ermmmm like i dunno if you're still doing requests buttt could you do like kustard but it turns to dustard
that dynamic always interested me but i never see much about it :3
anon, has anyone ever told you that you're a genius?
the kustard to dustard pipeline is WOEFULLY UNEXPLORED. WHICH SUCKS BECAUSE IT'S SO FUCKING GOOD. so, naturally, i was REALLY excited when i got this ask. yippie!!! an excuse to write fun fucked up dynamics!!!!!
this one is pretty tame. i can't think of any warnings you might need other than it being like..... long and, obviously, kinda angsty. it's fluffy in the end tho. but that's what you get when you ask me to write i guess LOL
thank you all for the requests btw!! i was NOT expecting so many after the kist fic, but i am pleasantly surprised and am trying to chip away at them as quickly as i can. spat this one out in a few hours, so it might not be my best work, but i'm happy with how it turned out either way :)
as always, the link to this fic on ao3 will be in the reblogs once it's posted, if that's your cup of tea (as it is mine LMAO)
i hope this feeds you well anon. thank you for the ask <3
It was undeniable that the multiverse was an entirely cruel and ruthless place.
Or, at least, that was what Red had wholeheartedly believed up until he’d met his other self, in a universe that was so very unlike his own. A universe where the typical LOVE of any given passerby was nothing higher than 1; where Sans and his brother were kind to one another in public; where there was so little need for the royal guard that the worst Sans got for sneaking off to Grillby’s during his shift was a slap on the wrist. It was difficult to believe that a place like that could exist – that it could be self-sustainable, since, logically, their weakness should have led to their downfall – and even harder to look at it as anything more than a childish fantasy that had yet to find its catch.
Initially, Red hated Sans.
It felt ridiculous, looking back upon it – in the moments when his head lay in Sans’ lap and gentle fingers traced over his scars like they were poetry written in a language Red had never bothered to learn, and he wondered what Sans saw in him that he hadn’t seen; wondered if this was what it felt like to love himself – but it was the truth. It had taken him a while to understand that the circumstances in which they’d grown were enough to turn them into two different people; that hating Sans wasn’t so much like hating himself, or what he could have been, as he wanted it to be.
Really, Sans was so unsuspecting that Red had been foolish enough to let his guard down, forgetting that then was when feeling was the most liable to appear.
He hadn’t expected to fall in love with the laugh – genuine, unabashed, and lacking all of the gruffness of his own – of someone whose humour was just as terrible as his own.
He’d been far too blind to realise how incredibly endearing it was for someone to wake up and allow themselves to be bleary and half-asleep, cuddling into his arm without even meaning to, even if it meant opening themselves up to being easily picked off.
In allowing someone into his blindspot that he’d believed to be too weak or foolish to use it against him, he’d failed to remember that it was the softest words that cut the deepest, when they would bleed him dry so tenderly and lovingly that he couldn’t even think to fight against the bloodloss; when, instead, he’d lean into the knife and ask them to twist it. The wound was soul deep, and the soul’s wounds could not be so easily ignored.
Though, it was a small price to pay to hear that raucous laughter over jokes that weren’t even funny. Trivial, really, in comparison to soft smiles and gentle touches that moved slowly just to prove to him how tender the world could really be.
“Earth to Red.”
A soul for a soul; a life for a life. They gave one another all of themselves, promised each other that it was enough, and it was. For once, it was, just to be soft.
“Come in, Red.”
There was gentleness in the multiverse, hidden until it was allowed in.
Tiredly, he bat away the hand that waved in front of his sockets, only to grab it by the wrist and pull it back down, firmly, on the crown of his skull. With a laugh, the fingers scratched gentle circles into the bone, and Red hummed happily at the feeling, allowing his sockets to slip shut as he lay against Sans’ legs.
“Where’d you go, space cadet?”
“Nowhere,” he grumbled, sighing softly as he fully relaxed into the touch. “Must’ve dozed off.”
Again, there was that laugh, and Red’s soul fluttered. “With your eyes open?”
“It’s a little known talent of mine,” he hummed.
“Gee, must be handy,” came the response, and amusement never sounded so beautiful. “You’ll have to teach me sometime.”
“Nuh uh,” and he couldn’t stop himself from snorting. “It’s genetic.”
“Ah, damn. Guess we gotta add that to the list of differences.”
“Guess so.” His breath hitched as the hand on his head trailed downward to cup his cheek. His browbones furrowed, ever so slightly, and he felt himself go tense.
“Hey. Look at me.”
After a moment, Red opened his sockets, and there was no sight more welcome than the face of his lover. Each time he saw him was like the first, and Red drank in each of his features as if they’d disappear at any moment: smooth bone, unmarred by chips and cracks; eyelights that glowed softly in dark sockets, like how he imagined fireflies might; ever present, gentle smile that smoothed away his worries. Oh, to be so untouched by cruelty. He’d do anything to keep it that way.
“‘Sup,” he breathed, and Sans’ smile widened as he snorted.
“‘Sup,” he returned. His thumb ran circles over his cheek, and Red leaned into the touch. “You okay?”
With a snicker, he rolled his eyelights at the question. “Super duper.”
Despite himself, Sans laughed too, but, still, pressed on. “You sure? You were spacing out pretty bad before. Like, way out in deep space,” he emphasised, unnecessarily. “No planets around, just stars. Way beyond our galaxy. Uncharted territory. Where no man has gone before.”
“Alright, alright, I get the picture” Red interrupted, though not without chuckling. “‘M okay. Was just thinking.”
When Sans’ head cocked to the side, Red couldn’t help but grin. “About?”
“Uranus.”
At first, his sockets simply narrowed, confused, then all at once, “Ura– Oh. Alright, perv. Har har.”
But, he was laughing, and Red was, too, like it was the funniest joke in the world despite it not even being funny. Maybe it didn’t matter, if Red was the one to say it; if Sans was the one to laugh. Maybe, then, it could be good, even if it wasn’t, really. The sound of their laughter, something shared and sacred, was what Red imagined it might feel like to hear the birds chirp when the sun rose and turned the sky whatever colours it was supposed to when it drove the night away. He hoped that it was blue, like Sans’ favourite colour, but the pictures in his textbooks were too faded to be sure.
When he tuned back in, the laughter had tapered off.
“You do that a lot, y’know,” Sans noted, almost absentmindedly, and his hands turned back to trailing shapes on Red’s skull.
He grunted at the feeling. “Do what?”
“Go to space,” Sans said, simply. “Or… somewhere else. That I can’t reach.”
Red frowned, closing his sockets to cut off the dull thrum of agony he felt in his soul whenever Sans’ smile didn’t reach his eyes like that. “I do it less than I used to. It used to be better, somewhere else – anywhere else – but ‘m not so sure anymore.”
“Where would you wanna go?” he asked, in a whisper. “If you could go anywhere. Anywhere at all.”
For a moment, Red considered. The answer would have been easy before – the surface, of course. Where Paps and every other monster longed to be – but access to the multiverse had opened up options that he’d never known existed. If he could conceive of a place, it surely existed, somewhere. Any place. Anywhere. Anywhere at all. But, if kindness was so thoroughly hidden, why should he want to look for it anywhere else?
“Think I’d rather just stay here,” he hummed. “With you.”
Maybe he should have questioned the way that Sans’ hands stilled at his answer. Maybe he should have opened his eyes; looked at his face; seen his expression; known what it meant.
But, he didn’t.
“Geez,” Sans breathed, with a laugh that sounded breathless. “My answer feels stupid in comparison.”
“Yeah? What’s yours?”
“Anywhere else. Anywhere at all.”
In hindsight, Red should have known it was too good to last; too good to stay good.
A universe where the typical LOVE of any given passerby was nothing higher than 1; where Sans and his brother were kind to one another in public; where there was so little need for the royal guard that the worst Sans got for sneaking off to Grillby’s during his shift was a slap on the wrist. It was difficult to believe that a place like that could exist – that it could be self-sustainable, since, logically, their weakness should have led to their downfall – and even harder to look at it as anything more than a childish fantasy that had yet to find its catch.
Of course, there was a catch.
There was always a catch. Every childish fantasy grew tainted with time, like the innocence of children was stripped with age. Every fairy tale book grew weary and old, pages yellowed and frayed. Every picture faded, until you couldn’t be sure whether the sky was blue or grey.
But, you hoped it was blue anyway, and maybe that was your mistake.
It was undeniable that the multiverse was an entirely cruel and ruthless place. That was what Red wholeheartedly believed. Maybe, after all, there was a reason that love and LOVE were spelled the same.
Try as he might, though, Red could not hate him.
It felt ridiculous – in the moments when hands clamped around his neck like a vice, choked by the grip and the grief that came with it, as if the two were one in the same, and they would both cry, both tremble in fear, or fury, or something worse, and Red would think that this was what it was like to hate himself – but it was the truth. It had taken him a while to understand that the circumstances in which they’d changed were enough to turn them into two different people; that hating Dust wasn’t so much like loving himself, or what he could have been, as he wanted it to be.
Really, Red had underestimated Dust as he had been before; had assumed that kindness meant the incapacity for cruelty.
And, in allowing someone into his blindspot that he’d believed to be too weak or foolish to use it against him, he’d failed to remember that it was the softest words that cut the deepest, when they would leave scars so deep that all he could think of was how much he missed the feeling; when he’d search for the knife and throw himself against it. The wound was soul deep, and the soul’s wounds could not be so easily ignored.
Before, he’d thought it was a small price to pay. Trivial, really, in comparison to what he had to gain from it. As if it were a simple transaction as opposed to something living, and breathing, and ever changing; as if he would never have to be the one who was tender; as if that made it anything less valuable.
“Red.”
A soul for a soul; a life for a life. They gave one another all of themselves, promised each other that it was enough, and it was. Just as before, it was. Harsher now, but Dust had taught Red to be soft, and Red would teach him what he’d forgotten.
“Red.”
There was gentleness in the multiverse, hidden until it was allowed in.
With a jolt, he came back to reality to a slap on the face, not hard enough to hurt, but more than enough to be startling. He frowned, but, nonetheless, took his hand by the wrist and guided it to the crown of his skull. Hesitantly, as if spurred on by some muscle memory, the fingers ran in gentle circles across his bone, and Red hummed in approval at the feeling as he lay against Dust’s legs.
“Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere,” he mumbled, unconsciously leaning into the touch. “Must’ve dozed off.”
“With your eyes open,” Dust said, and it wasn’t a question. “Freak.”
Immediately, Red snorted. “Guess we gotta add that to the list of similarities.”
Despite himself, Dust laughed; the sound short, subdued, and nothing like the laugh he’d fallen in love with, but something about it made his soul flutter, nonetheless. “Guess so.”
After a moment, Red opened his sockets. Each time he saw him was like the first, and Red drank in each of his features as if they’d disappear at any moment – as they had before – smooth bone that crackled and buzzed with magic, refusing to be underestimated; eyelights that glowed brightly in dark sockets, like how he imagined neon signs would on a city street in the middle of the night; a face shrouded by shadow, as if it was saved for him alone to see. In the end, he’d been marred by cruelty despite Red’s best efforts, but he was beautiful nonetheless.
“‘Sup,” Dust mumbled, and the edges of his mouth quirked up in an attempt at a smile.
Slowly, Red lifted his hand and, ever so gently, cupped Dust’s cheek, pausing when his breath hitched, but, with the same caution, Dust leaned into the touch; barely enough to be noticed, but Red noticed. This time, he saw. “‘Sup,” he finally returned. “You okay?”
“You’re going to disappear,” Dust whispered, and his voice broke on the words in a way that made Red feel hollowed out. “You’re going to go somewhere else. Somewhere that I can’t reach. Like you do when you go to space. It scares me.”
Browbones furrowed, Red ran gentle circles across his love’s cheek, staying silent as Dust took in a shuddering breath to continue; a quirk Red had grown accustomed to.
“I remember what you told me before,” he said, and his hand came up to desperately hold Red’s to his face, like he might forget it was there if he didn’t make sure. “That you did it because it was better to be somewhere else – anywhere else. Do you want that now? To be somewhere else? Away from me?”
