Butterscotch Pie Lord

my contribution to the Homestuck 2026 Fan Calendar go buy it now!!!

it presents homestuck's story events in order as you go through the year it's super cool! my assignment was "[S] Rose: Enter"!

Tucker, the cat behind Lady Normalgirl’s noble eunuch, passed away on Tuesday morning.

From about the time I could talk, I dreamed of having a pet cat — and when I was ten, that dream finally came true. But in all my tiny child dreaming, I don’t think I could have imagined a cat better than Tucker. He’s been my constant companion for the last thirteen years, through all the best and worst bits of my life and as much as I know it’s good he’s no longer in pain, it seems very wrong that I have to do this next worst bit without him.

I’m thankful that we were able to spend so long together (even if it doesn’t feel quite long enough) and I’m so very grateful that over the last year and a bit I was able to share him with all of you. Knowing that he will be remembered so far and wide means more than I can really express. He definitely knew how insanely much I loved him (and I know how much he loved me back), but I’d like to think he knew how much so many of you loved him and how much joy his noble likeness’s comics brought so many people. While I know I will never stop missing him and that my sadness might never truly go away, it will always be a comfort to know my little cat has left behind such a grand legacy of love and happiness.

<3

Day Dress

c. 1855

White silk and wool mixed organdy with print; double-tiered skirt with border pattern; pagoda sleeves with fringe.

England

And sometimes I think, “Well, two hundred is technically less than four hundred.” And I have to stop myself, because - I am writing half as much as Terry Pratchett. Terry fucking Pratchett, who not only published regularly up until his death, but published books that were consistently good. 

And this has also been an immense help as a writer with ADHD, because I don’t feel bad when I take a break from writing - two hundred words works up quick, after all. If I take a break at 150, I have a whole day to write 50 more words, and I’ve rarely written less than 200 words and not felt the need to keep writing because I need to tie up a loose end anyways. 

And there was this one guy I talked with who seemed super sharp, but had virtually zero experience writing software. When it came time to do the show-n-tell part of the interview he whips out his laptop, brings up a website, and spins it around to show me what he made.

A website of tiny ceramic frogs.

Not for sale. Just… all these ceramic frogs, organized into categories. Frogs on bicycles, frogs with hats, frogs sitting on lily pads. It was a virtual museum of ceramic frogs in web form.

I scrolled through his online collection of frogs, slightly baffled.

“This is your website?” I asked finally.

“Yep!”

“You coded this yourself?” I popped into view-source mode and poked around some incredibly well-formatted, well-commented html. I nodded slowly. This guy was meticulous.

“Yep!”

“So… where’d all the frogs come from?”

“I made those too,” he says, beaming. 

And while I’m processing this he rummages in his bag and pulls out a little ceramic frog working at a computer terminal. He places it on the table before us, next to the laptop.

“And THIS one,” he says, “I made for you! As a thank you for the interview.”

It was adorable. I hired him on the spot. I mean, why not? Worst case he’d wash out in 90 days and we’d hire somebody else. He turned out to be one of the best developers on our team. 

Before we get started, I want to apologize for how long this took to get out. I have no excuse; I simply forgot to post it. That's all. Please enjoy.

Jazz decided—very reasonably—that the problem wasn’t her.

The problem was Gotham’s lack of mental health literacy.

Armed with this conclusion, she did what any responsible future psychology major would do: she went to the library.

Gotham University’s main library was a massive, echoing cathedral of books and bad decisions. Jazz settled at a table, spreading out her notes, copies of Dr. Quinzel’s early publications, and a color-coded map of Gotham she’d picked up at a gas station that also sold tasers.

“Okay,” she murmured, tapping her pen. “Harleen Quinzel, PhD. Former Arkham psychiatrist. Specialized in criminal psychology, empathy disorders, and—unfortunately—dating terrible men. - Has better taste in women. ”

A nearby student slowly scooted their chair away.

Jazz didn’t notice.

She did notice a pattern, though.

Every record of Dr. Quinzel’s work ended abruptly. Expunged addresses. Redacted files. A whole lot of “CLASSIFIED” stamped where academic citations should have been. But she did find out that Dr. Quinzell was locked up in Arkham for her own mental stability.

