love-starved-blog - Tumblr blog

[love-starved-blog]

one question HAUNTS && HURTS too much, too much to MENTION:                                      was I really seeking GOOD                                     or just seeking ATTENTION?

[love-starved-blog]

Had there been SUN or MOON in that quiet place, Chara's smile might have glimmered through the darkness, caught light on each flat tooth so unlike the sharp fangs of their adoptive family; instead, the proof of their existence (wakeful, unfortunate) was inherent only in their physical form rather than the visual perception of it, leaving them bereft of the advantage that their usual confident posture and smile provided.

They were cautious in trying to quell their voice to the even tone of normalcy: a skewed truth bubbled off of their tongue, an attempt to excuse their forwardness.

* You, uh. Seemed like you were having a bad dream. Before you woke up.

FALSE: Asriel had been slumbering peacefully to their knowledge, undisturbed even by the gasp of shock performed by his sibling when they awoke from nightmares and floundered. Chara had been unable to quite believe that their memories of the underground were not idealisms, mere fantasies formed by a wistful mind. The fur that was 'neath their fingertips, however, proved that there was yet truth in their world--and so they clung while the finest of tremors shook their bones. All at once, they felt FOOLISH.

* But I guess you're not, so-- * Hahah, you should probably get back to sleep! * Maybe then you can stop being so short.

@love-starved liked for a starter!

   “–Chara?”  The question is perhaps deemed from scent and familiarity as another small hand shakes his arm until he drags himself from sleep to address his “guest.” The royal quarters of the young prince had never quite been one hundred percent tidy; even now there was a shirt draped somewhere in the corner, and a toy or two lingering in the shadowy floor of his room. It was surprising that anyone had been able to navigate the random, practically landmine laden stroll to his bed to wake him up.  Asriel sat up, eyes squinting through the darkness, tilting his head in a way that caused one large ear to flop over his shoulder to look at his surrogate sibling. It was late–far past either of their bedtimes, and the monster couldn’t help but wonder if the other had had some sort of nightmare or awful dream that had sent them his way.  “Are you okay?”

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✂

The demon will come when you CALL for them.

THIS FAN BATTLE WAS CREATED BY LOVERS OF THE GAME “UNDERTALE” AND IS IN NO WAY ASSOCIATED WITH TOBY FOX…

* (There’s nothing to fall apart.)* (Reality doesn’t exist in this place.)

The locket ( it’s beating ) and real knife ( here we go! ): these are their sins INCARNATE, forged with physical weight so they might use everything they have done wrong in the world to destroy it completely.

Being disoriented is not a state that they are unaccustomed to: there is more time they have spent not completely sure of their surroundings than they have grounded, each timeline in which they are present ( all of them at once at the same time everything keeps happening over and over and over ) pressing in on their mind at once.

That knowledge does little to aid them in the here and now where they exist (except nothing exists here). There’s their own blood and then there’s family and then there’s dust and somehow it’s all gone, blowing away from their fingertips in this unnatural world.

They’re Chara, self-named without anyone else knowing the syllables.

They’re Chara, Princet of the Underground, sibling to Asriel Dreemurr.

They’re Chara, a kid sleeping in the soil with the taste of petals on their tongue and roots in their ribs.

They’re Chara, restless ghost following other humans to their inevitable deaths.

They’re Chara, monster-murderer and world-destroyer, a demon who’s earned their status.

They’re Chara, a kid who’s made too many mistakes for just one lifetime to bear.

They’re Chara, thirteen years old and one hundred years old at the same time, ready to break down completely and be reborn completely anew.

They’re Chara, all at once, and they SEE him.

* CHARA ; [ ACT ] ; [ ?????? ] ; [ CHECK ]

                  🕈✋☠☝👎✋☠☝💧 ☝✌💧❄☜☼

                 ☟🏱 ⌛⌛⌛⌛⌛⌛ ✌❄ ⌛⌛⌛⌛⌛ 👎☞ ⌛⌛⌛⌛⌛                  🕈☟✌❄ 👎⚐ ✡⚐🕆 ❄🕈⚐ ❄☟✋☠😐✍

* ( Doesn’t look like the doc you know. )

Stark white bone, splintered into a jagged edge where the skull’s been cracked on open: those are the most defined places besides his sockets, blank of emotion, devoid of the capacity to feel: Chara thinks, suddenly, of pie and bare hands, singed fingers tucking away a neatly wrapped slice as they step over a tidy pile of dust while in another time they have their face cleaned, laughter like hesitant chimes echoing in their ears.