“No,” Red said, and the lack of hesitation in his answer surprised even himself. “I don’t want that.”
Again, Dust’s breath hitched, and he frowned, like the answer wasn’t enough, and, maybe, it wasn’t. His fingers threaded between Red’s, and, when he clutched onto his hand, Red squeezed back, holding him with desperation to match. Dust laughed, a breathless sound. “I’m not the person that you loved.”
Scoffing, Red rolled his eyelights at the notion. “Of course you are.”
“I’m not,” Dust insisted, and something about it was a plea.
“Then,” he breathed, “I love you. This you.”
And, with a breath that was cut off with something that sounded suspiciously like a sob, Dust leaned forward – over Red’s body, as if to trap him – and pressed his chest against Red’s. His ribs fluttered with each breath, and Red guided his stuttering breaths with deep inhales that interlocked their ribs with each one. His hand remained stuck to Dust’s cheek, and he squeezed gently, relieved when Dust squeezed back to let him know he was still here; in this reality, not another.
“Breathe,” Red commanded, soft; soft, like he’d been taught. “I’m here.”
Dust took a heaving breath – deep, frantic, like he’d been drowning – and, in a voice that sounded so much like before – reminding Red once more that this was the person he loved, despite the change – he whispered, “Where would you wanna go? If you could go anywhere. Anywhere at all.”
The question made him sputter, for a moment. Then, with a breathless laugh, “Seriously?”
“Please,” he pleaded, so what could Red do but answer?
The answer would have been easy before – here; here, just like before – but, despite how they fought against it, things had changed. Did that mean his answer had to change? That his longing had to shift, too? The multiverse was infinite. If he could conceive of a place, it surely existed, somewhere. Maybe even somewhere that Sans stayed Sans, but would it be the same? Any place. Anywhere. Anywhere at all. But, if kindness was so thoroughly hidden – had been ripped from Dust’s grasp with the signature ruthlessness of the multiverse – then why shouldn’t Red be it? Like Dust had been for him, before.
“Think I’d like to stay here,” he hummed. “With you. Still.”
And, this time, Red noticed the way that Dust’s breathing slowed to a stop; felt the way that his magic crackled between his joints; how something wet slipped between their fingers on Dust’s cheek; knew what it meant.
“Okay,” Dust whispered.
“What about you? Where would you go?”
There was a pause – a moment as Dust inhaled once more; held Red’s hand tight, but oh, so gentle – before he managed to answer. “Here,” he said. “With you.”
Hey out of curiosity from one bi to another, how do you differentiate being bi and pan? Like, why do you personally ID as bi instead of pan? I feel like I just ID better with bi than I do pan, but I don't really understand the difference between the two and I'm not sure how I'm "supposed" to identify
hi there!! well, from my own experience, i identify as bi because i define it as being attracted to two or more genders. while pan can be defined as being attracted to the person, regardless of their gender.
it could sound like i’m picky, but it’s really because most times i prefer women. but that’s just me.
at the end of the day, you decided what you feel most comfortable i.d.’ing as and how you want to define it! there’s no right or wrong way how you’re “supposed” to i.d. yourself, and even if you’re still not sure about it, that’s okay!
@ my bi and pan pals, you can reply or reblog to this with your own answers, if you’d like!!
I demand a killer x dust fic !!! do it!!! It's an order!!
thank you ❤
your wish is my command and all that
putting this one under the cut since it's got some vulgar language and is just generally pretty toxic. y'know, it's killer and dust. all par for the course LMAO. also i would just feel bad taking up too much of someone's dashboard if they weren't interested XD
as usual, the link to this fic on ao3 will be in the reblogs, and if YOU want a fic like THIS!!! my requests are open. i cannot promise swiftness, but i do my best
That lilting voice was carefully crafted to be as infuriating as it was unmistakable, and the reaction it evoked was equally instinctual; the tensing of the shoulders, and the crackle of magic. Dust didn’t have to turn around for Killer to know exactly what expression would twist his features: one of undeniable annoyance; thinly veiled fury that Killer knew exactly how to pull taut until it snapped.
The moment he laid his hand on Dust’s shoulder, the skeleton whirled around, hand wrapping around Killer’s neck as he slammed him into the wall. The impact was enough to rattle the glass lantern mounted high above them, providing a meagre amount of golden light that was just as quickly swallowed up by the castle’s darkness.
Nevertheless, Killer didn’t even flinch. In fact, his grin widened. “Geez. Handsy today, huh?”
And, there was the snap; just as sudden and quick as it always was.
A growl erupted from Dust’s throat as his grip tightened enough to hurt. “What the fuck do you want, whore?” he snarled, sounding every bit as furious as he looked. “Haven’t you been indulged enough today?”
Indulge he had, but wasn’t indulgence the point of their missions in the first place? Nightmare had plenty of negativity to not only survive on but, also, to thrive, but that never stopped him. Plentifulness, Killer had learned, was naught but a tool through which to obtain the true ecstasy of life: shameless, unnecessary indulgence.
Gluttony was one hell of a sin and, often, Killer found, lust went right alongside it. Pleasure of the body was far holier than pleasure of the mind, for not even the most powerful of deities could take away the physical sensation of pure instinct; not even his own, innate numbness could douse the heat sparked between one body against another (or, more, if he was really feeling shameless).
Whore, Dust had said, and wasn’t it true?
He knew how to use his body to draw attention, and he did just that. He’d pluck the frayed string of his soul and offer it to whoever would take it so that they could pull him apart at the very seams, and, then, he’d thank them. There was nothing quite like the feeling of being unravelled, over and over again, and, so, Killer indulged in it. If that made him a whore, then he’d be one gladly.
“Oh, stop, you’re making me blush,” Killer drawled, undeterred. “I’m afraid I’m entirely insatiable, as always.”
As if disgusted – and maybe he was; Killer was never sure – Dust immediately released his grip, backing away and grimacing at his hand like it had been contaminated. Then, his vitriol turned right back towards the source, and he made a point of keeping eye contact while he wiped his hand of Killer’s filth. “Do you care about anything other than getting your dick wet?”
Absentmindedly, Killer raised a hand to rub at his neck; it would surely bruise, but it wasn’t as if he minded the idea. “Sure I do,” he hummed. “I’ve got a pussy, too.” Then, he grinned, wide and sharp. “And a mouth.”
Scoffing, a soft purple tinted Dust’s cheeks. “Didn’t have to mention your mouth with how often you fucking use it.”
“I have a lot to say,” Killer said, snickering.
“Yeah, and all of it is needlessly vulgar,” Dust hissed in return.
Gracefully, and too quickly to be stopped, Killer stepped around Dust’s frame before pushing the shorter skeleton up against the wall, switching their positions. The motion was notably more gentle than the furious pin of earlier, and Killer’s arms boxed Dust in on either side without touching. Purple rushed to the hooded skeleton’s face in an instant, and it almost would have been unnoticable in the dark shadow cast across his face if Killer hadn’t known it would be there. His fingers curled into fists against the wall while Dust’s hovered uncertainly in front of his chest, as if he hadn’t quite decided whether or not to push him away.
“I’m thinking all sorts of dirty thoughts right now, actually,” Killer finally agreed. “Wanna hear them?”
With a shaky inhale and eyelights pointedly avoiding Killer’s face, Dust nodded.
“Are you sure? They’re absolutely filthy,” he breathed.
“Just spit it out already,” Dust hissed.
And, with all the tenderness in the world, Killer took Dust’s hand into his own. Their fingers interlocked perfectly, like they were made for one another, and it would have been impossible to miss the way that Dust’s breath immediately hitched at the contact. His eyelights stared at their union with an uncharacteristic longing, and Killer relished in it.
Then, he snickered, and the sound made Dust jump. “See?” Killer chirped. “What’d I tell you? Premarital hand holding. We’re fucking disgusting.”
The almost reverence that had beheld Dust’s expression fell away into complete and utter distaste. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Not in the slightest!” He wiggled his fingers, testingly, enjoying the feeling of them against one another. It wasn’t a new sensation, by any means, but, nevertheless, it never got old. “I mean, my god! Is this lewd or what?”
Again, Dust scoffed, though he didn’t attempt to pull away. “You’re not funny.”
“I think I’m hilarious,” Killer mewled.
Like the words were a spark to gasoline, Dust immediately bristled. His grip on Killer’s hand tightened, their bones grinding together achingly. “You’re leading me on,” he hissed. “Why? Because you think it’s funny?”
With an over-dramatic gasp, Killer placed a hand to his chest as if he’d been scorned. “I’ve never led you on. I’m just getting started.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s next? Premarital kissing?”
All at once, Killer yanked Dust’s hand, forcing him forward and against his chest. His other hand wrapped around to press against the small of Dust’s back. He smiled wickedly down at the other skeleton, and a fresh wave of flushed purple magic dusted the other’s cheeks. It was a pretty shade, Killer had to admit, and he’d always loved that wide-eyed, unabashed desire that the slightest touch seemed to elicit.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he purred. “Not before premarital eye-contact.”
“I hate you,” Dust snarled, though his furious expression was subdued.
Laughing, Killer pulled Dust along in a half-hearted, clumsy sort of dance through the hallway. The floor was plush against their feet, and the walls were too narrow to allow for any sort of grace in their movement, but it was enough to be pleasant; enough for them to dance anyway. Each time the warm, orange light of the hall’s lanterns shone onto Dust’s face, Killer drank in every expression he tried to hide beneath his hood, or harsh words, or violence, and it was enough to be pleasant; enough for it to feel like love.
Clutching tightly to Dust’s hand, he spun away, then allowed himself to be pulled back, flush with Dust’s chest as they continued down the hall, and he smiled down at him wryly. “You wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.”
Dust pressed his head against Killer’s shoulder, shrouding his face from view, and, when he spoke, it was almost too quiet to be heard. “I just want this.”
Browbones furrowing, he snickered, though there was something about Dust’s tone that made his soul wobble and the sound of his laughter come out hollow. “What, terrible dancing?”
“No,” Dust immediately corrected, and there was more insistence to his tone this time. “To be held. To be with you.”
And, Killer’s smile widened. And, he ignored the way that it didn’t reach his eyes. “And, nothing more?”
“Isn’t that enough?” he asked, and it sounded like a plea. “Aren’t I enough?”
It was difficult to speak around the inexplicable knot in his throat. The one that always showed up when it came to conversations like this. “Of course you are.”
Slowly, their dance came to a stop; the hallway couldn’t go on forever, so neither could they. But, neither of them released one another, still clinging to what they could reach as if they were afraid for the dance to end. To dance without movement is simply to embrace, but there’s something more intimate about that, that Killer cannot face.
“Then, why…” Dust choked, and the words were lost, but they both knew them anyway.
Why are there others?
Why isn’t enough enough?
Why does this have to be indulgence?
Why can’t this be love?
“Let go of me,” Killer whispered.
Dust scoffed, and there was something rueful in it. His grip on Killer’s shoulders tightened. “Thought you never led me on.”
“Get off,” he hissed, and he pushed away from Dust as if he’d been burned. Feeling the way that his bones buzzed, he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t been. Something burned in his chest, and it must have been fire. There was no other explanation. “Go fuck someone else if you need it so bad.”
Stumbling backwards, Dust caught himself on the wall, and his eyelights glowed dangerously when he looked back up, shining ever brighter as they reflected off of unshed tears. “Fuck you,” he spat, venemous. “I’m not some fucking slut that sways his hips to get the attention of strangers. I’m not like you. I don’t need that. Enough is enough. You are enough.”
“You’re making this into something it’s not,” Killer breathed.
“Fuck you,” he repeated, even harsher. He stepped forward, and Killer fought off the instinct to step back in tandem; another dance. “Why isn’t it?”
“It can’t be,” he said.
And, there was the snap; just as sudden and quick as it always was.
Again, Killer found himself pinned to the wall by his neck, feeling an awful lot like cornered prey, with his teeth gritted into a smile. His hands wrapped around Dust’s wrist, though he didn’t attempt to pull it away. Sharp fingertips pressed into bone, almost as sharp as the look on Dust’s face; features alight with magic that sparked between his joints and made the spots where there was contact tingle unpleasantly, like a warning. Maybe it was one.
