Radiohusk Analysis: Alastor Cares or Nothing Makes Sense (Part 1)
In the pilot, Alastor needs to bribe Husk to work as the bartender for his new fun project, Hazbin Hotel (HH)! However, as we're told in season 1 episode 5, Alastor has Husk's soul, and therefore, can make Husk do whatever. So why the fuck does Alastor need to bribe him? What reason would he feel compelled to do that if he already has the power to make Husk to anything he wants? Let's discuss some possible options.
A) Alastor feels as if he needs the extra incentive to get Husk to do his job.
This argument has no substance to me because we see in season 1 episode 5 that Alastor has no quelms with putting Husk (or anyone) in their place. If Alastor needed Husk to be obedient and to attend the bar for the hotel, Alastor could have just threatened Husk and reminded him that he has no choice, considering he has his soul.
B) Vivziepop forgot that in the canon pilot that she wrote Husk as needing to be bribed in order to work the bar.
This is very possible, considering Vivziepop did not write or create the dynamic and most of the interactions that makes Husk and Alastor's relationship. That being said, it is possible that she wouldn't remember the details of their dynamic/interaction from the pilot, but also not understand the characters and their relationship.
C) Alastor cares.
Alastor wants Husk to be satisfied under his care. It is the only narrative that makes sense, whether it was Viv's intention or not. Alastor gives Husk a choice to work at the hotel. It is why Alastor decides to bribe him instead of using his power and authority to do make Husk work the bar.
Alastor also listens to Husk's concerns about Mimzy and considers him. Alastor also trusts Husk enough to let him know his secret involving being on Lilith's leash.
THERE IS RESPECT AND TRUST THERE! He even lets Husk put a finger on him (making their argument physical!)
I mean, Alastor could have easily ripped Husk a new asshole for putting hands on him and verbally attacking Alastor by weaponizing the fact that he also has a leash around his neck, but he didn't.
Let's not forget that Alastor has 'killed' for less! He attacks Sir Pentious for tearing a piece of his coat!
You might be thinking something along the lines of If Alastor cares, why did he threaten Husk?
Nothing is black and white, the least of all relationships, especially relationships in Hell. Alastor isn't exactly a good guy. You can still care about someone and hurt/lash out at them. Also, Husk said something that was aimed to hurt Alastor. It's like if someone you trusted one day said, "That's why your dad left" in the middle of an argument. I'd be pissed too! I wouldn't fucking put a finger on them or threaten them (because I'm not made up of the same stuff a sinner in disney hell is), but it's understandable Alastor would BECAUSE IT'S HELL. Also, the fact that Alastor didn't even hurt Husk during this scene is proof enough that Alastor cares deeply and evidence that the pushing of Angel-Val parallels on this duo is absolute bullshit and makes no sense.
Whether Vivzie forgot or not, what is important is that her perspective of the story is not the only one that matters. A writer can have a specific vision in mind for their story and the characters in it; however, the viewer has the liberty to interpret the text however they want based on their imagination, experience, and relationships. Viewer interpretation helps to broaden perspectives and open up potential interpretations that differ from the writer's original perspective.
Pairing: J. Robert Oppenheimer x Female Identifying! Reader
Summary: In the fall of 1939, You are an incoming freshman at Berkeley. Despite your love for literature and the pressure of your parents, you begrudgingly enroll in a Physics course. There you meet J. Robert Oppenheimer; your professor turned into your best friend and most importantly, your lover.
Word Count: 4.5k
Warnings: Nothing major, minus the huge age gap. The reader is 18, and Oppenheimer is at least thirty. Everything is legal and consensual. If this bothers you, please do not read it; thank you!
