imperialdrone: (cypher)
imperialdrone ([personal profile] imperialdrone) wrote in [community profile] bucketlist2012-02-11 01:32 pm
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Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

Homestuck Kink Meme

Helpful notes

  1. Both art and fic are welcome and encouraged.

  2. The character limit for comments on Dreamwidth is 16,000 characters (somewhere around 2700 words).

  3. If you need an anonymous image host for porny stuff, you can use

  4. It's called a kink meme but we welcome non-porn requests too. Just make sure you give anons something to work with beyond just the pairing.

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  1. Your kink is okay. So is everyone else's. Do not leave prompts or comments that bash characters/pairings or put down somebody's kinks/interests.

  2. If your prompt or fill contains common triggers such as graphic violence, rape/non-con, or abuse, please label it in the comment subject line, e.g.: "Vriska/Tavros [abuse]" or "Gamzee/any [violence]."

  3. Please put the character(s) you're requesting in the comment subject line! That makes it a lot easier for potential fillers to find requests.

  4. Having prompts filled is what makes a kink meme successful! Try to fill a prompt for every handful you leave.

There's a master list of fills in this post. Please link yours when you finish them!

"Perchance to Dream" Roxy/Gamzee 1/3

(Anonymous) 2012-03-29 10:20 pm (UTC)(link)
When she sleeps, she dreams - and she dreams that she is awake, in another place and in other times. The only problem with being the hero of void is that sometimes (too often) her powers backfire on her, and even her thoughts and memories are hidden from her own mind. When she wakes, she can never remember a damned thing that's happened.

Well, not nothing. There are bits and pieces, all broken up like some stained glass window that's been shattered for years, its pieces scattered to the wind - with just a flash of color here or there that hints at what might've been before. What the picture might've looked like. It's never enough, though.

She's okay with that, because if she weren't, she knows it'd drive her crazy.

When she drinks, she sleeps more heavily. When she drinks, she dreams more vividly. And, sometimes, (she thinks but isn't quite sure) she even starts to remember.


At first, everything is black. But it's not bad. It's familiar.

She's been here before. Maybe it wasn't this exact place or time, but the veil itself still carries with it that shared sense of continuity within the places that pass between. It's fluid, shifting, but still the same - like water filling in the cracks between stepping stones. She doesn't quite hold her breath, but she waits in anticipation to see just what it'll bring this time.

Then there is light.

It's slow to build, and subtle, and at first it's hard to tell if there really are colors anywhere or if it's all just a wash of black and indigo, shadows and darkness. Her eyes - her mind - begins to adjust to the newness, and she glides forward on an unseen breeze.

There is a bubble. It looks like shifting glass, both tiny and massive at the same time. She approaches it until it dwarfs her, and she holds out a hand, pressing against the surface. It feels cool and slippery and ethereal, utterly alien and completely familiar. She smiles and pushes through, her feet finding traction on ground again - on a wood-paneled floor - and suddenly she is in another world with familiar rules like gravity and inertia, and she stumbles as this other world looks so much like her own.

She's standing in the foyer of her own house, only there's real light shining through the windows - and they're real windows instead of just the holographic-and-sometimes-teleportational portals that have always been the only reason why she's managed to survive beneath her house, traveling through fenestrated planes unseen by the drones, for so long. Her breath hitches, and she feels her pulse race, and for a moment she panics, certain that they're lying in wait.

But it's not real. It's not her home. It's ... someone else's memory of a home that looks the same (and yet is completely different) and she can't help but wonder just who it belongs to. (And she can't help wonder if it'd be better if she didn't know.) She tries to not think about her mother, separated by centuries and universes. She tries, and she fails.

A faint chime jars her out of her thoughts and memories. The sound of someone moving within the house puts her on her guard again.

Slowly, quietly, she walks down the hall. She's practiced at moving that way, unnoticed and undetected. She's had a lot of time to go at it. But that one damned loose board still squeaks when she puts her weight on it, oh so faintly, and she knows the ruse is up even as she freezes mid-step.

"Ain't no sense just sneaking around, pitter patter, pitter patter, like a motherfucking tiny squeakbeast when there's good eats a-waiting," drawls a low voice from within the kitchen. (She knows it's the kitchen, first opening on the left; it's her house. Sort of.) "Even if you are just stuck in this here bubble, waiting for it to pop and all up and fade away just like the rest of 'em. At least enjoy what time you have in this fine motherfucker while you've still got it."

She unfreezes, straightens; she even smiles as she walks the rest of the way as if she were taking a Sunday stroll in a park for the first time in her entire life. The patterns of color flowing through the windows are painted in garish pastel, and they make the house look more alive than it ever did before.

"Heeeey~" She calls out, doing a fancy spin on one foot as she rounds the corner. It's not quite a pirouette, but that's okay. It's still fun. She grins at the troll who's bent over by the oven at the far end of the kitchen. He's still young and is dressed in what look like pajamas that hang almost too loose on his gangly form. His hair is a messy tangle, falling around his face and shoulders like a wild mane. His horns are tall and curling, sort of like a corkscrew with the way they twist in a gentle spiral. She's always liked that imagery about him, though it's one of the few things she hasn't yet told him in all of the times they've met each other in the dream bubbles so far. "Aren't you full of surprises. I didn't know you cooked for reals."

"Hell yeah, sister," he says, pulling a sickly green pie out of the oven. It smells terrible, like curdled milk or overripe fruit that's been left out in the summer sun. "Pie's my specialty. Used to eat these motherfuckers all the time back home, before I realized that they all up and messed with my thinkpan."

