it. One such night, just as Geralt is squinting at his work to finish this one last row, the hall door creaks open.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says sleepily, “are you still in here? ‘S late, love.”

Knit, knit, knit. “Mm,” says Geralt. “I’m here. Just finishing up.”

“I’ll wait for you, then.” Jaskier pads in his sockfeet across the stone to the armchair Geralt occupies. He sits himself on the rug with his back against Geralt’s legs, knees pulled up to his chest. “Brr. ‘S chilly, too.”

Geralt drops the needle in his right hand, maintaining tension on the working yarn with his left. He runs his free hand through Jaskier’s bed-mussed hair, brushes against his cold ear, down to the soft skin behind it. “Not wearing a coat.”

“Well I wasn’t heading outside, seemed like a—” He yawns, jaw cracking. “—a lot of trouble just to come downstairs. But I now see my mistake.”

“Always have to wear a coat at night,” Geralt says. “Or be under blankets. Or both.”

“Or acquire a personal witcher furnace, unless he’s down here ‘til gods know what hour making yet more mittens for the princess.”

Geralt looks down at the large rectangle he’s been working on. “Lap blanket,” he says. For Ciri, when she’s studying in the library. It gets drafty in there even with the fire blazing.

“For the library?” says Jaskier, tipping his head back to see Geralt. “Good thinking. She’ll love it.”

Geralt releases him and goes back to his work, but knits at most ten stitches before Jaskier shivers again, his teeth chattering before he gets himself under control. Setting the blanket aside, middle of the row be damned, he concedes, “Let’s go back to bed.”

“No, you’re—you’re not done with—” Jaskier cannot finish his sentence for the yawn that overtakes him. “M’kay. Let’s go.”

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

The next evening, after dinner has been consumed and cleaned up, Vesemir and Geralt move to the fire as usual. Vesemir is working up a new hat for Lambert, who has the shortest hair among them and has one practically pasted to his head all winter long.

Geralt spares a glance to his blanket-in-progress, and then veers toward the wooden chest that stores their yarn stash. He puts aside plain ball after plain ball, until finally he admits defeat and turns to Vesemir and asks, “Do we have any dye?”

“No,” says Vesemir, not looking up. He knits with the yarn looped around the back of his neck to keep the tension, instead of around his fingers. He says it’s easier on his old joints. Geralt thinks it looks preposterous, but it gets the job done. “Not a drop. And that’s never bothered you before.”

“I’m thinking of making a gift,” says Geralt. “I think they’d prefer it to be dyed.”

“Ah, the bard. Yes. I suppose he would.”

“I want him to actually wear it.”

“Indeed.”

“He says coats are too bulky and ponderous, and they dampen his spirits.”

“Foolish boy. He’ll learn.”

“So we have no dye? Of any color?”

“None,” says Vesemir. “Though it may be that there are some old skeins in the back of the cupboard by the linens. I recall that some of our forebears had rather expensive taste, for witchers. Quite wasteful of them. If you ask me.”

Geralt murmurs his thanks, pulls on a cloak, and makes his way through the frozen corridors to the cabinet in the laundry. Along the way he passes the study, and overhears Eskel dominating Jaskier in another round of Gwent.

“Eskel, you dirty cheating bastard, there is no way you just had that card.”

“Where d’you think I kept it, bard?”

“Up your sleeve, behind your ear, under the table, I dunno—”

“Down your pants,” Lambert chimes in, and Geralt hears Ciri giggle. She’s been spending too much time with the witchers now that Yen has departed for the season. Geralt should probably intervene more often.

“—maybe you magicked me with a sign thingy so I wouldn’t notice, but I’m sure you didn’t have it in hand a turn ago, I’ll swear that on—”

“Yes, Lambert, I’ve got Gwent cards lining my codpiece, naturally, even a few stuffed between my—”

Geralt rounds the corner and their voices fade away.

As Vesemir said, there is a small box pushed all the way to the back of the cupboard in amongst the linens. He opens it without much hope, but is surprised to find it full to the brim with yarn of deep reds and blues, all of some soft texture very unlike the itchy wool they’re accustomed to. Sniffing it, he decides it is from some type of goat. He also decides, based on its lack of musty odor, that it is not nearly old enough to have belonged to one of their forebears.

Well, in exchange for the use of the yarn, he’ll allow Vesemir his secret.

He carries the whole lot back to the great hall.

“You found it,” Vesemir remarks, now nearly done with the hat.

“Right where you said,” says Geralt. “You don’t mind if I use it?”

“As much as you like,” he replies disinterestedly, “if you’ll leave me the fuck alone while you do.”

Fair enough.

Geralt selects the red—a deep burgundy that will pair with the blush on Jaskier’s cheeks after a few glasses of wine. He pulls the scroll from his trouser pocket, and begins casting on as the pattern instructs.

When he hears Jaskier’s tread in the hall, he hastily pulls the half-finished lap blanket over his new project.

“Bedtime, Witcher,” says Jaskier, peering over his shoulder. “Didn’t make much progress on that tonight, did you?”

“It’s a big blanket,” Geralt grunts. “Eskel’s been practicing sleight of hand since we were boys. Don’t play him for money.”

“I bloody knew it,” Jaskier exclaims. He wheels around and stomps back out of the hall, suitably distracted. “Eskel! You’ll never believe what Geralt’s just told me!”

The sweater is slow going, since he does have to put real work into the blanket every once in a while to keep Jaskier’s suspicions to heel.

Over the next few weeks, it becomes near an open secret in the keep what Geralt is up to. Lambert catches him cursing late one evening as he is ripping back several rows to fix a cable he’d mistakenly crossed the wrong way.

“Whazzat,” Lambert says, crunching on a mouthful of tree nuts.

“Fuck off,” Geralt says. He squints and carefully tries to secure a dropped loop back on the needle. If it ladders down, he’s done for—there’ll be no fixing it while maintaining the pattern. He’s not nearly good enough for that.

“Looks like you’re fucking it up,” Lambert chews.

“I am. That’s why I told you to fuck off.”

“Thought that’s just how you decided to greet me now. That’s what Vesemir does.” He shoves another fistful of nuts into his mouth, though Geralt isn’t sure he’s swallowed the first.

“It’s not a bad idea.”

He manages to pick up that last loop before disaster strikes, and moves the stitches around on the needles to make sure they all look right. Then he shoves the left-hand stitches all the way up to the tip so he can continue.

Lambert leans down to examine the fabric, then runs his finger down the pattern with his eyebrow raised. “This is some fancy shit, Geralt, you giant poof.”

“It’s not for me,” he says.

Lambert swallows, belches, and says, “My point exactly. ‘S for Jaskier, innit.”

Geralt doesn’t bother answering as he approaches the cable he’d made a mess of the first time around. Lambert claps him on the shoulder with the hand he’s been using as a nut-to-mouth delivery tool, which leaves salt behind on his tunic.

“That’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks,” says Geralt wryly.

“Anyway, I’m outta here. This boring bullshit still gives me hives.”

He exits the hall and the door shuts heavily behind him. Geralt finishes recrossing the cable and, turning to check his pattern, finds it covered in greasy fingerprints.

Eskel, on the other hand, sits himself in Vesemir’s usual seat one night and sets to quietly whittling a whistle. After several hours, Geralt holds up the near completed front panel of his sweater and says, “Do you think Jaskier will like this?”

Eskel doesn’t even look at it. “Geralt, you could spit on a log and hand it to him and Jaskier would love it.” His knife stills. “Maybe don’t do that, though.”

To their credit, none of the other witchers say a word—possibly for lack of caring—and Geralt is able to rely on them to keep Jaskier occupied most nights while he finishes the front and back panels and seams them up.

Before he begins work on the sleeves, the pattern warns, the wearer should try on the body to ensure proper fit.

“Well, shit,” he says aloud. He can’t ask Jaskier to try it on and ruin the surprise. He holds it up against himself, trying to judge if they are similar enough size to judge whether it will fit Jaskier. Geralt, certainly, is wider in the chest and shoulders, but as long as he can get it on without stretching it too much he should be able to check the length. And, if it fits Geralt or is loose, it will certainly be too large on Jaskier.

It will have to do.

The next morning he rises early and takes the sack in which he’s been storing his project to Ciri’s bedroom. He knocks softly.

“Ciri?” he calls, mouth close to the door. “Can I use your mirror for a moment?”

“Mnnngh,” he hears. He takes this as an invitation.

The only visible part of her, when he lets himself in, is a tangle of hair escaping from under the pile of furs on the bed. He sets his sack delicately in front of the only full-length mirror in the keep and says, “Morning, Princess.”

“F’ off,” the fur pile groans. “No it’s not.”

“You really have been spending too much time with Lambert,” Geralt comments mildly as he pulls the unfinished sweater out and checks it for damage in transport, though he knows it was safe in the bag and only traveled up some stairs. “He’s a bad influence.”

“I’ve always been like this when rudely awakened at the crack of dawn,” Ciri says, muffled. “Don’t think any of you are special.”

“You cursed at the royal servants?”

“Quite regularly.”

Geralt shrugs the layers off his top half down to his undershirt while she continues to stretch and grumble wordlessly in the warmth of her bed. He pulls the sweater over his head; the neckline snags on his ears but otherwise he should be okay to try to get his arms in. He squeezes his right arm in and up, aiming for the proper hole—

“Geralt,” Ciri says icily, “what, by the gods, is that?”

He turns around, contorted in the confines of the too-tight sweater. She’s sitting up with her hair a wild tangle and her eyes wide in horror. “What’s what?”

“That garment!”

“It’s…a sweater? I’m making it.”

Geralt thinks he may be missing something very important.

“For yourself?”

“…No, for Jaskier. He needs another—”

“Don’t you care about the curse?”

Geralt finishes fitting himself into the sweater and tugs it down over his stomach while Ciri continues to stare at him in expectant horror. Thus no longer trapped, he decides to engage. “The what?”

Ciri slumps forward, briefly puts her face in her hands. “Good gods, Geralt, you really can’t be helped. But I also cannot allow you to give Jaskier a handmade sweater. Despite your…personal challenges”—at this, Geralt tilts his head and opens his mouth to ask exactly what the hell that means, but she barrels on—“I really have become fond of the two of you, so I cannot let you carry on with this foolish nonsense.”

Her voice goes more posh the longer speaks. Geralt thinks she will make a fine queen someday. “Ciri, I—”

“And really,” she continues, “it’s like you’re trying to sabotage a good thing. He does nothing but care for you, and this is how you repay him? Honestly. Melitele’s tits!”

“Melitele’s—? Where did you learn that one?”

“I’m hardly sheltered. And you’re one to talk, caring about my language when you’re about to lose Jaskier for good!”

“For good? Lose Jask—okay, Ciri.” He sits down at the foot of her bed, probably looking downright silly confined to a sleeveless sweater that is at least one size too small for him. He can feel it constricting the rise and fall of his chest and stretching tight in his armpits. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What curse?”

The expression she aims at him is sharper than at least four of the blades in the armory. “The sweater curse, Geralt. If one makes a sweater for a person one is interested in romantically, that person leaves within a fortnight. Everyone knows this.”

“Oh, of course. How stupid of me,” Geralt says.

Ciri raises an eyebrow that says Yes, obviously.

“So you’re telling me that if I finish this sweater and give it to Jaskier, he will suddenly no longer be able to stand the sight of me and will stomp off on down the mountain, even with the good foot of snow and ice blocking the path.”

She sniffs. “Indubitably.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. “I think I’ll take my chances.” He claps his hands on his knees as he stands and moves back to the mirror to inspect the sizing more closely. The armholes are definitely a bit small—he’ll have to let out the seam to increase the circumference—but the rest, if he tries to overlay Jaskier’s body onto his own, seems like it should be about right.

Ciri leaves the bed with a fur wrapped around her as a cape and comes to his side. “You’re impossible,” she declares, though the royal snootiness is diminished somewhat by her morning breath and tangled hair. Then she reaches out and touches the textured pattern between the cable running up the front. “Though, you know, it is quite beautiful, if horribly misguided.”

He grins indulgently at her. “Thank you, Princess.”

“Have you heard of the sweater curse?”

Vesemir snorts. “Poppycock. Who told you about that old superstition?”

“Just came across it.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Vesemir looks at Geralt over his spectacles. “I hope that it’s not bothering you.”

“No,” says Geralt. “Of course not.”

He has fuck-all in his hand of cards, but he stares down at them like they might contain the secrets of the Continent.

“It’s your turn, Geralt,” Eskel says.

“I know,” he replies, absently rearranging the cards.

“So…you gonna play or pass?” Lambert asks. He digs his hand into the bowl of nuts at his elbow.

“Not sure.”

“Is something on your mind?” Eskel, again.

“No. Well…do either of you believe in the sweater curse?”

They both look at him blankly.

“Nuh uh,” says Lambert with his mouth full.

Geralt says, “Pass.”

He speaks clearly into the xenovox. “Yen? Are you there?”

“Geralt?” comes the reply, as if she were beside him in the room. “Is Ciri all right?”

“We’re all fine. It’s good to hear from you, too.”

“If there’s no trouble, then make it quick.”

Now he hesitates, but he chokes the question out anyway. “Do you know about the sweater curse?”

There is silence.

“Yen?”

“For the love of the gods, Geralt, please don’t bother me with frivolous garbage. I’m much too busy. Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all,” Geralt says, suitably shamed.

The finished, washed, and blocked sweater rests folded at the bottom of his wardrobe for more than a week before he works up the nerve to bring it down to dinner with him in his knitting sack.

Even with the flaws that Geralt, as the creator, inevitably notices—a few loose stitches three quarters down the back panel, the right sleeve is slightly longer than the left—he has to admit that it turned out well. He could fetch a pretty penny for it in a large city. Silky soft, thick, and vivid burgundy, it would be a stand-out piece among any merchant’s wares even without the detailing that stretches collar to hem and even down the outside of the arms.

Knitting it was a nightmare. He will never do anything like it ever again, so Jaskier had better appreciate this one.

Still, every time he resolves to finally gift it, Ciri’s words echo in the back of his mind. You’re about to lose Jaskier for good.

On the ninth day, he shushes that voice, takes the sack, and marches straight into the hall for dinner. After all, if Yen and Vesemir aren’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either.

Everyone but Jaskier is there already. Eskel looks up from pouring ale into each mug and says, “Hullo, Geralt. What do you have there?” and Lambert says, “Ooh, didja finish it?” and Vesemir digs wordlessly into his mutton.

Ciri’s eyes zero in on the sack.

“Hello,” says Geralt. “Is Jaskier still washing up?”

“Yeah,” says Lambert. “He fell in a pile of snow.”

“Lambert pushed him into a pile of snow,” Eskel amends.

Geralt glares at the accused, setting the sack on the bench at his usual spot.

“He asked for it. Bloody said ‘Lambert, throw me into that snow over there!’ didn’t he?”

“Since you were alone with him at the time, I don’t think I can confirm or deny—”

“Geralt,” Ciri interrupts, “tell me you’re not still planning what you said.”

“I am,” he tells her.

“You were standing not ten feet away.”

“My back was turned—”

“You’re a godsdamned witcher! Or have you gone deaf?”

“Even after what I told you! I thought you were going to think about it!” Ciri pushes back from the table. “I forbid you from giving that to him.”

Geralt snorts. “Or what, Princess? Look, I don’t think Jaskier is planning to leave—”

“Of course he’s not planning to, the curse will make him! Why are you tempting destiny this way?”

“I’m just saying, Lambert, that it wouldn’t be out of your character to shove an unsuspecting bard into a snowbank.”

“Oh, and hustling him at Gwent wasn’t out of your character, so maybe you’re actually the one who shoved him. Thought about that one, Eskel?”

Geralt says, “If he tries to leave, I’ll tie him to the bed until the urge passes.”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, but then moves past that comment. “At least let me give it to him. I’ll say I brought it from Cintra, or bought it on the way here.”

“And let my hard work go unacknowledged? I don’t think so. And why would you have bought a man’s sweater?”

Among the arguments, no one notices Jaskier enter the hall and come up behind Vesemir, wide eyed. “What did I miss?” he stage whispers.

“Just open your present, bard,” Vesemir mutters, gesturing to the sack at Geralt’s knee.

“Ooh, a present? For little old me?”

He picks up the sack and tests the weight curiously, before opening it and drawing out the most marvelous sweater he has ever seen.

“Jaskier, no!” Ciri cries, and everyone else falls quiet.

“What, why?” he says, looking between Ciri’s stricken face and the furrow between Geralt’s brows. “What is this?”

“It’s for you,” Geralt murmurs. “I made it.”

“You made it?” he repeats dumbly.

“Yes. For you. Because you were…cold.”

“Because I was cold?”

Geralt gently takes it from him and holds it up so he can see the full design. “That night, you came in when I was knitting, and you were cold. I wanted to make you something warm to wear that you would like.”

Jaskier squishes the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you,” says Geralt, “like it?”

“It’s stunning,” Jaskier breathes. Geralt may as well have hit him over the head with a hammer.

“I cannot believe you, Geralt of Rivia,” Ciri cuts in. “You never listen to anyone. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves the hall.

Geralt grimaces. “Do you, er, have any particular desire to leave me?”

“Leave you? Why would I—Geralt, is this a breakup gift? Is it pity?” He panics, pushing the sweater back into Geralt’s hands. “I don’t want your gorgeous pity breakup sweater, Geralt. I’ve played that game before.”

Geralt steadies him, as ever. “No, it’s—Ciri thinks there’s a curse, or something. And that if I made you a sweater, you would leave.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier. “Well, I assure you I will not. And in that case I do want the sweater.” He shucks off his coat right there at the table and pulls the sweater on over his tunic. “There!” He spreads his hands wide. “How does it look?”

The smile Geralt gives him is answer enough. “Perfect,” he says. “You look perfect.”

“Not bad, bard,” Eskel says.

Lambert shoots him a thumbs up. Vesemir does not appear to be paying attention.

Jaskier leans in and kisses Geralt on the lips. “Thank you very much,” he whispers. “I adore it and promise to thank you more appropriately later tonight. For now, shall I go after Ciri?”

“That may be best,” Geralt says. “I don’t think she likes me much right now.”

“My pleasure. Say,” he says louder, “while I’m gone, don’t let my food get cold.” He opens the door and barely feels the usual chill of the drafty hallways at all. Over his shoulder, he adds, “You can get Lambert to tell you all how he threw me in a snow pile today! It was great fun!”

“I told you—” he hears, but then the door closes behind him.

#my fic #geraskier #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #someone pls teach me to write drabbles i'm dying

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indigosabyss · 2 years

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Unlocked Probability Pt 2

Senku had been curious as to why Gen Asagiri was even at his school to begin with, so he did some digging.

It was his friend Yuzuriha who told him what was going on.

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” She asked, “Asagiri is doing one of his magic performances here! Everyone’s been talking about it for ages!”

Okay. So maybe it was just him who had been blocking out any outside gossip.

“It’s kind of weird though, isn’t it?” Senku asked, “What’s some hotshot magician doing hanging around a school like this?”

No offense to his school, because honestly it’s chemistry lab really was something else. But, yeah, it wasn’t really known for its arts programs.

“He’s trying to do things in a candid setting.” Yuzuriha explained, “Something about hoping to catch people off guard? He asked the school if he could use the grounds for the project. They said yes, and... wait a second.” She narrowed her eyes, an almost gleeful look in her eyes, “Senku, did you meet him?!”

“I- yeah?” Senku scoffed uncomfortably, “What’s the big deal?”

“He’s??? Famous???” Yuzuriha gasped, looking like she was about to swoon, “How isn’t it a big deal?!”

Senku would’ve contradicted her, but she was already on a tirade.

“What was he like? Was he as cute as he in photoshoots? Was he nice?” She asked.

“I... don’t know?” Senku shrugged, “He helped me in a pinch, sure.”

Yuzuriha really did swoon that time, “He’s really courteous, huh? Just like that they all say!” Then she paused, “Wait, what was this pinch?”

“Heh heh.” Senku laughed nervously, “It’s no big deal, I promise.”

Yuzuriha groaned, “Did you set something on fire again?!”

“Not thanks to Asagiri I didn’t.” Senku replied, already backing out of the room quickly.

“Get back here, Senku!” Yuzuriha yelled, but Senku was already out of the door.

His stamina wasn’t really the best, so it took only a couple minutes of outright running before he had to stop, panting heavily.

He leaned against a nondescript door, waiting to see if Yuzuriha was going to come after him, to no avail.

He was about to get up and leave, before he heard a sharp grunt from inside the room he was leaning against.

Senku frowned at it, and winced as he heard something slam onto the ground. What was going on in there?

Hoping that he wasn’t going to be regretting his next actions for the rest of his life, he opened the door, and blinked at what he was looking at.

Gen Asagiri stared back at him, completely tangled up in chains, as though he were a cat caught in yarn.

“Ah... this is embarrassing.” The Mentalist laughed sheepishly.

