entrancelogs | you are what you love [ open ]

Entry tags:

you are what you love [ open ]

Who: Tim Wright + your beautiful self, and/or Frisk + your beautiful self!
Where: All over!
When: April 7th - April 10th
Rating: PG-13 probably though I'll warn if it goes higher
Summary: Maybe, with what little power you have...
The Story:

[Starters are in the comments. Let me know over here or at

arrpee if you want a closed starter or anything! I will match prose or brackets!]

Threaded | Flat

They have a small voice, most days. It's not that they don't like to speak; they just know it's better, for their own sake and for everyone else's, if they keep quiet. Good little children are seen, and not heard. They know how that story goes.

It's like music in their SOUL, piped through sunlight and over along the multicolored blooms dotted among the gardenscape. It doesn't take much to remind them, for the dust-light weightlessness to tug at their toes and leave them wondering when it will next be their turn.

The words begin faint, but pick up steadily, in tempo and confidence, though never in volume. The simplicity is fitting: the hum of strummed strings, devoid of grandiosity and fanfare.

Just like them.

They just can't keep worrying about these things that they can't talk about.

If you're near, you may even hear it yourself - that fear of overstepping lines.

There's only one other person left that would know what this is, and how to put a stop to it. He's also, they know full well, the most susceptible to what comes next. They had to reach out to him too, clawing away the curtains of white-fuzz static to press a palm to a button with a sparking, rainbow blaze.

* Someone else might have once been enough.

They aren't here.

The lesser half will have to do. The friend he says he wishes he'd always had, who's never been much of a friend to him, because they never took the time to learn anything about him. Perhaps that's why he could shower them with that sort of undeserved praise; because he never knew enough about them to claim otherwise.

They don't call out, but they don't stop looking - scouring, scanning the mansion in search of long white ears nearly consumed by a blaze of static.

It's like an afterimage imprinted against closed lids, the ghost-echo of someone else's SOUL humming in utter distress. Maybe it's like a phantom limb; something that isn't really there, no matter how much they feel that it is. Maybe it really is the ripple of another SOUL rubbed up against theirs, tying them together with a fading thread.

Maybe it's just their present knowledge of who she is, and what she's been through.

Either way, they've set out to find her. She hasn't responded to any texts or queries for some time, meaning it's up to them to track her down.

They're not the only one who could, nor are they the only one who would.

But if you have some kind of special power...isn't it your responsibility to do the right thing?

After George started singing on the network, that should've been warning enough that anything could happen. He's been keeping away from the instruments ever since that little gem emerged, but that doesn't seem to help him out any. He hasn't got the most spectacular voice, but that doesn't seem to matter.

Maybe you find him on the roof, shoulders hunched around himself, straining to keep something soft and broken from working its way out from the back of his throat:

They say I'm taking it well,
It's all in my stride.
That's what they're saying down there.

That the world is so dark,
When you're unable to smile.
And you can't even show that you care.

They say that I'm getting back to normal,
But I was never at normal as far as I can recall.

Maybe you'll catch him in the woods, an inevitably failed attempt at self-isolation that doesn't do a thing to help when it tumbles out into the open - what's the point if oracles with visions can bleed out just like the next man?

All I’ve got
are smoky rooms and issues
and around eighty seven
nightmares.

All I’ve got
are catalysts and horrors
like the world has never seen

All I’ve got
are coffee mugs and mirrors and halls
and survivor’s guilt
So tell me:
What’s the point in hiding?
They’re just gonna find me.

He grimaces after every song, clearly hating it, clearly hating every word that hints at something much larger within himself:

What's the point?

Alex was right. He's always known that Alex was right; that he was the source, that it was him, him all along, bleeding into everyone's lives, ripping away the curtain of normalcy that they all could shroud around and over themselves, pretending he had no idea that the specter that had always dogged his dreams was something terrifying and real.

It wasn't enough to make them all hurt, to plague them with nightmares, to watch each and every single one of their lives tumble to pieces without any knowledge as to how or why. Oh, no. He had to do some of the killing himself, didn't he? He had to ram a knife into a man's throat and soak it in slippery red, and he had to charge forward with a wrench in hand until the shock of it jarred a handhold loose and cracked skull open on the concrete. He couldn't just be the reason, the source, the sickness, no - he had to be the symptom too.

It's fitting, he can think distantly, numbly, when the prickling sensation of static starts to swarm up into his head and fog his thoughts. He would be consumed by the thing that's always been a part of him, that surely must be spreading its branchlike fingers into the lives of every person he's ever met, every friend he's ever made, every rotten and wretched mind he's ever bumped up against. He's doomed people before and he'll doom them again and he's dooming them now, making another mistake, because he's still here and he couldn't even do Alex the courtesy of slitting his own throat and seeing that final, dying wish through.

Why couldn't he have done one, stupid thing right, and burned to death?

The words that trail from his throat are empty, humming through that veil of blazing white with a drone and monotony that's fitting, all things considered.

Maybe now he can finally look how he feels.

They suspect they'll hear him before they see him - assuming they need to. Despite knowing what they do, seeing what they've seen, it seems...they really don't know very much about what he's been living through in the recent months, have they? That fear of overstepping lines, of venturing where they're not wanted, afraid to push him ever deeper into the embrace of someone they drove him to the first time.

They ruined it, the first time. They know they did.

The least they can do is try and make it right.

They try his room, first.

Threaded | Flat

FRISK ; OPEN ; i need more dreams and less life

FRISK ; CLOSED to ASRIEL ; i need that dark in a little more light

FRISK ; CLOSED to SHEPARD ; i cried tears you'll never see

TIM ; OPEN ; so fuck you, you can go cry me an ocean and leave me be

TIM ; CLOSED to CLEM ; in a world full of the word "yes," i'm here to scream "no"

FRISK ; CLOSED to METTATON ; we won't go, we don't know when to QUIT