MUSE / Frisk - Tumblr Posts

[ obsidian ] for frisk!

[ obsidian ] for a traumatic memory.

They can still taste the first time they died. ― their mouth was full of blood, the world was hazy and scalding red, they could feel themselves burning in every nerve and entirely too distant all at once. like the pain was in a different room, and pressed taut to their form like an oil-fire on skin, glowing hot iron against shaking begging muscle, tendons tearing themselves in efforts to flee- to fight, to do anything. they can still feel the way they’d slammed their head against the indigo stones, brick crumbling and how they never saw her falter, never saw past the way her eyes were cold like polished rubies you’d never crack- and then they cracked instead, and they only caught the half-second twitch of movement ( her eyes went so wide, hands flying to her mouth as the trial dictated an execution, and god, they wish they’d stayed dead. they wish ― ) before the world went black and they lost themselves. they lost it ―― with the sound of themselves shattering, reverberating in their ears like a promise they broke ― she broke, somewhere along the way, blood pouring from their mouth, head ringing ― ringing ― ringing.

and then they wake up again, and she’s all soft hands and white fur and fresh laundry and they hate it ― god, they hate it ― does that make them a bad person? to loathe it like they do? to taste the fire, burn the sugar and get sweet poured into their jaws breaths after blood? does that make them loathsome? ― god, they want to be if it means they wont feel that again, they want to be, they want ――― but what they want doesn’t matter. it never has. so they keep getting thrown back, again and again and again, and Undyne is almost respite because at least she hates them as much as they hate themselves, and Asgore is almost grief because he can’t do it, and they can’t blame him ― god, they can’t blame him. hang the angel off the cross by the wings, nailed down and sacrificed and ever the heart continues beating  ―― and they wish it didn’t, they wish it didn’t, they wish wish wish― but wishing is not enough.

[ umber ] For any deltarune or undertale muse. I can't read your roster on my phone for some reason

[ umber ] for a repressed memory.

Once, Frisk snapped. ━ they snapped like a bungee cord during storage, not during the fall ; less like someone slashed it like people slash tires and more like how a vase only realizes its broken once it hits the ground, and they were. 

It was Gyftmas Eve, and they were throwing a party at the capital. It was the 2nd year they were staying with Asgore after saying they wouldn’t be leaving, that the decision could be put off for a time. ( “ delay the execution, won’t you? for right this moment, it doesn’t have to happen. not here. not now. ” ) Asgore had relented to the groups begging to do so, after a while, and everything had been set up. streamers & lights hanging from the walls, gifts laid out on a table, even snow had been exported from Snowdin to make it feel more festive. 

They remember having fun, talking to people and friends as they helped hand out gifts, drinks & food on a platter. They don’t remember the conversation changing to Chara & Asriel. They don’t remember the way it twisted their guts like a punch in the stomach with a specific kind of upset bitter anger. They don’t remember it leading them to fumble on their own feet ( or were they tripped? ) hard enough that they dropped a platter of drinks, it crashing to the floor and them crashing with it shortly after. 

They don’t remember how a large piece of glass gouged their hand so badly they were half certain they couldn’t move their fingers. They don’t remember the upset whirlwind building, a spiral within a spiral turning a strong wind into a hurricane in 2 minutes flat. They don’t remember frantically excusing themselves with a wide-eyed buzzing flickery gaze that jumped from person to person, a crooked smile on their face, tears already beginning to rush to their eyes even if they didn’t notice it yet. They don’t remember the commotion, the clamor to help & find out what happened, or themselves rushing to the bathroom and locking themselves inside. 

They don’t remember spiraling inside that bathroom. They don’t remember Asgore, or Sans, or Papyrus, or Alphys, or Undyne, or anyone calling out to them, frantic and worried. They don’t remember the way they screamed, overwhelmed, to stop. They don’t remember they rambled about things they shouldn’t know, that they couldn’t tell them, drowning in a pin-trigger of a season’s death they were never a part of but always compared to. They don’t remember dissolving into sobs, refusing to unlock the door, their friends desperation rising. 

They don’t remember Asgore breaking down the door. cracking it as wood splintered, terrified in that one, split moment, and how they suddenly couldn’t tell his kindness from his violence, and how they became the terrified stray dog more than they were the kindly human, too much teeth in a mouth too small and eyes too wide to see anything but their own death. They don’t remember how-

...They only remember waking up again, in that golden flower patch, with a migraine, and those 2 years gone in one night. They don’t remember resetting, or the means they went to achieve it, but they remember waking up alone, --- with nothing but dread in the pit of their stomach, and a cold, cold feeling. You called, but no one came.

They feel as though a wire threatening to snap, and it all feels too familiar.

