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chiwhorei · 3 years

Text

𝐀𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐚

✞𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬: 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧✞

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut, Dark Content, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3,175 [Link to Ao3]

Tags: Darkfic, sacrelige, coercion, corruption, dubcon and noncon elements, intonations and parallels to incest, but not actual incest (ie. ‘Father’ Shouta), choking, age-gap, oral, Priest!Aizawa, Virgin!Reader

From Chiwhorei: Aizawa is where this all started, so it’s fitting he is the subject of my anniversary fic. To everyone who’s followed me along this journey despite the long bouts of radio silence, to everyone that’s participated and supported this collab, to all of my lovely, devious friends— truly, completely, thank you for this past year. Xoxo.

The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.

** ** **

There’s not a soul awake this late.

The rosary wrapped between twitching fingers feels like a hot lashing against the skin. The glass and metal itch in your hold, the devotional was a gift for your confirmation-- it holds a decade of sins.

Your family has been asleep for hours now. Slipping through the back door as soon as you’re sure. Nineteen. A legal adult. Yet the only way to leave in the middle of the night is in secret. The cool, summer air hits your cheeks, it’s still for a moment. It’s so quiet, you feel like you’ve mistaken the real world for a snow globe. Static— in the moments after all of the glitter settles, all of the quiet, iridescent tears laying at your feet. It waits, patiently, until someone comes by to shake it again.

Moving into a cramped dorm room a few hours away, your childhood home feels bigger every visit. It’s bigger because nothing fills the space inside. There’s nothing but tense words and the clatter of silverware against dinner plates. Your father reminds you of an old briefcase— stern, rigid leather, unmistakably empty; your mother’s rose garden smells like poisoned wine.

Roses and leather, the combination suffocating enough to repel you in the hours you should be unconscious.

The walk from your parent’s house to the church is the most familiar thing in the world. Down to the cracks on the sidewalk and mossy steps leading up to a set of large, cherry doors. So routine it almost feels good for you.

There’s not a soul awake this late, you decide, that must be why you’re here.

That must be why he’s up too.

Pushing open one ornate door just enough to peek inside, you’re met with that distinct waft of incense and dusty missals. It smells like every Sunday morning and Easter Vigil, it smells like home.

Only votive candles light the space around you, flickering with intentions from fellow parishioners. You wonder if there’s one burning for you.

You know where to find Father Shouta, and suspect he’s waiting. He can trace every step from your parents home to the front gate. You open the confessional booth and crawl inside, the wooden space around you is cramped. It smells like incense masking cigarettes. Kneeling into the leather cushion, you face the screen partition.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was,” the memory has you falter, “three months ago.”

You remember the last hollow confession like it was yesterday. You were back in town for spring break. After mass that Sunday, your dad told Father Shouta how deplorable it was that your friends had tried, in vain, to drag you to the beach a few hours away from campus. “A week of drinking and sex, not for my daughter.”

Shouta met with you that evening and you cried your sins to him. How you had been dared to kiss boys at a party during midterms week, how you drank who-knows-what mixed with cheap beer at a frat house. He consoled you then, he told you that God will forgive all transgressions. “Even the sins of a whore.”

The memory makes you want to cry all over again. Yet, here you are— knees pressed to the very same leather, face against the same dusty screen.

He’s so still, so quiet, you jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice, “What is it that you’d like to confess, my child?”

Your body aches, stiff and tense to the bone. You breathe in, shallow and suffocated, before you speak again.

“Father, forgive me I—” you can tell his posture is just as rigid, he’s only a shadowed outline and the slightest glimmer of color from his eyes. They warn you, but you ignore the familiar feeling on the back of your neck.

“I have been having impure thoughts. I’ve been thinking about a man,” one more deep breath in an attempt to keep your voice neutral, “a much older man.”

If you could hear a smile, Father’s creaks like floorboards.

His silence prompts you to continue, you knot your fingers together and hold them against your stomach, the Rosary tangled in between threatening to cut off circulation.

“The boys in my youth group, the ones in my classes— they’re all nice but,” you leave the second half of the sentence to rattle around in your mind, “but they aren’t you.”

“Impure thoughts are one thing, sinful, but,” his voice is indifferent, cold, “the true sins are ones of the flesh.”

“I- I haven’t,” you start to stutter, trying to defend yourself, “I haven’t done anything, Father.”

Despite himself, he laughs.

“It’s true Father,” you wonder why you hadn’t just stayed at home, “I’ve only ever kissed a boy— it wasn’t even a real kiss. I’m still a virgin.”

From the screen, you can only see him in fragments. Little cutouts of a dark figure and sickeningly bright red eyes. The color peaks through like pieces of a puzzle, chasing through the patterned wood before you can catch that he’s stepping out of his side of the confessional booth.

“It wasn’t a ‘real’ kiss,” each word is mimicked, emphasized by the tap of his shoes against the tiles below, “no, of course it wasn’t. Not with some boy.” Your legs are unsteady as you stand from the kneeler. There’s nowhere to hide, Father has you trapped in a toy box. Just for him to play with.

“Of course that wouldn’t have satisfied you.”

The door to your side of the booth creeks open just as your back hits the wall. You can see his face for the first time in months, you trace the features illuminated with candlelight. Father Shouta’s face is strong, even more sharp with his long, black hair tied back. His presence looms over where you’re sunken into the booth. Even standing and puffing out your chest, he’ll still be able to look down at you.

He bares his teeth. You know this by now, stupid little girl, you know he likes to play with his food.

Long fingers grip the small door frame and curl around the wood like an omen, his body slithers into your personal space until he’s only an inch away.

“Lust, greed, what is it that you want?” Each vowel cradles a hearty dose of poison, the consonants bite away and spit you out. Your skin feels raw under his attention, “You can’t atone for sins you’re not really sorry for.”

Those same fingers slide up either curve of your neck, he crawls from shoulder to jaw, slowly. So slowly it seems like he’s trying not to get caught. He holds steady against your skin, thumb rubbing lightly at your bottom lip. You must have just fallen asleep after your parents went to bed, that stale, poisoned house even lulling the restless. You must be dreaming right now.

“Don’t make me ask again.” His timber hits the three walls and brings you back to the present. There’s no rest for you, only a weak answer to his question. What is it that you want?

“I want to be a humble servant of our Lord.” Your voice shakes, battered against your throat on its way to meet the stiff air.

Father’s lips are on you, he traces the words of Luke over your trembling mouth, there’s only a breath of space between you,

“No one can serve two masters. For you will hate one and love the other; you will be devoted to one and despise the other,”

The hands holding your cheeks move down to circle your neck, each long finger lays a trap. He tightens around the skin, just enough to make you forget how it feels to breathe freely. He could do anything to you right now, and your cries for help would be swallowed by stained glass.

No one can serve two masters.

The scream caught in your throat meets his wicked smile, it fizzles into little more than a whimper. The small booth you’ve been trapped in is burning hot, you feel sweat beading on your forehead. The last ounce of courage, of restraint, tumbles out before you can catch it.

“Who do you serve, Father Shouta? God or the Devil?”

He answers you with a thick tongue finally pushing into your mouth. He smells like perfumed oils and votive candles, he tastes like sugar free gum and Seven Stars.

His grip around your neck is the only thing keeping you on your feet, you’re sure if he were to let go you’d melt into the floor below. Father’s lips against yours are a siren, dulling all other senses, rendering you malleable to his will. Whatever his will may be, whatever it is that he wants from you— you’d let him have it anyway.

He breaks away, the kiss that’s felt like hours disappears far too soon. Your body jolts forward of its own volition, trying to connect yourself to him again. You’re sure you look desperate, but you’re too intoxicated to care.

“I serve only myself.”

Father lets go of your neck and you’re allowed the first deep intake of breath you’ve had since walking into the church. You swallow hard, looking back up to him. He scares you, he always has, but that fear draws you towards him.

Does a moth know what the flame will do to it? Does the moth know their fate?

You feel like crying, really crying, but all that comes out are a few frustrated tears. Father leans over you once more, eyes trailing the tear waxing over your cheek, “You’re a wretched little girl.”

Is that why they fly towards fire, because they like the burn?

** ** **

You step forward in line, it’s almost your turn. Mother first, she’s always thought of Father Aizawa as such a “charming young man''. The notion always made you scoff, in reality he’s only a few years younger than your parents.

Your dad is behind you, he’ll give him a friendly handshake after the service and remark how beautiful the homily was. Today, he spoke of the devil tempting Jesus. You hung on every word.

Mother steps aside and makes the sign of the cross, you’re next. A sheep guided by the dutiful shepherd, a lamb onto his slaughter.

Your chin tilts upwards, eyes locked onto your part-time captor. He only has you for a few seconds this time, but his attention is a hallway— every door is a pitfall. Aizawa’s gaze turns red when he looks upon you again— a bright, bloody, captivating red. You’ve convinced yourself it’s a trick of the light. But you see them in the dark too.

“The Body of Christ,” his voice is a welcome mat in front of an asylum, holding out the wafer and obscuring one painfully beautiful eye.

“Amen.” You know you’re part, but you can’t hear your own voice.

Father watches as your eyes close and your mouth opens, a quiet obedience, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Your fingers tingle with how tight you’re holding them together.

He places the Body to your awaiting tongue. It tastes like a harsh nothing that will stick to the back of your throat for the rest of mass. You take Christ in pieces, letting it start to melt into the roof of your mouth.

Shouta brushes your bottom lip before retracting. It’s subtle, an accident— the smallest touch of chilling skin. No one notices, the earth doesn’t stop on its axis for anyone else. You step aside and follow your Mother back to the wooden pews like nothing out of the ordinary stirs in your heart.

You feel Father’s eyes on the back of your skirt. They feel red.

“Your sweet girl here has offered a helping hand getting prepared for a youth retreat the church is hosting next week.” After mass, the stop to shake Father’s hand is inevitable, a pleasantry every parishioner makes time for before shuffling out for Sunday brunch.

He speaks over your quiet, “Good morning, Father Shouta,” right as your family turns to leave, almost as if he had been mulling over whether or not it was worth a mention. He regards them with a veiled casualty, never once looking at you.

Father’s face is kind when he wants it to be, laying a hand in the middle of your shoulder blades, it's a feeling of comfort you can’t help but lean into, “We’re discussing how to remain chaste in a sinful world.”

The word ‘chaste’ is pinched into your spine and despite yourself, you smile. A heavy heart has found home at the bottom of your stomach, but you can’t let on to the sick churning in your gut. Your parents gleam with pride for their daughter. A perfect example of a good Catholic girl.

“I’ll have her meet at my office this evening, is six okay?” His question sounds like your dowry, talking past you and asking for your parents permission.

Your dad shakes Father Shout’s hand once more, delighted at how his diligent parenting must be the reason you’ve found yourself in holy favor. Said ‘parenting’ is definitely to blame, but not in the way your dad assumes.

*** *** ***

The walk through church and into the sacristy is like a meditation in fear, every step begging you to turn back, to run home like a scared child. You tread steady, feet searing on hot coals until you’re met with the sound of Father Shouta just beyond the threshold.

“You’re late.” Something sinister fills Father’s quarters as soon as you open the door. It’s scary how offhandedly he can lie. You’re at least ten minutes early, the evening toll of church bells will signal the hour. He wants to see if you’ll stutter, if you’ll argue. You stay quiet, busying your hands with the hem of your skirt, fingers lifting it slightly before you remember who owns the eyes sitting across the room. They look golden from here, a honey you could drown in. You cough at the feeling of sugar in your lungs before collecting yourself and awaiting instruction.

Seemingly pleased with your docility, he smiles wide and crooked. It’s bound into a book he will whisper into you page by page. It’s written in a language only he knows.

Shouta motions you farther inside, leaning back in his seat. He corrects you when you move to sit in the chair on the other side of his desk, waiting with little patience as you settle against his side instead. Your posture is stiff being this close, being this alone.

His facial hair is trimmed neatly, small scars litter his face, the most pronounced a jagged trail under his right eye. From the dim evening light, you see a shadow of loose hairs make a pointed crown around his head.

“St. Teresa of Avila,” Father starts, tapping his fingers against a small stack of papers, “what do you know of her?”

You’re disarmed, the question seems so innocent-- not a note of ulterior motive detectible. Even so, your guard remains high. His intentions need no subtext.

“St. Teresa of Avila, the patron saint of headache sufferers,” you’re struggling to see the point, but Father prompts you to continue, “she was a Spanish nun, she wrote about a prayerful life,”

After another moment of measured silence, you grow even more tense, “Father Shouta, forgive me, I don’t understand,”

You’re hushed with a laugh, the small collection of papers placed in your hands. The first leaf is titled with large letters, “The Life of Teresa of Jesus.”

“I’d like you to read the section I’ve highlighted.”

You shake, thumbing through until you find a block of text traced in bright yellow. You scan its contents, but are quickly interrupted by Shouta’s next request.

“Out loud.”

There’s no escaping the toy box.

His stare is unwavering, giving you no room for objection. They’re not soft like honey anymore, Father Shouta’s eye’s are harsh, bloody gemstones.

You know better than to keep him waiting, adjusting in your half sat position on the side of his desk, you begin reading with hoarse inflection, “In his hands I saw a long golden spear, and at the end of the iron tip I seemed to see a point of fire. With this he seemed to pierce my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails.”

Wincing, the words sound like a stranger in your ears. After every sentence, Shouta’s fingertips inch closer to the end of your skirt, right above the knee. You’d be stoned for this kind of hemline at home, but with Father it seems to be exactly the sacred skin he wanted to see.

His hands move, unwavering, as you continue with the annotated paragraph, “When he drew it out, I thought he was drawing them out with it and he left me completely afire with a great love of God.” Fingers stop their gentle assault before adding pressure to your inner thigh, he peels apart your legs with a wordless prompting to keep going.

“The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.”

By the last several words, Father Shouta’s lips are centered in between your open thighs, you feel tears frozen in the duct. You want to pull away, to escape, but his lips hold something you’ve never been this close to.

“Piety is a virtue,” you can feel the hot breath against your most intimate planes of flesh, “but our God is one of pleasure too.”

His kiss feels like branding. An aimless, confused lamb seared with the mark of its owner.

You cry out, loud and broken, when his mouth meets the cotton covering your pussy. Shouta uses his pointer and middle finger to move the fabric away.

No one has ever seen these parts of you, kept locked away for your future husband until now, sitting in the heart of your family's church, writhing from even the slightest touch.Hips buck of their own accord, and you’re granted one last open-mouthed lave against your twitching cunt. His tongue peaks out slightly to catch your clit before pulling away.

You move as if possessed, falling to your knees in front of your Father. Your mouth opens, that same quiet obedience, and his finger brushes your lower lip again. “No one” you think, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of fingers wrapped into the back of your hair, “no one can serve two masters.”

“Body and soul, you’re mine.”

But there’s not a soul left in sight.

✞ 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞: All writing is chiwhorei’s original content, please do not repost or modify. Do no read my content as asmr. Do not recommend me on TikTok.©️

#aizawa smut #aizawa shouta smut #aizawa x reader smut #bnha smut #bnha x reader smut #heavenly bodies collab #chiwhorei.bnha #chiwhorei.fics #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #tw: coercion #tw: sacrilegious #tw: corruption #tw: age gap #tw: darkfic

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the-ghost-king · 3 years

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the term malewife isn’t a very nice term to use...

A man who acts as a wife and is inferior to his #girlboss girlfriend.

Person A: I just got myself a malewife. He's gonna clean my kitchen and watch me download custom content for the sims.

Person B: Sweet! You must be such a girlboss

^^urban dictionary. It’s just confirming to the sexist stereotypes that perceive and expectation of what a wife should act like. It’s quite harmful

It's a parallel to girlboss which is conformity to the sexism within corporate America:

"it becomes inescapably clear that when women center their worldview around their own office hustle, it just re-creates the power structures built by men, but with women conveniently on top. In the void left after the end of the corporate feminist vision of the future, this reckoning opens space to imagine success that doesn’t involve acing performance reviews or getting the most out of your interns." (here)

The word girlboss comes from a book quite literally called #girlboss, in parallel to the negative aspects of this book people eventually rebranded the term "malewife" to parallel it (malewife was originally an nsfw type thing)

In the malewife/girlboss "system" it's essentially the swapping of the problematic aspects, expectations, and socialization of men and women within a relationship

"Girlboss, gaslight, gatekeep" was a meme started to pick on the idea that women should become men and enforce the sexism within corporate society, and I'm sure it was a jab at the book the word came from as well.... "Manipulate, mansplain, malewife" was created to parallel the original meme

So yeah, the whole concept is mocking sexism within corporations and and modern relationships and showing how ridiculous it is. Girlboss mocks the idea of 2014 (largely) white feminism within America.

In example the original meme (created on Twitter) is intended to make mockery of Karen-types:

On January 12th, 2021, Tumblr user missnumber1111 posted, "today’s agenda: gaslight gatekeep and most importantly girlboss," garnering over 43,500 notes in a month (shown below). On that day, Twitter user @CUPlDL0VE posted, "my agenda is gaslight gatekeep and #girlboss," the first instance of the phrase on Twitter.

And a day later on January 13, 2021 Tumblr user a-m-e-t-h-y-s-t-r-o-s-e reblogged the post along with a photoshopped image of "Live, Laugh, Love" wall art instead reading, "Gaslight every moment, Gatekeep every day, Girlboss beyond words" (shown below). On January 18th, the image was reposted to Twitter for the first time.

Malewife doesn't hold those same implications however... The term malewife which is now being used to parallel girlboss achieves it's origins from p*rn, now I'm not an nsfw blog or someone who blatantly discusses nsfw concepts on my blog so I'm not getting super into it but there's a few places it comes from: femdom, bdsm, and feminization kinks... All of which have a connection to queerness in their own right but I don't feel comfortable going into the complexities of that with so many younger people following me.

On February 15th, Tumblr user @relelvance posted, "Manipulate, mansplain, malewife" as a male-themed opposite to "gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss," garnering over 27,000 notes in four days. The post was screenshotted and reuploaded by Twitter user @nortoncampbell on the same day, garnering over 14,200 likes and 2,800 retweets in the same span of time (shown below).