“I love you,” Dust said, and it sounded an awful lot like a damnation.
Killer didn’t answer – couldn’t find the words, or, maybe, refused to. His grip on Dust’s wrist tightened as the hand around his throat turned vice-like and stole the breath that he didn’t really need.
“Say it back,” came the demand.
With a laugh that came out more like a wheeze, Killer spat thick, black determination into Dust’s face. “Or, what?”
All at once, with a crack that Killer wasn’t sure was entirely in his head, his skull connected harshly with the wall. He bit back a noise of pain and forced it to come out as another laugh. Once the stars cleared from his vision, he was met with another furious flush of purple and white hot tears as Dust wiped at his face, and he wished that it meant anything to him.
“You think I won’t kill your little side hoes?” Dust hissed. “You think I won’t make you fuck their dust?”
Wasn’t that indulgence, too? To kill that which got in your way? It wasn’t necessary. It was strictly something done because it felt good to. Wasn’t that, by the definition of the word, indulgence? Maybe Dust hadn’t spent as much time under Nightmare’s care as Killer had, but, clearly, he’d learned something.
Violence, which clung to indulgence’s hand in the same way that lust did; equally disgusting; equally unnecessary; equally beautiful. Killer couldn’t help but to laugh at the thought.
Dust cut him off with a growl. “Is this funny to you?”
“It is, actually,” Killer purred. “You’d find a way to be jealous of a pile of dust if I gave it attention in front of you.”
A choked sound fell from Dust’s throat, and, for just a moment, he averted his gaze, hand squeezing Killer’s neck harshly and drawing a matching noise from him. Then, it loosened, and his eyelights bore into Killer’s empty sockets once more. “I love you,” he said again. “Say it back.”
“Or, what?” Killer wheezed again, undeterred.
“Or, I’ll kill us both,” came the response.
His expression was carefully even, sockets half-lidded and mouth smoothed into a thin line. Magic crackled dangerously through his form, making his eyelights flare that same bright, terrifying purple, and the glow of his magic reflected prettily off of his tears. His touch burned like fire; the same one that burned in Killer’s chest that not even the instinctual, icy dose of panic that flared in his soul – because both of them knew that Dust wasn’t bluffing – could put out. It was perfect. Disgusting, unnecessary, beautiful indulgence.
“God, I love you,” Killer breathed.
And, in an instant, their mouths crashed together in a sloppy, desperate kiss, pressed up against the wall like art.
A heaving breath disturbs the dust that has gathered on the bright red scarf that hangs on a bent nail sticking out of the wall. Once, perhaps, it would have reminded you of someone else, but all you can see now is a warped version of yourself that clung to both it and all of the memories that it held despite how much it hurt him.
And, that was the problem, wasn’t it?
That he was too much like you, only broken in different ways. Like looking in a mirror that had been shattered, seeing a distorted reflection that might have been you if the light had shone at another angle, or if the ones that had broken you both had done so more similarly; if there weren’t parts that had been removed; replaced; rearranged. You were imperfect echoes of one another, simultaneously too alike and too different; warped by the way your sound bounced off of the walls.
In the end, it hadn’t really mattered that you both wanted the same thing; to be seen, and to be loved despite how ugly the view was.
You had always known that you weren’t something worth seeing – weren’t convinced that you could be seen – and he’d been convinced that not seeing every part of him all at once, all the time, meant that you didn’t see him at all.
You’d feared him just as much as you’d adored him; he’d hated you almost as much as he’d loved you.
And, that was the problem, wasn’t it?
You both had held on to things that would only ever hurt you, and neither of you had known how to let it go until you were already so thoroughly intertwined with one another that you had to rip and tear at the thorns that bound you so that you just might have a chance at escaping. You’d thought, at some point, the bleeding might stop – now that his binds weren’t tearing open your body just to be certain that you’d still bleed at his command – but, even though your soul is no longer connected to his, the thorns remain, and you are an open wound; a bleeding heart; a walking haemorrhage.
Nightmare wouldn’t like that you were staining his carpets so.
You weren’t sure you could bring yourself to care.
Gently, you rub his scarf between your fingers. It’s thin and threadbare, and some part of you finds kinship in that fact. The feeling is rough – unpleasant – but familiar.
Does familiarity have to be a good thing?
“I miss you,” you confess to no one, because something about the admission makes you feel filthy. Thick tar falls from your sockets and stains your cheeks, and terror lances through you as you realise that maybe you never will be anything more than this ever again.
Your breathing comes quick, and you hold your breath so as to not disturb his dusty remains any further than you already have; and, you wonder why you treat him with a reverence that he would never return.
You wonder if he could ever understand just how terrified he made you – of being nothing more than this; wonder why it matters so much to you that he understands; know he can’t possibly, when he is the one making you so afraid.
What were you, before? What are you, now?
Pieces and parts of yourself: removed, replaced, and rearranged.
You think of a story you read, once, long ago. The books you managed to get your hands on before were worse for wear – yellowing pages that were putrid and warped from the journey they’d taken when they were discarded and forgotten; nothing like the pristine, well taken care of books that you had access to now, though something about that made them mean less – but you absorbed what they had to offer you with an appreciation you were sure they’d never been granted before. They spoke of gods, and humans, and monsters, and they wondered in ways you’d never wondered before; ways you wonder now.
You think of the story of the Ship of Theseus.
Pieces and parts: removed, replaced, rearranged.
Is it the same ship? Are you the same you? Now that you’ve been rebuilt – removed, replaced, and rearranged – are you still the person you once were? Can you be rebuilt again? Or, are you stuck like this, now that the one that was constructing you is no longer around to restore your weathered parts? Are you trapped, half-finished and without a purpose? A boat built with perforated wood?
Water rushes in the gaps, and, through the same rifts, your blood pours out. Because, despite being free of his ties – the thorns are gone; you ripped them out; you tore out their roots, so they can’t possibly grow back, right? – you still tear yourself open just to be certain that you can still bleed, should he command it.
He’s not around to command you anymore.
Somehow, you feel you still need to be prepared for it.
“I miss you,” you confess to yourself, and something about the admission makes you feel vile. Thick tar falls from your sockets and drowns you, and you’re horrified because, even now, you’re still exactly how he reconstructed you – removed, replaced, rearranged. You fear you’ll never be anything more than this.
Can you be anything more than this?
You weren’t rebuilt to be a person. You weren’t remade to have desires or needs. You’re not sure he knew how you were meant to function, when his hands were deep within your very mind; your very soul. You’re not sure he knew how thoroughly he was stripping you of the programming that kept you alive. You’re not sure it matters whether he knew, when the result is the same.
His hands left you, coated in oil, or tar, or blood – whatever it was that flowed through you – and he’d wiped sweat from his brow – smeared you across his forehead – after a job well done.
Pieces and parts of you: removed, replaced, rearranged.
Refashioned to please a person that can no longer reap the rewards.
The fabric between your fingers grates on your bone and wears you away. The feeling is rough – unpleasant – but familiar.
You wonder if familiarity is ever a good thing.
“Killer,” a voice calls, and you numbly raise your head to meet a bright cyan eye with your own two empty ones. His sockets are half-lidded, and his expression is tight. When he speaks, his tone is harsh. “You serve no purpose, serving someone that no longer exists. Come back to me. Let him go.”
Again, your gaze falls back down to the red on your hands, and you wither at the sight. You feel light and heavy, all at the same time. “How?”
He sighs, and the sound makes you flinch; apologies taste bitter as you swallow them back down like bile. In a way that is certainly contrary, he kneels before you – pulls your chin up with his hand in a way you know is uncharacteristically gentle – and smiles; wider, when you smile back. His hand outstretches towards you, open and empty. “Let me help you.”
You stare at the offer, gripping your grief in closed fists, and, carefully, you allow your fingers to fall open. Uncertainty shakes you as you reach for his hand, and you’re careful not to make contact when you deposit your soul – heart-shaped; unstable; ugly – within his grasp. Your fingers dart away from the construct before you can change your mind.
“Good,” Nightmare praises, but you wince as he draws your soul up and away, right before his face. His eye watches its shifting form in fascination, and, this time, his smile almost feels real. He looks back at you, and you already feel the oncoming sting. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll fix you.”
“I miss him,” you confess, and the admission makes you mortified. Thick tar falls from your sockets, and you can’t breathe.
“I know,” he says, “but you won’t.”
He brings your soul to his teeth, and a choked sound of agony catches in your throat as he bites down and consumes you. For a moment, panic locks you in place – punctuated by the way your breath stutters with each excruciating soulbeat – but the feeling disappears as quickly as the rest, and you’re left with nothing but the pain that serves as the cost of numbness.
As you barrel towards apathy, laughter pouring from your chest – you’re not sure why you’re laughing. It’s not funny – you think that you can never be more than this.
Pieces and parts of yourself: removed, replaced, rearranged, always in someone else’s name.
what's up gamers, sorry for disappearing for a while there. life's been kicking my ass lately LMAO
to all the people who've sent in requests, i'm working on them!! as for why they're taking so long, see above.
been writing some stuff on and off for a bit, and i'm sure my fellow writers know how it is. when inspiration for something hits, you just kinda shit it out and then move on. i try to put a little more effort into my requests LOL. but i love killer and i also love hurting him, so this is what came out of that. yippee!!
this one goes out to all the people with complicated romantic lives!!!!!!! i see you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
so, take this piece of shit to tide you over. thank you guys for your patience <3
content is below the cut due to length and sensitive subjects. as always, it can be found on ao3 in the reblogs if that's your cup of tea.
cw/tw: major character death (offscreen, but a main point), implied/referenced toxic relationship, implied/referenced suicidal ideation, an all around shitty situationship
Grains of dust fell between his fingers and into his joints, making them crackle when he gripped the faded red scarf in his hands. It was so like when his brother had died, and there was something poetic about that thought, and that poetry was the highest insult the multiverse could have asked him to endure. Nevertheless, there was a distinct lack of snow, and, though his surroundings were deeply familiar – the cool toned darkness of the castle’s atmosphere, broken only by the warm, orange glow of the castle’s mounted lanterns – they would never be as familiar as limbo.
Dust piled beneath his knees, scraping against the bone and leaving it raw, but all Killer could do was press his forehead into the pile before him and hold his breath to prevent it from dispelling; to be as close as possible without disturbing the remains.
When a voice rang out from the shadows, he didn’t startle; its presence had been imminent from the start. It held the same chilled, deep tones of the castle, broken only by the warm dredges of poorly concealed laughter behind its words. Despite himself, Killer found that the tension in his bones melted away at the sound.
“So, you finally killed him.”
It wasn’t a question. There was no surprise.
Voice hoarse, Killer laughed, and the dust darted away from his breath and stuck to the liquid determination that marred his cheeks. “He was hurting me.”
Beside him, someone knelt. Fingers, dark with viscous negativity, ran through the particles and pressed it together testingly. The other hummed, then shook the dust from his hands, as if it were something dirty. Killer shouldn’t have felt so offended at the thought.
“Well, obviously,” Nightmare responded, voice flat with disinterest. “It’s about time that you did something about it.”
Clutching the scarf to his chest, Killer’s soul wobbled unsteadily, and he wheezed. “Do you think– Will– He’ll… He’ll be better when he comes back, right?”
At that, came Nightmare’s laughter – warm, comforting, and Killer hated himself at the feeling – and a hand came to rest against his back. Fingers danced what might have been soothing circles over the fabric of his jacket, coaxing out small noises of misery that Killer hadn’t realised he was holding back. “He’s not like you, Killer,” Nightmare hummed. “He won’t come back.”
At that, came Killer’s laughter – warm, comforting, and Killer hated himself at the feeling – and he curled further into the dust as it continued to try and run away. “Oh,” he breathed. Then, again, “oh. That’s– That’s not what I wanted.”
There was a beat of silence, and Killer breathed in the judgement in the lack of words. “Then,” Nightmare finally drawled, steady in a way Killer could not be, “what did you want?”