“What the hell happened to you?” Senku asked, completely nonplussed.

“Everything’s fine!” Gen hurried to assure him, “If you could just leave, I’ll figure out how to get out myself, and we’ll never talk about this again, okay?”

Ah, something clearly had gone wrong with an escapism trick. That made sense.

Senku eyed the small pile of keys lying scattered around the floor, which Gen had clearly knocked over by accident.

“Are you planning on finding the right key in this mess?” He asked.

“If it means you leaving my dignity intact, then yes.” Gen grumbled, “Shouldn’t you be asking for my autograph or something?”

“Luckily for your image, Mentalist, some people aren't your fans." Senku snarked back, "So, do you need help?"

"Mentalist?" Gen asked, while glaring at him.

"Cause you play mind games." Senku proudly shared, "Anyways, where's the lock?"

"Over here." Gen pointed to a spot right above his elbow, pinned tight by a wayward chain, and, indeed, a simple lock stretched tight as the source of the chains.

Senku inspected it carefully and sighed, "Ah, this is going to be a pain."

It took a little scrambling around, but finally he was able to spot a key that looked like it could fit inside the lock.

Gen managed to stumble upright at that point, and somehow between his complaints and Senku's distaste for human contact, they managed to get the key into the lock.

Senku let out a sigh of relief as it opened with a click.

Gen stretched sharply, tossing off all the chains as quickly as he could.

"Finally! I'm ee-fray!" He cheered childishly, clapping his hands.

Senku shook his head, "Funny how we managed to get it on the first time." He commented.

"Yeah." Gen hummed, looking at him more closely than Senku was comfortable with, "You must be pretty lucky."

Senku laughed, "The fact that I had to run into you twice in a week says that I'm not." He replied, already walking away, "Hope we never cross paths again, Mentalist."

"Funny way to say goodbye, Senku-chan~" Gen trilled, even as he headed down the other stairwell on the floor.

Part one Index

#dr stone #fanfiction #ishigami senku #asagiri gen #sengen #queerplatonic #queerplatonic sengen #ibis ficlets

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celestialtitania · 3 years

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it's always you (part 1)

Big thank you to my beta CalicoAndLace. You can also read it on AO3. Written for Day 1: Rain of Marichat May. Marinette bit back a smile at Chat as she sat on her chaise, watching as he fascinatedly poked at some of her leftover yarn. He batted at it with one hand, letting it get tangled in his claws before furiously tugging at it with the other.

She must have let out a giggle because Chat looked up sharply. Marinette had to quickly pretend as if her attention was on her work to not embarrass him into stopping. She loved seeing him happy and having the chance to goof off.

Sneaking one last quick peek at his adorableness, Marinette turned to sort out the papers on her desk. Her amused smile became fixed when she found a photograph of Adrien hidden beneath her papers.

Marinette thought she had gotten rid of all of these photos ages ago when she’d begun the long process of moving on from the blond model. It was an edited photo, with all the additional hearts to boot.

For a moment, Marinette let herself feel a pang for what could have been, as her memories of her daydreams flitted through her mind. Her friends had all thought of her as dramatic for describing moving on from Adrien to be as difficult as a breakup. What they didn’t know was that she’d already lived a lifetime with him in her imagination.

That last thought made her snort. No wonder she was never able to make any progress with Adrien. The version of him in her mind would always take over in their interactions.

“Princess? What is it?” Chat Noir called, tilting his head to the side to indicate his curiosity. Marinette felt a wave of panic wash over her as she shoved the photo away, scrambling her papers to hide it from view.

“Oh, nothing!” She waved off, fighting to keep panic out of her voice. She didn’t want Chat to find out about how intense her overwhelming feelings for Adrien had been. They were a relic of the past that were better off forgotten.

Chat was frowning but he didn’t push her. Instead, he came up to sit on her lap and fold her into a hug. Marinette let out a sound of protest for the sake of her abandoned work, but she had leaned into his embrace and had a hand absentmindedly petting his hair.

“It’s so soft,” she murmured.

Chat Noir preened. “I take good care of my hair.”

“It’s better than my hair. I should be using whatever you use,” Marinette said in awe as she played with his hair. One of her fingers got caught in a tangled lock, causing her to give it a tug. In response, Chat let out a whine, which sent a peculiar warmth to Marinette’s stomach.

Impulse made her give his hair another tug, causing him to make that delicious sound yet again. Marinette could feel her throat go dry as she resumed her prior stroking. The third time she gave his hair that tug, he let out a growl along with the whine which made Marinette warm and tingly inside.

He pushed himself off of her, making Marinette blink up at him in surprise. Laying a hand on her cheek, he gently stroked it while forcing the lip that had found its way between her teeth free.

Marinette opened her mouth to call his name and at that exact moment, Chat descended upon her, taking advantage to slip his tongue inside her mouth. Marinette gasped as Chat only melded their mouths closer together, his other hand working to pull her pigtails free.

“Look so good,” he gasped in between kisses, “with your hair down.” Marinette made a mental note to wear her hair down for him more often when he gave a sharp tug on her hair. The moan she released in response was positively filthy, even to her own ears.

Chat gave her one last desperate kiss, before tearing himself away. He was panting just as hard as she was. Marinette didn’t quite want to stop but she was well aware that if they didn’t stop now, there was no stopping them at all. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that or if Chat was the person who she wanted to be with when she was. They weren’t even dating yet!

She gave herself a tiny shake, realizing that she had used the word ‘yet’ to describe it. Almost as if she wanted to be dating Chat Noir.

“Well Princess, it has been a paw-leasure as always, but it’s past this tom-cat’s bedtime.” He gave her a mock salute before climbing up to her balcony. He winked at her as he closed the hatch and Marinette could hear the thump indicating that Chat had vaulted away.

Just to be on the safe side, Marinette waited a few extra moments to be sure he was gone. Slowly, she pulled out the picture of Adrien as she walked over to her bed.

A part of her wanted to throw it away, just like she had thrown away all the others. Another part of her wanted to keep the picture as a relic of how old Marinette expressed her feelings. She laughed dryly remembering how tongue-tied and embarrassed she used to get.

She was still trying to make the decision when she felt a drop of water hit her shoulder. She glanced up to see that Chat Noir hadn’t fully closed the trap door leading to the balcony. It must be raining, Marinette thought idly, and then her eyes widened.

“Tikki! The clothes!” Marinette called frantically as she pushed the trap door open. Marinette had been experimenting with painting logos on new shirts for Kitty Section and had left them outside to dry. If they got soaked with rain, they would be ruined!

Marinette gave a sigh of relief as she saw the clothes were still dry, safe thanks to the umbrella Marinette had set up. She had completely forgotten about the umbrella.

A sudden gust of wind had Tikki blowing backwards and Marinette leapt to catch her. “We’d better get out of the rain!” Marinette sighed in relief.

Tikki nodded, her eyes suddenly widening. “Marinette!” She pointed towards a piece of paper that was flying away. Marinette realized with a start that the paper was the picture of Adrien. She must have let go of it when she went to catch Tikki.

Marinette tried to reach out and catch it but the wind changed direction and the photo landed into a puddle on the ground. Even if she were to run out and get it, all the picture would be was a soggy mess.

“It’s okay, it was for the best,” She said out loud to Tikki, trying to convince herself of the same. This was the catalyst she needed, to move on from Adrien completely. She owed it to herself anyways, so she could give Chat Noir the chance he deserved. The time they spent together may just be mutual comfort at the moment, but if this evening had proven anything, it was that they definitely had potential for more.

Once upon a time she had fallen in love in the rain. It was fitting that the rain was what helped her fall out of it.

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keelywolfe · 3 years

Text

FIC: Welcome to Backwater ch.11 (spicyhoney)

Summary: Stretch finally has Edge's address, but as always seems to happen in this town, answering one question only makes two more spring up to take its place.

Read ‘Unconventional Wisdom’ on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

The dog spent all morning napping behind the counter, not rising for broom bristles nudging him nor Stretch stepping over him awkwardly so he could grab a few boxes from the top shelf to fill up the front racks. He did snore loud enough to be heard over the radio, but eh, so did Red so Stretch was used to it.

It wasn’t until the jangling cowbell over the door heralded the arrival of a group of kids that the pup gave up on his snoring and wandering out to inspect the new arrivals, tail already happily wagging. Predictably, the kiddos were enamored of their newest employee, although guard dog might be overstating things a bit. Okay, maybe a lot; it looked like Red hadn’t been able to get back to sleep last night because the once-filthy dog with a mess of tangled fur was now freshly washed and brushed, and he smelled a lot like the shower gel from Red’s bathroom. Cleaned up, he was a handsome dog, looking as fluffy as an enormous toasted marshmallow. Not exactly threatening, fluffykins here was probably gonna spend most of his shift on moral support duty.

The little girl who was currently the main recipient of the dog’s enthusiastic face licking giggled and asked, “What’s his name?”

“uh.” That gave Stretch a pause. He shrugged. “doesn’t have a name yet, i’ll have to ask red what he thinks.”

“Should name him Rover,” one boy put in helpfully.

Another boy chimed in, “Or Bingo!”

“Cheeseburger!” A little gal firmly declared as though no other name would do and Stretch couldn’t help laughing.

“is that a name suggestion or a lunch request?” he teased. All the kids giggled, including the one who’d suggested the name and Stretch gave one of her pigtails a gentle tug. “tell you what, here.” He pulled out a pad of paper from under the counter, flipped past the pages filled with inventory lists and cribbage scores to a blank one and wrote carefully at the top, ‘Name Our Dog’. He set it in one corner of the counter triumphantly, “there! now anyone can suggest a name and red can choose the best one.”

All the kids seemed in agreement that this was the best course of action, each taking a turn to scribble their suggestion on the sheet. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if ‘Cheeseburger’ was at the top of Red’s picks.

The kids eventually abandoned the dog and started a round of intense negotiations over what penny treats to buy today. Stretch left them to it, settling to sit on the stool to wait for them to bring up their selections to the register. His mind wandered idly back to newest side quest: getting to 637 Wood’s End Drive.

He’d already tried to look the address up on his phone’s GPS and wasn’t too surprised to see that it didn’t come up, naw, that would be too easy. So, first was figuring out how to get there and second would be figuring out how to get there. Not like he had a car and somehow, he doubted that Backwater had a thriving Uber economy. Maybe he could hitch a lift with someone? People were always coming into town in those big ol’ pickup trucks and the folks around here were pretty friendly, plus Edge seemed to be pretty well known. They all probably knew exactly where Edge lived and stopped by for pie and tea all the time. Surely someone would be delighted to help out, particularly if they were one of the lookie-loos from Mama’s who wanted to see Stretch and Edge on another man date, thank-you-but-no-thank-you.

That would probably be the easiest way to go about it, but Stretch found he was strangely reluctant to take that route. It felt a little like cheating, considering the roundabout way Edge went about handed out his address.

Anyway, if he’d wanted to go down that path, he could’ve simply asked Red days ago, but that right there was an entirely different can of worms that he didn’t want to share with any of the early birds. Red never forbade him from hanging out with Edge, but he’d been pretty clear time and again that he wasn’t too keen on it, either. Might be best if he kept any mentions of Edge to a minimum unless Red brought him up first.

He’d just figure it out himself, thanks, and he wasn’t any puzzle master, not like his bro was, but he had a little pride buried around here somewhere. Edge set him a challenge, damn it, and he was gonna see it through.

His absent gaze strayed down to the pile of bicycles outside the store, kid-sized, sure, but hey, wait a second—

“hey, guys,” Stretch said slowly, and the debate on whether to get two packs of everlasting gobstoppers or three paused as a half-dozen heads perked up like prairie dogs from a sugary plain. “if i wanted to buy a bicycle around here, where would i go?”

Heads ducked down again in a hastily whispered conversation, then the spokeskid popped up again and said, decisively, “Try over at the thrift shop. Miss Maggie always has old bikes for sale.”

“thanks.” He should’ve known. The only other option right in town was the tractor supply shop and while driving up on a John Deere would make a hell of an impression, it was probably well out of his price range. The kids crowded over with their handfuls of spoils and Stretch dutifully rang them up and if he tossed in a dime of his own to cover them, eh, wasn’t like they’d ever know. He handed over a paper sack of treats to a chorus of thank yous and the divvying began before the kiddos even got out of the shop.

“Oh, Edgar Allen said to tell you hi!” One little girl called back to him. She was gone out of the door before he could even think of a reply, all of them clamoring onto their bikes, their faces chipmunk-cheeked with their spoils.

Edgar Allen, shit, yeah, that was right. He’d pretty much been the first stop on this questline and Stretch’d been meaning to do something for him. He’d already rethought the magazine idea; what if it turned out that scarecrows couldn’t read, kinda insensitive there. He’d have to think of something, though, owing someone didn’t sit well with him even if that person didn’t qualify for traditionally alive.

In the meantime, the dog, bereft of childish companionship, wandered back behind the counter and flopped down with a huff, sighing deeply.

“yeah, go on and take a break,” Stretch told him, “you were working pretty hard there.” He stretched out a leg to pet the dog carefully with his foot and wasn’t too surprised that it didn’t care one bit about his shoe, only pliantly rolled over to give him better access to the belly region.

Stretch obediently kept petting, hell, he obeyed better than the dog. But his thoughts were still on the upcoming journey to 637 Wood’s End Drive.

~~*~~

Red relieved him in the shop a little later than normal, looking a lot like he’d just hauled ass out of bed. His shirt was the same one as earlier, only with a fresh crop of wrinkles and his eye lights were still bleary with exhaustion.

Almost, Stretch offered to stay later and let Red get a little more sleep, considering it was his fault Red got woken up in the middle of night. But the baleful glare Red sent his way was an unspoken warning that such an offer probably wasn’t gonna go over well. He kept his jaw shut tight and took the paper sandwich bag Red handed over before heading out the door. Time to get this side quest rolling, literally, he hoped.

The few times he’d met Magdalen May he’d figured right from the get-go that she, like Red, was a partaker of the Sheriff’s son’s prize cannabis crop. Not only because of her dreamy demeanor but also whenever she came into the store, she was surrounded by an almost visible cloud of pot stank so strong that Stretch got a contact buzz while she was shopping through the meagre selection of yarn that Red kept. By the time she left, Stretch would have a craving for Cheetos so strong he’d be ready to start gnawing on his fingerbones for a cronch.

Stepping into the thrift shop was a little like hot boxing in a hoarder’s closet but Stretch soldiered on, squinting as his vision adjusted from the bright light of day to a dimness barely above attic-levels. He went past shelves of gewgaws and boxes of dusty records, old clothes hanging from racks that looked like they’d been commandeered from a lot of remaindered furniture. There were tables piled high with ancient radios, cameras, electronics that Stretch didn’t know the name of and surely didn’t work, existing only to be parted out by an amateur scientist or an electrician in search of cheap parts. Antique glass was set high on the shelves, catching dusty light and sending a kaleidoscope of color to scatter over the room, freckling it in greens, reds, and yellows.

The entire store radiated a glorious sort of chaos and if it weren’t for the fact that he already felt a little woozy, he would’ve stayed for a while and poked through some of the wares. Maybe even find a new book for Red buried in the nearby piles, see if he’d be willing branch out into cowboy romance for a change.

He heading to the back of the shop where Miss Maggie was sitting in a rocking chair surrounded by boxes and shelves, knitting with flashing speed despite the foggy miasma hanging in the air. Her long white hair was smoothly braided and pinned up on top of her head, her weathered skin tanned dark and leathery. The weave of bright yellow yarn trailing from her needles was spread across her lap in an incongruous contrast to her dark, billowing skirt and the light sweater she wore against the chill of the air conditioning.

“Hello, Papyrus,” she greeted him with the sort of rough, croaky voice made over the years by a thousand packs of Marlboros. She didn’t look up, her attention completely focused on her knit and purl.

That gave him one hell of a pause. “how did you—” Stretch stopped. Great, he was in the soothsayer chapter and hadn’t even had time to prep. Yeah, okay, he didn’t really have any room in his life for another side quest, maybe let this one go. He didn’t actually want to know where she got her intel, not really, especially not with his head already spinning a little. He stuck his hands in his pockets to hide the way they wanted to curl into fists, rocking back and forth on his heels. “heya. i haven’t gone by papyrus in years, it’s stretch, thanks.”

“A wise choice,” Miss Maggie said. She sounded…different, somehow. He’d talked to her a few times now and strangely, today he couldn’t seem to place her accent. It wasn’t like the other townsfolk, all of them had a certain warm, down-homey charm, and usually so did she. Her words today were crisp, sharp-edged, nothing like the dreamy peace he was familiar with when she came into the store for coffee creamer and vanilla wafers. She glanced up at him over the wire rims of her glasses, her gaze as sharp as her tongue. “Names have power. A wise man keeps his true name to himself.”

“um. sure,” Stretch couldn’t stop himself from giving the door a longing glance. This was starting to seem like a bad idea, Miss Maggie seemed to be having a personality crisis, maybe he should come back after lunch. “that’s some very handy wisdom, but i’m here about a bike?”

She ignored that. “You have issues with names,” Miss Maggie told him. She kept knitting, needles flashing furiously in a rhythmic clickity-clack as steady as a metronome. “don’t you.”

“huh?” Stretch didn’t exactly have any flesh to get goosebumps with, but he felt a chill nonetheless, prickling maddeningly over his bones. His head was whirling, everything around him seemed to blur except the old woman in front of him. His tongue felt strangely thick as he whispered a question he didn’t want to ask, “i don’t…what do you mean?”

“Mmm, yes,” Miss Maggie sighed out, “so many names you’ve had and rejected. Had and left behind when you ran away, far, far away.”

“stop,” Stretch said weakly. His soul was starting to pulse with aching intensity behind his breastbone. The room filled with an electric heaviness like a coming storm, the rich green smell filling the room suddenly nauseating. “please, don’t.”

“Brother, lover, yes, but never father, not even once.”

“shut up,” Stretch said thickly. Or tried to, the words seemed to clot and stick at the back of his throat, refusing to travel over his useless tongue.

“And now you’re taking on new names,” she raised her head, and here in the dim, her eyes seemed like dark pools of pure blackness that reflected nothing of the flickering overhead lights. Her grin seemed unpleasant and wide, showing pale pink gums in an endless maw. “Is it friend you seek or something else, I wonder?”

As she turned towards him, her sleeve caught on the sugar bowl set on the table next to her, sending it tumbling to the floor. The burst of sound as it shattered pushed through his dazed distance like the snap of dry twig broken over a knee. Stretch jerked, blinking hard, and all the nebulous emotion in him surged forward, gathering and coalescing into real anger. He was starting to get sick of this shit, if everyone in town wanted to act like this place was Sleepy Hollow’s second-cousin, that was fine by him. He was happy to play along, but not if they were gonna keep sticking their shovels into his past to see what other skeletons they could dig up.

“look, fuck you,” Stretch snapped out. He turned back to the door, tossing over his shoulder. “never mind, i’ll figure out something else!”

“Wait!” And he didn’t want to wait, he wanted to push on through the door, but his stubborn feet suddenly refused to move. Miss Maggie clumsily thrust aside her knitting, hardly noticing her teacup wobbling, spilling tea and leaves out into her saucer in a wild splash. That funky weird woman vibe abruptly eased and so did some of the stench in the air, flavored instead with lavender tea. She waddled over to him, her long skirt dragging on the floor. Even bent over with age, she was impressively tall, hardly shorter than Stretch was, and he was a mini-skyscraper to most Humans. She looked up at him, her eyes a watery, pale blue, surrounded by a sea of wrinkles, how could he ever have imagined they were anything else?

Miss Maggie reached up to touch his cheekbone with fingers nearly as thin as his own.

“Oh, sweet child,” she said with mournful gentleness, and her voice was the smoky-sweet, grandmotherly one he recalled. “S’all right. Ain’t nothing wrong with setting aside a name you’ve outgrown, nor in taking on a new one.”

All his bright, burning anger collapsed inwardly, a card house with the center support removed, and hurt welled in him instead. He was crying, he realized distantly, tears stinging in his sockets, running down his cheekbones to gather on wetly his chin. He didn’t realize he was going to speak until he did, choking out, “it feels wrong.”

“How you feel and how things are don’t always match,” she agreed. She held out her arms, her gnarled hands open to him and Stretch leaned into them, burying his face in the soft, knitted shawl draped over her shoulder. She smelled like weed and lavender, a strange, exotic mixture. “i’ll get you all wet,” Stretch mumbled, muffled into the cloth.

She petted his skull gently, “It’s all right, child. I’ll dry.”

He held on tightly for a long time and when she finally drew back, she lightly touched his forehead with the tips of two dry fingers.

“You can get to his home through the forest,” she said, and it seemed to Stretch he could almost see it, clear as a picture someplace behind his sight. “Follow the exchange down about a mile, you’ll see a turnoff on the left. Don’t you stray from the path, you hear me, sonny?” Those pale, rheumy eyes searched his face for understanding. “Easy to get lost out there.”