Urban dictionary's explaination of "malewife" is not only harsher than what malewife was intended to mean, but also removes the context of origin from the word- making it something new, different, and erasing the history of who originally used this word.

Because of Malewifes origins vs Girlboss origins, malewife is a less problematic term than girlboss and is more "affectionate" because the term malewife and it's use (up until recently) involved the man acknowledging that he wanted to be the "wife" in his relationship. There's a variety of reasons someone might do this, but it can generally be summed up as a mixture of personality and also personal wants.

I do think it's important to also note that although these words are being "glamorized slightly" they're still intended and being used in a memeing manner, but they're also used to quickly denote arbitrary traits in an individual and categorize those traits...

Although there's lots of conversations to be had for a variety of reasons about the origin and use of the word "girlboss" in relation to sexism, up until recently the world "malewife" was something claimed by men, something men wanted to be called, and something that men who used the term wanted to reference them.

Malewife is about "stepping-up" to "take on" "female" social roles, and it's something that at least some women would be happy to see in society:

"...We have been told that we can have it all, but so far we have noticed that it is extremely hard work having it all, because you still have to do everything that your mother did but now you have to do everything your father did as well. Except that your father had your mother waiting at home with a gin and tonic and his slippers when he came home from work, and you have the washing up and the shopping and a few screaming brats as well as a bloke with his feet up on the sofa watching the football... " (via. Victoria Mary Clarke)

And I don't think that she's wrong at all. Women are still expected to do so much more than men in society without equal reward.

Malewife exists as a a sort of fantasy removed from the truth of society. It's an idea that a husband can be waiting at home to care for his wife, and in this instance it benefits the woman- unlike Clarke's situation above, the woman comes home from a long day and is able to relax without the pressures of society and her life.

Where housewife is a word that holds its origins in forced subservience, malewife is a term that is showcasing men "picking up the torch" in regards to housework- where housewife is socially forced, and girlboss is reversed social compliance, malewife is the rejection of social expectations.

Malewife is about men finding a place in their life's and relationships to make themselves more than a paycheck. To say "I can be emotionally there for my spouse, I can clean a toilet, and drive kids to school, and I don't treat my spouses wants as something expendable". In a society in which men are often demeaned, mocked, and scorned for picking up socially female roles (say hello to misogyny and gendered contamination!)

The Urban dictionary definition, is not only too harsh- but not the way in which the word is intending to be used, because that's ignoring the origins of this word, and the fact that men had a choice in becoming malewifes where women didn't have that choice. It should read more like:

Person A: Ah yeah, I have a malewife waiting for me, he's going to clean my kitchen because I've had a hard day at work and need a break, and then he's going to watch me download custom content for the Sims because I enjoy the game so much and it helps me take a break from life!

Women's wants were often ignored in favor of men's wants, so by the malewife saying he's going to watch his spouse play the Sims, he's really saying "I care about her interests" and by him picking up the kitchen cleaning after she's had a stressful day he's saying "I have a lower stress job so I can handle that for her and make her life a little easier" (because malewife doesn't mean he doesn't have a job).

In a society in which a man's worth is tied to his ability to bring home money and be emotionally distant, malewife is the rejection of this norm. Malewifes are going to be there for their spouse, they're going to step up and take on traditionally women's roles and they're doing it because they want to, because they like it, and because dividing chores into pink vs blue is wrong.

I also want to say, you can't flip a word around and say it does "this" because that's not how it works... Men and women are forcibly socialized in very different ways, the two binaries have very different treatment, and expectations within societies social constructs. If you could flip the forms of oppression that men vs women face (because yes, the patriarchy oppresses men) then you could also flip the forms of violence faced by trans masculine people vs trans feminine people- but that doesn't work either, because women will always be oppressed in the most public way to "make an example of them" while the patriarchy expects anyone who is male to "keep his mouth shut and fall in line". (I know that's worded poorly, but I've just written at least a couple hundred words and my brain is a bit fried already from various other things today- basically anyone perceived female or male will be treated in a certain way as a result of others perception of them)

Anyhow, all this isn't to say that the term "malewife" is inherently free of any form of flaw ever... Malewife is a newly mainstream word, it wasn't popularized until February 15 of 2021... So?? 5 days ago?? The origins of malewife and the social implications of malewife combined with the history of the word, don't make the word bad or impressive and it's not "upholding the ideals of a housewife" but instead a word which provides men freedom from male social expectations.

Can the word malewife come to be a word which enforces expected female social behavior? Yeah it absolutely can become a word to mean that, erase the history from the word, and give it to someone who doesn't know the history of the word, and someone who doesn't have an intimate understanding of gender theory, and you've got a recipe for hundreds more asks like the one you've sent me...

I can't find a single positive reason to use the word girlboss in an empowering way, but I can find more reasons to use the word malewife in an empowering way than not to do so.

So at the very least if all you come away from this with is that I don't personally use the word malewife to uphold female social expectations in a relationship but instead I use this word to provide space for guys to be allowed to be feminine, soft, caring, emotionally present, and worth more than their monetary value, then I guess that's okay.

#long post #asks #Anon #malewife #sorry for clogging your feed #i don't have a desktop rn

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tossawary · 3 years

Text

Chapter 24: “Seeing is Believing” of “pride is not the word I’m looking for” random favorite lines and commentary. Not a full list or full commentary, but longer commentary than usual to talk about quest construction.

AN: This was... a weird chapter to write. When I started outlining, I had... the conversation with Shen Qingqiu planned... the conversation with Shen Yuan planned... the fact that SQH, SY, LQG, and LFL was the quest party... and the fact that they get the Eye at the end of it. That was everything.

The entire rest of this chapter came together FRIDAY LAST WEEK.

Huan Hua Palace wasn’t going to be there. The Weeper didn’t exist. The Eye or its previous owner wasn’t at all connected to the Garden Master. The Shadow Cave Wolf Spiders didn’t exist. The murder plant didn’t exist. The mysterious monster showing up at the end wasn’t originally planned either.

I mean, I had a lot of pre-existing plot threads to tie in and weave with, but ohhh boy! Picture someone lying facedown on a floor like, “I forgot to plan the contents of the super important quest...”

I was originally going to have the Eye quest a lot simpler, but given the weight “Death of the Author” had when I finally reached this part of the story, that wasn’t really going to do! It had to be bigger than that! It needed oomph! This also felt like a good opportunity to really establish the new SQH-SY dynamic. To explore SY fumbling to find a place in this world without strict character role, especially in relation to settled and well-supported SQH.

“One attempts to remain dignified,” Shen Qingqiu agrees. “As there is little point in kicking and screaming about how such ignobility isn’t fair.”

“Ha! Is there ever?”

“Not in my experience.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely not cute when I do it,” Shang Qinghua jokes.

Shen Qingqiu’s lips actually twitch at that.

Success?!

AN: I wasn’t going into this fic with the intention of writing any Shang Qinghua and Original Shen Qingqiu almost friendship! But it started developing and it seemed a shame not to explore Shang Qinghua developing a real relationship with Shen Qingqiu (though not a particularly close one) when the man is suppose to be the scum villain (and the readers know that the man might get replaced by Shen Yuan).

I can see myself writing more Shang Qinghua and Original Shen Qingqiu content in the future. Someone dropped a particularly nice prompt for them in my inbox that I’m looking forward to exploring at some point.

(I mean, not to say that Shang Qinghua has a type, but Shang Qinghua has a type and it’s handsome, deadly, intimidating, frosty men with a villainous character design and trust/abandonment and communication issues. I could make it work.)

“Ah, well, two ‘ideal’ situations come to mind: severing the personal relationship for good… or, ah, talking about how to do better and trying that. You don’t have to forget or even forgive if you don’t want to! But, ah… there’s got to be a difference between totally swallowing your anger and cutting ties forever, right?” Shang Qinghua says awkwardly. “If there’s… ever going to be anything good afterwards…”

Shen Qingqiu stares at him for a sweat-inducing length of time.

“Ah, fuck,” Shang Qinghua thinks.

“Sorry,” he says. “Ahhh, I’m just… thinking about something someone told me… in… in regards to some of my own problems. Never mind! Never mind!”

AN: Luo Jiahui really is out here making Moshang and Qijiu get their fucking act together just by setting a better example.

“Shizun, my apologies for the interruption, but I came to ask Shizun if he would be willing to join our music lesson today? The disciples have missed his playing and are eager to present their improvements.”

“...Very well, unless anyone here would disagree…?” Shen Qingqiu looks directly at the Qian Cao Peak cultivator, as though daring her to object and die.

“It’s an excellent suggestion!” the Qian Cao Peak cultivator says quickly.

The young woman smiles. “And perhaps Shizun could sit in on the calligraphy lesson afterwards? In order to offer his opinion on my progress as a teacher?”

“Fishing for compliments is unbecoming,” Shen Qingqiu says dryly.

“Wait, what?” Shang Qinghua thinks.

AN: So, this has all been happening in the background, but Shen Qingqiu accepted this House of Rejuvenation woman onto his Peak about... 6-ish years ago now? This is kind of meant to parallel Shang Qinghua’s once-secret relationship with Luo Jiahui.

Shang Qinghua was out here trying to be a better person and Shen Qingqiu noticed; now Shen Qingqiu has his own positive (platonic) relationship with a nameless background character who was meant to die for plot reasons. What a thing, huh? If the story was saved because Shang Qinghua started a domino effect of saving random people who went on to change things?

After all, as Shang Qinghua said to the kid, besides Peerless Cucumber’s apparent talent for cultivation, he knows that his fellow transmigrator has three very important skills that will serve him well on An Ding Peak! 1) An encyclopedia knowledge for even seemingly pointless bullshit (which is kind of flattering, honestly). 2) The willingness to fight total strangers over seemingly pointless bullshit. And 3) a sharp enough tongue to win.

Peerless Cucumber didn’t find these points as funny as Shang Qinghua did.

AN: Shen Yuan was always going to end up on An Ding Peak. I thought about sending him to Qing Jing or Qian Cao or Qiong Ding... or any other Peak... but that would take him too far away from Shang Qinghua to really explore their relationship and to move him around conveniently in the story. And SY sticking to An Ding seemed to best illustrate the fact that SY is lost and doesn’t know what to do except cling to SQH.

“It’s not much, sure, but it’s yours,” Shang Qinghua says finally. “You’ll be joining the talisman classes soon, so don’t try anything from a book and then need to request some home repairs.”

Peerless Cucumber nods and puts his stack of manuals down on the table.

“How’s your tutorial mission going?”

“Fine,” the kid says shortly. “Have you found anything for the other one yet?”

“Ah, not yet.”

AN: “Are you winning, son?” meme energy here.

Ah, now Shang Qinghua recognizes his fellow transmigrator’s expression! That’s the same stunned expression one of his Huan Hua not-disciples, Yu Chaonan, made upon meeting the Bai Zhan Peak War God for the first time. Shang Qinghua assumes that Peerless Cucumber was expecting a man who looked more like a musclebound giant and less like a pop idol (if one with amazingly muscular arms), which is a super common and never-not-funny misconception people have about Liu Qingge.

“Brother of one of the most beautiful women in this world, bro,” Shang Qinghua reminds his fellow transmigrator, amused. Aha! Now Peerless Cucumber’s vehement disinterest in the harem stuff is making even more sense than before!

Shang Qinghua’s assumption gets 100% confirmed when it comes time for Peerless Cucumber to fly with Liu Qingge for the next leg of the journey. The other transmigrator is so embarrassed and awkward about it that Shang Qinghua’s super direct brother-in-law asks if the young man is alright.

AN: This was so fun to write. Shang Qinghua really can use the Liu siblings to gauge people’s sexual/romantic orientation.

The map (or rather, the copy Shang Qinghua made of the delicate original map) takes them to a green and grey landscape of leafy trees crawling over a wide network of tall cliffs and deep gorges. Gurgling rivers cut through twisting rock formations. Shang Qinghua can’t see any of these rivers on the map. Or these deathly drop ravines. From the outside, the whole thing looks like a natural maze (holy shit, there could be so many monsters and death-traps in there!), and Shang Qinghua would know those golden robes flying low over the hanging trees anywhere.

“Huan Hua,” Liu Qingge mutters.

“Do you think they’re looking for what we’re looking for?” Luo Fanli asks.

“That’s usually how it goes,” Peerless Cucumber says, before Shang Qinghua can.

AN: I came up with the skeleton idea first. Then I was like... “I should give it three eyes.” And then I was like... “But who IS this dead author? A god? A spirit? What grander implications am I spinning here?”

And THEN I remembered that I had some ambiguous powerful being force the Garden Master into exile due to a flood. This was because, in the Epic of Gilgamesh, the immortal man Gilgamesh meets in the abyss is the survivor of a great flood. So I was like, “Reduce! Re-use! Recycle! There’s my skeleton!”

So I wanted to relate the skeleton to water because of the flood angle. Water as a symbol of cleansing/reincarnation is a big thing throughout many cultures. I can’t remember exactly how the crying aspect came up, but I knew there was going to be water in the temple now, so at some point my brain like was, “Bro, this skeleton should totally be crying because mythology vibes.”

So I built the surrounding land off the idea that there was water flowing from or around this temple. At this point, I had decided that Huan Hua Palace should also be looking for this artifact, so I had to come up with a way to hide the temple, yet have a way for SQH’s party to track it down.

The damage to the doors is worse: someone once upon a time collapsed a part of the cliff face around the entrance, essentially leaving only the top fourth of the utterly smashed stone doors visible. It’s a wall now and has been for ages. It looks like it would take days to dig through the rubble. Someone has even super helpfully carved, “These doors will never open again,” just above the wreck.

“Guess we’ll have to go in as intruders rather than guests!” Luo Fanli says.

“What would be welcoming us inside a lost temple exactly?” Shang Qinghua asks vaguely, inwardly cursing the fact that explosive mining techniques will definitely attract the Huan Hua Palace Sect cultivators’ attention and also probably collapse the whole cliff on them.

“We only have to clear a passage for us, not the whole door,” Peerless Cucumber says optimistically. “Is there a special technique for this kind of thing?”

“Aha, not really.”

“Oh.”

“Why don’t we just keep following the water?” Luo Fanli says.

“...How so?” Shang Qinghua asks.

“Some of those waterfalls could be passages inside,” Liu Qingge explains, because he and the little sister-in-law apparently share the same brain. He’s already eyeing the waterfall wearing down the giant statue on the left.

AN: Temples in quests need to have traps and obstacles and monsters! Well, not ALL of the did, but this one did. I based the obstacles they faced as much as I could around the whole “Death of the Author” theme, while using this whole quest to explore Shen Yuan, Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua, Shang Qinghua and Liu Qingge and Luo Fanli, and so on.

The idea here with the door is that the “author” is not going to let them inside the temple to take the interpretation of the narrative (the Eye) for themselves. The story is over (the temple is closed for business)! The author is dead! If they want to get inside, they have to break inside or slip inside as intruders.

This also creates a convenient obstacle to hold up the Huan Hua Palace Sect cultivators so that our party can be nearly caught later! And shows off Shang Qinghua, Liu Qingge, and Luo Fanli’s twisty lines of thinking.

Luo Fanli is holding the light and Shang Qinghua passes the other transmigrator to her, while accepting Liu Qingge’s hand for help getting out of the water.

“Ahhh, that was fun,” Shang Qinghua mutters.

Then he notices that Liu Qingge has the Cheng Luan sword out and ready. Shang Qinghua looks through the surrounding darkness, but all he can see are columns and water. For a moment, he thinks he sees something, a prowling shadow at the other end of the cavernous room, but he wipes the water out of his eyes and it’s gone.

AN: The water in Shang Qinghua’s eyes briefly lets him see a flash of the invisible monsters who show up later! It helps up the tension.

Another low growl rips through the darkness and Peerless Cucumber shuffles a little closer to Shang Qinghua. Because that sounded really fucking close and yet Shang Qinghua still can’t see the thing that’s making that sound.

He doesn’t see Liu Qingge lunge at him either. He only feels his brother-in-law shove him into Peerless Cucumber, knocking them into the water, out of the way of something that howls when Liu Qingge slashes at it with his sword. Shang Qinghua rolls off Peerless Cucumber and looks up just in time to see dark blood splatter across the watery floor. Liu Qingge pursues the attacker with a second slash, but only seems to meet thin air this time.

“It’s invisible!” Luo Fanli cries. “Fuck!”

“Behind you!” Liu Qingge snaps, and spins to slash at the thin air beside him. Dark droplets of blood hit the water again and something hisses at him.

Luo Fanli whirls and slashes, searching for an opponent.

“They’re reflected in the water!” Liu Qingge yells at her, standing guard over Shang Qinghua as he gets to his feet again. “Listen for their footsteps and vocalizations! Feel the demonic energy and air displacement!”

AN: I got this from a list of Dungeons and Dragons puzzles. The idea is that there’s some puzzle that must be solved, but the truth of the room can only be seen in the reflection of the nearby water (or mirror or whatever).

Which felt fitting for a “Death of the Author” quest! Whatever an author’s intentions, the story is what they actually wrote, so the audience interprets a text without the context of the author’s insight. The truth (of the story) is in the reflection (audience interpretation)! It felt like a fun idea.

It also allows Shen Yuan to actually contribute to the quest via monster lore and bring up his impaired vision problem. And to confront Shen Yuan with the reality of this world. And to show off Luo Fanli’s fighting skills. And to show off LIU QINGGE’S legendary fighting skills, instincts as a warrior who fights many dangerous beasts, and the fact that he’s clever and observant!

Liu Qingge is good at what he does! And this is what he does!

Someone has… angrily… or desperately… carved a lopsided message into the wall.

“‘If I go blind, so does the world,’” Peerless Cucumber reads.

“...That’s probably not good,” Shang Qinghua says.

“Nooo…” Fanli agrees.

The messages continue as they climb, carved into the walls, the ceilings, the floors. Most of it is illegible. Some of it is just nonsense. Some of it looks like the same kind of historical records carved into the broken tablets. Some of it looks like someone attacked the walls after reading what was written there. There are deep gouges in the walls and cracked marks that would match a giant’s hands.

“‘The water cleans the lies,’” Peerless Cucumber reads. “‘I am the only one who can see.’ ‘Lies everywhere, lies everywhere, lies everywhere.’ ‘The water cleans the evil.’ ‘I do not have enough tears.’ ‘Everything is nothing now. Everything in vain.’”

