BONUS ROUND 1

[hso_mods]

Bonus Round 1

Genre-Mixing

Hey, shippers! Welcome to your very first bonus round proper--we hope you have lots of fun with it! This time around we're going to be asking you to mix it up a little--each fanwork posted for this round will be a mish-mash of two different genres, blended together in a delightful incestuous slurry to create an UNSTOPPABLE CREATIVE CONCOCTION--er. Or. Something.

Yeah, we're genre-mixing. That's what we're doing this round.

Rules

1. Submit prompts! Prompts should consist of two different genres and one ship. This cannot be your team's ship! These are worth 5 points each, for a maximum of 100 points per team.


2. Look through the prompts and fill whichever you like!


3. You may not fill prompts for your ship, nor may you fill your own team's prompts.


4. Fills should be posted as replies to the prompts which they are for, following the format below. They may be any medium.

Title Format
If you are starting a new thread, please use this format in your title.
PROMPT: TEAM [YOUR SHIP]
Replace [YOUR SHIP] with the name of the team YOU belong to; please use the characters and quadrant, not whatever portmanteau or nickname you've come up with.
If your team name is not in this format and in the title we cannot guarantee that it will be counted.

If you are filling a prompt, use this format in your title.
FILL: TEAM [YOUR SHIP]
Replace [YOUR SHIP] with the name of the team YOU belong to; please use the characters and quadrant, not whatever portmanteau or nickname you've come up with.
If your team name is not in this format and in the title we cannot guarantee that it will be counted.

Posts not using this format in the title will be understood to be unofficial discussion posts, no matter what they contain. They, like all comments on the comm, are subject to the Wank Policy.

Scoring
For prompt posts: 5 points each (maximum of 100 per team)

For fills (as stated here):
First 5 entries in each post: 30 (per entry)
Entries 6-10 in each post: 20 (per entry)
Entries 11-15 in each post: 10 (per entry)
Entries 16+ in each post: 5 (per entry)

All scored content must be created/assembled new for this round.

If you have any questions, please ask them at the FAQ post here, or email them to us (homestuck.shipping at gmail). Otherwise, we cannot guarantee that we will see them in a timely fashion!

Comments

FILL: TEAM TEREZI<3<VRISKA

[fortnight_dreaming]

Haha, left this til last minute, but really had to do this prompt, because steampunk. And minimalism.

PROMPT: TEAM Aradia<>Dave

[eremiticantiquarian]

Need a last minute fill?

Dave <3 Tavros, haiku + slice of life

PROMPT: TEAM Aradia<>Dave

[eremiticantiquarian]

Need a last minute fill?

Mindfang <3 Dolorosa, haiku + burlesque

PROMPT: TEAM Aradia<>Dave

[eremiticantiquarian]

Need a last minute fill?

Aradia <> Tavros, haiku + fantasy adventure

FILL: TEAM KANAYA<3ROSE

[nekogirl1120]

Meet Super Bro and Tipsy Paw

FILL: TEAM Roxy<3Dirk

[chronologicalimplosion]

((So, this is kinda weird, and I know you asked for spades, but while I was waiting a response I sorta formulated this as flip-flopping back and forth and I love it that way and that's how it's staying. Not as prose-poetic as it is dictionaric, but still.

LOVED the prompt, by the way.))

Meeting (n)
1. A smile of teeth like broken glass, esp. when beside her broken veneer.
2. A drunken giggle, growing grotesque in the air and echoing in his head until it becomes imagined offense.
3. It's supposed to be a professional interaction for a professional conference. In modern usage, it's not.

First (adj)
1. A correct-but-wrong impression.
(Noun phrases)
1. First words
a) "Why the fuck are you laughing?"
b) "Because I'm having fun. You should try it some time."
2. First date
a) An impossibly unlikely occurrence, like that of a cherub falling in love or any one instance of a universe winning the game.
b) Where her dress is made of dainty flower petals, her words are made of ice, and her mind is made of booze.
c) An even rarer occurrence in light of the fun he has.
3. First kiss
a) Starting messily and angrily, passion and unrestrained beasts and lips and teeth colliding.
b) Softening slowly as they grow together, as the flashing, explosive need for contact subsides and the slower, lazier creek-desire to explore takes over.
c) A good hour spent with hardly a break for air.
4. First time
a) Where she--alternatively a burning, scarring, blazing fire and a slow, loving, healing caress of water--and he--very much the same--meet in full.
b) A long-awaited event.
c) Fantastic. Awkward, but fantastic.

Love (n)
1a. The long quiet while she sits and codes and he sits and codes and they're in the same room doing the same thing but might as well be universes apart.
1b. The harmony in said silence.
2a. His insistences that she not drink herself away and understanding patience while she does so anyway.
2b. The way he carries her back to bed, expecting and taking nothing from her in her weakness, and then grumpily nurses the hangover in the morning.
3. Her genuinely enraged, tearing-down shouts as she stands up for him, no matter how many times she had said the insult herself.
(v)
1. A feeling or action found between sheets, as in "I love you."
2. A feeling or action expressed in private moments of excitement or strong impression, as in "I love you!"

Hate (n)
1a. Fights and screaming matches and two infinitely stubborn souls meeting, never giving in so long as all the other does is charge in guns blazing.
1b. The inevitability that that is all the other will do.
2a. Her continual insults to everything about him, ostentatiously playful but meant to tear him down.
2b. The simmering inside of him as he can't strangle out a response.
3a. His occasional-often-rare sabotage.
3b. Her unbridled rage in response.
(v)
1. A feeling or action expressed in public, as in "I hate you."
2. A feeling or action found suddenly, sporadically, and passionately in barely-private places and vigorous, violent contact, as in "I hate you!"

Trust (n)
1a. Roxy Lalonde and Sollux Captor.
1b. Something they will have between them no matter what else changes.

FILL: TEAM [Dirk<>Roxy]

[alymira]

Ahhhhh~ This was a great prompt! ;;u;;

----------

"Just hold still Mr. Slick."

The gangster had no intention on doing anything of the sort. Snarling menacingly, he ripped the IV needle out of his arm and shot out of the cot. He hurriedly made for his suit-coat, hanging on the bed-frame, and shuffled towards the door. If not for the numerous amounts of injuries he'd sustained, he might have managed to leave.

