#i like it when his trauma spills over in ugly and complex ways like we see in season 3 in regards to his friendship with martha

[ahalliance]

i don’t get how people can complain about the writing “doing Martha dirty” when that same writing gives her an ending that addresses her treatement over the course of the season, allows her to finally put her to foot down, to establish her self-worth as an individual and to air out her grievances, and gives her the most respectful and satisfying exit from the TARDIS we’d yet seen in the show . like it’s one thing to dislike the direction the writing team took with her arc and to criticise it (perfectly fine) and another to somehow miss it entirely lmao . the ‘martha feels out of place, second best, and like a rebound’ is an intentional piece of writing that gets resolved by the end of the season . like that wasn’t smth they threw in for shits and giggles, it had in-story repercussions

[thereadinghobbit]

Oliver Marks has just been released from prison, and is finally ready to tell Detective Colborne what really happened when his classmate was killed ten years ago. As young actors at an elite conservatory, Oliver and his classmates played the same roles – villain, hero, temptress – over and over again, both off stage and onstage. But when the casting changes, good-natured rivalry turns ugly, and the plays spill dangerously over into real life. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ I had seen If We Were Villains by @sureasmel around but I didn’t read it until my friend @judithbleeker recommended and lent it to me. It’s not the type of book I read (anymore) and it was very stressful at times, but I was pulled in by the promise of Shakespearian theatre and very soon I was completely hooked. 📚 What struck me most was the emotional complexity of these characters. Difficult backgrounds, trauma, insecurity and forced vulnerability, set in this tiny, isolated, cult-like academic world, then add the strong emotions of the Shakespearian stage and you have fireworks. The way tension builds and ebbs away (but never completely) only to return stronger is masterfully done. 📚 I love how Shakespeare is interwoven in the story, more than just a few references, it’s the very fabric this world is built out of, and underscores some of the characters’ most pivotal moments. They really live Shakespeare. Someday I plan to reread this book again in conjunction with all those plays. Though you genuinely don’t need to to understand and enjoy the book, but it does give the story that much more depth. 📚 A very well crafted book that you should definitely check out if you either like Shakespeare or murder mystery/thriller stories. 📚 (Content warnings below, may contain spoilers) . . . . . . . .   CW’s: violence, abuse, blood, gore, death, suicide (off-page) . #ifwewerevillains #mlrio #shakespeare #bookreview #bookworm #bookish #bookblogger #amreading #bookgram #instareads #bookishlove #readmorebooks #bookstagrammers #bookcollector #readinglife #bookwormproblems #bookobsessed #bedtimereading #readerforlife #bookshark #bookpicture #bookishphoto #bookreviewer #booksaremagic #bookblog #goodreads #review #bookishproblems https://www.instagram.com/p/CpIEcPNLZWy/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[themoonandotherslikeit]

Gone - Part One

Castiel Novak’s obsession with dead things started when he was just six years old. His neighbors had this cat that the kids, fondly, called Lumpy. Her real name was something complicated, some four syllable name that was after someone that they’d never heard of, so to them she was just Lumpy. She bumbled around the neighborhood meowing at everything with a blatant disapproval that is unique to cats.

His father was a writer, constantly locked in his study, so Castiel spent most of his time wandering around. During the late autumn months, he sat on his porch crudely carving his Jack-O-Lantern with no supervision. He planned to carve a simple smile on the front of it with wide round eyes and a big open mouth.

He was focusing intensely when the familiar yowl of Lumpy danced through the chilled air. “Come here, Lumpy, you ugly cat,” he called out, not thinking too much about it as his eyes still focused on his blade sawing through the flesh on the pumpkin. He pursed his lips, making a kissing noise, wondering what was taking the fat cat so long. Usually she would be at his calf, rubbing and begging for pumpkin pieces by then.

Castiel looked up, his attention sparked just as the wet angry screech of car breaks broke through the afternoon air. The driver was gone before he could even run into the street. He stuck his hands under Lumpy, peeling her sticky, blood soiled body off of the asphalt. Her head lulled, her lifeless eyes open and accusing.

He knew he had to help her, so he tucked her against his chest, matted wet fur sticking to his cotton t-shirt. He took her to his porch and laid her out. In the mind of a child, he needed to fix the pieces that were broken on her, and then she would wake up. So he took out his carving blade, pulling it from his pumpkin and began carving out the pieces of rock. He shaved away the pieces of skin that were worn away from the tire tread. “It’s okay Lumpy, I’ll save you,” he murmured to her sweetly, like she was merely sleeping.

Castiel plucked at her broken, flattened ribs with slick, trembling fingers. Perhaps if he reconnected all of her pieces she would begin to meow and purr just as he knew her. It was only once his father stepped out onto the porch with his reading glasses perched on his nose, and his pen fell from between his lips and bounced off the leather tie on his house shoe, that Castiel realized that he was gravely mistaken.

“Castiel what have you done?”

“I’m trying to fix her,” he pleaded, staring up at his father as congealing, dead blood rolled down his forearms to his elbows, “I have to fix her.”

His father was rightly horrified and Castiel went to a child therapist for five years. He hadn’t been enthralled with death before his at length discussions with his therapist. He just wanted to help her, but she wasn’t so convinced. She thought that he found a thrill from the blade, from the slicing skin, from the pearl white bone against crimson red blood. He didn’t find thrill in it. At least he didn’t when he’d been trying to help Lumpy, the thrill came much later when his therapist unbuttoned her top and breathed whiskey onto his neck. He bit into her throat drawing blood, requiring six complex stitches, but Castiel never had to see her again.

He was an exceptional student, and he was fascinated by biology. He loved to take apart technology and put it back together, and the idea that it could be done with people was fascinating. He could heal someone, fix them. It didn’t take long for him to decide that he wanted to be a surgeon. He never went on dates, even though he was easily one of the best looking guys at his school. He graduated at the top of his class as the weird loner who wore the same three t-shirts every week. He couldn’t bother to care about fashion, romance, or anything that would distract him from getting into the best pre-med program in the states. It was no surprise to anyone that knew him that he got into both Harvard Med and the best residency program. His bedside manner was poor at best, he was awkward, and he didn’t understand much about social queues, usually missing the beat, but he was a damn good surgeon. Was being the operative word.

The tape whirred inside of Castiel Novak’s recorder. “September 21st, examination of Jacob Stevenson.”

There was something in the air the night that everything changed. It was a full moon, and maybe that’s why the leaves were blowing, crackling against windows like a hard autumn rain. Castiel felt a chill as he walked out of his stale, one bedroom apartment, but he didn’t turn back for another layer to trap in the warmth. He’d rather be cold, sometimes a feeling was better than feeling nothing at all, even if it was unpleasant.

He was used to being cold, it was part of the job. Most medical examiners he met were clad in turtlenecks up to their chins, thick layers, and a pale disposition as if they’d never seen the sun. He blended in with them, just another faceless shape in a crowd. He wasn’t always that way, though. Despite his horrid bedside manner, he was described as bright by those who met him. His skin glowed with the fresh tan of a man who played a lot of golf or read medical textbooks outside on benches.

“Caucasian male, age 71, approximately 1.6 meters tall, weighs 83 kilograms. Note a yellowing at his fingertips likely from years of smoking.” He clicked the tape off and set it back down on his instrument table. He took a swab out of its packaging and carefully ran it across the man’s fingertips. He collected a sample from under his nails, the inside of his cheek, along his bottom lip, bagging each piece he collected for testing.

He knew what he expected to find: years of heart disease, smokers lungs, too many homemade cupcakes from his loving wife. He would see a body aged by a life that was lived. That was the goal, wasn’t it?

