ishotyouuu | IC Inbox

* iwata who?

[Hope you like jumpscares, Sans, because there's a very tall, very pissed off mercenary suddenly materializing right in your face. Wade doesn't even give Sans a change to react before his hands are fisted in the folds of the skeleton's hoodie, hoisting him high off his feet. His eyes are blazing, and in that moment, the wisecracking, pun-tossing Merc with a Mouth looks about ready to kill him.]

Iwata who? How about Iwata FUCK IS YOUR GODDAMN PROBLEM?!

Edited 2016-07-20 02:17 (UTC)

[ He feels his left eye socket pang and detects ozone, but too late. Because Wade motherfucking Wilson is ALREADY HERE, and Sans doesn't even have enough time to glance up from his phone's screen before there's a pair of gloved fists in his galaxy print hoodie and now a good foot or two of distance between the soles of his fuzzy slippered feet and the stone floor.

Sans almost drops his phone. It's a fumble, really, one that's caught by his other hand, grasping blindly out of habit.

Not that it matters. One look at that expression, and the monster's sure the human is going to snap him in half. It wouldn't be hard.

(It'd be easy.)

And Sans hears himself laugh, a little higher than his usual throaty, rasping, half-hearted chuckles. ]

Oh shit.

[The skeleton still has it in him to laugh, despite the situation he's in right now; despite the fact that he's currently dangling a few feet off the ground. At any other time, and if he were any other person, Wade would have been impressed. But to be a mercenary is to know the less savory aspects of the human condition, and he's been around the block enough to know that laughter is as much a natural response to fear as it is to glee.

And there's no mistaking the shock and beginnings of terror present in those eyesockets of his. For a moment, Wade feels a pang of guilt; of remorse, and that only serves to make him angrier. He sinks into it gladly-- anger feels so much better than sorrow or regret, and right now, the skeleton is long overdue for a vicious dressing-down.]

Should've had a better response prepared, because I'm about to carve that on your TOMBSTONE, you piece of shit! D'you have any idea what you've put us through in the last week? What you put Chara through? What you put PAPYRUS through?! A whole fucking week of searching for your worthless hide, without even finding a goddamn bone fragment! And the first sign we get that you're not dead in a ditch somewhere is a fucking POCKET-DIAL?!

[He wants to shake him. He's so angry that he wants to jerk him around until that stupid grin flies off his face along with the rest of his empty, apathetic skull. His fingers tighten in Sans's hoodie.]

Do we mean anything to you, Sans? Do any of the last few fucking months mean anything to you? Or are we just little distractions to be taken out during those times when you don't want to be alone with yourself?

[ Remember that time when Sans told himself he never wanted to make Wade angry?

That was a joke. He didn't mean it. ]

[ Wade no longer as the benefit of seeing any points of light in the skeleton monster's otherwise empty eye sockets. Nothing to determine if he's still looking at the human, but hoisted aloft to bear the brunt of a heart-felt, if thoroughly deserved, verbal lashing his options are limited enough that it doesn't matter.

For a second or two, Sans neglects that little show of solidarity with his lung-bearing fellow monsters, doesn't bother with the illusion of breathing. Whatever passes for marrow in his magic bones is stone cold and all he feels is condensation starting to bead on the crown of his skull, a breathless tension closing fingers right around his soul and just... yeah. Squeezing.

He watches the human rail at him like they're standing at opposite ends of a long tunnel, reduced somewhat when he feels the cotton of his pockets brushing over the knuckles of his phalanges when Sans shoves them and his cellphone inside.

It's cool, that's fine, if Wade's angry enough he won't have to put any additional effort into riding this out.

Yikes. ]

...

[ "Do we mean anything to you?"

Funny. How that reminds him of something.

"What do you get from fucking with people all the time?" Undyne had said. "What does it do for you? Do you even care when the situation's serious or not, or do you just fuck with anyone whenever you see the opportunity?"

Undyne hasn't been herself since she got here. It didn't take those words and a fresh crack climbing up from the brow ridge of his left eye socket or the pounding ache in his skull to figure that. At the time, he'd dismissed it as more of her fury, sorely mistaken but not mis-aimed. The words are a familiar refrain, even if the major difference here is Wade is absolutely correct.

"Or are we just little distractions to be taken out during those times when you don't want to be alone with yourself?"

"The only one Papyrus is too good for," Undyne had spat, "is you." ]

Heh heh. [ Sans rasps. ] Wow.

[ There's really nothing quite like the bitter, cold-hot flash of venomous self-loathing climbing up the column of his vertebrae, saturating him with the assurance that, yeah, he's got that coming, he knows, and that he's not going to change much no matter what happens.

Barely a point.

Didja see where that got him? Another brother lost, reset to factory settings, back to square one and he'll just let Papyrus down again.

You know, the usual.

Better cut the cord here before Wade has a chance to get close enough to really make this sting. ]

Aren't you one to talk, Motormouth? What, the silence get to be too much for ya, pal?

[If Sans is expecting Wade to be angered by that barb, he's in for a disappointment. He's still angry, there's no doubt about that, but after all he's been through, the weak jab at his loquaciousness only serves to stretch his mouth in a savage, cynical grin.]