Which, frankly, Jazz found unethical.

“Well,” she said, standing up, “guess I’ll have to go to the source.”

Arkham Asylum loomed exactly like it did in the documentaries.

Which is to say: ominous, poorly lit, and definitely not up to code. It kinda felt like home.

Jazz stood at the front gate, hands on her hips, staring up at it with thoughtful interest.

“Huh,” she said. “They really lean into the fear aesthetic. I wonder if that's on purpose. Use fear to treat the patients. But that would be counterproductive, given that Dr. Crane has conducted an entire study on fear and its impact on the brain. ”

A guard spotted her and froze.

She waved.

“Hi! I’m looking for Dr. Harleen Quinzel.”

The guard’s soul visibly left his body.

“You mean Harley Quinn,” he said weakly.

“Yes, thank you for the clarification.”

“Ma’am,” he said, voice cracking, “she doesn’t work here.”

“Oh! That’s okay,” Jazz replied. “I’m not here for therapy. I just want to ask her a few questions about her dissertation methodology and maybe get an autograph.”

The guard stared at her.

Then he laughed.

Hard.

Like, unhinged laughter.

“Oh,” he wheezed, wiping his eyes. “You college kids are wild.”

Jazz smiled politely while he buzzed her inside—because, inexplicably, Gotham security procedures were held together by vibes and paperwork fatigue. And a healthy dose of "I DONT GIVE A FUCK."

Inside Arkham, Jazz took notes.

The building design was hostile. The lighting encouraged paranoia. The staff-to-patient ratio was… concerning. And the general atmosphere screamed this is how villains happen.

She was halfway through writing “environmental factors contributing to psychological deterioration” when a familiar sing-song voice echoed down the hall.

“Well well well! If it isn’t a lil’ baby shrink!”

Jazz looked up.

Harley Quinn stood at the end of the corridor, leaning against the wall, baseball bat slung over her shoulder, pigtails bright and chaotic and very much not in any of Jazz’s textbooks.

Jazz’s eyes went wide.

Then she gasped.

“Oh my gosh,” Jazz breathed. “You’re real.”

Harley blinked. “…Rude.”

“No, I mean—of course you’re real! I just—wow. Hi. Dr. Quinzel, I’m Jasmine Fenton, I’ve read all your early work, especially your paper on empathic mirroring in high-risk criminal populations, and I just want to say your conclusions were groundbreaking and I think if Arkham had actually listened to you—”

Harley stared.

“…You ain’t screamin’,” she said slowly.

Jazz paused. “Should I be?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, good.”

There was a long silence.

Then Harley burst out laughing.

“Oh wow,” she said, wiping a tear. “You are adorable. What, did ya come all the way to Gotham to get my autograph or somethin’?”

Jazz nodded eagerly. “Yes! And possibly ask some follow-up questions about ethical responsibility in dual-relationship therapy scenarios.”

Harley squinted. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You know I’m a criminal, right?”

“Yes.”

“And that I’m extremely dangerous?”

Jazz tilted her head. “Statistically speaking, your violence is highly situational and often provoked by abusive dynamics.”

Harley’s grin faltered.

“…Huh.”

Jazz pulled a book from her bag. “I brought this copy in case you’d be willing to sign it.”

Harley looked at the book.

Then at Jazz.

Then at the guards, who were watching this exchange in frozen terror.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Harley said softly. “Someone actually read my stuff.”

She took the book.

“Y’know what, Red?” Harley added. “I like you. You got guts. Or no survival instinct. Hard to tell.”

Jazz smiled. “I grew up in Amity Park.”

“Ah,” Harley said. “Say no more.”

She signed the book with a flourish.

Jazz practically vibrated with joy.

As Harley handed it back, she leaned in and lowered her voice.

“Word of advice, Doc-in-trainin’?”

“Yes?”

“Next time you go askin’ for me around Gotham,” Harley said, smirking, “lead with ‘academic interest’.”

Jazz nodded, completely serious. “That’s very helpful, thank you.”

Harley watched her go, shaking her head.

“…That city really messed with her sense of danger,” she muttered.

And somewhere far away, Danny Fenton sneezed, inexplicably.