Tag: fic

optimisticghost:

missvanillamilkshake:

illustrations for chapter three of the dog days are over aka that fic where everyone is into everyone and all is beta kids and nothing hurts.

(and rose has only a moment before he is jumping into the tub with her, losing his balance when he steps onto the slippery floor and trips and tries to catch himself on the faucet, only succeeding in turning the shower on and drenching them both in freezing cold water, and the bathtub is filling and they’re probably making a mess but it’s worth it when he splashes rose’s face with the shower head until they’re both soaked to the bone and giggling like they’re six again and hiding inside a coat wardrobe while roxy and dirk go crazy, squealing and wrestling for the damn shower head and she wins but he pushes her against the tiles on the wall, half straddling her but not entirely because his balance is fucked up and she manages to stick the shower head inside his pants)

ima cry

Source: horreurscopes

ambiencespectrum:

the scars spread across his whole body, numerous as his freckles. some are mere flecks of whiter than white tissue, and others span longer and wider than her finger.

he has muscle, but it’s lean, drawn thin. he eats as much as she does, spreading meals out long as they can last despite having the alchemeter’s unlimited supply.

“there wasn’t much food, sometimes,” is all he’ll answer with when she asks.

“there was always food, but never any meals,” she replies, sharing her own familial experience. they’re taking turns. it’s almost a year and a half into their journey, and they’re bored beyond belief.

tedium has finally pushed them to share the more intimate pieces of themselves, handling each shard with perfect care lest one of them be cut and bled out. his hands follow the thinness to her waist, only brushing fingertips like he’s scared to properly touch. her approach is both bolder and far more timid- she traces the thin line up his bicep, one of many, without hesitation, but can’t bring herself to examine any lower with her wandering hands.

she lifts them instead to his face, arguably a far more treacherous action than drifting south. his cheekbones are like hers, his eyes more almond shape- their irises are bloody red and make her think of death and wine and the color of sickly sweet valentines.

he’s gone still, letting her hold his face. her thumb finds its way to a scar that nearly nicks his eye, dangerously close and suspect to past terror of almost being half blinded. he flinches away, minutely, at the touch, eyes blinking rapidly and chest hitching with breath- and she draws back, sitting herself further away again and hugging her bare midriff, save for the bra she’s kept.

“sorry,” she says, and means it.

“…sorry,” he echos, and only speaks again after a lengthy pause, rubbing the back of his neck, his scarred arms, skin that’s been marred by someone who deserved what he got. “it just- for a moment, was too much, you know? like, fuck, lalonde. i think we can both agree lettin’ you near my tender strider flesh is like askin’ to get flayed, grilled, and served with garnish. you’re kinda risky business. frisky risky business.”

“a sword, in opposition to a needle, does have a sheathe i suppose,” she replies when he speaks his mind of why he drew away. “it’s natural to fear a sharp object pressed to one’s jugular.”

“been there, done that, experienced what comes afterwards. not fun.”

“then our ‘show-and-tell’ session has reached it’s end. your cooperation of frittering away a void’s evening was appreciated.”

she doesn’t hurt, she doesn’t want for more. they aren’t like that, no matter what jokes and satire they spin of themselves. it’s just. there’s so much time left to keep waiting for the life and death dramatics to resume. so very much time, and it festers in her, like the grimdarkness did, like the loneliness of her house did, like the relationship with her mother did. he bears and bared a hundred markers to her, showcasing the abuse he’s lived and survived. she is just a petty, needy creature, grasping for light in a place where there is so very little.

“didn’t say i wouldn’t just deal with it, lalonde,” he says, his trembling touch on her shoulder betraying his tentativeness, his nerves of asking for more, for her.

