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CRUCIBLE OF CREATIVE POTENTIAL: The Homestuck Request Meme
ACT TWO
(also known as SHITSTAIN ASSMASTER)By popular demand, a general request meme for MSPA, at long last. Have an idea you want to see drawn or written? This is the place to ask. Both romantic (of any kind, het or slash) and general prompts are accepted. Reply to those comments with art ( Read more... )
ACT TWO
(also known as SHITSTAIN ASSMASTER)By popular demand, a general request meme for MSPA, at long last. Have an idea you want to see drawn or written? This is the place to ask. Both romantic (of any kind, het or slash) and general prompts are accepted. Reply to those comments with art ( Read more... )
Dave Strider is eight years old. He wears ironic pink clothes, he stutters to the point of being incomprehensible when he's talking to anybody other than you, he ages about ten years in two seconds when he gets a sword in his hands, and he's made his first friends.
You sit on the sofa, armed with cup of instant ramen, Cal hanging off the back of the couch, and he babbles on and on about this nice girl called Jade who likes robots, this smart girl called Rose who likes books, and this funny guy called John who likes movies.
You were wondering what the hell he was doing on the computer all day. You're pretty sure seven year olds are supposed to be playing with basketballs and breaking windows during games of baseball and shit in the street rather than sitting in an apartment full of fuzzy dildos on the computer all day.
He's grinning like a little idiot as wipes nacho cheese off his mouth and fingers, so you don't question it. The kid doesn't smile much, and while that's conductive to the coolkid you're moulding him to be, a seven year old should still grin and giggle look like a little dweeb every now and then.
He asks if you would torrent something called Little Monsters which apparently “John says it's the b-b-b-best film ever ever”.
You make pretty quick work of getting it, and as usual Dave is impressed with your mad computer skills. You sit watching it with him, and Dave nurses an apple juice with a look of concentration on his face, gaze fixed on the screen.
You both agree it's the worst piece of shit either of you have ever seen.
He goes straight on the computer afterwards to report this to John.
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One hospital trip and about a million arguments with asshole doctors later, and you're both back at the apartment, tired. Dave wants you to hang with him but you gotta work. You always gotta work. His lip trembles a tiny, tiny fraction when you tell him, but you gotta keep peddling that puppet ass if you wanna stay off the streets. You write him an ironically sentimental note on his cast and left him on his computer for the week, even remembering to jam a few frozen burritos and shit in the fridge for him.
You're home somewhere around 4am the next Friday night and find him slumped on his keyboard, face pressing into the keys and drool pooling under his mouth. There's a very coherent message of “egbert im gettign really tired here but dnt sign off k ijust still wanna keep talkinnngngaglzgmutalgottghhggg” half-typed on the message box, unsent.
The amazing thing is, messages are still flashing up on the screen.
GT: hey, daaaave, are you still there?
GT: are you ok?
GT: i am really really gonna have to go soon, i hope your leg feels better!!!!!
GT: daaaaaaave?
GT: dad is gonna be so mad that i stayed up this late gosh.
TG: yo.
TG: daves out for the count.
TG: go to bed kiddo.
GT: oh uhm!
GT: sorry mr strider!! he just wanted somebody to stay up with him since you were uh gone...
GT: uhm.
GT: promise you'll take good care of dave, alright?
TG: aight. now get out of here kid.
-- ghostlyTrickster [GT] signed off!--
You pick up Dave with one arm, and he still clings to you like a little fucking koala, just like he did when you first picked him out of a crater. You put him on his bed, trying to ignore the little whimpers as you brush against his cast-bound leg. You toss a blanket over him and put his shades on the table next to empty apple juice containers.
You're probably not gonna follow up on your promise to the kid that well. Tomorrow, you're probably gonna kick his ass just as much as you always do.
You definitely ain't father material, you're barely even big bro material, but it's cool, he's tough, and he's got some good friends getting his back.
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You're teaching him to play it cool, be stoic, unflappable, or else those kids are gonna eat him alive. Kids are cruel, and you know it. Bright red eyes don't fly too well in middle school, and when puberty hits even the sweetest little kid can become the most complete little shitstain. Kids without proper families, and brothers who own a puppet porn empire, don't fly too well either.
He's gotta be tough and uncrackable. It's the only way to survive.