“You really don’t need to read them!” Shang Qinghua tells the kid. “It’s fine. It's totally fine.”

AN: This is mostly here to up the tension, but it’s also here to try and give insight into this being and relate them more to the “Death of the Author” and the “Seeing is Believing” themes.

I also saw the phrase “If I go blind, so does the world” while I was browsing a list of riddles for D&D campaigns and I was like, “THAT’S SICK, I’M USING THAT.” Really brings the “an eye for an eye” and vengeance vibes. (The riddle was longer than that one phrase, but the answer was “the sun”.)

The top of the temple reveals one massive room that looks like someone was alternatively scratching their insanity into the walls and tearing chunks out of the interior design with their bare hands. Overtop of the rubble is that eerie overgrowth. There’s a fine layer of water over the floor. At the center of it all is an incredibly enormous desk, cracked in half, with a robed skeleton sitting behind it, slumped over the top. It’s a little too large to be an ordinary human.

Plus, its skull is a little too long, probably to accommodate the third eye socket in the forehead. There’s something gleaming softly yellow in the third eye socket.

“Is… there water dripping from its eyes?” Luo Fanli whispers.

“It looks like it…” Peerless Cucumber whispers back. “Like it's crying…?”

“Still…? Is it dead or not?”

“Holy shit,” Shang Qinghua thinks, slightly nauseated. “System, bro, the worst bro I’ve ever known, tell me that we have not been swimming in a three-eyed skeleton’s magical undead tears or something this whole time.”

The shitty, no-good System stays unsurprisingly silent.

AN: Okay, so the idea here is that this being was someone who recorded history and shared their knowledge freely. This being had the ability to discern the truth of a person - they were extremely perceptive. (The Weeper is either female or doesn’t have a gender, by the way.)

The Weeper met the Garden Master at some point. The Garden Master was an asshole, a liar, arrogant, etc.. The Weeper and the Garden Master clashed badly, until the Weeper sent the cleansing flood that nearly destroyed the sect and the Garden Master essentially had to flee to a personal abyss.

The Garden Master sent the plant as a final “fuck you” to the Weeper. The plant caused the Weeper to slowly go mad. The smashed tablets and destroyed temple are the Weeper’s work. The Weeper (not in a great state of mind) had the temple closed themselves once they realized they and their work had been corrupted. This was a “you destroy my (embellished) reputation, I destroy yours (and your entire life)” plot by the Garden Master.

The idea behind the tears is the whole “water is cleansing” thing. The Weeper tried to clean away the madness using their magical water-related abilities... and it actually worked for a long time. But eventually the madness began to overpower the effects of the magical water. The Weeper’s tears are from frustration and helplessness at losing control.

The water inside the temple combats the plant’s physical effects. Also stabbing the root killed the plant and essentially broke its mental/spiritual powers.

Unfortunately, to get the fuck out of here, they have to go back through the temple. But hey! That’s still a lot better than an extended hike through an underground, haunted desert in darkness! The battle with the now-dead plant caused its growth to writhe around the temple. The vines need to be hacked through sometimes as they travel down through the rooms of broken shelves and shattered tablets.

“So much history lost…” Peerless Cucumber murmurs.

“He still thinks of himself as a reader - an observer, a visitor, separate from the flow of fate.”

AN: This is... absolutely based on the Heart from the Dishonored franchise. But this sort of item didn’t originate with Dishonored and I need it! It’s a surprise/mystery tool that will help us later!

The Eye isn’t exactly a mind-reading object. I mean, it kind of is, but it works in a very specific way that I’m looking forward to getting into.

From there, their path back out of the natural maze is even more careful and stressful than before, now that the Huan Hua Palace Sect cultivators are actively looking for them rather than the temple. It’s slow-going and stressful and silent, except for when the Weeper’s Eye presses too close against his chest.

“He is afraid that if he starts screaming, he will never stop,” it tells him, when he’s looking at a pale-faced Peerless Cucumber, as they fly over a particularly deathly-looking drop.

“Oh, me too, bro!” Shang Qinghua thinks. “Seriously! Tell me something I don’t know!”

AN: Having Shang Qinghua be totally unimpressed by an object like this was very funny to me. He’s the author! He’s a transmigrator! He knows these people well! He already has insight into their situations.

Shang Qinghua groans, but supposes that Peerless Cucumber would have at least been disguising Liu Qingge from the back. “You tell them that you were tracking thieves who stole something from Cang Qiong Mountain Sect,” he says quickly. “Rule of embarrassment! Admitting something that makes us look bad to a rival makes it sound true. Don’t tell them what was stolen and act really offended if they try to poke into Cang Qiong business. I’ll come back as soon as I get these two out!”

Liu Qingge nods and launches forward into the fight.

“We’re just leaving him?” Peerless Cucumber says, as they do exactly that.

“I’ll get changed and come back ‘looking for him for urgent sect business’ as soon as I’ve dropped you two off in the last town,” Shang Qinghua says. “I’m really good at acting stressed and confused, and at desperately needing an unstoppable wandering Liu Qingge back at Cang Qiong Mountain Sect immediately. Now let’s go! Let’s go! Mission isn’t over yet!”

AN: Shang Qinghua is, at heart, a liar. I love him.

#tossawary updates #tossawary svsss #pride is not the word #tossawary commentary

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riversofmars · 3 years

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Unusual time of day for an update, I know, but seeing as I’m working late the next couple of days and didn’t want to put it off, here we are! Time for a Thoschei heart to heart! Read on AO3 or below!

Chapter 11: Where I Stand

“Oh come on, crack a smile.“

Missy looked around, trying her best to keep her anxiety in check. She was surrounded by Cybermen. She had never been scared of them before. Cybermen had always kept to themselves, inhabiting only the most inhospitable planets, reclaiming the land for others, making use of their unique make up… They had never been hostile or weaponised before… but there was a first time for everything and in the hands of her childhood friend, they could be something terrifying indeed. She looked back to him as he fastened the control bracelet around his wrist and raised his impressive eyebrows at her in amusement.

“Why are you doing this?“ She asked shaking her head. She was at a loss.

“Because I can.“ He shrugged.

“You already have everything.“ She gave a bitter laugh. He had bent most of the universe to his will, what did he need an army of Cybermen for? And why was he showing her?

“Almost everything.“ He corrected her. “See as I was conquering the universe I was thinking, there are two things, just two, left. Two wrongs that need righting.“

“I can think of a great many more wrongs that need righting.“ Missy retorted, unable to stop herself but he ignored her quip.

“Firstly, Gallifrey. My own people. They should be delighting in my triumphs, after all, is this not for the glory of the Gallifreyan Empire? Would it not please Rassilon to know the galaxy is finally bowing to to a son of Gallifrey?“ He spread his arms and in response, the the Cybermen started doing jumping jacks. He could make them do whatever he wanted, Missy realised. “But no, my own people have deserted me.“ He snapped and the Cybermen ceased their movements. “Cowards. Hiding somewhere. I will find them one day, you know, and oh the fun we will have. I cannot wait to see Rassilion’s face.“

“And you want me to help you find them? I don’t know where they are either! I’m an outcast, same as you.“ Missy replied bitterly. She had been looking for Gallifrey as well, not to return, no, but to make sure it was save from him. There was only so much she could do now. She had realised by now that she couldn’t stop him but she could still do some good, help people as she came across them. She would keep going as long as she could. She could only hope this wasn’t the end of the road now.

“Yes, you are. Same as me.“ He grinned.

“No, I don’t mean, I’m nothing like…“ Missy shook her head, that wasn’t what she had meant to say.

“Oh, but you are, Missy. And that’s what I’m trying to show you. That’s the other thing! Just think, the fun we could have together again. Remember how much fun we had at the academy? We were the best of friends.“ He stepped closer and held out his hand to her. She didn’t take them, she took a step back instead.

“That was a long time ago.“ She replied.

“But we could have it again.“ He smiled that incredibly charismatic smile of his. “Are you not mad at them for abandoning you?“

“They couldn’t have known…“ Missy evaded the question.

“Yeah, you just tell yourself that. Imagine if they actually never turn up again. Imagine if Gallifrey is actually gone for good. Then we are the last of our kind. Wouldn’t you rather walk the universe together? Friends reunited at long last. Everything you ever wanted I could give to you.“ He took the bracelet off and held it out to her.

“Doctor…“ Missy shook her head, she couldn’t believe he was serious. She eyed the bracelet with suspicion. Was there a trick to it? She could use it to stop him if she wanted.

“Don’t call me that, that is not my name anymore.“ He snapped, sharper than he perhaps intended.

“Emperor…“ She rolled her eyes at him. It was pompous and laughable in her opinion but he seemed to take it seriously indeed.

“Has a better ring to it, don’t you think.“ He smirked and she sighed:

“You are so wrong about so many things. Yes, you may have everything but does it make you happy?“ She asked shaking her head to herself. “You’re always looking for more, will it ever stop? Will it ever be enough? Will anything ever calm that rage in your hearts.“ It was a question she desperately needed an answer to.

“I don’t think anything will ever do that.“ He shrugged. “And why would I want it to stop? That rage is what made me. I can do whatever I want and the universe falls to its knees.“ The Emperor took a twirl, tightening his grip on the bracelet and all around the Cybermen dropped to their knees. “Don’t you want a taste of that?“ He held the bracelet out to her again.

“I can’t let you do this.“ Missy knocked the bracelet out of his hand and crushed it under her heeled boot. It wasn’t much but it momentarily destroyed his control over them.

“So what are you going to do? Stop me? Fight me?“ The Emperor laughed, spreading his arms out again daring her.

“Regrettably, I’m afraid I may have to do just that, yes.“ She replied. She knew there wasn’t much she could accomplish right now but she would keep trying.

“Oh Missy. Make the smart choice, just once. What do you even have to fight for?“ He smirked.

“Someone has to.“ She shrugged giving him a sad smile. How she wished to have her childhood friend back but it seemed like that Doctor was long gone.

“You and what army? You’re all alone.“ He snarled.

“And you have everything.“ Missy gave a bitter laugh. “But the drumming never stops, does it.“

——

“Yes she was here.“ Clara answered, River pushed herself closer to the door if that was even possible, she had to find out what was going on.

“And?! What did she want?“ The Emperor’s incredibly impatient voice sounded.

“She didn’t come here on purpose I don’t think, if she did, she didn’t say, she just… attacked me before I could do anything, then bolted.“ Clara explained. River had to admit she was a good actress, she sounded believable enough. Her life probably depended on it.

“You should have someone look at that.“ The Emperor snarled, River could only presume she was referring to the cut Clara had given herself.

“That wasn’t the Doctor, she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She did it herself to cover her tracks.“ Another voice cut in and this time River felt her hearts nearly stop. The voice sounded exactly like her own. “I told you all along she’s concluding with her!“

“What possible reason could I have? Your paranoia is…“ Clara was protesting as River tried to wrap her head around what she was hearing. It seemed as though there were versions of them all here. River had had this creeping suspicion that something wasn’t quite right with this place. She had been putting it off as side effects of the extraction chamber, but perhaps she should have trusted her instincts. This appeared to be some sort of parallel universe. It was the only thing that made sense.

“Your Highness, we have reason to believe she’s hiding in the citadel somewhere, most likely in disguise. Found a change of clothes a few corridors away.“ Another female voice piped up now, perhaps a new arrival.

“She’s probably back in the city…“ The other River mused.

“She didn’t use the passage way, I have men guarding it.“ The voice River couldn’t place retorted.

“Don’t leave a stone unturned until you find her, something brought her back into the palace after she’d left already, there must be a reason for it, she won’t go far.“ The Emperor snapped. “And if she doesn’t give up the information, I will have her strung up for the festivities tomorrow.“

“I know you have something to do with this. She came here to talk to you when I ran into her. And then she teleports in here and is gone by the time we arrive, very convenient don’t you think.“ River couldn’t argue with her other self. She was right on the money. She felt a sense of pride in knowing that whichever universe was concerned, she retained her intelligence and ability to see through a ruse.

“The Emperor doesn’t seem to think so.“ Clara bit back.

“I’ve got my eye on you.“ The other River warned her.

“Whatever you say your royal highness.“ There was no small measure of distaste in Clara’s voice.

“Both of you, stop it now, I’ve had enough of your bickering!“ The Emperor interrupted. “Let’s go, River.“

There was the distant slamming of a door and the apartment went quiet. River slowly stepped away from the door, trying to make sense of what she had just heard.

——

When the Doctor walked through the protective darkness of the Vashta Nerada her mind was in a haze. She felt better for being back in her own clothes but it made her stand out all the more. When she made her way through the camp, all eyes were on her. The Doctor didn’t know where to look, the destruction was devastating. People were working feverishly to build temporary shelter as night had fallen and they stopped as she walked past, shooting her accusing glances. This was all her fault, the Doctor realised, as if she wasn’t feeling terrible enough as it was.

“Missy?“ The Doctor called as she spotted her assisting an elderly couple in putting up a piece of heavy cloth for cover. She looked around in surprise.

“Doctor! You’re alive!“ She exclaimed and tied a knot to keep the sheet in place before excusing herself from the others. “Where have you been?“ She asked as she stepped closer. She looked her up and down. The Doctor’s body language spoke for itself. She looked exhausted and drained.

“The Monk, is he here?“ The Doctor asked looking around. “The chrono lock…“

“It’s gone. Was that your doing?“ Missy managed a small smile. The disappearance of the lock had been unexpected and inexplicable but knowing the Doctor had had something to do with it reassured her.

“That’s something at least…“ The Doctor sighed, she hadn’t really expected Clara to keep her word so this was a nice surprise.

“Doctor, what happened?“ Missy asked, part of her curious, part of her worried. The Doctor’s expression wasn’t one of triumph. She didn’t seem to be quite with it, even her t-shirt was the wrong way around.

“I uh…“ The Doctor blushed, realising what she was picking up on.

“Where did you go? Did they do something to you?“ Missy was searching her expression, trying to figure out what was going on. She was glad the Doctor was seemingly unharmed and that she had managed to free the Monk of his death sentence but she couldn’t help but wonder at what price.

“I… I’m in big trouble… really big trouble and I’ve done something bad…“ The Doctor whispered as she was beginning to process everything that had happened at the palace. Encountering River, the Emperor’s wife… what she had done with her, or rather, had been willing to do. And then to find her River, alive and well, she felt so incredibly guilty. And to top it off, Clara, her demands and threats. She had no idea what to do about it. Would it be the right thing to do, to help her topple the Emperor? Or would it only be transferring the problem from one tyrant to the next? And what would it mean for the Doctor if she played accomplice to this? If Clara could even pull it off. What if she was found out and they discovered her River?

“Okay, alright, I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that…“ Missy was taken aback by the devastation in the Doctor’s voice.

“What happened here?“ The Doctor asked looking around, the destruction only adding to her sense of desperation.

“The Emperor paid us a visit.“ Missy explained softly though she didn’t know how to sugar coat this.

“I’m sorry, this is all my fault, and now…“ The Doctor buried her face in her hands trying to compose herself. She was no use to anyone like this.

“Let’s go and sit down and then you tell me what happened.“ Missy offered softly and ushered her along to what was left of her tent. The front of it had collapsed but once they got through the layers of torn-up sheets, they got to the sleeping area that was still intact. Missy sat the Doctor down on the bed. She took her hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. It was this gentle gesture pushed the Doctor over the edge. She started crying.

“Oh Doctor… I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.“ Missy didn’t know what to do at first. She was not sure how to deal with such a display of emotion. They had all hardened to the world around them, doing their best to keep their sanity, but what was most startling about it was that this was the Doctor. The Doctor who shared a face with her childhood friend who she was sure she would never find in a state such as this. Throwing caution to the wind, she pulled her into her arms and held her close. She stroked her hair, wondering what could possibly have brought this on. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

“I really messed up Missy, from start to finish…“ The Doctor wiped her face in embarrassment as she finally pulled away. “If I hadn’t been so selfish and used that extraction chamber…“

“Is that what brought you here? How is that possible?“ Missy looked at her confused. While she felt encouraged that the Doctor was starting to trust her and share things, it made little sense to her. She had never used an extraction chamber herself but she didn’t see how the technology could be connected to crossing between parallel universes.

“I don’t know if that’s the reason why I’m here but it’s what I was doing when I crossed over…“ The Doctor explained in a small voice. “In my universe, Gallifrey is destroyed, the Master…“ She looked up to Missy noticing her tensing a little at the mention of her name but she didn’t want to lie to her. Maybe it would help her understand why she had been so distrusting of her initially. “Sorry…“ She mumbled and took Missy’s hand, if only to show that she knew the difference between her and the Master from her own universe. “The Master destroyed it all. But I thought the extraction chambers might still work… and there was no-one there to police them… it was the only thing I hadn’t tried yet…“

“Did you lose someone?“ Missy asked softly though she felt she already knew the answer. It wasn’t how an extraction chamber was meant to be used but it sounded like the Doctor had been desperate.

“I’ve lost so many people.“ The Doctor laughed bitterly as more tears fell from her eyes. It was the most painful thing about being here, seeing the Emperor’s friends alive and well, while she had lost everyone. Missy was the exception. The Doctor couldn’t deny how wonderful it felt to have her, of all people, be here to comfort and support her. She had missed her childhood friend so much.

“Who were you trying to get back?“ Missy went fishing for a handkerchief by the side of the bed.

“My wife of course.“ The Doctor mumbled. “She died a long long time ago… And I thought if I got her back, I wouldn’t feel so lonely anymore…“ She took the handkerchief but just held it in her hands as she hung her head. River was back, she had managed it, but this was not the reunion she had hoped for.

“What’s your River like then?“ Missy asked sitting next to her again. She couldn’t help but feel deep compassion for this woman. She was indeed the exact opposite of the one she knew and she wanted to know her better. How she wished she had met her sooner. It was selfish, of course, the Doctor didn’t belong here and she needed to get back to her own universe, but for a moment she thought they could be the friend to each that they both had been missing.

“Hell in high heels.“ The Doctor laughed a little to herself, how did she best describe her? “Nice hair, clever, has her own gun and unlike me doesn’t mind shooting people, which I shouldn’t like but kind of do…“ They were lines recited from memory of course because she couldn’t find appropriate words to do her justice.