"Oooh, those pies." She watches him stand up and set the tin on the counter to cool. It doesn't start to smell any better now that she knows just what's in it. She crosses over to take a closer look at it anyway. "Where'd you get sopor for it here? This looks like an Earth dream bubble, not one of the ones from your group. Oh, no wait, let me guess-" She leans back against the counter and leers up at him. He's tall enough that he has to duck just a little bit or risk digging into the ceiling with his horn tips. "Miracles, obvs. Am I right?"

He laughs. It still sounds too strained, too calculated, but it always has. "That's the motherfucking truth, my little sister." But at least he laughs, now. He didn't at first. "Seems a motherfucking shame to let a pie like this go to waste, though, especially after it was all those miracles that were put into making it dream-real. Don't suppose a sister wants to try some, since this motherfucker can't touch it no more."

"Yeah..." About that... She considers her options, and she's pretty sure that intentionally ingesting sopor of unknown and dubious origins - even if it has been cooked - is pretty low on the priority list. Especially considering that everything she's heard has said that it's the worst possible thing for a troll to eat. And she's finding it more and more convincing that sopor is one of those ingredients with a long, unpronounceable name listed on the back of everything that the Batterwitch sells, the type of complex word where no one really knows just what it is. The prospect of eating a pie full of the stuff doesn't quite hold up against her test of madrigogs. She decides that redirection is the better course of action. "How about we let it sit and cool off for a while first. And in the meeeeantime, I've got a better idea."

"Whatcha got in mind, sister?" His grin's still there, and if he realizes that his pie's really going to waste after all, he doesn't seem offended in the least. "You know I'm all about trying new things."

"'kay, see," she says, already almost-pirouetting out of the kitchen to where she just knows the liquor cabinet should be. (Where it is. And it looks completely the same, even if the warm pastel glow from outside makes the wood seem richer in hue.) "This is a human house, which means that whoever lived here had good stash, unless they were completely and utterly batshit insane. You know what I'm talking about, riiiight? A little something something to keep your nerves settled, let you enjoy all of the free will you've got left in all the whole shitty world. Universe. Universes. And I totes guarantee it's not gonna rot your thinkpan."

Already she's got the glass doors open and is picking through the bottles. They're .. slightly different from the ones she remembers. Maybe. Or maybe she's just forgotten what she's had in stock last. But they're familiar enough in how they're ordered that she wastes no time in picking out the tequila. It's a brand new bottle, just like she knew it'd be; tequila's really the only one that has to be shared, which is why it's always sat there alone and untouched. There’s more than enough Cointreau, and she's pretty damn sure that there should be some lime juice in the fridge. If there isn't, then it'd be a crying shame. "It might kill your liver, though," she adds, then asks in an afterthought, "Do trolls even have livers?"

"No motherfucking clue," he rumbles, just behind her, and for a brief instant she's completely unnerved at just how well he can be silent when he wants to, or even when he's not thinking about it, like some giant murder-meowbeast on the prowl. She covers it by grabbing a pair of glasses - not caring that they're way too narrow and meant for wine - and turning around on the spot to simper up at him. "Would you like to partake?" she asks, affecting an exaggerated British accent like she's always imagined Jake to have while raising both glasses and the bottle in his general direction. She maybe wiggles her eyebrows and winks, too.

For a moment, he hesitates. He takes the bottle out of her hand and brings it up to look at more closely, turning it over to inspect the label. He can't read it, she knows; it's written in English and it's not one of those newer types that has both that and the alien text printed on the side. But she doesn't insult him by pointing that out. When he finally says something, his voice is low and all kinds of serious. "This isn't going to knock me off my clean streak, is it? That's the last motherfucking thing I need right now what with everything finally being so motherfucking clear and making all kinds of wicked sense."

They've both their own reasons for continually seeking out these dream bubbles time and time again. For her, she drinks to sleep and escape the reality of the Batterwitch and everything she's brought with her into her world. For him, he waits, awake and apart from the horrorterrors and everyone else, for when he can drift through the dream bubbles, leaving behind the filthy truth of what all has happened on his meteor.

He told her about it once. Exactly once. She's pretty sure he didn't tell her exactly everything, but hearing about the bloodbath and how big of a real in it he really played was still pretty bad in and of itself.

"I don't think it works that way," she finally says. "I mean, I drink this shit all the time. Allllllll the time. Well, I mean, not this specifically, but the alcohol in general. Nothing says good morning like a nice bottle of wine. Except maybe two bottles. Anyway," she stands on her toes to grab at the drink, setting down the glasses long enough to open it. "I figure we can take it slow, right? You try a little, we see how it goes, and I'll keep an eye on you and make sure you don't turn into murdertroll, and it'll be fun! Just you and me and a house full of liquor. It's like.. the best of all possible worlds, of all friggin stupid timelines or dreambubbles or whatever the hell. What can possibly go wrong!"

She's already filled both wine glasses near to the brim with tequila and Cointreau, and ducks past him long enough to find what more she needs in the kitchen. (Who the hell needs to stay restricted to just shots? Not this girl.) He follows behind her like an oversized attack puppy, watching her mix up the most wicked of margaritas. When she's done, she holds the marginally less filled glass up to him with a smile that's supposed to be innocent and charming, yet she knows is just a shade shy of devious. "It'll be fiiiine! Come on, don't be a fucking party pooper. Just a sip can't hurt."

Her smile turns from devious to lascivious when he takes it out of her hand.