“i won’t.”

“Good.” She let him go and shuffled back to her chair to picked up her knitting again. “Now, you mentioned something about a bike.”

For a moment, Stretch stood there, practically wobbling on his feet. He felt like he’d woken up from an unexpected nap, still floating in between the sleeping and waking worlds. Then he blinked, snapping awake, and looked around almost wildly. Until his gaze snagging on one of the shelves, or more specifically, something sitting on it, and held.

“a bike, i did.” Stretch walked over to the shelf where a bandana was sitting, a bright turkey-red plaid, and picked it up, holding it out for Miss Maggie to see. “how much for this, too?”

By the time he left the shop, he was in a fine mood despite his savings being a little lighter. He was pushing a rattly old bike with a squeaky chain and a horn that let loose with a hoarse ‘awhooga’ when the dusty rubber bulb was squeezed. The bandana was stuffed into his short’s pocket and the first thing he was gonna do was deal with that, then he’d worry about some maintenance. Probably better to find out if his new bike was streetworthy before taking his act on the road.

He used the walk back to the store to draw in a few deep, refreshing breaths of the heat-smoggy air, letting it clear his head.

“miss maggie sure smokes some strong shit,” Stretch muttered to himself. He left the bike leaning against the porch around back and headed over to the main road, taking his normal walking route down towards the corn. There were no kids on the makeshift baseball diamond today, looked like they’d headed off somewhere else to enjoy their penny candy.

The grass was yellowed and dying under his sneakers as he went off the beaten path, heading towards the rustling corn. Was it his imagination, or did those whispers get louder as he approached, even eager? The corn got lonely sometimes, Edgar Allen had said, but it didn’t mean any harm.

Somehow, he didn’t think the skeleton they’d found in the fields back in Doris’s day would agree.

“um, hi?” Stretch tried. There was no one around to see him and he still felt ridiculous, talking to the damn corn. “look, i dunno if you can understand me, but if you do, could you see that edgar allen gets this? i wanted to thank him for helping me out and i thought it’d look good on him.”

Carefully, he laid the bandana over a crux of green leaves and stalk, tugging to make sure it wouldn’t simply blow away. He left it there and turned back to town, hoping that the scarecrow got the message; as much as he wanted to thank the guy, he really didn’t feel like taking a second go in the corn maze to do it. He didn’t look back until he got back to the side of the road and there he paused, frowning. The splash of red should’ve been vivid against the sea of green but there was nothing, not so much as a glimpse.

He craned his neck, searching, but it hadn’t fallen to the ground and the wind wasn’t strong enough to carry it off. Maybe the corn had gotten the message after all? Yeah, he was going with that, and he headed back to take a look at his new bike, hands in his pockets and whistling cheerfully, which was a heck of a trick for someone without lips.

Yeah, he felt pretty good today and why not? He had a place to stay, a job, someone looking after him, and a dog. And now he had a bike. Things were looking up, Stretch decided.

Things were looking up.

~~*~~

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #welcome to backwater

61 notes · View notes

cadence-talle · 4 years

Text

Hang A Shining Star

Pairing: Keefe Sencen/Fitz Vacker

Wordcount: 2,667

Summary: Keefe nods, nudging Fitz’s shoulder. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’re going to raise the roof!”

Fitz snorts, taking a sip of his eggnog. From the living room, a stream of chatter weaves between the lyrics of Christmas Island. The whole house is warm and smells of nutmeg.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

Other notes: Here we go! The Keefitz Christmas party fic! I hope you guys enjoy it.

Taglist: @everyonehasthoughts, @clearlykeefitz, @loverofallthingssmart, @a-lonely-tatertot, @enbies-and-felonies, @molly-sencen, @lemontarto, @appalyneinstitute1, @ruewen-and-rising, @silver-snow, @linhamon-roll, @hyperlollypop, @never-ever-too-many-fandoms, @keeper-of-the-lost-queers, @impostertamsong, @vibing-in-the-void, @yeetersofthelostcities, @mistythegirlfluxmess, @diamond-dreamerr

Read it on ao3 or under the cut!

If you had to give each season a word to describe it, winter would be quiet.

Summer is light, heat waves sinking across the country and sunshine spreading its rays. Spring is growth, flowers opening and leaves unfolding. Autumn is rest, leaves dropping to the ground and blowing away on the wind.

And winter is quiet. It’s something in the air- something about nature pausing, holding its breath, something about the way the snow muffles any semblance of sound. Winter is a time for introspection, a time to catch your breath. It’s peace.

Right now, though, the house is anything but quiet and peaceful.

Even from two floors up, Fitz can still hear the finishing chords of Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas Is You, Biana humming along. He’s supposed to be retrieving the decorations from the attic, but he doesn’t want to leave the relative safety of his Justin Bieber-less space.

“Fitz?” Livvy pokes her head into the room, garishly-patterned Christmas sweater seeming to glow in the dim light. “Everything okay up here?”

“Yeah,” Fitz grimaces as Santa Claus Is Coming To Town starts up. “Just trying to save my ears.”

Livvy laughs, sitting down on a box labeled China Tea Set- DO NOT TOUCH. “Yeah, I get that. I love Dell to death, but her music taste is terrible.”

Fitz nods. “And it’s Christmas songs. How do you mess up Christmas songs?”

“Not sure, but they’ve managed to do it.” Livvy springs to her feet and picks up a fake wreath the size of her torso. “We should probably get this stuff downstairs.”

“Yeah.” Fitz picks up a box that just says X-mas shit and rests it on his hip. “All right. Into the beast’s mouth we go.”

“Maybe we can steal the aux cord and change the music to something good.”

Biana and Della do not, unfortunately, relinquish the music. They do change it to Ella Fitzgerald’s Christmas album, though, so Fitz counts that as a win.

Winter Wonderland is crooned through the speakers as they start to unpack the boxes, sparkling glass ornaments hung on the tree next to a horrifying glue-and-yarn monstrosity Fitz made in first grade. Biana pulls a tiny tissue-wrapped package out of a box and holds it up with a shout.

“I found her! The mermaid!”

Livvy whoops as they all gather around to watch as Biana hangs the ornament on a pine branch. The mermaid is vaguely misshapen, facial features in the wrong places and tail twisted in on itself. It’s a Vacker family tradition- Fitz and Keefe bought it at a gas station at 3 am once when they were fifteen and they’ve never looked back.

“Perfect,” Della says, stepping back to look at the tree. “All we have to do is put the lights on the house, then.”

Everyone groans. Having a huge house is nice for some things; parties, for example, or having sock-sliding races, but hanging lights is always a pain. It takes multiple people just to hang a single string- Keefe usually comes over to help.

“Where is Keefe, anyway?” Livvy asks like she can read Fitz’s mind. (She actually might be able to. She’s talented like that.) Biana, from where she’s seated on the sofa untangling the lights, looks up.

“Oh, he couldn’t come today. He and Marella have a date to-”

“A date?” Della interrupts, looking at Fitz. “Huh. I always thought… I mean, that is to say, I always assumed Keefe…”

Fitz flushes. “No, mom, not that kind of date. They’re just the only two people crazy enough to go sledding.”

“Tobogganing,” Biana corrects. “Marella found an old toboggan in her garage and decided to take it out. I think they’re going down a hill near here, actually.”

“Well, maybe they’ll drop in after they’re done,” Della says crisply. “Eggnog, anyone? I’ll put nutmeg in it.”

Fitz stands up to go help just as the doorbell rings. He blinks, turning towards the front hall. “I’ll get it, I guess. Maybe Marella and Keefe are already done.”

He opens the door to see two snow-covered figures standing on the porch. Fitz can’t even see their faces, covered as they are by scarves and hoods. The shorter figure shakes off her coat and resolves into the form of Marella.

“Hey, Fitz,” she says. “Can we come in?”

Fitz narrows his eyes at the two of them. “Yeah, sure, just leave all the snow on the porch. What happened to you?”

Keefe pulls the scarf off his face, dropping it in a heap at his feet. He grins at Fitz, cheeks rosy from the cold.

“You know that Calvin and Hobbes strip where Calvin drives his sled into a tree and it breaks and he falls into the snow?”

“Vaguely. Please tell me you didn’t break your toboggan.”

Marella pats his shoulder as she enters the house, the wrists of her sweater wet from melting ice. “Sorry, can’t do that. It’s a pile of wood now.” She shrugs. “It was kinda a shitty sled anyway.”

Fitz rolls his eyes as they walk into the living room. Biana’s head snaps up and she pushes the Christmas lights onto the floor.

“Marella! Hey!”

Marella smiles, pulling her into a hug. “Hey, Bi. What’s up?”

Biana gestures toward the lights on the floor, which are only marginally less tangled. “Oh, you know. Just… fixing up the lights. Want to help?”

The two settle down on the couch, and Fitz and Keefe share a long look before slipping off to the kitchen. Keefe waves at Della.

“Hi, hon,” she calls, serving out the eggnog. “How was tobogganing?”

Keefe lifts one shoulder and takes the offered cup. “Okay. Better at the beginning, that’s for sure. How’s your composition going?”

Della grins, one of those huge, bright ones that Livvy swears could light up the whole world. “Well! We’re going to see if the orchestra can perform it next weekend. Speaking of which- Fitz invited you to the party, right?”

Keefe nods, nudging Fitz’s shoulder. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’re going to raise the roof!”

Fitz snorts, taking a sip of his eggnog. From the living room, a stream of chatter weaves between the lyrics of Christmas Island. The whole house is warm and smells of nutmeg.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

-/-

Fitz stares at his reflection, hands anxiously tapping the table in front of him. Jingle Bell Rock is playing on the radio on his dresser, the upbeat music floating through the windows and into the darkening sky. Della and Livvy are out for the night, so he and Biana have the house to themselves for their party.

It’s not a huge affair- it never is. Just them and their friends; Sophie and Dex, Tam and Linh, Marella and Maruca and Wylie. Keefe.

Keefe, of course, presents a problem.

Fitz isn’t stupid. He’s known what he’s feeling since it started four years ago. He’s known exactly what the clenching in his gut was, why his skin felt hot whenever Keefe brushed his hand.

He’s not stupid, so he’s not going to do anything about his feelings.

The music on the radio changes into something slower, sadder. Imogen Heap’s voice seems to echo in the room, as she repeats just for now, just for now. Fitz closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, trying to prepare himself.

A soft ‘psh’ comes from the doorway. Biana moves into the room, switching off the radio and giving him a sharp look.

“Really? Tonight’s a celebration, Fitz, not a pity party. You can be sad later.”

“I’m not sad,” Fitz protests. “I’m just getting ready!”

“Mmm.” Biana perches herself on the bed, green dress crinkling slightly. “You will be okay, though, right?” She asks, tone softer. Fitz nods.

“I’m fine. I promise.”

“Okay. But I’m here if you ever want to talk.” Biana stands up and ruffles his hair. “Now come on, I need your help with the cheese platter before everyone arrives.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

“Too late for that,” Fitz says dryly as Bi darts downstairs. He glances in the mirror one more time before moving towards the stairs. “Here we go.”

Sophie, Dex and Marella burst in as soon as he opens the door, throwing their coats on the floor and attack-hugging him. Tam, Linh, Maruca and Wylie trail after them, calling “Merry Christmas!” as they kick off their shoes. Fitz tries to wave from underneath his hug pile.

“Merry Christmas,” he manages.

Finally, Keefe staggers in, covered in snow for the second time this week. Biana snorts.

“Need some help there?”

Keefe mumbles a word that might be “No” as Biana brushes some of the snow off of his shoulder.

“Come on, I think you might have an extra suit upstairs. Fitz, can you get everything cleaned up down here?”

“Sure,” he says, turning to the others and picking up discarded coats. “So did you all walk over here together?”

“Yup,” Maruca affirms, hanging her coat on a hanger. “Sorry about Keefe, by the way.”

“He fell into a snowdrift and had to change,” Marella explains. “I think he keeps an extra suit here?”

Sophie snorts. “He ‘fell’ into a snowdrift,” she says with exaggerated air quotes. “And by that, I mean Mare pushed him.”

“In my defense-” Marella holds up a finger- “his face was annoying me.”

“Right,” Fitz says, holding back a laugh. “Well, as soon as Keefe gets changed, we can-” A creak on the stairs interrupts him, and Fitz spins around to see Keefe standing there in a clean suit.

His suit.

“Sorry,” Biana says with a smirk that implies she is anything but sorry. “It turns out Keefe doesn’t have an extra suit here after all. And this one is too big for you, right?.”

“Y-yeah.” Fitz attempts to remember how to speak. “Yeah, no, that’s fine. That’s- fine. Good. Great. Yeah, it’s fine.”

He hears giggling behind him and turns towards the living room, resolutely not looking at anything else. “Anyway. Who wants food?”

-/-

“And that is why we don’t write personalized messages on bouquets anymore,” Maruca finishes, taking a delicate bite of a meatball. “Although there was also the guy who wanted me to write his ex a note that just said Hey Jane, fuck you and your fucking poodle. So, you know, it might have been more than one thing.”

Keefe snorts, leaning forward to grab another cookie. His shoulder brushes Fitz’s and Fitz stiffens before forcing himself to relax. He’s fine. This is fine.

“So, how about some music?” Marella says, plugging her phone into the speaker. The opening notes of Let It Go trail through the air and Dex boos.

“No Frozen!” Linh calls. Fitz blinks.

“Wait, I thought you loved Frozen.”

“Not anymore,” Linh says, settling back into the sofa cushions. Marella sighs and skips to the next song, cutting Elsa off in the middle of her line. Pentatonix’s Joy To The World starts up and she flops onto the floor.”

“You’re all homophobic.”

Biana laughs, sliding off the couch to sit next to her. She hands the smaller girl a mug of hot chocolate. “Here. Drown your sorrows in this.”

“Is it alcoholic?” Marella squints at it and takes a sip. She makes a face. “No.”

Patting her on the back, Biana turns to the rest of them. “Want to watch a movie? I think we have It’s A Wonderful Life-”

“No way,” Wylie cuts her off. Keefe nods.

“It’s Charlie Brown or nothing.”

Biana rolls her eyes and grabs the tv remote, clicking her way to A Charlie Brown Christmas. Next to him, Fitz feels Keefe stretch his legs out before curling up on the corner of the couch. He leans his head on Fitz’s shoulder, and Fitz takes a deep breath.

Yeah. This is fine.

Onscreen, Lucy tells Charlie Brown to direct the Christmas play. Keefe smiles and snuggles closer to Fitz, wrapping one arm around him. Fitz glances down at him, but the other man is completely engrossed by the movie. Maybe he’s just cold.

He must be really cold, then, because by the movie’s end, they’re practically pressed together. When the lights come back on, Fitz expects Keefe to move away, but he doesn’t. They stay snuggled on the couch all throughout Tam and Marella arguing the merits of The Polar Express and Linh’s terrible rendition of That’s Christmas To Me. (Fitz loves her, but the woman can’t sing to save her life.) Keefe only moves when someone mentions Silent Night, turning to Fitz with an excited look. Fitz stares back.

“No,” he says. Keefe pouts.

“Please?”

Fitz sighs, standing up. “Fine. Let me get my cello.”

Playing music, even the worst, most religious Christmas songs, always calms him down. He and Keefe used to do this a lot, play together when they were sad or worried or stressed. Dragging his bow along the strings as piano notes lift into the air is familiar, easy.

They get through Silent Night, Carol Of The Bells, and Hallelujah before Keefe just slams his hands on the keyboard and shatters any semblance of peace they’d had. Fitz can’t bring himself to care, though, not when Keefe is laughing.

Livvy always says that Della’s laughs are the most beautiful thing in the world. Looking at Keefe, Fitz understands that.

Biana plugs her phone into the speaker and Bing Crosby starts to sing about how it looks like Christmas. Laughing, everyone stands up and starts to dance. None of them are very good, and they’re all slightly drunk, but it’s nice.

And they must be playing some sort of Bing Crosby album, because White Christmas comes on next. Almost immediately, everyone pairs up, swaying back and forth. Fitz looks at Keefe, blinking slightly.

Keefe smiles and puts his hands on Fitz’s hips. They move around the room slowly, taking tiny steps in time to the music and finally dancing right out onto the front porch.

The sun has set by now, and the frost on the lawn seems to glitter in the soft moonlight. Snow is still falling, and it seems almost magical when the next song to come on is the Nutcracker Ballet’s Waltz of the Snowflakes.

“I used to love this song,” Fitz says quietly, sitting on the top of the porch steps. “We went to see the ballet in the city when I was a little kid, and I thought it was the most amazing thing ever.”

“Huh.” Keefe sits down next to him, staring out at the silent greenery. “I never saw it,” he offers. Fitz snorts.

“I know. Your dad wasn’t really big on theater.”

“Yeah.” Keefe gives him a small smile. Fitz turns to look at him, biting his lip.

“Are you- happier? Now?”

Keefe takes his hand, running his thumb over Fitz’s knuckles. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been,” he says. “With all our friends, and your mom and Liv, and…” he glances up for a moment. “With you.”

“What-.” Fitz looks up, too, to see a spinning green bundle of plants hanging above them. Mistletoe. “Oh.”

He looks back down, straight into Keefe’s eyes. The other man is smiling, and Fitz thinks that’s where he gets the courage from.

Carefully, he leans forward and presses their lips together.

It’s short and sweet, and when they pull back they’re both blushing. Keefe scratches the back of his neck. “So, uh,” he starts.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Fitz blurts. Keefe blinks. “Sorry, I just- I needed to-”

“Uh. Me too,” Keefe says, snorting a little. Fitz stares at him, a smile spreading across his face.

“Well. Good.”

“Yeah,” Keefe laughs, leaning in again. “Good.”

Winter is quiet. But even now, with music and laughter spilling out of his house and his best friend (boyfriend?) smiling on the stairs next to him, Fitz is at peace.

Winter is quiet, but sometimes it’s nice to make some noise.

#lynn rambles #my writing #keefe sencen #fitz vacker #keefitz #biana vacker #kotlc #kotlc fanfiction

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thedeaconj · 4 years

Text

The Deep Sleep - a “Hypno Noir” Story

(Bit of a fun Noir style story I’ve been working on, mostly written today so I may tidy it up at some point and improve it)

Christie, a private detective gets involved in a classic missing persons case. Except with an expert on brainwashing, a strange strip club, and no clear bad guy, this case may prove Christie’s most important one yet.

Christie sat in her office, a glazed over look in her eyes and a lit cigarette hanging from her lips. Across from her sat Mr Taylor, the client who’d started this whole mess. It started a week ago, an ordinary missing persons job, the case went as for from ordinary as you can go. Now though, with the case solved, everything was clear to her, it was just a matter of making sure Mr Taylor got what he needed. From now on, she’d always be making sure her clients got what they needed.

A week earlier, a panicked Mr Taylor came to Christie as a last resort. She was a private detective, an up and comer in the business, despite being still quite young and not exactly an imposing figure. Short, cute, she’d been mocked by goons and lowlifes when started out for these features. Lewd comments were commonplace, lewd gestures would shortly follow. They shut up the moment they found out she was a world class martial artist. If that didn’t work out, Christie found the barrel of a loaded gun pointed at someone was a quick way to earn their respect. Mr Taylor though was too desperate to care what she looked like, or whether she could go fifteen rounds with the champ, he just wanted his son back.

There were two things different about their first encounter, Christie’s mindset, and the brand of cigarettes she was smoking. Otherwise Mr Taylor was just as panicky, going on about his missing son. He’d come out west in hopes of finding some stardom, and from a photo of the guy, Christie could believe it. Well built with light blonde hair and an earnest smile, he’d be a shoe in for roles in just about any major motion picture. Usually, she didn’t take these kinds of cases. Most of the time naïve young wannabe stars like this ended up swallowed by the great black hole they called Hollywood. Maybe it was liquor, maybe the pressures of a rapid-fire success, or often, Christie found they couldn’t quite handle just how sweeter the nose candy was here than it was back out east. No, it wasn’t Mr Taylor’s grief that would make her take this case, it was what his son was doing beforehand. Tom Taylor, a name for the silver screen if she’d ever heard one, was a genius. At least, in the awfully specific field of mind-altering technology.

‘So, your son was involved in some CIA level mind control tech, outright disappears, and you come to me? Why not go to the government, this is some cold war level trouble,’ Christie asked.

‘I tried! They wouldn’t take my calls, wouldn’t let me see anyone. Look he’s not a bad kid, the tech he was working on he said was to help people. You know, Alzheimer’s patients, people with severe mental disorders. I don’t know why he wanted to become a star, I just want him back, please,’

Christie had half a mind to tell him her theory. That Tom Taylor wasn’t just a “bad kid”, that he’d fled to Hollywood to try and brainwash some starlets. Although, there was another theory in the back of her mind. A more frightening one. Some whiz kid with the know how to build a mind control machine who’s enamoured with stardom could prove dangerous in the right hands. Christie always kept abreast of the local gangs on the LA scene, the major players would kill to get their hands on someone like Tom Taylor. Tom Taylor, all American boy, all star quarterback, but also some sort of technical wizard. Christie wondered how the hell he’d had the time for it all. With herself in the middle of a dry spot, and the prospect of some true criminals getting their hands on the holy grail of unethical tech, she decided to accept.