“Worrying, that doesn’t sound all that different to our River Song…“ Missy joked, unsure of what else to say. The words struck the Doctor to the core, it was the same misconception she was beginning to regret so dearly.

“She died saving four thousand people she didn’t know and me, on her worst day, when I had no idea who she was.“ To this day, the Doctor couldn’t forgive the cruel twist of fate. That the day River died was the day of their first meeting. She blinked away her tears. “I made her kill me, to fulfil a fixed point in time, had her take the fall and the prison term for it… She didn’t get a normal childhood, she was abducted and conditioned to become the perfect assassin, all because of me. My River… is the strongest person I know and she didn’t deserve the things that happened to her because of me.“ She balled her hand around the handkerchief, her sadness giving way to anger. She was so angry over everything that had happened to River but most of all, she was angry with herself. For how she could have been so weak. “And despite it all, she still fell in love with me… she deserved so much better.“

“It sounds like you love her a great deal too.“ Missy gave her an encouraging smile as she let her words sink in, almost regretting her initial quip.

“You should think so, shouldn’t you.“ The Doctor shook her head to herself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?“ Missy frowned, slightly confused but the Doctor pressed on:

“And now she’s here.“

“What?“ Missy exclaimed.

“I don’t know how… I thought it hadn’t worked.“ The Doctor shrugged. She still couldn’t quite explain it. Evidently, the extraction chamber had worked as planned, and why shouldn’t it have? She had done everything exactly right. Plus, River was dressed the same as she had been in the Library. It all added up. What she couldn’t explain was how she got here, how either of them had.

“But that’s good, right?“ Missy didn’t know what else to say, surely these were good news? “I mean, an extraction chamber, it’s not exactly by the book but… it sounds like you’ve been through a lot so I understand…“

“Yes it’s good, of course it’s good, it worked but…“ The Doctor looked to Missy struggling to explain.

“Where is she now?“ Missy asked, realising what the problem was.

“With Clara…“ The Doctor answered burying her face in her hands again.

“I see.“ Missy said softly, she saw where this was going but let the Doctor explain in her own time:

“And she’s keeping her hostage, blackmailing me to help her.“

“What is she wanting you to do?“ Missy touched her hand to her shoulder. She knew she couldn’t be much comfort right now but she had to try.

“Take the Emperor’s place tomorrow and transfer power to Clara…“ The Doctor didn’t see any point in keeping this for her. Despite her natural distrust of her, she had seen enough of her friends turn on her to know that the opposite was very possible as well. Missy was her only hope right now. It felt so good to finally meet a Master she could actually trust.

“Did she say what she was planning for tomorrow?“ Missy frowned trying to keep up.

“She didn’t let me in on the details, she said to leave the plotting to her… Do you think that’s good or bad? Maybe you can get rid of the Emperor after all… though I’m not sure Clara would be an improvement… Could be an opportunity for you though…“ The Doctor didn’t know where her head was at by this point. She started rambling, as dangerous and desperate as the situation seemed, surely this could also be an opportunity too. It had to be. Something good had to come out of it. She had wanted to help and this might well prove their best and only opportunity if they could only turn this to their advantage. It’s what River would want and expect her to do.

“Doctor, we’re not in the business of toppling tyrants anymore, we haven’t got the capacity…“ Missy gave her a smile that was both kind and sad. As much as she would have liked to entertain the possibility once, these days she could barely keep the people down here safe. They had just had a painful reminder. A play for power amongst the Emperor’s rank and file was far above their pay grade.

“But if we found out what Clara is planning…“ The Doctor pressed on, surely she had to see that this could be their chance. Missy gave her a smile, she couldn’t help but admire her optimism but she shook her head. “But why not try?“ The Doctor asked, she couldn’t understand Missy’s hesitation.

“It’s no use, Doctor. Truly. Do you not think we’ve tried everything?“ Missy said softly.

“Then why are you still here?“ The Doctor snapped, surprising herself with the outburst. “You could just run, that would be your best chance, flee to the furthest reaches of the universe if you wanted to. But you’re still here.“ Suddenly she was angry again, it wasn’t even directed at Missy in particular, it was frustration with the entire situation.

“And leave everyone else to suffer? Can’t do that.“ Missy retorted, taken aback by her accusatory tone.

“You still have hope.“ The Doctor insisted taking Missy’s hands.

“Doctor…“ Missy shook her head.

“Please, Missy, you can’t be giving up.“ The Doctor pleaded with her. She couldn’t begin to understand what Missy and everyone here had been through, but she knew if she was anything like her - and in this universe she was - she could convince her.

“I’m not giving up. I try and focus on the things I can make a difference with.“ Missy tried to explain.

“But this might be the one chance we have to finally change things!“ The Doctor exclaimed. “Obviously not help Clara but if we can find out what she wants to do, maybe we can get rid of them all!“

“Doctor…“ Missy wished the Doctor would just stop, she knew she was right but the risk was too great. They had been managing okay, hadn’t they? Things would only get worse.

“Just entertain the possibility. I know you want to, you’re just scared!“ The Doctor could see it in her eyes.

“Doctor, this is too dangerous to involve ourselves in. For a start, no matter what Clara Oswald might be planning, I don’t think she would ever be able to outwit the Emperor. Most likely outcome is that she will get herself killed.“ Missy shot back, the Doctor hadn’t been here long enough to understand yet. The bitterness in her voice gave the Doctor pause.

“But she must have something she didn’t have before, else she wouldn’t try now when she never did before, it’s a huge risk…“ The Doctor tried to reason. Clara had a good life as it was, she wouldn’t risk it if she wasn’t confident she could succeed.

“Yes it is. And you are the thing she didn’t have before, you realise that, right?“ Missy exclaimed.

“Yes, maybe but all she wants me to do is take the Emperor’s place.“ Surely, Clara had to have more aces up her sleeve.

“That’s all she told you. Believe me, she will realise she needs more than that from you, and while she has your wife, she will be able to get your help, won’t she?“ Missy retorted, trying to make her understand. “Don’t think it will be that easy, Doctor.“

“I don’t. I realise that.“ The Doctor knew that none of this would be easy. She found herself in an incredibly desperate situation but the more she thought about it, the more she realised that in this fight, they also had something they didn’t have before: The ability to work and stand together at last. The Doctor and the Master. She just had to make Missy see the value of that. She straightened herself up and gave Missy a smile. “Here is the thing, Missy: In my universe? You wouldn’t be here. You would have run away, faced with a situation like this. There was this one time, I’d spent so much time with you and tried so hard to make you see, help you, get my friend back… and I thought you had changed - that my Missy had changed - but she turned her back on me. When it came to it, to making a stand, facing certain death, she walked away. But I couldn’t let those people die then and you’re doing the same thing here, now, that’s why you haven’t gone. And that is the reason why we will succeed.“

“Doctor…“ Missy sighed. She just didn’t give up, did she.

“I know it’s scary, like you say, you’re barely managing and let’s be honest, this is barely living, is it? It’s surviving but even that is only a matter of time now, surely you realise that.“ The Doctor squeezed her hands.

“She left us alone for so long before you came…“ Missy didn’t mean for her words to hurt her or accuse her, it was just a fact. They had been left to their little lives for the most part and so they had stopped trying, assuming this was the best they could have.

“Yes and I’m very sorry about that but she’s sensing that too, that’s why she came here to intimidate you. That this is your chance. You also have something you didn’t have before now: Me. And you don’t have to coerce me into helping. I want to.“ The Doctor explained, pleading with her to understand.

“Why? Why would you do this? Are you always like this? Making other people’s problems your own? Your best bet would be to try and go along with what Clara wants and try and get River out and go back to your own universe, flee and let the chips fall where they may…“ Missy gave her a half-hearted smile.

“I can’t do that.“ The Doctor shook her head. The thought had certainly crossed her mind, to come up with a plan to save River before Clara could force her cooperation but not only would it be difficult, it would also ruin this opportunity they had. The cracks in the Emperor’s reign were showing, they had an opportunity to smash them wide open if they took a chance. The more she thought about it, the surer she was that this was what they had to do. The Doctor still didn’t know whether they would even be able to cross back into their universe and if they wanted any hope of a decent life for themselves or the people here, this had to be done. Her sadness and anger gave way to steely determination and she could see in Missy’s eyes that she knew that too.

“You really think we could win?“ Missy asked softly and the Doctor grinned, knowing exactly what she needed to hear:

“I’m not trying to win. I’m not doing this because I want to beat someone, or because I hate someone. It’s not because it’s fun and God knows it’s not because it’s easy. It’s not even because it works, because it hardly ever does. I do what I do, because it’s right! Because it’s decent! And above all, it’s kind. It’s just that. Just kind.“ She pulled Missy into her arms and held her close. “Who I am is where I stand. Where I stand, is where I fall. Stand with me.“

#doctor who #fanfiction #river song #thirteen #thirteenth doctor #river x thirteen #river x the doctor #thirteen/river #space wives #clara oswald #missy #thoschei #thoschei friendship #the doctor & the master #action/adventure #Mirror Universe #mirrorverse #through the looking glass

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sineshion · 4 years

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Nezumi Character Analysis

UH OH SISTERS! Here I am to write an essay on Nezumi and his relationship and actions towards Shion that no one asked for, but I’m doing it anyway.

SPOILERS FOR THE NO.6 NOVEL

Let me start by saying that Nezumi is a really well fleshed out character, and that a lot of his actions and dialogue have more depth than initially comes across. Nezumi starts off as a character who is very closed off, both emotionally and physically. Gradually over the course of the novel, he becomes more and more open, until we reach the climax of his character while in the Correctional Facility. During Shion and his first meeting, he tells Shion that he doesn’t neccessarily care about Shion’s fate, but that he doesn’t want to feel responsible if something bad were to happen to Shion.

“Do you really? I mean, it’s not my problem what happens to you, but if you end up being wiped out because of me, I wouldn’t like that. I’d feel like I did something horrible...”

I find this dialogue to be very telling and foreshadowing, as comparing Nezumi’s mindset from the beginning of the novel and end of the novel shows just how much Shion is able to change him. Though Nezumi might not say it directly, he is just as drawn to Shion as Shion is to him. We come to learn that he keeps secretive watch over Shion for the four years they are apart, in a silent way of protecting him. We could shrug this off as Nezumi simply “repaying a debt”, as he says again and again, but it is far more than that. Shion offers kindness and compassion to Nezumi during their first meeting, which we come to learn is the first real act of kindness he has received in years. Shion shows love toward Nezumi when he arguably needs it most, and though Nezumi might not want to admit it, he is showing love right back by silently watching over Shion, and rescuing him. From the moment they met, Nezumi has become captured by Shion, much like how Shion says he has become captured by Nezumi.

Throughout the novel, Nezumi goes from showing acts of kindness toward Shion, to then showing hostility. Shion is never afraid of Nezumi’s random spouts of violence, in his what I can only assume to be futile attempts to reject vulnerability. Nezumi projects all of his hatred for No.6 and it’s violence against him onto Shion, which he later comes to realize is wrong, and abusive of him.

“This casual act of kindness, or those cold, dispassionate words from a few minutes ago - which one was he to believe? Shion couldn’t grasp him.”

Nezumi tells Shion to throw away his memories, his feelings, and ties to everyone and everything he knows. He continuously acts cold and hostile toward Shion without provocation, which we learn is the result of the way Gran, an old woman who raised him, warped his mind into being. Nezumi has a very unstable and warped mindset on love, and what it would do to him. He has been raised since the age of 4 to fear it like nothing else, which I find so heartbreaking. It is no wonder Nezumi constantly reacts the way he does both to being touched by Shion, as well as kissed, or just generally loved. Gran tells Nezumi from the age of 4 to view any person who loves him as a literal demon who will kill him, thus creating the mental struggle within himself as he tries and fails to keep from reciprocating those feelings.

“Never sigh in earnest. Never cry. You’ll be taken advantage of by demons. Sighing creates an opening, a vulnerability. If you want to stay alive, keep your mouth shut. Never let anyone see your weak spot. Let your heart warm to no one. Never trust anyone but yourself.”

We are told that Nezumi went against Gran’s instruction simply by rescuing Shion. I suspect that a small part of Nezumi wanted to do this (go against Gran’s orders), though he reprimands himself multiple times for his actions. It isn’t that Nezumi is completely helpless from falling in love with Shion, it’s that he actually wants to be loved by the boy, even if only deep down. More and more, he begins to simply sit around and watch Shion, thinking about how beautiful Shion is, how nice it would be to touch him and how much he wants to have physical contact with him, playing with his hair. He begins to lose his sense of control over himself, leaving the door to his home unlocked without even realizing it, sighing over Shion, and risking his own safety to send messages to Shion’s mother unprompted. When he learns of Safu’s abduction, instead of telling Shion, he begins to think of how if Shion found out, it would result in his death. He compares the loss to the loss of his own family, and of the suffering he would feel if that were to occur. Nezumi has already begun to grow attached. He was attached from the very moment Shion and he met.

“He would be experiencing the same suffering again, of being broiled alive in Hellfire.” “I don’t want to lose him. I would suffer.”

This admission is paralleled to Safu’s in a prior scene, where she admits to Karan, Shion’s mother, that she is in love with Shion. She says: “I don’t want to regret anything. If - if by some chance, he ends up never coming back... I’m going to be the one to suffer for my whole life. I don’t want that. I don’t want to lose him.” Nezumi is falling in love with Shion, whether he realizes it at this moment or not is besides the point. He does not want to lose Shion. He does not want to return to a life of seclusion and loneliness, a life without love. He would and will do anything to keep from losing it. Both Safu and Nezumi are in love with Shion, but I would argue that the difference between them, other than obvious ones, as that Nezumi comes to see Shion exactly for who he is, the love he feels for Shion not blinding himself, but illuminating the entire world, whereas Safu does not. Safu continuously compares herself to the person Shion is yearning for, asking why she cannot be them, why she cannot be the one to get to know everything about Shion.

Despite Nezumi’s efforts to hide the truth of Safu’s capture from Shion, this falls through, and he is warned by Inukashi: “If he’s so precious to you that you don’t want to loose him, protect him to the very end. And do whatever it takes to protect him, you idiot, no matter how humiliating it is.” Nezumi wants to protect Shion, and would and later does do anything to keep him by his side, this dialogue from Inukashi foreshadowing Nezumi’s vulnerability and the swallowing of his own pride as he lays everything he is bare before Shion’ feet.

Later, Shion, after finding out that Safu is in danger, confesses all of his feelings to Nezumi, in what he assumes will be the last time they see one another. He kisses Nezumi goodbye, and sneaks out. Nezumi follows after him, and lashes out in a very violent way, and after, saying: “Listen, you’re not allowed to give me a goodbye kiss ever again! Never, ever again!” He tells Shion that this beating is punishment for lying to him, and trying to sneak away, aka trying to die without him. Soon, Shion will turn Nezumi’s warped way of thinking against him in the Correctional Facility, where he will use Nezumi’s reasoning and justification for violence by claiming the two men he attempts to kill are deserving of it, because they have tried to harm Nezumi.

Gradually, more and more, we see Nezumi not only reciprocating moments of intimacy, but initiating them with Shion: “A hand suddenly reached over to him. It was Nezumi’s. It gently pried Shion’s fist open, finger by finger, gently, as if toying with it.” Nezumi still has moments of random bursts of aggression, both in an attempt to continue to keep Shion at bay, to keep from falling more in love, and to prevent Shion from aiding the city or its people in any manner. While Shion admits a love confession, saying: “I’m probably more afraid to lose you than anything - anybody else.” This sparks a fear in Nezumi, at the reality that not only is Shion attached to him, but that he is just as attached to Shion. He’s completely aware at this point of his own feelings. He thinks: “Am I the one who hasn’t known anything all along?” while questioning his past actions, and whether or not he has been seeing Shion in a positive light or not. Nezumi has started to become more self aware through his relationship with Shion, and more in touch with his own emotions.

Once entering the Correctional Facility, Nezumi warns Shion not to lose himself. He promises Shion that they will come back from this together. He isn’t saying this only to Shion, but more so to himself. Nezumi has been captured by the light that he sees in Shion, and though Shion is the one to think that Nezumi keeps him human, it’s quite the other way around. Shion attempts to kill two men, both times Nezumi reprimands him, telling him: “Never put your hands around someone’s throat again!” and “Shion! Shion! Stop - stop, please - Shion, I’m begging you.” and “I want you to stay as you are, Shion.” Shion keeps Nezumi human. Shion is a beacon of light shining down on Nezumi, exposing his own humanity. Time and time again, it is clear that Shion’s humanity and compassion save Nezumi from doom. While Nezumi develops to see the light of humanity and within his own soul through loving Shion, Shion develops to see the darkness in humanity and within his own soul by loving Nezumi. They quite make the perfect narrative foil to one another, developing in an almost polar opposite way. Nezumi ultimately becomes more like Shion, Shion becomes more like Nezumi.

We learn of Nezumi’s past, and of his suffering, in a scene where he allows himself complete vulnerability to Shion, showing him the burn on his back and revealing to us and to Shion how his family and culture were ruthlessly burned to the ground right before his eyes. Shion begins to cry at learning the truth, begins to blame himself for his own ignorance and for Nezumi’s suffering. Nezumi confesses: “I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. I didn’t mean to accuse you of any crime. I - can’t even imagine wanting to hurt you. I’m sorry.” “Don’t you cry. You were just a tiny kid. You’re not to blame for anything.” He’s starting to drastically change his mindset and perspective which will ultimately lead to him choosing to believe in Shion, to have faith in Shion, trusting that the both of them truly see one another at this point for who they are. Trusting Shion to remain human, and build a better world.