He doesn't talk much about school. If he talks it's about some sick beats he's been putting together, some rhymes he's been writing, the latest things Egbert and the gang have been up to. You try to ask him now and then, out of some misplaced desire to try and act like a fucking adult for once (promise to take good care of dave, alright?), but he slides around the subject like a fucking pro. It's annoying as hell, probably because you know he learned the art of avoiding questions from you.
You come to the conclusion that school isn't something you can talk to him about. You find yourself going through a list of “shit that a dad would probably talk to a ten year old boy about” now and then, so you're thinking of talking to him about girls.
You're not sure how the fuck that conversation is gonna go. He's walked in on you and a girlfriend before. He just turned around and ran out the apartment, sat on the stairs and listened to his CD player until you were done and had kicked her out. He looked away as she passed him on the stairs, ignoring her haughty little comment that made you get the weird urge to kick her the fuck down those stairs.
You tried to explain. Tell him it was cool, they were cool, totally normal (well maybe not totally normal, you're not exactly the biggest fan of the missionary position), you would leave a sock on the door from now on (both of your memories are shitty, you'll forget to do it or he'll forget what it means), even stop entirely (that is a complete fucking lie and you both know it), whatever he wanted.
Kid just shook his head and ran into his room, computer on, earphones in, Pesterchum open.
Yeah, maybe attempting to tell him about the magic of the opposite sex is just going to be a fucking mess. At this rate, he's gonna learn everything he's ever gonna need to know off the internet.
You know better than anybody that's bound to end badly.
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He's still pretty cagey about school, and you're pretty sure the kid doesn't go a lot of the time. You've never read any of his school reports, at least not since he was in second grade (“David would do well to do more of his homework”, “David would do better to speak up more in class”, “David seems to have some difficulties in relating to other children”, “There have been some complaints about David's bad language”), but you know him well enough to know when he's hiding shit from you. And he's definitely hiding shit from you.
He's started to password protect his browser history. Thing is, you don't know the password, he knows you don't know the password, and you're not sure either of you are that cool with it. Maybe you've went a bit far in the past poking through the dumb sites him and his friends lurked about on, but you're pretty fucking sure they wouldn't be looking at anything that would embarrass him too bad.
A few weeks before his thirteenth birthday, you catch him coming out of his room early in the morning, his bedsheets bundled in his arms and a pair of damp boxers peeking out from amongst the crumpled sheets. He sees you and freezes, face going pink.
The first thing that comes out of his mouth is an assurance that “well I didn't fucking piss myself so be glad for that”. You let him hang for a few minutes, let his face go redder as you resist the urge to laugh. You can't resist a smirk, and drawl that you're proud of your lil man growing up and discovering the ladies for the first time.
His expression changes, subtly. You know him well enough to see through those minute gaps in his poker face, that little twitch in his brow or the tightening of his lips.
He mumbles something like “yeah, ladies, sure” and just moves past you to the washing machine. He keeps his eyes the hell away from any of the plush rumps impudently jutting towards him, and mechanically deposits his sheets into your barely-used washing machine.
Something strange is afoot in the mind of Dave Strider, and he can't get it past you.
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You admit it, your reaction was pretty mixed. One part pride, one part feeling a bit punched in the gut, one part complete and utter amusement. He's still all gangly limbs, narrow shoulders and pointy elbows, but the kid's growing up. Something spurred him to take his first baby step out of your shadow, and you find John's letter later and rib him about it.
He takes his usual three birthday packages and absconds to his room, emerging later with those gold-framed bad boys on his face. He looks at you, one eyebrow cocked and arms tightly folded. You give him the slightest of nods.
He nods back, almost imperceptibly. Not bad, you're saying. Thanks man, he's saying. Bro approved, they're probably not coming off his face any time soon now.
As usual, you're right. Months later, he's still wearing them, inside, outside, you haven't even seen the pointy shades since he got them. In that time, he's started his own ironic webcomic - and it's pretty goddamn funny - and he's been selling shitty t-shirts and saving up his cash for whatever the fuck a 13 year old uses all that dough for. There's a little change in his attitude, a new arrogance and haughtiness he carries himself with befitting a Strider, and he strides around like the douchiest of them, like he's completely fucking invincible.
Later, he ignores your summons for your usual afternoon training. You find him hunched over his computer, glaring at an auction website. You're pretty sure that F5 key is going to fucking break.
A few weeks later, a shitty, smelly bunny arrives by mail, and you're pretty damn sure it's that one from the stupid Nic Cage film the movie kid is obsessed with.
