A/N: i've been kicking around the idea for a convoluted clusterfuck homestuck crack pairing fanfic for a while... i'm open to suggestions for pairings/situations/characters you wanna see more of, and although this is very character development/headcanon-centric, if my characterization or anything totally misses the mark, pleeeeease feel free to correct me! also, if you have questions about headcanons or whatever cuz some of 'em are a bit weird... anywhoozle, hope you enjoy! :)
Something hits you really hard, and you sit bolt upright with a yelp, wondering what it was.
It's not makeup.
Digging the heels of your palms into your eyes, you realize that whatever is bothering you so profoundly definitely isn't the greasy paint that's usually a bit smudged over your cheekbones in the mornings.
Your face is gone.
Your motherfucking face is completely gone, and you're utterly naked and alone in a stranger's bed.
These things fuel panic in you until you realize that even if you're stripped bare and exposed on a chilly morning with no clue where the fuck you are, your previous assumption about your aloneness was false.
Rolling onto your side, you see the soft rise and fall of another's breath gently lifting the covers, and as you inch closer to them, reassured beyond measure by their presence, you notice a few things:
1. The sharp bony angle of a shoulder where it slides into a thin neck, absolutely motherfucking beautiful the way the morning light casts shadows on it. Shit's like some artsy photograph.
2. This motherfucker's practically a skeleton. As you slide your hands down their (his, you realize when you pass over their chest, hoping for a nice pair of tits to squeeze and being disappointed) body, you can count ribs. You never gave much care to math, but you know that's one thing that isn't supposed to be counted.
You pull him close and press your naked skin against his back, cheek against vertebrae, smooth and still while you listen to him breathe. Everyone should have a sleeping cuddle buddy first thing wakin' up sober in the mornings, you think.
It doesn't take long for him to wake up when you start sliding your tongue over the little ridges where fat and muscle should be, and he rolls onto his back with a mumble that sounds a little like a buzz.
"Good morning, motherfucker." Man must moisturize or something for how soft his skin is all around your mouth like that. Too bad he has to go and stir up some motherfucking discord so early in the morning.
"Get out."
Looking back, only five words were said that morning between you, but with that skinny bro shouting his two syllables over and over so loud it seemed like you were listening to him recite a monologue by that one chill brother who wrote a lot about being star-crossed and shit that one time. You wish you could remember his name. You didn't pay attention in English class much either. Whatever, life's all good.
You pay just about as much attention to his shouting as you did in class as he herds you out the door, still half-naked, with his pillow. Motherfucker should stop straining his voice for a little and enjoy the miracle that is a good pillow fight, you think, but don't bother telling him that. You yawn, shuffling through the hall as he chases you, throwing things of increasing hardness and value at you till he's standing in the doorway all full of fire holding a frying pan over his head.
You just sit on the porch wondering if he's gonna give you back the rest of your clothes or not. He tosses them in your face about as hard as clothes can be tossed and slams the door loud enough that it hurts your ears. Pity, you don't even remember his name. His number's still scrawled across your forearm, though. Better put that with the rest of your friends'.