As they begin their infiltration, Shion begins to grow more and more cold and uncaring of human life. As Nezumi kills guards, Shion says that it simply can’t be helped - it’s kill or be killed. This moment is clear in highlighting not only how Nezumi has changed Shion, but how Shion has changed Nezumi. Nezumi is displeased to hear this reasoning from Shion, which is not something he would have thought at the beginning of the novel. Shion is uncaring, which is not something he would feel were this the beginning of the novel. They have both a positive and negative impact on one another, and alwyas seem to take it to the extreme, though it isn’t neccessarily strange given the circumstances and situation at hand. Nezumi begins to see the direct affect his own actions have had on Shion, and how they have begun to warp his mind, much like Gran warped Nezumi’s own perspective on love. He thinks sadly: “Forgive me, Gran. I’ve gone against what you’ve told me. I’ve sighed many times for another. I believed him, and opened my heart to him. I placed the shackles around my own feet. But I couldn’t have done otherwise. I couldn’t cut him away.” Nezumi loves Shion. No matter what he tries, he cannot escape the love he feels for him. He couldn’t do otherwise, because he doesn’t truly WANT to. He wants to love Shion, admitting this to himself now. The seeds have already been planted at this point for Nezumi to begin feeling his own guilt and remorse at trying to change Shion’s personality, and coming to the horrifying realization that it worked. Nezumi didn’t want to harm Shion, or hurt him. He truly and foolishly believed he was doing what was right, what was taught to him. He feels so much remorse at the point that when he is almost killed by Rashi, he entirely gives up the fight. He allows himself a moment of genuine intimacy with Shion, let’s Shion hold him, as he prepares to die with him. Does this sound like something Nezumi would do? A character who preaches survival, is now willing to die with the person he has fallen in love with. He is not afraid, nor angry, nor sad - he simply accepts it. I find this moment to be very telling of Nezumi’s character.

When Shion shoots Rashi, Nezumi, who is already terribly wounded, tries repeatedly to stand up and stop him from finishing Rashi off. It is shocking not just to us, but to him, to see how Shion has changed. He screams for Shion to stop in vain as Shion commits murder on his behalf.

“He didn’t want to open his eyes. If he did, he would have to face reality.”

Despite trying to repress this, he tries to keep Shion grounded, as Shion has already been shown time and time again to be unstable and suicidal. Shion attempts to commit suicide by shooting himself in the head, asking Nezumi over and over if Nezumi and perhaps even God can forgive him for the murder he has committed. Nezumi thinks that it would have been better had they never infiltrated it at all, had he known it would destroy Shion’s mental state so completely. Nezumi, a character hellbent on destroying the government, is now thinking that Shion’s mental health is worth more to him than destroying the city. He thinks, as he starts to have his own mental breakdown, that he is the one who needs to be forgiven, not Shion. He begins to cry uncontrollably, as he mentally begs for Shion’s forgiveness.

“Shion, I’m sorry. I made you bear the burden, one so big it’s making your spine creak. Would I be forgiven one day? Would you forgive me for what I did to you?”

Nezumi is unable to bear the thought that he is the direct cause of Shion’s attempt at suicide. He is forced to confront at this moment his own abusive actions, and all of the brutality he has thrust upon Shion up to this point. He is begging, literally on his knees, to be forgiven. To be forgiven for all of his mistakes, all of his anger, all of his pain and hurt that he has projected onto Shion. Begging for forgiveness at meeting Shion - at coming unexpectedly into his life and, in Nezumi’s eyes, ruining everything Shion is. Nezumi believes he is to blame for everything, and the weight of the guilt he feels is indescribable.

By the time they get to Safu, Nezumi outright refuses to let Shion do anything, going so far as to drag him by force to the elevator, knowing it is too late to rescue Safu. Shion, through his grief, blames Nezumi for what happens to Safu, claiming he used her and used him to destroy No.6. Nezumi plays his part well, and pretends that this is the truth, saying he never believed Safu was alive, which is a lie. He says he deceived Shion, and used him and sacrificed his mind for the destruction of the government, which is also not the whole truth. Nezumi thinks: “Really? Can you really not understand? You’re a liar, Shion. You do get it. You understand every single word. And you’ll never forgive me. You’ll lose faith in me and loathe me. Or would you-“

Nezumi WANTS Shion to love him, and also hate him at the same time. He wants Shion to take his anger out on him. He wants to self sabotage their relationship, and MAKE Shion hate him, by playing a false role, by pretending to be someone he is not. Even when Nezumi tries to shoulder blame that is not his, his true self shines through under the facaude. Nezumi, a character who used to preach that he would only ever fight for himself, now takes a bullet for Shion, trying to sacrifice himself for him. Going directly against everything he has ever believed in.

By the end of the novel, Nezumi, having come back from the brink of Death, and having gone against all of his previous rules, confesses to Shion that Shion scares him. He is terrified of Shion, or more specifically, of Shion’s love, because it is mutual. Nezumi is in love with him. Nezumi’s love for Shion is in fact so strong, that Nezumi was willing and ready to die with and for Shion multiple times during the Correctional Facility, and many times prior, as well. He’s scared of the way loving someone makes him feel. He’s scared of how it almost got him killed many times, and it would have, had Shion not saved him. He leaves not because of Shion, but because of himself. Nezumi does not understand how to express his love in a proper and healthy way - it’s completely foreign to him. The boy is so traumatized that he’s spent the entire novel both half afraid of and half crazing and actively seeking love. I find it strange when people ask or think that there’s a possibility Nezumi doesn’t love Shion, when his actions so clearly say otherwise. I suspect Nezumi feels unworthy of Shion loving him as well, considering his tendency to self sabotage. I think that Nezumi is very self aware, and by the end of the novel, very in touch with his own emotions. He understands that he must change, and only then can he come back to Shion properly. He understands that who he is currently is not suited for a relationship, and so he makes the maturest call he has in the entire story, by leaving. He kisses Shion, promising to come back once he is ready, reassuring not only us but Shion that he really truly does love him.

Shion had thought that Nezumi was the one who illuminated him completely. That everything became much clearer with him by his side. That “by his hands, I was melted, wrought anew, and instilled with new life.” I find this line to be most applicable to Nezumi, as Shion has instilled him with new life, a new perspective, leaving him forever changed by the love shared and experienced. A line from Safu comes to mind as well, “You feel the same way I do, don’t you? You’re glad you were able to know. You wouldn’t be able to live anymore without knowing what yearning and love is like.”

#no.6 #nezushi #nezumi #shion #analysis #no.6 analysis #nezushi analysis #text #novel #quotes #i shot myself dead writing this

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songfell-ut · 4 years

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Chapter 11 is a doozy

This one ends with what I thiiink may be the first scene I envisioned. Probably need an “angst” tag on there, but I still dun really know how the tags work. Are they a good thing to cram in, @lostmypotatoes?

Link is here. I’m going to bed

The child lay face down in the flower bed, too stunned to cry. When she lifted her head, the world spun in circles; when she tried to get up, her leg hurt so much that she gasped. She sniffled, hiccuped, and waited for someone to come help her. But no one came. It was too much: she finally gave a long wail, working herself up to sob so hard that tears and snot started dripping all over the golden petals.

Something was coming down the stone passage. She stopped and huddled into the flowers, but they weren't tall enough to hide in, and a patch of sunlight shining from above lit her up clearly.

He walked out of the darkness with a sword in each hand. His eyes glittered; when they met hers, she froze, too scared to breathe.

The...man? It must have been a monster, because it looked like a person, if a person could also be a goat: white fur, horns, and golden eyes, with a muzzle and a pointy black stripe on each cheek. But it walked on two feet and wore a long black robe with a symbol on it...like a person.

To her surprise, the monster didn't eat her, or breathe fire, or chop her up. He watched her for a moment. With a flick of each wrist, the swords vanished. "Hello there," he said in a soft, deep voice, squatting down a few feet away. "Where did you come from? Are you hurt?"

She couldn't answer. To her even bigger surprise, the monster sat down with his legs crossed and took hold of his floppy white ears, one in each hand. He flopped them over his eyes and looked around, as if surprised. "Oh, no! I thought there was a human in here! Who turned out the lights?"

Now she was puzzled, and slightly insulted. What was he doing? She wasn't a baby!

But as the goat-man kept it up, calling, "Hellooo, huuuuman?" and turning this way and that, her fear ebbed away until she started giggling. He scooched closer and peeked out from under his ear. "Aaah, no, it's the human," he said in very fake terror. "You've caught me. Please, human, if you let me go, I'll take you somewhere safe. I'll even heal you—have you ever been healed before?"

The human shook her head, leaning over to wipe her face on some of the bigger flowers. He let go of his ears, moved closer, and extended his white paw—a hand with five fingers, but sharp nails and fur, still a paw. "It's easy. All you have to do is touch the green light. See?" His palm glowed, and the child poked at it, fascinated.

After a few seconds, her leg didn't hurt anymore. She sat up, and she wasn't dizzy. The goat-man smiled at her, only the very tips of his fangs showing. "All better?"

Monsters were supposed to be bad, but he had the kindest eyes she'd ever seen. He held his paw – hand – out again, and she took it, delighted at how soft his fur was. "It's very nice to meet you," he said. "My name is Asriel. What's yours?"

She had to think for a second. "My name is—"

Sans jerked awake. Someone was banging on the door. He tried to stand up, but the floor wouldn't stay still: it dumped him right off his feet. "Fu' you, too," he told it. Dammit, his head hurt.

The banging didn't stop. With a more concerted effort, his body got off the floor and carried itself all the way to the front door. He wrenched at the knob and shoved it open.

Dr. Serif moved back exactly in time to avoid a broken nose. "Good morning," he said coolly, and pushed past Sans. "Close the door. Do not break it."

The boss monster tried, he really did, but the knob kept jumping out of the way. With a quietly profane expression, the doctor used a series of hands to shut the door, pull Sans into position, and grab the back of his head. "Holy fucknuts, that's better," the giant skeleton mumbled a moment later. "Thank—ow!"

"You and your foul mouth are welcome." Gaster surveyed the front room. "This is a lovely house. I hope you've treated it well." He sniffed the air several times. "Whatever did you do? What have you had to drink?"

"Water! Mostly. A little cider, no liquor in it." Now that Sans was sober, he was chagrined to follow Gaster to the kitchen and see a huge heap of brownish apple cores on the table. "They were sellin' a bunch on my way back here last night," he mumbled. "I was hungry."

Gaster pointed at the cores, and the wastebin. Sans obediently lifted the pile and dumped it into the bin with a touch of magic. Gaster then pointed at the compost heap outside, and Sans heaved a huge sigh as he picked up the bin to take it outside.

The older skeleton gave him an odd look as he came back in. "Do you mean you were on your way back here last night from the Underground?" Gaster inquired.

"Well, yeah. Where else'd I be comin' from?" Sans stuck his head in the sink, opened his mouth, and turned the faucet on.

"Apparently, a place where you can be drunk enough to lose an entire day."

The boss monster coughed violently, turning the water off before he drowned himself. "Where I what?"

"You set out with Snowdrake two days ago. The High Priestess expected you back at some point yesterday. It is Sunday, and she had to attend matins, or else she would have come with me to check if you were dead or merely sleeping off your overconsumption of...hmm." A pair of hands took hold of Sans' skull and pulled it down for closer inspection. "You still smell like apples. The priestess also said she smelled it the other morning." Sigh. "At least you spent the missing day here, judging by the age of those apple cores, and not out gallivanting after poachers." Gaster released him. "By any chance, did you stay in human shape for a long time, then eat, and then remove your device before you went to sleep?"

Sans couldn't remember anything. "...Yes? I think?"

"I would call you names, but as I did not figure it out, either, I will call you only one: idiot." The doctor sighed again. "Apples ferment fairly easily. I've never heard of fluctuating magic levels and shifts in internal chemistry rendering them an intoxicant after consumption, and there's no reason for such a weak form of alcohol to affect you this badly, but it's a viable hypothesis. No more cider or apples for you, young skeleton, until we can test the theory in a more controlled setting. Till then, we'll need to check the rest of the house before we can leave in good conscience."

The forensic evidence was not difficult to unravel. Most of the house was fine, but little puddles led from the wet patch in the living room where Sans had fallen asleep all the way into the bathroom, where every single towel was wet, either from being thrown on the wet floor or folded up and placed inside the tub...which was full of water. Without being told, Sans sheepishly set to work unplugging the tub, wringing things out, and draping them over surfaces where they could drip dry. His drunk self must have been experimenting with his human form, taking several baths and...

Oh. Oh, wow. Now he sort of knew what he'd been doing yesterday. It wasn't his fault that he'd gotten so worked up from snuggling Frisk; when he awoke, he'd had the idea to put the chain back on and see if that one thing down there would happen again, and it had. The little he knew of male human physiology and its parallels to monster reproduction had finally coalesced; he'd realized was going on and what he could do about it, and did it. It'd been really fun for a while, but then he...had he had to stop for some reason? Had his hands gotten tired, or was it something else that wasn't working? He couldn't remember.

As for what had been working, damn. He still loathed humans, but this explained a lot.

He had some questions, though. He'd have to peruse Frisk's textbooks when he got back, or ask the doctor, in the event the books failed to cover the finer points of magic boners.

Gaster watched him tidy up in silence. When the bathroom was back in order, he said crisply, "Find your device and come with me. Frisk has been working very hard and sleeping very poorly, and she needs moral support."

That sounded about right. Sans found his silver chain tied to a light fixture in an empty bedroom, put it on, and followed Gaster out of the house, stopping long enough to lock the not-quite-damaged front door.

It was a cold enough morning to see their breath; they passed several children pretending to hold cigars and exhale smoke. "Nice day," Sans complained, huddling deeper into his overcoat. "D'ya mind if I just go somewhere no one can see an' take a shortcut back?"

"She made her decision," said Dr. Serif.

Sans came up alongside him, sure he'd misheard. "She did what?"

"She decided to throw the box away yesterday morning. I disposed of it myself. It's gone."

They walked. It was cold. "Huh," said Sans.

"Indeed."

Five minutes passed. They kept walking. It was still cold.

The doctor looked sidelong at him. "Are you all right?" he asked delicately.

Sans shrugged. "Is she all right?"

Dr. Serif looked this way and that as they stopped at a crosswalk. Several heavily laden wagons were trundling by, drivers and horses alike shivering in the relentless wind. "Not entirely," he said over the noise of wheels crunching on pavement. "She's no longer uncertain of herself, but she has been writing letters nonstop instead of sleeping. Lord Owen has departed to visit his sister for a few days, just in time to miss the news. Did the first fortune have any sort of timetable attached?"

Sans shook his head a little. There was nothing to say, so he didn't bother trying.

One of the wagons was stopped because a horse had decided to take a break in the middle of the street; the driver was climbing down to convince it otherwise. "I'd like you to attend a discussion with my colleagues this afternoon," said Dr. Serif. "Most of them are excited about the possibilities of solar energy conversion, but several are requesting more details before they will support the project."

"Sure," Sans mumbled.

The wagoners behind the recalcitrant horse were getting impatient. If the doctor felt the same way, he didn't show it. "Two weeks," he said, as if to himself. "It's been approximately that long since you were captured, hasn't it? It feels much longer."

No answer. Dr. Serif shifted around until he was facing Sans and took a look at his chest. He grimaced. "Sans, may I just say—"

"Ya think she'll let me come back?"

The doctor blinked. "Beg pardon?"

Under the sounds of the drivers cursing and other pedestrians complaining, Sans said, "Even if she marries that fu—friggin' dork, it's not like she's gonna be locked up fer the rest of 'er life. An' it's not like I'm gonna learn every damn thing she knows in one month. If she can't come to the Underground, I'll just hafta drag my bony ass back here for more lessons. Right?"

"More or less," said the royal sorcerer.

"But..." Sans rubbed his chapped lips, which made them hurt more. "Remember when I talked about killin' someone if they bugged me, and Frisk said I was just doin' what I wanted, 'n not ta come back if I did? What if I run into poachers again and I have to kill 'em?"

"...Because of a life-and-death situation, or because you personally cannot stop yourself?"

"I dunno! Both?"

Dr. Serif discreetly wiped his nose on a handkerchief. "I suspect her definition of 'life-and-death' differs from yours, but I believe she was more concerned with your self-restraint. Let me ask you this: have you ever killed a human purely for enjoyment, or found an excuse to kill one who was not an immediate threat? Even if eliminating someone was fully justified, have you ever deliberately used a slow or painful method to inflict more suffering?"

For the first time since he'd become a boss monster, the thought of slaughtering humans made Sans uncomfortable. "I only ever fight 'em where they're not s'posed ta be," he pointed out. "The only ones ya see out that far are lookin' ta catch monsters. I'm not goin' to their villages or anythin'."

"You're not answering me. I repeat, have you ever—"

"What am I s'posed t'do?! Sit down everyone I see carryin' a buncha chains an' explain that it hurts our feelin's when they're mean to us?"

"I think you'd be better off asking yourself these things instead of trying to argue with me. I also think you know what Frisk would say if you were to ask her directly."

Sans shuffled his feet, wiggling his toes inside his leather boots. The stubborn horse and its wagon had finally started moving down the street. "Here's another question," said the doctor. "Have you ever successfully restrained your temper around the High Priestess?"

The human-ish boss monster glared at him. "Are you kiddin'? Ya think I wanna worry about breakin' 'er like a twig every time I get pissed off?"

"I do not." Dr. Serif employed his handkerchief again. "Have you ever fully lost your temper with her, or in her presence?"

"Well..." He thought guiltily of the time he'd badgered her about singing till she damn near whistled a hole through his skull, and he smiled at how she'd climbed on the table to get in his face afterward. Man, he'd deserved that. Then there was the dent he'd bashed in the tabletop that other time... "I was just bein' a dick. I didn't even think about hurtin' 'er."

"Really? You've made it sound as if it is not possible to restrain yourself in moments of duress. The High Priestess is a remarkable young woman, but she is a human being, just like the ones you—"

"She's not like them, an' I'll break yer fuckin' neck if you say that again."

The people standing near them inched away as Dr. Serif looked at Sans. Sans stared at him, unblinking, until the doctor sighed. "If I have to put literally everything in a Frisk-centric context to get through to you, I will," he said testily. "Do you think she would be pleased to hear you threaten to kill someone for insulting her, which I was not?"

Sans bit the inside of his weird, fleshy cheek. "No," he admitted.

"You will not be with her all day, every day for very much longer. Do you really think she would allow you to return if she had reason to believe you'd killed or needlessly injured anyone in the interim?"

Sans tapped one foot, then the other. "Dunno how she'd even know if I did. S'not like I'd be strollin' up t'her with blood 'n guts all over...my..."

