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[meatbrained]

( five + one )

how it works:

i. post a comment with the characters you play.
ii. go around and prompt other players with a 5 + 1 prompt (e.g. "Five times Hope said sorry and one time he didn't")
iii. write a fic for the prompts people leave you!
iv. enjoy your fic? we hope?

Comments

five jokes that landed (cw gore and depressive mindstate)

[skelebro]

i. i goat an even better question for ya.

Mettaton's a real stand-up guy, he thinks, despite not having legs and being more of a "box on wheels" kind of deal, but the bottom line is that he's much more solid a host than people give him credit for. In love with himself? Absolutely, but he lets Sans perform at his resort all fancy-like, even if he doesn't call it "comedy" and just labels it "Sans" - guess his jokes are really just that good, huh?

Anyone who's been to more than one show, though, they know the humor's as worn-out as the dumpy skeleton delivering the jokes that land with a series of groans and pity chuckles.

He doesn't expect King Asgore, of all people, to sit in on his routine one night. He's kind of a hard guy to miss, bigger than anything, huge curved horns and a frame that more or less blots out the light in an open doorway. For one, Asgore doesn't really...leave the New Home area. Ever. Thought crosses his mind that he should tighten up the humor for this go-around, but the king must've known what he was coming to see, right? Right.

Truth be told, King Asgore is the best audience he had that night. The guy was roaring with laughter and slapping his knee the whole time, even if occasionally it took him a minute to process his wordplay and punplay and god knows what else.

He didn't catch him after the show (no one ever does, as a general rule), but Sans got an anonymous letter thanking him for the show. He didn't need to do any real deducting to figure out who that looping handwriting belonged to.

ii. and one day i find this door...

The air in Snowdin is always crisp and quiet, the snow settled thickly along the ground in white carpets. It'd look damn near picturesque if it wasn't always the same, day in and day out. You don't really get seasons Underground, it turns out. No sun and no sky to make 'em happen, one way or another.

He settles down in the same place he always does, rapping knuckles against the broad, silent door as he delivers knock-knock joke after knock-knock joke with effortless precision to empty silence. Keepin' watch for humans and not a single one comes through, so what else is he gonna do, huh? Might as well pass the time in a good and constructive manner.

Tok tok, his knuckles sound hollowly against the door. "Knock knock."

Then, outta nowhere, a soft voice replies, "who is there?"

Well. Ain't that something. Here he thought no one lived on the other side of that door.

He pauses, but not for very long before he forges on ahead. Might as well deliver, right?

"Dishes."

"Dishes who?"

With his typical frank, cheerful delivery, he says, "dishes a very bad joke."

My god. The laugh that splits the silence open like an overripe melon. He's never had anyone laugh that hard at his jokes, not even King Asgore. And as the laughter continues, his grin widens, and widens.

Maybe this job ain't so terrible after all.

iii. what? you didn't say that?

The doc is buttoned up tighter than anyone Sans has ever met, and that's sayin' something. Joke after joke he hurls at that implacable exterior, and he continues to do nothing, say nothing, but he does that weird thing where he blinks his eyesockets very hard and shakes his head, as if thrown by the amount of stupidity and/or irrelevancy being thrown his way.

But there was one joke that Sans is sure made an impact, if only because the doc's response wasn't to tell him to shut up or get back to work, but to fix him with a peculiar stare that indicated that maybe he was struggling not to laugh.

DID YOU DOUBLE-CHECK THE CALCULATIONS? he asks in that peculiar, visual speech of his, his hands cutting through the air like hot knives through butter.

"'Course I did, Doc, what d'you take me for?"

BECAUSE I DO NOT RECALL THE NEED FOR EULER'S CONSTANT TO SHOW UP IN ANY OF THEM.

Sans pauses, considering his work with a skeptical arch of a supraorbital ridge. He didn't think he'd spinkled any e's in there... "Huh."

Then he winks cheekily in the doc's direction. "Guess that was pretty irrational of me, huh?"

The doc stares at him for a long time. Longer, perhaps, than is socially acceptable, but Sans keeps smiling, frozen as he waits for the reaction he's looking for.

The doc pinches the ridge of bone over his nasal cavity.

YOU ARE INSUFFERABLE.

"Yeah, but you like me anyway."

The doc simply sighs.

iv. turn around and shake my hand.