A sound was pulled from his chest at the question, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I just wanted it to stop hurting,” he hissed. “I… I didn’t want to lose him forever.”
With another hum, Nightmare’s fingers pressed more firmly into Killer’s back, drawing him out of wheezing breaths he hadn’t realised he’d been taking. “Why not, if he was hurting you?”
“Because I loved him,” Killer spat; immediately; bitterly. Then, through a lump in his throat, “love. Because I love him.”
For a moment, Nightmare’s steady ministrations faltered, as if the admission surprised him, though Killer was certain he must have known; must have felt it even through every other emotion that had led them here. Just as soon as he began to miss the touch, though, they started up again, and, once more, he choked on a sob as his soul spasmed against his chest. Each breath was suffocating and filled with dust, coating his bones from the inside out and sticking to him in a way that made him feel sick.
“I didn’t want this,” Killer repeated, like a plea. “What did I do wrong?”
It ran deeper than a slash across the chest and bones crumbling between his fingers, blood painting his sweater bright red. It must have. It must have been more than the final blow.
“I– I fucked up somehow,” he wheezed. “If I just knew how, I… I could have done better. Should have done better. Then, maybe…”
“There’s no point in trying to fix it now,” Nightmare chided, with a subtle gentleness that Killer might not have recognised if not for the tenderness of the hand that pressed between his shoulder blades reassuringly. “You’re agonising over your relationship with a corpse. It cannot hear your apologies.” A beat. “Although, perhaps, it wouldn’t matter even if it could.”
Sockets squeezing shut, Killer bit back a wail. His knuckles ached from the force with which he clung to the scarf, and the soreness extended to his chest, right where his soul sat. “I hurt him,” he said. “He’s gone.”
All at once, he sat up, and Nightmare’s hand darted away in surprise, cyan socket wide. Dust speckled the dark streaks across Killer’s cheeks and clung to the bone where he’d feverishly pressed his skull against the pile, as if it might feel his touch and spring back to life. Dull, pale eyelights trembled in his sockets, and the expression of pity before him was blurry and unclear, though, something about that was a mercy.
At the thought, Killer scrubbed at his sockets furiously, trying to deny himself the grace he didn’t deserve. The moment his vision cleared, however, it was blurred again by tears. Idly, he found himself thankful for the threadbare cloth in his hands, without which his fingers would have found their way to his soul and tried to pry the feelings out themselves; another mercy he refused to indulge.
“He’s gone,” Killer repeated. “I was in love with him. And, now, he’s gone, and it’s my fault. I hurt him.”
Through fuzzy vision, Killer watched Nightmare bare his teeth; it could have been a snarl, or maybe a grimace. “You’ll live.”
“I don’t want to live,” he wailed, unable to stop himself. He blinked, and tar-like tears smeared down his cheeks. They dropped down to his chin, then fell into his lap, and a choked sound of anguish left him as he realised the scarf was stained with them. The damage was done, though, and he sobbed louder as he pressed the cloth to his face. His words were muffled through the barrier, “I loved him. I loved him. Why did I hurt him? Why did he hurt me?”
“The multiverse is cruel,” Nightmare said, “and we are but inhabitants of it, carefully crafted to perpetuate its cruelty. You asked too much when you sought out happiness.”
“Then,” he breathed, pulling himself together long enough to speak, “what was I supposed to do?”
“You shouldn’t have fallen in love,” came the answer, simply. “Certainly, not you. Certainly, not with someone like him.”
His breath faltered once more, and something giddy made his soul tremble. A soft rattling emanated throughout his bones, nausea making some deep, magic based part of him broil and burn. He made a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and held the scarf over his eyes as if going blind to the situation would make it disappear. “Maybe I deserve everything he ever did.”
With a huff that might have been laughter, Nightmare hummed, “Maybe you do.” He gestured to the messy pile of dust – the thin fabric of the scarf easily showing the shifting shadows – and Killer shuddered at the reminder. “And, maybe he did, too.”
At the notion, Killer’s shoulders sagged, and, tiredly, he shook his head. “Not him,” he whispered, reverent. “Never him.”
Again, came that laugh, and there was something frustrated in its bitter tones. “Oh, what a pedestal you’ve placed him on,” he drawled.
“Why don’t you care?” Killer spat, and anger sparked alongside despair like a match to gasoline. All of the exhaustion from before was driven away, and fevered fury took its place. His soul spasmed painfully as he finally yanked the scarf back down to face reality head on, staring Nightmare in the eye with a strange sort of determination to condemn himself. “He was yours, just as I am. Why don’t you care that he’s gone? Why don’t you care what I did to him?”
Refusing the vitriol that he’d been met with, Nightmare’s tone remained carefully even. “And, forget what he did to you?” His head tilted to the side curiously, and he regarded Killer’s crime with indifference. “You’re hardly being fair. It’s not as if you haven’t killed others for much less. It’s not as if he’s not just as replaceable as you.”
Tiredness returned, like a weight in his bones or a fist around his soul, making him wilt. Unconsciously, he leaned towards his king, and Nightmare mercifully closed the distance between them, allowing Killer’s skull to rest against his shoulder. Shame burned alongside misery as he found miniscule comfort in the familiar worthlessness. “No. He was different. He tried,” he mumbled. Then, insistently, “He tried, and he loved me. Who else has ever done that? For me? I don’t deserve it.”
“And, yet, it wasn’t enough,” Nightmare replied, and Killer couldn’t help but cringe at the callousness.
“Well, it should have been,” he persisted. “It should have been enough for me.”
“And, yet,” he repeated, “it wasn’t.”
Scoffing, Killer shifted, pulling his knees up to his chest. He hoped that he looked as small as he felt. “Gee, thanks, Nightmare,” he murmured. “Like I wasn’t already feeling like a piece of shit.” Then, with another scoff and marked bitterness, “I mean– Shit, it’s not even like I was asking for very much, right? Or– Or, I was, I guess, but it shouldn’t be so hard… right? How many people are there in the multiverse that have perfectly healthy relationships? Where they feel like people? Why not me?”
He ran a hand over his skull with an exasperated laugh, pressing his forehead against his knees. “I mean, I know why not. I’m not a person, but is it so much to ask that someone pretends? That… That I don’t fuck everything up without even trying? That I don’t deserve to be hurt?” he hissed, sharply. “That I don’t earn mistreatment simply by being?”
Thick, black rivulets of determination fell from his sockets, and Killer raised his head once more, meeting the chilling cyan of Nightmare’s gaze and feeling an awful lot like he was asking for answers he didn’t really want. “He was trying, Night. I know he was. I saw it,” he insisted, though his words grew soft as his shoulders slumped forward again. “What does it say about me that even when someone is trying not to hurt me, I make them do it anyway? Without even meaning to?”
He cringed, the tips of his fingers pressing into his bone with a satisfying sting. “And, then, I hurt them back. God, like I don’t deserve it when they do it, right? Like– Like they did?” His gaze went back to the pile of dust. “Like he did? I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t, but I did it anyway, knowing it would hurt, because I’m so selfish that I wanted it to stop hurting me. Like it would ever stop hurting, even if he was gone.”
Finally, Killer fell silent, with a shrug that he could only hope would communicate everything he could no longer force past the lump in his throat and the way his soul wobbled painfully in front of his chest, fighting to make him feel all of the emotions he’d crushed down and bottled up for so long. His sockets burned unpleasantly, but he didn’t dare blink, afraid that the motion would start up a sickening sort of sobbing that he wouldn’t be able to stop until he passed out or died. An unfitting way to go for someone like him; it would hurt, but not enough; never enough, when wallowing in his own self-pity.
When he looked up, he was met with the scrutinising glare of Nightmare’s eyelight, and he felt himself unconsciously straighten, as if that would make him appear any less pathetic.
“Do you know what I think?” Nightmare began, haltingly. “I think… you’re reading too much into the actions of someone who was just as broken as you. Regardless of his intentions, he hurt you, and, now, you’ve hurt him. And, the worst part?” he hummed, almost pleasantly. “It was entirely inevitable. You shouldn’t have fallen in love, Killer.”
Not trusting himself enough to speak, all he could do was nod.
“Pick up the dust of your ruined relationship,” Nightmare continued, and he gently knocked Killer’s skull away from his shoulder as he urged him towards the scattered pile. “Store it away somewhere that you won’t forget; close to your heart, but not in it. Then, move on. There’s nothing more you can do now but that.”
Shaking eyelights, darting from the dust to the tattered scarf gripped between his fingers, stared down at the macabre display of an end that was, in many ways, poetry; poetry of insult. He swallowed his agony. “Will that make it stop hurting?”
Without looking up, Killer could feel the way that Nightmare regarded him, somewhere between disdain and pity. “No,” he said. “But, it’s a start.”
Another dust filled urn on the mantel, each gathering a thin layer of grime that dulls the shine of their golden casket with time. This one would remain golden for a while, like the last, marred by nothing but fingerprints from when he would take it from its place and hold it in his arms. But, eventually, it, too, would lose its beckoning lustre, and its tarnish would mean healing.
Another dust filled urn on the mantel, and here’s to many more.
I got a request, and if it's okay can it be platonic?
If it can, how about classic and Error friendship? Cause Error hates aus, and classics the original.
but of course!!
i fucking love the man child, and, naturally, i adore myself some classic too. funnily enough, this is actually a dynamic i don't often see explored, and it's one i've definitely neglected in my own years of making undertale content. BUT THAT ENDS TODAY!!
i'm not sure if you had anything specific in mind, but i just kind of came up with an idea and ran with it, so hopefully it turned out okay LOL. i'm pretty content with it. i always love putting error in space, as a treat.
story is below the cut, and i'll reblog with the ao3 link once it's posted there, but you, my dear tumblr user, get to see it first <3
The multiverse was an infinitely expanding place, much to Error’s chagrin, and that meant that there were some rather peculiar concepts out there. Error had never been one for the unusual, though, so the more bizarre corners of the multiverse served to do nothing but piss him off. Really, there were very few universes that he genuinely appreciated the existence of, and those were Undernovella, Outertale, and Undertale. The first and second were, admittedly, born out of a particular bias – Asgoro was just such a compelling character. And who doesn’t like space? Sue him! – and the third was because Undertale was the only real universe out there; the rest were nothing but mistakes; accidents; copies that didn’t print quite right. So, naturally, when given the opportunity to bother one of the Classic Sanses of the multiverse, Error leapt at the opportunity.
It wasn’t exactly uncommon for him to be met with a Classic in his line of work, especially considering the special care he took with them; all it took was one fool’s mistake to turn an Undertale into something else entirely, after all, and that was the last thing Error wanted. There should only be one Sans per universe, both in and out of the timeline. Any… extras were glitches already – Errors, if you will – so, really, it was a mercy to get rid of them. Spare everyone the trouble of another him.
As often as Error was met with Classic, however, it wasn’t until his last Genocide that he actually struck up what might be called a “friendship” – admittedly, Error had never quite figured out the meaning of the word despite Blue’s attempts to teach him (though, Blue had also admitted that their whole “friendship” was a ploy, back in the day, before there was another error in the universe, so, really, who was to say what he knew) – but, sometimes, it was hard to tell if people really wanted to hang out with him or if he was just holding them captive on accident. Again.
It was especially complicated when Error was Classic’s “ride,” if you will. Classic had completely forbidden Error from spending time in his universe – which was insulting as much as it was understandable – and Error had forbidden the two from spending time in the anti-void – because the last thing he needed was another Blue situation – so the two, often, passed their hours in other universes, particularly Outertale. Not every Sans had the ability to travel from universe to universe, however – and thank the fucking stars for that. There’s no telling what kind of universes would be made if people could just go wherever they pleased – so Error was Classic’s taxi to the rest of the multiverse. It created a bit of an odd power dynamic that Error, admittedly, kind of enjoyed; he could go see Classic whenever he wanted, but Classic would always have to wait for him to show up first. If that’s what friendship was, then maybe it wasn’t so bad, after all.
Either way, Classic was everything that the rest of the multiverse wasn’t in that, unlike everyone else, he was meant to be there.