“I’m sorry that this happened to you, Mr. Stevenson. Rest well.”

He closed his eyes, clasping his surgical gloved hands and said a silent prayer for his soul, wherever it may be. He wasn’t a believer, not really, not anymore. He just had to say goodbye to the spirit, to disconnect himself from the person that used to be inside of the skin. He had to separate himself so that he could make that first cut.

He undressed Mr. Stevenson, unbuttoning his sleep shirt. His pale, wrinkled flesh spilled and pressed against the cool metal of the autopsy table. He pressed his scalpel into the man's skin, across his chest and down his stomach in a Y shape. There was no blood. That stopped after death, settled and clotted.

He liked cases like Mr. Stevenson. He passed in his sleep. He was old, and his heart gave out. Dying old and peacefully was the goal. There wasn’t a lot of peace to be found in life and all that Castiel could really hope for was peace in death. It was called an eternal rest for a reason, right? He removed the organs one by one, weighing them on the scale. He made notes of any odd coloring, biopsied anything that was abnormal.

People often asked him why he worked with the dead. Well, not often . People didn’t often speak to him at all, but when they found out he was a medical examiner, their curiosity was piqued. They just couldn’t wrap their minds around why a surgeon would ever want to work in a dark, cold basement instead of an operating room, but they didn’t understand. How could they?

Mr. Stevenson’s heart was a little enlarged, but that was no surprise. Heart disease was on his chart. It ran in his family. Castiel wondered if darkness ran in his.

He threaded his surgical needle with suture thread and meticulously began stitching the pieces of flesh back together. He vaguely recalled his grandmother stitching together his torn shirt in much the same way, every stitch with care. “We can make it whole again, Castiel. Don’t you worry, little angel.” Except he wasn’t worried, not about a tear. Why worry about a rip when there were other things out there in the darkness?

He tied off the last suture and ran a gloved finger across the perfect line. It was much easier to stitch on unmoving flesh. Another chill ran down his spine. It was the full moon pressing down on the world like a heavy hand. It was making him feel claustrophobic.

He moved Mr. Stevenson into a black bag, zipping him up, and sliding him away into the wall of drawers to keep him preserved until the funeral home could come and pick him up. Castiel’s job was done. He discarded his gloves and washed his hands, scrubbing his fingernails, between his fingers, and up to his elbows for exactly five minutes, a habit he picked up when he was still operating. Everything had to be meticulously sterile.

He dried his hands, his arms, and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small orange bottle. He gave it a shake to listen to the familiar clatter of tablets against plastic. It gave him peace to know that the pain was a dry-swallow away from dissipating. He popped open the lid, child-locks be damned, and poured two into his hand. They looked small, insignificant against the heft of his palm. He flexed his hand, watching them hop as if eager to slide down his throat.

“Take us inside of you, Castiel,” they seemed to beg. So he did. It was the only intimacy he knew.

There were different types of trauma. While in therapy Castiel learned that they all could be categorized into one of three main types. Acute trauma that results from a single incident, chronic trauma that is repeated and prolonged such as domestic violence or abuse, and complex trauma which is exposure to varied and multiple traumatic events, often of an invasive, interpersonal nature. More so, there was capital T trauma and what she called little t trauma . Capital T was the big stuff, the stuff that wrecks a person in an irreparable way. Little t was less so. It is possible for a traumatized person to get over  little t trauma.

In Castiel’s life, he’d seen his fair share of trauma. Probably more than a thirty-four year old man should’ve. He’d seen trauma happen to others, happen to himself, and he continued to see it on corpse after corpse. He saw trauma that others didn’t. The kind of trauma that couldn’t be seen from the outside. The kind of trauma that a person inflicts upon themselves.

He remembered his first tumor resection from a lung. It was successful, beautiful, that tumor was a piece of art. He went out to deliver the good news to the man's twenty year old daughter. When he told her the news she immediately threw up into the trash can. She kneeled over it, Castiel standing next to her awkwardly, unsure of what to do. He offered her a Kleenex.

She took it and wiped her mouth. She turned her head and looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “I thought he would die. I thought he had to.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked, puzzled.

“He knew what the cigarettes were doing. He knew they’d kill him, but he didn’t care. If he throws his life away so easily how does he deserve another chance? Why would someone willingly do that to themselves?”

He thought about that a lot, but mostly he thought about how she didn’t understand. How could she understand? He did, though, looking down at the tumor with its tendrils wrapped around the lobe of his lung. The cancer was made of him. It was a part of him. Sometimes people have to cause pain for a release. People are naturally violent. They’re prone to cutting, kicking, biting, and those that are usually find an outlet. They become a football player, a boxer, a surgeon . Not everyone can, though, so instead of inflicting that violence and pain on others, they inflict it on themselves.

Sometimes pain was the only way to feel anything at all. Sometimes he’d rather be numb.

His phone vibrated angrily on his instrument table with a vrrrrrr vrrrr vrrrrr . He opened his eyes and pulled it into his hand. It felt forgein, like it didn’t belong to him. “Doctor Novak.”

“Novak, we have a body.”

“Great,” he said flatly. “Bring it in.”

“Don't hang up!”

“What is it?”

“There’s been a murder. We need you to come up here. There’s a new detective, and I think it’s the first time he’s seen a stiff. We could use you here.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

Castiel didn’t have many friends. Maybe any friends at all, but he had Inias. He was a forensic tech. He knew that Castiel didn’t like being in the field, so he tried to take care of everything on his own. When he was matched with a good detective, it wasn’t a problem. Castiel knew, though, that a rookie could disrupt evidence even by accident and leave him in a mess when he completes his autopsy. He was tired thinking about it already.

He removed his lab coat, hung it, and walked to the bathroom to change out of his scrubs. He preferred to not be out in public in them. In fact, he preferred to not be out in public at all if he could help it.

He threw a gray scoop neck sweater over his white undershirt and pulled on his khaki pants. He grabbed his kit, keys, and cell phone and walked out into the frigid day. The air bit into his skin, and he hissed a bit, wishing desperately that he didn’t leave his coat at home. The plastic bottle in his pocket weighed heavier. He ignored it, shifting his weight to the right as he walked creating a sort of limp.

His vehicle groaned angrily, whining about the cold. “Yes, I’m aware,” he commented to the machine impatiently. The engine sputtered to life after a few twists of his wrist with the key in the ignition. His head had begun to pound, and he added it to just another reason why he hated being out in the field.

The scene wasn’t far, only a few blocks. In another life, Castiel would’ve walked and basked with the sun on his face happy to be alive despite the chill in the air. That was another life, though, and in the life he was in, Castiel drove.

Yellow crime scene tape circled the scene, and Castiel hung his tape recorder on his wrist loosely with a strap. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked up, the recorder bouncing off his hip as he walked.

“Cas!” Inias called to him, waving like a child. He was all wrist and elbow, moving his entire arm. Even his shoulders bobbed. “Damn, buddy, it’s good to see you in the fresh air.

“Speak for yourself,” he replied sourly. “Is this the deceased?” He gestured with an elbow to a woman sprawled out on the ground.

“Nah, this is my girlfriend,” Inias deadpanned. Castiel stared back at him like he didn’t understand, and Inias pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, ‘s her.”

“Perfect.”

Castiel crouched next to her. “Caucasian female, I’d place the age in her twenties,” he said into his tape recorder. Everytime the tape looped around there was a click. Whir, whir, click. Her dark eyes stared up at him, wide, gaping, accusatory. Her lips were parted slightly as if she was going to say something. Day-old red lipstick stained the fullness of her lips.

