ladysassacre:

puppy-eater:

People seemed to enjoy my Alpha roundup (Also includes some alpha fics I forgot that are hella sad) and freakshowimprov dared me to break his heart so here’s some of my favourite Rose/Dave sadstucks, but not all:

Dying Vicariously (Good Knight)

In which Dave and Rose fight the condescension.

You are glad that your life does not flash before you; you have already taken care of reliving every moment, every mistake you ever made and didn’t make. A girl must make her preparations, after all, though now you are not sure why you ever entertained ideas of experiencing your last moments fully conscious of the unforgiving world around. It might be nice to spend the end remembering every insult, every catfight, every drink and smirk and lingering kiss, but this is a choice you made and you will be more damned than you are already if you are going to regret it now of all times.

Speak of the devil himself (though you have always thought yourself the corrosive one), something besides memories does appear. Out of focus, splashes of red upon more red, a shock of pale hair just as blood-matted as yours, and of course, the trademark shades that seem to be the only thing not blurring.

Ah, Mr. Strider. How very punctual. What brings you to be actually on time for once?

Turn Left

It’s only sadstuck if you read the second half.

Don’t read the second half your heart will hurt.

God, this is turning out like some shitty romance novel.

lalonde you literally are a shitty romance novel
but im sure as hell not gonna fall in love with you

For in Sleep, we saw ourselves

This is another one about fighting the Condescension. It’s more rhythmic and they nailed their Rose. I mean writing wise- the author didn’t bang rose or anything that was an awkward sentence.

“Sometimes, I was a monster,” she says as she presses his head into the pillow and tangles her fingers into his hair. The tips of her nails scratch against his scalp as she leans in close, her voice soft and rasping against the shell of his ear. Her words are slurred, but not in the same way it gets when she’s had too much to drink and he has to help her back home as her head lolls onto his shoulder. Her breath is not the ethanol-burn of alcohol, but the salt-stink of seawater, the burning-ozone of empty space.

“Sometimes, I wasn’t the Light.” The syllables curl up into themselves at the ends and edges, blending into one another and squirming their way into his brain, black and viscous as the tendrils he imagines coiling from her fingertips. “Sometimes, I was darkness – and I was Theirs.”

She leaves black witch-kisses at the nape of his neck and down his throat. When she leans back he stares up at her and wipes a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth. She smiles and he remembers, vaguely, a girl with sharp elbows and half-lidded eyes clinking glasses with him as they downed a last shot of tequila. One for the road, she said, and kissed him. The alcohol burnt his throat on the way down, but not as much as her mouth against his.

We used to play outside when we were young

Calsprite!Timeline. Also the title comes from Little Talks which is a really great song.

The bathroom door is open. You can hear the tub’s tap running, and something splashing around. There’s two inches of scummy water  on the tiles, and more streaming steadily over the rims of both the sink and the bathtub. Something black is thrashing in the tub, but it’s way too small to be her. You tiptoe into the bathroom, sword raised to parry because she’s pulled stunts like this before, and—

“Fuck—!”

Mutie is all claws and teeth when he launches himself out of the water and onto your face, and then, too damn late, you realize it is most definitely not Mutie when he starts to ooze down your chest. You grimace, keeping your lips tight so nothing can think about macking on your tonsils without your consent, and peel her little toy off. The Mutie grimclone warbles when you drop it the floor with an ugly splat and completely loses its skeletal structure, just turns into a lumpy blob of fur and four eyes scowling up at you, like you’re the bad guy when it just tried to lay eggs in your stomach. Or whatever trick she was trying to pull.

“Neat trick, Rose,” you say, wiping water off your shades with the heel of your palm. “Wanna come out and play or you gonna send more creepypasta my way first?”

Ne Me Quitte Pas

Goddam kids giving me so many feels- the Dave and Rose who died at the green sun are together in a dream bubble but guess who can’t remember what happened. Also ghosty is really great just read all their fics.

Life would be easier if everything were soap bubbles. But they’re not, and she’s standing in the middle of the room, confused and misty-eyed and looking more like Botticelli’s Birth of Venus than anyone should ever have a right to. She looks tired, she looks like a lost lamb, she looks like his fucking SISTER!

Orchid eyes lock with apple eyes. Good metaphor — she is complex and a pain in the ass to make blossom accordingly. He is shiny and delicious on the outside, full of rat poison on the inside.

“Hey,” Dave Strider says to Rose. “‘Bout time. Here I thought you were busy signing treaties and having tea and knitting parties with the fucking cephalopod overlords.”

Febuary

Post-game grimdarkness why do you hurt so much?

Her vocal chords had snapped like chintzy rubber bands stretched across a guitar in a sad attempt to replace the metal strings. Speaking an Elder language required more strength of the throat than a quiet girl like Rose had, much more, and after all was said and done, English came with great difficulty. The words that had once flowed so beautifully under her command then sat in viscous, festering puddles, heavy and unfamiliar on her tongue. Nothing sounded as she intended it to.

Teaspoon

Non-Game/Adults? Anyways, Ghosty knows how to tug at my heartstrings.

Dinner and a movie was the evening’s title, and the stage was set to perfection. The candles were lit, the table set delicately, the drumming chimes of rain falling in leaflet drops on the rooftop and against the windows, all cleansing and dark. So maybe he hoped the reservation would have gone through, and he wouldn’t be going down her hallway to retrieve her, to show her the display he’d created in lieu of the fine Mongolian restaurant. Who the fuck cared about Mongolian, anyway? Nobody, that’s who.

But the thunder crumbled in the air, and Dave took a mild, steadying breath, only slightly doubting his fine dining skills as he knocked lightly on her door.

It has no future but itself

A prelude to the big fight with the Batterwitch. Not especially sad but after that last one I think we all need a break.

A month before their showdown with her Imperial Fishface, Dave took her to California. Most of it had sunk, but he had a house on a rocky part of the northern coast, about two hours from San Francisco by car.

One of the benefits of the world ending and the only form of long-distance transportation being a jpeg rocket skateboard was that it was only half an hour from San Francisco by air. She perched on the end of the skateboard, a bored expression on her face as they surfed over blackened forests and towns. It had been weeks since she bothered to find ways to call the skateboard gaudy, or obvious, or sure proof that there was no god, had never been a god, for no god would allow such a mockery of creation and all four-wheeled, twin-jetted objects to come into being. Well, s’up, god, I’ve just made you my bitch, he thought, and didn’t think about the names of the towns and forests, so many of them, and so far away.

oH. that first one is mine?? :’D i’m so flattered to be on somebody’s favorites list! but all of you should check out the rest of these fics, they’re really good omfg.