Notes: gonna be a long note, so strap in folks. so i have this tendency to get hyperfocused on a piece of media, get my little gremlin hands on any piece of media about it, devour said piece of media, and then poop out 5k+ words in under 24 hours due to my obsession. this happened two years ago with safin from no time to die, and let me just say that it goes to show that history is a sick cycle. not sick, I'm just literally insane. lol, anyways! here's some lore. last Sunday i saw oppenheimer and thought it was a masterpiece! i also love cillain murphy too, so that's a massive bonus. the next day, i bought american prometheus. i started reading it on tuesday, and finished it on Friday. if you haven't read it, please go read it. the book is impossible to put down, and a lot of characterization of robert and other characters come from the movie, but mainly the novel. this fic is heavily researched. this fic is also very dark too, and the content is...yeah. the age gap is very massive and while legal, very taboo, so please keep this in mind. there will be dark content in this story so be warned. trigger warnings will be in the beginning of every chapter.
this is on my tumblr and ao3 as well. here is a playlist i made while writing this , if that does anything. my masterlist is also at work too; the new and updated version will be out next chapter. <a href="url">add yourself to the taglist if you are interested</a>. thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy.
There are people talking, and while they are close, their voices are nothing but mindless mutters.
Despite how much they had to drink, the buzz managed to slow their thoughts yet made them somewhat aware of their surroundings. If you tried, not like they really wanted to, you could point out every little detail around them–all small things, meaningless and unimportant, in the vast growing universe.
The uneven vintage ski portrait on Hatomi’s side of the room, the dim light covered by the French literature nights on the window sill, the light of the moon in boxy shapes across the aged wooden door, your feet sticking out underneath the blanket and the cool air bringing goosebump to your toes, the heat of your flashlight against your cheek; it’s all so small.
You’ve known Hatomi, your roommate at Berkeley, for the last week. A Japanese American from Davis, she’s a lover of literature like you, albeit you’re more into Russian and American literature than French. Both of you have concluded that you are different but are different enough to put those said differences aside to be friends. Hatomi, unlike you, is smiley and bright, the type to make a conversation not as awkward. She’s made many friends, some of whom are yours, and you’re thankful for her. In your orientation week at Berkeley, she’s helped you break out of your shell, and you’ve gone around campus and to parties to get out and meet people.
As thankful as you are for Haotmi, you are not very thankful about her bringing in some guy into the room without making it clear and having full-blow sex. Hatomi tries to keep her moans contained, but the slapping and grunts from the man beneath are not in any way contained or quiet. He’s as loud as possible, and you can identify him from one of the many parties you’ve been to, but all of them in your state become a gradual blur.
There’s a visible outline of the two through your quilt. Hatomi’s on top, and said the man is on the bottom with messy hair. He’s got a hand on her hip, and she nudges forward, her body moving forward. It makes you feel even lonelier than you already feel, but it's not intentional, but it’s certainly a jab. Hatomi cries his name, an emphasis on the end of his name.
You haphazardly try to catch his name, but end up forgetting it, the alcohol from earlier helping sing you to sleep.
–
It soon became a cycle—the whole lot of it.
You’d wake up at seven for your eight in the morning English class. Then you’d head to your philosophy class from nine-thirty to ten-thirty before heading to lunch at eleven. After that break, then comes your Greek class from twelve to one. Then it’s physics.
It’s not that you don’t like physics. Actually, you love it—the concept is fascinating. The movement, gravity, and being a small thing in the grand scheme of the infinite universe is a topic you could dive into for hours on end. And not to mention, you have a burning hatred for the mathematics of it. You know you can do introductory algebra, but that’s where you draw the line. Calculus and all of that is too advanced. You can do it; at the bare minimum.
Your class is not that big. It’s your smallest class with ten students, all intrigued by a fascinating professor.
The first time you met him, he stood by the chalkboard with a huff of smoke following behind him. He wore a dark gray tweed suit and had thick, coarse hair which was wild, maintained with gel. He was tall but not towering and rather slender. With the bluest eyes you had ever seen, you knew that this man was a character; not to mention, he also looked intelligent.
And that he was.