He squinted at the pinpricks along her arms accompanied with black and blue skin. She was bruised. The blood had settled beneath translucent skin. “Drug use is apparent,” he commented into the recorder. Click!

“You must be the M.E.”

The voice was rough and it sent an immediate chill down Castiel’s spine. His eyes flicked up to catch a pair of moss green eyes glinting in the sunlight. He was young, likely not even thirty years old. His badge hung around his neck on a chain, swinging slightly as he shifted his weight. A plaid button up was tucked under a brown leather coat.

“Yes.” Castiel said, realizing that the man was staring at him like he was a fucking idiot.

“Awesome.” The corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk that seemed almost smug, and there was a tug deep within Castiel’s belly as a response. Who did this kid think he was? “I’m Detective Winchester.”

“Pleasure.”

The detective blinked a few times before scratching the back of his head.  “I uh...What do you make of her?”

Castiel cleared his throat, happy to turn back to his work. He peeled his eyes off of Winchester and planted them firmly back to the deceased. “The track marks here and here,” he said, gesturing loosely to the pin pricks on the inside of her arm. “Lead me to believe she is an addict.”

“Think it’s an overdose?”

“Hard to tell without a toxicology report,” Castiel began. “But, see this?” He gestured to her mouth. “No vomit. That tells me that it’s unlikely that it was a true overdose. Normally they choke on their own vomit. I’d have to look inside of her throat…” He turned to look back at the detective when his words caught in his throat. He had crouched down at some point while Castiel was talking and was now a breath away from him.

“What about this?” He asked, pointing to the victims throat.

“Bruising,” Castiel explained with a quick nod. “I noticed it as well. It looks like she’s been choked.”

“Could that’ve killed her?”

“I will look into the state of her windpipe, but from here it doesn’t look like there was enough force.”

Winchester nodded a few times, his eyebrows furrowing together in puzzlement. From that close, Castiel could see freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheekbones. It gave him a boyish look, young and wide eyed, but the honey brown hairs poking through the skin on his jaw aged him a bit more. Castiel had to resist the urge to reach out and feel the roughness of new hair breaking through.

He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from the detective, and back to the victim. “I will collect some samples and examine her back in the lab.”

The detective put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, causing him to recoil, his head whipping back to look at the man. His green eyes were fixed, intense. “Will you call me with what you figure out? I’ve got a nasty gut feeling that this is more than it looks like.”

His mouth was dry, and he was sure his jaw was hanging open. The guy was green, a rookie, so what did he know? Castiel’s eyes flickered back to the body and his own gut twisted. He didn’t know how, or why, but he believed the green eyed detective. He believed him down to his bones. “Alright.”

“Thank you,” Winchester breathed, like he was relieved.

“It’s my job,” Castiel said blankly, his fingers tapping his pocket anxiously. He didn’t like it… talking to people, socializing, being watched. He could feel the weight of the man's gaze and it felt suffocating. He turned to Inias. “Bring the body to me, I… I will meet you there.”

He turned on his heels and shuffled away rapidly, trying to catch his breath as the sky seemed to come down on him with a crushing weight. He pulled on his collar, trying to get it away from his neck, because it felt like a tight hold, like fingers pressing on his windpipe. The pain was still there, it was always there. It was a phantom limb, gone but still aching.

He hadn’t waited for Inias to respond, or to pass over what he had collected. His recorder was still whirring in his hand, recording every passing second. He clicked it off as soon as his ass fell into the driver's seat of his vehicle. He gripped the wheel with both hands and clamped his eyes shut. He tried to steady his breathing, like he’d learned in therapy, but thinking about therapy made him even more anxious. Why did Inias call him? He could’ve handled it on his own!

He dug deep into his pocket, pulling out the familiar plastic bottle. He cracked open the top, dumping the tiny tablets onto his palm. He wasted no time before swallowing them, his lips to his palm. It hurt rolling down his dry throat, but he avoided the urge to gag. He needed it. He closed his eyes again, pressing the back of his head to the headrest, and he fell into the darkness.

+++

He was whistling, whistling. He wasn’t sure he’d ever whistled in his life, but yet there he was. It was probably inappropriate, to have some feigned happiness around a woman who had overdosed. Well, he couldn’t say for certain that it was an overdose, not until his lab got back.

Like he suspected, she didn’t die of strangulation, but there was a struggle. She was attacked and fought her attacker. He got samples of skin under her fingernails. Skin and blood. They still didn’t have any identification for her, but the police were supposed to be running her finger prints and dental records. It was looking more and more like a murder. It was a puzzle, and Castiel loved puzzles. They were complicated, but yet they all fit together in the end in a pretty picture. Not much in life ended up that way, so Castiel craved the moments when it did. He hoped she would make a perfect picture. The dead deserved justice, sometimes it was all that they got from a world that only dished out pain.

He thought back to the rookie detective as he sewed up the Y cut across her chest and down her stomach. He was handsome, young, and serious. Castiel didn’t allow himself to look, let alone date, but he couldn’t seem to pluck the man from his mind. He was a planted seed, and the ideas were already blooming and growing out of control.

He wasn’t sure exactly when he stopped whistling, but the new silence around the morgue was deafening. It was broken only by one stray drip drip drip. Did he leave the faucet on? He turned quickly to check, the world tilting on its axis a bit as he stumbled to the sink.

Sure enough, a droplet was pooling and falling rapidly from the faucet into the sink with an earth shattering splash. He let out a sigh of relief, as he placed his hand under the faucet, almost as if to check the temperature, to be sure that it was really there. Wetness pooled at his fingers as another drop fell from the faucet onto his skin, and he pulled back his hand to examine his fingers.

They were red.

Blood soaked his fingertips, a single droplet at first, but it continued to spread. Had he cut himself? He wiped away the blood on his scrub top, but it just kept coming, spurting and oozing out. He blindly reached for a towel and wrapped it around his fingers to stop the bleeding. He pressed it against the wound, his head spinning already from the blood loss.

The light blue surgical towel was already turning wet and crimson from the blood soaking through, pooling, growing, and a horrible feeling came to his stomach. He was going to die.

He didn’t want to die, but more than that he didn’t want to be a body on someone’s table. He didn’t want to be exposed, cut open, and emptied out like a bag of groceries. He didn’t want his blood to settle and congeal. He didn’t want a tag on his toe, his greying skin zipped within a black bag. He couldn’t be reduced to just parts.

His heart was racing, and he knew that it was a mistake. He was a doctor for god sakes, and he knew that rapid heartbeat would make him bleed out faster, but he couldn’t stop the panic that was spiraling within him.

The pain pulsed through him, his fingers throbbing with the beat of his heart. “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath as he quickly unwrapped his fingers. He needed to find the source of the bleed and stitch it up or he would surely bleed out and die alone next to a murder victim. He unwrapped the towel and placed his hand immediately under the faucet to run water over it. He turned on the flow and clear water ran over his skin. There was no blood to be found.

He pulled his hand away, examining it in its entirety. Then his opposite hand. There was no cut. There was no blood at all. He picked up the surgical towel to find it completely dry. There was never any blood. He stared at it, his fingers curling around the fabric.

He was losing his fucking mind.

Castiel let out a heavy sigh and turned off the faucet, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow with the surgical towel. He probably needed a day off — maybe a week. He turned back to finish his examination of the murder victim. He still had a mountain of paperwork to do and samples to process. His eyes settled on the metal examination table. The silver top gleamed in the buzzing fluorescent lights. He touched his temple and closed his eyes. In, out, in out. Keep it together, Castiel. But when he opened his eyes the picture in front of him was still the same.

The table was completely empty and cleared off.

The body was gone.

