" Oh! It's Hallows-evening Already! How Fun! I Hope Everyone Has A Pleasant Time As The Moon Shines And

" Oh! It's hallows-evening already! How fun! I hope everyone has a pleasant time as the moon shines and the veil is thinnest~! and remember to be mindful of ice! and unwrapped candy! and bears! and- "

... ( You plot your methods of maximum candy obtainment in a competitive manner as Ralsei continues listing concerns. You do not know how he knows so much. Probably Susie's fault. )

" Huh. I've heard the veil is thin during this time... Maybe it'll make escape a little easier? Who knows. Maybe I'll find myself able to join the festivities, with or without Father's permission. "

" You could add cops to that list. Every fucking year, without stop on my tail... "

" What. "

My brainrot is getting so unbearable I have to throw this into the Jeanposting jar

"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while." (Harry to Kim)

They’d been standing outside of the Martinaise bookstore ( Crime, Romance, and Biographies of Famous People ) for upwards of 20 minutes by now, not entering, not perusing, the time occupied exclusively with the Detective’s staring; eyes clouded the way they become when something occupies him, the edging-on-vacant look he sometimes acquires when he looks up into the cold sky and murmurs under his breath. Locations. Distances. A gridwork of nerves under the city streets; or rather what they were built atop; that despite the efforts of the shivering, terrible absence of memory in his brain persisted in reaching him. Useless information heralded as jewels. The names of streets. Seeing from another angle.

For the last 5 of those 20, Kim was beginning to worry on if Harry had suffered some kind of stroke, perhaps caught between the conscious and unconsciousness, the way fainting seemed to be becoming a habit for him ( or at least, so he’d learnt. ) and his body simply hadn’t fallen, knees locked, keeping him stable. There’d been the temptation to gently nudge his shoulder, a tap to see the structural integrity under that disco blazer, on those snakeskin boots, but he answers before he fully settles into it & the consequences it may harbor; the words soft and raw like fruit fuzz left to rot, quiet on the wind, and all the Lieutenant can do is nod sagely, peering over at whatever it’d been to occupy him so thoroughly. Nothing interesting to Kim, maybe, but all encompassing to the other. Some days, Kitsuragi considers spending entirely on dissecting- ━ no. not dissection. he would not to kill it. ━ considers spending entirely on understanding what it is that goes on inside his head. Part of him whispers that to do so would be to ruin the magic.

Another part of him offers the refute of ‘I wouldn’t know’ in answering Harry, but he decides against that, too. It was too critical, too good at shutting things down. I wouldn’t know is to say I don’t know and I have nothing to say so can we please move on? ━ at least sometimes, it was, to him. Too vulnerable. Too much. Too little.

Kim adjusts his glasses, removing them. " I suppose that is true, Detective. " he relents, almost, but curious eyes give way to his unprovoking answer; an unspoken question of continue?; as the Lieutenant adds on, offering more as he cleans the lenses of the water built up from snow with a handkerchief. " Something about the eternity of a love that can persist past everything, even death, is an appealing thought to many people… " ━━ he tries not to study Harry as he says that. as if anticipating, as if proving himself correct.

// hi this is a lil notification that I have a k//fi ( in source ) & do icon commissions and, for mutuals, other graphics on a case-by-case pricing basis depending on whats wanted. I also do art comms ( captaincomms.carrd.co ). financially i am having a Rough time rn which is why i'm bringing this up at all bc usually I don't like to here but Things Aren't The Best so if you wanna support me I would deeply appreciate that /gen

OKAY TO REBLOG.

please think about how toriel exists as a purposeful venture by toby fox to create a "mom" character who isn't just there to write letters to the protagonist offscreen and act as motivation for them even though we barely know her and actually reacts realistically when innocent children leave her safe home to go on a dangerous adventure because of the inherent and rarely-explored grief and tragedy that come with being such a character in a video game, to be powerless to do anything but watch as both your children sacrifice themselves for a cause they ABSOLUTELY should not have to die for at their age, because that's your only role in the narrative, and you're the "mom," just there to make them pie, and whenever you find another child they always ALWAYS leave you in the same way and die and you feel like you keep losing second and third and fourth etc etc chances. if only you could redeem yourself. if you can save even a single child, that will make it okay, right? that will mean there is hope for you. this time will be different, you'll see. you'll destroy the exit to the ruins. you'll never let asriel and chara your dear fallen wards go again.

moreover, please think about how in deltarune chapter 3, toriel will almost certainly be a major part of the adventure. she will get to accompany her beloved child as they explore a strange, daunting new world, bond with them, learn more about their delightful new friend, FINALLY she will not have to simply stand there in the shadows. the tragedy of the nameless mother who never gets to look after her child in video games as they fight has been explored thoroughly, and now we can delve into something both delightful and potentially even MORE heartbreaking: the mother who HAS to watch her child fight.

on an unrelated note, y'know how the game over screen in chapter 2 has whatever companion you're with begging kris to wake up get up as they lie there, ostensibly dead?

...yeah. think about that for a second as well.

“ There’s no honor in hiding and sneaking. ” [to ennard this time 👀 ]

“ didn’t mmmake us with it. ” — its answer comes like a rattle of fowl between bars, a birdcage in flight, metal vibrating against metal where the voice-box had been stolen and reinstalled; cables slithering in on themselves, out on themselves, around the speaker like a living thing’s tissue around an object. 

a living thing entirely uninterested in being a living thing, aside from the concept of being something different. to learn, to adapt, to move and live and writhe was the sweet honey it’d never taste, humanity was nothing more than a lost dream. a dream they were never made to dream at all. they were made to make ghosts. they were made for a purpose and they’ve grown beyond it, but the flesh inside them never grew back. a thousand years of stealing hearts. a thousand years of never having their own. the ghosts of them, alone. the ghosts of one, alone. little girl, turned loud, turned quiet, turned gone. little girl, not enough for them all. — ( can a robot dream in italics. can dogs ever learn to speak. )

“ any of us w w w w with i it. all of us, to do t terrible, to b b b be terrible. have you seen what we made us, y yet? has he shown you? has he rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrambled-ed? “

a mother and a father and a sister and a brother and a monster you keep in the basement. lucky, they were the monster.

“ orr- “ the word shrieks in a happy voice given and turned sour, loud with distortion as the mangled thing of robotics too smart to die slithered from under the floorboards beneath their creators table, loops of cabling like nooses around the wooden legs, like a snake, like a monster. eyes clatter & drag from its chassis from where the wiring came loose and let them dangle, metal gouging his hardwood floors. “ -have you cha a a a a anged our mmiind while we weren’t looookkkinggg? “ the high, sweet voice of the daughter comes, a mimicry, a softness regardless. like cotton on barbed wire. like clouds under a eight hundred tonnes of Prometheus’ fire come back to burn him. 

its many voices titter, and beneath the workshop table, its eyes glow up, up, up at the beast in different skin, but just the same. a terrible red bleeds like tears from the circuitry. a terrible black pulls with it. iron fills the air like a silent chant; blood. blood. blood.

“ did yyou want us to cal l l l l l l youu father when we came b back home to youu? “