#khamaileon

[undertaletext]

have you noticed that mettaton is darby's son

why would you send me this

[charlesoberonn]

what was your reaction upon hearing megalovania in undertale?

I didn’t play the Genocide route yet.

I’m tempted to play it just to hear Megalovania in game

[erosoftitan-a]

khamaileon || Natasha & Eros

Eros leaned back in the comfortable but sleek black leather seat, ankle crossed upon his thigh. In his hands twirled the little figurine, its ancient patina melting away into glittering bronze in finger-width streaks. He smirked vacantly at its guileless smile as it became more familiar to him. Suddenly startled by this, the ancient alien uncrossed his legs and sat up straight, eyes un-glazing and coming back into focus with clarifying blinks. His fingers hovered in hesitation as he studied the small statue, half old and worn, half shining like new, and the symbolism was not lost on him.

Turning it in his loose grip in the opposite direction, he decided it had more character the way he had recovered it. After all, things were always changing. Well, things around him did, anyway, even if he pretty much stayed the same. The data chip on the inside had not worn with time since time was not particularly a Titanian or an Eternal concept, but the outside shell had aged and morphed along with human civilization. He was lucky it hadn’t been damaged in all of the cyclical burnings-down of the empires that rose and fell in the time he’d been . . . doing whatever it was he did with himself.

It was mostly consistent again, back to the way it had naturally become: aged. At least the smile was still recognizable. Just like his train of thought and his eyes, the Avenger’s grin became sharper as well; the smile was recognizable enough that he’d no doubt in his mind Natasha would see it immediately as well – and he’d never hear the end of it. Artistic liberties had been taken, the most obvious of which being the pair of sweeping wings that granted flight to the Greek god of love. He could explain them all if asked. He probably would be.

That was all a very long time ago. In an ideal situation this little – what had Tony called it – ‘blast from the past’ would still be sitting in the vault of the Athens Museum where they’d retrieved it from (well in an actually ideal situation it would still be buried somewhere far below the ruins of the ruins of the ruins of Greece never to be rediscovered), but the reality was that the chip enclosed in the Greek statuette was not created and hidden as a contingency: its eventual use was inevitable, and it had just been a matter of time.

The young Titan sighed and his posture slumped, because in truth pretty much everything that was possible was actually inevitable given enough time, and if an Eternal had anything, it was time. On most days that truism was exciting and served as motivation for his enthusiasm, but on other days it did not. On very very rare days – once-in-a-mortal-generation-rare days – it scared and demoralized him. In the past decade or so, those days were becoming a bit more frequent. Such things came and went in cycles, though, just like civilizations, though for this individual these cycles could even be on the same timescale as each other.

That, of course, didn’t mean that time passed any differently for his own experience, nor did it mean that the world around him didn’t change with the same frequency and intensity that it did for shorter-lived mortals, especially when one’s differing frame of reference was discarded. And it needed to be in order to react quickly. His posture straightened again because the most important thing was to live in the present in order to prepare for the future. Not everything possible was inevitable because possibilities themselves were time-sensitive, flickering into and out of existence. And for this one, time was running out.

He needed to prepare himself for the sandstorm that was Natasha’s grounding wit and keen eye. He shook out his head for the second or maybe the third time since he’d been waiting in the small and empty conference room. Putting on the proper airs had nothing to do with preempting comments about the obvious resemblance between the empath and the figurine, but was rather a way of life. If anyone could understand, it would be the Agent herself: chameleons disguised themselves by being easy to see through.

So as he waited for Natasha to arrive, Eros leaned back in the comfortable but sleek black leather seat and crossed an ankle over a thigh, twirling – though not changing – the figure once more.