+++

Part Two

Masterlist 

[dev-hub4fixfict-ut]

Know & Determinate: II- the surface and a lame witch; chap 1

/racism, /hate crime, /physical assault, /alcohol, /c slur, /unsanitary, /witchcraft, /panic attack, bad writing. like, really bad. i wrote this when i was in a bs brainspace in highschool to cope.

a self-insert fanfiction where i write what happens after my runs of undertale. written in google docs and idk what im doing. Frisk is 12, use they/them, has a bullshit life, Chara also uses they/them, and is still here, and never meant for all this to happen, they hate each other, and Sans is still, and forever will be, a mess.

_________

here we go with that stuff !! im pumped enough to not collapse of stage anxiety ah ah.

please do not confuse my complicated style for pretentiousness. im but a wordy insecure fool. with a super touchy soft spot for a small fat skeleton. and lots of imagination.

this isn’t something for fontcest and frans shippers and gross ppl who villainize and misgender kids and call gay couples “hawt sin” tho. u guys are uglies and i hate you, go away. ;U

_________

“Sans” i deadpanned.

He perked up a little, his forever-fucking-smiling expression mirroring my tone -with his eyes. Eyes’ sockets. Those were the only hints of what he was actually thinking. Because his fake smile -fake, i’m so sure of it, so fake smile, it only ever dropped when Frisk’s puppeted body struck him down, the very only moment he stopped- wow getting sidetracked. Anyway.

“Sans.” i repeated. i need to repeat myself a lot. Verbal dyspraxia i think. He didn’t seem to know that and squinted a bit more, indication of his annoyance/suspicion/mistrust/wariness. ‘s what his squinting usually means, directed at me. Can’t blame him. “i…” Truth is, i don’t actually know what to tell him. ‘s just. i love him, and i know it sounds crass and misplaced blurted out like this, but as a consequence, i’m worried about him. A lot. Constantly. i hope bpd isn’t blurring my judgement too much. ‘m not sure he does take care of himself as well as he deserve. And look who’s talking, right ? But he is surrounded by loving friends and family. And has his brother. He could get help. Good help.

Damn my hesitance was making him unnerved. I could see it in how he turned to me, bone hands switching in and out of his pockets. I only hugged myself tighter, hands vaguely gesturing.

“i… Could i offer you to crash on my couch sometimes ? Or bed even, i don’t use mine a lot, actually. Since it’s, y’know, closer to a good part of your odd jobs than your house and Papyrus isn’t home then ?” Dang that was weirder out loud. i kept a blank face to show i was serious. i was- the guy looked even more tired than me. Tells something.

“uh. kid, you got something going in the back of your mind ?” Damn he took me too seriously. Squinting hard at me now, he was the perfect studied statue of calm judgement. Damn he was good at those.

“Well, safe from letting you get a good deserved rest more easily, not much !!” i made sure to answer jovially, doing the whole ‘punching the air round and low in excitement’ thing. We could be two playing the happy clown game.

i had found him at Grillby’s, like usual. his food was getting cold. like usual too. what was less usual was the tense manner he held himself when i came in, and how he “straightened” up, like he had forgotten himself, when i greeted him, pat on the shoulder. he would have flinched but he wouldn’t have wanted me onto him about it. so his eye socket had violently twitched -violently as in, noticeably, by his standards, and...uh lost myself again, fuck.

What i mean is that he was having a harsh day, probably after a harsher even night, his ptsd acting up (‘m not supposed to know ‘bout that. He himself doesn’t even know it. i just read. and relate), and i wanted to help him. now, maybe i had been presumptuous thinking i could…

So that’s why i insisted, vigorously,

“And uh-we can watch some trash movies and stuff, anytime, and like you can just stop by during your in-between shifts, even if i’m not home, i’ll give you a spare key and-” sudden stop. oh no. He gave me The Hand.

He indeed did, holding it up, like he wanted me to slow down. i did, obviously, but uh. did that mean i was overwhelming him, or annoying ? Was there a difference ?? Did it matter ???

Not now, because he was talking, and internal anxiety mini attack made me split focus, and i wanted full focus on what he said, on him.

“look kid,” i hate he calls me that “i appreciate whatchu tryin to do here” meh.liar. spill it. “but i can’t accept. paps would be upset if he knew i was squatting-”

“No he wouldn’t !! He would call it ‘GREAT FRIENDLY HANGOUTS OF REST’ and be very happy we uuh spend time together and stuff-”

“ok” glaring at me now, probably pissed i used his bro’s good nature to shot down his excuse. Heh. Two play at that game. “but here’s the thing.” he advanced himself up to me, nearly out of his seat. i held my ground. uh oh. “we a r e n’t f r i e n d s.”

Ouch. i mean i knew this but. Ouch. His eyes hadn’t blacked out on that last part, but nearly, too. Could be that his already hazy eyelights had just dimmed in exasperation but um. That didn’t feel any better. i gulped. Just a little. Just to keep down the new forming clog in my throat. Just a little one. i knew this.

“i know this !! but look, we could be, if we hanged out !” i didn’t dare say more. My eyes stung a lil bit too much for my liking and while never embarrassed by my tears, didn’t want to embarrass him.

‘s not like i was seriously hurt. i knew where we stood, and that my crush was going to stay that, a crush. what really stung was the utter lack of trust and the hatred-like suspicion he had of me. that and also feeling like i’m watching someone drown, but can’t help, because when i reach out they swat me away in fear i would be the one pushing them further. That’s probably more of my saviour complex dramatizing everything, but it’s bad to be helpless when you know someone, and you’re the only one to notice where they’re headed, because they’re great at pretending, but it’s like looking at yourself in a mirror for you. Get me ?

But. That’s fair. We hadn’t started well off. At all. Oh boy we hadn’t…

___

Seems like now would be a good time to make a small recap, uh ? ‘bout how i ended up knowing that dude, falling in love, analysing his mental shit and all that jazz. Yeah.

me, some lame girl who won’t eat for days and forgo sleep just because, who doesn’t shave but my actual hair, doesn’t do makeup, who doesn’t smile when I’m told to and who grins for no apparent reason whenever a new daydream pops up, because i’m kind of stuck in my own head because it’s better in here. because of… trauma crap. i get by by drawing and playing games where i can just save everyone.

i don’t know if you get what i mean. i sorta hope you don’t. Because it hurts. But at the same time it’d be awesome if you did, because y a y let’s relate about crap !

Don’t know if it matters, too.

Could help to get a few friends. But being  an asocial, asexual, kinda aromantic mess kinda throws that out of the window. You’d think so many A would get me higher in life eh heh heh heh heeeeeh… not funny. i’m not funny. My life is not funny. The way i react to it can be, though.

Like, that one time i was hanging out on my own, outside the bar i had first entered with classmates, as i tried to be less of a hermit, in a bar street and fled because i can't stand alcoholic jerks, and then saw this crowd of tough guys ejecting a small and stout person in a blue hoodie from said bar by fucking throwing a chair at them through the fucking window, and seeing that this little dude is a monster, and knowing they’re gonna get busted down to a puddle of dust by the mastodont looming over them if nobody intervenes ?

i reacted funny.

---

“Yoo-ou ffffffuking cunt, I-I’m gon’ mash you to the dirt yo motha shitted after getting fucked by yooour d-d-dog of a oold man-”

As he spits the words, an obviously very drunk dude stumbles closer and closer to the monster, his hands shaking like he wants to grip their head and smash it.

Freak it. This son of a bitch may be slurring like he drank the whole city, but he’s for sure all out to kill him ! Get up and run, little dude !