In all honesty, Error didn’t particularly enjoy the actual personality of his companion – there was something about it that made his bones buzz unpleasantly, like static, and reminded him of a past long gone and just out of memory’s reach – but it was so impossibly rare to meet someone that wasn’t an anomaly that Error found himself enjoying Classic’s company nonetheless.
Which was why – as he normally did when he was too caught up in his own thoughts to realise what he was doing – Error found himself stepping through a glitch in the fabric of the multiverse, met with the pleasant sound of snow crunching beneath his slipper. The slush immediately soaked through his shoes, chilling his toes and making him shiver with glitches. He peered upwards at the blurred cavern ceiling that hung above, dappled with the sparkling cyan gems that he used to pretend were stars; it was easier now, to pretend, when his vision was so awful. Though, even then, nothing compared to the real thing, and what was the use of pretending when, now, he could access the stars with a mere flick of the wrist?
With that same unconsciousness that came with years of habit, Error, after a short walk, easily found himself before the forest’s sentry station, where a nearly identical copy – if you ignored the marks of the anti-void or their lack thereof – snoozed away his shift, as he always did.
“Hey,” he called, voice particularly distorted with his effort to project, and a pleased smile fell over his face as the sound effectively roused his companion.
The skeleton blinked awake with that same bleary slowness that all tale Sanses did, rubbing the sleep from his sockets with a closed-mouth yawn. It took him a moment to register what had woken him as he shook the snow that had fallen onto his skull back to the ground, and his smile widened at the sight of the glitch before him. Admittedly, it was a welcome change in greeting than the usual wariness or screams that he received in the typical universe, but, then again, Classic had always been a special case in every way involving Error.
“Hey,” he returned, in that same languid tone as always. “Long time snow see.”
With a distorted bark of laughter, Error returned, “Yeah. It’s ice to see you again.”
“Good one,” Classic snickered. He stretched, slowly, filling the air with the soft pop of bones, then, as if to refute his efforts, hunched right back over into the same horrible position as before; head leaned on his arms, looking like he was still half asleep which, knowing him, he probably was. “Seriously. It’s been a while. Where’ve you been? Or do I wanna know?”
“Busy,” was all he answered, and the strings that stuck to his cheeks itched at the notion.
Sockets slipping shut in a poorly concealed cringe, Classic hummed. “I guess I don’t.”
“We’re going to see the stars,” Error said, instead of responding. With a flick of his wrist, a door opened to the rest of the multiverse, and the dark vastness of space shone through, spotted with all manner of colourful stars, both big and small; the heat of their presence could be felt through the opening, and the feeling prompted Classic to sit up.
He peered through the portal with that same uncertain fascination as he always did, eyelights darting over each celestial body with increasing longing. Nevertheless, when he managed to tear his gaze from the beyond and back to what was right in front of him, he fixed Error was a peculiar look with squinted sockets. “That a request?”
Error followed suit in his expression, head cocked to the side. “What?”
“Are you asking me to go?” he elaborated with an almost mocking deliberation. “Or making me?”
With a confused shake of his head, Error glanced back at the expanse of space for a moment before returning his gaze to the other him. His eyelights moved over his face, in the same way Classic’s did to the stars, as if searching for something. “Don’t you want to?”
For reasons Error couldn’t possibly hope to discern, Classic seemed to relax at the question, his expression turning back to that half-lidded smile. Having friends was weird. “I guess I can make some space in my schedule,” he said. “Beats working.”
“You were sleeping,” Error corrected with another confused frown.
“Yeah,” Classic agreed before, with a shit-eating grin that gave Error a better idea of why Papyrus was so annoyed all the time, “on the job.”
Frowning, Error let out a distorted sigh and considered how attached he really was to the multiverse’s veritable “original.” Attached enough, perhaps. It was fortunate that Classic was, overall, quiet, especially when faced with the silence-inspiring view of the stars that he was so seldom met with in his own universe, or, at least, not in ways that he properly remembered. Surrounded by something so vast and beautiful, what was there to say? Words seemed meaningless, small; som
“Are you coming or not?” Error grumbled, jerking his head towards the portal.
Finally standing to his feet – which, hilariously, didn’t grant him much extra height compared to when he’d been sitting – Classic nodded shortly and flashed him yet another grin. “Not in the mood for comet-y, are we?” he huffed. “Yeah, I’m comin’.”
Without gracing the pun with a response – though, admittedly, it had been a good one – Error stepped into the other universe. Immediately, the distinction between the soggy snow beneath his feet and the crumbly softness of the planet’s surface was clear, and, despite the distinct lack of oxygen, it felt easier to breathe. They’d ended up where they always did when they went to Outertale: some place on the other side of the planet, where the sun didn’t touch and, so, neither did the monsters. Without the mark of monsterkind, the planet itself was overwhelmingly grey, feeling rather underwhelming in comparison to the infinite picture of stars, and planets, and space dust that sprawled outwards before them, impossibly more vibrant and colourful once the portal snapped shut behind them and shut out the light of Snowdin. Though, Error supposed, just about anything would feel underwhelming in the face of something like this. Even he felt small beneath the expanse.
“I always forget how big it is,” Classic mumbled from somewhere close behind, and Error couldn't help but jump at the sound.
In a wave of glitches, he glanced back towards his companion. There was something about space – about being faced with what he could never have – that seemed to make Classic vulnerable in a way that Error hated; the way that he stared out into the void that somehow felt kinder than the other voids lacked that guarded nature – that wall – that usually stood so unwaveringly. It was a display of genuineness that Error didn’t quite feel he deserved, though he couldn’t say why.
Tearing his gaze from the other him, Error forced himself to peer at the stars once more, focusing on a particularly vivid patch of space dust. “It’s infinite,” he hummed. “‘Course it’s big.”
“Infinite’s a terrible descriptor,” Classic said with a huff of laughter. He carefully sat himself on the planet’s sheer edge, legs swinging in the open space with that characteristic recklessness that Error couldn’t help but wonder if it, from time to time, could be attributed to a certain call of the void that he, too, experienced. “It’s meaningless,” he continued. “So large that it’s incomprehensible.”
Following Classic’s example, Error perched himself on the edge. It was more of a crouch than a sit, really, leaving plenty of space and the ability to leap up and away should he need to. The first few times he’d done it, Classic had questioned the behaviour, and Error hadn’t really known how to answer. Now, the other skeleton didn’t even bat an eye. It was nice to be understood; or, if not understood, at least tolerated for his peculiarities. Maybe that was enough.
“This is nothing compared to the rest of the multiverse,” he finally answered. “Just an infinity inside of an infinity.”
The words were met with a shiver so subtle that Error might not have picked up on it if Classic weren’t so exactly like him. “Geez,” he said, with a bit of a breathless laugh. “Existential.”
“Existential?” he echoed, browbones furrowing as he peered back at his companion.
“Yeah,” Classic confirmed. “Makes you feel meaningless, knowing how small a part of the multiverse you are. So small you can’t even comprehend just how massive the rest of it is.”
A short huff of laughter fell from Error. “Everyone’s equally a part of infinity.”
“Equally meaningless, maybe,” came the grumble.
Another snort. “Yeah, most of ‘em.” His eyelights turned back towards the multiverse’s pocket infinity. The view was blurry without his glasses, but maybe it was the bigger picture that mattered more than the parts of it. What did it matter if he was missing a few stars? “It’s crazy how unlikely it is that some of these universes should exist, but they’re here, anyway.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” Error huffed. He ran his hand over the rough ground beneath him, rolling a pebble around with the tip of his finger in an unconscious attempt to dispel the frustrated energy that was building in him at the conversation topic. “Like, Underswap – the one where you and your bro are, like… swapped around – you wanna know how likely that is to exist?”
“I get the feeling you’re going to tell me either way,” Classic mumbled, but Error ignored him.
“It’s a probability of 1 divided by 9,109,043,495. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.” His fingers habitually moved up towards his sockets, running over the grooves left by his strings and blinking away magic. “Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s like the multiverse is just trying to spite me; to spite itself.”
“That’s pretty incredible, actually.” The words were accompanied by a shuffling sound, and Error peeked towards the other, idly noting the way that he’d pulled his legs up into a cross-legged position.
“Incredibly annoying, maybe,” he grumbled.
For reasons Error didn’t quite understand, his frustration earned a laugh. “If something with such a low probability of existing, nevertheless, exists, then I guess it’s got to have meaning, after all. Maybe we all do, even in unquantifiable, improbable infinity,” Classic snickered. That thoughtful vulnerability was back in his gaze, and Error watched his eyelights trace invisible constellations. “You’ve got a real interesting way of reassuring someone, you know.”
Frowning, Error cocked his head to the side. “What? Who am I reassuring? Of what?”
Xina Kwan had always been able to make Miguel smile even when no one else could. Maybe a little bit TOO well...
or:
Miguel O'Hara visits with his ex-girlfriend turned friend, Xina Kwan, until, like always, things don't go quite as planned, and Miguel has to explain some rather strange truths about himself, such as why Xina could see fangs when he smiled.
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the world needs more xina and miguel content, and i am all too happy to supply it.
xinamiguel lovers, this one is for you!! they're not explicitly stated to be together, so it can be read as either platonic or romantic, but it is entirely possible to read some of what happens as romantic tension. THIS IS CANON COMPLIANT, OKAY?? WE CAN'T KEEP PRETENDING THAT THEY DIDN'T STILL KINDA LOVE EACH OTHER EVEN AFTER THEY BROKE UP IN THE COMICS. dana lovers, beware of dana slander. i'd say i'm sorry but it would be a lie. we stan xina here.
also, an extra bonus for those of you who just want to see miguel be a guy for once. oh yeah, that's right, in this ao3 fanfiction i offer you a miguel o'hara that ISN'T just angry all the time. you wanna see this man have a good time? you wanna see him interact with someone without being an asshole the entire time??? you wanna see how this man acts when he's not under the pressure of holding together the entire multiverse??????? WELL HERE HE IS. comic accurate miguel. come get y'all juice.
gentle reminder that i also take requests if any of you have an idea itching at the back of your brain but don't wanna write it XD
content is below the cut because it is LONG. ao3 link is in the reblogs as always. please enjoy!! <3
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It would be impossible to overstate just how much Xina Kwan meant to Miguel O’Hara.
The two had known each other from the time they were young children, back when it had felt like it was them two against the world – and, really, the sentiment wasn’t too far off considering how desperately Kron Stone had wanted to make their lives living hell, up until he decided they didn’t deserve their lives at all – and to say that they were close would be an understatement. So close, in fact, that once they’d matured from intelligent youth to genius adults (and Miguel, from an arrogant child to an even more arrogant adult), the two had gotten together.
Then, of course, Miguel had ruined it by being his selfish, self-absorbed self; though, in the moment, he hadn’t thought it was a mistake to leave Xina for Dana. There’d been a part of him that regretted hurting Xina the way he had, but Dana was a gorgeous, loving woman who never thought him any less than perfect, and Xina… Xina hadn’t let him be content in being the bastard that he was. At the time, he hadn’t liked that about her.
Now, after it was already too late and Miguel had ruined things with Dana, too, he could see how stupid he was for choosing what was easy over what was best. Just another failure to chalk up to the heroic Spider-Man.
It was true that Dana loved him, and it was even true that he loved her back, but it had taken a lot of suffering and bullshit to realise that loving someone wasn’t necessarily enough for them to be good for you. He probably should have known that already, considering the state of his own family, but that would have required any level of self-reflection, and that was still a rather new skill for him, all things considered.
What he knew now, though, was that Xina had never apologised to Miguel’s dad on his behalf, claiming that he didn’t mean his vitriol when he did. Xina had never tried to love George O’Hara when they both knew he didn’t deserve it, and she certainly hadn’t tried to convince Miguel to love him, too. Dana believed that he’d cried at his father’s funeral because he genuinely felt sorrow, and Miguel hadn’t had the heart to tell her otherwise. Somehow, even after everything, she still didn’t seem to understand that some people didn’t deserve love or pity, and that, even if George somehow did, Miguel would never have deigned to give it to him. Though, there was also a part of him that found himself wondering how she hadn’t seemed to get that he didn’t deserve it either.