‘I’ll find your son Mr Taylor, but if he’s not quite the kid you thought he was, then there’s nothing I can do about that,’ she told him.

Mr Taylor shook her hand; just thankful she’d take the case. He arranged a wire payment to her and would then spend the next week praying that Christie could find him. He had his own theories, but didn’t want to dwell on them, he just prayed his son was alive and well.

Christie meanwhile got to work. Mr Taylor had given her all the preliminary information needed, and a quick call through to some choice contracts gave her the rest. Tom Taylor was shockingly easy to track down, but then he’d made quite a scene when he first moved to the city of angels. Notably, he’d splashed a lot of money at an up and coming club in the north side of town, the Sapphire Club. Christie, being in the know, had heard the name before. The Sapphire Club was a place for gentleman, not that she found anything particularly gentlemanly about gawping at breasts. It opened a few months back, by all accounts doing stellar business. Like a good detective though, she had some hunches. First, she followed the money, a tangled web of shell companies and cryptic accounting, Christie came to a conclusion. No strip club did this well, even a popular one in north Hollywood. Either someone was moving serious amounts of product through there, or they weren’t paying their workers. With inquiries made into the local friendly drug fiend community, it was looking like the latter.

Situations like this one were where Christie’s frame and looks gave her the edge. Your traditional masculine, ex-cop private detective with a five o clock shadow wouldn’t get two words in with a strip club owner before the word ‘lawyer’ was thrown out there. She however could spin a yarn. How she was a struggling actress, just looking to make a little bit of money on the side, and wasn’t stripping like, empowering anyways? With a black dress and heels picked out, a smoky eyeshadow and thick, red lips as sweet as candy, she believed she could play any sleazeball club owner like a fiddle.

The club was a dark, smoky place, with blasting music and a strong smell of booze. Ravenous looking men sat around tables, ogling the women who danced on poles and on stages. Christie looked up at them, seeing how they twirled their bodies, twisted and contorted into all sorts of suggestive poses. They were blissed out, smiles on their faces, and Christie theorised, not much going on in their heads. A genius brainwasher who’d blew his load figuratively (and probably, literally) in a joint like this, who convinced the management there was another way he could pay. Now that was a story Christie could get behind. At the bar, a woman in a black bodysuit and bunny ears shook a cocktail shaker, unaware of her bouncing breasts and the customer who stared at them. Christie approached her, taking a seat at the bar.

‘Hey, I was wondering, is there like a manager I can speak to, I’m in between roles right now,’ she said, smiling up at the bartender.

The bartender nodded at her, pointing to a pink door in the back of the club, where a burly looking man with a shaved head stood, arms crossed.

‘You’re looking for Tyler, just say Bunny sent you over,’

Christie couldn’t help but smirk. Bunny? Wasn’t that a little on the nose? Then again, she didn’t expect peak creativity from these sorts. She clutched her handbag close to her, which contained a pack of cigarettes, and her gun. Hopefully, she wouldn’t need to use it, but she did know she’d need a smoke after talking to Tyler. She wandered over to the door, explaining to the six-foot Adonis of a man how Bunny sent her over. She’d have found him attractive if he wasn’t a meathead working security for a strip club. He ushered her into an office, where behind a desk and a pile of paperwork, Tyler was sat on a comfortable looking leather chair.

‘Surprised?’ Tyler said.

Christie was surprised indeed. Tyler was far from what she was expecting. Dark skin and long, flowing black hair, dressed more like one of the ladies on stage than any sort of manager, she was the kind of woman who could play with your mind, no whiz kid tech needed. Not that Christie swung that way, but she couldn’t help but admire her, with how long those legs looked, she was sure that Tyler would tower above her. There was a seat on the other side of the desk to Tyler, one Christie sank into. Walking in heels was never her style, so it was nice to grab a moments rest.

‘I didn’t expect you to be a woman, that’s much more comforting to me really,’ Christie replied.

Tyler smirked at her. Her deep brown eyes seemed to be captivating Christie’s gaze, but she did notice something on her. A necklace on a thin chain, at its centre was embedded a shiny, blue stone. No doubt a sapphire, but that wasn’t what bothered her. Christie did her reading on mind control and hypnotic paraphernalia before setting out, looking for any way she could be affected. A necklace like this was suspect.

‘And why’s that Christie? You know, a lot of women who come to work here have certain desires. Perhaps you do too,’

‘Wait, how did you know my name?’ This wasn’t good, Christie thought. She’d been made.

‘I make it my business to know people who do their research on my club,’ Tyler said.

Christie wasn’t’ sure exactly where to look. Her eyes were an obvious focal point, through which Tyler could try to mesmerise her, but then if she looked down she was greeted by the necklace. Further down were Tyler’s legs, with a mesmerising quality of their own. Christie noticed how she wore a similar bodysuit to Bunny, except with fishnets and heels. Her worry was that Tyler here was some sort of trap, set by the real powers behind the Sapphire Club.

‘Then maybe you know who I’m here looking for. Tom Taylor, ring any bells?’

Tyler laughed.

‘Oh, I know Tom Taylor, he’s quite alright no need to worry. Made a real ass of himself at the club, but everything’s fine now, he’s just working off his debts,’ she said.

Her voice was rich, one Christie thought was quite musical, fit for radio even. Her theory was looking to be true, with Tom Taylor making the sort of technology that made girls like Bunny call herself that. The only question was, who was in charge of all this, and what were they planning?

‘That’s good to know, I’d be interested in talking to him Tyler. I bet if you brought me to your boss, they’d be more than happy to chat to me, if you catch my drift,’ Christie replied.

There was an angle here, a way to get herself in. With how Tyler was acting, she believed she was more of a wrangler of sorts than a true manager at the club. A hypnotized hypnotist to keep the girls in line. If she could get this brainwashed femme fatale to think Christie wanted to fall, wanted to be like the girls out there, maybe she could find the man in charge. Tyler crossed her legs, which drew Christie’s attention to them.

‘So, little Christie really wants the job, she isn’t just here on an investigation. Are times that tough for you?’ Tyler said, then uncrossed her legs, spreading them. As if to invite her to look between them. Christie noticed it instantly, a damp spot. A possible weakness.

‘Well, who’s to say I can’t earn a little extra on the side, private detective is hardly a full-time job anymore,’ Christie replied, leaning onto the desk, doing her best to act sultry.

Tyler laughed again, she pulled open one of the drawers to her desk. Producing a cigarette, she placed it into a cigarette holder.

‘Mind if I smoke? I’m getting a little heady thinking of you on stage,’

Christie shook her head, not really caring, as Tyler took a long drag on her cigarette. The holder was close to her face, but Christie could now see she was gaining the upper hand. Tyler was visually excited by this whole thing, no doubt getting some reward for the sick task of bringing her to her master, or masters. Christie noticed how hard Tyler’s nipples were as they pointed through the bodysuit’s thin fabric. Then, came the puff of smoke. Straight into Christie’s face.

‘You were focusing in all the wrong places detective, don’t worry, I’m going to bust this case wide open for you,’ Tyler said.

Christie only half heard it as the smoke hit her. The smoke was pink, an oddity her mind only half registered as a sleepiness came upon her. There must have been something in that cigarette. She felt, sleepy, droopy, Christie couldn’t think. She couldn’t stay awake. Darkness washed over her, the last sound she heard being Tyler’s laughter.

When Christie awoke, she saw only a thin blue plastic looking material over her eyes. She could tell she was naked too, and upon attempting to move her hands and legs, could tell she was clamped into place. Cold steel pressed against her wrists and ankles; her arms were stuck to some sort of chair as her legs were spread wide. It was like a dentist’s chair, as she was on her back looking upwards. That same cold steel feeling she felt on her forehead. Christie was completely immobile, her clothes and her gun, gone. She struggled against these restraints, but soon realised they were inescapable. It was just a matter of talking her way out of this, at least she hoped she could do that. Two figures then entered Christie’s vision, both now familiar to her. Standing as naked as the day she was born aside from her necklace, was Tyler. Beside her in a lab coat, was Tom Taylor.

‘So, you’re the one behind this, I’ve gotta say your dad is awfully disappointed in you,’ Christie hoped to rile him up, maybe throw him off guard.

Tom Taylor said nothing, instead Tyler once again laughed.

‘You really don’t get it, do you detective?’ she said.

Then, she turned to Tom, and pulled off his labcoat. Christie could see how he was wearing a tight looking metal collar, and a red g-string.

‘Slave, why don’t you go calibrate the device for Christie here while we chat,’ Tyler said.

‘Yes Mistress,’ Christie saw him wander off, a blank look on his face.

‘So, you brainwashed the brainwasher, and now you’re going to do the same to me,’ Christie said.

Tyler pulled at a lever at the bottom of the chair, one out of Christie’s view. She felt herself being raised upwards, where she could now look down to see some other parts of the contraption she was stuck in. Noticeably, the buttplug placed precariously close already, and the quite frankly, comical looking artificial tongue and lips. She couldn’t help but smirk at it.

‘Yes yes, it’s a little silly looking, but I assure you Christie they’re incredibly effective. This newer model comes without your usual phallic attachments, for I have big plans for you detective,’ Tyler said.

‘Let me guess, turn me into one of those dancers on stage, controlled to dance for me for Money?’

Tyler shook her head, she asked Christie to think back on what she saw there. It was clear what she saw, dancers looking blissfully happy, and men ogling and staring at them.

‘And who do you think held the power in that situation detective? The dancers who chose to be on the stage, knowing how to mesmerise with their bodies, or the men willingly handing all their hard-earned money over?’

There was something about this that didn’t track. This wasn’t some typical male mind controller with big ambitions, there was another layer to this.

‘Tell me detective, did you find anything unusual when investigating our funding? Something to do with a certain liberation front?’ Tyler stepped in closer now, so close to Christie’s naked, vulnerable body.

‘Something to do with the Sapphire liberation front? I assumed it was a shell company,’ Christie replied, squirming in place, now frightened of what was coming up.

Tyler traced her fingers up Christie’s body, who let out an involuntary moan. The soft touch was heavenly, and only felt better when those fingers found Christie’s nipples.

‘Such beautiful, soft skin, so smooth and well preserved for someone in your line of work. No detective, it wasn’t the Sapphire Liberation Front. See, we’re the Sapphic Liberation Front. We have an interest in bringing women to the forefront of this city, and if that means brainwashing a few silly men into servitude, or handing over all their money, then why not?’

Christie squirmed now more out of embarrassment and pleasure, it was clear that Tyler was an expert at this. How she caressed her, how her touch was both gentle and warm to her. Christie hadn’t ever felt this way from a woman’s touch before. She needed to focus though, to solve the case, to find a way out of this.

‘So, you got Tom over there to build you this thing, let me guess, some women don’t agree with what you’re doing?’

‘That’s right, although don’t worry, they don’t quite end up like the men. Rather willing agents of our organisation, who’ll go off and brainwash those we need brainwashed,’ Tyler said, as she brought her head to Christie’s chest, running her tongue down it. Christie couldn’t help herself, she twitched and moved as much as her restraints would allow.

‘Wh-what’s your endgame here Tyler, take over the city? Is it wrapped up in real estate? You scheming mastermind types always have a hard on for real estate,’ she said. It was out of desperation, to keep her from doing anything more to her.

‘Oh detective, this goes much further than you think,’ Tyler moved away from her, giving the order to Tom to begin phase one. Whatever that was Christie didn’t like the sound of it.

The plastic looking visor that covered Christie’s eyes now lit up with a swirling purple spiral. In her research for this case, she’d read up a little on resisting such techniques, and this spiral alone wouldn’t prove enough to affect her. Christie laughed at it, saying aloud how this was rather sad, such a complex machine and this was what it had to offer?

‘You could accomplish as much by tying me to a chair with a television screen!’ she cried.

Then came the helmet. Comfortably cushioned, it lowered down fully onto Christie’s head, as large headphones muffled her hearing. It slotted into place, as binaural beats started to play. She’d heard about these, how they could be used to induce a relaxed state. Christie believed they’d only be more useful against a willing participant though. With her vision filled by the spiral, and her hearing blocked out by the beats, she didn’t notice Tyler approaching her body again. Tyler ran her hands over Christie, causing the squirms to start again. Christie attempted to close her eyes, but that spiral, that damn spiral was proving too bright.

‘Good slave, the isolation of two primary senses is done, now activate the gas at the minimum dosage,’ Tyler said, running her hands over her new prize. She may have set out to empower women through this, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun doing it too.

Christie still struggled in vain, the flailing of her hands and feet pathetic, but all she could do. From the machine, a gas mask lowered itself onto her face, cupping her nose and mouth. From it came that same pink smoke that caused her to end up here. This time though, it didn’t put her out like a light, but she could feel a certain sluggishness sinking into her. Flailing like she was doing wasn’t helping anyone, she needed to conserve her energy. At least that’s how she justified it. It wasn’t that this was starting to get to Christie, she was just planning her next move. Not that the binaurals, or the gas, or the spiral made that any easier.

‘Very good Christie, your initial responses have been as expected. On the off chance you can hear me, I’m just going to walk you through what’s happening to you,’ Tyler said, caressing Christie, toying with her breasts.

‘See, the binaural beats have been designed by an expert sound engineer, they were among the first we acquired for our organisation. These should disrupt certain brain waves, creating this harmonious mental sensation,’

As if on cue, Christie began to hear a ringing sound instead of the binaurals. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound but seemed an incredibly loud one. One far louder than any of her thoughts. She knew she was tough though; she could resist this.

‘That gas you’re breathing in was quite a feat of chemical engineering. What I dosed you with was a simple knockout gas variant, but this stuff is more sophisticated. A little bit of it used right can have a number of effects. It can dull some of your senses,’

Christie could feel how her face muscles were relaxing against her will. Her mouth drooped open letting more and more gas in, she struggled to control her eyes.

‘There’s of course a relaxing element to it too, but then there’s my favourite part,’ Tyler said, her hand drifted between Christie’s legs, stroking gently.

It was fire. It was bliss. Pure unadulterated pleasure. Screaming through her body as Christie moaned and moaned.

‘The aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, for now, the spiral you’re looking at is just a spiral, bit of a cliché, but it’s fun. Soon though, you’ll embrace what we call the deep sleep, and then we’ll put some more interesting viewing material in its place,’ Tyler said, fingers teasing Christie’s clit.

It was Tyler’s touch that sent her over the edge, that caused parts of her brain to accept what was happening to her. The gas tasted so wonderful, smelled intoxicating, and the ringing sound kept her from thinking, but it was that final, last sense. The sense of touch, of feel. The one Tyler knew exactly how to drive her up the wall with. Not that Christie could go up the wall, or up anywhere, as her body was limp and helpless. Then, something came through the gas mask, a small metal pipe, with a phallic shape.

‘I was wrong earlier, apologies, not all phallic items have been removed from the device. The slave’s designs for this one were very entertaining, and well, his feat of liquefying the gas was too good not to involve,’

Slave felt nothing from this praise, he’d spent some time after meeting Tyler in a similar device, one that rendered him the complete slave of the Sapphic Liberation Front. If he could have any regrets, his slave mind would regret that he’d had to have used such a primitive device for his conversion, unlike the work of art that Christie now found herself trapped in.

She was holding on by a thread when the phallic pipe came in. It fitted into her mouth easily, and soon from it came a pink, sweet, saccharine liquid. It drizzled down her throat, coating it, seeping into her. This was it. The deep sleep. A state of utter mental freedom. Freedom from one’s self, from the real world, from anything and everything. The Christie that would go into this state would not be the one that came out. It was mental oblivion, as her eyes rolled up, her entire body stopped moving at all. Her brain shut down, ready to be rebooted. Satisfied, Tyler arranged for the gas mask and pipe to be removed. She loved hearing the next part.

Christie’s brain was now wiped clean. However, it was still a brain, it still thirsted for information, for input. When the simulated mouth and tongue got to work, there was far too much input. Too much pleasure, an overwhelming sensation. The butt plug only added further. Her mind was becoming addicted to this sort of pleasure, completely distracted, and enamoured by it. That’s when the words got her. They were simple at first. Easily agreeable statements that flashed before her eyes. The images that accompanied them were attractive, so it made sense she was feeling that way. When asked to repeat, well Christie did repeat. Aloud and monotone, devoid of emotion. They were simple, true phrases. How she was relaxed. How she was now compliant. How her mind was now wiped clean.

What proved an initial problem for subjects in this state for Tyler, was it was far too easy to make them into complete submissive slaves. This was all good for men, that’s what she wanted, but there was no fun to being the only hypnotist in her organisation. Dominated dommes dazing future dommes, creating an endless chain of brainwashers like the worlds craziest pyramid scheme. Now that’s what got her off at night, that, and a few well-endowed male slaves. Yes, with Tom Taylor’s new device set up, making this a reality would be even easier. Of course, Tyler would be quick to put Christie in her place, there could only be one Goddess of the Sapphic Liberation Front after all.

Christie meanwhile was bombarded with imagery, her docile state being forced to make new connections, to accept new ideas. There was some parts of her that simply got readjusted. She was already quite a strong-willed woman, that could stay, but now she wished to impose that will more. Some parts were inserted entirely, like her new sexuality. Then there was just changing her viewpoints on certain ideals. The Sapphic Liberation Front weren’t evil, they were hot. What they were doing aroused her. What she could do for them excited her. She’d willingly signed up to such an organisation. She loved the organisation. It was her life, her light, her reason to get up in the morning. As images of men in collars, kneeling before her flashed in her eyes, the case truly was cracked wide open. Christie smiled; everything now clear in her mind. It also helped that she was still being wracked with pleasure.

Tyler began to remove Christie from the device, once she’d done so, her new recruit sat there, awaiting instructions.

‘Hello Christie, please state your purpose,’

‘My purpose is to serve you and the Sapphic Liberation Front, all men will be subjugated, all women enlightened,’

A little militant for Tyler’s tastes, but hey she was once a strong-willed detective.

‘Very good Christie, assume worship position,’

Christie fell to her knees before Tyler, looking down at the ground. Tyler placed around Christie’s neck a necklace on a chain, one with a sapphire in it as well. The machine didn’t just fill her with new desires, with a new outlook on life. It trained her. Trained her in the art of brainwashing, in the prime ways to seduce, and in something else that Tyler was going to enjoy.

‘Look up Christie,’

Christie saw the heavenly sight of Tyler’s pussy, her focal point of worship. She didn’t need to be told what to do, she just did it, feeling that same pleasure the machine instilled in her, the pleasure she now craved at every waking moment. It was simple, she was addicted, and now Tyler would give her the fix she needed. Tyler had broken her and rebuilt Christie in the image she desired, now it was time to reap the benefits.

So, that brings it all back to the beginning. Christie with a glazed over look in her eyes, a cigarette hanging loose in her lips. She was following her programming perfectly, the smoke from the cigarette had knocked out Mr Taylor as expected. She looked down at him, he was rather good looking for an older man. For completing this task, he’d be a slave under her. Tyler saw to it that the government stayed out of Tom’s disappearance, and now the last loose end was tied up. Soon he’d be tied up begging his new mistress to let him worship her, no doubt along side his son at one point. Christie phoned in that Mr Taylor was to be picked up for brainwashing, then set about looking through her old client list. She was looking to make them new clients, and make them feel the bliss of the Sapphic Liberation Front.

#hypnosis #erotichypnosis #hypnotized #brainwashing #mindcontrol #mind control #adult fiction #oc #tech control #hypnokink

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talesofealdancynedom · 3 years

Photo

Uncle Cetus knitting; There is a matching picture, where Morgan is wearing that sweater by the way...

Tale 21: What The Wagon Was For (chapter 8 - On The Radio 8/8 ) part 6. Stories of wizards

no warings

Wool and yarn; Soft threads tied together to keep warm. Self soothing, and expressing creativity. Natural fibers, twirled into textiles that are plush, yet strong. The smell of plastic from the store, that turns into a soft warm sent, as fingers pull it between needles and hooks; As it is transformed into a variety of adornments. Bright as red, or white with dots, thick as rope, or thin like thread; There is no limit to the yarn available to those who seek it. Each loaf, pulled from its inner loop, and wound into balls that seem to always escape, tangle, or go missing. There is always too little, or too much of it around. With a few years practice, a hat can be made in under an hour, with argyle of red and navy, against a confetti white base; Complete with ties and pom-poms. The secret ingredient is time and love; Weaved into something comforting, to be gifted and cherished by someone. A gift of warmth that shows you care.

