Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3852775.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Gamzee_Makara/Terezi_Pyrope, Aradia_Megido_&_Damara_Megido
  Character:
      Rose_Lalonde, Kanaya_Maryam, Dave_Strider, Karkat_Vantas, Damara_Megido,
      Aradia_Megido, Gamzee_Makara
  Additional Tags:
      Characters_and_relationships_will_be_added_as_the_story_continues
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-01 Chapters: 1/? Words: 1732
****** Stumbling, Perhaps Falling Slowly ******
by Sunflower_Kin
Summary
     In a tiny town full of hopeless dreamers, a young group of fools are
     going to be involved in something that may very well ruin their
     lives. It all starts with a foul tempered artist demanding a new
     muse, and three aspiring musicians stumbling upon one of the worst
     crimes the country has seen.
Notes
     Please note that this story is intended to be horribly explicit and
     may trigger those who are upset by violence and rape. Do not dare
     read this if you are upset by these topics, because they will be
     vital to the plot, and are not skippable.
See the end of the work for more notes
Rose had pledged herself to her music. After her mother died, it was all she
had. Tiny little callouses and cuts from the strings breaking. Music sheets,
scattered throughout the halls and taped over tacky wizard paintings. When the
nights got too lonely, she would creep in on the alcohol cabinet her mother had
once kept brimming. She would write drunk melodies, ones far too personal for
the public, and had learned to not read them, to throw them away while she
remained unattached. Rose Lalonde preferred to be unattached.
Kanaya had given up music after her mother had died. The grand piano in the
ballroom remained untouched, the tutor they once paid rather well was sent away
on his usual Wednesday morning. She dedicated her time to her studies, trying
to advance her degree so she could get out, get recognized, get something. She
couldn’t stand twiddling her thumbs, watching her sister grow up too fast. She
couldn’t watch someone else’s freedom get pulled out from underneath them like
that. The least she could do is sacrifice as well, so that Porrim wouldn’t
suffer so much. Music was a worthy sacrifice.
Dave had submersed himself into music from the moment he could tap out a tune
onto a keyboard. Arcade buttons, microwave doors, television remotes, nothing
was spared from his hands. He could make a beat out of anything, he could play
any tune, match any DJ, he was the best there was. He could feel it in every
fiber of his being. And he knew that if he wasn’t the best, he sure as hell was
going to be. Music was more than just a competition. It was a conquest to him.
Flyers were being passed out by the three of them, outside of bars, churches,
grocery stores. Taped to lamp posts and tucked under windshield wipers. Hardly
anyone glanced at them for more than a moment. Teenagers gazed longingly at the
prize money before throwing it into their bags. Adults scoffed at its entire
purpose and handed the flyers back. It was easy to count how many people had
kept them with the intentions of following through with its message. Even fewer
actually followed up and called the number on the little scraps. Karkat Vantas
was looking for a new muse. Someone beautiful, someone hard and curved and
strong but also beautiful. He needed a Greek statue, he needed grace and
purpose and all of it had to be natural. Short, tall, fat, skinny, he didn’t
care. He needed his light, his fire, his soul. In his oversized studio, people
would stand, sit, dance, sing, whatever they need so long as it is beautiful.
He had wrote it in bright red, a million times, on each flyer. Karkat Vantas
would settle for nothing less than ethereal perfection. No rain nor snow could
postpone such a momentous occasion.
On a dreary Sunday morning, humans from all walks of life had lined themselves
up underneath umbrellas and blankets, outside of the studio door. At exactly
eleven-o-five, the door swung open and muddy feet trudged in, dropping
knapsacks and jackets and backpacks alike. In the center of the room was a tiny
wooden stool surrounded by canvases and paint jars. Everyone awkwardly stood
around, each person taking a few steps forward before stumbling back a little.
Nobody quite understood what was expected of them. “One of you assholes,” a
voice at the end of the room said, “Strip, and stand on the stool. I don’t care
who goes first. Just hurry the fuck up.” A man peeked out from behind the
canvas, short and angry and small. He had red beady eyes and a mop of black
hair that he could barely see past. He was dark skinned and seemed to be
permanently flushed, almost as if he was embarrassed. “Did I fucking stutter?
Hurry the fuck up and get naked. Or fucking leave, I don’t care.” Everyone
glanced around before they all stripped away their upper layers of clothing.
Cardigans and leggings and tank tops were folded, each person lingering about
in just their underwear.