He trailed off as a memory prodded him: that dream recounting his very first encounter with poachers, how he'd crunched the sorcerer's spine and then slammed the other humans into each other until they stopped screaming. He'd enjoyed it immensely till he heard that familiar whistle behind him and realized that Frisk was standing there, seeing him in all his murderous glory.

The moment he heard that sound, before he even turned, he'd instantly gone from elation to abject terror. He thought she would run away from him, or demand some kind of justification he couldn't give, or tell him never to come near her again; she could have accused him of tricking her, pretending to be the kind of person who wouldn't do something like this, much less enjoy it.

She hadn't. She didn't even flinch when she saw the literal blood on his hands. She'd just been herself—said she wanted to see him, apologized for hurting his feelings, and opened up to him about her fears and frustration, as though he hadn't just slaughtered a bunch of people and laughed about it. When was the last time anyone had asked him for help with anything, period? Had anyone ever asked him for touchy-feely advice? In the last few months, he'd spent so much time away from the Underground that even Pap had pretty much stopped bugging him about puzzles or picking up his socks whenever he was home.

...Damn. What if he enjoyed killing stuff so much because it was the only thing he was good for anymore? If he could somehow stop, what would he have left?

And the worst part was that after all that, she'd still wound up hugging him again, and even now, his SOUL was still a little mushy around the edges.

He didn't understand. Frisk wasn't blind or stupid; how could anyone with half a brain see what he was capable of and still care about him that much?

And why was he getting aroused again?!

The last wagon had trundled out of the way. "It's very simple," the doctor remarked, pulling Sans along by the elbow as the backed-up crowd surged forward around them. "What would you rather have? Freedom to be as horrible as you wish, or the right to ever see Frisk again?"

"But—"

"But what, Sans?"

But what, indeed. All this moralizing was background noise compared to the fact that she'd chosen her "adequate" future, and the only thing he could control was whether he'd be allowed to drop by from time to time. He had no right to pout – or be a complete fucking wreck – because she'd taken his advice and stopped agonizing over her decision. It wasn't as if anything had really changed, as far as he was concerned; she wasn't going to stop being his friend or teacher just because she was getting married to some human moron. Was it her fault that his deep-down, germ-sized hope of somehow fitting into her second fortune had been crushed like it deserved?

Stupid Gaster. If he hadn't given Sans that stupid chain, the idea of fathering her kid would never have been so cruelly plausible. Sans remembered how he'd found out he could make a tongue for himself when he wanted: he'd been curious about Toriel's famous pies a few years back and wanted to see if he could taste them somehow. In the same vein, the chain hadn't given him brand-new powers of smell or touch or boners, just shown him how he could've done it at any time.

Then Gaster had gone and told him for a fact that skeletons and humans could have children together, which meant sex, which brought it all full circle: he should be capable of manifesting and fully employing the relevant equipment, just like his tongue. Of course, there was that awkward size difference between him and the average human, and Frisk was even smaller than average, but if he could conjure a thing with magic, wouldn't it be logical to assume he could adjust it as needed? Hell, why couldn't he temporarily downsize his overall structure long enough to—

"—ans? Sans!"

The boss monster twitched. Dr. Serif had tugged him down a side street and looked ready to slap him to get his attention. Sans raised his hands. "What? Whaddya want?"

"I want to ascertain how you're going to behave before we arrive." The doctor somberly folded his arms, then spoiled the effect by getting the handkerchief out to blow his nose. "Are you going to be a friend, or a problem?"

There was that painfully accurate summation again. He needed to remember that he was operating under different rules than human males, or even other monsters: his actual parts weren't the biggest issue, no pun intended for once. He had to accept that it wasn't gonna happen. "I'm her friend," answered Sans. "Not like I can be much else. She's not a boss monster, so..."

"No...no, she is not." The doctor paused, as if in thought, then took Sans' elbow again. "To the castle, please, the stairwell outside her quarters. I don't know about you, but I'm freezing my ass off."

Sans was so nervous to face Frisk again that it was both a relief and a letdown to find out she wasn't in her rooms. "I did wonder," he remarked to Gaster as they threw off their disguises. The boss monster stacked some logs in the fireplace and tossed a handful of flame on them. "Right after I came here, she said her mom was sick, but I never heard anythin' else about it. This's the first time I know of that she's gone t'see 'er."

"Rosa doesn't do well with most visitors," Gaster explained. "She suffers from a degenerative neurological disorder. Frisk ensures she has the best possible care, but there is little to be done except keep her comfortable."

Sans scratched his metacarpals—using fire always made him itch. It was no wonder now that Frisk hadn't wanted him to go bug her mom with questions about her visit to the Underground. No wonder she was always so stressed, either, with a dad who was somehow neglectful and nosy, and a mother physically and mentally out of commission. Poor lady—and then, when she'd just wanted a little bit of guidance from the fortune-teller, she'd gotten this fate-of-the-world shit dumped on her!

That did it. No matter how crappy and torn-up he felt, Sans vowed he wasn't going to do anything to make her life harder. He wouldn't kill that Owen guy; he could help deliver stuff, make sure no one tried to murder her before the wedding...

Fuck. He wished he'd never gotten caught, or that someone, anyone else had come to get him out of his cell that day. He'd known better than to get close to another human, he'd done it anyway, and now look what had happened!

...No, whatever he was feeling, she had to be feeling way worse, even if it was for different reasons. As things were, at least he could be here to help. He'd have to keep telling himself that.

Gaster had picked up a huge folder and was leafing through its contents, his face impassive. "She's left you some guidelines for your next set of experiments," the older skeleton said, indicating a small set of books and papers on the counter. "Completing them to the best of your ability would be an ideal apology for your absence. Let me know if you need help."

The boss monster could see the sense in that, so he read over Frisk's list of supplies and recommended recipes, each book marked conspicuously with a new bookmark. He had to smile at that. Her handwriting was cute, too, with little swirls on the ends of some letters.

The materials she'd set aside for him included a block of alfalfa hay, cubes of alfalfa meal, and pellets of various plant materials, though it was mostly alfalfa. Sans amused himself as he worked by thinking alfalfalfafalfa until the word fell apart and reading it made him snicker. Hay, he had to stay sane somehow!

It wasn't enough. Waiting for Frisk was killing him. Her lunch was delivered a couple of hours after they got back, and she wasn't there. Gaster told him not to be alarmed, that she'd probably been called to mediate something or help someone else now that she was being accompanied by humans instead of a giant skeleton, but that didn't make Sans feel any better.

Eventually, when the mixtures had all been applied to the seedlings and everything was labeled and recorded and double-checked, Sans got so antsy that he started looking through the other books on the worktable. One had a freshly dog-eared page that made him open it up to smooth it out, wondering why she'd bothered to get the damn bookmarks if she wasn't going to use them, and then why she'd been reading up on truth spells.

Huh. There was a scribbly mark at the start of one paragraph: The stronger the application, the less ambiguous a subject's words become. Sarcasm, hyperbole, and similar rhetorical devices cannot be employed to say anything the subject does not sincerely believe to be true. Sans shrugged, put a bookmark in like God intended, and set it aside.

"It's time," the royal sorcerer said presently, several hours after lunch. He put the folder away and beckoned to the younger skeleton. "This way. Please leave your device off."

Sans had forgotten about talking with the other sorcerers, and absolutely did not want to go. The doctor had to speak to him rather sternly and at great length about the importance of alternative energy, educating the highest levels of human society and allowing the best possible knowledge to be passed down therefrom, filtering out rumor and bad information before it began, all for the mutual benefit and future coexistence of monsters and humanity.

Sans still didn't wanna. Dr. Serif ended up having to shove him bodily out the doors and most of the way down the hall, unseen hands prodding him until he gave up.

Nevertheless, with his resolution to make things smoother for Frisk, Sans got through the meeting pretty well. It was held in a library with about a dozen whey-faced nerds in black robes, most of whom were too curious to be scared of him; he had to spend a half hour answering questions about monsters and letting them watch him breathe and talk and all sorts of crap first.

Then they went over Dr. Serif's notes, clarifying a few points Sans had forgotten or mixed up. The boss monster had to admit that the sorcerers were good about catching mathematical discrepancies, and one woman had some solid ideas about different alloys that could improve the solar arrays' efficiency and reduce the chance of warping or melting the panels. Her wavy hair reminded him of the High Priestess—one of her half-sisters?

Whatever. The discussion lasted a few hours, and though he did find it interesting, Sans wanted to see Frisk so badly that the moment they adjourned and Dr. Serif indicated he was going to go to his own quarters, the boss monster didn't even bother leaving the room before he teleported himself back. The guards were getting used to his sudden appearances, and informed him without much fear that Her Eminence had returned less than half an hour ago.

Sans faced the double doors and fought down his sudden nervousness. It was cowardly of him, but he couldn't bring himself to knock. Instead, he eased a few tendrils of magic through the crack in the doors – did she even realize the barrier was permeable there? – and lifted the bar very, very carefully, setting it against the wall on that side with as little noise as possible. The doors swung open on well-oiled hinges, and Sans shut them behind him just as quietly.

She wasn't in the workroom. The light outside was fading; the bedroom was dark, as was the office, and the dressing room. To his surprise, he heard faint splashing sounds from the tub—what was she doing in there so early?

At a loss, Sans wandered over to the worktable. At least he'd cleared it before they left for the meeting. The problem was that the dent was showing, the one from their argument over transitioning monsters from slavery to partnership. He still hated the idea, but there was no reason it couldn't work, maybe, eventually...in the other future where she'd opened the box.

Sans shook himself and applied his frustration to that stupid dent, hating the loss of self-control it represented. Sure enough, when he released a burst of magic over it, the damaged wood creaked, swelled, and filled itself back in like rising bread dough, leaving a solid surface with only a few fissures. I'll be damned, I fixed something on purpose, he mused, poking at it.

The splashing in the bathroom stopped. The skeleton froze, wondering if she'd heard or felt anything, but then the sounds resumed. It occurred to him for the first time that she probably didn't have clothes on, and he immediately decided to think about something else. Oh, look, there was the folder Gaster had been reading the whole afternoon. Sans reached for it—

Something shot straight through his SOUL, seizing his entire body up, magic and bones and all. It was a sweet, unearthly sound—it was Frisk.

She wasn't humming, or whistling, or tapping a rhythm on something with her hands. She was singing, very low, just loud enough to give him chills: "The years now before us, fearful and unknown—I never imagined I'd face them on my own..." A deep breath. "May these thousand winters swiftly pass, I pray—I love you, I miss you, all these miles away..."

Sans was rigid, every fiber of his being waiting for the next verse. But the voice had faltered, and the next sound was an all-too-familiar sniff, and another, till it became clear that she was, if not actively crying, too upset to continue. Well, no shit, that's the sappiest thing I've ever heard and you're already a mess, said a very tiny corner of his mind.

Meanwhile, his feet were moving, and the rest of him followed straight to the bathroom. Too bad she hadn't locked it, because he could not physically stop himself from opening the door and striding in to kneel by the tub, reach down, and drape his hand over the very startled priestess' back and shoulders, pulling her as close to him as the side of the tub would allow. "Hi," he murmured into her hair.

Nothing happened for several seconds. "...Sans?" Frisk had hunched over in alarm when he burst in, but after a moment, her hand crept up to rest on his humerus, though she remained huddled against the high enamel side. "What..."

His eyes were closed, his mind still a hazy mess of feeling. It didn't help that she smelled amazing, and she felt amazing, and...

"Sans?"

She was much warmer than before. Well, that made sense. The bathwater was very hot, and she was in the bath.

Something felt different under his hand. How had she gotten even softer? His metacarpals flexed, and she squeaked. "Sans!" she hissed.

"Hm?" How was he supposed to concentrate on anything when he was touching bare skin?

Wait. Why was he touching b—

Oh.

Shit.

...So, if she was in the tub...that meant he shouldn't move his hand down like—

"SANS!"

The good news was that she didn't seem sad anymore. The better-than-expected news was that once the shock wore off, she wasn't really angry with him, though he didn't know that right away. The split-second he snapped out of it, Sans had been so mortified that he took a shortcut straight back to the bedroom and locked himself in, half out of fear for his personal safety and half afraid she'd be mad enough to leave again if he hung around.

But within ten minutes, she was knocking on the door and saying his name. "Nope," he muttered back.

A sigh. "Please let me in, Sans. I just want to talk."

Dammit. Sans twitched a phalange at the lock, and it clicked open.

Frisk was in her purple robe, face still flushed. Sans remained sitting on the side of bed by the opposite wall, staring at the cold fireplace, awaiting his doom.

Another sigh. She clambered onto the bed, or so he inferred from the rustling of the mattress and the scent that drifted over him a moment later. "You're not in trouble. That was my fault," she said, strangely matter-of-fact.

Blink. Blink. Blinkblink. "How."

The priestess shifted around, and he risked a peek at her. She was sitting at about his-arm's-length away, her hands and feet tucked in, legs pulled up and cheek resting on her knees. "I wasn't sure if I'd heard you come back or not. I was lonely, I wasn't thinking. I had this stupid idea to...I don't know, lure you in, if you were here?" Frisk buried her face in her fuzzy sleeve. "That didn't sound any better in my head." Squirm. "I didn't think I was using that much magic. I wasn't thinking at all. I'm so sorry."

Okay. That was unexpected. Sans was relieved, but didn't know whether to also be pleased or angry or what. He could start by kicking himself that he hadn't gotten any kind of look at her—she was so small that when she was scrunched up at one end of the tub, he'd have to be looking straight down to see anything, which he hadn't. He hadn't busted in there with any intention except to be near her.

So...should he tell her that he didn't understand many nuances of human interaction, but he was pretty sure that being lonely was the worst possible reason to call someone else in while she was in the tub? She probably didn't think that he was as functionally male as he was, which was completely understandable, but still...

Still, here she was. And it turned out that his tiny, squishy, beaten-up hope, the idea that he could somehow cram himself into a bigger role in her life than "pet project," wasn't as dead as he'd thought. It was resurging, and so was the now-familiar urge to grab her, except this time, he knew exactly what he was supposed to do with it. He knew that she'd missed him and had just admitted enticing him in while she was naked, and—

Sans didn't remember that he was a boss monster, or that she trusted him not to do anything like this, or any of the other terrible things that could happen if he got carried away. He was shifting his weight to reach over and pull her toward him when she said, with her face still buried, "Where were you yesterday?"

Oh. Right. The skeleton moved back, screaming internally and crossing his legs as hard as he could. "I—I wasn't off hurtin' anyone. I was at yer house...uh..." There was no other way to say it, was there? "I was drunk as hell, pretty much the whole day. Doc says switchin' back and forth from me ta human 'n back made some wacky chemical reaction that fermented all the apples I'd had, 'n...yeah. I didn't do it on purpose, I swear."

She raised her head, frowning. Sans wracked his brain for something to make her stop it. "At least we found the core of the problem, huh?"

Her expression lightened a little. "All right, I believe you." But then she frowned again. "Please don't do that again. You really scared me when you didn't come home yesterday."

Come home? Was she trying to fucking kill him? "Sorry." Sans forced a laugh. "You can always come check on me when we're asleep, right? Now I know ta clean up whatever I'm dreamin' in case I have company."

The young woman fidgeted, tugging a lock of hair behind her ear. "Do you have a lot of those, where you're reliving things you've done?"

She didn't sound upset. Why didn't she sound upset? "Sometimes," he admitted. "Depends how I'm feelin' when I go ta sleep, what I've had to eat, how tired I am, that kinda thing."

Frisk rested her head on her knees again, looking right at him. "You weren't always like that, were you?"

It wasn't an accusation. It was a calm, non-judgmental invitation to talk about it if he wanted to, which made him feel worse. "Well, no," he said, throttling down his...everything. "I wasn't a giant psycho till I got hit 'n started growin' like this." The boss monster tapped his sternum. "It's been a little at a time, but I get bigger n' meaner every year. Back when me an' Pap first met Kris, I hated humans, but I never woulda dreamed of killin' 'em full-time. Now..."

Her gaze didn't waver. "Did King Asgore order you to guard the Underground from poachers?"

"Nope. 'Fact, 'm really not s'posed to be out there at all. No one is." Sans scratched the back of his skull. He could still feel it where she'd touched him the other night. "I started doin' it a few years ago when a kid came through Snowdin cryin' fer his mom. We all knew she'd gone t'look for her husband 'cause he left to hunt some deer 'n didn't come back. So out I went, and I found 'er pretty quick. They'd wrung all her magic out. She was still alive, but not for long."

Someone knocked on the outside doors. Frisk very quietly rose and went to open it, bringing their dinner inside and putting the heavy bar back in place. Then she returned to her spot on the bed. "So the King doesn't know what you're doing?" she asked.

Why were they talking about this depressing shit instead of hugging some more? ...Probably because he couldn't trust himself right now to stop at hugging. Besides, he'd never told anyone any of this – especially not Pap – and he'd probably never be this comfortable with anyone else. "Oh, he knows," said Sans. "He's just useless, an' scared of me."

"Asgore? What do you mean?"

Her eyes had gone wide. Sans studied them for a second, thinking vaguely nice things about the color of wine and being very lovely in general, but it wasn't enough to drag him out of the mood he was working himself into. "I mean he's no good without the Queen, and she's hunkered down in the Ruins 'cause she blames him for everythin' that happened with Chara before the accident. Meanwhile, his big dumb ass knows she's right, but he won't apologize 'cause he's still pissed that she stood up to him in fronta everyone and let the humans go, as if killin' 'em woulda brought Asriel back. It's almost worse than havin' no rulers at all." The boss monster looked at his hand, feeling his eyes light up. "There's no food, no leadership, no one knows what's gonna happen."

"Sans—"

It was too late. Now that he'd started, the words came pouring out: "It wouldn't be so bad if everythin' in the Underground wasn't made of pure magic, but when there's that much fear and anger goin' around, you can actually see it build up, like fog. No joke. It's this shit-awful funk just kinda hangin' over everything. A couple years after the humans left, it got so bad that it even started infectin' Papyrus. The first time he yelled at me – I mean, screamin' at me outta nowhere, when I wasn't even buggin' him – I went out an' I saw this cloud over our house, and I just kinda snapped."

