#Honestly the sweat they put on his face makes it even more grotesquely funny.

[kyouka-supremacy]

Tbh studio Bones was such an utter coward for not making Dazai cry when Oda died

[danetobelieve]

If You Can’t Do The Time, Don’t Do The Mime || Roland and Winston

Honestly, Winston wasn’t sure whether they were more stressed about how far behind they were on their college work or the mime that had tried to kill them the previous day. But they had to go into work and it wasn’t as if avoiding your mime stalker was a good excuse to not go into work, despite that the WCPD might well be the safest place for Winston. Still exhausted from their magical exertion the previous day, Winston took a deep breath and rubbed their tired eyes. They’d just finished digitising some old police records that Roland had asked them to do. Of course he’d seemed almost reluctant to ask them to do something so menial, but Winston didn’t mind. Done with their task, they went to see if there was anything else that they needed to do before they braved the trip home. Heading towards their desk, Winston frowned when they realised that they weren’t there. Turning to a passing officer, they smiled at Officer Ward. “You seen the Sarge?” they asked curiously. 

The morning had been going much like any other for Roland aside from the dispatchers radioing in a bunch of different calls regarding violent mimes. It had to be one of the strangest things he’d ever heard and he knew he was going to require another cup of coffee if he was going to make it through all these shenanigans. He was nothing short of determined to get these murderous mimes in a prison cell where they belonged. Apparently Langley wasn’t the only one to get the short end of the mime-stick. They’d definitely need to follow up with him and Dr. Kavanagh about this whole thing. He’d been pouring a mug of freshly brewed joe when he heard soft footsteps behind him. He turned around to Winston dressed up as a mime. Roland grumbled and furrowed his brow. What the hell was this kid doing? It wasn’t like them to goof around at work and given the circumstances, it was far from funny. “Winston, that is not appropriate work attire. I hope you have a change of clothes. I can’t bring you out on patrol dressed like that.” 

After getting directions from Redwood, Winston headed towards the break room where they had been told that the Sergeant had last been heading towards. They hoped that there was something more for them to do because honestly they were kind of starting to obsess over this mime thing and it really was pretty creepy. The town’s weird obsession with mimes was nothing short of grotesque at this point and if Winston never saw another one again then it would be too soon. As they headed towards the break room however they were distressed to find the door locked. Which was weird. Winston honestly didn’t even know that this room could be locked and as they peered through the tiny glass window in the center of the door they were horrified to spot a mime speaking to the Sergeant. “Oh fuck,” they whispered, trying the handle to the door frantically.

It was becoming quickly frustrating that they weren’t speaking actual words to Roland. Everything was being motioned out silently which was frustrating to say the least. If this was some sort of joke, he wasn’t amused and expected better from Winston. They’d always been nothing short of respectful before. What was all of this about? “Enough of the games, Winston,” he said gruffly. Winston didn’t seem to take very kindly to that and made an upset looking face that was accentuated by their hands clapping against their cheeks. “This isn’t funny, we have work to do. Go get changed so we can begin our morning patrol.” His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried not to lose his patience. Why was Winston animatedly walking toward him instead of changing? He didn’t know who put him up to this, but it was a far cry from humorous. 

Peering through the window, Winston rattled the handle harder. They dread to think what the mime in their would do, but it turned and looked over its shoulder for a moment and once more Winston was greeted with their face. Just in pure white makeup. The mime version would do something terrible if they weren’t interrupted soon and the fact that the door had been locked was definitely not something that Winston took to be a good sign. They knew that these mimes; wherever they came from; well they were dangerous and they could do what Winston could do and they could really hurt someone with that. Whatever they had planned Winston wasn’t about to let it go on as they saw the mime reach behind it’s back and slip what looked to be a hunting knife from it’s waist band. Winston wasn’t sure where they’d gotten it but as Roland said something that Winston could only barely hear, they knew that things weren’t going to go well. They had to get in there. But with the door locked their options were limited, could they break it down? Probably not. It looked heavier then they were and Winston wasn’t exactly known for their physical strength. 