Their thoughts feel disjointed, more so than normal; the pieces are fitting together, but constructed in a fashion Chara has never considered possible or real before. ( Figures, ) but any spitfire or vitriol is gathered up to fester in their thoracic cavity, weaponized for the good cause of destroying him.

They can feel YOU urging them to it, metal flashing (how? there’s no light for it to catch) as they heft the knife upwards, tip pointed with a steady hand towards the taller of two sockets. 

This is the opening scene to their play, the first words in the short story: the skull lifts, heterochromatic irises appearing. There is a hand, too, the first of many: Chara sees it blazing, feels themself bleeding from red to blue at the doctor’s whim. Still, there are questions–

* ( Where’s the other hand they come in pairs )

–which require answering in this world without justifications or explanations. Chara forces their chin up, weapon raised in a defensive position ( you have got to be kidding me ) as they watch the hand that approaches them from above.

And so the pair of them DANCE.

Two, four, six–Chara does not count hands on their own but the pairs they come from, grouped together in a flashing army that only grows more crowded the longer they do battle: they think of what it was like to die, from buttercups and his son and every other time their SOUL cracked in two.

This time, their soul changes at random: they are fighting ‘gainst gravity before they’re pulled drowned and strung along a purple path; they’re still reeling as their soul is forced to spin, in a ready position for shooting. They would shoot if they knew where to aim: alas, their knife does nothing ‘gainst his multiplying hands, nor are they able to approach his floating head with any degree of effectiveness.

Their SOUL turns blue once more: Chara crashes, bones rattling to their teeth. His smile is getting wider, gaping, and his hands are flashing blue and orange and coming for them again–

–the world shivers with anticipation, ready to swallow them up–

–and Chara finds his body.

The knife is trembling in their fingers, pointing the wrong way for an ASSURED victory: the hands are rushing towards them to smash and their soul is on the ground, but Chara twists their form over, their blade a song that reaches a crescendo of height and a cacophony of a conclusion.

The world convulses: when Chara drags the blade down from where it’s embedded, a flurry of inorganic shrieks echo through the world, the not-quite void seizing and falling apart. They only deepen the crack, gritting their teeth as bony fingers and gloved fingers and rotting fingers curl and crumble, backed by flashes of a melting face as the doctor falls apart and Chara falls down.

When they are able to feel their fingers again, they realize that both locket and knife are gone: in their places there are fragile flowers in full bloom, burning on their palm like a brand and around the length of their neck like a noose.

Light is not oppressively banished, leaving their environment merely dim with nighttime. When they lift their head, they can see Frisk slumbering away, peaceful and unaware; ( good ), they think, anxiously plucking at the blossoms between their fingers. They bother with walking, but produce no sound for it: their body passes through the bedroom door with no resistance, the hallway unbearably long when the shrill tones of dial-up still blast in their ears.

Chara is not quite sure what they might find when they enter the parents’ room: ( might just be mom ), but ( there could be dust ). Petals mark their footsteps as they pad closer to the proper bed, shed through force and stress alike.

They rock to the tips of their toes 'fore jumping properly into the air, peering down to the covers: there is their mother, as they knew she would be, but finding the second occupant takes some more time, being that he isn’t altogether solid. Chara wrinkles their nose ( you’re goopy and you’re snuggling what is wrong with you two ) but find themself able to float downwards, some great tension drained from them that they hadn’t been able to bring themself to acknowledge.

* (Looks like you killed a fragment.) * ( Looks like I got lucky. )

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* I would like to ground Flowey to the trashcan forever, please. (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑

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* guess who's over fifty years old and got himself grounded? * that's right. the middle brother. ヾ(^ิ∀^ิ)

[love-starved-blog]

This game is supplemented by both actions and words: Chara is accustomed to being the only player in any round, other living creatures merely puzzles for them to piece together, but they have encountered one of equal GREATER power than they. The stakes are of a height they have not played at 'fore they fell to the underground: if not for their own naivety, they would not have undertaken an endeavor of such proportions again. Necessity is what has driven them to the doctor, and the trouble they see for it ensures that they can only forge on.

* He's sick enough not to be out in his garden--are you so out of touch that you don’t know what that means? 'Cause that's really sick for him.

They manage scorn, the lines that extend from the corners of their nostrils deepening as they squint their eyes: their teeth are too small to clack together casually, but so their tone delivers the sharp sound instead, the strike of a cornered beast. Chara's lips remain stretched, inclined more towards their eyes rather than their chin, because smiling is the ONLY thing they are capable of.

* He ate a full buttercup's worth of baking cups-- * --no, a full baking cup's worth of buttercups. * All the petals were in a pie.

