Way 1: 1. There’s this guy, and you don’t really give a shit about him, but he needs someone to take care of him and you feel like the only available candidate. 2. Something horrible has just happened to the guy. The world is a cruel, cruel place. You are a horrible person. 3. It isn’t like you have deep feelings or anything. Those are for other people. Until. 4. Your life is manageable, but not really exciting. 5. There’s this guy and he’s the worst at everything, but he has this weird effect on you without even meaning to. 6. This sweetheart is too precious and innocent and cannot possibly understand the depth of your feelings. 7. Why does everything suddenly smell like Faygo?
Way 2: 1. You thought you were keeping on top of things as well as a motherfucker needed to, but somehow, everything’s just up and gotten away from you. 2. There’s this hotheaded little nubby motherfucker who needs to learn to motherfucking chill. 3. There’s only one person on this planet who can remove your greasepaint without paying the ultimate motherfucking price for it. 4. Look at those tiny little nubs! 5. Yeah, you’ve been using sopor for a while, but it isn’t, y’know, a motherfucking problem or anything. 6. You almost motherfucking died and nubsies over there brought you back from the brink. 7. You have a shouty little motherfucker to take care of you, and in return, you help him with his chill.
He’s going to tell you you’re dumb. Real dumb. And it’s going to be all long with big words and nonsense twisted up meanings and you’re going to feel like shit for all the time it takes you to remember that he ain’t sure on any other way for showing how motherfucking caring his biscuit gets. Ain’t like you mind much. Well, you do, but your bro has to exercise his face-movers someways, and better it be at you than at ones what’ve got no understanding for it.
He’s gonna get on about how your ignorant ass went and smeared your paint all over shit what’s not meant to be painted up, but for now you’re feeling all alone and just need to be getting to know that there’s a one what gets some concern on for you, and it ain’t like you’ve never done this every night before anyway.
Karkat don’t get any rest in his recuperacoon nowadays, which is all perfectly good in your opinion as they’re too small to be fitting two trolls into. Instead, he gets his oculars all closed up on a pile of soft shit all alchemized up by one of the humans.
You sneak over to his pile as like would a squeakcritter, and climb up into that bitch all stealthy. Then you go and ruin it because your arm places funny and you fall, startling your moirail awake because shit, ain’t you a clumsy motherfucker.
Karkat stares at you, still not all there, and you’re ready to get the apologies going but then he just yawns and motions you over. “C’mere,” he says, and flops a few times on his side until there’s room where you can fit all nice. You crawl up beside him again, curling with your spine to him and pulling his arm over your side. He’s all warm and solid against your back and the choking feel you didn’t notice was even in your throat disappears.
it isn’t until the fourth time an attempt to go further than kissing (you should, right, that’s how far you should be by now after officially dating for so long) turns into a tickle-fight that spans the entire apartment and ends with you sprawled on each other wheezing that you realize maybe this is really just completely stupid.
“Baba made us a cake,” says Gamzee, and holds out a cake in apology for dripping on your carpets. It’s got an offensive amount of rainbows on it. The icing, in Mr. Makara’s round, careful hand, says “CONGRATULATIONS GAY”. You would be insulted except in the middle of all the rainbows he’s somehow found a way to print a photo of you and Gamzee cuddled up on the couch together and okay, the cake looks really good.
It take a long time for you to calm him down enough to make out words, but nobody stops to look at the two boys sitting on the park bench in the sunset. Gamzee’s sobbing keeps their faces pointed toward the ground. “–threw me out,” you make out finally, and think about his dad on TV, eyes wide and wild, pounding the pulpit and yelling about fire and torment for eternity. You hold him tight, put your chin in his hair and just hold him as he sobs.
When you’re sixteen you find a hand-drawn manga lying on the floor of your group study room while you clean up, and it isn’t until page four of Nepeta’s painstakingly sparkly art you realize the dark-haired bishonen with the commanding eyebrows is you, and the flaxen-haired elegantly androgynous figure of his new romantic conquest is meant to be Gamzee.
Your embarrassment that day is nothing compared to the next, when Gamzee picks it up and recognizes both of you instantly. Out loud. Loudly. You have never seen Nepeta go that red.
If there’s a trick to writing Gamzee without veering into angst, I don’t know it.
I could be working on an innocuous fic about Gamzee having a stroll on the beach and then, whoops! He just took a turn down Daddy Issues Boulevard! Looks like he’ll also be spending some time in Pining After Karkat Central.
Anonymous said: could you bring back Threshecutioner Karkat and Condesce/Meenah?
ladysekh said: Oh, also, how about like a Mongol!Gamzee or desert bandit! Gamzee. Like a real world wild beserker concept.
Some sketchbook doodles for some super old asks (wow who even remembers Gamzee Day , that was forever and a half ago), a page full of Karkats, some depressing alternate-future Saviors stuff, etc etc…as always, captions!