You smirk and ask him how much that set him back. He grunts and throws a smuppet at you.
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Thing is, he's gotten taller all of a sudden. He's shot up few inches in what you're sure can only be a day, his shoulders have filled out a little, his features look less like a boy's and more like a teenager's, and every word is measured, firm, belying a lot of intelligence and maturity you're pretty damn sure wasn't there yesterday. That you're pretty damn sure you don't even have.
He walks with more certainty now, real confidence, not an overwrought coolguy stride, but a walk with the sureness each foot will follow the next, and that each step has its own consequences that he measures in his head even as he strides onwards.
You feel like you've lost a year. You strain your mind, but only remember colour and pain, reds and blacks, fire and wind, and fur and feathers. It gives you a fucking headache.
You just know that you stand in the kitchen, touching your chest and running a hand through your hair just to assure yourself “I'm here, wherever the fuck I was before, I'm here now”, and Dave just stands there, looking at you, his mouth hanging open.
You tilt your head at him, and before you can say anything his arms are around your waist, squeezing you tight enough to hurt (hurt, hurt, when did the bastard get strong enough to hurt you?) and burying his face into your chest. You two haven't hugged properly since he was about nine years old. You put a hand on his head, and ignore the growing wet patch on your shirt.
You feel like you've both just woken up from a long, bad dream.
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You hate to admit it, but you're bored. It was pretty chill the first few days, and you've got plenty of shit to keep you going at night.
Now though, you're just killing time playing through all those single player games you've had sitting on your shelf and chilling with Lil Cal. You're always happy to spend time with your main man Cal, but he isn't exactly the most talkative guy in the world, won't even explain where he got those neon green threads from, and is definitely just not a fucking challenge on the Xbox.
Dave had been practically bouncing from foot to foot waiting to jump on a flight to his best bro's state, and had been drawling on the phone to him for about an hour before you both left for the airport, a present wrapped in red paper hidden in his sylladex where he probably thought you couldn't see it. Kid underestimates how boned up on data structures you are if he thinks he can get anything past you.
You throw first controller at Cal, who just grins at you like usual, and stalk over to the computer to at least get some work done or something.
Your message client flashes at you.
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TG: sup bro
FP: hey man.
FP: burned down the egbert house yet.
TG: you know me man
TG: serial fucking arsonist over here
TG: im just sitting in the wreckage on egberts dumpass cosbytop here
TG: my hair is covered in soot and my pants are still on fire
FP: sounds bout right.
TG: you should be proud man
FP: course man. created a fucking house-burning monster.
FP: been doing your training?
FP: dont need you turning into a cake-eating slacker.
TG: nag nag nag
FP: have you?
TG: yeah yeah egberts been strifing with me on mornings chill out bro
TG: it usually ends in having fucking pie thrown at me god damn
TG: this family is fucking weird man i mean they have food in the fridge and everything
FP: youre not allowed to keep talking to the snarky broad if youre learning her passive aggressive shit.
TG: sorry man spent the week with her yknow
TG: my sisters weird shit is fucking infectious
FP: oh god damn the sister thing again.
TG: whatever shes flown off home now dude
TG: ive only got the herpderp family to pick up habits from now
TG: hope you like buckets balanced over every door
TG: whoopee cushions on every seat
TG: cake being shoved down your unwilling protein chute every five minutes
TG: being forced to play on dumbass pogorides and tire swings for little babies
FP: whatever you say lil bro.
FP: youre having the time of your life over there
TG: oh hey whats that
TG: its the sound of nobody cares bro
FP: sure you little shit youre not transparent or anything.
TG: whatever man you have no idea
TG: anyway just thought id drop you a line
TG: make sure youre not sat crying and talking to cal without me
FP: man me and cal are just having one big fucking party over here.
FP: bitches be hanging off us.
FP: weve given your room to the favourite members of our harem already sorry bro.
TG: alright
TG: but tell those bitches theyve only got one good week left in the house of strider before i come back
FP: woah what.
TG: oh yeah im staying another week
TG: see what i just did dude
TG: i just told my bro where i was before i went up and fucking vanished
TG: now how fucking hard was that come on
TG: i hope youre taking notes bro theres gonna be an exam on this shit later
FP: nag nag nag
FP: youre getting a smart mouth lil bro. remember whos the older brother here man.