Chara sees to it that their graceless tongue does not betray them inadvertently: their self-treachery will be contrived, treasonous only to themself and no others. The blame is a weight they can shoulder for the sake of another, and they will own it properly: therefore, they condemn not the brother that was as foolish as they, but their own elder self for not knowing better.

* I thought buttercups and butter could be the same.

If speaking of themself is to [ SPARE ] another, then Chara will talk of their guilt the whole night through: they do not mention how Asriel gathered flowers into bunches and laughed; not how upset he became when his claw punctured the delicate stem of a flower and refused to continue until they were all neatly clipped; how he shucked gold from green and separated out everything nice and neat, making sense of Chara's chaos; the tangible hope in his smile as he inched it into the oven and held his sibling's hand, tiny nubs of fangs gleaming.

Gaster has no RIGHT to know.

* (You're smiling so hard your face might ｃｒａｃｋ.)

* But that was yesterday. He probably took it to his room and ate it before bed-- * He woke up gross and sick and is that enough for you to know? Because that's all I know.

           ( what a funny turn of phrase. ‘ was poisoned. ’ to the alternative - ‘ got poisoning, ’ ‘ fell ill. ’ why, ‘ was poisoned ’ is almost an active phrase, lurking within an unheard preposition. ‘ was poisoned by, ’ and that begs the question  ‘ by whom. ’     [ and poor child does not help suspicion with stumbling over words, the reiterations, the panic so clearly underlined as guilt – or perhaps that was the suspicion — ]            inquiry: why would the young princet rush alone, without any need for a regular courier message? but he need not be of scientific mind to answer that. merely prejudiced one.             buttercups. the king did love his gardens.                            move in calculated step - a pile of books on the table, left there god knows when, the memory of it somewhere far forgotten in his mind - and push aside mountains of work to find it. a thin volume, very general, applications of medicinal herbalism. picked up on a whim, light reading to quench an everpresent thirst for knowledge, borne from that very same pique in interest in horticulture the king so aptly has [ though he would lie to say that it was anything but asgore’s fascination that sparked his. ] admit: he had never thought it would ever actually be useful.perhaps in this instance, he does not disdain being proven wrong.            flip quickly with delicate fingers - r, raunulculus. dogear page, turn back to respond: )                  ‘ AND YOU HAVE NO INFORMATION ON THE SEVERITY OR           THE CIRCUMSTANCE?   “ A LOT ” IS NOT A TANGIBLE AMOUNT, CHILD. ’                   ( turn back. toxicity symptoms:  cholic, blistering, excessive salivation, other unmentionables assumed useless in monster systems [ of course it had been a book from the surface, thrown down with the mountains of waste humans so liked to throw with reckless abandon ] with only in cases of severe poisoning the risk of asphyxiation … close volume. return to the child. )                  ‘ OR WHEN. YOU FAILED TO TELL ME THAT. IF TIME IS SO OF             THE ESSENCE, YOU NEGLECTED TO MENTION HOW LONG I HAVE.        OF COURSE THERE IS SOMETHING I CAN DO, AND RELATIVELY QUICKLY,            BUT PERHAPS WHILE I WORK, YOU CAN STAY AND GIVE ME THE     CRUCIAL DETAILS YOU THOUGHT I WOULD FAIL TO NOTICE YOU LEFT OUT. ’

[love-starved-blog]

Maybe they'll give him belly rub?! Bounds up to the young one, acting as cute as can possibly be, he has a whole routine. Sits on the ground close, paws at their leg, sits up in a begging position before plopping on his side covering his muzzle with a paw. This always got him treats and belly rubs.

–Are they being a jerk?

                                                                  Kinda.

Are they gonna get punished for it?

                                                                   Heck no.

Their companion’s body is not so tall that they do not see the canine bounding up; sticky fingers pop one by one into their mouth to be cleansed of sugar, the half-eaten pie ( it’s still warm this was probably a bad idea ) and its tin taken into dirty hand as they squat.

                                                                  * Hey, buddy.

The child’s mutter is surprisingly soft, devoid of its usual roughness that addresses nearly all in the household: all monsters held a special place in their heart once in a fairy tale, ones with white fur even more so–they’re careful in extending their fingers, allowing their scent to waft down to the pup’s nose before placing their hand properly on his side.

Pastry and tin are placed on the ground, now, the human fishing out another chunk; as their fingers delicately tangle into the downy fur of the dog’s belly, they offer the piece of (lovingly dubbed) buttspie to the small snout.