“c’mon man, “fucking cunt” , fun king or earl, it’s still a bit early to speak ‘bout mothers isn’t it?”

[i recognize him]

Pfft- what ? i snort loudly from my spot.

Okay, this is a gloriously  bad, stretched pun -but now is not the time for goodness’ sake ! Run, dude, run -wait, is that a skeleton ?!

[i recognize him]

Oh my fuck, how dumb is that dude, going out in a popular bar at what-the-heck-hours in this stupid city ! There were shootings and assassination attempts on the monster gym leader not even two blocks away yesterday ! And you just go in there with a face that screams “LOOK AT ME” ?! Are you stupid or do you just lack of basic preservation instincts ?!

The brute keeps advancing, spouting shit, a sort of gang backing him up, toward mc comicbonedude, a guy i assume, given the voice, but with monsters you never know, gender’s a myth but not them- who’s still on the ground, backtracking, crawling with a grin it didn’t drop the whole time, is it stuck or something and doesn’t look like getting up holy crap he can’t get up, the more hatred a monster is confronted with the hardest it hits he must be low on hp or something he’s gonna get killed

[i recognize him]

mc comicbonedude cracks another joke or is it his ribs cracking under the viscious kick he just got he’s thrown nearer the spot i’m chilling in. Another kick. Nearer. They can't see me, i’m well hidden in the shadows. Another kick.

This time, mc comicbonedude gags out a pun about sole-ution to the problem being-

FUCK OFF!! a gun is being drawn out.

Screw this i’m not witnessing a murder, fucking racists fucking xenophobics fucking city full of fucking shitheads there are other people around here why isn’t anyone but i don’t want to die either that's how it is, eli, always strive for yourself.

i get up fast and sprint to the monster, screaming about cops and a monster attack and insults, anything to spark a bit of panic, deck a scrawny fucker the one who.was.going.to.shoot.him. and aim for the skeleton, who yells.

[i recognize him]

i grab him by the hood and run in some narrower streets, hearing yells after me, and the anxiety is building up a little too much for my usual adrenaline numbing spell to work-

i trip on some trash and my own feet -same difference, fall over, roll, get up that’s how you do it eli, hit and roll, but back on your feet. And keep running, holding the monster close to my chest he’s warm that means he’s still alive and ok, right, left, dodge the you whore you bitch get back here you bitch and the bullets yup i’m good at thiiiiiiis- a bullet still grazes my ankle, I stumble, nearly faceplant, and it hurts but like a sting and I’m still alive. The adrenaline keeps pumping and i feel so light, i sprint into a shabby alley, panting like a dog, i think i’m crying, and drool is mixing with it. i can feel the headache coming, and mc comicbonedude is heavy enough to slip in my arms why won’t he move ? Is he dead ? Is he in shock ?

[i recognize him]

i run to a staircase, you know, the rusty and slippery metal kind outside buildings for fire escape ? Exactly what i need, as the assholes keep firing at me, huh. I climb, to the top, jump to the next building am i really doing this as me for real and run. i don’t know if they’re still after us, my ears won’t stop ringing, and i can’t tell it apart from sirens. I’m on a four stories building running to save a skeleton who

who starts emitting blue and yellow light and what the hell is happening why am i floating holy fuck i’m two inches away to be totally out of not-looking-near-enough-at-all- concrete to fall on.

[i recognize him]

[*focus insufficient]

[*procedure fails]

He’s silent. Sprawled two meters away from where I’m hanging

h-how did i

Looking exhausted and furious, like a cornered dog who has already taken on a tiger in the past, and from his left pupil there’s a cyan blue and yellow flame ? crackling, or bubbling ? or is it just flashing. can’t tell eyes too blurry. and dark blue is surrounding me at my sternum is that monster magic it’s beautiful, did i get headshot i can’t thing straight no. i can’t breath. It’s holding me in place. i can’t breath properly. i try to call out for him, he’s just overreacting in an understandable alarm but

please don’t crunchy crush the goofy girl on the cracking hard ground but when I try, I look at his eyes. One is glowing a fiery but disturbed cyan and yellow, with shards of red here and there, and the other is blank dead. Black. i’m terrified. He pants and that’s the only sound for a while. He’s alive. Good. Am i going to still be alive after this ?

“DON’T DROP ME DON’T WANNA DIE DON’T KILL ME OKAY IT'S THE LAST TIME I’M HELPING OUT ANYONE I PROMISE I’M SORRY PLEASE DON’T KILL ME. DUDE PLEASE.”

“wha- ghh- !” He flinches like waking up. He lets go- lets go of meeee-

“AAAAAAAAAH NO !” He gasps and grasps again. i only slipped a meter into nothingness “Oh please please please i really don’t wanna die, and not falling, it looks like suicide i don’t do that i managed not to so don’t spoil it all ok i-”

“what- kid no stop r-”

“SO SORRY DON’T KILL ME DON’T-”

“ kiiiid please” he’s clutching at his skull now.

“PLEASE D-”

“shut. up”

Ok. Not talking.

Whimpering and sobbing a bit, but he better take this because i’m having an anxiety attack and it will escalate into a hyperventilation fit if he doesn't lower me on the ground and I can't calm down.

“Please don’t kill me.” blurts out anyway of my gritted teeth.

A white light bulb alights in his empty eyes socket, and the glow in the other dims. Could he not see me before ? Hey, is that a crack across his skull ? Augh that looks like it s t i n g s.

“ H-hey, there. You- ah, fffuck this hurts. You okay ?” i try.

Nothing. He stares at me, as if watching out for something. I can feel the power around me wavering. He needs to come to his senses before I go kiss the dirt.

“P-please don’t leave me hanging.” He snorts, but keeps scrutinizing me, shaking. ‘s like he’s half understanding the pun, half not there. Silent.

“Woah, that was bad, even for me; guess i’m just that high.” i attempt a feeble finger gun.

He holds back a laugh “pffft- what the hell, kid- oh fuck.” He starts, realizing what i’m hinting at. He drags me back to the ground. i still can't move, but breathing is easier. i whimper again -heck i’m surprised i didn't piss myself- and draw out a looong sigh.

Now we stare at each other awkwardly is not strong enough to cut it. And i observe, that i m may be sweaty, tired and teary, but he looks bad.

His skull is definitely cracked across his left eye, he won’t stop shaking, sweats profusely and seems to have troubles breathing so monsters skeletons breathe and pant. Ok. Do they cry too ? Cuz that weird red stuff oozing from his damaged eye doesn’t look like tears but that can’t be blood… right ?

He looks horrible, if only physically. But the way his eyes sway, with this grin I can’t find the reason for, it worries me more. Is he ... having an episode, or something ? i mean he could be and be totally inoffensive, but ? Was he the one attacking first back at the bar ? is he really having an episode of some sort ? i’m not too nice when i’m having an episode either.

Should i cry for help ? i can't budge from his grasp.

And i know i shouldn’t but i’m feeling an attack coming up- the restraint is triggering my ptsd ridden ass…..

Let me go y-you there c’mon i can’t take this not my shit nuh uh lemme go lemme go lemme go

“ lemme go…” woah not pathetic at all. “Let me go.” no reaction, try again “LET M-” i can’t move my mouth.

The pressure fucktupled, and it’s like my lungs and my muscles are being crushed.

“ok buddy, pal, chum, whoever you are, what the fuck ?”

i can’t answer you, you dumbfuck you just muted me

“i mean, nice save and all. thanks i guess. but who the heck and what on earth are you up to ?” both of his eyes went black oh my god what did i do to your highness Hecate like seriously now how did i end in such a mess.