Complicated and distressing feelings aside, there were simply things that Dana let Miguel get away with that she shouldn’t – like being arrogant, and “pompous” (or so Xina had said, at least, and, frankly, Miguel was starting to believe her), and uncaring towards the world that so desperately needed to be cared for – and there were things she wouldn’t let go that she should – like his relationship with his father, and his mother, and Gabriel, as if she hadn’t hurt him, too; as if she didn’t use the fact that Gabriel used to love her to keep him from being angry with her.
If honesty was what you were looking for – something Miguel had never been very good at, especially when it came to the difficult truths about himself – he would say that, despite his initial regret over his hasty break up with Dana on the day that he found out about his biological father and the truth of his… condition, it was a bit of a relief. They had been in love, but that wasn’t enough. Miguel had adored her, but she’d made him a worse person and he’d hurt her in kind, and, while he might not have cared about that fact before, he did now.
Running from the difficult confrontations and hiding in easy love that allowed him to fester in his grief was a choice he’d made back when he’d cheated on Xina, but he could see now that it was a poor one.
And, really, if honesty was what you were looking for – which, really, was asking a lot of Miguel – he would say that he missed Xina. Maybe not necessarily in a romantic sense (though, he couldn’t quite be sure), but it didn’t really matter, when it came down to it.
There was a reason that Miguel had insisted so fervently that LYLA be fixed. Sure, maybe it was, in part, due to her comforting familiarity in a time that was, undeniably, full of the terrifying unfamiliar, but it was also because LYLA was a product of Xina; she was a constant reminder of the person that Miguel had cared for so much and, frankly, still did. He hadn’t wanted to let that go, and maybe that should have told him something even before things ended with Dana, but Miguel had never been very good at facing difficult feelings. That’s why Dana had been so addicting, and why he’d wronged Xina when he shouldn’t have.
Xina had always been a bigger person than he had, though, and, somehow, she’d found it in herself to forgive him for what he’d done. If Miguel still wasn’t so afraid of what voicing his relief and appreciation might cause, he’d thank her. Maybe one day.
For now, though, the two could be friends as they once were; or, at least, something close to it. It was a nice change of pace, to be able to talk to someone that didn’t want something from him, one way or another. Though, admittedly, that was likely, in part, due to the fact that Xina’s expectations of him were still depressingly low.
It hurt a bit, but Miguel was aware that he’d more than earned it.
For now, mercifully, the difficult conversations could wait, and Miguel could pretend to be nothing more than Miguel O’Hara: bastard of a man that was doing his damndest to become less of one; not Spider-Man and whatever being him meant.
Or, at least, that was what he’d thought. He’d never really been that fortunate.
“Miguel O’Hara,” Xina exclaimed with faux fury, a hand placed firmly on her hip and a brow quirked upward as she attempted to bite back her smile behind a snarl. Her other hand laid casually on the door handle, and Miguel could already see all sorts of twencen junk just a few feet inside her home. “And just what, pray tell, are you doing here?”
“Xina Kwan,” Miguel returned, matching her energy as he, too, placed his hands on his hips and scowled. “I should ask you the same thing.”
Losing the fight against her amusement, Xina desperately tried to obscure her laugh with a scoff. “I remember you being smarter,” she mused. “I live here, as a matter of fact.”
As if the notion was news to him, Miguel’s eyes widened, and he straightened up, making a show of looking around the doorstep and peeking past her shoulder into the house before he raised his brows. “Well, sure enough,” he hummed. “Fancy that. May I come in?”
Sighing, Xina allowed a smile to slip onto her face, and she pushed the door aside, gesturing half-heartedly. “Yes, I suppose, but don’t touch anything. I don’t know what you’re contaminated with.”
“Charming, as always, Xina,” Miguel hummed as he entered. He fixed her with his own smile, and, like usual, took care to ensure that his fangs remained concealed. “I was going to say you were a better doorman than that robot of yours, but now I’m not so sure.”
“What’s wrong with Jack?” The words were accompanied by the sharp slam of a door, and Miguel couldn’t help but to smirk as he turned to see the annoyance on her face.
“He still calls me ‘Miguel the creep,’” he hummed, idly picking up some sort of blocky looking plastic brick with buttons on the side and some sort of antennae coming out of the top.
Immediately, Xina smacked his hand, and Miguel hissed at the feeling but placed the object back on the table nonetheless. “Does he?” she asked, eyes wide as if she genuinely didn’t know. Which was shocking bullshit. “That’s so strange. I wonder who taught him that.”
“I have a few ideas,” Miguel murmured, rubbing his hand with a pointed look.
“Well, now, let’s not get accusatory.” Xina straightened the item he’d moved, brushing it off gently. She paused, examined the object once more, then moved it slightly to the left before nodding affirmatively.
All the while, Miguel could only watch in muted fascination. “What is that thing?”
“Some twencen tech!” she immediately chirped, eager as always to talk about her number one favourite hobby. “It’s called a ‘walkie-talkie.’”
Miguel’s head cocked to the side, a brow raising. “A whatie-what?”
“A ‘walkie-talkie,’” Xina repeated slowly, grabbing his ear and pulling it to her lips as she spoke, much to Miguel’s chagrin. He batted her away, though couldn’t quite squash down a smile. “It’s basically what they used before holo-messages. I just wish I had another one so I could use it for something besides collecting dust. They only work with a pair,” she huffed.
Again, Miguel picked up the object, taking care in his movement, and, this time, Xina let him. He turned the walkie-talkie curiously in his hands, impressed by its weight when it supposedly had such a simple function. He’d never really understood her obsession with the twentieth century. From what he’d read, things really weren’t all that much better than they were now. He’d been working on a goober – though LYLA liked to call it a gizmo, mostly to spite him, he’s sure – to potentially see for himself in another universe, if he didn’t, y’know… die in the process.
That was later Miguel’s issue, though, and a worthy risk if he might be able to bring Xina a matching machine to complete her set. He didn’t get her obsession, but he didn’t have to. It was important to her, and that’s what was important to him.
Almost inaudible in his concentrated confusion, he mumbled, “Qué extraño…”
“What was that?”
“I said ‘super cool.’”
With another huff, Xina took the artefact from his hands once more, placing it back down onto the table. “Yeah, alright, you liar.”
Despite the practised angry tone, Miguel could see the way her lips quirked up in a smile, and he couldn’t help but snicker a bit. She’d always known him too well to believe nice lies. It was part of the reason why Miguel used to be so afraid of her, though the admission was something he still hadn’t quite come to terms with. Afraid was a strong word, but it was also an accurate one. Miguel was afraid to be seen for what he was, because he was even more afraid that he was something not worth seeing. Xina had never seemed to agree with that sentiment, though.
“Okay, maybe I don’t get it,” he admitted, hands on his hips once more.
“Of course you don’t,” Xina returned, cruel teasing words accompanied by a sweet smile. “I was always much smarter than you.”
“Har, har,” he said sarcastically. “Very funny.”
“Who said I was joking?” Then, before Miguel could respond, “how are you and… Diana, was it?”
“Dana.”
“Yeah, that one,” she said, snappily enough that it was clear that she’d actually known the answer all along, which Miguel was well aware of, considering how LYLA had returned to him with intricately coded insults specifically in Dana’s name. “You haven’t talked about her in a while. Did you two finally break up?”
Without missing a beat, Miguel fixed her with a sarcastic smile. “Yes, actually! Thanks so much for asking.”
Despite the nature of the question, his answer seemed to genuinely catch Xina off guard, her eyes going wide and mouth falling open. Her eyes searched his face as her brows furrowed, a mixture of guilt and some kind of indecipherable relief shining in her gaze as the gears turned in her mind and grasped for a response. It was almost amusing to see Xina so stumped when, normally, she was so quick on the draw. There were very few times that Miguel had seen her well and truly left without words, though, unfortunately, the twinge of bitterness and healthy dose of grief made it difficult to enjoy to its fullest.
“Congratulations,” she blurted, then immediately cringed at herself, a hand coming up to her forehead with an audible smack, and, admittedly, Miguel’s eyes widened a considerable degree, too. “Wait, fuck-” she backtracked. “That’s not what I meant at all. I’m sorry, Mig-”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Miguel hastily interrupted, pushing down hurt and hiding it behind a quirked brow. “What did you just say?”
Shrinking in on herself, Xina cringed again. “Congratulations?”
“No, no, not that,” he said, and a hand waved her off almost dismissively. “The other thing.”
“I’m… sorry?” she tried again, brows furrowed in confusion. Her arms, which she’d wrapped tightly around her shoulders, loosened their grip, though the tension didn’t leave her.
Miguel shook his head with another wave of his hand. “Not that either. The f-word.”
Eyes narrowing, Xina tilted her head forward. “Fuck?”
A short, breathless laugh fell from his mouth. “Oh, my god,” he nearly whispered, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses. “What are you, a millennial?”
“Wha-” Again, Xina’s eyes went wide, and her hands fell from her shoulders completely. “Miguel, are you kidding? That’s what you’re upset about? Me saying fuck?”
Face deadly serious, Miguel nodded once more as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Nobody says ‘fuck’ anymore. I know you’re into the whole twencen thing, but cursing is a sacred thing. You need to act like a civilised human being and say ‘shock.’”
As if she was entirely unsure how to react, Xina’s mouth still hung open uselessly, her eyes searching Miguel’s almost urgently. When all she was met with was his carefully practised mask of apathy, she managed a surprised scoff and picked her jaw up from off of the floor. Miguel, to his credit, managed to hold himself together, too, and raised a brow.
“You’re unbelievable,” she sputtered.
“Thank you,” came the response.
Then, “No, you are genuinely…” but she didn’t finish, the words trailing off, and Xina’s eyes narrowed once more. She leaned back on her feet, managing to actually look somewhat intimidating despite how much shorter she was than Miguel. Her arms crossed, and she fixed him with an unimpressed look that made his skin crawl just a bit. “I see what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he lied through his teeth, trying desperately to keep the tension out of his shoulders.
“No, no, you are,” Xina insisted, no longer falling for his antics. “I’ve known you since we were kids, Miguel. I know all of your stupid little tricks, probably better than you know them yourself.” She approached him, and, really, despite Miguel quite literally towering over her, he still felt small under her glare. “I’m gonna apologise to you, whether you like it or not.”
“Xina,” Miguel began uneasily, giving her his best attempt at a placating smile. “Come on… Let’s not be rash. I cheated on you, and you told me ‘congratulations’ when I broke up with my fiancée. We can just call it even.”
“Alright, first of all,” Xina began, a finger waving in Miguel’s face.
“Oh, boy.”
“Those two things are not comparable,” she hissed, though Miguel’s attention was mostly on the way that her finger moved in front of him. “And second of all-”
“Right.”
“I am better than you.”
“Uh huh.”
“I apologise to people when I hurt them, even if they don’t deserve it.”
“Oh, great.”
“So, I- Are you even listening?”
At that, her hand stilled, and Miguel frowned, his eyes refocusing on her face. “What?”
“Unbelievable.”
“I’m kidding! Come on, let’s just forget about it,” Miguel practically pleaded. “We can watch one of those twencen movies you like. One with that actress you really like, uh…” He trailed off, face screwed up in focus, mumbling, “ay, ¿cómo se llama?” then, with a snap of his fingers, “Marilyn Monroe!”
Xina placed her hands on her hips, brows furrowed as she eyed him. “You’re really sad about it, huh?”
A scowl found its way onto Miguel’s face once more, and he ran a hand over his face and through his hair in exasperation. “Ámi, I don’t know how I can be any clearer that I do not want to talk about it, or even think about it, for that matter.”
“Alright, alright,” Xina relented, raising her hands in surrender. There was a beat before she snickered a bit, shoving Miguel’s arm with a smile that was a bit too soft. “Look at Miguelito! He grew a heart, eh? What’d you do with the real Miguel?”
Despite the teasing, Miguel couldn’t help but to return her smile. “I guess someone got fed up with his ‘pompous’ attitude and killed him,” he answered, and the two laughed.