Instead, Spades Slick, the king of the shadows in Midnight City, the widely feared leader of the Midnight Crew, found himself collapsing onto the floor, coughing. Wheezing and hacking, he lifted his hand to his face, drawing in sharply when he saw candy-red blood splayed across his palms. He clenched his jaw and formed fists at his side. He stared resolutely at the floor as soft steps came up behind him and a gentle hand rested on his shoulder.

"You need to rest."

He looked back at her cuttingly, "What I need is to get out there and help my fucking crew."

"They'll be fine."

He set his jaw. They would most certainly not be fine. It wasn't just some upstart group of wannabe thugs they were facing out there. It was full-on warfare with The Felt. And to make matters even worse, Crowbar was there. Even the stupidest members of their green-clad lackies were half-way competent with him around to give the orders.

Slick winced as Ms. Paint helped him up, wrenching his arm out of her grasp as soon as they stood. She frowned at him but said nothing, gesturing towards the cot instead and nodding encouragingly as he hobbled towards it. He sat down with a groan, grabbing at his chest. His bandages were wet, likely because he'd torn a few stitches trying to get away.

Ms. Paint tutted and shook her head when she saw, walking over to the nightstand and pulling out fresh rolls of wrapping, "Relax Mr. Slick."

"Relax?" Slick laughed bitingly as she made her way back over to him, "How the hell am I supposed to do that when Droog 'n them other idiots are probably fucking dying out there? How the fuck am I supposed to just lie here and do shit all when my fucking team is being sliced to pieces just a few rooms away from me? How do I do that, huh? You think it's fucking easy to leave them there? I may not give a shit about those assholes on any other day but fuck if I don't care that they might end up dead just 'cause I wasn't there with them."

She pursed her lips and watched him sternly, "Now you listen to me, Slick. They'll be absolutely fine."

Slick snorted derisively and opened his mouth to retort only to yelp in surprise as she pressed a finger to his lips to shush him, "You want to know how I know that?"

Hesitant to speak, Slick watched her keenly for a moment before nodding. She suddenly smiled at him and moved her hand away, instead choosing to sit down beside him on the cot. Slick watched her, dazed, as she placed a reassuring hand on either side of his face and kept her eyes focused directly on him, "I know they'll be fine because they're your crew, Slick. You chose them all for a reason."

She kissed him softly on his forehead and pulled him into a hug, resting his head on her shoulder, "They can handle themselves. After all, as you're so fond of reminding me, you built this city. And who better to use her tricks and twists to their advantage than your crew?"

Slick buried his face into her neck and moved his arms up to hold her. He let out a shudder and fisted his hands in her blouse. Neither of them would ever again mention the curious sounds escaping from Slick's mouth as he left damp spots on her shoulder and, really, neither of them would ever speak of this day again. But as Droog calmly strolled into the room hours later, Boxcars and Deuce in tow, they shared a look which held more in it than words could sufficiently express.

Re: FILL: TEAM DAVE<3ROSE<3TEREZI

[chronologicalimplosion]

This is really great.

I was gonna fill this, but I don't think I could've done as good of a job. So props to you. (Love the DO NOT section most.)

FILL: TEAM EQUIUS<3ERIDAN

[messageredacted]

Warning: body horror

The first sign that the change is coming is when your skin gets itchy and tight, like your insides have started to grow faster than your outsides. You spend two nights in sullen denial, soaking in the ablution trap and scratching ceaselessly, before you finally have to admit that it really is starting.

Terezi went through this six perigees ago, and you’d had to put up with her constant complaining for a full week before she molted, and then, even worse, you’d had to put up with the winking emoticons in Trollian while she teased you for being so young and immature. What’s it like? you’d asked her. You’ll find out, she had replied.

Then, of course, Sollux had gone through it, followed by Tavros, Kanaya, and eventually everyone else you knew, until it was just you, still hovering in your final instar, on the edge of sexual maturity.

Some days you had thought maybe you weren’t going to molt at all. Maybe your mutation was too severe, and instead of reaching maturity you would just stagnate right here, stunted and half-formed until you died young.

But now that it’s started, you find that you wish it wouldn’t. Once you molt, you’ll be an adult, and that means your blood color is going to be far more obvious. Your life is going to become even more of a clusterfuck than it is now.

##

You wake up the next night with a film over your eyes. Everything is blurry and gray. You splash your eyes with water but it doesn’t help. You’re thirsty and your fingers and toes are all swollen and blistered. The sides of your ribcage ache to the touch.

You spend the night in the ablution trap again, miserable and sore. The water feels good, even though your ablution trap is shallow and uncomfortable. You wish you could submerge yourself entirely instead of just sitting hip deep. You lay back in the trap and fantasize over going swimming in the ocean. Of course, that would be a terrible idea; the seadwellers would destroy you. But you can dream.

##

CG: REMEMBER WHEN I STAYED UP TALKING TO YOU ALL DAY BECAUSE YOU WERE TOO SCARED TO GO TO SLEEP AFTER WATCHING TROLL DAWN OF THE DEAD?
CA: wwe agreed to nevver talk about that again
CG: WELL YOU OWE ME A FAVOR.
CA: do i
CG: YES YOU FUCKING DO.
CA: wwhat do you wwant
CG: IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I’VE BEEN TO THE BEACH AND I SORT OF WANTED TO VISIT BUT I DIDN’T WANT SOME FISHFACED PSYCHOPATH TO CULL ME FOR GETTING TOO CLOSE TO THE WATER.
CA: you wwanted to go to the beach
CG: I HAVEN’T BEEN IN A WHILE.
CA: just on a wwhim
CG: WHY IS THAT SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND?
CA: you hate the beach
CG: MY LUSUS IS A CRAB.
CA: you hate the sand
CG: I CAN PUT UP WITH THE SAND.
CA: you hate the wwater
CG: I FUCKING LOVE THE WATER.
CA: are you molting
CG: OH MY GOD. WHY ARE YOU MAKING SUCH A BIG ISSUE OUT OF THIS.
CA: you mean youre only molting noww
CA: kar thats so precious
CG: HOLY SHIT.
CG: FUCK YOU.
CG: I’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW.