That really the best you can come up with, dude? Not that I'm surprised-- I guess after blowing your whole wad on blowing all of us off you don't really have much else to back it up, do you? Y'know what the best thing is? If it was just to get away from me, I probably wouldn't have cared. I'm used to people just gettin' tired of me. Would've been no skin off my back whatsoever.

[He doesn't give the blatant lie a chance to fester, shoving Sans harshly against the castle wall and pinning him there.]

But in the future, if you're ever wondering? Papyrus downplaying about how lost he was without his big brother was the exact moment I decided to kick your ass.

Edited 2016-07-20 16:01 (UTC)

[ He's going somewhere with this, and that's straight to hell. ]

Oh yeah, because a guy like you? Real tough, pal.

[ That? Comes as a lung-less wheeze, his fists closing tighter inside the shell of his hoodie's pockets, the stone cold against his spine. From the hollow of his left socket, a point of light begins to dimly glow, not the cyan and yellow flame he's seen unfurling from that socket once before, a guttering ember next to that display. ]

That's why you stick to anybody who gives you the time of day. Right?

[ The skeleton snorts, for all he lacks a proper nose. Rolls his shoulders, best he can, tries to play casual when being pinned down has every particle in him vibrating in something like terror. Can't dodge. He'd have it coming anyway. It doesn't matter. And--

stop

bringing up his brother. ]

C'mon, SPARE me the noble line of crap you're selling. That's just an excuse.

...But ok, looks like you're serious about gettin' into this.

So.

Let's go.

[ He's out of the usual ammunition so he falls back on words, maybe with enough barbs Wade will realize he isn't worth the hassle. But, uh, this smarts, and all he wants to do is retreat from this and put as much distance between it and him as possible.

Doesn't want to deal with this, shouldn't have to. He never asked for any of that to happen.

A break. Just-- ]

Chara and Pap? Yeah, I noticed how you glued yourself to them, too. But you can't make up for how many people you left behind. You can't go back.

Pretty sick how you keep trying to replace your family.

Y'know? I should'a scraped you off like the barnacle you are months ago and saved me the trouble.

[ Just give him room to breathe. ]

[Well.

It appears that even on the ropes, the most difficult boss in Undertale still has more than a few tricks up his sleeve. Sans will have the satisfaction-- such as it is-- of seeing Wade's features go slack with shock; of seeing the look of righteous anger in the mercenary's eyes melt into one of almost surprised agony, clearly visible even through the mask, as if Sans had just then taken out a knife and stabbed him in the stomach.

Pretty sick how you keep trying to replace your family.

That accusation's the one that hurts the most. Not because it's true-- bonds like the ones he forged in Haven could never be so easily replaced-- but in his own way, is he not attempting to regain a little bit of normalcy? Just a small bit, just for a while? Didn't he deserve that after all he's been through? Didn't he deserve just a little bit of happiness before it was all rudely snatched away from him again?]

[The fugue lasts for only a few seconds before the anger resurfaces, and it comes back hard. If Wade had looked murderous before, now he looks downright psychotic with rage. His eyes narrow; the expression in them becoming the deadened violent gaze of a wild animal. One of his hands finds its way around Sans's cervical vertebrae, squeezing so tightly that Sans would probably have trouble breathing if he'd actually have a larynx to obstruct.

Wade gives Sans no reaction time. In the course of a millisecond his other arm lashes out, one tightened fist slamming into its target with a sickening crunch--]

[--into the wall a few inches from Sans's head. Wade's breath comes out in harsh pants, as if the very act of not punching the living daylights out of Sans has completely winded him. He closes his eyes as the rush of angry blood floods in his ears, and when he opens them again, his eyes are clear. Still angry, but with a lot less of that bloodthirsty look to them. When he speaks, his voice is rough and raw, little more than a growl.]

Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just latching onto whoever feels familiar just to make myself feel better. But at least I make an effort to care about the people I'm using. Might make mistakes along the way, like I always do, but at least I'm trying. At least I'm trying.

You honestly think you have a corner on suffering, Sans? You think you're the only one who considers getting out of bed every day a crowning achievement?

You think I don't have the slightest idea what crippling depression feels like?

[ good, he thinks, that cut deep enough for ya? now leave me the hell alone.

And a part of Sans doesn't mean that, feels that bone-deep fever-sick twist of guilt burning through him like bright acid, because the guy doesn't deserve that, any of it. Wade's only ever been good to him and his. He's gonna let him down, so maybe this is just... Merciful, right? Scrape him off and push harder so he doesn't have to witness how the inevitable disappointment drags the guy down.

Sans is not being fair. ]

[ But, hey. Sometimes you hurt and you hurt and you hurt, and you hurt long enough to think this is just what life is. That you've done something to deserve it somewhere along the line. And sometimes you hurt until you get a little... tired, you know?

Makes a guy think.

Thoughts like the one that flits across his mind, a quick dark shadow when warm, gloved fingers circle the column of cold vertebrae beneath his mandible. Thoughts like--

(about damn time) ]

Edited 2016-07-20 18:16 (UTC)

[ He feels the impact but. Funniest thing. He was pretty sure dying was supposed to hurt a lot more.