In a way, Miguel knew that it was irresponsible and selfish to hold all of his hurt as close to his chest as possible only to inevitably lash out when someone happened to push the wrong buttons. More than anything, he was terrified of being like his father; or, step-father, rather. George O’Hara had chosen the worst possible way to express his feelings, and it had, admittedly, left Miguel terrified to express his at all. It felt safer to just keep them to himself, up until the point that he couldn’t take it anymore and ended up taking it out on someone else, and, in the moment immediately after, Miguel realised just how much like George O’Hara he really was.
The thought was enough to make him feel sick, and it just made him work even harder to be everything his father wasn’t, for better or for worse.
George O’Hara never would have taken up the mantle of Spider-Man, and, even if he had, he certainly wouldn’t have used the position for any damn good. Knowing the bastard, he probably would have used his abilities to come up with new and improved ways to torment his family. If Miguel couldn’t say he was better than his father in any other way, at least he could say that he was better than him in that.
Still, there were more days than Miguel liked to admit that he wondered whether he was doing the right thing by trying to use his powers for good, or if he really was just using it to boost his own ego like Gabriel had accused him of.
“Hey,” came Xina’s gentle call, her hand pressed against his bicep gently, grounding him. “Have you ever heard of Pac-Man?”
Miguel was quiet for a moment, then, “not even once.”
“Oh, man,” she said, her face cracking into a smile, “prepare to have your mind blown.”
To say Miguel’s mind was not blown would be an understatement. Of course, he knew by now that the things Xina found to be completely mind blowing were entirely different from the things Miguel would be impressed by, but, even with reasonably low expectations, this was a disappointment. She’d led him through her house, skillfully weaving around the organised clutter of twencen artefacts, then stopped – with the biggest, proudest smile Miguel had ever seen from her – in front of a rectangle with two buttons, a stick, and a screen. He raised a brow at the thing, then peeked over to Xina again.
“Well?” she prompted, gesturing to the box and confirming that Miguel wasn’t mistaken and that the real thing wasn’t hidden behind the rectangle. “What do you think?”
Again, his eyes slid over the thing, and, yeah, it really was just a couple of buttons and a stick, but, nevertheless, he smiled. “Consider my mind blown.”
“Yeah, alright,” she huffed. “Thanks for humouring me. I swear it gets better.” Xina beamed as she pulled the cabinet away from the wall with some degree of effort and pulled what looked to be some sort of tail from the object. Miguel watched in muted fascination as she stuck the thing into some sort of specially made device that connected the thing to the building’s power source… with a wire? Who would want that?
All at once, the thing’s screen flared to life with so few neon coloured pixels that they barely even made shapes but, somehow, managed to be bright enough to hurt anyway, making Miguel flinch even behind his sunglasses. Coupled with the almost ear-piercing music and sound effects that accompanied it, he could safely say that he was less impressed than he was bothered. As Xina once again turned her smile to him, gesturing to the screen with all of the enthusiasm of a child, Miguel wouldn’t have dared to say it aloud.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said, and that much, at least, was true.
“I know, I know. It’s pretty awesome,” Xina bubbled, and her smile turned mischievous. “The best part? It’s two player.”
That made Miguel raise a brow in genuine interest. “It’s a game?”
“Finally have your interest, huh?” she teased. “It is a game. One of the first, actually.”
Miguel peered at the screen again, watching yellow pixels dart across, occasionally followed by red, blue, pink, or orange. His head cocked to the side, and he took a bit of a hesitant step closer. “How do you play?”
With a snicker, Xina rubbed her hands together before lacing them together and pushing them forward with an accompanying crack. “Watch and learn, rookie.”
As it turned out, Pac-Man was actually a relatively simple game; you (the yellow munching thing, though Miguel did not get an answer as to what it was other than “he’s Pac-Man!”) needed to travel through the maze and eat all of the dots (why, Xina couldn’t tell him) and avoid getting touched by the multicoloured “ghosts” that would chase you throughout the map (which, again, Xina couldn’t explain, but maybe it didn’t matter). There was also fruit that occasionally popped up for some reason – though all it really seemed to do was increase score – and bigger dots that turned the ghosts blue (“Xina, there’s already a blue ghost.” “Well, these are bluer.”) and made them edible, apparently. Though, the ghosts never stayed dead; whereas Pac-Man only got three lives. Miguel commented on the unfairness of it, but Xina didn’t seem particularly interested.
So, all that said, it should have been a pretty easy game. Xina certainly made it look easy, weaving between ghosts with ease and timing her dot collection just right to ensure that she could take out each enemy in one fell swoop. She only played a few levels, noting that the ghosts would get faster and faster, before she intentionally lost so the two of them could play together; which was the same as single player except the game forced you to take turns. Whoopie.
As easy as the game looked, though, Miguel ate his words more than he ate dots as he struggled through his first life.
“What the- What the shock?!” he hissed as he got stuck in a corner for the fifth time, struggling to time the joystick movement with the direction he wanted to go. He whirled to face his companion again, eyes blown wide with frustration. “Xina, it’s shocking broken. It’s these controls, I swear. They’re ancient. Are you sure it’s working?”
Barely containing her laughter, Xina gestured to the screen. “The game’s still going, Mig.”
“¡Chale!” Miguel all but screeched as he turned back to the game, furiously pulling at the joystick once more. “Este jodido juego es tan… ¡Qué mierda! Ay, no, no, no… Aléjense de mí, ¡cabrones! No quiero que me toquen, por favor, moriré- Ah! No! Shit, shit- ¡Coño! Shock!”
As the yellow pixels curled in on themselves in death, Miguel wailed at the screen in frustration, though he perked up as he heard the distinct sound of wheezing from behind him. Concerned for a moment, he quickly turned to check on Xina before his concerned expression fell away into annoyance once more. Xina was laughing so hard her face had turned red, cheeks wet with tears as she barely held herself up against a nearby dresser.
“Oh, yeah, laugh it the shock up, asshole,” Miguel grumbled, though the words came out sounding half-hearted at best.
“You are- so bad!” Xina managed to get out through wheezes. “I don’t think I’ve heard you curse that much ever!” With a short yelp, her hand slipped off of her crutch, and she slipped to the floor – thankfully harmlessly – and her fist pounded against the carpeting like a lifeline as she started to laugh once more.
Unimpressed, Miguel squatted down beside her. “Hey, Xina.”
Taking a few more moments to learn how to breathe again, Xina only hummed, glancing up to him with tears still streaking down her cheeks and eyes crinkled in a smile.
Miguel jerked a hand towards the screen, giving her his own grin. “The game’s still going.”
All at once, her laughter died away, and she rocketed to her feet, nearly taking Miguel out in the process. “Fuck!”
Then, it was his turn to laugh as she scrambled to get away from the oncoming enemies, though Xina was certainly much more successful in the endeavour than he was, managing to make it through a couple more levels despite her setback before she finally took her first death.
With a grandiose laugh, she turned back to Miguel and grinned. “Beat that, bitch!”
Scoffing, Miguel took the joystick into his hand and leaned in close to the screen. “Easily.”
Unfortunately, he did not, in fact, “beat that,” bitch.
In reality, Miguel only managed to make it through the first level, then near immediately lost his last two lives at the very beginning of the second one while, in the intermission between his second and third life, Xina made it all the way to level twenty-six. Needless to say, she had not only beaten him but, also, thoroughly humiliated him in the process. Not that Miguel could possibly be frustrated with the loss when Xina was smiling at him the way she was. In that moment, it really was like nothing had changed, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel lighter than he had in years.
Leaning over her shoulder as Xina prepared herself for last life, she bounced on the balls of her feet and took a deep breath.
“What’s with the face?” Miguel questioned, startling her out of her focus and making her yelp, and he snickered a bit before whispering an apology. “You’ve already beat me, ámi. By no small number, might I, regretfully, add.”
Without so much as a glance towards him, Xina scoffed, the sound accompanied by the skillful flick of the joystick every which way. “Not everything’s about you, Miguel. I’ve almost beaten my highscore.”
A beat, as he remembered just how much effort she’d put into ensuring she beat him. “...You’re sure it’s not even about me a little bit?”
“Shut up,” she hissed. “I’m trying to focus.”
“Alright, alright,” he snickered, putting his attention onto the game right alongside her.
Pac-Man is, admittedly, not as much of a disappointment as Miguel had initially chalked it up to be. In fact, he might even go so far as to say that he was wrong entirely and that the game was actually rather fun, though he wasn’t sure that it would be entirely fair to attribute his amusement to the game so much as the person he was playing it with. At the end of the day, it was just a few pixels on a screen – something that was over a century obsolete and had long since been replaced with far more complex and involved experiences – but there wasn’t anything that could ever possibly equal the time he spent with Xina or make him feel the way her laugh did.
…He’d forgotten the way that she stuck the tip of her tongue out when she was focusing.
As three of the four ghosts closed in on Xina, Miguel couldn’t help but wince. “Uh… please tell me you’ve beaten it.”
“Fuck!” was all he got in response, then, “this fucking game is so… What the hell?! Oh, no, no, no… Get away from me, bastards! I don’t want you to touch me, please, I’ll die- Ah! No! Shit, shit- Fuck! Fuck!”
Yellow pixels curled in on themselves in death as Xina wailed at the screen, and Miguel could barely hold himself up from the force of his laughter, mouth wide open as he cackled unabashedly. His chest heaved desperately for air, only for it to come out in more snorts and snickers, and Xina, clearly just as amused with the situation as he was, turned to him with a poor imitation of a scowl, her lips pulled up wide into a smile.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it the fuck up, asshole,” she chided light-heartedly.
Then, all at once, her smile dropped, and her eyes went wide. The suddenness of it all was enough to near instantly cut off Miguel’s laughter, too, though his smile didn’t quite fall away yet. It warped into something nervous, and a few more uncomfortable laughs fell from him, his brows furrowing into something concerned.
“...What?” he asked cautiously. “What’s wrong?”
Xina didn’t say a word, though she approached him with her own skittishness, taking his cheek in her hand and leaning in close, and Miguel’s face flushed bright red.
There was a moment, however brief, that he was sure that she was going to kiss him.
Then, her finger hooked his upper lip and pulled it upwards, her eyes widening even further as her breath hitched, and, even then, Miguel still didn’t quite get it. It wasn’t until she spoke, voice shaky and small, that he understood.
“Fangs.”
A terrified bolt of dread lanced straight into Miguel’s chest, getting lodged there and weighing him down; stealing his air. His body immediately went tense, his eyes wide, and a trembling hand reached up and ghosted Xina’s, gently pulling it away from his face.
“Xina.” His voice came out strained, equally as small as hers.
“Miguel, you- you have fangs,” she nearly whispered, as if it was some sort of horrifying secret that might get her into trouble if she said it just a bit too loud.
“Xina, I… I can explain.”
With a squeak, she pulled out of his grasp, and he let her. She held her hand close to her chest, as if he’d somehow burned it, and her mouth hung agape in abject horror. “What happened to you? Miguel, I- I know where you work. I know what you do. What did you… What did you do to yourself?”
“It’s not like that,” he breathed, though the truth wasn’t far enough off.
“Then what is it like?” Xina demanded, though the way her voice wavered made the command fall flat. “What happened to you?”
“It was an accident,” and that, at least, was the truth.
“An accident?” she echoed. The way that it was said made it clear she wasn’t quite buying it. “So, what, you meant to alter your own genetics in another way?”
“No,” Miguel shot back in horror, then, “well- well, yes, but-”
“Oh, my god.” Xina blanched. “Miguel-”
“No, no, it’s not-”
“Yes, ‘it’s not like that,’ I know.”
“No, Xina,” he cried. “Just-”
“I really thought you’d changed,” she muttered, trembling. “I really thought-
“Please,” he pleaded, taking a step forward, “just-”
“Miguel,” Xina interrupted again shakily, stepping back in kind. “How can you possibly justify this?”
Dismayed, Miguel backed away, too, hands raised. “I can explain, Xina. Please-”
“Then do it, Miguel!”
“I’m trying. Please, just-”
“Just what?”
“Just listen!” Miguel finally shouted, brows furrowed and hands gesturing in frustrated desperation.