##

Since your lusus is a crab, you don’t live too far from the ocean. Still, it’s a long walk when your eyes don’t work correctly and the skin from your hips down is covered in a painful rash. You keep coughing because your lungs feel like they’re filled with fluid.

When you finally feel the sand under your feet, you could almost cry in relief. You can taste the salt on the air and feel the sharp breeze on your face.

“Holy fuck, I forgot how disgustin’ it is,” says Eridan. He’s a blurry shape in the water. “I mean seriously Kar, you look like shit.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter, shuffling through the sand. A wave laps over your feet and you hiss as the salt hits your blisters, but you don’t even hesitate before you wade in deeper.

Water splashes. You push through the breaking surf and then dive into the water. The sensation on your skin is so blissful that you almost groan out loud. The itching in your legs relaxes, and you open your eyes under water.

The film over your eyes isn’t as obtrusive under water. In fact, it protects your eyes from the salt. Eridan flicks his tail and swims in a circle around you, as sinuous as an eel. The purple-black scales over his hips glimmer with iridescence. Any vague thoughts you had of taking off your shirt are immediately banished. There is no way you’re baring an inch of your scrawny gray flesh in front of that kind of physical perfection.

You surface and take a deep breath. Eridan surfaces next to you.

“That’s a molt, all right,” he says.

“Is this as bad as it gets?” you ask despairingly, riding a wave as it raises you off the sand and then lets you down again.

Eridan rakes wet hair out of his face. “Growin’ the tail was the worst bit. I don’t know how it is for land dwellers.”

You groan and sink back under the water, scratching at your ribs. Eridan follows you down and then frowns at you, his eyes fixing on something on your neck. He reaches out and pokes at it and you recoil.

“What the fuck,” you say in a cloud of bubbles, and then you bob to the surface again. “What are you doing, you asshole?”

“You got something on your neck,” he says, reaching out again. You slap his hand away and then poke at your own neck. There’s a knot in your flesh there. In fact, there’s one on both sides of your neck. They hurt to the touch.

As you prod it with a finger, the knot on the right side of your neck splits open. Something unfurls from inside, damp with lymph. You make a noise of utter disgust and duck under the water to rinse it off. The fresh wound stings. Muscles twitch in your neck.

Eridan is staring at you in horror. “Since when do you have fins,” he says.

“It’s not a fin,” you say, tugging at the flap of flesh that has revealed itself. You can’t see it, but you can feel the spines of cartilage inside it. “It’s just some sort of, uh. Growth.”

You claw at the other side of your neck until that splits as well. By this point the itch in your ribcage has grown unbearable, and you can’t even stop yourself from pulling your shirt over your head. You dig your claws into the swollen flesh on each side of your ribcage.

There are six long slits in your chest, three to each side. Each one has a vivid red opercula, and as they peel open for the first time, you can feel cold water rush into your chest. You have a moment of blind terror before you suddenly realize that you’re breathing.

“Holy shit, Kar,” Eridan says underwater, his eyes fixed on the bright red lining of your gills. “You’re a mutant. That’s perverse.” He sounds like he’s caught between disgust and delight.

If you were less distracted, you’d punch him. “Stop staring at me,” you say instead. “Just fuck off back to your hive. I’ll be fine.”

He circles you like a shark. He has far too much spine for a troll. It’s disturbing to see him move like that, like he has muscles in places you didn’t even know existed. “Just wait until your tail grows in. That red is going to be freakish.”

“Fuck you.”

He grins. “There are sea trolls out here who would eat you for breakfast. They’d hunt you for sport.”

You snarl at him with far more confidence than you feel. “You can try.”

“I just might,” he replies. He completes one more circle around you and then kicks off with his tail, giving you more space. “But I’ll give you a head start.”

FILL: TEAM DAVE<3JADE

[watchfob]

The park is a much nicer venue than the spots where you usually sleep. You don't know how you managed to set up your newspaper without being caught; these places are patrolled pretty often for your kind -- the homeless, the jobless. She says it's because of her phenomenal luck. You don't disagree with her.

The grass is soft. It's a nice change of pace.

She found you curled up in an alley, shivering like a leaf, the hard ground unforgiving against your body, and you were scared, you were so scared, because need was unfamiliar and the word home brought up thoughts of a cozy parlor and a roaring fire and a father with a kind smile who would read to you after work every night. You were so cold and hungry and alone and

It's going to be a cold night. You both draw near each other and try to conserve warmth. You do this all the same, though, even when the nights are fair. Familiarity breeds comfort, and in times like these, everyone needs a bit of that.

What's your name? she asked, feigning disinterest. The light in her eyes belied her curiosity with this new creature.

Tavros, you answered.

That's an unusual name, she said.

Well, what's yours? you asked.

Vriska.

That's a pretty unusual name, too.

Who are you kidding. You don't do it just for the comfort of a friend. You're head over heels for this girl, and this is the only way you're allowed to indulge your feelings. She doesn't love you. You're pretty sure she doesn't even much like you.

Familiarity breeds comfort. Your face is a constant in an unpredictable world. That's all.

She wraps her arms around you and sighs a little, and you tell yourself it's just to make the two of you look smaller. A harder target to spot for patrolling police.

Plus, it's cold.

"What-- what are you doing?" you asked, your face aflame. No girl's ever been this close to you, except for maybe your mother. And it was a long time since you had seen her.

"It's freezing," she said matter-of-factly. "Plus, if the coppers come around, we'll look a lot less like two people and more like a pile of trash."

"Uh, are you sure?"

"Just trust me, okay?"

So you shut your mouth and tried not to focus on the feeling of her arms around your body or the tickle of her hair against your neck.

"What are we going to do tomorrow?" you ask softly. You allow yourself the small luxury of stroking her hair and hope she doesn't notice.

"I don't know," she murmurs into your chest.

You don't say anything else. She's usually the one with the plan. You tend to follow most of the time. You think you can take over for tomorrow, though.

"What happened, WHAT HAPPENED?" You were screaming and she was crying but she was trying so hard not to and the sight of blood filled your head and threw you into a panic.

"I think I broke my leg," she said. You ran to her and crouched down, taking in the sight of the wound. It was messy, but you didn't think it was as bad as it looked. Most of the blood came from scrapes and scratches. But that didn't help your composure any.