Dr.Oppenheimer was the reason you started actually to love physics. Not like, love. He was not an easy teacher; he was complex but rewarding. He took the concept of physics and made it more interesting than it already was, adding another dimension to it that you didn’t think was possible.
Instead of the class being a lecture, Oppenheimer discussed the fundamental forces and philosophy. He, like you, enjoyed how physics interacted with the classical world. With a cigarette in one hand and a piece of chalk in another, and in his velvety voice, Oppenheimer taught something along the lines of the cosmic universe or the quantum tunnel and would look to his students for their input, arguments, questions, or their voice to the topic.
You know, or thought he knew, that you weren’t the best at physics, but could always add a philosophical or insight on how physics affects both in the modern and classical world. Sometimes in class, the two of you would dive into a conversation. Oppenheimer would give you a serious loo, staring directly at you with his bright blue eyes. You could have sworn they were the bluest eyes you had ever seen, in which you were. As you challenge you, Oppenehiemr would stare, blowing the occasional puff of smoke. You could see him smile, but maybe that was a part of your imagination.
Physics was complicated, but not only did you enjoy the class for Oppenheimer, but you also look at Oppenheimer. You would not have said it initially, but he did come and was attractive to you. He looked serious, older, and cold; which all remained true, but he was also intelligent, and that was the most attractive thing to you. His intelligence made him overall even more handsome than he already was. With this new found elevation, you soon began to find everything he did attractive. It became a slight distraction, but it was enough to make you leave class with pink cheeks and smile to yourself all giddy. The fantastical thoughts of “what if” played in your mind, making going to sleep a little easier than it usually it.
–
On Monday, Oppenheimer deemed that your class was heading into the “most brutal” and “nightmare-causing” fundamental force of Physics; Quantum Mechanics.
He also declared it was one of his favorite micro topics in Physics and, in his mind, “not too difficult if you truly look into it.”
Everyone got a horrible gut feeling in their stomachs.
Oppenheimer was blunt and did not sugarcoat, which was a fair warning to his class. Quantum Mechanics took everything that was horrible about Physics and made it increasingly worse. Wavefunctions, Eigenstates, Quantum Measurement, and all the new equations hit you like a frictional force. And it began to show on your assignments.
Your normal average in the class was an A- (with Oppenheimer giving you an E for “exceptional effort”) hanging off the side of a cliff, but this new topic dragged your average down with massive magnetic force. Soon, your average became a B-. Homework assignments and reading responses leaned towards a B, while your test and quizzes averaged at failing or border failing. You felt relieved that one of your quizzes on Bra-Ket Notation came back as a C+.
Oppenheimer was writing on the board, finishing a Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle equation on the board. He looked at the clock, knowing that class was going to end soon. Putting his chalk down and burning the small amount of his cigarette on the ashtray, he reached for a large stack of his papers. Most had red handwriting with circles, arrows, and question marks. A heavy wave of anxiety hit the class as a perpetual sigh raised.
You could have sworn Oppenheimer stared directly at you. The vast blue eye started to haunt you, but you convinced yourself it was your mind playing tricks. You turned to one of your neighborhoods and sighed, shaking your head.
“I understand you are all eager to receive back the recent test on the basic equations of Quantum Mechanics. I have taken my time grading each one and you will see why it looks like a long time,” Oppenheimer noted, with a tinge of dark comedy and sarcasm in his voice. He didn’t look up at the class as he walked around, gently putting each paper on the desk. Each paper he put down made a student who was having a good day a very not good day.
Between the heavy sighs and whispers between the students, you gulped as Oppenheimer passed your desk. He looked down for a split second and put your paper down. He pointed to the red writing right where you had written your name before moving on. Gathering yourself, you grabbed the test, and not your shock, was disappointed.
Out of forty-five points, you had only gotten nine. It was a new low you had hit in the class. It seemed like it would keep getting lower. Everything was far from right, and he gave those points only because you tried by writing a passage by each equation explaining what you had tried to replicate, knowing it was very wrong.