“H-how about we both calm down first, and talk next ?” i seem to break through the mute. ok good, deep breaths, count backward from ninety to zero, relax, we’re both freaking out, he’s as spooked as you-which is funny cuz he’s the skeleton- focus on breathing.

Still no answer. “Look, i, i get it, bad freak out, i interrupted you back there, i get you’re fucked up-” nothing but his eyes narrowing “ but i’m cool. Swear i am. i’m cold and m’name is uidelsib. you can call me sib ! Cool enough ?”

i extend my hand, ready to give him a strong good ole handshake, but he doesn’t take up on it.

Instead he stays frozen, “Not cool, dude,” hand still extended, but lowered, as if he could grab me again “ r e a l l y not cool,” i insist, and his bones are, he’s. shaking ? Yeah. Shivering violently, like he’s super cold too, which is pretty normal given he’s what. Up with me on a high building, one, two hundred meters in the sky, exposed to the icy wind ? Figures.

His bones are making this clattering clickety sound, stresses me out damn. He’s studying me. But it’s also like he can’t focus. Shivering too much. Shock, probably. His eye socket’s still oozing that red shit. Not thick enough to be blood, and too scarletish, but what do i know ‘bout monsters.

[oh, what do i don’t]

He takes a step toward me.

“ not fucking cool, not in the least-” i let out, jaw still clenched.

His bones rattles one last time, on the cement ground. His knees buckled under him the next moment he moved. His arms couldn’t support him.

i approach him, concerned. Once the pursuit’s adrenaline and the near death experience done with, my mind is settling, and i can think more clearly. He, on the other hand…

He stirs as i come closer. Tries to growl something i can’t decipher, but it comes out as a whimper, pained. My heart constricts in my ribs. Fuck, i hadn’t meant shit to go down like that. i seem to have a talent to fuck up, but i only wanted to help.

i tell him that. He grunts, doesn’t acknowledges me further, and quivers as he tries to stand up. He can’t though. I see it from where i am, he shakes enough to make a dr.pepper bursts.

i snort at the image, a skeleton shaking a bottle fixed on his spine, then flies away with the pressure- w o w i’m gone far. Need a bed. Asap. Concentrate on the situation at hand.

He, though, doesn’t react well to my laughter. He immediately stiffens, and

goes slack. Unmoving on the ground. He fainted ? i go on a hunch and inch closer, on the tip of my toes, hunched over myself, because i can’t tell if he’s dead or if i’m going to be.

[i recogni-- --- [REDACTED]]

i shake my head furiously. i can’t let those thoughts take my attention away from what’s taking place here and now.

i’m close enough now. something like a meter away, i can see him still shivering, and hear him rasp some breaths out. So he can breathe-

[i knew tha- [REDACTED]]

Not Now. i need to focus, i got a seemingly dying monster mere steps away from me.

i crouch down, slowly. My leg muscles burn enough i’m trembling too and i’m pretty sure my teeth are chattering, the noise mingling with his bones against the asphalt.

He’s still face down, arms limp on his sides, and i spy his eyelights peeking at me, way less sharp than when he had me pinned in the air just. one minute ago ?

i creep closer, he tenses, i stop.

“You’re ok.” i whisper. “We’re ok and we’re leaving.” i try to keep my voice from wavering but meh. ‘s not like there’s much face to save, for both of us.

i reach my hand toward him. He doesn’t move. i put it on his back, barely pressing, he tenses. And then disappears with a ping.

[ (*did you think i was going to stay here and t--- -- -) [REDACTED]]

NOT NOW I SAID. GE E. WHERE DID HE Go ?

He’s back right where he was. He basically just blinked in and out of existence. And he’s looking even more exhausted, if that’s possible, sweating bullets and heaving noisily, before he quiets himself. He’s also glaring at me, but meekly, and i’m not too scared anymore to be honest. He looks more frustrated than anything, although i can guess he’s actually scared to death. HAH.

“Hey you’re ok, i said, i just. Need to get us somewhere safe. Yeah. Not here.” i croak out. i’m starting to feel the freezing wind more, too. i can’t afford to stall and give him time to think. i can still hear the sirens. They’re looking for someone. And i don’t want the police on my back, even if i didn’t do anything reprehensible in the end.

So i slide my hands under him, still making sure i don’t touch any possible sensitive areas, and decide to go for the armpits, and hey i might get a tickle out of him ! ...ahah no. As i try to heave him up on his… surprisingly tiny feet ? did he lose his shoes or. Whatever. He just stays as silent as he is limp. And boy is he limp as a rock. Not quite as heavy though, good.

“You’re lighter than you look-” might as well try to make some conversation “and uh, can you walk ?” Or at least i can try to fill the heavy silence. Let’s just forget the “tried to kill you” thing. We’re both in deep crap anyway, and i can understand having baggage.

He really won’t walk though. He barely makes a sound too. If i hadn’t heard him sooner i’d think he can’t talk or something. i barely get a grunt out of him as i put him on my hip, which isn’t hard given he’s like. Half my size. Fun sized boney menace.

And i begin to trudge down the stairs- not the ones i came from, i don’t want to get caught if the cops are back there and it’s too far anyways. i want a bed. Now. A lone pillow would do.

He doesn’t seem much different, dangling on my side barely sparing me a glare as i look down at him, checking if he’s not dusting yet. He stopped “bleeding” at least. He still got that nasty huge scar.

i can feel him staring when i’m not looking. He’s still wary. Probably only lets me pull this only because he can’t not. Heh, at least he doesn’t seem to mind that i’m carrying him like you’d do a toddler. i just, need my other arm to grip and grab at the staircase bars when i slip.

Nah he looks more disgusted to be touching me than anything. Everytimes we get into more contact, because i’m bumping a wall or stumbling on my own feet again, i can distinctly feel him shudder, and try to get away. It’s just a little distracting, and unbalancing, and a lil tidbit hurtful. But i can’t blame him. i’d be throwing a fucking fuss and dishing fists if our places switched.

At least it’s relatively calm. We didn’t meet anyone, maybe a few rats rummaging garbage, and some monsters hurrying home, Whimsuns i think ? No one that paid us any mind at least.

So we’re still walking slowly when rain hits us hard, and nearly sends me on my ass. Doesn’t help the shivering, but now it’ll clean the streets out for sure. It’s something past midnight, i don’t wanna find anyone out at this hour.

But i’d kinda appreciate finding my way to somewhere because

“Aaaaaaaaaaa a h ahhh i got no idea the fuck i’m g-going…” Ah fuck. i said that out loud. And now my passenger's giving me his best ‘are u fuckin kiddin me’ stare. He’s. Very unamused.

“L-look, this isn’t, this isn’t my part of the city, okay?? i’m- i’m tryin’ to g-get us to the monster neighbourhoods, but i don’t know the fuck where it is, alright ?!” My tone escalates with my pitch, and i nearly slip again as he flinches away from me. Damn it, not helping eli, still in an episode or something. Don’t yell.

“Y-y-yeeah okay, look. ‘m sorry i cried but i’m in shock and still lost, kay? S-so maybe help or som’thin’ ?” Indications would help yeah. And now he’s listening, he’s also less shaky and putting his weight on me in a way that hinders our progression less. Good.

He nods. Good.

“Good. Gooood good good good.” i’m on autopilot now, following the skeleton’s grunted directions. i take a few wrong turns every now and then, but what can you do with nonverbal advice, and we end up in a part of the city i recognize, because i’ve seen it on tv and wanted to come look around anyway.

The gym stadium. A big building, at least big for a monster building, given the prices get surprisingly higher when they’re buying, stylized like a Japanese dojo, with anime advertisement posters (whether for the dojo or the animes i got no ideas) on the walls and- oh my gosh are those- fish, dolphin, shark and starfish stickers on the windows.