"How?" you asked and let your hand hover over her leg. She gripped her skirt so hard she could have torn it.

"The plan didn't go so well," is all she said. "I barely got out of that place. Those cops are old, but they're fast."

There was nothing to set her leg with. She was out of commission for a long time. You had to figure out how to make money and get the things you needed to survive. After the first day she didn't complain, until she discovered you doted on her as if she were your sick grandmother.

You didn't really mind.

Maybe one day you'll work up the courage to tell her. Maybe that'll be your plan for tomorrow. And if that goes well, you'll be able to take on the world.

-

The sun is barely up when you open your eyes. You don't expect her to be awake, but she is, and she's looking at you with sleepy eyes and a soft smile and you have no idea where your breath has gone, but you are fairly sure she has stolen it away.

You're half certain it's your imagination, but no, she's there and she's looking at you.

The words tumble out of your mouth before you even realize it.

"I love you."

This is not how you were supposed to tell her. You thought about it last night. You were going to perform some feat of daring, something exciting and amazing, and you were going to sweep her off her feet.

Her eyes widen and her smile drops. Your stomach follows suit.

"Um, uh, I mean, I-- I'm sorry, I-- "

You stop stuttering when she starts laughing and your face explodes with heat. You almost can't bring yourself to look at her for fear of shame overwhelming you, but your eyes betray you and you do. What you see shocks you.

She is laughing brightly, her eyes alight with happiness. You thought she was laughing at you, mocking you. It would not be the first time she's had a laugh at your expense. But this almost sounds like relief, or-- or joy.

"Finally," she says, her laughter fading. She is glowing. "I was afraid I'd spend my life pining and wind up an old maid."

And then it hits you. You're dizzy about this girl. And, remarkably, amazingly, astonishingly enough-- she feels the same way about you.

You've never been happier in your entire life.

FILL: TEAM ERIDAN<>ROSE

[thelawisnotmocked]

The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah...

"Stay to the water, John. Safer in the water. You never know, you know, you never know what'll come popping out when you're in the trees. When I give the word you go under. Anytime you hear anything, anytime you see the fires, you go under. Remember what I told you. What I told you, remember? Remember what I..."

You've been talking to John for three weeks straight, stopping only to make him rest for the night. ("Stay at the tops, in the branches, they can't get up there, their arms'll fall off, heh. I'll stand watch. Sit watch. Sitting's more comfortable, for a man of my age. Nngh, I'm too old to be fighting zombies.") It's been three weeks since you'd killed your only son, a mass of bloody, pulpy flesh, rotten at the edges, his beautiful baby blues eaten out by the disease.

The sloshing stops. One thing about wading through swamp water: you can't exactly take a rest. It's been decades since the coasts went, years since the decay of the land began its raid in people's veins. It really was true, that cliche line in every environmentalist movie. Our fate is tied to the Earth's. Well, the Earth started rotting long ago, then the people started, and it seems like it's been just that long since you sat down proper. Standing's the only resting now. Blinking's the only sleeping, 'less you count those few hours in the night when the irresponsible father dozes off during his guard shift.

An arm. Lying underneath that fallen tree. Oh God, oh God, looks like it's severed. What poor devil... no. No, wait, it's a whole darn person, half-floating in the water. Slosh, slosh, slosh. He's face-up, and breathing, arms spread wide, blood... Well. That pale face is going to get paler if you don't do something. And it's been a while since you've done... anything. Anything that would be a risk. But looking at that face... looks like it's time to take some risks.

Building a fire comes as naturally as walking. It's his arm that's bleeding, and it's not too hard to get clean and wrapped up. Always keep the first aid around, in case John gets hurt. He moans through cracked lips, but swallows clean water willingly enough. It's hard enough to get water... sure hope it's worth it.

Two day's time: the young man stirs to life. "Who... you?" he manages to get out, after you force him to drink water more slowly, not in gulps, it'll still be here in a while. "Name's Egbert. And you're Nearly Dead."

"Actually... 's Strider."

"Strider...? Dave-"

Strider yelps painfully. "Shut it old man. You don't know what you're touching there."

"Well, you're talkin' better, anyhow."

"Hmph."

Three week's time: Up and walking and has joined you indefinitely. Egbert still talks to John. Strider doesn't talk at all. That white face is stone-dead, even though he saved him... well, not completely, apparently. His hook nose is almost always turned sideways to you, and you've never seen his eyes beneath the sunglasses.

One month's time: "Who the hell you think you're talking to, old man?"

"Told you. Name's Egbert. And if you don't think a father should comfort his own son in these troubling times, well."

"...Crazy man."

Four month's time: You've fallen into a predictable pattern. Walk, eat, guard, sleep.

Five month's time: "I just wanna say... thank you."

"For what, son?"

"You saved me. And I never said anything."

"You still don't say much of anything."

"I know. If there's anything I can do... about... John?"

Your shoulders slump. For the first time, you have to admit... John's gone. And... "Something's wrong with me."

Strider kneels beside you. "I know, man. Me too." He grabs your chin, tilts up your hat... takes off his sunglasses. "Been a long time coming." Then he kisses you. And, you kiss back.

The ants go marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah...

FILL: TEAM Eridan <3< Vriska

[myrrh_darkwing]

I'm perfectly sane, you see. I always have been. I always will be. Whatever the others out there tell you is assuredly a lie, and therefore I suppose it falls once more to me to correct their mistakes. Now, where to begin...

Actually, I suppose it's starting this tale that's simple. I'll simply begin at the beginning, and when I reach the end, I'll stop. The rest is just the horrorterrors and their details, you see, nothing too terribly important after all.

Let me assure you once more that I'm perfectly in control of all my mental faculties, and there is nothing to this tale that was not reasoned through extensively ahead of time. With that out of the way, shall we begin?
-----
It all started with Kanaya, dear sweet elegant hideous Kanaya. She'd rented a movie for us to see, one of those ones with the terribly long Alternian titles that give away the plot anyway and spoil the reason to watch them in the first place. But I would humour her this once. Because I love her, and that's simply the sort of thing you do when you love someone-- not that I'd expect you to understand, of course.