(he doesn’t think she’s awful for the neediness, the pettiness- she’s like him, a little, in a different way. she had everything except anything resembling attention. he had nothing except unending vigilance to his every move. they’re both fucked up in the head, in their hearts, in a similar enough fashion he can look into her brilliant violet eyes and see a slightly warped reflection of himself. it pains him as much as it comforts him to not be alone in this.)

she aches so fiercely inside, sometimes. in places the woman who has her eye can’t reach, can’t fill. the emptiness that’s built around by glass and mirrors, reflecting endlessly the intangible light that she passes off as her soul and self.

dave can reach there, simple and easy as his knuckles touching hers as they pass in the halls. with an offhand phrase in the dead of night as they drink more coffee rather than sleep. a whisper quiet admission of trust spoken only behind locked doors. soft and scared and comforting, because it forces her to remember that she isn’t the only one with no idea how to love another person without expecting them to hurt you for it.

rose leans into his hand, reaches back with her own, and they sink into one another again.

alphaderse:

he buys her a dozen roses on her birthday as a joke and she smiles that slow, easy smile and reaches out and takes them and tells him she’s allergic to flowers (untrue) but she will keep them anyway (true)

She’s never been attached to her name before. 

On some occasions she might even say she doesn’t like it – too frilly, perhaps, or maybe she doesn’t enjoy the implication that she was born to be something beautiful and delicate that would draw blood if you got too close.

But when he says it – when it spills from her lips between breathless, snorting laughter, when he sighs it into her hair in the dark, the streetlights glimmering off the posters on the walls – she wonders if perhaps Rose is not such a painful moniker, after all

alphaderse:

Ok but his fingers stained grey from the ash clinging to her skin and hes sobbing and laughing and smiling a watery desperate smile (because all hope is lost) as he clings to her – her toes barely dragging the floor, floating above him, gnashed apart with tentacles that smell like seawater and blood

She is Lost to Grief and he wants to be lost with her, to crawl inside the icy (drowned) grey of her skin, to drown himself in the ink dripping from her lips, to sink sink sink until maybe they both rise back up on the other side, safe in the sun, free from their pasts and the corpses at their feet

dersecourse:

day 1: dave makes breakfast

day 2: rose makes breakfast and sets the table

day 3: dave makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font

day 4: rose makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font and shutters the windows and lights long, tapered altar candles for mood lighting (even though it is, remember, breakfast)

day 6: dave makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font and shutters the windows and lights long, tapered altar candles for mood lighting and has filched, from somewhere, a pair of tigers, collared in gold and lounging amidst their feet as they partake in berry berry kix for the 6th day in a row

day 7: rose makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font and shutters the windows and lights long, tapered altar candles for mood lighting and has filched, from somewhere, a pair of tigers, collared in gold and lounging amidst their feet as they partake in berry berry kix for the 7th day in a row, and has replaced their chairs with thrones immaculate, hers a deep, dark ebon wood, wild and overgrown while his is a magnificently wrought copper, a thousand layers of filigree woven into each other until it is impossible to tell where one strand ends and the other begins

day 8: dave makes breakfast sets the table and includes little placards on each end with their respective names in a nice font and shutters the windows and lights long, tapered altar candles for mood lighting and has filched, from somewhere, a pair of tigers, collared in gold and lounging amidst their feet as they partake in berry berry kix for the 8th day in a row, and has replaced their chairs with thrones immaculate, hers a deep, dark ebon wood, wild and overgrown while his is a magnificently wrought copper, a thousand layers of filigree woven into each other until it is impossible to tell where one strand ends and the other begins, and when rose begins to so delicately raise a spoon of cereal to her lips he knocks his own bowl aside and stands with dramatic flourish, tears in his eyes, and relays a poem in an ancient language, as dead as the poppies withered in the vase between them, artfully navigating the unfamiliar twists of syllables in a self-set rhythym, describing her beauty, her grace, like aphrodite, like athena, both born from the head, his voice risen in cresendo for the final line, before he pauses for a breathless moment, and returns to his seat. rose takes a bite.

day 9: “theres no more kix.”

she shrugs, rolls over, and goes back to sleep.

betapile:

There is a tugging in the center of her, a spun-silk thread pulled taught, an ache like some asshole took a melon baller and scooped out her insides.

And Dave is well, he’s more irrelevant than anything.

He’s in her fourth period study hall, he sprawls his legs out and clicks his pen rapidfire, he wears skinny jeans and she’s pretty sure he’s in the photography club or wrote an article for the school newspaper bashing the practice of football or something. And she doesn’t know his last name, he stops existing when she looks away from him. He is the quintessential blonde boy, he’s tall and almost concerningly stoic, a douchebag by any other name in the sense that he reeks of insecurity and layers of cover ups.