Roland’s features twisted in confusion as Winston pulled a hunting knife out of their waistband. What the hell was going on? This wasn’t like Winston at all. As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure the intern actually liked him. Usually he wasn’t too popular with the kids, but he thought he and Winston got on well. “Winston, cut it out. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you need to stop.” The mime made a shrugging motion before quickly approaching him with the knife. Was Winston honestly about to stab him right now? This wasn’t right. Winston couldn’t do that. This had to be some sort of weird dream, but everything felt pretty real. As the mime lunged forward, Roland dodged to miss the very sharp and very real knife pointed at him. “Stop it right now! This isn’t like you, Winston, and you could seriously hurt someone with that thing.” Then something caught Roland’s eye, was that Winston in normal clothing out in the hallway? Was this just some mime who looked like them? Shit. Roland lunged to reach for the arm holding the knife, but just missed. 

As Roland lunged, Winston gripped the handle of the door tightly and reached out as best they could. Trying to get a sense of the tumblers and bolts in the door, it wasn’t a difficult mechanism and it didn’t take very long for Winston to get everything into place and then the handle turned with a loud click and Winston was bursting into the room. In the moment it had taken them to magic the door open they had missed Roland darting forward for the knife, the mime didn’t appear to have managed to stab Roland, but they were grappling or about to. Winston wished that Roland knew at that moment, because they had been practicing a binding spell and it would’ve been a perfect way to dispatch of themselves so that they could finally kill them … again. With a wild cry of “FUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCK” Winston shot forward and tackled their mimeself into the counter. “Oh, hey Sarge,” they said with a grunt as their glasses fell to the floor and they blindly tried to snatch the knife from the mimes hand. 

This whole situation had Roland’s head spinning. He’d been so sure that the mime was Winston. Had he really not been able to recognize them well enough to know that the mime wasn’t them? He knew Winston better than that. At the moment, he couldn’t fully ponder just what the hell happened. They were both in danger and he had a responsibility to keep Winston safe. He’d been shocked to see Winston tackle the mime into the counter. He knew one day soon he could be proud of that moment, but right now, dealing with the mime took priority. He rushed over to where Winston had the mime tackled and reached to slam down the wrist holding the knife. A crack could be heard as the mime’s wrist hit the countertop and the knife effectively fell out of its hand. Roland was quick to knock it out of the way and reached quickly for his cuffs while the mime was still being held down. 

Winston felt pain lance through their arm as it slammed against the counter top alongside the body of the mime. For a moment they struggled, equally matched in their strength as they were well, identical copies of one another. Winston knew that they would be okay though, Roland was there and he was a trained police officer who knew exactly how to deal with situations like this and sure enough it wasn’t long before there was a loud crack and the knife that had been getting worryingly close to cutting into Winston was knocked from the mimes hand without any sound. “Fuck, fuck,” Winston pulled away from it gasping for air and wiped sweat from their brow, “ah fuck, thanks sarge, fuck.” 

Once the mime was cuffed, Roland was able to relax a little bit. He’d manage to fulfill his duty of keeping the intern safe, but his mind was still reeling. His temples were throbbing and he clearly wasn’t thinking straight. Still, this mime needed to be put in a jail cell. “Think I should be thanking you. Your tackle made it easier for me to cuff them.” He was too embarrassed to ask Winston if the mime looked like them. The last thing this day needed was his favorite intern questioning his sanity. He walked out into the hallway with the mime in tow and handed him off to Officer Marks and said, “Please get this mime through processing. They just tried to stab me in the breakroom.” He turned back to Winston, “On that note, I’m going to be taking the rest of the afternoon off. Not sure I’m in the right state of mine to be patrolling. Wu or Stryder should be able to have you shadow them for the day.” 

“Well, they were brandishing a knife and I did one or two of the self defense seminars that they offer outside of office hours and it actually came in really useful.” Winston’s breath was catching in their throat, they were exhausted and sticky from the sweat that their brief encounter with the mime. They had been working out but they obviously needed to do more if they were out of breath from just that. They paused for a moment as they looked Roland up and down before nodding gently. “That’s fair, I think if a mime version of your intern tried to kill me then I would probably also just need to take the afternoon off, can I get you anything or is there anything you want me to do? Or should I just check with Marley and / or Jane?” 