It was going quite well for a while. The sexy, mysterious rainbow drinker was carefully seducing the rustblooded peasant girl, and Kanaya was draped over my lap like a bony blanket that occasionally squirmed. And then Vriska of all people had to show up, pulling Kanaya away from me without so much as a how do you do, leaving me to watch the movie with only myself and the ever-present horrorterrors for company. Since I didn't actually care about the movie, you see, this got old fast.

Thinking back on it, I'm certain this wasn't the first time I'd had these thoughts, these festertongued whispers in my mind, but this was the first opportunity I'd had to act on them. To take out my Thorns and stroll out to the kitchen, to wrap my arm around Kanaya's waist, and to carefully blow Vriska's head off. It was justified, of course. Justified by the fact that Kanaya was my matesprit, and mine alone.

I don't like to share, you see. And so she might have protested a little, maybe cried sickeningly jade tears, but she knew what she'd done was wrong (that she was mine) and Vriska had deserved everything she'd gotten. We finished the rest of the movie, and I pressed her mouth to my neck and held it there to muffle her sobs, so that she had no choice but to drink and drink until she choked on my alien blood. The world was bone-white and bloody and awful, her fangs slipping in my neck and her tears hot and acid-stinging, and the next thing I knew, well, I was here.

It was wrong of her, to ask them to lock me up like this. I haven't done anything wrong, you see. It isn't my fault I just got so angry-- it was all Vriska's. Vriska's, and Kanaya's, that grotesque terrible woman I can't help but love so much I want to tear her to shreds.

Except I don't think I love her anymore.

I think I'll hate her instead.

FILL: TEAM GAMZEE<>KARKAT

[rex]

Meenah is in the middle of kicking a security guard in the face when her phone starts to ring. It proceeds to ring seven more times before she's done; she hums along with the tinny midi ringtone version of "Below the Ocean" as she chokes the guard out. The casino vault door shines bright and clear in the centre of the wall of surveillance camera screens, just waiting for her to walk over to it with a security pass when she's done. She nabs the guard's walkie-talkie and starts patting him down.

She says "False alarm, all clear here," into the walkie-talkie, and "What," into the phone.

"Meenah, I thought we agreed--"

"No Meenah here."

"I'm not using the codenames. The whole point of codenames is to protect your identity, and you're already gone in with your metaphorical guns blazing, if not your literal ones as well--"

"No Meenah here."

There's an audible sigh, and the line goes quiet for eight seconds, which is eight seconds longer than Aranea's usually quiet for. The security guard doesn't have his pass conveniently on him, which is such a load of crap. Meenah yanks open his desk drawers and starts rummaging, and, welp, someone must have found the suckerfish she stuffed into the dumpster, because all over the screens people in black suits and glasses are touching their earpieces and starting to casually walk away from their posts.

"M-Dogg Pizzle-Shizzle," Aranea eventually grits out between her teeth. "Can you please--"

"Aww yessssssss."

"Stop that."

"You said that. That actually came outta your wordhole."

"I said it to get your attention! Look, this is far too dangerous, even for you. I don't know why you keep doing things like this, but you have to stop! I mean, you don't even need the money--"

The security pass isn't in the desk drawer. Well, fuck. "I don't need nofin!" Meenah barks, and throws the drawer on the floor. "I don't need no protectin', I don't need no motherin', and I don't need no girl shoutin' in my pier!"

On the screens, the black suits start to filter into the corridor leading to the security room. The corridor. The single, sole corridor. Suddenly, the plan of "WR-ECK T)(-EIR S)(IT UP" seems a lot less awesome.

"Ear, I mean," Meenah sighs. "Pier, ear. That one was oarful."

"I understood it well enough." There's a long silence. It's almost like Aranea's searching for words, but that's got to be one of the signs of the apocalypse. "What do you need, then?" she asks.

There are a lot of people outside the door. Meenah flips them off on the screens, then slumps on to the guard's chair and kicks at the ground, spinning around in desultory circles. "I dunno," she says. "You're always the one who thinks of that kinda fin."

"Oh, Meenah," Aranea says. "One day you're going to have to figure it out for yourself."

The door opens, and the group of thugs steps in. It parts down the middle, and then there's a smaller figure in the center, suit somehow going with her lipstick.

"But in the meantime," Aranea says, and cocks whatever she's got pressed into the small of some goon's back, "I've got two .44 specials and a driver outside, and hopefully that will have to suffice."

Grabbing Aranea by the waist and spinning her around is a dumb idea with a roomful of muscle looming around them, but the suits cower away as Aranea's guns veer wildly around the room, and anwyay, it's totally worth it.

"You're an angelfish," Meenah grins.

"You are a horror," Aranea says, and slides on a pair of dark glasses. "Come on, let's blowfish this joint."



Rather light on the bildungsroman aspect, whoops. Consider it a scene from a larger work where Meenah gradually learns more about herself via a whole lot of breaking, entering, and kicking people in the face. :B

FILL: TEAM [Jake<3Terezi]

[mouseflower]

I am so sorry, this looks terrible. Eridan and Feferi are sitting in the back stairway talking about stuff.



Bigger version: http://i45.tinypic.com/2yum70o.jpg

FILL: TEAM Roxy<3Autoresponder

[ramus]

From Team Roxy<3AR to you comes Jane and Big Seb in Wonderland~

FILL: TEAM DAVE<3SOLLUX

[querulousartisan]

She simply dances
Lace and corset colored in green
Mind subtly yours

Re: FILL: TEAM [Alpha!Dave<3Alpha!Rose]

[razzda]

AAAAAAAAA
NO THIS IS AWESOME THANK YOU!!

jade so SASSY ITS PERFECT<33

FILL: TEAM Aradia<>Dave

[eremiticantiquarian]

Roxy took another hit off the bong, breathing in as deep as she possibly can and holding it. Her eyes meet with Dirk's as she passes the glass device to him. Dirk takes it in his free hand.

His other hand holds a stop watch.

Dirk glances back and forth between Roxy's eyes and the steady counting of the numbers. He smirks as her eyes start to bulge a little, cheeks puffing up. She struggles to keep the smoke in her lungs.

Peering over his shades at her, he twists his face. Mouth open wide with tongue lolling out, eyes crossed, nostrils flared.

Roxy chokes, coughing on laughter, and as a result lets out the breath she was holding.

