[Text] Haha freaking out what do you mean no one's freaking out this is fine-

[achievementhunter]

Greetings, fellow soldiers.

With the current state of things, now is a good time to remind ourselves of appropriate levels of respect for each other. Absolute strangers potentially learning your deepest secrets is not something that sits well with myself; I imagine that I'm hardly the only person who feels this way.

I invite anyone else who may have issues with others attempting to discuss said memories to opt out of such social situations through this network post. In my own circumstances, I would prefer that you kept it to yourself.



In other news, Sans is missing. Perhaps he has also gone on vacation, perhaps not.

Please remain vigilant. If you have any further information in regards to the disappearances, or have noted someone else who does not appear to be available via their phone, feel free to share that particular information.


[Private to Frisk, Asriel, Maka, Hilda, Rin Tohsaka, Toriel, Wade, Zuko]

Please remain in contact throughout the day.

I'd hate to go to the trouble of locating you.

Comments

2/3 [Memory | CW: implied violence] https://youtu.be/nuLT_qAqTU0

[achievementhunter]

[There's a slight buzzing in your ears. Your chest would be heaving- or perhaps it is, and you simply can't feel it. Staring up at him through what seems like tunnel vision, though a part of you is screaming.

A part of you is screaming.

Beating against invisible walls in your own head, in the wake of what he's said to you. 947. 947, but he doesn't buy it.

He doesn't. Buy it.

Like you didn't just explicitly describe in detail what it is you've done. You can feel your sins crawling on your back, louder than ever. And he just-]

I hate you.

[Does it again. Hand to your head, trying to separate the demon from the child. You can hear him from that distant place, and that's what's screaming in outrage, beating against invisible walls that you'd put up on your own until your breathing is labored and your fingers are digging so sharply into the bandages on your wounded hand that, if the wound was any younger, it might even bleed again.

You hate him.

You hate what he knows and you hate even more...all the things he doesn't. He speaks like an adult who's aware of absolutely everything, except when it comes time for the execution, it's poor. It's so poor, like shoddily ripping out a knife after taking one First Aid course and considering himself a bone-ified expert on the matter.

Okay. The knife's out. But the bleeding comes faster, and the jagged edges are that much more torn.]

I hate you.

[Your voice gets louder. And you don't know why, but the echo from it; your voice, bouncing off the bathroom tiles- something in you clicks.

And you're right back in it all again.

It was fun to pretend, for a while. That you knew how to put on the proverbial brakes. Or that the world had put them on for you. But here you are, in a bathroom, shirt stained with spots of water and smears of blue food dye. Water hits the floor, but it's not--

It's not from your hands.]

I hate you.

[Honestly. You don't even know who you're talking to.

Ha.

But maybe-

Maybe you don't drop your head into the shirt of people you hate. And maybe, when your hands are shaking with the effort, you don't refrain from lashing out in violence either, no matter how much you want to.


So maybe that answers the question.

And just like those other times, his response is- wrong. It's all wrong. Sans shuffles forwards. He doesn't croon but he rumbles, mutters something about going somewhere else. Ok? This stuff can wait. Just leaves the incriminating evidence of his pranking lying on the counter and across the floor, seeks to scoop you up with an arm under your legs.

Just like the last time.

And even though you're still gripping on tightly to his clothes, even though there's a part of you that makes your breath even faster (and that's fear. Cold, chilling fear, as you imagine what it would be like if he took the initiative and threw you into the wall, straight into a pile of bones. Up into the ceiling, so he can make your corpse into some kind of garish chandelier-) part of you is still struggling just as hard to justify this at all.

Because people like this don't look at demons like you and decide that there's something worth trying to pick up off

the

grou]