━ the world around them thrums with a life that threatens to suffocate them. they have suffocated it in the past. perhaps this is how they recognize the pressure it places upon them. perhaps they are only feeling what it is everyone else feels under this godforsaken mountain : the weight of miles on their shoulders. the weight of magic. thick in the air, it threatens again. empty threats, but their windpipe rattles with anticipation in motion.

pacing. movement. to never stop, a future or present of paperwork endless but as is their will, such is one of their many fatal flaws, is it not? ━ to be so determined, to be so capable. such not to disallow failure, but rather, to disallow retreat.

they will do this. they must do this. this is who they are.

their death lies waiting for them, and they, waiting for it. eventually, they will win. how it is always an eventually.

the mountain is no longer there. it has not been in a long time. ━ a falsehood their mind forgoes, the threads they've lived and will live tangling on themselves, the brain not meant to contain memories to the caliber of which they know and keep and never shed ━ they feel slightly lightheaded with their own existence; a rattle, shiver, stop. ( you're being spoken to. answer. his voice ringing like hollow bells. )

you are in the hall. the grey wallpaper reminds you of winter. you cannot remember to which house it belongs anymore. ( toriel's, asgore's, the home they are yet to live, the home they were born in / a never-ending absolution of places of your past, places of your future, and place you are in; always leaving sooner than you expect. )

" There is, but not like━ " not like this, not like you, not like us. " ━not with them. " is how they choose to conclude, hands running through hair, dark eyes closed. tense like a lightning rod waiting in the negative air for that positive strike. tense like a storm cloud, cotton ball, cheek bone. maybe its him they're waiting for. intuition like a signal they're tuning into, when the frequency is right. his world, the one they don't belong to, the one he's stuck in. or maybe not. the world shivers in double-vision. they can't tell if they see him at all.

" I don't want to put this onto them. " I can't put this onto them. " There are strength in numbers, but I'm the support beam, they're the tenants, right? I keep them up so they can live. I keep them... " they trail with an inhale, realization striking cold the back of their throat of how selfish that sounded; as though they needed them. they didn't. that's one of the hard parts.

" Sorry, " like trying to atone for a mistake and speed past it all at once, no less sincere in the effort regardless " I'm just a little stressed. Give it an hour. it's not your problem to deal with me. " ━ I'm not acting the way I should with you, the way I want you to see me, even if you've already seen too much.

@quillheel asked ; ❛ this isn’t our fight , Gaster . it’s my fight . ❜ from Frisk to Gaster !

It cannot help the solemn expression that crosses its face at those words. They are ones that have been used far too many times. He has his.. reservations about the human - he has seen what they are capable of, both at their best and worst. But there is merit in the fact that they settled for the happier ending. It must take solace in that.

And such moral conundrums are not solved by this mentality. Feeling the need that everything rests solely on ones own shoulders can lead to a worse condition. That, and perhaps they have endured enough fighting.

"And why must that be the case? Is there not strength in numbers?"

Whenever they wake up like this, they feel like they're 6 years old again. ━ Factually, this is not correct, and cannot be correct. When they fell, they were something young, but never that young, never again. Their childhood was one of independence & the orange-gold crest of a mountain's shell & the routine of tending to chickens before wandering in the long rye, alone as a child, together here. When they were 6, they were taught how to feed animals and how to pick berries. When they were 6, they were taught the right way to hold an oil lamp. When they were 6, there was still glass jar waiting. And maybe it's still waiting. They can't remember. But now, 13 hangs on their teenage bones like a reminder of what world they're living in, and how many times they've lived it renders it null. Memory lost until they look in the mirror, and it's still to early to bother. Ouroborus in the long grass, snake in the bedframe, serpent in Eden.

But the serpent has just awoken, and while somewhat peckish, they could wait til dinner. Hunger unto hunger unto hunger until someone matters more than the process looping again ( and maybe from a different life, maybe from the one they're in, they can still smell the smokeless heat of fire, of protection )

Frisk rubs their eyes, hair disheveled, as one hand tries to comb it down. They end up distracted by a spot of acne on their jaw that they'll have til they're 15, no matter what they do about it, as they peek at Toriel from behind thick tangles. ━ for how many times they've heard it, will hear it, they'll never get tired of the voice that greets them when they have the privilege to hear it at all. That priviledge is granted then revoked then granted again, but still, that never stopped them calling.

" M'hm… " the hum of Frisks voice betray the sleep they try to wriggle off as they finally brush back their bangs to observe the chaos-that-was-yet-to-occur-but-most-certainly-coming, notably ducking to attempt in peering beside Toriel's legs into the oven like getting a sneak-peek of a surprise. Alas, without a bulb, the oven retains its secrets. Their dark eyes look up at Toriel as they right themselves, and while they always seem tired, they always seem brighter with her around " Migh'wanna grab a brush before I get th'burner covered in this- " they waggle the hand still with its fingers combed & caught in a bundle of their brown bangs, some strands giving out and falling back into their eyes " -but 'll help. like helpin'. " they nod as they say the last part, as though confirming it themselves to be true, which they already were, but it doesn't hurt!

as they saunter down the hall to snag a brush or comb you could've sworn they'd never seen before, they all but trot back to Toriel as they wrangle their locks into place, eyes brighter, sharper now as they glance around the kitchen " What're we makin' today? "

The heavenly smell of baked goods radiate from the kitchen. A warm glow that lures you in with the promise of homely comfort. It's there you'll find Toriel mid-prep. The pie crust has already been set aside and she's at the oven with a slight sway to her hips. The light hum of instrumental music coming from an unknown source. You're quiet, though it's not enough to keep her from noticing you.

"Oh. What timing. Did you sleep well?" Her voice is soothing, Motherly. The look of joy expressed in a kind smile. "If you're feeling rested I could use some help in the kitchen today." / @quillheel