You skimmed the front, noticing the red writing on top. He wrote your name in cursive, and you would hear him say it, asking you to “please” meet him.
And then the bell rang. People talked amongst themselves and gathered their things as they headed out of the classroom. You sat there and sighed, visibly upset. You weren’t going to cry, but you felt like it. You tried not to show it as you began to gather your books, covering the physics test, preparing to get up.
“Y/n.”
You freeze and look up. Oppenheimer has been leaning on his desk, looking at you like a dashing Spectre. He puts his hands in his pockets and slowly begins to walk towards you.
“Is this a good time to talk?”
Hearing the word talk made your stomach turn. You look up at him and clasp your hands together, nodding. You feel your left leg begin to shake.
“Yes, Dr.Oppenheimer.”
Oppenheimer made his way over and stood beside you, leaning on the side of a desk, looking down at you. He took a quick glance at your shaking leg before looking back at you.
“You’re not in trouble.”
You didn’t verbally acknowledge him, but you took a contained sigh and stopped shaking your thigh, paying full attention to the attractive older man.
“I want to preface this conversation that you, Y/n, are one of this class’s most active and enjoyable students. Your participation and observation add onto the lesson, helping others around you, and even myself, learn more about Physics,” Oppenheimer said with high praise. He had a regalness to his soft voice. You felt your cheeks burn, containing your smile as you quietly thanked him. You watched his hands fidget inside of his pants pocket.
“As talented and educated as you are in Academia, especially Physics, I notice you don’t do well on tests and exams. Everything else is excellent, and your effort is always there. However, with tests,” Oppenheimer moved his hand downwards, “It’s all negative. When I got your first test, I found it hard to believe it was your work. But then it all made sense.”
“Now understand, Y/n, I am not mad or upset. I am worried. I can see there is an act of force, which is your anxiety. I do believe this is something we can work on–” Oppenheimer clearly explained. He saw your shoulders lower, relieve your tension had disappeared, “--Together, outside of the academic setting.”
“Like one-on-one?” You questioned.
Oppenheimer nodded, “Yes, just the two of us. It would be an hour and a half to an hour, nothing more and nothing less.”
Hearing “just the two of us” made your mind go to wild places. You bit your tongue and squeezed your clasped hands together. You smiled, “Yes, of course. I think this would help a lot.”
“Now tell me, what is your availability? I understand you are busy.”
You shrugged your shoulders. You were busy but also could make time for a lot of spare time.
“I can do any time work, preferably if you are okay with Friday afternoons,” You brainstormed, thinking about your schedule, “I know you teach a graduate class in the morning, and I have Greek at the same time.”
Oppenheimer furrowed his eyebrows, intensely studying your appearance.
“Friday afternoons?” He questioned, “Don’t you want to be with your friends and not have to worry about work? I understand your drive, Y/n, but I don’t want it to mix with your limited downtime. I hear you are an excellent student, and this is a very fixable grade. I rather you create a balance than an offset.
While an average first-year would rather skip meeting with a Professor on Friday Afternoons, it didn’t bother you. Getting your grade up in Physis was very important. Education in your family was everything and meant a lot to you. Seeing a C with A’s and A-’s made you feel incomplete. You needed to feel complete.
“Dr.Oppenheimer, thank you for your concern. I insist that Fridays work as well. Mondays through Tuesdays, I’m either studying or leading other study groups for my other classes. If you are worried about my social life, I can assure you that I do get out of the dorm and library with my friends,” You reassured the older man, “Besides, the whole party scene is really not my scene. I’ve seen enough parties at Berkeley to be okay with missing them. If Fridays don’t work, I will work with your time.”
“Fridays work well for me as they work well for you,” Dr.Oppenheimer concluded. He looked at the clock above his desk before looking at you, “How do Fridays at 5 pm sound?”
“Perfect timing, Dr.Oppenheimer. Shall we meet here?”