But, and she supposes there is always a but, he moves with a weight on his shoulders, otherworldly and obsolete. With an exhaustion and squared shoulders and set jaw that’s- It’s interesting, it’s something worth noting. Familiar.

She doesn’t care about him, she doesn’t look at him, but he’s laughing at something he said to his friends and he’s curling his tongue around his braces and there are crinkles in the corners of his eyes and freckles across his cheekbones, prominent and sculpted, and she’s never really spared him so much as a thought but he glances at her, for a second, and the wind is knocked out of her and she’s grabbing her desk white-knuckled and she feels a jolt of electricity powerful and-

“Dave Strider.” She mouths to herself in English class, wonders why it fits on her tongue so perfectly.

–

He takes pride in his shitty beat up converse and she takes pride in her Necronomicon.

She’s not like the other girls, he isn’t either.

Dave Strider, which is what she decides to call him, listens to cassette tapes and shows up to homecoming in a full tuxedo. Like, with spats, and coat tails, and he doesn’t exactly upstage the homecoming king persay but he does accumulate a bigger circle around him as he makes fun of prom as a concept with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his wingtips clicking against the polished gymnasium hardwood.

She runs the thin gold chain of her necklace through her fingers, and stares at him with a fierce sort of single-minded concentration. And he looks back at her, he trails off from his tirade with his mouth slack and his hand twitches like he’s been shocked and he really had to pay the ten dollar entrance fee to seem so smart and make his point about fighting the man.

Her skirt rides when she grabs a plastic cup of fruit punch and leans against the disposable plastic table cloth and hears Carly Rae Jepsen pounding out of the speakers. She hums pensively, touches the rim of the cup to her lip and sees Dave drag his eyes from her legs to her hands to her face and she can’t tell if it’s the hazy-purple lighting of school dances but his eyes are watery and he makes a small wet-cement choking sound in the back of his throat.

–

The comfort of his being near her is shocking, it’s the spinning of some cosmic wheel, and gears locking into place, and the three beauty marks on his neck down to his shoulder blades and how his shoes are left half-unlaced and the lazy movements of his hands as he holds his crutches up which he got from tripping over said shoelaces while running the mile in gym class and-

She felt the pain, when it happened, sharp and immediate in her ankle.

Dave Strider has a flighty air about him when she sees him, he has bags under his eyes and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he looks at her more vulnerable and fragile than anything she’s ever seen and the way his hips stand out and his collarbones pop is enchanting, hypnotic, when he checks his plastic watch to throw his jansport over one shoulder.

She looks at him, eyelids heavy, and watches his adam’s apple bob when he swallows.

–

“Dave Strider.” She catches him by the shirt sleeve, feels the ground shift underneath her feet and something important bubble up in her, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

ambiencespectrum:

The universe likes to repeat itself, to try the same song
over and over but in a different key each time. A serenade to existence that
never changes its score, and somehow is brand new every time it begins again.

He comes back pale as snow, she comes back dark as night-
they swap the next time around. They come back every shade in between the two,
and sometimes in greys, rainbow blood flowing through them and bright orange
horns atop their heads.

They grow up together, crammed into an apartment with a man
who loves neither of them, pushes both of them, to be better, stronger, faster,
too quick to the draw to be killed by an inevitable doomsday rushing towards
them- in that world they’re scarred and scared and never admit it, keeping the
truth of things from even themselves, tangled up in beds they don’t need to
share and dreading the next time something creaks outside their door, only
trusting each other and even then hardly breathing a sincere word to one
another-

They grow up together, again, spaced out in a house that has
too many doors and too few people, cold but not uncared for, alone but not
isolated, acting out and acting like kids, while their guardian drinks herself
into oblivion, too scared to look at their faces directly and know the day the
world ends is coming for them all too soon- in that world they’re together,
they talk, they share, but there remains a barrier, a miscommunication, no one
ever taught them how to be open, to be honest-

They meet when they’re adults, when they’re on the way to
success, dressed in finery and fought for riches, a director and writer sizing
each other up, questioning each other’s merit in their field, trading barbs and
probes and tipping their glasses to one another in the end- in that world they
know the end is coming, they know they’re going to fail, but they fight and
they struggle and they try to warp the set future of time with weapons and
strength that isn’t even half a god’s power, and they fail and fall and fall in
love as they do-