When she recovers, Dirk is laughing at her. His eyes crinkle at the sides and he's holding his stomach.

Roxy hits him with a pillow over his head. Which only really serves to make him laugh harder. She giggles along, too, unable to contain it with the high.

When Dirk finally recovers, he sits up and looks at her just a little too seriously. Roxy starts giggling again.

He smooths her bangs to the side and hands her the stopwatch.

Roxy smiles as he brings the lighter to the bowl and inhales through the mouthpiece.

A beep begins the timing.

Roxy resists throwing him a silly face right away in turn. She's gotta wait for just the right moment. That exact point that will have him splitting at his sides while gasping for a fresh breath. That'll teach him to mess with Roxy Lalonde. And meanwhile? He'll just keep eyeing her warily, waiting for a strike which doesn't come when he expects it to.

She smirks at him as his cheeks start to puff.

PROMPT: TEAM Feferi<3Aradia

[alciera]

Aradia<>Sollux, beach vacation and mystery?

Re: FILL: TEAM DAVE<3SOLLUX

[eremiticantiquarian]

That's so lovely and right there in the moment!
<3

FILL: TEAM [Rose<3Sollux]

[mockingtheodds]

“I know it was you, English!” Ms. Paint states bluntly, the cackle of the nearby fireplace elongating the silence between them. English chuckles sardonically, leaning on his cane as if he has all the time in the world.

“You can’t prove anything, girly.” She hates when he calls her that, and he knows it. And it’s the way he says it this time that makes her stomp her small feet in rage, pointing a thin, defiant finger in his direction.

“I don’t need to prove a thing! I know that it was you who murdered Hussie, and had that poor girl locked up, and-” She pauses, biting down on her lip and dramatically turning her head away from him. She takes a sharp breath, turning back to face him with a look of hateful passion smouldering beneath her small, black eyes.

“And you’ve been working with HER.” She drags out the final word, watching as English’s face changes from a mask of calm assuredness to one of shock and horror.

“You can’t possibly think-”

“Don’t try to fool me! I see the way you look at her! How you seem to tremble with hate at the very sight of her!” English ducks his head in shame, choosing his next words carefully.

“Alright, I admit it! At first, I may have had some black feelings towards her-”

“I KNEW IT!”

“-but now any hate I have towards her is completely platonic. I swear!” He adds, noting the look of pure disgust on Ms. Paint’s face. “It has always been you,” he snarls, jabbing his cane in her direction.

Ms. Paint makes a move to object, but something in the way he is looking at her makes her pause.

And she realizes that it’s him- that it has always been him, and it always will be him. Those colourful, near-luminescent billiard eyes of his reflecting her own certainty and purpose back at her. She returns his snarl, striding towards him and knocking his cane out of his hand as she approaches.

Before he has time to react, she tangles a small hand on either side of his overcoat, pulling him down into a fervent kiss. When they part, English chuckles, but it’s a laugh laced with a darkness that runs through the both of them. She takes his hand roughly, and he reluctantly allows himself to be led out of the room.

He knows she will make it up to him, one way or another.

Re: FILL: TEAM [Rose<3Sollux]

[andthus]

oh my god this was so perfect that you SO much oh god

FILL: TEAM JADE<3ROSE

[myerfly]

[The time travel here is more symbolic dreambubble time travel than literal time travel, hope that's still okay!]

[And uhh, content warning forrr incest, bad/unhealthy relationship with an authority figure/role model, profanity/swearing, passing non-graphic reference to non-con, minor character death? /o\ I'm... so sorry...]

*


You haven't really been counting all that closely, but if luck would have it -- and with you, luck usually would have it -- today is your eighth wriggling day. Funny, there was always a part of you that thought you wouldn't live to see eight sweeps. And look at that: you didn't. You guessed right again. You're awesome. Go you.

You're doing your best to avoid everyone in the bubbles today. Well, to an extent -- you haven't really got the hang of making them do what you want, yet. You ain't Megido. Or the Harley human. Or basically anybody else. Okay, look, so maybe you kind of suck at the bubbles. But you can't be good at absolutely everything, okay???????? Gotta leave some specialties left over for the plebes, or they'll get whiny. You're doing them a favour, not being good at this thing. Taking one for the team.

For the team. Ha. Ain't that a laugh riot. Hasn't been a "team" since before any of you died in the first place, sure as hell isn't one now. Technically, since you are now a legal adult according to Alternian law, you have the government-sanctioned right to eat them all if they displease you. But something tells you that majority rules would probably trump the law out here, since the only government left is Peixes, and no one's seen her alpha self in basically forever. Some people are starting to think she's up to something. Fine by you; anything to shake this awful tedium since your last escape plan fell through. Not to mention that the people who are doing the suspecting in the first place are... not your very favourites that the afterlife's got to offer, to put it more nicely than you'd rather. But they'd certainly put it nicely; and with a hell of a lot more words, to boot.

In any case, it's to avoid them, as well as all the others, that you're here, wandering the dreamscape, looking for a nice, empty bubble to pop into to wait out the rest of the day in peace. Your current haunt is some kind of Alternian cityscape, and it's making you way jumpy. Isn't this Captor's old neighbourhood? Either way, there are far, faaaaaaaar too many dream spectres for your liking -- all these faceless, shifting splinters thronging the streets have to belong to somebody's memory. Any second now you're gonna round a corner and get a face full of awkward reunion. Nobody's got anything to say to you today, nobody's got anything to say to you period, and you haven't got anything to say to them either. You aren't gonna force the issue. Or at least you don't intend to. But matters might just as well be taken out of your hands if you can't find a new walk to prowl and fast.

But luckily for you (what else is new), you see a bubble mergepoint off to the side soon enough. Overall it would probably be smarter to poke your head in to check before committing to a transfer, but today you find that you don't much care what's waiting for you on the other side. You have to move on, and if the new bubble's no good, then you'll be able to find another one in time. But in any case, you're pretty sure that there's nothing that you could possibly find upon stepping into this bubble that could make you regret your decision.

Unbothered, you step into the bubble.

You immediately regret your decision.