“I’m glad you went to those seminars then. Thanks for the help,” Roland said somewhat hoarsely. He still felt off about the whole situation. The mime had looked so much like Winston and he’d been so convinced that it was them the first time he saw it. His head was pounding and he was definitely ready for a cup of tea on his couch while he tried to sort out what the hell just happened. They were looking at him and he knew he looked a little perplexed. Then Winston mentioned the mime version of the intern. So it wasn’t just him? “You thought the mime looked like you, too? I thought I was just seeing things. That’s an uncanny resemblance.” He shook his head, still sure he needed to sleep whatever was going on in his head away. “Check in with them. If they don’t need any help, you can keep working on digitizing all the old files.” 

“Yeah, I thought it looked like me, I think I had a run in with them earlier…” Winston swallowed at Roland’s next words. Their heart plummeted at what Roland had to say. They got it of course. It made sense. It wasn’t that Roland wasn’t giving Winston a fair shot or anything. It was cool. They understood. They were just a kid. They were 24 years old but whatever. The people in this place were good people, many of them the best kinds of people, they were Winston’s people. Their father had worked here so long that Winston almost knew this place as well as their home and the people here were a second family. But most of them had never worked out that Winston was more then just their father’s kid. They were more then just the former Sarge’s child. They could do things. Sure people didn’t know about the magic but Winston could use most of the tech here better then many of their co-workers. Obviously Roland was different and they hadn’t done any of this to make Winston feel that way, they had just had a knife pulled on them. “Cool, cool … coool,” they gave Roland a quick smile, “I can do that no problem at al. I hope you’re not hurt or anything, thanks for stopping it from stabbing me, ha, not a sentence I ever thought I’d say.” Real cool Winston. Real cool.

“You had a run in with them before? If you have any relevant information, please let processing know,” Roland said as he pinched the bridge of his nose. There was something off about that mime that’d he’d never seen in another person before. It left him feeling like there was some bigger piece to this puzzle that he was missing. More than anything, he needed to clear his head and come back at this fresh. He could tell Winston was a bit disappointed that he didn’t have an assignment planned for during his absence. Truly, he’d planned on taking them out during his patrol and having them figure out ways to start getting a better program in order for beginning to process reports out on the field. He let out a sigh, “I’m sorry, I did plan on having you go on patrol again with me today. I want you to get a feel for what we’re doing out on the field to see how we can better implement a program to start filing reports while out on the scene. If you have any ideas, you can draft them up for me to look over when I get back to the station. If Stryder or Wu are available, I would like you to get a better idea of what the current process is.” He much preferred they were out with him where he could be the one in charge of their safety. He shook his head, “No problem, Winston. Can’t say I ever expected to be attacked by a mime either, but here we are.” 

Roland was a good guy. Of that much Winston was sure. There were few people who were just trying to do the right thing. Of that Winston was becoming increasingly aware. “Yeah, they attacked me and my friends at Al’s with another mime, I’ll tell processing what I know. Want to make sure that no one else gets hurt.” Though something made Winston think that if a knife to it’s throat hadn’t done the job it was unlikely that a prison cell would. But one could hope anyway. “It’s cool, I get it, you were almost stabbed, probably not what you had planned.” They paused and listened carefully to Roland’s instructions before nodding a smile slowly crossing their face. Well at least they could make this better for whoever followed in their less then illustrious footsteps. “I’ll talk to them and see if they’ve got anything they think could help, and I’ll do some of my own research too.” They already had some good ideas where they could start.  “Thank you for that. I know I’m probably the last thing that you want to be thinking about but I do really appreciate it.” They fiddled nervously with their glasses and prepared to leave. “No, this town’s obsession with mimes and it’s reputation as the mime capital of the world really isn’t my thing. Never was. Definitely isn’t now. Kind of think that if I never saw another mime again it might be too soon.” 