There is an aesthetic, sensation, smell, and rhythm, in this ancient textile art. Not only calming, but also protective and embellishing. This is why when the couples’ knitting group was over, uncle Cetus kept knitting for the family, while Jupiter kept finding odd amounts of wool in the linen cupboard. While she groaned about the plethora of thread, each autumn, Morgan and the rest of the family, eagerly awaited what Cetus had spent the year crafting for them. Made with love, thought, dedication, and material that costs more then they should. these treasures were meaningful; Because they were made by hand, just for them.

At the end of the semester, some important paperwork finally got processed and aproved. Magic politics can only function within the common laws of a land; And the law prioritizes children in need of homes, over opinionated wizards. Cetus, after struggling to organize finances after his mother died, finally got guardianship over his sister’s precious son. The problem was that Morgan was bonded to Tiberius Gate, living in an ominous tower. With Emilia. Aunt Jupiter was no quitter; She suggested they move into the tower as well. They already lived in town, and Reginia was going to be sent to magic school anyway. She was to be Morgan’s peer support. Though cousins, they were the same age and like siblings. As magical as Pepperidge was, Cetus and Jupiter were perfectly mundane; Born to magic houses, but unqualified to care for young mages. But they were qualified to provide a supportive and loving family, to two growing youths. Cetus was up to the challenge of helping Morgan overcome his trauma, grow, and be himself. Mage or not, Morgan deserved to feel safe after everything he went through.

Thus, Cetus became a great aid in Morgan’s recovery. A male role model, as well as an incredible barrier to the corrupt wizard counsel. Morgan, as the mage of Tiberius Gate, was the way of getting to Pepperidge, and its mages. So, if anyone wanted to get rid of mages there, they needed to control Morgan. But now, they also had to threaten the wellbeing a commoner, who had common law on his side. Cetus knew it. No one was getting their fingers in any peanut butter jar, that would mess up his family’s happily ever afters. Every advance made to contain Morgan’s abilities, was being thwarted by an increasingly close pro mage community, in the tiny town of Pepperidge; From the bus driver, to every teacher and student. If he didn’t feel it, Morgan was completely safe.

After school, mid week, Cetus dropped Morgan off at therapy, and Jupiter would come to pick him up after sessions.

“We have a family meeting, and child welfare check next week. As always, do your best, sport.” Cetus said, ruffling Morgan’s hair. It gave him joy; After almost a year of adoption, and counseling, Cetus could finally touch Morgan without him flinching. Cetus didn’t know what Leo was doing, or if it was even Leo and not life in general; But it was working. He saw Morgan off, before taking Reggie and Emilia home.

“Hey, want to get ice-cream on the boardwalk after dinner?” Emilia said, leaning out the back window. She pulled Morgan over to kiss his check. He nodded, and shyly returned the gesture. Cetus and Reggie tried not to giggle. Morgan slowly walked into the office, checked in, and sat in the depressing psychiatry waiting room.

The fluorescent lights flickered, but at a rate that wasn’t noticeable until there was a migraine. There was the smell of bleach, and old drywall. The receptionist was taking a line of calls, as other families came in, and everyone tried not to look at each other; Because every chair was awkwardly placed facing inward. The walls were mustard, and the chairs plastic. The water cooler bubbled, and the thermostat was set low. Morgan was wearing a forest green, salmon, and black argyle knit sweater, Cetus had made it. Fall had come around, and it was almost his birthday. Morgan reflected on how it had been nine months since his uncle took him in. He loved his uncle. But it wasn’t the same as his mother and father. He hadn’t seen his parent in almost three years.

Leo came to the front, and h led Morgan to his quiet office, while holding Dolly. The light blue walls, smelled of ambiguous air freshener. There was a stack of papers, bulletin of inspirational posters, bowl of fidget toys, and a Yuka in the back. It had started to become comforting and familiar. Morgan relaxed into the chair, holding Icarus on his lap.

“Never seen you so relaxed,” Leo smiled. He took his seat, causing the office chair to squeak. “What would you like to talk about today?” He started. Morgan sat there, looking around the room. He wasn’t feeling anything in particular at the moment. Nothing was really bothering him. Well, maybe the embarrassment and excitement of getting his girlfriend with child WAY too early, or the stress of balancing the world of fey with homework. Also, the upcoming equinox dance at school, and his birthday. Actually, there was too many things to talk about.

“How about you and Emilia, or Cetus? Your aunt and uncle are getting a review from what I hear.” Leo prompted. He had an agenda. Morgan being relaxed was good, but there is always more work to do. Morgan shrugged, like usual.

“How about what you’re feeling right now? I can bring out the chart if you like.”

“I think I’m sad? Out of all things, today I miss mom and dad a lot. They send me paint, books, and clothes, to help my uncle. Mom still knows exactly what I like. Cetus is super nice, and he’s always there for me; He worked really hard to take me in, even with all the magic politics. I appreciate it. Oh, he actually got pulled into some quests, even though he’s common folk! Now I get to graduate early under professor Hara, researching Griminthropes. Aunt Jupiter wants to do a good job too, so she’s-” Morgan mumbled on.

“Stop there. This isn’t about Cetus’s life; This is about built-up trauma, and missing your parents, in spite of your recent happily ever after,” Leo interrupted. “I’m glad you’re confident enough to talk to me, but every conversation is about a fairy tale, not a feeling. You might need to break your habit of relying on magic, legends, and individuals, to avoid problems. I just want you to have a quality of life, feel loved, and care for your yourself. Without relying only on mystical outings or old books. You have the opportunity to do so, and I encourage you to focus on yourself.” Leo suggested. Morgan was leaning inn, looking mildly confused while he listened. At least he had Morgan’s attention.

“I get so frustrated with your avoidance problem. You walk around with so much pain and suffering; And it keeps you up at night. Yet, instead of processing it, and using your support system, you go to the shadow veil, stay silent, act reckless, and harm yourself. Your gratitude is wonderful, but happily ever afters are meaningless if you desert them. Avoidance is not a log term solution, and I don’t expect immediate change. But you need to start embracing things around you in the moment.” Leo said, fizzling out into a whimper, as he tried to stay professional. Morgan looked at him, unblinking.

“Yes, Leo. That’s what the wagon was for.” Morgan said, nodding his head. Leo gave a look of complete defeat. He already knew that.

“So you’re telling me, it’s more then a scheduled avoidance quest? That now it’s something meaningful; A source of fulfillment as a seer. Thus, Honestly Morgan, do you actually still need the wagon to find friends and joy? I don’t think you need to runaway anymore; Everything you need is right here, if you’ll sit with it.” Leo continued. Morgan liked that perspective; It sounded like enjoying life, without sacrificing his dreams. Morgan smiled a bit. The meaningful stories of each object in that wagon, were tales of is growth. That wagon had helped him. But his new life was doing that too. A simple, worn, faded, treasured wagon. In primary colours, the offend the senses. Something that was purchased at a toy store, to carry children on family outings. It is easy to say what the wagon was for, and what that means now. The wagon helped Morgan runaway, and become an accomplished mage. Now the wagon reminds him of good things he experienced, and is for visiting friends.

“Thanks Leo.” Morgan said. “I’m sorry I accidentally mislead you with the wagon. It’s very distracting.”

“Your most welcome, and forgiven. Oh look! We still have thirty minutes left.” Leo laughed. Morgan groaned. He still had to unpack his relationship with his parents with feeling words, now that the wagon was gone.

TABLE OF CONTENTS--->

<---PREVIOUS

#tales of ealdan cynedom #short stories #story 21 #fantasy #morgan #art #icarus #dolly #leo #emilia #regina #jupiter #cetus

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capitalblue · 4 years

Text

Reader is gender neutral in this!

Paring - Dirk/reader

Warnings - some swearing, but nothing else

I wrote this in 20 minutes and it hasn't been beta read or anything, so y'know.

Anyways @striding-feather here it is

"Dirk," You said, staring at your boyfriend, sprawled out on the couch, yarn all over his chest and in his hands, "What are you doing?"

Dirk, who was clearly struggling to get his hands untangled from the yarn, froze in place before looking over at you, "Nothing, doll, what are you doing?"

You laughed softly as you walked over to the couch, standing just within arms reach of Dirk, "Watching my kitty-cat boyfriend get tangled up in yarn."

"And you're not helping him? Wow babe, how cruel."

You smiled softly as you grabbed his hands in yours, starting to untangle the yarn from his hands, "Why do you even have yarm? I know I didn't buy any."

You can tell he's embaressed by your question by the way he crosses one leg over the other, then uncrosses his legs. You smile a little as you get one hand free, taking a moment to look at the yarn. It's a bright orange and pretty thick, the type you would use when making hats. No doubt it was from Roxy or Rose.

"Safe to assume its from one of the Lalondes?" You asked, kissing the back of one of his hands once you got his hands free.

He's silent for a moment before confirming, "Roxy, she saw me knock over a glass of water and now won't stop calling me a cat."

"You are a cat!" You giggled, placing the yarn on the coffee table after wrapping it up around your fingers so it wouldn't get tangled up again. Dirk huffs softly, crossing his arms and not replying.

You smile and crawl on the couch next to him, "Cute kitty cat boy!"

Dirk wastes no time and wraps his arms around your chest, pulling you close against him, his hands fiddling with the back of your shirt. His face flushes at your comment, the faint red complimenting his dark skin very well, in your opinion.

You felt him gently kiss your collarbone, moving your shirt a little so he can kiss your collarbone and shoulder better. You sigh softly, your eyes fluttering closed as you relaxed, letting him trail his kisses up from your collarbone to your neck.

Once you felt something wet, slimey amd warm on your neck, you squealed and tried to pull back. Dirk laughed, holding you firmly against him as he licked your neck.

"C'mon, doll, if I'm such a cat, you won't mind cleaning you, will ya?" He teased, a smug grin on his face as he pressed closer against you.

You pushed on his shoulders, giggling loudly, "Diiirk! No!! Stooooop!"

He chuckled softly, pulling back a little to look you in the eyes, clearly amused. He leaned forward and gently kissed your nose, bumping his forehead against yours. He moves his hand up to your face, gently caressing your cheek with his hand, smiling softly as he closes his eyes.

You puffed your cheeks out a little before wrapping both arms around him and hugging him close. Smiling, you gently tangled one hand in his hair, the other staying around his waist as you played with his hair. His roots were growing in, showing his natural dark brown hair.

He sighed softly, relaxing as he nuzzled into your neck. You felt his warm breath ghosting your neck before his body relaxed. His arms loosened a little, making you blink in surprise. Dirk never really let his grip loosen unless he fell asleep. Did he really fall adleep so easily?

As you were mulling over on if Dirk was truly asleep or just messing with you, you heard a soft rumbling noise. You looked down, seeing Dirk, fast asleep, purring. How. Fucking. Cute.

Your boyfriend really was a cat.

#ill add tags after a nap #its 2an #im so tired

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homespork-review · 4 years

Text

Homespork Act 4, Part 2: Flight of the Paradox Groans

BRIGHT: Remember Spades Slick being bizarrely aware he was in a comic, back in the Intermission? Buckle up, things are about to get even more fourth-wall-breaking. Appropriately, this starts by the comic focusing on an actual fourth wall, which activates to show...Andrew Hussie.

Hussie’s MS Paint avatar notices the audience watching him, laments that his side of the wall doesn’t have an off switch, and then recaps the first year of Homestuck.

Now, in all fairness: The recap is thorough, full of links, and explains things fairly well. It’s quite long, but given how much territory it has to cover I’m not sure it could be any shorter. So it does its job well, and it’s a boon if you’re getting lost with the plot.

As for the author insertion...on this occasion I don’t mind it. It comes across as tongue-in-cheek, but framed more as the author talking to the reader than as the author inserting himself into the narrative. It’s definitely very Homestuck.

Anyway, AH gets back to work, and after a couple of false starts we return to John!

John is still flying around with his jet pack. GC trolls him to offer him a world map of LOWAS and tell him she feels awful about killing him, although in literally the next line she tells him that technically he never even died so she doesn’t understand why he’s so upset. John understandably finds this disturbing. They have a brief nonsensical discussion about Jesus/Jegus, and then John agrees to go take a look at what’s on the other side of his Second Gate. Yes, on the advice of someone whose previous advice got him killed.

CHEL: Almost a shame we didn’t set up a Too Dumb To Live count, but then to be fair that was a separate timeline and he’s probably not thinking of it as something that “really” happened. This is supported by his later dialogue.

FAILURE ARTIST: The word Jegus is really popular in the Homestuck fandom, used far more often than it is in the canon. Gets quite annoying, in my opinion. Actually, a rather Jesus-like figure does appear, but he’s not called “Jegus”.

CHEL: Yeah, I think only Terezi, John, and Dave ever use the term, but it somehow became latched onto as an actual term used by trolls in general, even though in canon it isn’t.

BRIGHT: Fortunately, this time GC appears to be playing nice. John flies though the Second Gate and emerges...into LOLAR?

FAILURE ARTIST: Hussie does an amusing trick where he has what looks like a loading screen for a flash but it’s actually a still image eternally at 2%.

BRIGHT: Yes, it’s LOLAR. John promptly crashes into Rose’s house, smashing through a wall and into her bedroom, where Rose is still snoozing in her knitting pile. Apart from briefly being stuck upside down, he does not appear injured by this collision.

Rose has somehow slept through the commotion. John decides to let her rest and borrows her computer to talk to Dave.

The first one he talks to is actually Davesprite, who points out how moronic John was to listen to GC again. No arguments here! Then he explains how the Gate system works: Odd-numbered Gates, above players’ houses, lead to somewhere on their planets. Even-numbered Gates lead to other players’ planets, exiting over their houses. Normally they aren’t meant to go through even-numbered Gates until the houses are built up, so they don’t fall to their deaths, but fortunately John has a jetpack workaround. So far Davesprite is living up to his promise of being straightforward.

John realises he’s talking to Future Dave, and asks “do you think i could talk to the real dave for a second?”

...ouch, John.

Davesprite goes off on a tear, ranting that he is a real Dave — arguably the realest Dave, since he’s been running around LOHAC for months trying to get enough information to save everyone. John apologises sincerely.

CHEL: This won’t be the last we hear of this theme, though.

EB: i think i pissed off your future self. TG: what did you do EB: i said he wasn't the real dave. TG: ahahahahaha EB: i think i might have really hurt his feelings though! TG: pff TG: dont worry about it EB: why not? TG: cause i wouldnt give a shit TG: and hes me

BRIGHT: Not a hundred percent sure I believe Dave, there.

CHEL: Dave uses John to snoop around Rose’s room and get the captcha code for her journals. Classy, Dave. Not a SLAMMER point, however, as this does come back to bite him very soon.

Rose’s dreamself has awoken on Derse, the purple planet, and flies across to the opposite tower. Dave’s dreamself appears to be awake, sitting upright in his computer chair; the room is entirely an unsettling bloody red colour apart from the SBaHJ cartoons on the walls, and… oh shit, there’s Lil Cal again, now in a long purple nightdress and hopping around the room on his own. If Rose was having nightmares because of dreamself issues, I can only imagine how Dave’s nightmares must look. Rose throws a ball of yarn at Dave’s dreamself, alerting him, and causing the awake Dave to pass out.

Back in Rose’s room, it seems that Charles Barkley quote was not misattributed:

FAILURE ARTIST: Another SBaHJ reference in the book quote. Is that where Dave got it?

Still, I don’t recall this book ever coming up again. Just another item that seems like a Chekhov's Gun but isn’t.

CHEL: John feels guilty about opening his birthday gift from Rose, but reasons that it’s technically now his anyway, so he does, finding another bunny, this one black and filthy-looking except for the pristine knitted purple patches repairing it, though its shape is eerily familiar.

The gift in this box is a resurrection. I used your present to thread life anew into a tattered heirloom. As long as I can remember, its black, greasy appendages have been tethered limply to its ratty, porous carriage. Too delicate to wash, too dear to discard. I used to love this rabbit. Now he's yours. I trust you'll find this to be adequately sentimental. Happy birthday.

Oh my gosh, awwwwww. Even if you don’t ship them romantically how can you not love their interactions? Definitely one of the comic’s strong points. Also I need to go hug my childhood teddy bear.

John puts the bunny back in the box again and the box in his sylladex, freeing Casey the salamander while he’s at it. And let’s just take a minute to feel utter horror because dead John still had Casey in his sylladex, so the best option is that she died too, and the worst is that we have an And I Must Scream situation on for a baby salamander. Gah.

FAILURE ARTIST: Thanks, I’d never thought of that and I never want to again.

You aren't actually sure if she is a girl though. You don't even know if salamanders can be girls. Aren't they hermaphrodites or something?

CHEL: No, for the record. Though some frogs can switch from one to the other.

FAILURE ARTIST: Casey is very popular as a name for an OC child of John (often having Rose as the mother).

CHEL: John answers Rose’s Pesterchum, upon which GA is half-heartedly sending antagonistic messages. John answers on Rose’s account, saying that Rose is asleep, which GA takes for Human Sarcasm, prompting John to pretend to be Rose.

GA: I Should Figure Out How The Viewport Feature Of This Application Works GA: So I Can See What Such A Primitive Creature Looks Like TT: haha, well i know what you guys look like. TT: you look kind of like... TT: howie mandel from little monsters.

Wait, how does he know? Am I forgetting a point at which he saw them?

BRIGHT: I always assumed that he was just goofing around and his guess happened to land in the right ballpark, but thinking about it, I’m not sure the kids ever express surprise at the trolls’ appearance.

CHEL: John, pretending to be Rose, talks about how awesome John is.

GA: He Is Either The Leader Of Your Party Or You Hold Whatever The Human Equivalent Of Mating Fondness For Him Is

CHEL: Both. Both is good!

FAILURE ARTIST: Knowing what we do of troll culture later this is an odd statement. Heck, it’s just an odd statement. Maybe this is why people think trolls don’t do friendship.

CHEL: John apparently confuses GA by saying it’s because Rose is thoughtful and John appreciates his gift, and suggests GA talk to John.

TT: why don't you pick the time that will make the most complicated mess out of everything imaginable?

GA sounds very annoyed, and leaves, intending to have the conversation with John that she had previously. We see her, GC, and the horns of AT and an unknown troll in the grey room, now revealed to be a computer laboratory. For some reason she chats via Pesterchum with another troll instead of just walking over to talk to them. This new troll is twinArmageddons, an appropriate name for the circumstances, who type2 iin yellow text liike thii2; he is, as it turns out, the hacker guy GC mentioned earlier. TA is busy setting up the network and seems irritable in general, and is not willing to help GA work her viewport.

TA: iif ii 2ee one more 2narl of wiire2. TA: kiind of juttiing out and beiing tangled or whatever. TA: ii am goiing two perform 2ome 2ort of athletiic fuckiing 2omer2ault off the deep end and get a call from the pre2iident or 2ome 2hiit.

Nice callback, but trolls, as we’ll later find out, don’t have presidents.

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 14

GA wonders why TA doesn’t want to talk to her, and TA complains that he knew in advance the trolls were doomed and no one believed him. He refuses to troll the humans himself but is setting up the system so the others can in order to get them to leave him alone. GA asks again for help, to no avail.

TA: iif you cant fiigure 2hiit out by fuckiing around you dont belong near computer2. TA: kiind of liike wiith regii2tered 2ex offender2 and 2chool2. TA: iif you move two a new town you have two go up two your neiighbor2 door and warn them about how 2tupiid you are. TA: and giive them a chance two hiide all theiir iinnocent technology. TA: and vandaliize your hou2e.

Ooh, a threefer plus one! Tacky simile for the Problematykks. As for WSP, we’ll later find out that 1) trolls kill all their criminals, 2) trolls don’t give a shit about the welfare of their children, and 3) trolls don’t appear to actually go to school. These two counts are neck and neck in the lead now!

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 17 WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 17

BRIGHT: As with much of Homestuck, the trolls give the impression of being made up as Hussie went along. That’s not entirely a bad thing -- it certainly makes the comic pretty unique -- but it does lead to some out-of-place slip-ups.

Anyway, GA chucks her F1 key at TA’s head and then starts poking him. We also see CG in the lab.

FAILURE ARTIST: I think I recall GA/TA were a popular ship before we learned more about GA. It does seem like they have a Rose & Dave dynamic going on.

BRIGHT: Back on Derse, Rose and Dave have a dance party to Dave’s music while accompanied by some crows and Lil Cal, who keeps teleporting around the room. Rose eventually gets tired of Cal’s shenanigans and hurls him out of the window, to the relief of many.

FAILURE ARTIST: The flash originally included music by Bill Bolin. In fact, it was his unfinished music being included here that caused all the drama in the first place.

BRIGHT: Time for some random interludes! First up is Maplehoof the pony, who is following Rose’s mother through a large cave which, judging by the grist lying around, recently contained very dangerous monsters.

FAILURE ARTIST: Apparently pets can collect grist for their masters...and know what grist is despite being a normal(?) animal.