The first person to step up was a thick bleach blonde, with skin darker than
midnight. She stripped away her fuchsia panties and sat, facing the waiting
artist. “Is this all you fish for?” she asked, smiling innocently. He glared
for a moment before nodding. Karkat picked up a charcoal pencil and sketched
for a moment before stopping. He dipped his fingers in a few jars of paint and
began to flick it onto the canvas erratically. When it was clear he was
finished, he gestured for her to come stand in front of the easel. “All of you,
when I’m done, will write your full fucking name at the top. Don’t fuck this
up. Follow it up with your number and I’ll call you when I need you.” After
that, time moved forward rather quickly. Karkat drew people of all types – a
girl that couldn’t sit still and ended up spending half of the sketch hanging
upside down from the stool, a blind girl that modeled on the lap of her gangly
boyfriend, both too drunk to do much else, a boy in a wheelchair that was
damned determined to get his pants on and off and get himself onto the stool
without a bit of help. When it was all over, thirteen canvases had been drawn
on. Thirteen creatures had been sketched and colored and had turned into
masterpieces, by his own definition.
He had met many beautiful people, and had loved them all. He pulled out his
cellphone, something cheap and shitty and not worth more than pocket change,
and labeled all of the numbers with their respective names. He knew he would be
calling upon many of them soon. Karkat knew who would be his first.
She was thin and angry and he couldn't help but draw her as he saw her. Gangly
and flaming and colored in harsh reds and angry yellows. Scales that covered
her ankles and wound up her legs and met in between her thighs, spreading like
wings over her hips and cupping her breasts. Her arms were raised over her
head, holding masses of dark hair that curved around her hips when down and
untouched. She was sneering, both as a model and as a creation, as if no one in
the room was worth the polite acknowledgment. He peeked at her sketch to check
for her name. Damara. That name was fitting. She was almost a dragon, a
monster, a serpent. She was terrifying, both in life and art, demanding
everyone’s attention in the cruelest way possible. Too upsetting to be sexy,
she didn’t use her curves to attract anyone. She didn’t use them at all. It was
almost as if they were blessings she did not need. She herself was a blessing,
what more would she need?
So Karkat dared to dial her number. He called her and waited for the ringing to
stop. It rang and rang and rang. It didn’t stop. And when it did, a recording
played in a language he didn’t recognize, and he didn’t bother leaving a
message. Somewhere across town, maroon lips were wrapped around the pipe of a
hookah, taking a deep breath and exhaling around the gold metal. Damara was
draped across a booth of older men, each one fascinated by the Mongolian’s
curves. A few pasty hands wandered over her oiled skin, along the edges of a
scrap of fabric that couldn’t be considered a skirt by even the loosest of
folk. She sighs and breathes out more smoke, into the face of a painted face
that smirks down at her, suggestively thrusting his hips into her shoulder
blades.
“Your shift is fin-ally over. I’ll take over and fin-fish.” Damara tilted her
head up, rising her hips up into the face of a man that could have passed for
an overzealous teenager. Meenah looked down at her, dressed in a sea shell bra
and fish nets strategically placed over her hips. Damara wordlessly stood and
straightened her clothes, concealing the nipple that had been pulled out and
righting the angle of her skirt. Meenah took her place, wide legged and draping
herself lazily along their laps. The Mongolian easily slipped into the back,
changing out of her tacky school girl costume and untying her hair. She pulled
wads of cash out of her underwear and socks, even a few bills out of her bun.
Sighing, she tidied the wads up and put them into her wallet.
“How much did you make tonight?” a tinier version of Damara peeked her head out
of a lounge-like room, smiling and wrapping her arms around her mother’s
thighs. “Silly child,” Damara clucked, running a hand through the young girl’s
dark hair. “I made a few hundred. I was thinking we could go to McDonald’s
tonight, and you would get the playground to yourself.” Aradia’s face lit up
like a Christmas tree, her smiling wrinkling up her round cheekbones. Damara
wriggled out of the girl’s death grip and changed into her maroon frock, tying
her hair back up and grabbing her purse. Aradia kept darting from her mother’s
arms to the back door, and back again. Finally, the little girl and her mother
walked to the McDonald’s down the road, across from the trolley station.
They passed by a drunk couple, both stumbling and fumbling with the paper bags
in their hands. The girl smiled up to her eyes, the corners of her mouth hiding
behind her oversized glasses. She kept planting messy kisses on the side of her
boyfriend’s face, coming away with black and white makeup smearing her mouth.
He kept wiping the slobber off that side of his face, ruining the face paint he
had put on. “Terezi,” he moaned, pushing her face away. She snickered and
licked his head, making a face at the taste of sweat on his hand. “I bet you
look like a dork now!” she proudly shouted, waving her arms out dramatically.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she giggled, fumbling to pull it out. Terezi
flipped it open and shouted and happy hello. She paused for a second, heavily
breathing past her shit eating grin. Then she giggled and closed the phone.
“Gam! Karkles called and he wants me back tomorrow!”
End Notes
     I hope you all enjoyed it, and I will not object to criticism, as
     this is my first time writing in a very long time. Thank you.
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