Roland knew he’d be taking any mime related case files home with him to review after he had a shower and a fresh cup of joe. It wasn’t safe for him to be actively on duty when he wasn’t seeing things clearly. “Thank you, Winston. I’ll be looking into all this mime stuff and trying to get a hold of it. That’s three officers, an intern, and who knows how many civilians they’ve been violent with.” Something told him the mimes wouldn’t be inclined to talk, but something with this situation had to give. They’d need to up their patrolling to get these troublesome mimes off the streets. “Especially not in the breakroom of all places. On patrol, you always have to be prepared for things to go south, but you think you’d be safe at the station making coffee.” It was nice to see Winston smile at the mention of a new project. He’d have rather been there to be part of the process, but there’d be time for that. This would be a long term project. “Good, I trust you to keep busy with that then. I look forward to seeing what you come with.” As they reached his desk, he picked up his briefcase and put a few files in it. “I’d love to never see another mime, but somehow I think we’ll still be seeing plenty of them. Be safe, okay?” 

[poeticallyunkind]

The Art of Drowning (A Falsettos Oneshot)

Word Count: 4702

Pairing: Whizzer & Marvin

AU Details: Pirate!Marvin & Mermaid!Whizzer

Warnings: a few homophobic slurs, mentions of alcohol, mentions of death (no major character death actually occurs), depictions of drowning

Author’s note: THIS TOOK FOREVER LMAO ENJOY

From the moment the amber liquid touches his lips, the captain knows he’s in trouble. He’s never been particularly skilled with keeping down his liquor on dry land, much less on a churning ship crowded with dozens of foul-stenched pirates. His mind is swamped with the wounds of both intoxication and nausea, enough so that he’s having some difficulty with thinking. Marvin’s crew surrounds the lower deck, laughing heartily as the accordion plays a merry tune. Beer sloshes messily upon the wooden floor. He frowns. If he’s honest, he doesn’t remember what they’re supposed to be celebrating. Perhaps they’d pillaged a fearsome ship in the early afternoon, and the celebration of their newly-found riches had extended well into the evening.

Despite the sense of warmth that surrounds the festivities, the last thing Marvin feels is joy. Instead, he’s nervous. And perhaps more than a little tipsy. He taps absentmindedly on the chipped table, trying to avoid the thoughts which continue to poke holes in his calm facade. Quite frankly, he’d rather be eaten by a shark than allow these odd feelings to persist. He doesn’t understand them, nor does he want to. He wishes he could live without them, without this strange desire for--

“Shit,” a voice mutters, shaking Marvin from his stupor.

His first mate appears at the table, spilling much of his beer as he sits in a creaking chair. His expression is a little hard to read; something between a scowl and a smirk. He eyes Marvin cautiously before speaking, as if assessing the mood of his superior. “You’re lookin’ pretty pissed off, captain.”

“I’m not,” Marvin shrugs, raising his empty mug. He ignores a fresh wave of nausea, focusing instead on the somewhat annoyed face of his friend.

His first mate scoffs. “Not sure if I believe that.”

“Seasickness,” Marvin mumbles, mentally slapping himself for the weak excuse. A seasick pirate? Still, he prefers the anticlimactic lie over the truth behind his mood. How does he tell someone that drinking has become a gateway to a series of feelings he’s never felt before? That when intoxicated, his most intimate thoughts wander not to his wife, but to his odd attraction towards men? How can he say that these thoughts have started to migrate into sobriety, too? How can he say these things, knowing damn well that nobody on this ship would listen to a word of it without feeling positively disgusted?

There’s a brief pause, and Marvin can tell that his shipmate doesn’t quite believe the lie.  “In my six years on this ship, not once have I seen you get sick.”

“What, got something to say, John?” Marvin barks, daring the man to challenge his word. His tone must come off as offensive, because John’s expression suddenly hardens.

He sighs, handing the captain his mug. “Yeah, you need another drink.”