BRIGHT: First Mom, and then Maplehoof, stand on a transportaliser platform and disappear. Second is Dad, who has just acquired a replacement shoe and hat (which showed up in the walkaround game, way back at the beginning of the Act), when he encounters a familiar-looking stranger with a Colonel Sassacre book, who leads him to another transportalizer platform. Both of these interludes do become relevant later, but at the time they seem a tad unnecessary.

Meanwhile, John uses Rose’s alchemiter and a code Davesprite gave him mid-rant to produce a truly epic hammer called FEAR NO ANVIL. It’s far too big for John to wield, but fortunately he can use the scaling upgrade on the alchemiter to reduce it to a more useable size. ...wait. When did Rose’s alchemiter get a scaling upgrade? Dave and Jade added a lot of modifications to his, but Rose’s should be the original edition. Sigh.

EB: so what is this? EB: the thing the code made... TG: really powerful hammer EB: how do you know? EB: i thought you couldn't use hammers. TG: i cant TG: better be though TG: got it from hephaestus EB: who's that? TG: really tough to kill dude EB: you killed him for it? TG: nope EB: how'd you get it then? TG: shenanigans EB: ok.

...and we’re back to sprite evasiveness. Davesprite is being less than forthcoming here, although it’s less obvious than with Nannasprite because it superficially imitates John and Dave’s bantering.

CHEL: Now, this would be a good way of keeping us interested if we were eventually going to see how he did it, and also they have a time limit, so not going off into a long anecdote would be understandable. However, we’ll see how his evasiveness level proceeds in the future.

BRIGHT: Dream Rose and Dave see John using Rose’s alchemiter on Dream Dave’s computer. Rose wakes up.

FAILURE ARTIST: It is interesting how early Homestuck avoided having characters have face-to-face conversations. Would have been unique if it kept up throughout the entire comic.

BRIGHT: Back in the meteor, GA hassles TA into opening the viewport on her computer. This turns out to be as simple as clicking on the point in Rose’s timeline that she wants to see. No wonder TA was frustrated!

Of course, by this point, the only one left in the room is Rose, now awake, and the young salamander. Rose hurries to catch up with John, but he blasts off to explore before she can reach him, taking her mutated kitten with him.

CHEL: John renames Vodka Mutini to Dr Meowgon Spengler, and Rose renames Casey to Viceroy Bubbles von Salamancer. Interesting link to the themes of identities which are starting to crop up, though it’s not really a direct analogue. The animals are the same animals with different names; the alternate timeline characters have the same names and superficially the same identities, but are they really the same people after their new experiences?

BRIGHT: Back on Derse, Lil Cal inexplicably lands on a stray rocket board, catching the attention of AR.

You're not sure which laws are being broken, but it is probably a lot.

AR follows Cal to yet another transportaliser, and they both dematerialise.

We jump back to John, who spies a boat on one of the islands dotting LOLAR and lands to investigate. He follows hoofprints in the sand into a subterranean hallway filled with monsters. Fortunately his new hammer has time powers, which stun the monsters long enough for John to kill them. Further on, he finds the transportaliser Mom used. John, naturally, stands on it, and is transported to a meteor in the Veil.

Actually, it’s not just a meteor; it’s one of the laboratories where the Skaian troops are produced. John, along with the cat and Maplehoof, finds a bunch of chess guys being grown in glass jars on a giant podium. Most of them are the standard carapaces we’re familiar with, but there are also a few larger pieces, apparently based on knights and rooks. He also finds a JUNIOR ECTOBIOLOGIST’S LAB SUIT, and another of those strange house-shaped sets of monitors.

On Prospit, PM is preparing to board a shuttle to Skaia when a COURTYARD DROLL sneaks up behind her. Unaccountably, she fails to notice him, despite the fact that he’s wearing a hat larger than he is. CD successfully pickpockets the White Queen’s ring, and PM departs for Skaia, none the wiser.

CD radios the DRACONIAN DIGNITARY to report mission success, and is told that he doesn’t need to keep wearing his ridiculous outfit, per orders from Jack Noir, who is now going by the SOVEREIGN SLAYER. CD says he’d rather keep wearing the outfit. Apart from the sword-through-the-chest part, it is a very nice outfit, so I’m with CD on this one.

Catastrophe is averted by Jade delivering a flying kick to CD’s head and following up with a very efficient smackdown. Her robot body replicates this back on Earth, beating the stuffing out of her mummified grandfather. Jade retrieves the ring, and puts it on her fingers to remind herself to give it back to PM later. Unfortunately, this doesn’t cause Jade to sprout wings and tentacles. Seems the rings don’t work on humans like that.

Meanwhile, in a Timeless Expanse, a WARWEARY VILLEIN is getting tired of the battle between Derse and Prospit. The next animation is called “WV?: Rise Up” and it’s one of my favorites! When I first read Homestuck I had to watch it a few times before I understood what was going on, but it is a very neat video.

Watch on YouTube

The Battlefield has been prototyped three times, and is now spherical. The forces of Derse and Prospit meet. The usual carapaces with swords are backed up by larger pieces -- some of them very strange -- and by battleships clashing in the sky. In the chaos, WV, who is farming peacefully on Skaia, has his home and farm burned down. He raises a flag and addresses the troops of both armies. Elsewhere, Jack Noir appears, flying over the Battlefield in search of the Black King.

WV rallies the armies and tells them that their real enemies are the monarchs, who are responsible for the war. Encouraged, the Dersite and Prospitan troops band together and march on the Black King.

Meanwhile, PM has reached the White King and discovers that she no longer has the White Queen’s ring. The White King listens to her and hands over his scepter, which seems to represent Skaia and serves a similar function to the Queens’ rings. Behind a nearby hill, the Hegemonic Brute radios somebody to report the transfer.

As WV and the united armies reach the Black King, Jack arrives and slices the Black King’s scepter in half, nullifying its powers and turning the Black King back into a normal carapace. PM is attacked by HB, who knocks the White King’s scepter out of her hand; it falls down a waterfall. Jack Noir beheads the Black King and turns to WV, and the animation ends.

...okay, much as I love it, I have to admit there’s a glaring question here: Namely, the kids started playing the Game less than a day ago and Dave’s kernelsprite has been prototyped for a few hours max. The second prototyping made the Battlefield more complex and the third took it into its current form. That’s a very short time to instigate a cross-faction revolution, organise the troops, and march on a monarch. For that matter, how long has WV been a farmer? The inhabitants of Derse and Prospit have obviously been doing their thing all the kids’ lives, but the Battlefield was supposedly a static, rudimentary space until John entered the Medium, so what gives?

Then again, the timeline in the Medium is supposed to be distinct from the timeline on Earth, so maybe that explains it?

CHEL: An interesting point is also raised by WV’s revolution. Namely, Derse is presented as a kingdom of darkness and evil by the game, while Prospit is presented as good. However, while PM is good, WV and AR are demonstrably not bad people either. In this animation, we see carapaces of both sides apparently don’t want to be involved in the war and are willing to rise up against the Black King. The rank-and-file carapaces on both sides, it seems, are decent people who are just following orders. (Not to mention very cute.) Jack Noir and his gang are nasty pieces of work, except CD who’s also just kind of going along with it, but there’s nothing saying white carapaces couldn’t also be… And is that a Problematykks point, presenting the black-coloured people as bad and the white-coloured ones as good? I know they’re chess pieces, but still.

This raises the question, however, what’s Derse’s motive? Are its rulers and archagents simply destroying for the evulz? I wonder. I also wonder how much Skaia itself is involved in this and how aware it is. Skaia is called the crucible of creation, and it’s responsible for the creation of the carapaces too. References are made to it “seeing” and “knowing”; it’s quite possibly sentient, though maybe not sapient. On top of that, SBurb is specifically a game, and a game needs an objective, and an adventure-type game needs enemies. Derse, it seems likely, was created and presented the way it is in order to give the players something to battle against even if its people don’t want to be their enemies. No wonder WV’s pissed!

BRIGHT: Yup. Hmm, thinking about it...the imps and other enemies we saw attacking John’s house early on were obviously Dersite, but the ones we’ve seen in Rose’s seem to be Prospitian, if anything? The colour scheme looks that way, at least. But Nanna said earlier that Derse was the enemy, nothing about Prospit.

Perhaps it has something to do with Rose being a Derse dreamer, while John is a Prospit dreamer? But in that case I’d have expected it to come up in the text. Instead it just goes unremarked.

Rose goes on a massive alchemising spree and ends up creating the Thorns of Oglogoth, a pair of wands.

The needles seem to shiver with the dark desires of THE DEEP ONE. Any sane adventurer would cast these instruments of the occult into the FURTHEST RING and forget they ever existed.

Instead of throwing the wands away, Rose takes on the enemies camping all over her house, with style.

Meanwhile, Dave goes on another, less visibly productive alchemising spree.

GET ON WITH IT!: 18

FAILURE ARTIST: The SBaHJifier could be considered productive in that it provides foreshadowing cartoons. Wish Dave’s Brain in a Jar came up again.

BRIGHT: Once he’s done creating smuppet variations to disturb the monsters encroaching on his house, he sits down to take a look at those two journals he copied from Rose earlier. One of them is called ‘MEOW’, and is literally just those same four letters, repeated over and over in different orders. The second is ‘Complacency of the Learned’.

There is no way to adequately recap the beauty of ‘Complacency of the Learned’, so we’re just going to show the whole thing:

Frigglish bothered his beard, as if unkinking a hitch in a long silk windsock. A more pedestrian audience would parse the exhibit as nervous compulsion. Behavior to petition contempt among the reasonable. He was however not surrounded by the reasonable, but the wise, a distinction in men that would forever be the difference in history's garland of treasured follies. As a matter of fact, his cadre of fellow wizards were all putting similar moves on their beards as well. The practice would evince thoughtfulness - sagacity, even - if they didn't do it all the time. Standing in line at the bank. Shooing squirrels from bird feeders. Few occasions were safe. Zazzerpan inspected the clue. A single piece of evidence cradled in his coriaceous old man palms. It was a human bone, not striking in the tale it told alone so much as that told by the thousands like it festooning the marshy soil of the mass grave. The grisly expanse bore the texture of a decadent dessert, like one of Smarny's formidable custard trifles wobbled out on wheels for the holidays, to the dismay of a small nation. "You're certain of this?" asked Frigglish. Despite what he was doing with his beard, he was, in fact, immersed in meaningful contemplation. "I am afraid I am becoming more so with each terrible tick groused by that gaudy timepiece slung around your neck." In case it wasn't clear, Frigglish wore a clock Zazzerpan didn't care for. It was magic. "The massacre of Syrs Gnelph was not as written." "What has you convinced it was the hand of our disciples in this blackness?" Executus chimed in. "I believe... I..." a fat face stammered, eyes darting with the guilt of a thief in the throes of an unraveling alibi. "I can summon a... more pressing line of inquiry..." No, Smarny. Nobody was in the mood for a sticky bundt loaf just now. Zazzerpan's ears fell insubstantial to any line of inquiry, pastry-oriented or otherwise. His abstruse contour carved a pondering shape in the fog carpeting centuries-dead. His eleven contemporaries too embraced the muted consternation of their great Predicant Scholar. Few wizards kept sharper adumbratives or read them with such lucidity. When Zazzerpan treated men with silence it was seldom unrepaid by the wise and reasonable alike. It was harrowing to entertain. Zazzerpan the Learned's storied Complacency of Wizards was marked for grander descendence. Disciples hand-picked, vetted by Ockite the Bonafide and tested by Gastrell the Munificent. The twelve sweetest, most studious children a pair of elderly eyes could give their sparkle. Not the ragged guttersnipe so oft-harvested by the common Obscenity, those vituperative little beggars with hearts to corrupt as dropped bananas brown. That these chosen youngsters would turn was not merely unthinkable, but something of a roundhouse to the temporal bones of the Upper Indifference's high chamber of Softskulled Prophets. His wisdom-savaged brow pruned further with recount of his many lessons to wouldbe successors. Lessons to advance humanity's elucidation and prosperity, an outcome this bleak trail now painfully obviated. There were few puzzles The Learned could not suspend and dissect in the recondite manifold beneath his extremely expensive pointy hat. Daring to pitch his cherished pupils in with the foul melange of history's rogues, the heretofore abstract scourge that built up civilizations with ungodly magic and tore them down with joyful malice, would prove an intellectual trespass to make his calcium-deficient bones quake. And more daring yet was the only question that now mattered. Could a bunch of bearded, scraggly old men in preposterous outfits hunt them down? He didn't have an answer. Only a simple observation so blunt and uncharacteristically jejune for the lauded sage it was breathtaking in its selfevidency. "We're going to need more wands." (Wow. Think of something better.)

Wow.

Dave is understandably intimidated by this, and decides to stop reading for now. He puts his copy of the SBURB Beta in the notebook to act as a bookmark, and leaves both books in his room for later.

Then he checks in on Rose, who is burning her version of the MEOW book.

CHEL: Dave inquires about the wizard story.

TG: i thought you hated wizards TG: whats the deal with that TT: I like wizards. TT: What I don't like is my mother's obsession with feigning interest in them to antagonize me. TG: oh man thats so messed up TG: that you think that TG: she probably digs wizards for real just like you and youre blowing shit out of proportion like pretty much always

Once again, we see exactly how fucked-up Rose’s relationship with her mother is. Mom Lalonde has somehow managed to raise a child in such a way that Rose interprets everything her mother does as an attempt to mock and provoke her.

ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 16

TIER: The Lalondes are pretty damn dysfunctional as a family unit, and considering the zany nature of early Homestuck and its world's weird logic that is saying something indeed.

CHEL: As for the MEOW book, it turns out the gods from the Furthest Ring informed Rose while she was sleeping that the book’s contents are highly dangerous and must be destroyed. Said gods dwell in the sky above Derse; Dave’s never heard or seen them, but Rose points out his dreamself is always wearing shades, listening to music, and distracted by Cal.

TT: You're the prince of the moon. TG: ........ TT: I'm sure they've been meaning to seek a royal audience. TG: ..........................

Davesprite chats to Rose next. She protests at being spied on by two people, but Davesprite asks her why she burned the codebook. She didn’t need to in the future, but according to her future memories of the gods absorbed from her future dreamself, Davesprite appeared to make it relevant by traveling to the past. A sinister and familiar face watches through Dave’s window, soon proving to be the Draconian Dignitary, while Dave and Davesprite awkwardly spout elaborate mixed metaphors about how safe they are, until Dave, embarrassed, says "so i guess ill go back down and burn that book".

As any savvy reader could guess, he’s too late. The prompt suggests that he should go back in time to stop the books from being stolen, but, well...

It looks like you already tried that. GORE GALORE: 10

Dave looks completely undisturbed, but whether he is undisturbed is a different matter. He flings the corpse out the window into the lava, claiming it would freak Jade out.

John, in the lab, presses a button, causing the first monitor to depict his town, shortly before his birth. There is a Betty Crocker factory and a shopping mall, neither of which are in the town now. Zooming in locks a target over Nanna Egbert, who is taking a stroll with Dad. A meteor looms; this looks like it’s going to go very badly, considering the target lock, but it hits the factory instead. When John presses the glowing blue button, a PARADOX GHOST IMPRINT of Nanna is created; refer back to Rose’s experimentation in the lab and the green slime blobs. This time, the slime is sucked into a tube.

The next monitor does something similar with Grandpa Harley on his ship, and the next the same with Bro Strider, who stands over a meteor crater on an unseasonably warm day; something of an understatement, as the sky is the same lurid red and the sun the same glowing spiral that they were during the Strider bros’ battle even though it’s December. Bro is, regardless, prepared for the occasion with a small pair of outrageously awesome shades. What he needs these for will soon be revealed.

The fourth monitor goes back to John’s home town, a gigantic crater where the factory once was. In the shopping mall, Dad Egbert stands outside a joke shop, while Nanna apparently remains inside, busying herself with a tall bookshelf, a ladder, and a rather hefty unabridged joke book.

Mom Lalonde, clutching the infant Rose and wearing a rather snazzy long Jaspersprite-pink scarf, has come to town to study the meteor impact at the request of Grandpa Harley while he explores elsewhere. Unfortunately, now is the time a meteor chooses to strike Nanna’s location, destroying the shop.

An old mother lost today, but a new son gained.

Wait for it.

Mom Lalonde flees, dropping her scarf, which Dad Egbert picks up and slightly creepily sniffs. The monitor continues tracking her, and John captures her paradox imprint too, starting the machines whirring away...

Four babies abruptly appear on the pad, already diapered and bespectacled and old enough to sit up unaided. Convenient, no?

When the kitten jumps on a green button, the slime is blended in pairs; Nanna’s and Grandpa’s, and Mom’s and Bro’s. More blinking lights ensue, and another four extremely familiar-looking babies appear.

BRIGHT: I will say this: These kids are adorable.

While babies clamber over him, John vaults up his echeladder to the rank of Ectobiolobabysitter, acquiring one million Boondollars in the process. This automatically converts itself to a Boonbuck, the weight of which smashes his Porkhollow.

Finding out just what is going on here will have to wait, as the comic takes a brief detour to a battleship navigating the Medium nearby. There’s someone very familiar at the wheel…

An old man has much to do before he returns to Earth, dies, gets stuffed by his adopted-yet-biological daughter-slash-grand-daughter, and stuck in front of a fireplace.

Also aboard the ship are Dad Egbert and Mom Lalonde. Dad returns Mom’s scarf, and the two of them hold hands as Grandpa Harley pilots the ship towards Skaia.

We return to the lab, where John has his hands full with the babies. One of them has managed to break one of the paradox slime jars from earlier, but appears uninjured. Also, CG’s trolling him again.

CHEL: CG makes mention of the ULTIMATE RIDDLE, but John is confused because CG hasn’t told him about that yet. He uses an ableist description in explaining.

CG: SEE I KIND OF PAINTED MYSELF INTO A CORNER. CG: I STARTED TROLLING YOU AT THE END, JUST BEFORE THE RIFT. CG: AND THEN JUMPED BACK A LITTLE. CG: AND NOW I GUESS I'VE BECOME RAILROADED INTO WORKING BACKWARDS HERE. CG: UNLESS I WANT TO DO THE SORT OF DUMB SCHIZOPHRENIC HOPPING AROUND LIKE THE OTHERS. CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 18

… why wouldn’t you just hop right back to the start and work in a linear fashion from there?

TIER: Because CG excels at making things complicated for himself and is fundamentally rather stubborn and set in his ways/actions. Like he's made his bed, he's gonna lie in it.

CHEL: Anyway, CG banters with John for a bit, and then informs him that he (John) has arrived in the Veil and created infant versions of the players and their guardians.

EB: so they are like cloned copies of us? CG: NO. CG: THEY ARE LITERALLY YOU AND YOUR GUARDIANS. CG: PARADOX CLONES.

A paradox clone, we are informed, is A CORRECTLY CLONED DUPLICATE THAT WILL INEVITABLY GO BACK IN TIME AND BECOME THE ORIGINAL TARGET THAT WAS CLONED. The game worlds contain many clues hinting at the ultimate destiny of the players to create their own selves through the game, and the only way things could possibly go involved the players creating themselves, or else the game session would never happen.

CG: WHICH IS ESPECIALLY PATHETIC SINCE PARADOX SPACE APPARENTLY WENT TO ALL THIS TROUBLE TO MAKE YOU JUST TO HAVE YOU FAIL AND DIE. CG: REALLY THERE'S NOTHING MORE TRAGIC THAN THESE NULL SESSIONS FULL OF KIDS ENTERING THE GAME AND FULFILLING SOME COSMIC DESTINY SHIT JUST TO GET WIPED OUT AND LEAVE BEHIND AN EMPTY POINTLESS INCIPISPHERE FOR ALL ETERNITY.

Tragic and completely unnecessary, when there are millions of perfectly good humans already in existence who could just as easily create winning game sessions without this aspect of it. Here we see another aspect of Homestuck which hasn’t come up quite so clearly before; an extremely weird take on determinism. I’m not sure if this is meant as a parody of Chosen One plotlines or if Hussie just thought it sounded cool, but it’s uncomfortable. As it turns out, only clones created by SBurb have a hope in hell of winning the game, and even they fail most of the time. Regular people who enter the game to save themselves from the destruction of the planet will fail and die there, which honestly is not really selling this game as a good thing, since it’s what causes the destruction of the planet in the first place. I’ve had actual, legitimate, honest-to-God nightmares about this aspect of SBurb, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

FAILURE ARTIST: I think many fans wish to play SBurb. There’s lots of fan sessions and fake GameFAQs and custom Lands. Yet in reality SBurb is not a fun time. This is cosmic horror. I think Hussie is sometimes playing it for horror and sometimes he ignores the implications.

Then again, some people want to live on the troll planet, which is straight-up dystopia.