Oppenheimer rubbed his index and middle finger on the temple of his head, “Well if you are comfortable, I’d rather congregate at my house rather than the classroom since we will be out of the Academic Day.”
Taken aback by the bold move, your lips made a subtle “o” shape. You squeezed your hands together, contemplating. His house, where he slept, ate, and did other things that were not fit for the academic setting? This made your imagination run wild—the idea of being in his house, just you and him, fed into your fantasy.
“My house is on Shasta Road. It’s right off the campus. It’s a short walk. However, if you are not comfortable, especially late at night walking home alone, then I can–”
“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You insisted. He stopped speaking and looked at you, waiting for you to speak.
You stuttered, feeling the heat up your throat to your face, “It is okay. Friday at 5 pm at your house is perfect. The walk will help me clear my mind before tackling the equations.”
Oppenheimer studied your features for a second before coughing and putting his hands together, “So, it’s settled. We will meet tomorrow then. Thank you for your time, y/n.”
As Oppenheimer began to head back to his desk, you stood and gathered your books, ready to head to your Greek class. You could feel how hot your face was, but you couldn’t imagine how red and embarrassing you looked.
“Thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer.
Scurrying to leave the classroom in a flustered state, one of your books falls over. It makes a loud slamming noise into the ground. You’ve got a solid amount of books in your hand, varying in topic and weight. Turning around, you are about to awkwardly bend down to pick up the book, but Oppenheimer has beaten you to it. His presence scared you at first. He’s holding the ivory, aged book, examining the cover and back. You stand two inches away from him as you cradle your books, not wanting to say something to disrupt him.
“Sentimental Education. Is this for class or pleasure?” Oppenheimer inquired. He looked back at you as he placed it on top of your books. He saw the one below, your Greek textbook, was sticking out and about to fall. He made sure to push it in to balance the books and make sure you didn't fall over.
Not that you were complaining about falling over since he would have to catch you. You cursed at your wild imagination.
You let out a long uhm before declaring it was for class. More specifically, your English class of The French Adventure: Word, Sound, and Image taught by Mr.Chevalier. But it was unimportant. It was a good book, albeit obscure. Oppenheimer probably thought you were some idiot for both failing a test and reading some silly book. He probably wondered why you were even in a physics class to begin with.
“Do you like it?” He questioned.
“Yes, a lot,” You expressed, “It’s the second book we’ve read, but so far my favorite. It was ahead of its time,” You go red, “And even for this time. I don’t know what I’m saying even, my parents made me read it in high school.”
Oppenheimer made a noise of approval, placing his hands on his hips, “Well, it shows that your parents wanted you to be well-rounded, and here you stand at one of the best public universities in the world. So I would say you do know what you are saying since I fully agree.”
The compliment made you want to make some happy noise, but you bite your lip. You nodded your head and naked it, knowing it came out as a mumble. Everything you said felt super embarrassing.
“Y/n, I understand you have class,” Oppenheimer cut to the point, “But if you ever want a book recommendation, come to me. I’ve been looking for someone who understands.”
“Understand?” You asked, dumbfounded.
“Someone who both understands and enjoys art.”
“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. You smile and hold your books closer, “Well, I should-”
“You should-” Oppenheimer highlighted, hands on his hips, “I shouldn’t keep you.”
You wanted to protest that he should, but you didn’t. As you made your way to the door, you looked back. There he stood in his slender and regal form, hands on his hips. For a cold man who never looked happy, he did. You could have sworn his eyes had a spark to them that made them brighter. You felt brighter too.
On your way out, he froze and looked at you again, and gave a small smile.
You smiled back.
–
It’s 4:50pm.
Your mother always said it was better to be very early than to be very late. Those words guided you through life, following you from home to high school to Berkeley.
After class, you spent the hour getting ready. Taking a shower, you made sure to look your best with low effort. You didn’t want it to appear that you were trying to look good, even though you wore it. Putting on something very casual, you made sure to wear yourself nicely and even added a sweet touch of Chanel Coco perfume that your father had gotten for you in France for your high school Graduation.