A branch snaps behind them as they walk, as easily as if it were a matchstick underfoot. The human jerks around, plainly terrified, plainly nervous. He shambles behind them, a blackened silhouette, but as soon as they twist around to view him more clearly, he's gone. Rampin' up the tension like this isn't something he usually does in the non-comedic way, but, y'know, why not, right?

(Can't touch the anomaly, can't do a single thing to 'em, and he's fuming because this is why he does not make promises.)

When they reach the fence that's meant to keep 'em outta Snowdin (bars set too wide apart, of course, because his bro might be the best person Sans knows but his carpentry leaves a lot to be desired), he crunches closer, slippers thumping wetly over the snow and ice until he's right behind 'em. He can see them trembling. Maybe from the cold, maybe from fear. Maybe from both.

"Human," he rumbles, low and gravelly. "Don't you know how to greet a new pal?"

He thrusts out a bony hand, phalanges raking the icy air.

"Turn around, and shake my hand."

They turn. Slowly, they turn, shuddering, their breath emerging in frosted white puffs of air. Their flesh-and-blood hand swings hesitantly up to meet his skeletal one until their palms meet.

PPBTTHHHPPPT.

"Heh heh heh," Sans chuckles with a playful wink and a grin. "The ol' whoopee cushion in the and trick. It's always funny."

The human stares at him in mingled astonishment and horror before their stoic expression cracks, flaking away like the patina it is, and they start to laugh.

Well, maybe this promise won't be so tough to keep after all.

v. deep inside you, i can feel it

The knife they're holding clatters to the floor, the blade flashing with a terrifying, unnatural redness as it catches the light. He doesn't know what kind of magic can turn that thing into the thing it is, and he doesn't care.

The kid's shaking, all their sins and transgressions rushing up to meet them, and tears are running thick and fast down their cheeks. Yeah. Yeah, how's it feel, kiddo, to know that you've killed everyone you once loved? He keeps smiling passively, refusing to allow that vindictive edge to creep into his tone as he steps closer, closer, arms spread wide.

"C'mere, pal."

They need no further urging. They stumble forward like a broken-string marionette, collapsing into his arms as they start to sob in his jacket, burying their face in his shoulder, clinging to him tight, tight, tight as they can, and never letting go.

He pats their back once, even and reassuring.

crkk

His jacket opens, and the bones of his ribs stretch and elongate, skewering the human to the spot, pinning them in his venomous embrace like a butterfly to corkboard, and he catches the flashes of indignation and horror and betrayal in their expression as they try to pull away far too late.

His eyesockets are black and hollow and empty as he smiles at them, throwing every scrap of concentrated spite at them as possible.

"geeeettttt dunked on!" he snarls, and pulls away. The rib bones squelch sickeningly, wetly, as they retract, and the human stares at him with their dark eyes burning like hot coals, and then, moments before he sees their SOUL starting to fragment and split apart ('til it all knits itself back together, or to be more specific, never gets broken in the first place), they make a soft, bemused wheezing sound. Darkly amused, so utterly taken aback that this shocked, angry, dying, wrong sound is all they can default to. It rasps painfully along the back of their throat, as if their vocal cords are bleeding.

Almost like a laugh.

Almost.

Well, it was pretty funny, wasn't it?

Yeah.

It was goddamn hilarious.

...and one that didn't.

[skelebro]

Papyrus is the best brother you could ask for. He believes in you no matter what, optimistic and warm-hearted to a fault, tolerates even your persistent garbage habits. Cleans up after you, makes sure you don't slack off on your job. Heck, sometimes Papyrus is the one thing that gets him out of bed in the morning, and he don't always even need any urging. Just the thought of him, the memory of him...

The memory of him.

Sans grins.

He grins at the snow, at the dust that must be in there, though hell if he can see it. Gray on white is awful hard to pick apart. The wind gusts at it, picking up pale granules of something that could be ice and could be dust, and he smiles, and he smiles, and he smiles.

"Why didn't the skeleton stop the human?" he asks the empty air evenly.

Why? says no one, not even the shadow of his brother's memory, his brother who would be screeching indignantly instead of allowing his brother to set up a joke that would simply incense him further.

"He wanted to get ahead of the game."

Heh heh heh.

Yep.

Sure is a laugh, that Sans. What a comedian.

[dogsanddaughters]

Oh, Sans. Laugh through the tragedy. Until you can't anymore.

Thank you for sharing this. It really makes me want to know his canon better.

[skelebro]

i'm glad you enjoy this tragic skeleton as much as i do :D