CHEL: Again, it isn’t really clear what he’s going for. Is it supposed to be terrifying or did he just think it would be clever? Does even Hussie know what he was going for? While it’s not exactly a joke, I think it’s worth another point here:

ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 17

It might be a joke. As I said, I could see it as a parody of or playing with the Chosen One narrative. In this case, literally only the chosen ones have any hope, for reasons that are not down to any merit of their own. But if it is, there isn’t really much made of it.

Of course, the reasons people want to live on the troll planet are reasonable when taken alone, but a) contradicted every alternate scene and b) not a fair trade for everything else that’s going on there. But we’ll get to that when we actually see it. And I admit, SBurb powers would be fun, but not worth the loss of my entire species.

TIER: To me at least it's fun in the same way wondering how I'd fare as a wizard during Harry Potter's years at Hogwarts, or a ninja in Naruto is. Fundamentally you'd rather want to never encounter this sorta stuff even if you get some swanky I guess powers, but the mental exercise of it is quite honestly, really fun. The game has quite a lot of interesting things to poke around with, from lands to quests to what your co-players are up to. And I'm def guilty of playing trollsona games, because the world presented is just really fascinating in its gruesome glory.

Never want to have to actually go through it, Lord knows I'd be dead within the first ten minutes if I'm super lucky, but stories about it are pretty neat.

CHEL: That’s true, but the paradox clones thing seems almost to be taunting us for having that mentality. We can pretend we’d be the super-smart strong competent ones who make it, but in this universe if we demonstrably have parents we’re doomed to die for nothing and there’s nothing we can do about it.

BRIGHT: Another fun thing about this is that it fundamentally isolates the players from the rest of humanity. If you think about it, unless they have children with a non-player, they are completely unrelated to anyone else on Earth.

CHEL: And they can’t have kids with a non-player unless something thoroughly horrible happened, because as is stated later SBurb specifically takes its players away and destroys their planet around the point of their puberty.

BRIGHT: Although I think John is actually related to Dad — as far as we’re told, Dad is in fact Nanna’s biological son, which makes him genetically John’s half-brother.

They also miss out on (going by how active the babies are) the first couple of years of life. Those two years are crucial in terms of brain development. SBURB probably controls for that, but it wouldn’t be surprising if there were negative consequences.

Oh, and if you’re a player, your existence means your civilisation is doomed. Lovely!

CHEL: And do the players ever feel any guilt or conflict over this? Do they hell. It doesn’t even occur to them, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t occur to Hussie either.

TIER: Welcome to the hell game that is SBURB; it's fundamentally pretty fucked up! It runs on a hellish scale of "things have already been predetermined" and I am Big Fear™.

CHEL: That’ll come up later, too, but there it’s obviously intentional nightmare fuel, and not at all a bad use of time travel as a story device.

CG, meanwhile, explains that he was the one to create his session’s players. With twelve of them it was a bit more complicated, but troll lineages are complicated anyway, and we’ll find out how later.

The babies are still getting all over the lab. Note that they're repeatedly referred to as "little pink monkeys". Then again, calling a non-white child a monkey really wouldn't be good.

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 18

John’s infant self has latched onto the Sassacre book, while his infant Nanna is sitting in Dad Egbert’s old hat. Baby Bro is napping in the lap of Lil Cal; that baby’s braver than I am, I can tell you that. Baby Dave is sitting on Maplehoof, and baby Grandpa has found a pair of pistols. John does not take them away from him, or even seem to notice he has them.

HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 7

BRIGHT: Earlier baby Bro broke one of the paradox slime cylinders and was sitting in it. John is pretty astoundingly bad at keeping babies away from obvious hazards.

TIER: That or the equipment is probably not sturdy enough to make it past an inspection into faulty management.

CHEL: But then he’s distracted by CG trolling him again, at least this time moving forward in time from the last conversation.

CG, like GA, apparently fails to grasp sarcasm...

EB: we had this great dare going. EB: to see who could be the least helpful and informative. EB: and you totally lost, dude! EB: you were hella helpful. CG: I WAS OBVIOUSLY JUST SPITING YOUR STUPID POINTLESS HUMAN DARE. [...] CG: ANYWAY, HOW COULD WE HAVE MADE A DARE IF I'M MOVING BACKWARDS ON YOUR TIMELINE.

… which is weird because moments later he uses it himself.

EB: do you even have elves? CG: YES, LET'S COMPARE WHICH FANTASY CREATURES THAT DON'T EXIST WE BOTH DO OR DON'T NOT HAVE. CG: WHAT A GREAT FUCKING IDEA, JOHN!

Hussie seems to waver back and forth a lot on whether trolls get sarcasm or not, in general. Since he’s contradicting himself with troll worldbuilding, that’s a point.

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 19

Banter aside, he informs John that the babies are sent to Earth via meteors during the Reckoning.

BRIGHT: How do they survive the impact? Some of those meteor strikes destroy buildings. Those are some ridiculously resilient kids.

CHEL: Cut to AR, who is still having fun on the rocketboard, until he runs into a frog temple atop a meteor. This is apparently horrifying and illegal by his standards.

You are going to throw whoever is responsible into the slammer. You always call jail the slammer when you are extra angry at crimes.

Inside, he finds an empty time capsule, like Jade’s, some complicated machinery, and a monitor screen showing a greyscale house with a very familiar bespectacled female infant and dirty old hat in it. The year depicted, says the monitor, is 1910. Enter none other than Colonel Sassacre himself.

Eight days prior, the orphan girl was taken in by an aristocratic southern colonel and legendary humorist. He recovered the young lady from a crater where a bakery once stood, operated by the man's wife, a notable baked goods baroness.

An explosion outside leads them both to a crater, where once stood the doghouse of the colonel’s pet, Halley, but before the Colonel can investigate further he’s shot through the heart.

This is exactly why babies should not be allowed to dual-wield flintlock pistols.

BRIGHT: I remain baffled as to how Baby Grandpa can even lift those things, let alone pull the triggers.

CHEL: Baby Grandpa crawls from the crater, and Halley the dog turns out to be alive.

The young boy has difficulty pronouncing the name though. Sounds more like "Harley" when he says it.

How does he know it? The colonel died before he even noticed the baby was there. Is baby Nanna speaking well enough to tell him yet? I guess he could be told later, as Sassacre wasn’t in fact their only sapient guardian...

Thirteen years later, the boy develops a taste for adventure. He and his guardian bid farewell. His sister is sad. She will be left all alone with the wicked pastry baroness. She can handle it, he tells her. He believes in her.

It isn’t clear why she didn’t go with him, or leave under her own power. They don’t seem to be imprisoned, as the panel depicts them outside on grass with no restraints or guards over them, so it’s not a matter of only one of them being able to get out. That’s a point for Nanna not trying and a point for Grandpa not bringing her:

HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 9

That dog is also remarkably lively, considering it, unlike Bec, is an entirely normal dog, it was an adult thirteen years previously, and it’s somehow supporting the weight of an entire teenager on its back (again, please don’t try this at home, you can break the dog’s spine that way).

FAILURE ARTIST: As we’ve said, Colonel Sassacre is a thinly-veiled Mark Twain expy. The real Mark Twain died in 1910 at the same time Halley’s Comet was in the sky. It’s a cute historical gag having him be literally killed by a comet but it does muck up the timeline. Nanna must have been a senior citizen when Dad was born. Perhaps he’s adopted?

CHEL: The other option is that Dad is a senior citizen now, but surely John would have wondered why his dad is so ridiculously old. I think it’s just that thing in mainstream comics and cartoons where adults are split into Old and Not Old, and the parents are normal ages for parents but the grandparents would have to be in their hundreds going by the gags. See how Scrooge McDuck in the DuckTales reboot is over a hundred and forty years old yet his sister’s son is still a youngish adult.

AR notes that the appearifier is centred over Halley the dog, but hears someone coming. It proves to be the Draconian Dignitary. AR hides and watches, noting that DD is carrying Rose’s notebooks and Dave’s beta envelopes. DD keeps the MEOW book, but throws away the other items. Complacency of the Learned lands on the floor, and the envelopes land in the time capsule, which sets to bloom in four hundred and thirteen million years.

Meanwhile, John talks to CG while infant Mom Lalonde pets the mutant kitten. John asks if there’s any way to delay the Reckoning, but nope; CG warns him that the smallest meteors will start going in only a few minutes.

EB: ok, well you keep saying how doomed we are and how all this bad stuff happens sooner, but you never say why! EB: what happens in our game that's different from yours that makes things go so badly? CG: JACK NOIR.

The Jack Noir from the trolls’ game session allied with them and helped them dethrone and exile the Black Queen, while the one from the humans’ session, as you may recall, killed the Black Monarchs and gained their powers, and is currently rampaging through the Incipisphere. John asks if it’s the same Jack Noir, but CG explains.

CG: SO LET'S SAY YOU PLAY YOUR BANDICOOT AND I PLAY MY BANDICOOT. CG: THEY ARE ESSENTIALLY THE SAME BANDICOOT, SAME APPEARANCE AND DESIGN AND BEHAVIORS. CG: BUT THEY ARE STILL COMPLETELY SEPARATE BANDICOOTS ON SEPARATE SCREENS. CG: SO WE BOTH HAVE OUR OWN ASS BANDICOOTS TO OURSELVES, THE SAME BUT DIFFERENT. CG: OUR JACKS ARE THE SAME BUT DIFFERENT TOO. CG: SAME GUY, DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES AND OUTCOMES. CG: OUR JACK TRUMPED THE QUEEN, BUT GOT NO FURTHER. CG: YOUR JACK GOT THE BEST OF BOTH OF THEM, AND IS NOW SOMETHING HIGHER THAN A QUEEN OR A KING… EB: like an ace? CG: SURE OK.

The trolls don’t know what went so differently to cause the two Jacks to behave so differently, but CG doesn’t think it matters by now. John interrupts him, deciding to do yet another Con Air ending re-enactment.

Watch on YouTube

Recap: montage of Con Air posters and images to the tune of “How Do I Live Without You”. John hands the thoroughly disgusting Con Air bunny to the protesting baby Rose, while CG watches huffily on his monitor. Jade demands a toy too, so John hands her the bunny he received from Rose in an excessively dramatic fashion. CG frustratedly hits himself in the head. In scribbly crayon-like drawings, Casey the salamander performs a drum solo with glowing blue mushrooms for drums and the Con Air plane crashes. More Con Air imagery, John embraces baby Jade and the baby Lalondes while sobbing; GC points and laughs at him over CG’s shoulder and they have a slapfight. John imagines himself in Nic Cage’s iconic wifebeater and mullet and performs an air guitar solo.

TIER: Lemme tell ya, as someone who's only experience with this darn movie is whatever pops up courtesy of John this sequence is just a trip and a half. Possibly a higher number.

CHEL: Cut to end-of-act curtains; they open on the next page, declaring a PSYCHE; there are more pages to go.

Cut to Dave’s hands, covered in the dead Dave’s blood. I… guess he’s supposed to be staring at them in shock? It’s impossible to tell through his shades. For all I know he could be worried about the cleanup. GC trolls him and they banter creepily, with her demanding to know what his blood smells like and him taunting her about her blindness.

TG: just him and me TG: havin a see party TG: like a couple of eagle eyed bros peepin shit up into the wee hours GC: D4V3 GC: C4N 1 COM3 TO YOUR S33 P4RTY? TG: i guess but youll have to be careful not to stumble around bumping into all the gorgeous masterpieces hanging around everywhere TG: god so beautiful to look at with my perfect eyesight GC: C4N 1 L1CK TH3 P41NT1NGS? TG: yeah thats fine

Neither of them seems to take it particularly hard. If there was narrative around the dialogue, I think we’d get a better grasp of how Dave feels. Lacking much body language or punctuation, tone is a bit tricky to get.

FAILURE ARTIST: There’s a character later who gets a lot of grief for insulting her blindness but reading what John, Dave, and CG say I don’t know how that character could be worse.

CHEL: AT, meanwhile, is trolling Jade, rather politely. He even takes time to ask if she’s having a good nap. She’s worried about John’s dreamself not waking, and AT scrolls into his view of the future timeline, but can’t find John awake, nor see into his dreams. Jade, however, will wake up soon, and she thanks him for this report. Unfortunately, when Jade wakes up she will be in danger, and AT can’t see any further. He tells her CG wants to talk to her about her exploding robot. He can’t see whether it exploded or not because there are a lot of explosions, but asking future Jade shows it did, and that she declared CG to be a pretty nice guy, which surprises AT since he doesn’t think CG is particularly nice. Jade says she thinks AT is nice too, and asks why he’s the only one who talks to her while she’s asleep.

AT: bECAUSE YOU HAVE A ROBOT, tO LET YOU SAY THINGS THAT HAPPEN, oN PROSPIT, AT: aND i'M CURIOUS, AT: bECAUSE THE ONLY TIME i EVER HAD FUN PLAYING THIS GAME WAS WHEN i WAS ASLEEP, AT: bUT NOW ALL OUR DREAM SELVES ARE DEAD, AT: }:'(

AT happily remembers his own time on Prospit, and we cut back to Rose, being trolled by GA despite the fact that Rose is obviously in the middle of an epic magic battle. The conversation is understandably chilly, and GA still hasn’t figured out that “Dumb Rose” as opposed to “Smart Rose” was John rather than a bizarre roleplaying scenario.

GC continues trolling Dave. He asks her how she operates a computer without sight.

GC: 1M SORRY D4V3 TH4T YOU W1LL N3V3R 3XP3R13NC3 TH3 S3NSORY BOUQU3T TH4T 1 3NJOY 3V3RY D4Y GC: TH4T 1 3NSCONC3 MYS3LF 1N L1K3 4 W4RM 4ND COMFY B4THROB3 M4D3 OF FL4VOR 4ND M3LODY TG: oh ok TG: so the dumbest and most far fetched explanation imaginable ok got it

Yes, pretty much. This brings me to a Problematykks point; GC is supposed to be blind, but it really doesn’t seem to affect her in any way at all. Its workaround is ridiculously convenient and effective, and while I’m not blind myself, I know many people with physical disabilities hate it when fiction does this. I know I would be pissed off if a piece of fiction showed an easy and convenient way to not have autism anymore. (Horrible, horrible memories of someone back in the days of Livejournal’s Fanficrants of a fic in which autism was somehow cured by having a foursome. I don’t remember how that was supposed to work.) “She’s a space alien” only goes so far in explaining it. Why even bother making her blind if it’s not going to affect her in any way?

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 19

FAILURE ARTIST: She’s the least blind blind person in media. Characters like Daredevil from Marvel Comics and Toph from Avatar the Last Airbender have a Disability Superpower but at the end of the day they still can’t do things like read printed text. GC has no disadvantages.

BRIGHT: She can apparently smell and taste photons.

Which raises the question why none of the other trolls ever show a heightened sense of smell or taste. If GC can learn to interpret smells as colours, her sense of smell must have been that strong all along, and there’s no indication in the text that she’s biologically more sensitive than her companions. Trolls must be better at following a trail than bloodhounds.

CHEL: Synaesthesia which makes one strongly associate colours with smells is a thing, and synaesthesia is generally the word the fandom uses to explain Terezi’s ability, but you still have to actually see the colours for that to work. If she was only mostly blind and was picking up blurry colour patches, I could buy it (and that is how the fandom tends to do it with human AUs), but not if she’s supposed to be completely blind, and she still wouldn’t be able to read text that way.

BRIGHT: Time for another animation, and for a hop back into the recent past.

Watch on YouTube

As the meteor locked onto Dave’s house approaches, Dave climbs up the tower to retrieve his cruxite egg from the nest his sprite made. Unfortunately the sprite attacks him, knocking him and the egg off the tower. Bro Strider appears on top of the approaching meteor and slices it in half with his katana; the two halves are diverted by the blow and strike different areas of the city. Dave’s fall is broken by a rocket board, which is presumably how Bro got up to the meteor in the first place. (How did he manage to aim it to intercept Dave’s fall? Wouldn’t it take longer to get from the meteor to Dave than it takes for Dave to fall from the top of the tower to the roof of the building? We shall never know.) The egg hatches, and Dave is transported into the Medium. There’s no sign of what happens to Bro.

CHEL: Yet more cartoon physics around the Strider bros.

BRIGHT: I don’t know if we mentioned this earlier, but although Dave and Bro live in an apartment block that presumably housed multiple people, only Dave’s apartment gets transported into the Medium. Everyone else in the complex is left to die on Earth. SBURB is sociopathic.

Elsewhere in the Medium, back in the present, Grandpa’s ship is approaching Skaia, with Mom Lalonde and Dad Egbert on board.

Down on Skaia, Jack Noir draws his sword and slaughters the army WV raised to march on the Black King. WV cowers, but Jack leaves him alive. He then uses the Black Queen’s ring to send some sort of giant red tentacle attack through Skaia, slaughtering Dersite and Prospitian forces indiscriminately.

CHEL: Are they tentacles? I always thought of them as some sort of lightning lasers.

BRIGHT: That makes a lot more sense!

In the ectobiology lab, as the clock ticks down to the Reckoning, the babies are teleported to asteroids around the lab. There must be an air supply in this asteroid belt — characters are consistently shown as being able to survive outside.

CHEL: Maybe it’s just the players’ natural badassery. Batman Can Breathe In Space.

BRIGHT: On Skaia, CD makes his way through Jack’s slaughter fest, which has now ravaged a sizeable chunk of planet, and hands him the White King’s sceptre. Jack raises the sceptre and initiates the Reckoning. The meteorites start to vanish into Skaia’s defence portals. In the frog temple, DD somehow combines the MEOW genetic code with a paradox clone of Halley, creating Jade’s guardian Bec. Bec’s creation damages the laboratory equipment in the temple.

Cut to Jade, who is snoozing peacefully while her dream self explores Prospit. She looks up at Skaia, to see Jack’s shadow passing in front of it. Jack launches his tentacle attack on Prospit, slaughtering the inhabitants, then severs the chain attaching Prospit’s moon to the planet. The moon begins falling towards Skaia.

Jack then flies to LOHAC, where he encounters Bro Strider on one of the turntable mesas. Unexpectedly, Bro is able to give Jack an even fight. After a few exchanges, he drives his katana into the mesa; some sort of golden light emanates from the crack, and Bro absconds.

Wait, how did Bro get onto LOHAC? How did he survive the meteor impacts?

TIER: The ol' "rule of cool". As long as something is sufficiently "absolutely kickass!!" the rules of reality and physics can go sit on the bleachers twiddling their thumbs for all they fucking matter. There's a reason early fandom pinned down Bro as an unorthodox but immensely cool older brother type guy for so long. Because with what little information was available before we got bludgeoned with "No actually he was the absolute fucking worst thing to happen to Dave and fucked him up for life" that was the general impression he gave off.

CHEL: This and the meteor splitting are yet more reason not to take Bro’s treatment of Dave seriously; this is a world in which ludicrous animesque badassery rules the day, and physically impossible feats of battle occur every five minutes. Forcing a child to go through extensive and excessive sword training in brutal heat in a precarious place, possibly every day, ought by rights to be normal there, and I can’t believe he was physically hurt by swordfighting when he survived a meteor collision as an infant. Besides, training that extensive quite possibly could be the only thing that would keep Dave alive in these circumstances.

ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 18

BRIGHT: There’s a random Squiddles interlude, and then we return to Skaia.

John’s unconscious dream self has fallen out of Prospit’s moon as it plummets towards Skaia. Jade tries shaking him awake, and then slaps him, but to no avail. At the last moment, she throws him out of the path of the moon, and her dream self is then killed when it lands on her. Back on Earth, her dreambot overloads and explodes.

CHEL: Taking her tower room with it; Jade’s sleeping body plummets towards the earth.

BRIGHT: The moon leaves a gigantic crater in Skaia. John’s now-conscious dreamself hovers above it.

The babies vanish through the defence portals to Earth.

CHEL: Each takes an item with them. John takes the Sassacre book, Rose the first Con Air bunny, Dave rides Maplehoof, Jade takes the bunny Rose gave to John (which is in fact the Con Air bunny plus several years and repairs), Nanna sits inside Dad’s old hat, Mom takes the mutant kitten, Bro sleeps in the lap of Li’l Cal, and Grandpa dual wields the flintlock pistols he should not be allowed.

BRIGHT: Dave and Rose reach the Gates above their houses and set out to explore their Lands. We close on an eerie shot of Bec outside the frog temple on Jade’s island at night.

CHEL: Jade’s tower room is blown to bits, and a truly enormous meteor hovers over the scene.

Curtains close. End of Act 4. Before Act 5, we receive a message from Rose, via her GameFAQ.

[ZZZZ] Rose: Egress. This is my final entry. My co-players and I have made every earnest attempt, with occasional relapse, to play this game the right way.

Really? You haven’t been in the game for more than a couple of hours and Jade still isn’t in at all! Maybe consider that the fact that not all your players are in the game yet when you wonder why it isn’t working?