“Perfect !” i half yell, significantly lighting up. Mc comicbonedude looks at me like i’ve grown a second head, and i give him a big manic smile, obviously stressed out. My right eye might be twitching a little too. Does that when i’m under pressure. He decides to go back to slumping against me and questioning his life choices, and i take that as an ‘okay GO’ to proceed with my genius only just made up plan.

i march up quickly, -i want this DONE WITH. NEXT TIME i GO ON AN IMPROMPTU RESCUE MISSION I’M TAKING MY LEAD UMBRELLA AND A CHANGE OF CLOTHING- to the tall doors, who thanks fucking gods are under a porch, that saves us from being drenched anymore, and pound it with all i got.

“OI BLUE WATER GAL ! OPEN UP!!! I KNOW YOU’RE STILL WORKING, YOU ALWAYS BRAG ABOUT NOT SLEEPING AND PROVIDING A 19/24H SERVICE ON TV!!! OPEN UUUPP!! B I T C H! OPEN!!UP!!”

Skeleton is googly eyeing me like the second head i’ve definitely grown started reciting the ten commandments to belzebuth themselves,

[and he’s not too far off]

but i don’t care my dude i am d o n e. If i get welcomed with a fist to the face i don’t give a diggly doogly dang fuck so long i can get inside and lay down. Even on the cold ass tile floor. i’m don-

“OI PUNK, WHAT’S UP WITH THAT RUCKUS ?? YOU TRYING TO PICK A DUEL WITH ME ? CUT IT OUT UNLESS YOU WANT A POUNDING COMPETITION FUFUFUFUFUFUH~ I’M OFFERING THOUGH !”

Ah, right, i’m still hitting that door. Ouch, that’s gonna swell. Oh welp.

But the voice came from...up?

i step backward some, under the rain, ugh, and look up to see, yup, a noodly armed blue fish person with bright scarlet red hair pulled up in a bun, all sweaty, a poor guy in a chokehold, peeking out of the second floor window, taking in the pouring rain with gusto. A gigantic lightning bolt, quickly followed by loud ass thunder, comes to compliment her boisterous apparition, and she grins- smirks? wide locking her single eye on me, the lighting making her golden teeth flash.

She comes down to greet my miserable form fast, not taking the stairs, but jumping out of the window (much more graciously than mc comicbonedude previously), having let go of her victim- sparring partner previously, good gods, and lands at my feet like nobody’s business, to then bolt up, eager to see the intruder to her night sessions.

And Undyne, former Captain of the Royal Guard of Monsterkind Underground, all steel like blue scales, glinting golden slitted eye and sharp mouth, now renowned Master of Fights in her stadium, among monsters and humans even more, already black belt of more martial arts than i know of, and fresh survivor of one of the biggest terrorist hits on monsters yet, is staring me down, from her easy two meters height, like i’m her next meal.

i gulp. i’m so fucked.

i’m so fucked and not just for the fact that i am royally gay and all, but also cuz…

[i recognize her]

[she was so hard to f---- [REDACTED]]

[couldn’t figure out that all we had to do was to run and then ---- -- ------- [REDACTED]]

“Uh ?” Her gaze has finally caught on my now bundled up passenger, who’s shivering in cold rather than fear, on my hip, who only lazily grins a

“sup”

“YO SANS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THIS WIMPY HUMAN AT THIS TIME OF THE NIGHT ?? AND Y’ALL ARE SOAKED !! GET INSIDE, NERDS !!!”

[i know him]

i follow hollowly the orders and get inside, feel a weight leave my side-kinda miss that already, to then feel a big fluffy towel drape over me. Then i sit down. In the hall on the ground, probably. Wooden floor is in my direct line vision. Uh. Thing is well taken care of, all waxed and clear, who would have guessed.

[i know them both. very well actually]

[Chara would be nervously giggling if they were here]

[wonder what they’re up to]

[and Frisk too, obviously]

[what about Flowey though. no idea what the lil shit is up to in pacifist endings]

i’m so f UCK E D.

---

Aaaand that’s how i ended up rocking back and forth in Undyne’s dojo’s main hall for half of the night, muttering about video games and fucking witchcraft gone wrong again and shit fuck damnit, i guess it was denial all along those last two, six months ? And oOH WELP, guess i did cradle like a toddler my fictional crush for the last, what, half hour ? Whoopsies.

Hhhhhhhh

fuck that ink witch status, that was not planned.

___

When i finish my flashback, and it’s been something like six months again since, got to “meet” his super cool great bro, not on his account though, Undyne just had to introduce Papsy to the dweeb that “saved his big brother” and also Asgore, Toriel, for a quick ‘thanks you’, even a small interview with Mettaton, that made a hit on the Undernet, and mingled a bit with monsters- i’m friend with Chesty Brun now (Burgerpants), and Alphys, because we’re following the same mangas-

he’s already gone, burger nearly untouched, ketchup covered fries half eaten and drink finished, and i’m tempted to ask Grillby, who is hovering close behind his bar, fretting a little, in front of my frozen form, if “you’re gon throw that out ? sure i can’t finish ?”  Because it’d be a real shame to let all that delicious grub go to waste. But that’d be creepy as fuck, even moreso taking my feelings for the small dude, and his against me, so i don’t, and he’ll probably feed it to his pet lava rock anyway, so i stop hugging myself and rocking back and forth and go back to my seat, waving him off with a sorry smile, and go back to sullenly sipping my vanilla milkshake.

Can’t blame Sans.

He’s cautious. Understandable.

i know what he’s had to put up with.

[and so do all of you]

[dirty brother killers ?]

[i hope not]

[i really wonder how’s Chara doing…]

AAAAAAAaaaaaaah how do i turn this shit off ?? Let me pretend i’m normal in a normal situation stupid brain thing !!

...ah. screw it. this magic milkshake is fabulous. That’s totally what i’m crying about.

“Don’t worry Grillby.”

_______________

ye don’t worry my dudes. can i call y’all that ? ‘s gender neutral. ‘m a demi girl, and you can call me “my dude”, my dudes. wow what a bull of crap i pulled here, sorry trans girls and enbies

this isn’t beta read cuz i’m on my own and english isn’t my native language, i’m french, so plz forgive mistakes.

i had some drafts lying around my google docs for a year now, mostly about bugging and kissing snas, put them together and thought i’d do an actual Thing with it all. this isn’t good, i know it.

lest to say i have no idea what i’m doing !

and don’t know when this’ll update, it it does. i had the motivation to finish this cuz there was no clients at the restaurant i worked at back in july. blah blah blebs blah. 

[entergamingxp]

The Last of Us Part 2 review

The most common joke about the difficulty video games have reconciling their storytelling impulses with the violent action so many of them depend on revolves around the character Nathan Drake. Star of the Uncharted series, Drake is famed for his easygoing, flippant charm – yet over the course of a single game he will typically kill hundreds of people. They call him the smiling psychopath.

The Last of Us Part 2 review

Developer: Naughty Dog

Publisher: Sony

Platform: Reviewed on PS4 and PS4 Pro

Availability: Exclusive to PS4, released on 19th June.

The joke must have stung the Californian Sony studio Naughty Dog, Uncharted’s maker. In 2013 they started to grapple with its implications in The Last of Us, a moody post-apocalyptic thriller that upped the graphic brutality while seeking to frame it in the context of a desperate, cruel world, and also contrast it with the delicate bond developing between the protagonist, gruff smuggler Joel, and his cargo, a teen called Ellie.