They’re neighbors, and he hides from her, he wants after
her, and she’s intrigued by him, interested in his secrets, his mind and skills
and dumb hobbies, her blood placing her so far above the lowblood foolish
enough to build a hive so close to the sea border and yet she wants him- in that world she is brutal
and terrifying and will outlive him by centuries, and he’s resistant, afraid,
he’s a mutant freak and knows he’s going to die before he manages to leave more
than half a mark on the world, and their hands join more than once, they hold
on as long as they can, and when the day comes and the drones are set on him,
she bares her fangs and needles and roars in the face of the empire for trying
to take what is hers and only hers-

They’re raised apart, she in an isolated house that is
filled with love that never connects, cold and alone and pretending she’s not,
and he in a city that burns, that blisters, trapped in a cage that is riddled
with tracks from restless pacing, unloved and not sure why, never understanding
why he doesn’t measure up- in that world they ascend, they rise above it, they’re
children thrust into battle and turned into tools for the universe’s
continuation, the next step, and they burn together on a suicide mission, a one
way trip that they knew might not work but we’re willing to do it anyway, hands
clasped together as everything bleeds searing green and all they have left is
their faith and barely hidden love-

They win the game, they grow up, they find people they love
and who love them and they get to see a future that’s bright and good and are
given everything they wanted. They’re gods and eternal and happy, but the universe treks on, and nothing is forever-

Reset.

The universe starts again.

They’re born, and grow, and they find each other again.

They always do.

And so repeats the melody.

derseasterous:

sometime she thinks he can taste her freckles

it’s not really in the spots littered over tan skin but more in the breath that passes from her mouth to his when he’s able to drag the blunt nails she painted on over the constellations of her spine and its somewhere beyond that and

maybe its something else

it’s not quite cherry coke when she laughs and the air sparkles but it’s also far more cloying than any wine on any shelf

and it’s not as bitter as the tears they both taste on sleepless nights or as quiet as the words that are whispered and forgotten just as soon as they brush over his tongue

it isnt the vanilla perfume on her collar

its sweeter than the lipgloss she keeps in her purse but it’s darker than the black of the lipstick she wears beneath it its sharper than her words and it tastes a little bit like blood when its too quiet out but fresher and more and its more

sometimes

he thinks it might be death

but somewhere deeper within even that is the taste of air and water and life and everything that keeps him here to breathe all of it in and he thinks maybe it is or maybe it isnt but

sometimes when they lay awake and the city sleeps around them, two souls shielded only by freckles and perfume and outdated sheets

he thinks she tastes something like roses

heliotrope-moon:

Daverose Au: Kindered Spirits

Rose and her mother have just moved into an large, Very Old mansion in upstate New York. The house is beautiful and stately and luxurious, and entirely haunted, its got to be. It just creaks in a way that says “Ghosts be up to some fuckin shit in here”, and Rose, delightful goth that she is, could not be more thrilled about that. She snoops out every corner of the house in her free time, lights spooky candles and tries to summon spirits.

And eventually, she stumbles upon Dave, Haunter of the House, an incredibly lame cool ghost who literally just wants to be left the fuck alone to mope and brood and shit, but this angst ass teen keeps asking about how he died and if she can help him cross over to the afterlife, and what toils have bound his soul to this mortal plain. He says he’s just not interested in movin on, heaven sounds like a snoozefest, everyone is all poofy and angelic and pious and shit, dull.

Theyre would be lots of shenanigans, and bonding, and really Dave didn’t move on because he felt like he hadn’t done anything with his life yet, he hadn’t had enough time, and Rose, shes never had very many friends but she comes to care about Dave, this spirit lurking in the shadows of the hallways and criticizing her musical tastes. She stops asking about how he died, it’s rude, He stops disappearing on her when questions hit too close to home, they bond, the fall in love, It’s tragic as all fuck because wow, falling in love with someone whose already dead is pretty shit, kids.

—

Idk where I’m going with this, I might write a fic, I’ll probably expand on this more later but ghost!Dave and spooky teen!Rose is a good idea okay