His hand opened and closed. Frisk stayed quiet. "I was so pissed that I tried ta pull some of that crap out of the air with my magic, just t'see what'd happen," Sans continued, "an' it actually worked. It came down, and it vanished. So I grabbed all the rest of it I could find, 'n it stayed gone. 'Fore I knew it, Pap was his old self again, 'n everyone seemed a little happier."

She shook her head. "When you say that it vanished, do you mean it evaporated, or did you absorb it?"

"Yep! Turns out when my magic touches any of it, I can't get it out again. It's just...in me. An' I hafta siphon more it off every couple of years, or everyone starts gettin' screwy again." He chuckled, a hollow sound that made her wince. "Gotta say, it's powerful as hell. The more I take, the stronger I get, an' now look at me." Sans shrugged. "I dunno. It's like gettin' hit with that explosion opened a hole in me I could fill with whatever I wanted, an' I didn't have anything else ta put in it."

Frisk watched him in silence, letting Sans get the last of his thoughts out. "So here we are. Pap's stayed his cool self, I'm a big ol' grouch, an' I could probably take Asgore in a fight if I really wanted. He knows damn well what I'm doin', but as long as I'm out protectin' everyone, he doesn't hafta worry about what else I'm up to, an' I feel like a helper. Everybody wins."

"I doubt that," the priestess murmured. "If you've spent years soaking up all the negative energy in the Underground and then feeding it with constant violence..."

It was now dark outside. Sans made a careless gesture. "I'm hungry. Ya hungry? Let's—"

"I'll go back with you."

The skeleton stopped in the act of pushing himself to his feet. He slowly turned to face her. "What did you say?"

"You asked me to come with you to speak to Asgore. This is my answer," she said calmly. "We still have a little over two weeks left. I've organized a series of inspections that will probably end up with more monsters being confiscated and placed in my custody. We can have one of them bring a letter to the Underground ahead of time to let him know we're—"

"Nope." Sans got up and went into the workroom. "Time ta eat." He unloaded the trolley, got everything set out, put the trolley out in the hall, barred the doors, and sat down.

Then he sighed, and went back to the bedroom, where Frisk was still sitting on the bed, just staring at him. "Look. Frisk. I've been thinkin' it over, an' it was a bad idea. I..." He shut his eyes as tight as he could. "Asgore will kill you. Okay? You've got the most unbelievable SOUL I've ever seen, and he'll see it, too, an' he's gonna try ta take it. He's gotten so bitter since Toriel left that I don't think we could even talk to 'im. He'd kill you, or we'd hafta kill him."

Frisk stood up on the bed, so that she was only a couple feet shorter than him, several feet away. "It's true, then? A monster can steal a human SOUL to become more powerful?"

"It's true, and it wouldn't be 'more powerful.' Try 'godlike.' An' that's just a regular monster 'n human. If Asgore got ahold of your SOUL, he could kill every human in this kingdom, an' nobody could stop 'im."

Her face had grown pale. "I see," she managed. Frisk slowly sank back to the mattress. "I...go ahead and eat. Please get started without me."

Sans felt that helpless anxiety that, unbeknownst to him, was so common among males of both species—should he at least try to comfort her first? "'Kay," he rumbled. "'m really sorry, Frisk. If there was anythin' I could do ta—"

"Please get started without me!"

Crap. He should've just listened to her. "Okay, okay, I'm goin'!"

Sure enough, the moment he stepped into the workroom, the bedroom door closed, and Sans felt a fresh barrier go up. He sat down and poked at his food. It didn't look that great anymore, but he might as well be miserable, not miserable and hungry. It wasn't like she was going to be in there all night, right?

...Right?

No sooner had they stepped out of the flowery cavern than she heard more footsteps, bigger and heavier ones. "Asriel!" It was a woman's voice echoing from far off, stern and a little scared. "Asriel, my child, where are you? They'll be here any moment!"

"Here, Mama," called her new friend. "We're coming." He tugged gently on her hand, and she let him guide her down a long, purple-tiled hallway.

"'We'?" The motherly voice was moving toward them. "What do you mean, dear? No one else should be down here unless—"

They rounded a corner, and so did Asriel's mother. She'd sounded like a normal human mom, but she was another goat monster, with short horns and a purple robe. "My goodness!" The goat-lady hurried forward and dropped to her knees in front of the child. "Where did you come from, little one? Are you hurt? Is he hurt, Asriel?"

"No, Mama," he said, smiling at the child again. "I found him in the golden flowers. He got separated from the others and fell down here."

"I see," the goat-lady said, her voice sounding funny. But then she smiled warmly at the human, who smiled right back. She'd never had a real mom, and this one seemed like everything she'd ever dreamed of, except with more fur. "Welcome to the Underground, my child. I am so very pleased to have you with us. I am Queen Toriel, and it seems you've been lucky enough to meet my son, Prince Asriel."

The little human looked up at him in terror. The prince? Had she been rude to him, or to the Queen? Should she bow, or say something royal, or—

"It's all right, Kris," said Asriel. "Mama, I'd like to take him to the house and get him cleaned up before the rest of the humans arrive. We'll be in the Great Hall as soon as we can."

"You most certainly will not! You will go tell your father that I am attending to our very first guest, and we will be there when Kris is ready." Toriel got to her feet and took the child's hand from Asriel. "Come with me, little one. Off you go, dear." She made a shooing motion at her son.

Asriel sighed, but arguing was clearly not an option. "Yes, Mama. I'll see you again soon, Kris!"

The child nodded, watching him disappear around the corner with amazing speed. Monsters could do that, couldn't they? At least some of the stories seemed to be true.

Toriel smiled down at her again. The child suddenly felt strange, but in a good way. Asriel was wonderful, and his mother looked so loving that the child wanted to throw herself into her arms right there.

And just like magic, the Queen released her hand, knelt, and opened her arms for a huge, warm, cloud-soft hug. "Poor child," Toriel murmured, the vibrations in her chest rumbling against the human's cheek. "We will take care of you for as long as you are here. I promise."

The child burrowed her face into the monster's robe, where no one could get mad at her for crying. If this was what the Underground was really like, then she wasn't scared anymore. She wouldn't run away; she'd stay as long as the others did, and fib all they wanted her to. She wished she could stay forever!

Sans jerked awake as a fork rattled onto a plate. "Dirt," said Frisk. "Sorry about that."

He'd fallen asleep on the workroom floor. It was dark out; the clock was about to strike 2. "What're you doin' up?" The skeleton got up and sat at the table.

"Cleaning," she said pointedly, stacking the last plate onto the last tray and setting them on the neglected trolley.

There was a stack of paper and a couple of ink bottles laid out, and Sans recalled how Gaster said she'd been writing nonstop. "What's all that?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's paper." Frisk sat down and grabbed a fresh sheet. "I have arrangements to make."

Sans made a rude noise, ignoring the twinge in his SOUL. "Yeah, but isn't it kinda soon? He hasn't even asked ya." He rapped the tabletop with his knuckles. "What's the first step again with all that crap? Gettin' a ring?"

The priestess paused, face going blank. "The first...?" She shut her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Can I assume you had a talk with Dr. Serif on your way here?"

Twinge twinge. "Yep. He tol' me he threw the box out for ya." Twiiiiinge. "He wasn't lyin', was he?"

"No." She opened her eyes. "I've checked your work on the seedlings. I don't know exactly what you had in mind for that last batch of pellets, but we'll see how it goes over the next week. Do you have any questions?"

What the crap? Was that all she was going to say? Maybe she'd do some other thing when the seedlings had grown a little more. "Uh, yeah, one question. How much sleep did ya get just now? I was up fer a couple hours before I passed out."

"Hm." The priestess rummaged in a little box of writing supplies. Only two witchlights were on, just enough to show that she looked terrible: pale, red-eyed, and...resigned, as if someone had done something really awful and left her to deal with it, but it was somehow her fault, too.

"Don't 'hm' me, lady. Ya look like total crap," he said bluntly.

Frisk ignored him, fishing out a pen. He was ready to demand an explanation when she started whistling again, the same beautiful but sad song from before. This felt much more pointed than her usual soothing noises, but it was still effective; Sans could muster just enough energy to be indignant that she was putting him back to sleep, and then his head was on the table, and he was asleep.

To Sans' surprise and frustration, the next few days followed the same pattern, but worse. There was no more hugging, or talking about feelings, or any of the things he'd grown to expect. Frisk stayed a little too busy and grew more and more tired, but she ignored his questions, saying she'd explain what she was doing once it was over; after the second day or so, it was all he could do not to blow up at her. He couldn't force her to act happier now that her decision was made, but it sucked that he'd advised her to pick something and stop being miserable, and she'd picked something, and now they were both miserable.

Not only would she not talk to him, she kept inviting Dr. Serif to the workroom to go over solar panel specifications or observe his experiments. There was no more quiet time alone together in the mornings or evenings: if they weren't studying, she was writing, or so mopey and distracted that it wasn't fun to beat her at chess anymore. The moment they were done eating dinner, she took a bath and went straight to bed, or at least to her office, leaving the light on and probably doing more goddamn work instead of sleeping.

She also started making him escort her into town in the afternoons to help her carry stuff. She'd gone instantly from no interest in shopping whatsoever to buying large quantities of the most random things imaginable: play scripts, different types of magic stones, miniature targets for archery practice, hair accessories, bath items, bolts of silk, children's toys, dance charts, expensive figurines, sheet music, a silver tea service, books on education—it couldn't be some kind of weird impulse thing, because the few times she let him peek over her shoulder as she wrote, he'd seen that she was making shopping lists. Whenever they brought another load of crap back to her rooms, she didn't unpack anything, just had him stack it clear up to the ceiling in her office.

The kicker was that Frisk didn't even seem to enjoy hoarding all that stuff, or anything else she was doing. She almost never smiled at him or made puns anymore. She just kept writing, and dodging his questions, and looked ready to cry pretty much all the time.

It would've been neat if his libido had also gotten mad and decided to grab its toys and go home...but no. Sans had now perused enough of Frisk's science and anatomy textbooks to piece together the entire picture of human reproduction; through his own hands-on experimentation – in the bathroom, in the middle of the night, sober this time – he could say with reasonable confidence that the process for humans and monsters was much more similar than he'd thought, and everything was working fine on his end. If he had his skin on, he could of course feel more, but he couldn't finish. As himself, the process took a lot of concentration, and he got weirded out if he looked down at it too long, but—

Why was he even bothering? Sure, it felt pretty great, but he wasn't a human. He was a monster, and monsters weren't designed to waste their time or magic playing with themselves. His instincts were all pointed straight at Frisk, and now that he knew what he was supposed to do, it was getting harder – ha – to content himself with alone time. He couldn't stop thinking about holding her again, and he didn't think it was that disingenuous to want to point out to her how much better she'd feel if she'd opened up to him again. And then sex.

...Damn it all to hell. Was the entire second half of his apprenticeship going to be like this?

It was her own fault. She wasn't supposed to be there. She'd snuck in to get some chocolate from the refrigerator, and when she heard the grown-ups come in, she realized she'd taken too long to sneak back out. The best she could do was run behind Toriel's armchair in the living room and flatten herself against the back of it at an angle. Never mind how hot the fireplace was; they already sounded mad.

"For the thousandth time," she heard the King say in his big, rumbling voice, "if I had known that he could not marry you—"

"Then I still wouldn't have been welcome in my own home. Would I, Papa?" The child buried her head in her arms. It was her. Chara. She wasn't even pretending to be nice anymore. All her hatred was out in the open, aimed right at her former parents.

"My dearest child, please," Toriel said desperately.

"Your dearest child? Where? It would be so lovely to meet them! Ah, don't tell me—did you pick up another stray human?"

"Chara," protested the King.

"Is it Kris?" A short, cruel laugh. "I'm sure you'd rather have a boy this time! If they get someone pregnant, they don't have to deal with the consequences, do they? By all means, you can have him. I know you both love surprises."

The little human wished she was dead. Toriel and Asgore were both such nice people! Why was Chara saying these horrible things to them? Did she really like anyone? Was it some kind of game to her to be so pretty, act so perfect, and sing such amazing songs, then turn around and be a bigger monster than anyone with fur or horns?

"What do you want, Chara? What would you have of either of us? We cannot turn back time, but—"

"But you can do whatever you damn well please now. Don't worry, Mama, Papa. You might've thrown me out like a dog, but I made do. At least I survived."

The armchair rocked back into the child's body as Toriel sank into it. Asgore was silent; there was no sound except the Queen's sobbing.

More footsteps. Oh, no, it was Asriel. He was going to come in and see his mother crying and hear Chara, and—

"Big brother!" Light, prancing footsteps ran to meet Asriel. "I'm so sorry, Azzy, but we were talking, and I think I upset Mama," Chara said sheepishly. "Can you and I go for a walk so she can calm down?"

"Of course!" A brief pause, as if Asriel was seeing his parents' expressions. "Er...we'll be back in a bit. Is that all right?"

Asgore grunted. The child could feel Toriel shaking through the back of the armchair, though the Queen held her tears back till the front door had closed behind Asriel.

The King cleared his throat. "Tori, I—"

"Don't you 'Tori' me! Not now. Maybe not ever!"

The child hunched down even further as Asgore hurried away down the hall, slamming the bedroom door. This couldn't be happening. Maybe, if she stayed still enough, she'd wake up. If she was still...if she was good, maybe—

Fourteen days were left of his month at the castle.

Frisk had gotten up looking as pale and worn as usual, but the moment Sans saw her leave her office, he knew something had changed. She was still unhappy, but now she also looked determined. "We're having dinner with His Majesty and Prince Gaius tonight," she announced as he unloaded breakfast onto the table.

"Oh yeah?" Sans glanced at the tray of unopened mail. "How d'ya know? You didn't mention it yesterday."

"I just decided it," she said flatly.

Sans sensed this was not the time to ask stupid questions, and he couldn't think of any smart ones, so he nodded and turned his attention to his food while Frisk wrote yet another note and put her scary-looking official seal on it. A few words at the double doors, and a guard ran off to take it straight to the King.

The course of the day itself was decided for them: before they had finished eating, someone else came to the doors with a sheaf of papers. Frisk brought them back to the table and asked, "Do you remember how I mentioned surprise inspections on how monsters are being kept?" She held up the papers. "I ordered fifteen of them for last night. These are the reports."

That explained several of the letters she'd been working on. "Didja ever get those records you wanted from the doughy guy?"

Frisk didn't crack a smile, but at least she wasn't frowning. "Yes, the Cardinal provided them the day you took Snowdrake home. I'll keep my promise to show it all to you, but I wanted to get the worst of the worst taken care of first. This way, you don't have to worry about anyone being in immediate danger. Please get started on those root measures while I go through these."

He did, and she did, and Sans could only console himself that he at least knew what she was writing this time. Of the fifteen near-simultaneous visits, five had resulted in citations and scheduled followups, while eight monsters had been found in such dangerous or unsanitary conditions that the Church agents had immediately confiscated them. That explained why she hadn't told him sooner what those letters were for—he might have gone straight out to liberate the monsters.

Frisk had prepared a dozen custody letters with blanks for monster and owner names and specific offenses, so that she had only to fill those in to get the custodial paperwork started. In the meantime, the monsters were being cared for in temporary quarters by people who knew that the High Priestess would hear of anything at all being done wrong and take swift action to correct it.

Watching her scribble her way through the pre-written letters and the documents necessary for the deposits on each monster, Sans had to reflect on the amount of time and forethought all of this had required, and congratulated himself on not going off on her for being so little fun the past few days. Granted, it was a pretty low bar, but he'd stumbled all the way over it! Even if she was going to marry some other schlub, he, Sans the skeleton, had been a helper, and he hadn't had to kill a single person to do it!

...Huh. He really had helped, and he really hadn't killed anyone, had he? Now all he had to do was keep his hands to himself and focus on his genuinely interesting homework for a couple more weeks, and...and he'd figure out what to do then.

Once Frisk was done and had summoned someone to whisk the papers away to their exciting new life, she had a new task for him. "When you return to the Underground," she told him, "I'll send as many seeds and herbal ingredients along with you as I can. But you also have your salary, and if you're going to use it for large quantities of foodstuffs, we need to arrange it ahead of time. I've compiled a list of current prices for wheat, barley, different kinds of beans, rice, and other nonperishables. Please look through these and make a rough estimate of what you'd like to pick up on your way back. I'll pay for the rental of a horse and wagon, or wagons, depending what you choose and how many trips we want to do."

"Neato." Sans glanced at the tray of letters, still untouched, and recognized the crest on one that had fallen slightly askew from the pile. "Hey, isn't that from yer boyfriend?"

"Don't be childish," Frisk said, so sharply that he wished he'd kept his mouth shut. She plucked the note out of the stack and ripped it open, scanning the few short lines. "Of course he heard about it already." The priestess tossed the note aside. "Before you ask, no, he's not proposing. He says he'll be there another week, and then they're both going to visit their parents."

Interesting. Sans didn't know if the guy was being overly confident that she'd wait for him, or what. Ha, maybe rich humans just took so long to set up big weddings that he was giving her a couple months' head start to get her shoes made or something.

...Actually, that could be the case. But at least it'd be a while before the guy came back! Who knew? Maybe he would choke to death on something or fall off his horse or—

Sans knew he should try to not wallow in evil thoughts, but it wasn't his fault: Frisk had bought some perfume when they were out yesterday, a light vanilla with hints of citrus that made her smell like candy. He'd had trouble focusing around her before, and now Sans found himself crunching his femurs together to help remind him that no.

Still, he had plenty else to think about; figuring out what to buy for the Underground, how much everyone would like of which food within his budget, was kind of like a puzzle. Papyrus probably wouldn't have enjoyed it, but Sans got so into it that lunch came while he was still scribbling in the margins. "We have more paper, you know," Frisk remarked at his shoulder.

That sounded more like the lady he knew. Sans didn't know what she'd been thinking, but as long as she was happy again, or on her way there...

Another good thing happened a little while after they were done with lunch. A couple of servants came puffing down the hall with two enormous boxes that turned out to be a cavernous black overcoat trimmed with white fur, a giant red shirt, and correspondingly large trousers. "Surprise," Frisk said as the men unpacked everything. "I ordered them when you were out with Snowdrake. I thought you could use more than one set of clothes. Very fancy, I know."