You walk up the hill and spot the house, recognizing the numbers on the mall box. The house is well sized and has the architecture of a craftsman. It’s hidden by numerous large plants and bushes, which you take a second to admire as you walk to the door. Eventually, you reach the door and hesitate to knock. Check your watch, it’s 5:52pm. If he’s busy, you can wait.
There’s no point in knocking since you can hear the lock on the door unlock. As you put your hands behind your back, the door opens and it reveals Oppenheimer. He looks weirdly normal and this comforts you. He swaps his flannel suit jacket for a white oxford button up with dark slacks. The top button of the shirt is unbuttoned, and in one hand he has a cigarette, in which he is trying to successfully hide.
“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You greeted with a small smile, squeezing your hands behind your back.
You could swear you saw a small quirk at the side of Oppenheimer’s mouth. He stands to the side.
“Y/n, welcome,” He greets. You quietly thank in as you walk in, standing to the side as you clutch onto your brown leather alligator bag with your textbook and notebook.
“How was the walk?”
“Not bad. It’s nice outside. I’m sorry if I’m early, it’s a bad habit-”
“No need to apologize. It is a good habit. It will serve you well,” Oppenheimer praised once again as he led you into the kitchen. You hadn't been alone with him, let alone in his own house, but he was different. Around others, he was cold and calculated to a tee. But around you, something felt warm and strangely comforting.
When walking to the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of his house. It feels rather empty, and in a way, very melancholic.
The kitchen is simple and small. For a California one story however, the kitchen can fit more than two, maybe three.
“Sit,” Oppenheimer subtly commands. It’s not an intentional command, but upon hearing this, you immediately sit down on the nearest chair. As you pull out your textbook and notebook with some pens and pencils, you can see Oppenheimer rummaging through the fridge and grabbing two glasses.
“Do you drink?”
You're in the middle of opening your notebook. You look down and lick your lips.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t respond and proceeds to make whatever drink he is making. You sit there and swing your legs back and forth, waiting in silence minus the shaking and pouring.
“Speak to me,” Oppenheimer announces. You look at his back as he makes the drink. Once again, he’s slender, but yet strong and vibrant in his appearance, “Go to the first page of your test. Read the equation.”
You feel lucky Oppenheimer’s turned since your cheeks, like yesterday, have gone to a light pink.
Obeying his words that feel like a command that you are more than happy to accept, you grab your test and open to the first page to read the first question.
“Consider a particle in a one-dimensional potential well of width of L and infinite potential barriers at its edges. The potential inside the well is given by V(x)=0 for 0<x<L0<x<L and V(x)=∞V(x)=∞ for x < 0 x<0 and x>Lx>L,” You read out, “The Hamiltonian operator for this system is H; where x is the mass of the particle. Find the allowed energy eigenvalues and corresponding eigenfunctions for this system.”
“A fundamental. Now, tell me your answer.”
You get your pen and calculator out, placing it at your side. “I started with the Time-Independent Schrödinger Equation and substituted v(x) for the kinetic energy term. Then I tried to solve and it, uhm-”
Not only were the calculations for your test both difficult to answer and hard to process, but having Oppenheimer stand right behind you further proved to be a brain block. He was only an inch away from you as he had leaned to look at your paper, a hand on the back of your sheet which scraped your warm back. You had been so caught on the equation that you hadn't noticed he was an inch behind you, breathing down your neck. Thank god there had been a table since your legs began to shake; a combination of raw anxiety and pure adrenaline.
You started to write the equation into your calculator, pressing down on each button. Scribbling away at your notebook, you felt his warm breath down your throat. Just as you wrote the solution, you felt him smell behind your ear and into your hair. You had sprayed some perfume there, which was a habit of yours. He leaned into, gentle and careful not to touch you, taking in the airy and smooth feminine scent. Not protesting, you finished your solution and let him bask, all while basking his cold yet comforting presence.