* Bet between the two of us we can finish the rest of this thing off b'fore Mom gets back.                                                                   * Whaddya say? You like pie, puppy?

[love-starved-blog]

* It's been forever, Asriel.

An exaggeration, though they never thought in life that they might come to personally understand just how long a hundred years could be: after all, they have always been doomed to die first, their species being one that burned fast and bright before flickering without a trace of individual existences.

Their digits traced the length of their brother's face, curling 'neath his chin; thereafter, they lowered their mouth to the top of his snout, burying their face along Asriel's muzzle.

* Holy scrump, Az--when did you get taller than me? Who gave you the right?

Their touch defiantly is a nostalgic one, gentle digits  curled against soft fur, crimson eyes met with crimson. Ah…that’s right, this was all but a dream; something Chara’s mind playing tricks on the GOD’s as they approached him in the only way they could. A chuckle passed his lips, agreeing with the child. Haha, how long had it been anyway? Since Chara poisoned themself with those buttercups && the two ended up dying on the  surface? Even then seemed too long ago.            *Then perhaps visiting an old friend in his dreams isn’t so bad.            *But howdy, Chara. *It’s been sometime.

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FEATURING THE TALENTS OF:

CINNA!            SKEU!                     SPANNERS!                                       AKU!                                                               & LEIGH!

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► make papyrus hate you.

Send my character a ► and a command. They must obey.

Oh, how they have TRIED.

Dust and cold ruined their lungs during their stay in Snowdin, the environment sending them into a spiraling sickness; between the misery of illness and their refusal to play the part of friend, they offer no manners to the skeleton, no thank you for locking them up somewhere warm and stuffing them full of spaghetti ‘til they were choking. Chara attempted on one occasion to throw the noodles at Papyrus; unfortunately, neither indiscriminate murder nor insulting the skeleton’s cooking had any impact on his desire to befriend the small child.

Nearly killing him also fails to produce a negative effect.

Their hands are so small–their fingers used to be delicate, joints just this side of pronounced ‘neath their skin. Chara’s recent choice of weapon, however, has seen to it that they’ve developed bruises and callouses and split knuckles, morbid paints on a canvas deceptively fragile. They can see flashes of their healing skin as they thread Papyrus’s red scarf through his sockets, fingers pulling the fabric down past his proper cranium so it might be tied onto one of the belt loops of their shorts.

When they stand up again, snot frozen and salt crusted on their cheeks, they test out walking. Chara’s quick to determine that though Papyrus bumps against their thigh, neither of them sustain damage for it; like that, they forge on, unwrapping a bisicle to suck on despite the cold. The treat keeps them busy enough that they don’t have to bother thinking about talking–instead, they focus on their dirty hand, rotating it to and fro.

Chara thinks their wrist might be broken; Papyrus would know for sure, they think, and then bite down hard enough that their icecream splits and becomes a pair of uniscles.

Snow becomes slush, then barely-solid dirt; it’s not a proper swamp in this area, but the human finds their feet sinking an inch or so into the terrain with each step. Sans does is not waiting for them at his post, but they remember Kid, bright as ever and searching for a heroine that will not save the day. Chara’s fingers curl under Papyrus’s mandible to keep his mouth shut, body angled so the reptilian child does not see the skull bound to their side.

They venture on without saying much of anything, glad for the roar of the waterfall destroying any hint of sound that might be produced from their companion. Their teeth tug off the pink glove from their throbbing palm, the fabric fluttering to the ground where it will inevitably be trampled into being hidden or carried away with the rushing water. Task complete, they pick at the laces of their shoes, shaking them off so they stand barefoot on the ground.

Water, water–they wonder if their body is weak enough to be swept away without their say-so. It is unfortunate for the future of monsterkind that it does not happen; instead, they safely seem themself to the roaring water proper. Chara does not bother to make an attempt to shield themself; instead, they walk straight through, their good hand spread over the top of Papyrus’s head almost as an afterthought to ensure that he would not be washed away.

Enter the cavern, pick up the tutu, shimmy it on–it’s awkward to fit it over Papyrus, but they manage, letting the elastic snap to their hips. They rip the bandanna from their neck after, finding it oppressive now that it’s no longer chilled.

So armored, Chara allows themself to sit, nearly completely and utterly alone. Between the tutu and the double-knot, it’s a bit of a challenge to get Papyrus off of their hip, but they manage it in a short time. Holding the skull up at eye-level, they stare into the sockets previously threaded with fabric–opening the deep gash of their mouth, they speak to him at last, unbearably factual about it.

* Look.* I’m going to turn every monster in Waterfall to dust.* Like I did in Snowdin–                                          * –like I did with the rest of you.