A scream tore from Xina’s throat and she stumbled away, her hands shooting up in front of her as if to push him away, and Miguel choked away a scream of his own, his eyes going wide. Her gaze fixated on his hands, chest heaving desperately.
“Claws!” she screeched. “You’re- You’re a monster!”
“No, I-” Peering down to his raised hands where his talons had inadvertently popped out, he gasped and immediately retracted them, glancing back up to Xina with his own look of horror. He looked distraught, face screwed up in distress, and he stepped backwards once more. Claws, fangs, yelling just as his father had, and Xina looked just as terrified as he’d felt. He loathed himself at the thought. “I- I am. I am a monster.”
Xina’s expression shifted, though only minutely, as she remained poised for fight or flight, breaths still coming in short gasps.
“I’m sorry, Xina,” Miguel sobbed, and his hands moved to clasp over his chest to steady himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I didn’t mean to- I didn’t mean to scare you. Please, I… I wouldn’t hurt you, Xina. Never. Never. Not like that.”
There was quiet again for a moment, and Xina’s eyes narrowed, sliding over him in suspicion; over his hands, to his mouth, then, to his eyes. Her eyes met his through his shades, and he carefully, hesitantly, raised a trembling hand to remove them, giving her full view of his eyes and all of the ways they had changed. Again she gasped, met with bright red as opposed to the brown Miguel knew she was accustomed to, and his breath hitched once more. He hoped that his eyes didn’t hold the same agony he felt, though he wasn’t sure he was so lucky; pain never was something that allowed itself to be quietly hidden away. Maybe that was another reason for the sunglasses.
Seconds ticked by, and they simply stared at one another, words drowned by terror and uncertainty that stole the air from both of their lungs, then Xina’s brows furrowed, and her eyes softened ever so slightly. She took a hesitant breath and stepped forward, reaching a hand out.
Breathless, Miguel eyed her hand and shuffled a bit back.
With a frown, Xina once more approached him, fear replaced by determination. “It’s alright,” she said, kindness in her voice, so sweet it almost felt placating, and it probably was. “It’s okay, Miguel. I’m listening now. I’m sorry I didn’t before.”
This time, he didn’t move away, but he still hesitated to take her hand.
“Come on, Miggy,” she urged. “I was just… startled. I know you’d never hurt me.” She wiggled her hand a bit, frowning at him. “I shouldn’t have called you a monster,” Xina mumbled, her voice breaking. “You’re not a monster. Fuck, I’m so sorry, Miguel.”
With an exceptional amount of gentleness, Miguel inched forward and took her hand into his. He fearfully met her eyes, all of his hurt on full display, then, “What… What did you say?”
Her eyes shone with sorrow, and she gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Miguel. I should’ve never said what I did.”
“No, not that,” he gently corrected. “The other thing.”
Xina’s head cocked to the side, then, all at once, her eyes went wide. “Miguel.”
“The f-word…” he whispered with almost reverent horror.
Laughing wetly, Xina stepped forward and used her free hand to beat against his chest. “You’re unbelievable!” Her fist came to rest against him gently, and she frowned. “Fangs, claws, red eyes, and you really haven’t changed a bit. I should’ve known.”
“I’m Spider-Man,” Miguel blurted, and Xina made a choked sound, looking back up at him.
“Alright, maybe you’ve changed a little.”
A hand came up to ghost Xina’s cheek, and he gently wiped away her silent tears. “Is that a bad thing?”
She leaned into his touch, though her eyes remained fixed on his. “I… I don’t know. Is it?”
Miguel frowned, looking away. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I’m… I’m trying to be good; better than I was before.”
“Well,” she hummed, removing her hand from his chest and placing it over the one placed on her cheek, “that’s all you can really do, I guess. For the record, I think you’re better already. The old you never would have risked his neck for someone else.” A beat. “Or apologised. Or pretended to like some twencen stuff just because I do.”
“The game was fun,” Miguel confessed.
Again, Xina hummed, a small smile on her face. “You really think so?”
“I do.”
“Well, gee, how bad of a change could you have possibly gone through, then?” she teased half-heartedly. “Seems like it gave you better taste.”
“Har, har,” he huffed sarcastically. “Very funny.”
“Who said I was joking?” Then, before Miguel could respond, “I really am sorry, you know. For calling you a monster.”
Immediately, he fixed her with a frown, averting his eyes once more as all of the hurt from before returned. “Aw, shock. And here I’d thought my sly tactic had worked this time.”
With a sad laugh, Xina patted his hand, gently pulling it away from her face and holding it down by where their other pair were still interlocked. “On me? Never.”
Miguel glanced down at their linked hands, thinking of his claws and how terrified Xina had been of them mere minutes earlier. Aaron had been terrified of them too, back when the guy had tried to kill Miguel and gotten himself killed instead, and he’d had a right to be when Miguel had shredded his skin without even realising he was doing it. How many times could one person accidentally hurt someone else before it meant that he was simply something evil and wrong; a monster.
Exhaling shakily, Miguel’s face fell, his shoulders sagging as he tried hard to keep back tears. “Well, you were right. I am.”
“Miguel O’Hara,” Xina hissed, squeezing his hands hard; enough to make him wince.
His eyes met hers again, unwavering. “Xina Kwan.”
She didn’t speak, her expression screwing up into that same withering glare she’d fixed him with earlier, but Miguel still didn’t back down.
“You said it yourself,” he retorted to her silent disagreement. “I messed with something I shouldn’t have, and now I’m here.” The next words were spat, like venom. “A monster.”
“You are not a monster,” Xina seethed once more, as unwilling to give in as he was.
It was times like these that made Miguel less grateful how stubborn she was. It was also times like these that reminded Miguel why he’d left her for Dana; though, even more strongly, why he shouldn’t have. And, really, it was times like these that actually made Miguel all the more grateful that she was, in fact, as stubborn as she was. He knew well that he’d back down before she did. He always had. As arrogant and self-absorbed as Miguel may have been, he was also a coward. Xina had never been a coward.
“Monsters are scary, Miguel,” she continued, insistent as always. “You’re hardly scary.”
Scoffing, Miguel rolled his eyes, brows furrowed. “You seemed pretty afraid of me.”
“Startled,” Xina quickly corrected. “There’s a difference. I could hardly be afraid of someone who can’t even beat me in Pac-Man.”
He laughed shortly, glancing at her with narrowed eyes. “That’s your standard?”
“For you it is,” she smirked up at him, “because it’s never going to happen.”
“You’re unbelievable,” he said.
“Thank you,” came the response.
Looking about as pleased as he felt, Miguel gave in, his head falling forward with a sigh. “You don’t even know what happened,” he mumbled. “What if that changes your mind?”
“You said it was an accident,” she said, leaning her own head forward so she could still see his eyes.
“It was,” he immediately confirmed, a little too desperately. “It was, but…” He paused, teeth gritting as he struggled to get the words out. It was difficult for him to tell if he just didn’t know what to say, or if he was too afraid to actually say it. Both options were equally as likely, and, also, equally as frustrating. “I… If I’d been smarter- If I’d just been more careful in the first place, then I never would have needed to- I wouldn’t have had to- Because I had to, Xina, I swear. Or- Or I thought I did. You have to understand that I- I didn’t want to… But if I’d just- I don’t know. If I’d done better- If I’d been better I… I wouldn’t be…”
When he trailed off for the second time, lips pursed with frustration both at his past self for everything that had gone wrong and for his current self for messing this up, too, Xina hummed and graced his hand with another comforting squeeze, forcing him to look up at her and meet her gaze with misty eyes.
“It’s okay, Miguel,” she gently assured. “You don’t have to tell me. You may have been pompous-”
“I was not pompous.”
“-but you were never stupid, do you hear me? Arrogance or not, I don’t pin you as the kind of man to mess with his genetics just for fun,” Xina conceded, and a bit of the tension left Miguel’s shoulders. Then, she huffed, smiling teasingly and clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Especially since you so clearly thought you were perfect already.”
Miguel glowered at her, though it wasn’t very intimidating with his hands still gently held by hers and eyes still red with unshed tears. “Pushing your luck with the guy with claws. Not very smart.”
“Yeah, yeah. Beat me at Pac-Man, and then try threatening me again.” She laughed, meeting his eyes with her own sparkling with empathetic grief; there was a distinct lack of fear where there had been before, and Miguel couldn’t help but to let out a small breath of relief. She must have heard it because she gripped his hand tightly once more.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Xina repeated, firm. “It wasn’t intentional. That’s what I was really worried about. That would have been scary.” She brought their hands up between them, glancing to them and smiling. “Claws or not, you’re still the same old Miguel.”
Miguel’s eyes locked onto their hands, too, and he managed to return a small smile. The relief was both light and heavy at the same time, making his shoulders sag in exhaustion as all of the tension and adrenaline resided and left him with the familiar fatigue of the moment the fight ended and he felt safe once more. Although he’d never say it out loud – knowing well that he’d be teased for it – Miguel could firmly admit that none of the foes he’d faced as Spider-Man had ever scared him half as much as this, and, in turn, they’d never left him with half of the respite after the fact.
“Maybe I’ll tell you one day,” he murmured. “Not yet.”
“Whenever you want, Miguel,” Xina replied, genuine, then, after a beat, “I do have one question, though.”
Frowning, Miguel hesitated again.
“It’s really simple, I promise!” she reassured, shaking his hands with a bit of a laugh. “You don’t have to answer. Just hear me out.”
Only minimally soothed, he let out a long sound of dismay that ended with an exasperated, “fine. Shoot.”
Then, face beaming, Xina asked the most stupid question Miguel could have possibly thought of, “Are you a vampire?”
For a moment, he could only stare, too surprised to even remember how to show it. Then, his eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head to the side with a pointed look. “I remember you being smarter,” he deadpanned.
Finally, Xina pulled her hands out of his, raising them in surrender with a vivacious laugh. “I just had to be sure!”
“Oh, you just had to be sure. Of course,” Miguel echoed, unamused. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied with yourself, idiota.” He huffed, arms crossed over his chest.
“Quite satisfied, as a matter of fact,” she shot back, and how could he be mad when she was smiling at him like that.
Biting back a laugh, he tried harder to maintain his frown. “You’re the worst, do you know that? Just the worst.”
“Aw, come on,” she tutted. “If I’m so bad, then why were we a couple?” Xina smirked, quoting his own words from their reunion all those weeks ago.
Then, Miguel couldn’t hold back his smile anymore, returning her exact response. “Because I felt sorry for you,” he quoted. “And it bugged my dad.”
“As good of a reason as any,” she hummed, a hand resting on her hip. Then, her eyes narrowed as she seemed to realise something. “You know, I know I made fun of you for that wall crawling joke back then, but, knowing what I know now, it actually is funny.”
A short huff of surprise fell from Miguel’s mouth at the statement, and he was reminded again just how different Xina Kwan was from Dana D’Angelo; someone who certainly wouldn’t understand what had happened to him, and someone who had pushed him for the truth even when he’d begged her not to; not Xina Kwan; not the person who’d believed he could be better even when he didn’t want to be and encouraged him once he finally did. The realisation was a pleasant one – a rare moment of pure glee that he revelled in amidst all of the sorrow he’d been surrounded by as of late – and his face was overtaken by a wide smile, red eyes crinkling in joy and fangs on full display as he laughed once more.
This time, Xina didn’t even flinch, just laughing along with him.
it's a lot more snappy back and forth than in my last piece, but how could i NOT write these two bantering?? they're two geniuses that honestly outshine everyone but each other. there's no one else they can talk to like this and genuinely feel like they're on the same level with, though that's in part due to the ego they've BOTH got from being so intelligent LMFAO. miguel moreso, but you can't tell me that xina doesn't have a BIT of an ego. she finds just a little too much pleasure in knowing that she's smarter than dana, and honestly good for her, dana deserves it.
and miguel deserves it too frankly. xina gets a few good thinly veiled insults in for good measure, as she should, but i won't spoil them >:)
also i know i said "fluff" but it's probably going to be hurt/comfort again, sorry not sorry. it WILL be less intense than my last angsty piece though. more comfort than hurt.