“The corresponding eigenfunctions are: ∣ψn⟩= Asin(nπxL)∣ψ n ⟩ =Asin( Lnπx ),” You gulped. You felt his warm presence move back, yet his hand remained on the chair. You pushed a piece of hair back, “I guess it’s not too different from my old answer. It’s right, it’s just-”
“The math piece of it,” Oppie pointed out, “Well, there was no issue here. With your calculator of course.”
“Yes,” You chuckled to yourself and looked at the big device. It really did help.
“Use it more,” Oppenheimer said, “Don’t be scared too. Math is not everyone’s strong suit; including mine.”
You smiled at him as he sat in the chair next to you.
“I don’t know if you drank from our conversation earlier, but I made you a martini,” Oppenheimer said. You looked at it and picked up the drinking, examining the liquid.
“Oh, thank you. I do, just the…better stuff,” You thanked with a small confession. You took a sip and let the strong liquid ooze down your throat. It was excellent, in which you proceeded to drink more.
Oppenheimer leaned back in his chair and smiled to himself. He wanted to make sure you didn’t see that, but you did.
For the next hour, the two of you talked about your test. Each question you read out, and he helped you with the math, but overall you were able to solve most of it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. He seemed pleased, and you were as well.
Once you had finished going over the test, you sighed and leaned back leisurely from both Oppenheimer's presence Martini.
“Well, thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer. This has been short, yet helpful.”
He crossed his arms as he also leaned back, “Of course, I’m pleased to hear.”
There was a silence before you looked at your watch and grabbed your books.
“It’s 6pm. I’m sure you’ve got things to do, I should go-”
“I’ve only got dinner to make. Chicken, peas, and potatoes,” Oppenheimer said. He smoked another cigarette, which made you wonder how many he smoked a day. You focused on his chapped lips and the way they lightly held the cigarette, sucking in and dragging out ashen smoke.
“Say, would you like to stay for dinner? There's plenty for two.”
The task made you blink a few times to make sure this wasn’t one of your fantastical thoughts late at night as a way to soothe you to bed. You opened your lips in an attempt to create a coherent response.
“I can make you another Martini, even show you.”
You knew you were red, but it clearly to him did not matter.
“Yes, I’d love-would be happy to stay for dinner, Dr.Oppenheimer.” You said, very flattered.
A slow exhale released a veil of smoky allure, as if the very air itself surrendered to Oppenheimer’s fiery elegance.
“If you are staying over for dinner from now on, please, call me Robert.”
university you here, just wanna say you did a great job putting up with highschool! and ya choose a good carreer too.
So there good news and bad news,
good news 1st,
your arts improved, huge improvement!
and your parents still together, i bet u see this coming,
and ya starting to gain money from commission now, ig dreams do come true.
(also babe, u got on Television!!!)
also bad news, your love life on the other hand kinda shitty,
but dont worry who need a man when u have a mansion (/j)
SO question for my Future self,
how is your finnacial? and also did your sister end up with that guy? also remember, we want a house! work hard ok.! (and go meet a random guy in england)
Of course Sans tried to stop the genocide by all means.
Mercy, ever laughed at. Judgement, of no avail. Fight, never to be won. Nothing helps.
Throughout hundreds of genocides and resets, one day he gets DETERMINATION …
To remember what happened. To kill them to stop them.
He plans to make them just tired of keep dying―like he did in the Final Corridor―but beyond the resets, with his newly found determination.
The human soul was too powerful for the one-LV monster, so he decides to sacrifice other monsters, to get LOVE himself for a greater good. He feels heavily guilty and dreams horrible nightmares of them. However, as the killing goes on, both the initial good-intention and sense of guilt fade away, and he becomes a mindless killer himself.
At that point, stopping the human becomes the only thing that matters to him; the others would be reset anyways. His brother is the last monster he would kill, but he kills him too, thinking that it will be less painful than to be killed by the human. That is his final mental breakdown, after which he turns insane and is haunted by the phantom of Papyrus.