Plumes of red fire scatter light across the sea, brighter and fiercer than the sickly, bruised glow of both the rose and jade moons hanging low in the sky. All around you on deck, trolls of all castes and stripes flit like moths, putting out fires, loading canons, banking sails. The crowd is a flurry of silkgrub shirts and gaudy jewelry, and polished pinkwood railings rising through it like snagged logs in a stream. You'd know this ship anywhere. This is the Corsair. Mindfang's flagship.

There is literally only one thing that could make this bubble worse.

"Oh, Vriska!" comes the voice of your undoing, light and self-important from behind you. "Happy Wriggling Day!"

As a special occasion for the day of your hatching, apparently, your luck has deserted you. How thoughtful of it. What a perfect opportunity for you to reflect on the giant, colossal failure that is, was, has been your life.

Perfect. Just perfect.

"Hey, Aranea," you say, turning around like a sinner off to the gallows.

She's sitting on the stairs prim and proper, satisfied little smile on her face like it always goddamn is. She sits in the middle of a maelstrom of fire and death and she looks upon you, serene as if it were a third summer's night garden party, and says, "Fascinating piece of history isn't it?"

You want to sob. You want to scream. Instead you say, "Does it really count as history if you were there?"

She smiles brightly at that -- always so goddamn unbothered -- and gestures in the direction of the captain's cabin. "That the Marquise is involved simply makes it all the more intriguing! I do love a good adventure story."

This last sentence is punctuated by a bloodcurdling shriek as a sailor goes overboard straight into a flotilla of flaming debris right over her right shoulder. Surely she must be doing this on purpose. She's a fucking parody or herself.

"Adventure, sure, yeah," is all you say. You don't say, thousands of trolls probably died in this battle. You don't say, YOU SENT thousands of trolls to die in this battle. And you sure as hell don't say, I would have sent thousands of trolls to die in this battle, or battles just like it, if not for the game.

And look at that. You let your attention waver from her for a second, just a second, and now she's conjured up a cup of tea. Aranea sips her tea among the wails and shouts of dying and soon-to-be-dying sailors and asks politely, "So how is your special day going so far?"

"Oh, fine," you grit out, still managing to sound civil, God knows how. "You know. Reflecting on my life's failures and all that crock. The usual."

The reply that she offers up is something like, "Oh, that's a pity, on our planet it wasn't quite like that, it was--", but you don't hear it, because you're too busy realizing, suddenly, that it's not your fault.

None of it. None of it's your fault. None of your life's failures, none of the terrible things you did. None of it! Not a single thing! And why?

Because everything you did, every person you hurt, everything you did wrong, every single idiotic goal you tried and failed and lived and died for...

All of it was for Mindfang. To be like Mindfang.

Aranea's still fucking talking.

"Hey," you say, cutting off some diatribe about the different kinds of silk the sailors wore or something ludicrously inane like that. "You know, Mindfang was a terrible person."

That certainly distracts Aranea from her lecture, at least enough so that she actually shuts up and looks at you. Though she only misses a handful of beats before saying, mildly, dismissively, "Well, she was a product of her time."

"No," you say, and you know you say it hard enough because her perfect demure mask is actually disturbed by her eyebrows reaching ever so slightly towards her hairline. "She was terrible. The worst."

And Aranea is forced to pause again. She fiddles with her now-empty teacup, disappears it into the dream ether, crosses and uncrosses her legs. "These sorts of things," she begins delicately, "are rather subjective--"

"No," you say again, and you know that's the beginning of a sob you're starting to hear but damnit, you don't care. "She was objectively fucking terrible. She raped and murdered people and she sent millions more to their deaths and you know which part is actually the part that makes her terrible?" You pause, Aranea pauses too, too bad, time's up, you continue. "She never felt bad for any of it at allllllll. She thought she was hot shit! And you know who else thought she was hot shit?!"

You hadn't really noticed you were moving forward as the volume of your voice mounted, but suddenly your standing knees are touching Aranea's seated ones, so you take this opportunity to bend down and yell in her face.

"Me!!!!!!!! I thought Mindfang was hot shit!!!!!!!!" You start to laugh and you know that's bad, that can turn to crying quick and that's not what you need right now, but you don't have time to calm down. "So you know what I did????????"

Aranea's still not saying anything, or even changing expressions for that matter. You're pretty sure the blood has drained out of her face though. Good. Wait'll she hears this.

"I was a terrible fucking person, too!!!!!!!!" you yell right in her face. "Still am!!!!!!!! Did you know that killing people doesn't make them like you???? It just makes them dead???? So why did I still do it all the time, huh???? Why did I still do it????"

Chatterbox's still got nothing to say, apparently, so you take a deep breath, get right up close to her auricular canal, and whisper, more hoarsely than you meant to:

"Because I still -- still, still -- think Mindfang is hot shit. I still want to fucking be her. She was the most terrible goddamn person, and I was, am, the most terrible goddamn person, too."

You take another deep breath, and this one comes in shuddery. Oh, great, now you're going to start crying. You lean back from her face and, haha, well, at least she's not smiling anymore.

When the first hard sob comes, your knees give out, and, whoops, you end up falling down into sitting on her knees. Oh well, you're way past the point of wanting to save face anyway. But you have one thing, one more thing, that you need to say before you start blubbering.

"Al-ll I wanted," you say, jabbing a finger at her chest, "all I e-ever wanted was to be acknowledged by Mindfang. I knew it was impossible. But I ju-ust-- I just felt like if I could hear her, say, you know, that I was terrible and she-e was terrible, and, that tha-at was okay, then that would be enough." God, you sound like Toreador. Fuck crying. But you're not done.

"But you." This time you wag your finger right in her face. "But you! You're Mindfang. And you won't even ack-- acknowledge--"

Aaaand that's it, you're done. You're away and sobbing. You're sitting there, sobbing on her knees, and she's sitting there, shell-shocked, not even reacting. What else is even new. You didn't even get to call her out for not acknowledging how terrible she is. Ugh. Ugh.

This is the worst wriggling day ever.

Or maybe not. Maybe your traitorous luck hasn't completely and utterly deserted you once and for all, because finally, finally, when you get down to hiccups... she moves. Slowly, carefully, she takes your wrists in both her hands, and pulls your digits away from where they're trying to wipe your puffy blue face.

And she kisses you right on the snotty, gross mouth.

It's not a long kiss. When she breaks it, you hiccup again.