                                          * Like I’m going to do with UNDYNE, while you watch me.

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Send me ‘✂’ and my muse will kill yours. Right now. Brutally, horribly, bloody. Just do it.

[love-starved-blog]

►Give your small skeleton brother Sans a big hug. After what you put him through, don't you think he needs one too?

Send my character a ► and a command. They must obey.

* (💧⚐🕆☠👎💧 ☹✋😐☜ ☝✌💧❄☜☼📬)

Their tongue pokes out in distaste, their nose producing a map of wrinkles as it scrunches. The reaction is not one visibly seen by any, save their soul twin–nonetheless, they know stalling would be an ultimately futile effort, serving only to remind them that they are slave to the whims of their GREAT PARTNER.

It is unfortunate that Frisk will bear witness to this, but the situation is not the worst it could be; at the very least, they are not currently possessing the child, which might tip the skeleton off that he’s being shown that wretched thing called affection from the demon.

DISGUSTING.

They have begrudgingly shown such things to Sans’s father; all other members of the household have received such sentiments freely at one point or another from Chara, which is precisely what makes the fact that they are completing the bingo at last so exasperating. Nonetheless, they push themself from the messy counter so they might shuffle to the skeleton, knowing that Frisk is watching them with no shortage of curiosity.

* (c'mere, pal.)

Though Chara has taken pains to assure that they stand behind the skeleton as they place arms around him, they remember being folded into his embrace, smiled down to before learning what it was to bloom with PAIN.

The rows persist–they’ve checked, approximated the distance between each wound to be roughly the same. It’s unbearably clinical, they think, to recall that there’s roughly two fingers’ worth of space between each hole; breaking it down into such, however, helps them not actively recall the feeling of punctured organs and cracking ribs, the jerk of their body as that which had stabbed them exited their form through their back.

They DON’T remember hitting the ground for the [ LOAD ] they performed, tasting blood even as they regained both their senses and vision.

Chara drags their limp arms from the skeleton, turning on their toes so their front faces the counter; when they look down, they’re blessed, blossoms rather than blood crawling down their ribs. Petals flutter as they fall through the ground, the golden scraps dancing on the air they had once occupied.

They had spared Frisk some further traumatizing; best not to push their luck.

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Inktober, day 22: Last shot at redemption.

“C’mere, pal…”

I like to believe Sans remembers the Frisk that was his friend.

For those who are confused, Sans is stabbing Frisk/Chara with his ribcage, as explained in this post by @undertale-science

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►get dunked into the box of shame

Send my character a ► and a command. They must obey.

* ( Looks like my element. )

PERSONALLY, they think it’s a bit much to threaten a child with–Chara might have even fought with the adults of the house on its necessity if they did not know that Sans was the one to make it and that they were the only one likely to be dunked within it. Papyrus and Frisk are both too innocent to do anything worth the dunking; having the box, therefore, seems superfluous at best, extreme at worst.

But they know that it has been crafted for their specific self: for that reason they do not fight its existence, but squint every so often when they pass it by, judging it for the purpose it was made in mind with. They remember what DUNKING is like–they would prefer to bypass the experience of such again.

For that reason, they keep themself in check, never pushing too hard or too far; there’s a delicate balance between being an annoyance and stacking up more reasons to be unforgivable, so they treat dancing on the line with a hint of sensitivity and finesse. Even this, however, seems not to be enough: here comes here YOU come, the very worst person in the world.

They scowl in every direction, none at all–but they slip away all the same, leaving Frisk slumbering safely in bed as their ghost once more carries out YOUR intents without trying to deny the overwhelming compulsion. The floor does not creak under their weight, because they have no mass; similarly, their complete lack of presence within the physical realm sees to it that no one sees them, creeping across the house and cursing every fate they have suffered.

When they arrive at the structure they’ve been commanded to, Chara can only stare: had they been corporeal, they might have held a chance of destroying it with a well-placed slam. Instead, physical matter passes through their intangible limbs, standing proud even as they fall face-first within the walls of the box. The lower half of their body remains outside of it, toes poking through the ground with their disregard for the solid world.

* (Chara has dunked themself!)

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Send my character a ► and a command. They must obey.

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Goretober 9: Monster Form

See all my Goretober 2015 writing here

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ooc ;; really rough, under-progress timeline for the collective fam au between me, @asterxles, @callmeplatonically, @megaloovania, & @paxfacere. yes, this makes sense with the normal undertale timeline, so feel free to adopt it???

~ denotes an estimate, generally within 10 years. - denotes an accurate year.

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