Dusttale!Sans is usually called “머더 샌즈(Murder!Sans)”, or in short “머샌”.
His clothes are covered with the dust of those he killed.
He puts his hood on to keep the dust out of his face.
His left pupil is cyan encircled by red and the right one is only red, which stands for he lost the yellow of justice but gained the red of determination.
He frequently chatters with the phantom Papyrus, which, for others, seems like just talking to himself.
To him, the phantom is a floating bust of his brother with red eyes and the red scarf.
He says “We’re gonna have a MAD time!” to the human when he challenges them.
He loves to kill the human, especially when it is so cunning or cruel.
This AU has about three authors, who gradually built the character in a Korean Undertale forum “Undertale Gallery”.
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P. S.
If you plan to bring Murder!Sans to RP or another AU, please contact either of the official accounts―There had been issues with AUs and public RPs that could have spread OOC misunderstandings about Murder!Sans. Other than that, any arts, comics, or fics based on Dusttale are welcome and appreciated.
sorry. what's the proof that chara and gaster were alive at the same time? i've never seen anyone talk about this before. Nobody in the larger theory world and gaster fandom talks about when gaster was alive and when chara was alive being the same. but i'm no good at my own theories, i just follow other people's theories. And im used to theories outside of theory mainstream, like gaster having horns or sans being a dead human, being crap. so i was overly wary and hostile. plus was in a bad mood.
Oh man, I remember that horn theory, it was so bad!
I understand your hesitance, but I think that this is a more grounded theory. I hope I’ll be able to convince you. For clarification, our anon is asking …
WHY I BELIEVE GASTER AND CHARA WERE CONTEMPORARIES
Part One: Gaster
The first thing we must do to build this theory is to try to figure out when exactly Gaster had his accident. We don’t know much, just that he had to have made the CORE sometime before he fell into his creation. It’s my thought that, because he built the CORE, he was likely present while the monsters colonized the rest of the underground after leaving what would become the RUINS.
My reasoning being; NEW HOME itself appears to be built on top of the CORE, and deeply reliant on the power its process generated to keep running smoothly. So I assume that, before the monsters colonized the Underground, Gaster was fine.
Part Two: Chara
Why does this imply that Chara knows Gaster? On a surface level, perhaps it would be easier to suggest that it does not. After all, the residence of HOME has evidence of one child living there, while NEW HOME has evidence of two.
As you can see, in HOME we have one chair for a child, and in NEW HOME we have two chairs for a child. This does imply quite strongly that only Asriel lived in HOME.
The beds in here seem to suggest the same. But, there’s something odd about this, actually. There’s something that exists in HOME that shouldn’t exist there, unless Chara had already fallen.
You can’t reach the object in HOME, at least not to look at it. There’s a box of shoes in the way. But you can still see it pretty clearly, the picture of a golden flower. Perfect mirror of the one in NEW HOME. The one that Chara drew with their own hands.
Clearly these designs were made to mirror each other, but I’d gently remind everyone that the HOME design was created FIRST, in the demo. Toby always knew that flower was gonna be there. If you assume that the importance of the golden flowers were already known to him … and considering the odd weight those flowers are given, that seems likely … Then that art would HAVE to have come after Chara’s fall.
Could Toriel have come back and hung it up? Maybe, but it feels a little curious, as far as compulsions go, to take a keepsake from a lost child and hang it up in a room that they don’t appear to have slept it. It feels a little more believable to me to think that Chara drew this picture for Asriel, and that he hung it up on his wall, considering how important it is that Golden Flowers never even existed in the Underground before. They could only come from Chara’s imagination.
I take this (among other hints I’ll get too later) to imply that Chara fell and spent some time in the RUINS, but maybe not a lot of time, and maybe they did not spend that time living with the Dreemurrs as their adopted child.
By itself this is piecemeal though. What really made me think of this theory were a few things we learned in Snowdin …
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