Now The Last of Us has a sequel, and in that sequel the wrestling match between the game’s violent action and its thematic intentions has developed into a full-on, bareknuckle brawl. It is, perhaps for the first time in the history of big-budget action games, a fair match. It gets messy and problematic, and neither side comes out unscathed. But, by taking some big gambles, the developers land decisive blows that will send you reeling.

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This isn’t even all that The Last of Us Part 2 is attempting. This is a game about women – not about the female experience per se, but a game in which almost all the notable characters are women and in which they are not only shown exhibiting great capability and physical prowess, but also contending with dark impulses typically ascribed to men: trauma, obsession, rage and revenge. It is also a game featuring LGBTQ+ relationships and characters in a prominent but matter-of-fact way – it’s not a big deal, they are just there.

And it is doing all this, remember, while remaining very much a crowd-pleasing action spectacular in the Naughty Dog mould, with thrills and spills and scares, beauty and ruin and high adventure. It is a lot. Too much, really, and it is no surprise that this game gets away from its creators at times. (Yes, even the famously controlling Naughty Dog.) Not all of it works. Sometimes the tone veers into a depressing, distasteful nihilism. The characters’ motivations don’t always stack up. The cast is overstuffed and the subplots are often over- or undercooked. Some of its points are made with an almost laughable bluntness as it hurries on to its next big idea. At other times, it operates with rare subtlety and understatement. You will be halfway through the game before you understand what it’s actually doing and more than that before you really begin to feel its dread pull. Towards the very end, it is devastating.

The cast is great, but Ashley Johnson’s rawness, vulnerability and rage as Ellie is the standout performance.

It’s a very hard game to discuss without spoilers. I won’t share any specifics, but if you want to go in completely cold, it might be wise to stop reading.

The action is set four years after the events of The Last of Us, with intermittent flashbacks that fill us in on how the characters got from there to here. Joel and Ellie have settled in the self-sufficient community of Jackson, Wyoming. The awkwardness between them after Joel’s fateful actions at the end of the previous game seems to have widened into a rift. Ellie, less precocious and more defensive and spiky as a young adult, is on the verge of a relationship with a woman called Dina. In the aftermath of a snowstorm, something happens that sees Ellie and Dina set off for Seattle with revenge on their minds.

Seattle, where we spend the majority of the game’s runtime, is in bad shape. It’s in total ruins, partly flooded, and initially seems deserted but for pockets of infected, the grotesque fungal zombies that have brought society down. In fact, there’s a turf war raging here between two factions of survivors. The Washington Liberation Front, or Wolves, are a paramilitary organisation – a more warlike version of the first game’s Fireflies – that assumed control of the city from the government after a brutal uprising. They have a darkly charismatic leader called Isaac (a cameo by the magnetic actor Jeffrey Wright), and once we learn more about them, they paint a strikingly different picture of post-outbreak survivalism than the frontiersman stylings of the Jacksonites. The Seraphites, or Scars, are less well drawn, a cut-and-paste post-apocalytpic spooky cult that is never given a plausible reason for existing.

Once again, the score is by Gustavo Santaolalla and is excellent, pairing banjo ruminations with threatening electronic minimalism. There’s also a surprisingly touching musical cameo from a certain 80s pop hit.

On the warpath, Ellie inserts herself into this struggle and starts causing all sorts of havoc – but only after a lovely lull. When she and Dina first arrive in Seattle, the game’s remorseless linear momentum is briefly broken for a pocket of open-world exploration of the ruined downtown district (an evolution of a similar episode in Uncharted: The Lost Legacy). It’s a wonderfully atmospheric scene-setter. After this, we’re back on Naughty Dog’s beaten path for the rest of the game, although the environments are roomy and complex enough to allow for satisfying close exploration as you scavenge for supplies, as well as affording a great deal of flexibility when it comes to combat encounters.

It’s during combat that you’re most aware that you’re playing a sequel from one of the world’s most fastidious developers (albeit one that has seldom been known for the refinement of its gameplay mechanics). The careful iteration and professionalism of the design team are very evident. It retains The Last of Us’ lean, muscular set-up, in which scarcity of ammo and supplies constantly forces you to experiment. Some of the rougher edges have been knocked off, but not so many as to eradicate its essentially scrappy nature – panicky, desperate scrapes and unintended messy bloodbaths are very much part of the vibe.

So is stealth, which thanks to some mechanical lifts from Uncharted 4 and the addition of a prone stance is much more viable and satisfying to play; this is now a pretty well-sorted stealth game in its own right. Like any game in which death comes quickly, it can still frustrate, but a very clever smart autosave system keeps good pace with your progress and means you’ll seldom need to restart a whole encounter. (The whole game experience is unbelievably slick and seamless, even by Naughty Dog’s standards.) My chief complaint is that you spend more time battling humans than infected, and they’re actually the less interesting – as well as less scary – combatants to face.

Who knows why Naughty Dog really chose to break off development of Factions multiplayer, but we can be grateful in a way – entering a jolly deathmatch fray with these characters after playing the campaign would feel very off.

The violence is extremely graphic, uncomfortably so. It’s full of ugly flourishes, like the splattering sound of shotgun pellets ripping apart flesh, or the vicious flick that Ellie uses to slice open a neck as she performs a stealth kill. It can be sickening. Intentionally so? Surely. But I still can’t help but detect a sour, grubby note of gratification to it, particularly in the repetitive context of the combat. Sometimes it breaks your connection to Ellie in a way that doesn’t serve the game. Sometimes, in cutscenes, it’s just taken too far, more than is needed to leave an impact or make a point.

This is one reason why I initially suspected The Last of Us Part 2 of being too caught up in its own grim attitude, of just being highly polished misery porn. Another is that, with its attention divided between so many ambitious gambits, with an expanding cast of characters and with most of the action taking place over a matter of days, it doesn’t have the first game’s gentle but constant emotional core – that delicious slow thawing between Ellie and Joel, melting into love as you journey with them over the course of a year. (Ellie and Dina’s romance might have been that, but it doesn’t get the necessary screen time – admittedly for good reasons.) Without that warmth, that heart, it seems a bitter world to spend time in.

The guitar is fully playable using a thumbstick to choose chords and swipe of the trackpad to strum. It’s a sweet addition, although springing a sentimental country ballad on us in the first 10 minutes is perhaps a bit much.

I’m happy to report that my first impressions were wrong. Unfortunately, I can’t and shouldn’t fully explain why. I’ll limit myself to this: Druckmann and his team have a grand plan that rests on a radical structure for the game which isn’t initially apparent. Once you finally understand it, it’s still a slow burn, as the writers’ delicate character-building – the dialogue is wonderfully understated and naturalistic – needs time to do its work. So it isn’t until the game’s final stretches that it gathers its true power, as you approach a point that is all the more horrifying for its total inevitability.

It’s a huge roll of the dice from the developers, but it works, and the pay-off is almost indescribable. It would be too much to claim that you will never feel the same about video game violence again, but the shock is profound and discomfiting. It’s gut-wrenching stuff. There’s more to come as the game approaches an ending that is just as affecting and emotionally complex as its predecessor’s, if not, perhaps, as ambiguous.

The thing that really struck me – and pleasantly surprised me, coming as it does from a developer so transparently in love with the language of cinema – is that The Last of Us Part 2’s power is wholly unique to it being a video game. There is a special kind of empathy that develops between a player and a game protagonist that no other medium can reproduce. It’s this bond that Druckmann and his team have exploited to such devastating effect. It is a sad and timely reminder of the simultaneous importance and impossibility of living someone else’s experience. Play it, and listen.

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/06/the-last-of-us-part-2-review/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=the-last-of-us-part-2-review