FP: i mean ive got fucking baby pictures.
FP: you want me to compose an ironic album post it over to your bff?
TG: like id give a shit his dads shown me so many fucking pictures of lil egbert this week
TG: but thats not a goddamn invitation you stupid asshole
TG: so dont be printing off pictures of me sitting having a bath in the fucking sink or whatever
FP: no promises.
TG: fuck off bro
TG: anyway johns dragging me out to go to the rental store or whatever
TG: its like hes never even heard of torrents ffs
TG: have a good week without me man dont let the loneliness eat you up
FP: k have fun with your nerdy boyfriend dude.
TG: fuck off bro dont even joke
-- turntechGodhead [TG] signed off! --
Cal is suddenly sat on your desk, grinning away at you in that dipshit way of his. You offer him a fistbunp for another week of catching up with your best puppet bro. You also inform the giggling asshole that you know fine fucking well Dave will be there for the next month or so if the Egberts let him.
He returns in a week and a half, just when his teachers were starting to get pissy about his continued disappearance and you were starting to run out of excuses. There's a new pair of headphones around his neck with, weirdly enough, pictures of Bill Cosby on them
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John is fifteen years old. He shows you a magic trick when you first meet, he goddamn sucks at first-person-shooters and he's quite possibly the only person you've ever met who calls you “Mr Strider”. As though you're actually a grown-up or something.
He's a complete fucking dweeb, and Dave practically falls all over himself to impress the guy at every little opportunity, but he's a good kid. You wouldn't say it to them, but they're both good kids, really.
It becomes pretty damn clear pretty damn fast you're the third wheel as long as Egbert's around. Bit weird, but hey, you're pretty sure that got proved to you three years ago when Dave's pointy shades met their end buried under the mountains of shit in his cupboard. You resist the great urge to sulk, and your resistance is an overwhelming success. Mostly.
You make your usual disappearances, off to peddle puppets in an unsuspecting marketplace, or to DJ at some shitty club, whatever, and Dave seems pretty grateful for the respite from your usually vigilant eye.
There's a million fucking messages in your plushrump inbox later on, all outraged about the sudden appearance of non-puppet boys making out in your livestream. And some, unnervingly, who seemed to have enjoyed the show. You make a mental note to swing your goddamn ban hammer on those guys later.
You're really going to have to remind Dave there's fucking cameras in the kitchen.
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He stands before you with his new eighteenth birthday sword in hand, pointing wordlessly and challenging you to fight for once. You look across at him staring you down through his shades, his headphones slung around his neck, and a sword gripped in his hand. He looks like he's finally going to take this shit seriously.
You sit Lil Cal out for this one.
He takes the first blow, as is tradition, charging up to you quickly and without his usual stupid battlecry. Still doesn't make contact. You parry, move behind him, dart in to strike. He hits back, faster than you've ever remembered him doing it.
You stagger back, just for a second, but he's on the offensive quickly, there's no hesitation. The blows hit sharper and closer. He's been getting good lately. He got better and better since he was about thirteen.
You step up your game a little. You're both moving too fast to be seen, just two blurs separated by the clash of steel against steel. The little bastard can jump pretty far pretty fast, and you're actually sweating, there's not many times when you'll actually fucking sweat.
He hooks a foot around your leg, and you stumble and jump away, charging at him to hit again. He parries, and you see the flash of a smirk as he swings his sword again, and again, until finally you're too slow, he's too quick and your head hits the floor, cap falling off and sword skidding out of your hand.
He stands, leaning on his sword, and catches his breath. You rub the back of your head, pained and he just looks down at you, and adjusts his shades so the sunlight glints off them in an appropriately dramatic fashion (a habit he picked up from you).
“I think I just won, Bro.”
“Well goddamn, man. I think you just did,” you say, trying not to let on how proud you are of the kid, because that fucking smirk is already threatening to break his face, “Colour me impressed, little bro. But I'm still the grand-tier master of irony, man.”
“Well,” he says, and then pauses for just a second, his teeth gnawing his lower lip (a habit he picked up from Egbert) before the patented Strider poker face is back in action, “I'd say an exclusive liking for mancock was pretty fucking ironic.”
You gasp in mock surprise, a hand going to your mouth, and he just scowls at you, mumbling a shut up under his breath. You chuckle and put your cap back on.
“Yeah, alright, I can't compete with that shit. Point taken.”
