#timeclones

It was all Dave's idea. She repeats that fact over and over, to excuse the nonsense on her slowly approaching event horizon. Ever since Dirk's hour long exposé on the guy, it's been inevitable. The bastard got it in his head, the thought of traveling to see his alternate self; a successful Dave Strider releasing negative-budget films with Hollywood eagerly lapping at his heels.

But she expressed interest. Foolishly, she asked about her own alternate, and she should have known better. Being dragged into it all is Rose's penance, pulled through time to be plunked down in an overwhelming queue with a book weighed heavy under her arm.

Her return to the present has, predictably, fucked right off to court favor with himself. Leaving her, Rose Lalonde, alone in line... holding a tome she's never thought to crack open. It's one of Roxy's special editions, nicked from their bookshelf to make this silly little hassle worth it.

Who wouldn't want a signature from their very famous momster, after all? It's the least she can do, given all the good cheer Roxy has brought her.

Still. The line is overwhelmingly long— confirmed by leaning out in hopes of seeing the end —and there's simply nothing to do in this alternate future of a dead possibility BESIDES wait her turn. Not for the first time, Rose laments her goddessian foresight in the face of enforced patience. In the interest of maintaining her cover, and mitigating the worst boredom in the world, she cracks the spine on Complacency of the Learned.

Time passes, as it always does. Already, she's halfway through the dense creation, and flush with pride. Of course, Rose has always been an accomplished writer, in her humble opinion, but this? Incredible, and such specific mastery of the style! She can't wait to congratulate the prose and tell herself what an honor it's been to—

Next. She's next.

A broad-shouldered beautiful woman, hair pinned high on her head with strands artfully free to frame her face and the cut of her bangs, sits before Rose. Perched atop a comfortable chair, delightfully fat in immaculate clothing. Her lips are full, pursed beneath hooded violet eyes that crinkle with amusement. Painted nails tap once against the table, a precursor. Then, one hand lifts to beckon Complacency from her alternate self.

Nearly putting her hand out as well, she manages to redirect. The book feels lighter than it truly is when passing between them, a trick of the mind. The older woman flips pages to locate the dedication, fountain pen in hand.

"To whom will I be addressing it, my dear?" Warm, thick, sultry. Like wine. Her cheeks go scarlet as she babbles something stupid.

"Rose. To Rose Lalonde."

A beat. Two. Her lungs are tight.

The woman glances up through her bangs, so lovely at any angle, and smirks. Not a note of confusion to be had. And that moment seems to stretch forever, even when she looks away from the younger Lalonde's stricken face. Haunting, bewitching eyes hold her still. She has no idea how long the author takes to write.

When Rose is ushered out of line, tome clutched to her chest, she can't bear to look back. It's only seated at a table— out of sight, out of mind —that she manages to peel open the page to see her own handwriting. Mature. Confident. Even more flowery.

To Rose Lalonde,

You are beautiful. In time, you will learn to show your body the love it deserves, the love it needs. You will learn to cherish it for being so sturdy and capable. All of this pain you feel is very real, and it is not trivial or silly. I'm so sorry that you are hurting so much. However: it will pass. Before you know it, you'll think wistfully of these days and wonder how you could have been distressed with your gorgeous figure. Your beauty will be your own, your vanity foundational.

As part of my project, I made 78 tarot cards using my characters and artwork I had created since the beginning of the college year and gave out fake readings 😄 

It’s a gold mine: https://twitter.com/irnmortals/status/830863869404921860?s=08 and https://twitter.com/sanjuniperos/status/830873141698260992 are my favorites.

Running across himself isn’t new. He’s done it hundreds of times, in good and bad contexts. See: chucking his own body out of a window after a failed timeline. See also: receiving inglorious amounts of cash from his semi-future selves running the grandest capitalism stunts imaginable. (Garbage economic tactics, but that sweet green...)

And now, apparently, see: his own lanky body splayed out across the bed in briefs with one bare heel on the bed, knee pointed skyward, while the other thigh splays out wide. Current Dave purses his lips. Future Dave lifts an eyebrow in silent reply. Looks like he’ll have to break the ice himself.

Sure. Yeah, he’s kissed himself. Who wouldn’t if given the opportunity? He’s a good-looking guy, with nothing better to do with all his extra time than playing some tonsil-hockey with a Strider that knows his stuff. This is still a jump, pushed firmly into some gay shit when Future Dave jerks his chin up in the universal “c’mere, dude” gesture. Truly some broly (bro holy) shenanigans to be mitigated here.

“Got something you wanna tell me?” Dave tries, attempting to find some indication of when his futureself is from in his scars or mannerisms. Given that he’s stripped down, clothing is a non-indicator. Bastard. He still comes closer, beckoned to stand in the sort-of-space between the other Dave’s legs.

He shrugs, because Dave is never capable of making shit easier for himself, naturally. But, the dude does speak up, “I’m horny, I fucked myself in the ass about a week ago, I figured I’d pop back to close the loop.”

Nice to have it all laid out, but Current flushes to the tips of his ears with a merry little roast for Thanksgiving dinner overtaking the back of his neck. He needs to save face here. “Total bro moment, dawg. Love that you made the effort to slake mutual needs. Here to pop your chocolate cherry on my burgeoning wankrod?”

A beat of silence. Future Dave sags back against the bed looking at the ceiling in disgust, “That’s the single worst thing I’ve ever said. Fuck. I get why the dude I boned was so pissed off.”

“Did I blow it?” Dave asks, genuinely interested in whether he’s actually doomed a timeline here by being so hilariously on-point. They’re both aware that it’s happened before.

Mister Naught But His Drawers lifts his head fluidly, lips angled in that shitty way Rose’s pull moments before using some turn-of-phrase bullshit, “Nah, but you totally should. Let’s hop right the fuck into sandblasting your thrussy.”

Well, looks like you're the captain of a ship and you found some hidden booty ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

You look badass! :D