It was almost exactly the same outfit as his human form, but real, and exceptionally well-made. How much had the materials alone cost, never mind getting clothes this size in less than a week? "Are these slippers?" Sans demanded, lifting out a pair of enormous black slippers.

She grinned for the first time in days. "Remember the time we were arguing about whether you needed shoes? Here's a compromise. Try them on, please."

The shoemaker must have thought she was joking about his size, but the joke was on him: they fit perfectly. It was more comfortable than clacking around with bare bones. Way more. "Huh," he said.

"Excellent. There's no charge for these, by the way. Consider it hazard pay for taking me to the festival, and all that shopping." Frisk gave each of the servants a hundred-dinar piece and nodded them and the empty boxes out of the room.

Aaargh, she smelled great and she was being ludicrously generous—oh, good, she was going into the office now to let him try the new stuff on. Well, from a civilized point of view, he could see the sense in having more than one set of clothes: he'd only had his newish ones washed one time, and had worn the gross old ones while he waited. This way, he could just throw those out.

...Or he could throw out the other set, too. The black and red ensemble was warm and comfortable, it had great pockets, it looked cool, and he was never taking it off.

That resolution stayed with him all the way to their dinner with the King. When they arrived at the small dining room where King Stephin ate with his son every night, Sans remained decked out in his new stuff, including the slippers. To his absolute bemusement, not only had Frisk not argued, she'd donned a black dress with little sparkly bits and a garnet necklace and earrings. It was stupid and dumb of him to be so pleased that they matched, but, they matched.

This did not escape the King, who welcomed him with the same cordiality as their first meeting and gave Frisk a weird look as she came in. The Prince was a thin, sandy-haired, sickly-looking kid who had obviously been warned about him, because when the greetings and introductions were over, he seemed more relieved than scared. When he wouldn't stop staring, Sans ignored his own instructions and looked directly at him to say, "No worries, I don't bite."

Gaius nodded, fascinated. Frisk took a dainty spoonful of soup and, under the table, kicked Sans in the tibia. "Sans has made remarkable progress in his studies," she said pleasantly.

"Oh? How wonderful," the King said, also pleasantly.

"Yes, he'll be invaluable to his people when he returns to the Underground. I wanted to ask you, Majesty, to consider whether it may be permissible for me to accompany him there for a short time, to offer him my continued assistance."

Sans glanced at her in disbelief. Yes, he'd heard right, and she was smiling at him in open defiance. The skeleton had to force himself not to snarl at her. What the hell was this?

The King didn't seem much happier with the idea than he was. "That may not be wise, Your Eminence," he replied. "I wish relations between our nations were at a point where such a venture would be possible, but I have been made to understand that my brother monarch is no longer inclined to receive human emissaries. We must consider your personal safety."

"Of course." Frisk sipped her wine, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "It's a pity you couldn't have visited with the last delegation, Majesty. I'm sure you would have enjoyed catching up with King Asgore."

From the King's stiffened back and tightened mouth, Sans guessed that it was one of those polite little conversational bitch-slaps humans were so good at. He wasn't sure about dishing one out to the actual King, but the old man seemed to recover well enough. "Indeed," he said. "I'm sure your pupil will prove capable."

Frisk inclined her head, earrings swaying. "I hope this will be the case, Your Majesty, and that the knowledge he gains from us will be useful enough to prove our good intentions to his King."

The conversation moved right along from there, but Sans was barely listening. He made the correct noises when Gaius started babbling at him about the book he was reading about people fighting each other with giant cats or swords or something; he sort of laughed at Stephin's jokes; he let the High Priestess tell them about the things they were working on. "Sans says there are magic flowers in the Underground that will repeat whatever you say back to you, and to the next person who touches their petals," she informed the young Prince.

"It'll repeat anything?" Gaius asked eagerly, no doubt plotting the sort of words he'd say.

"Any sound at all. If I ever make it to the Underground, shall I bring one back for you?"

The boy agreed so enthusiastically that he started coughing, and dinner was brought to an end by the arrival of dessert: apple turnovers. Sans took several, mind still buzzing, though he noticed that, like the rest of the food, the things were pretty damn tasty. So was she messing with him, or trying to throw him off so he would be too distracted to do something rude or scary?

No, she knew exactly what she was doing: as they bowed their way out and returned to her workroom, her head stayed high, and she carried herself to her dressing room with absolute certainty. Frisk came out in her robe and stopped in front of Sans, who was blocking the bathroom door. "Yes?" she asked rhetorically.

"Oh, nothin'. I'm just tryin' ta figure out what's wrong with my ears. It sure sounded ta me like you told His Majesty that ya don't care if my Majesty wants to rip your heart out 'n eat it."

The priestess feigned dismay. "I'm so sorry to tell you this, Sans, but...your ears, they're—"

"Not now!" Sans jammed his hands into his pockets, leaning down to look her in the face. "I already told ya, I'm not takin' you with me! Ya got that?"

"I got it." Frisk crossed her arms at the waist. On a hunch, the boss monster checked her SOUL—oh, fuck, it was already that bright? And her determination was still rising. "That's really unfortunate. It'll make getting in a lot more difficult for me, not to mention dangerous," she added.

The boss monster ground his teeth. "Ya know what's not hard or dangerous? Keepin' yer ass away from the Underground!"

She smiled, and said, "No."

Sans was at a complete loss. He had never heard anything more definite than that one word. "Why 'no'?" he asked, incredulity overtaking his anger for a moment. "Do ya really not trust me to teach the others the stuff I'm learnin'?"

"That's not it," she replied.

"Then what the hell is it? Are ya curious? Do you wanna tell everyone yer mom said hi or somethin'?!"

"No." Frisk's arms dropped to her sides. "I want to tell them that I say hi." She smiled again, but in a wistful, absolutely unyielding way. "Thank you for being so patient with me the past few days, Sans. I haven't..." Her smile disappeared, one hand brushing her hair back and the other curling into a fist. "I lied to you. I lied to everyone, but I should've told you the truth already. I..." She swallowed, her pulse racing so that he could see it in her throat. "I opened the box, Sans."

The clock ticked. The fire hissed and popped.

"No you didn't," the boss monster said blankly. "The doc threw it out for ya."

"He threw it away after I opened it," she said, enunciating each word carefully. "After our dream, I woke up, I opened the box, and I took out this little orb inside it—" Frisk made a small circle of her thumb and forefinger to illustrate its size. "I made a barrier. I stuck the orb into it, and when I pulled the barrier back in, the memories came with it."

The skeleton felt as if someone had opened the top of his skull and vigorously swished his brains around, then slammed the top back on. "So...?"

"So I gave him the box out in the hallway in front of the guards, and we acted as though I'd never opened it." Frisk swallowed again. "It's been coming back to me in bits and pieces, but now I know what happened. Mostly. And I am telling you—" Her face hardened until she was almost unrecognizable. "I am going back to the Underground, with or without you. I'm going to see everyone again or die trying. I am not exaggerating, Sans. Do you understand me?"

"Hell fucking no, I don't understand you!" Sans' foot rose and hit the floor so hard that, even with the slipper on, he felt a board crack beneath the carpeting. "Whaddya mean, 'go back'? Are ya makin' shit up 'cause you have some kind of death wish?"

She was breathing rapidly, her throat still pulsing. "A death wish? How many times has someone tried to kill me here, Sans, even in my own bedroom? If I go with you, at least I'll have someone to hide behind!"

"I'm not takin' ya anywhere more dangerous than the candy shop, or whatever other shit you wanna get next." He snorted. "'sat why you've been buyin' all that crap? Are ya gonna play Father Christmas an' bring everyone in the Underground a buncha presents?"

"Yes," she snapped. Sans was seriously considering teleporting in order to avoid wrecking something when Frisk went on, "Think about it. Who do you think the targets are for? Do you want Undyne destroying your front window again because she got carried away and forgot that Monster Kid couldn't catch any of her spears? Then Papyrus had to send her home because she treated cleanup like another challenge and kept pounding the glass instead of sweeping it up."

Cold shock poured down Sans' spine. "Wha...how—"

"The magic stones are for Alphys to study. She's probably starved for more plays to read, and she can act them out with the new figurines, but she'll have to share the scripts with Mettaton. The luxury goods are mostly for him, and a few are for Toriel. Does she still have trouble with the skin itching at the base of her horns? Either way, I also got her some books on teaching. I'll leave the tea service outside Asgore's door with a note on it—shall I go on?"

"This isn't funny!" Sans was breathing heavily, too. "What—how the fuck d'you know all that? None of the humans were there when Undyne broke the window! It was just us an'..."

"And Kris."

Sans shook his head wildly, stumbling back until he bumped into the bathroom door. "This is messed up, Frisk! Ya found Kris and didn't even tell me?! How long were you gonna sit on that?!"

"I only just found out, and I'm telling you now," she said firmly.

Sans' SOUL felt sick, and ecstatic, and so scared that he wanted to hurt something. "Okay. Great. Perfect. What are you tellin' me now, Frisk? Where is he? Is he okay? What else did he tell you?"

Frisk shut her eyes. She opened them. "We don't give Papyrus enough credit," she commented. "He figured it out before I did, and you still don't—"

"Would you fucking stop the cryptic bullshit an' spit it out already?!"

"Fine! I'm Kris!"

Another crystallized moment. Sans felt his head move back and forth, back and forth, on its own. "Shut up."

"I'm not joking."

More shaking, spreading down his frame. "What the hell, Frisk," he muttered, almost more disappointed than angry.

"They brought me along to see how the monsters would treat a child, as a guinea pig," she spat. "Why do you think I was allowed to spend so much time with you completely unsupervised?"

"Just knock it off, Frisk! Kris was a friggin' boy!"

"Kris had short hair and wore boys' clothes! It's not the same thing!"

"God damn it, Kris was, what, four or five—"

"None of you ever asked me how old I was! I was ten, thank you, but I was so malnourished that I probably looked like a toddler!"

Sans dropped to a squat, resting his elbow on his knee and his hand over his face. "I don't fuckin' believe this. Didja get brainwashed, or is this some kinda joke?"

"Why in God's name would I or anyone else joke about this, Sans?!"

"I don't fucking know!" Sans slammed his fist into his femur so hard that Frisk jumped. "Ya know what? We're done here. I'm goin' to bed." He got up, hobbling a little to move past her. "Have fun in yer little fantasy world. Lemme know when—"

"Do you want to see my stripes?"

Sans stopped as though he'd run into a brick wall. He could feel his sockets burning red-orange as his SOUL tried to yank him backwards. Sans slowly turned to look at Frisk, who hadn't moved, her back still to him.

Stripes. Sans watched, too heartsick to speak, as the young woman opened the neck of her robe and began easing it off her shoulders.

It wasn't entirely Papyrus' fault. Sans should have been keeping at least one socket on them, but it was late and he was busy on the floor with some very important dozing. A pillow came flying at him, and he caught it with his eyes still closed, sending it end over end back at Papyrus.

"NYEH HEH! WELL DONE, BROTHER! (PSST! HUMAN! LET'S HIT HIM WITH THE SPECIAL ATTACK NEXT!)"

Kris giggled. "Okay," he whispered, somehow even louder than Pap.

"ARE YOU READY TO SURPRISE HIM? VERY WELL! ONE! TWO! ...WHOOPSIE!"

Sans did not see what happened next, but he did hear the distinctive sound of a full glass of water being knocked flying, and sighed, opening his eyes.

"ACK! YOU ARE WET, HUMAN! SANS! PLEASE ASSIST KRIS BEFORE HE MELTS!"

"I'm gonna melt?!"

"probably. i dunno." Sans got up and beckoned to the child, who was holding his shirt away from his body in obvious panic. "you go get a towel, pap, and i'll find the squirt something dry to wear."

That got him a smile. Sans led the way to his own room, where he probably had a clean shirt somewhere. He switched the light on and selected a likely suspect from the top of the laundry pile. "here we go. survival of the fittest, amirite, kiddo? heh. gimme your shirt, and we'll put it over—"

Kris had already pulled his shirt off. He was painfully thin compared to the other humans Sans had seen, but as the kid turned to wring the wet shirt out – all over the carpet, sigh – it wasn't his protruding ribs or spine that brought Sans up short. It was the livid pink and too-white lines criss-crossing each other in the middle and lower parts of the little human's back, with one or two errant marks near his shoulders.

Scars. Those were scars. Someone had hurt the kid so badly that it'd messed up his skin for the rest of his life. How could—

Sans didn't mean to stare, but Kris looked up and caught his gaze, and the absolute worst part was that he smiled, and laughed a little. "You're lucky. None of your stripes probably show."

"stripes?" the skeleton repeated.

"Yeah." The child's tone was so casual that Sans' SOUL hurt. "It's okay. Mama told Cook to stop leaving so many marks."

Sans gestured, almost mechanically, for Kris to raise his arms. The child did so, and Sans pulled the dry shirt down over his head, tugging it down until the hem almost reached Kris' knobby knees. Then the monster did something that confused the human quite a bit: he leaned forward and put his arms around the child, resting his hand on Kris' head. "no one gets stripes around here, pal," he said into the human's fleshy ear.

Pause. "They don't?" queried Kris.

"nah. it's a very important monster rule: no stripes. if anyone tries to give you any more, you just send 'em to me and pap. we'll explain the rule for you." Very, very thoroughly, he thought, gritting his teeth.

"Oh. Okay." Kris dutifully put his arms around Sans, with a slightly puzzled air. "Thanks, Sans."

Holy moly, did the poor kid not know how hugs worked? What the actual hell was wrong with humans? The skeleton stood up and held his hand out. "c'mon, kiddo. let's go tell pap your skin melted."

"Okay!" Back on familiar ground, Kris hopped up and down. "Can we tell Toriel my skin melted?"

"haaa ha ha ha no."

And they'd gone back to Pap's room, and Pap had immediately bought it, and they'd snickered while he lost his mind about what Toriel was going to say and whether they could make some new skin for him out of paper. Sans had pointed out that that would make bathtime problematic, and—

And Sans had never, ever told anyone about the "stripes."

And now he was watching a beautiful young woman ease her robe all the way down to the small of her back, and there was the same pattern of scars, the same long, thin pink and white lines he'd seen on Kris twelve years ago. "It's not a trick," she said, her voice a little too calm and steady. "You can touch them if you still don't believe me."

"I believe you," he said roughly, but he couldn't help himself: a second later, Frisk jumped as his phalange grazed the spot where the most lines intersected. "Shit! Sorry. Sorry!" Sans snatched his hand away. "I...I believe ya, I swear. I just—"

"It's all right. Go ahead." She turned her head enough for him to see her attempt a smile. "It doesn't hurt anymore."

Liar. Sans sat down and crossed his legs, accepting the pain where he'd hit himself. He turned his hand and very gently ran the side of his forefinger down her back, starting at the velvety, unbroken skin below her neck and across the bumpy scar tissue. Then he did what he'd seen her do too many times and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, where the red wouldn't show. "So...Kris, huh?"

"That's me." Frisk's voice cracked. She was clutching the robe against her front, so that he could only see the graceful lines of her shoulders, and the marks someone had put on the sweetest kid, the best person anyone could ever meet.

"They had to remove my memories at St. Brigid's," she continued. "My father didn't go with the delegation because his wife was about to deliver and had already been sick. She died while we were on our way to the Underground, and he started checking on all of his illegitimate children. After they made me leave with the others, I was sent to the convent to be educated, and I was a mess." She swallowed twice. "All I wanted was to go back to the Underground. It didn't matter how many times they told me the monsters didn't want another human down there. I wouldn't eat, I wouldn't sleep, I just kept—"

"What the fuck! Of course we wanted ya there!" Sans slammed his fist into the floor. "Do you have any idea how much everyone missed you?!"

"Yes! And I wanted to go back just as much!" Frisk's facade was crumbling rapidly. She hadn't pulled up her robe yet, possibly because her hands were clenched too tightly. "I didn't know if everyone was all right after the accident! No one would tell me anything!"

"No. They tore it all outta your head instead." Sans ground his eye sockets into his sleeve again. "An' ya got it back, and you've keepin' it to yerself?"

"I'm sorry!" The pain in her voice was so raw that Sans flinched. "I'm sorry! Kris wasn't real, it was just me! And no, I didn't tell you any of this! I was so scared of what you'd say, if you'd believe me or not—"

He hadn't. He hadn't believed her. She'd had to get half naked to prove it. If Sans could have ripped his SOUL out and punched it, he would have done so right then and there. "Whaddya mean, it's 'just you'?" he demanded, rougher than he meant to.

Her head drooped, leaving a long curve of neck and shoulder that the stupider parts of him couldn't stop staring at. His instincts were starting to kick in: she was hurting, she needed him, she'd already showed him this much skin and let him touch her—

Sans' whole body twitched as another thought crashed in: the fortune. Her second fortune.

The pain of that sorrow and regret will be unbearable for a time, and they will not be yours alone.

But the rest of it, the joy and power, and a child—

Frisk buried her face in her hands, shaking her head harder and harder. "I have to go back, Sans. I have to! Please, Sans, take me home with you! I just want to go home! Please—"

Sans didn't think, he acted. Frisk gasped as he turned her around and opened his overcoat to sweep her under it before he put his arms around her, holding her as tight as he dared. "Okay," he said, swiping at his eyes again. "Okay, kitten. I'll take you with me. We'll both go, and we'll tell everyone you're back." After all, the monsters – especially the King – would never accept the humans' High Priestess trying to cozy up to them, but they just might listen to Kris, especially when she was returning Sans to them safe, bringing food and gifts. They wouldn't let Asgore hurt her.

That was the difference in her fortunes. The other humans had done too good a job of erasing "Kris" and turning Frisk into the ideal High Priestess. If she hadn't been brave enough to remember everything—

This wasn't fair! He already loved her so much, and now this? What was he supposed to do?

Right now, he just held her as she buried her face in his new shirt and gave vent to huge, racking, wailing sobs, finally letting out years of grief. He allowed her to cry until she started hiccuping, and then he started petting her hair and just a little down her neck and shoulders, nothing objectionable—all he needed to do to quash his sex drive was think of Kris smiling ruefully about his "stripes." The bones of his face itched where the red kept trickling down, but the sky could have started falling, and he wouldn't have moved before she was ready.

#songfell #made me sniffly to write but damn cant wait for reactions

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