I have been meticulous in documenting the process to help our peers and successors through the trials should we fail. In my hubris I believed these classes were relegated to the Earth-bound, but in even this quaint supposition I was in error. Our otherworldly antagonists have assured us of our inevitable failure repeatedly, while the gods whisper corroboration in my sleep. I believe them now. I just blew up my first gate. I’m not sure why I did it, really. I am not playing by the rules anymore. I will fly around this candy-coated rock and comb the white sand until I find answers. No one can tell me our fate can’t be repaired. We’ve come too far. I jumped out of the way of a burning fucking tree, for God’s sake.

I can see her point. The game is horrible and should be stopped. On the other hand, I’d at least attempt to spend more than one day investigating it before trying to break it. Randomly destroying shit is more likely to make things much worse than anything else.

I have used a spell to rip this walkthrough from Earth’s decaying network, and sealed it in one of the servers floating in the Furthest Ring. The gods may disperse the signal throughout the cosmos as they wish. Perhaps it will be of use to past or future species who like us have been ensnared by Skaia’s malevolent tendrils. In case it wasn’t clear, magic is real. Pardon my egress. You’re on your own now.

This note is signed with a glowing multicoloured “RL” and revealed to be emitted from a purple box with an aerial, floating in space. It seems that’s how their internet’s still working.

FAILURE ARTIST: The internet seems to be a magical dimension in Homestuck and not something that’s part of physical infrastructure.

CHEL: Hours in the future, WV lands in the desert remains of Earth, wrapped up in John’s old ghost-patterned bedsheet, which is still white. A villein becomes a vagabond. In his memory, he tears up an effigy of Jack Noir… where’d he get it? Did the game create it for some reason? Anyway, John’s blanket falls on him from the sky as Prospit plummets; WV calls it a RAG OF SOULS. Adorably melodramatic.

John’s awoken dreamself gazes sadly at Jade’s deceased one, which for some reason isn’t actually under the rubble of Prospit and appears to still be three-dimensional. There’s no excessive blood splatter like with the dead Dave, which is good, not too over the top. He retrieves the Queen’s ring from her hand. Was he told at any point that it’s important? Because if he doesn’t know, I’m not sure robbing the dead is very heroic. He sees an image of himself flying over the battlefield in a large cloud above him; in the vision he’s near a castle, so he goes to seek it out.

On Earth, PM wraps herself up in an old Prospit banner. A mistress becomes a mendicant. In her memories, she has beheaded the Hegemonic Brute and is arranging a meeting with Jack Noir. He arrives and she presents the crowns; smirking evilly, he honours their bargain, and the Courtyard Droll brings her the green parcel. She brings it to the castle from John’s vision as he arrives there, hands over the box, and angrily walks away.

FAILURE ARTIST: She’s Honor Before Reason (maybe she’s programmed that way) but she has the right reaction. This is a lot to go through to deliver a package.

CHEL: Inside the box is a letter from Jade’s unknown pen pal, who writes in dark green and a distinctive jolly-hockey-sticks dialect, with a tendency to ramble off on tangents about movies and wrestling.

Anyway you should listen to jade from here on out john because she sure seems to know whats best for you. Whatever your adventure throws at you im sure shell tell you you can handle it. She believes in you.

And another letter from Jade.

even though its super late and you probably went through a lot of trouble to get it, i really hope this present cheers you up! you looked so sad while you were reading my letter. um... which is to say, the one you are reading now.

She explains that in her dreams she goes to Prospit and John’s sleeping dream self is there, and that’s where she gets her visions. She hopes he likes his present, and says her penpal is fun…

john i am REALLY looking forward to seeing you when you wake up!!!!! its been nice playing with my prospitian friends and all, but also kind of lonely knowing you were in the other tower sleeping and having lousy dreams. :( im not sure where i am when you are reading this but im sure ill make it down to where you are soon! (jeez how did you get down there??? oh well ill find out) i cant wait to fly around the moon with you and show you all my favorite places. itll be so much fun!!!!!!!!! :D <3 jade

Ow. I think this is the only time John cries in the entire comic.

A Single Tear(™) is a bit of an understated reaction to the death of one of your best friends who you just recently learned is also your twin sister, but to be fair, John isn’t left with very much time to react, as next panel Jack Noir’s sword is pointed at his face.

BRIGHT: John knows about dream selves and waking selves by now, I think?

CHEL: He knows they’re a thing but I don’t think he knows they count as backup lives. AT told Jade dream selves can die separately from regular selves but I don’t think anyone told John.

FAILURE ARTIST: Jack Noir wants the ring, but then he’s stopped by Jade’s gift: a robotic bunny wielding multiple weapons.

They line up for a fight.

Hours in the future, on a destroyed planet, AR wraps police tape around himself and becomes a Aimless Renegade. Before the disaster, he went to the Veil, where he found a sleeping John. He saves John by putting him on a rocket board.

Back to the robotic bunny. Jack Noir flies away from the fight. Grandpa’s battleship lands and Grandpa takes away Jade’s body. Mom and Dad disembark the ship and wave goodbye as it leaves. Grandpa cries a Single Tear as he transports Jade’s already taxidermed body. Did he have a machine?

CHEL: For that matter, why isn’t he helping anyone who’s actually still alive while he’s there?

HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 10

FAILURE ARTIST: Nope, transporting a dead body is more important.

Again going back, White Queen leaves Prospit. On landing, she becomes Windswept Questant and wanders the Earth. We go forward years later. She repairs the laboratory and meets up with AR, WV, and PM. WV’s homemade spear hides the ring.

John watches this scene through the clouds of Skaia. He looks at the ring in his hand. In another cloud, there’s Jade’s laboratory. We close in on it and inside is The Fourth Wall. It isn’t turned on, but we are still lead to Andrew Hussie, banging away on a computer keyboard as he recaps the plot for a second time.

CHEL: Which we shall do as well when we’re done with this section, because it’s insanely hard to keep track of everything.

FAILURE ARTIST: Andrew Hussie says Nanna’s comet landed 99 years before John’s “birth” so he has some clue about the age but still doesn’t see it odd that a woman that age has a son who is probably only in his thirties.

CHEL: As I said, it’s also possible Dad was really old too, but that’s never really suggested. Not to mention, since they were brought into existence as toddlers, shouldn’t the kids be noticeably older than the ages given for them? John should be biologically fourteen to fifteen by now and at that age that can make a visible difference. I know the art style doesn’t really give clues, but no one I’ve seen has ever pointed that out in fanfic either.

FAILURE ARTIST: Newborns aren’t distinctive looking and can’t really do the cute things toddlers do. People in TV and movies regularly give birth to six month old infants so it’s not strange.

CHEL: True, but this isn’t TV, it’s a comic, and they don’t have to use an actual infant as a prop here.

BRIGHT: Possibly it’s intentional. Among other things, we see the newly-created players survive short trips through vacuum, crash-land on Earth without even minor injuries, and handle weapons they shouldn’t be able to lift for another four or five years. This could work if players have superhuman abilities (that is, beyond the classpect system). If that was the intent then it really should be made more explicit, though.

Of course, what it really boils down to is that Homestuck runs off Rule of Cool and Rule of Funny, and occasionally breaks down on examination as a result.

On the whole this is a solid Act, I think! We have a lot of new stuff happening, more characters get introduced, and we find out some more about the trolls. It’s much less rambling than Act 1.

COUNTS ALL THE LUCK: 0 ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 18 CALL CPA PLEASE: 8 CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 19 GET ON WITH IT!: 18 GORE GALORE: 10 HOW NOT TO WRITE A WEBCOMIC: 15 HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 10 IN HATE WITH MY CREATION: 0 RELATIONSHIP GOALS?: 1 SEND THEM TO THE SLAMMER: 1 SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS: 0 WHAT IS HAPPENING??: 9 WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 19 TOTAL: 127

#homestuck #Let's read #homestuck meta #reread #literary critique #sporking #Homespork

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vashti-lives · 4 years

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I’M DONE!!!!

(ok i’m not done this yarn is defo still full of wax residue. whatever! i’m putting it away and washing it later when i have the capacity to look at it again.)

I will say this was an interesting project from the perspective that at the midway point I was pretty discouraged. The yarn was full of goopy sprinkle residue and it was obvious that it wasn’t going to dissolve easily and I was kind of worried I was going to wreck the yarn trying to get everything out. I decided to keep going because what else was there but by the time I went to bed I was pretty sure the yarn would be a total loss. Even aside from the residue the yarn just felt kind of nasty, like it was going to dry out totally scratchy. Thankfully an overnight soak in Eucalan kind of salvaged that.

The next hurdle was the realization that washing it as roughly as I had had almost certainly left it a total tangled mess. When I took it out of the bucket the next morning it just looked like it was going to be impossible to re-skein. Honestly if I hadn’t really liked the way the colors had turned out I might have given up at this point.

Then I put it on my makeshift swift (a swiveling office chair with boxes piled on it) and started the process of winding it it was… fine. A tiny bit tangled but nowhere near as bad as the speckled purple yarn which I would swear to you I handled way more gently. So I really have to give props to whatever mill Knit Picks is getting this yarn from because they did an A+ job tying it up.

Winding still took forever of course but that was mainly because I kept stopping to get even more leftover sprinkle bits out of the yarn.

Anyway its still kind of crunchy BUT the yarn that isn’t covered in dried goop is actually still quite soft, it isn’t super ragged or fuzzy and I’m starting to feel like the goop will eventually wash out. I mean I’m probably not touching this yarn again for at least six months but hey, not a total loss!

#time to dye #its funfetti yarn time #full cheese factor would be turning it into a cupcake hat with some of that tea dyed yarn i have #we'll see #at the moment it is banished next to my other semi-failure that needs work before i'd want to do anything with it

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mymindsmadness · 5 years

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𝐹𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝐿𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈

Happy MyTake!Monday all!

This Monday I wanted to share something I’ve been messing around with for a while. Several drafts of this have been sitting in my folder forever. It was something I really liked the concept of, but wasn’t sure I could do justice. As of right now, it’s just a one-shot, but I’ve considered writing more. If I do, it probably won’t be every Monday, just for the simple fact that this took me so long to stop messing with. Either way, Enjoy!

Rating: T (as of right now)

Warnings: I’m very much an American. I try to get a lot of the terminology and whatnot as close as I can to not take people out of it, but nothing is perfect. Also, I suffer from insomnia. It doesn’t sound bad, but a lot of my editing was done under sleep deprivation.

Notes: If you guys like this, make sure to leave a comment. As I’ve said, this is a one-shot right now. For me to even consider writing more, I’d have to know that people were actually enjoying it!

Summary: When Voldemort killed Harry, it was not Dumbledore he met at King’s Cross, but an angel of fate. Harry threw his fate off course, and she’s not happy about it. There is only one thing to do. Start over.

Although Harry knew death would come quickly, he hadn’t quite understood it until he was standing in the ghostly version of King’s Cross Station. Was this… heaven? Did wizards even believe in such a thing? It didn’t seem like the heaven Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon went on and on about every Sunday after church. There were no puffy clouds or harps. Most importantly, there were no people. Where were his parents? Where was Sirius or Remus or Tonks? Maybe this was some kind of… purgatory? Harry shuttered at the thought. Had he not done enough? Had he not earned his right to be with them? His whole life he had been nothing but a puppet on a string, dancing by the will of others. In the end his life wasn’t even his, but he sacrificed it anyway. If that hadn’t been enough to re-

His thoughts were cut off by his own (admittedly, embarrassingly high-pitched) scream as he turned to find a woman not much other than himself sitting on one of the pearly benches. She looked serene in this place that wasn’t a place. Her eyes were a haunting silver to match everything else around her, but her hair was a wild nest of black curls. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He didn’t know why, but he had expected her voice to echo within the not-place.

Nervously, Harry wiped his hands down the front of his trousers. “Err – not your fault I suppose.” He tried for a polite smile, but the twitching of her full lips told him he had failed. “Where are we? It looks like King’s Cross…”

“I suppose it does. Though, I’ve never seen it in person.” She hummed, her expression neutral as she looked around. “I think it’s supposed to be symbolic. Either way it came from your subconscious, so it’s hard to say.” She shrugged and moved to one side, patting the bench beside her.

He hesitated, his nerves from being on the run still frazzled. But what was the worst that could happen? He was already dead after all. Carefully, Harry moved to sit beside the woman. “I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”

Again her lips twitched as those sharp mercury eyes turned to him. “I know who you are, Harry Potter.” She hummed again, taking in his appearance. “I’ve been watching you since you were a baby.”

Many people had watched Harry his whole life, it seemed. Still, a chill of unease worked its way up his spine. “Are you… an angel then?” She certain looked angelic enough, if not for the mass of untamed curls that reminded him slightly (unnervingly) of Bellatrix’s.

“In a sense.” Her tone was light. “I’m a fate weave. One that happens to be in charge of your fate line.” His confusion must have been clear because she continued on. “The Greeks had it right – for the most part. Every person on earth has a fate line. Like… a thread that represents a path. You still have freewill, so sometimes that thread gets knotted. It typically sorts itself out, or it had been. Everyone’s thread is woven together into a… tapestry of sorts.” Standing, she held out her hand a moment before a wall of what appeared to be glowing, golden yarn appeared next to her. He couldn’t see the top, as it faded well above the not-place. The edges stuck out over what would have been the tracks, going on for quite some time. Most of the lines ended before it reached the thin frame that held it in place. It didn’t have a particular pattern, and there were loose ends sticking out in places, but it was… beautiful. Harry could have sworn he heard it humming in the silence of the ghostly King’s Cross. There was something about it that humbled him... made him feel insignificant for the first time in years.

“So that - that’s everyone on earth right now?” He asked, standing slowly. Millions of tiny strands, each practically dancing between several others, humming and pulsing it’s siren’s song. “Their fate lines I mean.”

“This is just a small portion.” Standing on her toes, she pointed to a strand of thread, following it with her finger. “This one is yours.” She came to the first small knot. “This is Ron Weasley’s… and a little further down, Hermione Granger’s.” The bands wove together into an elegant braid, at least, from what Harry could see. “You don’t know how hard it was convincing the fate weaver in charge of her line to keep her out of Ravenclaw. In the end, we knew it was for the greater good.”

Hearing their names hurt. He would never see them again. Here he was learning about their lives - their fates that were changed because of him. Maybe this wasn’t heaven or purgatory. Maybe this was hell. Sure, Harry hadn’t been horrible during his time on earth, but he hadn’t been a saint either. “Why are you telling me these things?” It didn’t seem possible in this not-place, but Harry felt… tired. He had been so tired for so long.

“Because you knotted your line.” The woman’s face had been a mask of calm until that point. At this, she looked distraught. “You really mucked it up, you know! I worked day and night to keep you on track, and then you threw your line off course with a bit of idiocy and panic! Because of that, several others were changed.” She pointed to a few loose ends before landing on a tight knot along his own line.

It wasn’t like the small knots that represented his life with Ron and Hermione. This was a nest of tangles that reminded him very much of that one time his Uncle Vernon made him spend the day unknotting Christmas lights. From the sides of the knot, several edges frayed and stuck out in all directions. Only a handful went on after that. Harry’s, he noticed, did not end. “Those ends… are they…”

“Deaths.” She hummed. “I’m going to get demoted now…” Her tiny tone of distress wasn’t meant for him this time.

“So you’re telling me… it’s all planned? I never had a choice at all, and I would always end up here? Dead?” A weight settled in Harry’s stomach that almost made him feel dizzy. “It wouldn’t have mattered if I fought Voldemort or just enjoyed my time with my mates?”

“Of course it mattered, Harry.” Her voice was gentle, her eyes soft. It was almost worse to be pitied. “Typically fate is set, that much is true. You would have always ended up here, but the journey could have been much better for everyone. You’re the first person I’ve ever met that managed to rewrite the outcome of several lives. In fact, this wasn’t meant to be your last stop at all. You were meant to go back.”

“Cheers.” Harry nearly barked. Of course he was the exception. “If fate is set, I don’t see how I could have rewritten it in the first place.”

“It’s like…” She paused, biting her bottom lip before reaching into her nest of hair and producing a hairpin. “This pin is meant to hit the floor, yeah?” She waited for him to nod. “It’s this pin’s fate to land on the floor. It will do so. I want you to try and rewrite its fate.” She released it.

It was only through war-trained senses and years of playing seeker that Harry was able to reach out and grab the hair hairpin mid-air. Holding it up for her to see, he raised an eyebrow feeling satisfied with himself. “That wasn’t very hard. I’m surprised more people don’t rewrite their fate.”

“But you haven’t rewritten it.” She pointed out, a smug smile lighting her face. “Its fate is the same. You might not put it down now, but I imagine you don’t intend to carry it with you always. Maybe to make a point you would for a while, but sooner or later you’ll forget it. Eventually, it will fulfill its destiny. We can manipulate or alter the roads humans take based on their choices, but the outcome will always be the same… except... in your case.”

“Look, I’m sorry miss…” He balled his fist around the hairpin, willing it to dig into his skin and take away some of his pain.

“Lyra.” She offered, her eyes moving to his fate line in dismay. “Lyra Black.”

Harry’s anger left him in an instant. “As in the Black family? Sirius Black?” It would make sense, now that Harry thought about it. She had the eyes and hair for it, though she looked younger than Sirius.

“Yes.” She was smiling again now, the tapestry nearly humming in protest as she turned from it. “I was his aunt - or second aunt’s cousin? It’s all terribly confusing when it comes to pureblood lines. I never cared for them. I am sorry about him passing through the veil, love. You’ll be happy to know he talked my ear off about you when he passed through here.” She gave him a small smile. “But where were… ah yes.” She pointed to the beginning of the large, unsightly knot. “Mr. Malfoy.”

Harry was still processing the information about his godfather when she mentioned the name. He scoffed, taking a step back in shock. “Lucius Malfoy screwed up my timeline? I should have known-”

“No, no. Don’t be silly.” She waved him off with her free hand. “Draco Malfoy. You used a spell on him… Sectumsempra. Nasty bit of work. Poor dear.”

“P-Poor dear!?” Harry’s anger returned in a flood. “He was going to crucio me! I’ve been fighting a war while he sat on his arse having tea with the dark lord! I hardly think-“

“Don’t be daft.” He was cut off by the sharpness of her gaze. It was easier to her relation to Bellatrix at that moment. “He was a scared child. Don’t you remember what Voldemort told you when you tried to use the cruciatus curse on Bellatrix? He wasn’t wrong when he said that you have to mean it. I hate to be the one to tell you this, Harry, but Draco wouldn’t have meant it. You weren’t meant to hurt him that day, you were meant to save him.

“He never wanted anyone’s life on his hands. Why do you think he didn’t give you to Voldemort when he had the chance? Doing so would not only have saved his family, but given them a standing social status in the new world. He chose to save your life instead.”

Harry blinked, his eyes moving back to the tapestry. The gaudy knot stuck out more than anything else. Was it true? Was it all true? Part of Harry wanted to believe that Malfoy had not recognized him that day at the manor, but the larger part knew that he had. “I was meant to… save Malfoy? That’s ridiculous! Dumbledore tried!”

“Well Albus wasn’t meant to save him, now was he? Keep up, Potter!” He couldn’t argue with that. “Because you found that blasted book, everything was thrown off. Several deaths could have been avoided and now- are you alright? You’ve gone a bit green.”

Deaths. More death was on his hands. It had been more than just cutting Malfoy open, which he had already felt terrible about… he had killed people. “I think I need to sit down…” He sunk back into the bench behind him as the tapestry flew upwards and out of sight, making the not-place seem even emptier. “All those people… I could have…” He took a deep, shaky breath.

“You still can.” Harry’s chin jerked upwards to meet Lyra’s determined gaze. Suddenly, she looked a great deal more like Sirius than Bellatrix. “It’s against the rules, you see... There will be some things that you cannot change. And you certainly wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. However… if we can unknot the tapestry, you’ll get the fate you deserve and I won’t get sacked.”

Harry wasn’t sure how an angel could even get sacked, but he imagined it wasn’t pleasant. What did she mean? Did she want him to dabble in bringing the dead back? He had no desire to make Inferi, and he didn’t know of any other way. “I… I won’t bring them back to life.”

“Of course not, Harry.” She rolled her eyes. “But what if you could go back to that moment? What if you could do it all over knowing what you know now?”

In the back of his mind something prickled dangerously. It sounded an awful lot like Hermione warning him not to meddle with time. But what if he could. He would still be a horcux… he would still have to fight… but maybe, with more time, he wouldn’t have to die. Not like this. “Okay… yes. I want to do it over.”

Her smile was cat-like as she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Chin up Harry. You’re going to love where this leads.”

As everything faded to white, the last thing Harry saw was the glint of light off the small black hair pin sitting quietly on the floor...

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#harry potter #draco malfoy #drarry #if you squint #possible future drarry #if I continue #my fic #fanfiction #I'm not happy with it #but it's better than the first draft #I like the concept I just suck at writing these plots

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