my first kiss went a little like this - Dave/John - Homestuck

[A/N: this was for tracey’s birthday like a week ago bc she likes davejohn and kissing and davejohn and she is the dokiest of the doki. not my best work but! enjoy.]

Your first kiss was when you were fourteen, and you remember it a lot more clearly than you’d like to admit.

Read More

aw sweetheart im sure it was fine!

Why are you sad? My fingers stroke your skin of marble as I lean in close, our noses touching and my breath restrained as it always is (the breath from your lungs is a part of your soul, and my soul I have since forgotten how to give). Your eyes are radiant and your fingers elegant in their child-like manners, yet you look at me with disdain and worry, you look at me with the look of a soul who is heartbroken. For though I’ve forgotten, I’ve forgotten how to give away my love, my soul, my passions, you haven’t, have you? So many haven’t, and their radiant hues have since stained my skin like melted glass, burned and etched it in their own patterns, but I shake them off and I cry in my own disdain.

Yet you don’t understand true empathy, true caring, do you? You let your blood run to sing to me of your love for me, but in that you do nothing but scar me, you do exactly what has given me fear for so long. You have become what makes me tremble and sob at night. You have become the one thing neither of us dreamt you would.

Now you’re just another monster in the night, and I wonder idly if everyone will prove so. Even myself. Dry your tears and forget the shadows, because hell if I don’t need you to smile at me like you once did.

maybe i am broken
my skin of glass and my tongue of salt-stained wounds
maybe i am nothing
a translucent entity in search of its awaited tomb
maybe i am laughable
a mockery meant for irony and subtle quips
maybe i am pitiful
a victim of my own venom and my own whips

for truly, who is to blame!
not you, nor he, nor she -
it’s only me, myself, i, for shame
and so i deserve not even sleep.

Seashells are strewn across your desk, and you sort them the way you did when you were a child. You’ve always loved them, despite being afraid of the ocean, afraid of the vast beauty that created them in the first place. You especially loved those large conch ones - your grandmother had one and you would put it to your ear, making gasping sounds as your lips contorted in soft O’s while your eyes were round like dinner plates and the shell made the sound of that very ocean within your ear. You later learned that it was just the echoes of your bloodstream, but you refused to let that take the magic from you.

Even still, here you are, with shells beneath your fingertips that aren’t like those large ones, but they mesmerize you just the same. You try to focus on the soft ridges and ripples of their shapes, and the light arrays of hues that each possesses, instead of the haunting images in your mind. Pounding rhythms reverberate on your mind’s walls, the rustling of fabric between your legs and the movement of lips against yours - screaming that humiliates you, drenches your dignity in the blood you try to forget, the blood that brewed just below the surface of your skin and begged to break free. You try to forget the whispers, the begging, the fingers tearing at your arms as they declare their love for you, how you are their sunshine and their bliss, you are all they need. 

You find necessity so tiring anymore. That’s why you’ve said “To hell with it”. You don’t know if you’ve made the right choice, and you laugh as you hum, sliding another shell farther along the oak of the desk (your house was always filled with oak - oak, oak, oak. There was a time when you wondered if there even were other sorts of wood). You don’t even know if you are happy, or if you are simply wrapping the barbed wire tighter still around your ankles, all you know is that you hope to drain the images from your mind, and fall into the sea - needing nothing and being needed for nothing. Maybe then you can enjoy child’s play genuinely once more.

Sometimes you stop, and you hear the silence.

No, that’s not right - you hear everything you normally don’t. The air vents, the dripping of a single drop of water into the sink in rapid succession, the breathing of your brother upstairs, the one you never knew quite how to speak to or play fun games with. The rustling of the wind outside through trees that you can’t quite remember being so tall, the laughter of children down the street that echoes everything you once were and somewhere forgot how to be. The cracking of your toes as you shift, the sipping of hot chocolate that you hardly remember making.

You stop, and you see what you normally don’t. The way the sunlight drifts gently through the windows - a morning like any other, yet a morning you haven’t appreciated in a long time (when did you last appreciate anything?). The way the furniture is positioned just like it was when you played as a toddler, when you learned what your favorite movies were and you tried your favorite foods, when you got sick and threw up that new soup your daycare had tried to feed you. When you kissed your father goodbye as he hid the tears in his eyes and turned his back to your mother. When your first hamster died, the same week as your first grandfather. 

Sometimes you remember what it’s like to remember.

And here you are again. Low as low can be, without an ounce of retribution. Your wings had grown, stretching from your back and tearing your skin apart so that you had a chance at flight. Flight from the abyss that tormented you so, from the minx who was your definition and in so your trap, flight from the tears that stained your face and you were soon to drown in. But you believed, somewhere in your dark cavern you found a fleck of hope which could carry you up; the wind beneath wings that you needed more than anything.

But what good did that do you? None. You flew too close to the sun, and they melted, the love and adoration of dozens sending you spiraling into your own boiling blood. The sun still shines upon you, but it is melting you until you feel as worthless as you did in those days when you forgot what light looked like. You close your eyes, feeling yourself fall between the cracks, your spine liquefying to its previous form. You can hear the screams of those around you, their bones cracking into place as their wings beg to be freed, but all you can think of is the blood staining your once hopeful feathers.

All you wanted was to be proud, but now you are too tired to even lift your chest and breathe again.

What gave you belief, what gave you hope? Was it the sky smiling upon you, condescending in all of its height? You deserve nothing, you mean nothing, you are nothing and you have already learned this, but your feeble mind struggles to remember.

How are you still surviving? You know not, because try you don’t and succeed you don’t, yet somehow you’re still just above water. Your failures have stained you and soon they’ll poison you, soon they’ll bring you down to size from your plastic dreams and the reflection you somehow thought you deserved. A laugh escapes your throat, strangled by a breath you struggle to admit is a ‘sob’. You’ve run from them so long - you’ve run from your fears and your thoughts and the truths that linger just beneath your skin.

But now they crawl out, your protection is cracked and no amount of kindness (that which you don’t deserve, you’ve never deserved, you pathetic excuse of even a monster, much less a being to be respected) or sugar sweet kisses will save you now. Perhaps there is a reason love has done nothing but burn you, but betray you for all the trust you are sure you’ve given it. Maybe you can finally rest and your throat will cease its raw stinging once and for all.　

ah you’re precious. aT SOME POINT… as is my answer when it comes to all my fics, haha, i just haven’t been very productive story-wise lately. i’m glad some people are excited for it though!! thank you for asking. uvu

Love is beauty and love is fear. Love is the touching of lips to a dainty hand while the rain pours, your lips smiling at me while your eyes look not directly into mine. You are captured by worry and your laughter is magnificent in its own apathy, one I’ve yet to understand. Love is to wonder a person’s entire soul, your essence and your beliefs and the intrigue you reap within me. I reach my foot out over the ledge, hoping to leap over clouds and to clasp your hand in mine.

But frozen I am, for love is fear and I am shaken by the concern that so mirrors yours. We know scars and we know the hideous face that life may don when night has come once again - time is without true definition despite the way man continues to insist that we have captured its wily self for our own. Raindrops fall toward the sky and my fingers grab to my own arms, not yours. You turn your back and my eyes leap up, suddenly no longer afraid, as love is beautiful and it encourages the soul.

But look back at me and I will again gaze at your feet, I will again forget the touch of your hand despite my ever-present yearning - I will adore the gap the keeps us apart in fear of another scar over my back. And I will betray the very love I so worship, giving you not the chance to ever do so.