There's a violent, if muted rattling coming from somewhere beneath the clothes that hang off his bony frame while he catches up with the fact that Wade had just planted his fist against the wall. Shit, he thinks, holy shit. Wasn't he past that?

Everything happens too quickly after that, and while the skeleton monster quakes, hanging from the fist around his neck, his brow ridges furrow in confusion.

Corner on suffering? Nah, man, it's fine. It ain't even that bad, he has yet to run into a single problem he can't literally nap his way through-- (except dreams of crimson slowly blooming across golden tiles to the sound of birdsong) --only got hurt once, and man, that ain't even the Queen's bragging rights there. She's gotta beat Undyne for that 'honor'. ]

...Huh?

[ So what if getting out of bed feels like a chore? Sometimes, the biggest chore. That's just life, you get tired. Everyone gets tired. Everything is just bigger than all of them, and the lucky ones are the folks who haven't figured it out that all of it, all the things they do don't matter, that their fate? Isn't in their hands. ]

The hell's that got to do with me? You're reaching.

[ Depression? Pff. That's people who cry all the time. Him? He hasn't in... Uh. He can't remember. ]

Edited 2016-07-20 18:27 (UTC)

[Sans is shaking. Wade can feel it through the fabric of his hoodie. Good. At least he's momentarily shocked him out of his wall of projection; of self-loathing. Depression, after all, is all about feeling numb; about going through life with the sound muted and the colors turned down, and sometimes you need a swift kick in the ass to bring yourself back to something approaching normalcy.

The bite is gone from Wade's anger now-- at least Sans seems like he's actually seeing him for once. He removes his aching hand from the wall, leaving behind a crack or two where his attack has damaged the foundation.]

Sure. I'm reaching. You obviously know everything about me despite only knowing me for a few months. Despite never asking anything. How 'bout you turn that high-powered judgment toward yourself for a change?

If you want to have yourself a little pity party for one holed up in that cave of yours, go right ahead. God forbid I tell anyone else how to live. But when you toss other people's feelings aside like they don't matter; like it's inconvenient for you to care, that's when I have a problem. Running away doesn't solve anything. It only makes things worse. And all those people you hurt? That's gonna be all on you. And it's gonna cut you up a lot worse than any physical pain. Trust me on this. I know all about pain.

[There's an uncomfortable, wet pressure in his glove. He peels it free, allowing at least a teaspoonful of blood to pour out and splatter on the ground. Cradling his destroyed hand, Wade glances back up at Sans with no small amount of disdain.]

But go ahead. You keep tellin' yourself that I don't know what you're going through; that I'm blowin' smoke out my ass. Guess you'll just have to learn on your own. Just like I did.

[Wade's voice wavers, and a sudden flash of pain suddenly tightens his features, a pain that has nothing to do with his current injury. With a furtive jerk of his hand and a nauseating crack, Wade snaps the shattered bones back into place, inadvertently causing drops of blood to scatter through the air. Some of it might get on Sans, but at this point, Wade doesn't care-- if anything, it drives home a pretty apt metaphor.

There's nothing else to be said. For once, the Merc with a Mouth is completely done with words.]

Bodyslide by one.

[A soft hum of energy, the faint smell of ozone, and Wade is gone.]

Edited 2016-07-22 16:01 (UTC)

[ Once Wade lets him go to peel off his glove, Sans slides down until his feet touch the floor, stone and mortar gathering up the fabric of his hoodie, bunching rolls of patterned cloth against his shoulder blades. The only thing that keeps him from going all the way to the floor is his instinct to remain on the balls of his feet, up against a wall's a bad place to be in for dodging, but it's better than being caught.

That glove gets peeled off.

For some reason, the sound of that splatter of blood hitting the stone floor makes his magic curdle. Familiar. He thinks that's because of a kid sinking a blade into their own gut by way of demonstration, that's because a shadow put its dark weapon straight through a guy whose younger brother asked him to keep an eye socket on, not another pool of red slowly expanding across tiles drenched in a golden light.

He can't keep staring at that, when Wade's a far more arresting factor, struck mute and without something flippant to say in retort. It's just, uh, easier. To be quiet. He wouldn't know what to say anyway, until something that isn't the condensated magic rolling off his skull drops against his mandible, and that he doesn't need to wipe at it to know what it is will be a matter to think on another day. It has the effect of jostling his words loose. ]

W--

[ A rasp, not low and warning enough for his taste, too rattled, but that doesn't matter when the guy's already gone.

Hhhhhhhhhhhooboy, this is already a night. ]

IC Inbox - sol_raveh

no subject

no subject

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST LMAO

no subject

1/?? /WHEEZES

no subject

no subject

ok... there is good. yeah. this is fine.

no subject

1/2 > ACT: JUDGE, JUDGE LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER

2/2

[1/3]

[2/3]

[3/3]

1/3

2/3 WHOOPS CW: SUICIDAL IDEATION

3/3

no subject

no subject