You glare at her dubiously through puffy eyes. "I'm pretty sure," you say, spent, "that you're not supposed to swap spit with people you share caste, sign, and completely exact genetic make-up with."

She leans her forehead against yours, and that's when you realize that, somewhere along the way, without you noticing, she's been crying, too.

"I've done worse," Aranea says.

FILL: TEAM ERIDAN<>ROSE

[wallwalker]

Huh. I'm not sure what this is, but here goes. >:O)

terminallyCapricious (TC) began trolling gallowsCalibrator (GC)

TC: honk.
GC: OH NO >:[
GC: NOT NOW, OK4Y?
GC: SOM3 OF US 4R3 TRY1NG TO WORK!
TC: :O(
TC: WHY NOT MOTHERFUCKING NOW, SWEET SISTER?
TC: maybe i up and got something important to say
TC: AND I DONT THINK
TC: that you got it in you
TC: TO LET SOMETHING SO MOTHERFUCKING IMPORTANT PASS BY.
GC: 1 DONT TH1NK YOU H4V3 4NYTH1NG 1MPORT4NT TO S4Y
GC: 3V3R!
GC: YOU 4R3 SO HOP3L3SSLY NUTS 1T'S P4TH3T1C
TC: maybe so
TC: BUT ONLY AS MOTHERFUCKING NUTS AS YOU.
TC: but
TC: MAYBE IN A BETTER MOTHERFUCKING WAY FOR THIS JOB.
GC: GOOD GR13F, OK4Y
GC: 1 W1LL HUMOR YOUR OBV1OUSLY 1NS4N3 1D34 1F YOU W1LL STOP P3ST3R1NG M3 ONC3 W3 H4V3 F1N1SH3D!
GC: SO WH4T C4N YOU H4V3 TO S4Y TH4T 1S SO 1MPORT4NT?
TC: only that i can see
TC: WHAT YOU ARE MOTHEFUCKING UP AND WORKING ON
TC: and i gotta tell you something
GC: WH4T? HOW?
TC: NEVER MIND THAT.
TC: just up and listen for a sec.
TC: THE MOTHERFUCKING TRACKS ON THE MUDDY GROUND.
TC: theyre a motherfucking red herring.
TC: RED AS THE RUSTBLOOD SCATTERED ON THE CONCRETE.
TC: you oughta be paying attention to the fence.
TC: AND THE FUCKING DAMAGE ON THAT POOR MOTHERFUCKING FENCEPOST.
TC: gotta hunch its gonna lead you right where you need to be.
GC: WH4T? W41T 4 M1NUT3!
GC: HOW D1D YOU KNOW 4BOUT MY C4S3??
TC: I GOT MY WAYS.
TC: and i keep motherfucking telling you.
TC: IF YOU WANNA UP AND CATCH THESE GUYS YOU GOTTA THINK LIKE THESE GUYS.
TC: like I do.
TC: >:O)

terminallyCapricious [TC] ceased trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC]

GC: D4MM1T, HOW DO YOU 4LW4YS KNOW? >:[

gallowsCalibrator [GC] ceased trolling terminallyCapricious [TC]

FILL: TEAM BRO<3JOHN

[brodacious]

He’s holding onto your hand so tight; so, so tight. It hurts a hell of a lot but you don’t want him to loosen up for even a second. If you thought he was going to let go for a moment you wouldn’t be able to take it. You know he won’t, but there’s still that dread of being separated, of losing him. And then you’d be alone, here, in the dark.

Even as you shudder at the mere notion, you can’t help but feel a thrill of strange and exhilarating excitement, originating from the feel of your hands clasped, drenched in mingling fearsweat. The slip of your wet skin and the tightening to compensate is almost obscene, bizarrely comforting in this terrible pitch black.

“Did you hear that?” he whispers, and the hairs on the back of your neck raise as an electrical tingling sensation spreads from the area. Part of it is Dave’s breath ghosting across your skin, and part of it was the fact that no, you didn’t hear it. You’d been thinking about your hands touching, linked so closely as to become one. You’d let yourself get distracted. And that’s when it strikes, when you’re guard is down, you can’t believe you let-

The sound comes from your right, you think, a low and unearthly rumble. You suck in a breath so sharp it threatens to become a scream, but Dave’s hand is over your mouth before it can give you away.

“Shh!” he hisses, right in your ear this time. You nod, but his hands stays where it is over your mouth. It’s trembling ever so slightly. You have something to say so you lick along the headline of the salty palm, an old trick from when you were younger. He doesn’t spout out a disgusted protest like he used to, just removes his hand.

You press in, lips almost against the shell of his ear. You’ve never felt like this before, and it’s almost as terrifying as what’s lurking in the dark.

“It’s behind us. I think it’s busy...” you gulp, just like in one of those shitty cartoons. “Eating.” You don’t know how you know this, but you do. You can feel his head moving next to your mouth, nodding in understanding.

You don’t need anymore discussion. You both know what to do but he takes the lead, pulling you along, your feet quietly shuffling along the floor. You can’t see his other arm but you know it’s outstretched into the oblivion, away from the safety and knowledge of your body clinging to his, searching for the wall.

There’s another growl and you both freeze, but not before you catch up the few inches between you and press your chest against his back. You listen, trying not to get distracted again, by the sound of his shallow breath, the pulse you can feel thrumming against your own.

The silence goes on forever. Ponderous and heavy as you strain your ears for any signs of anything.

There’s a sickening crack echoing through the void. Bone. A ribcage. You bury your face in the crook of his neck and give your whimpered woes to his shoulder instead of the blackness.

“Just a few more feet,” he murmurs, and starts off again. You think maybe he can do this because he used to the world being a little darker through his shades.

You thought he was just trying to reassure you, but in a few ten feet you’re there, the cold metal wall under your fingers, and though you’re not out of the woods yet, you’re so relieved. Your relief rears up into a monster of its own, smooth and easy, and you find Dave’s lips with your own, you don’t even miss in the darkness.

The air from his nose is stuttered out against the side of your own as he presses back. His hand squeezing somehow even harder.

The butterflies rising in your gut plummet at the sound of another tearing crack, and you come back to your senses.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he breathes, his mouth not entirely separated from yours, you feel the words forming on it.

You nod and both start to edge along the wall towards freedom.