“Damn right.”
He offers you a hand, and pulls you to your feet.
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FP: sup.
EB: oh, wow! hey, mr strider!
EB: nothing much over here, what's up with you?
EB: wait, is dave okay? it's not like you message me much...
FP: what. nah. chill.
FP: daves fine better than fine probably.
EB: oh good. you had me worried for a second there!
FP: and will you cool it on the mr strider thing.
FP: just call me bro
FP: only appropriate considering youre fucking my lil bro.
EB: uh!
FP: or being fucked by. i really dont need the goddamn details.
EB: er!
EB: i.
EB: hahaha. okay, okay, very funny mr strider!
EB: hehe yeah. haha.
FP: do you two think im fucking stupid or something i mean god damn.
FP: you two are about as subtle as a fucking wrecking ball to the face.
FP: how HIGH do you have to be to MISS something like that.
EB: oh.
EB: oh man.
EB: i'm sorry i know this must be really weird for you!
EB: i mean i just kind of come over every now and then and play video games with you guys and dork up the place.
EB: i mean you probably wanted dave to bring home a nice girl or something!
EB: which i'm obviously not!
EB: i mean the girl bit, not the nice bit.
EB: i mean, you think i'm nice right? you don't like hate me or anything?
EB: because that would really be pretty terrible, you don't, right?
EB: i don't think i could deal! if you hate me tell me why and i'll fix it, i promise!
EB: dave is really important to me and i love him, i mean it.
EB: it's not anything creepy and i promise we always use protection.
EB: not that we do stuff like that that often! i don't want you to think that i'm some like
EB: or that we're like
EB: oh god why am i still typing?
FP: kid.
FP: breathe. fucking breathe.
EB: doing that. breathing in and breathing out. not at all any panicking going down over here, no siree.
FP: think rivers and mountains and wind and the sound of rain. light some fucking tealights if thats what it takes to make you chill out.
EB: if i had a cd of whale songs or something, you know i'd be blasting that shit.
FP: dont doubt it.
FP: and come on man.
FP: what did you think i expected raising a kid in a forest of giant fucking puppet dick.
FP: hes like fucking pooh bear if christopher robin grew up to be a dirty bastard with an extensive collection of sex toys.
FP: goddamn robin hood of fuzzwood forest.
FP: make you like maid marion wouldnt it?
FP: maid marius. whatever.
FP: a raging case of queer and a fetish for nerdy guys with an orthodontic crisis is the least that could have happened.
EB: um. so. it's alright, then?
FP: no im just going through all this to warn you off him.
FP: gtfo and stop sending dave swords. thou hast heard me say my homo lil bro is not for thee.
FP: i've already arranged a marriage with a nice puppet-loving young lady in canada.
EB: haha, see, i know that's a joke and everything.
EB: but i'm still having a heart attack.
EB: ...did he like the sword?
EB: i mean, was it a good pick? i know nothing about swords. to be honest, when dave talks about them i sometimes zone out a little.
FP: he kicked my ass with it.
FP: so yeah nice job there kid.
FP: fuck should really stop calling you two kids. aint really kids any more.
EB: well...i guess not really! hehehe.
EB: um. thanks for being so cool with this mr strider.
FP: bro. seriously im telling you. bro is fine its what everybody calls me.
EB: that's gonna take a little getting used to.
FP: anyway youre gonna get off the computer soon.
EB: i am?
FP: daves gonna be on the phone to you in five.
EB: he is?
FP: he is so fucking predictable.
EB: he thought he needed to give it a good hour or so before it was cool to get in touch and say thanks, didn't he?
EB: so dumb, jeez.
FP: yeah p much man. fucking ridiculous guy.
EB: yep! he has all of the ridiculous. all of it.
FP: feel free to slap him up if hes being a dumbass.
EB: haha, oh man.
EB: i don't think i could do that if i tried!
FP: yeah.
FP: you take good care of him egbert.
FP: consider this like my fucking blessing or some shit.
EB: i will, don't worry!
FP: yeah i know.
EB: oh man, my phone's ringing.
FP: told you. hes like fucking clockwork.
EB: pfft hahaha, man. yeah. anyway later, bro!
FP: later john.
-- ectobiologist [EB] ceased pestering fuzzyPhallus [FP] -
Yeah, they're good kids.
They're going to be just fine.
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Just. Awesome stuff. Awesome. <3
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