---

The night passes in a haze of liquor, salty air, and laughter. Surprisingly, the wave of nausea passes through Marvin without a struggle, and he’s managed to keep nearly every drop of alcohol in his system. His buzz is strong enough to send even the most hardened of drinkers into a state of incoherency. The music has gotten notably worse and the stench of sweat and booze has drifted well-beyond the deck, yet Marvin refuses to let it affect his mood. It’s such a sharp contrast to how uncouth he felt just hours ago, he’s unsure of whether or not time is passing properly-- it feels like it’s been years since he last felt low. He’s swaying comfortably in his chair, grinning from ear-to-ear as John recalls the time he pillaged eight ships in one week. Truthfully, Marvin’s mind is already occupied. The strange feelings continue to blur his thoughts, but… fuck it. For once in his life, he embraces them. Nothing could kill the unfiltered sense of freedom that fills his chest.

“—And the captain wept! Kinda funny, actually, how such a brave man crumpled over losing a pathetic ship,” John relays, emphasizing his words with a tone of mock sympathy. “I had to put a bullet through his skull to shut him up!”

Marvin laughs, leaning in to catch a better glimpse of his friend. His words tangle like fishing hooks as he speaks. “C-Christ, John! You’re… pretty fuckin’ r-ruthless…”

John smirks, which makes Marvin’s heart pound as if it’s a drum. “And yet somehow, I still ain’t the captain.”

“What’s that s’posed to m-mean?” Marvin shoots, slurring. Ordinarily, he feels nothing but respect for his first mate. Yet here he is, sitting beneath the moonlight, scarily aware of how spiteful John has been recently. It makes him rethink his choice of first mate.

“Oh, nothin’.” John’s expression reverts back to annoyance. “Anythin’ from your wife?”

Marvin grimances. “God, no. I’d rather d-die than write to Trina.”

Six months at sea, and he hasn’t thought of his family once. It’s not that he hates his wife, quite unlike the majority of his crew, but he supposes that a small part of him has always known that he doesn’t love Trina the way that most men would. He’d done everything right-- gave her everything she could possibly want, held her close, listened to what she had to say-- yet one thing was missing: passion. Simply put, he had no complex feelings for his wife. There was never a spark, never a source of passion in their marriage. Even when she’d given birth to Jason, the culmination of his pride and joy, he’d felt nothing.

Marvin sighs, sipping his beer. Even drunk, he knows that this is worthless. Perhaps if Trina were a man, his marriage wouldn’t be so affectionless, so devoid of emotion. All he wants is to love something, to feel his heart leap with joy at the very mention of someone’s name.

“I thought you two were doin’ well,” John hums, accusation in his eyes.

“Guess not,” Marvin laughs. He then pauses, thinking. His next sentence comes out as an airy stutter, but it might as well be a scream, based on the reaction it receives. “Honestly, she’s… not exactly what I want, if y’know what I mean.”

“I don’t. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

In his mind, execution bells start to ring. All at once, Marvin realizes three things about himself: he’s gay, he drank too much, and he’s fucked. He knows he shouldn’t say this, knows that he’s signing his own death certificate, but Marvin can’t stop himself from blurting out  “She’s a woman, John.” He drops his mug, clamping a shaking hand to his lips.

For a few seconds, it’s as if the world falls still. John gapes at him. His eyes bore holes into Marvin’s, his expression brimming with disgust. Marvin can no longer hear the surrounding chatter; all that exists in this moment is the hatred in his first mate’s eyes and the quickened thrum of his own heartbeat. After a moment, John’s mood seems to change instantly. The same malicious smirk from the beginning of the night reappears.

John stands up, feigning shock. His shout echoes throughout the deck. “What’s that, captain? Did you just tell me you’re a faggot?”

The celebration comes to an instant halt. Every man stops, mug half-raised to his lips. Dozens of eyes fall upon him, and Marvin lets out a choked gasp. He stands up slowly, afraid that if he makes any sudden movements, he’ll have a sword in his throat in a matter of seconds. “T-that’s bullshit!” he stutters, trying to defend himself.

“Is that so?” John laughs, turning to face the crew. “Tell me, men. For a captain, would you rather have a sniveling queer who continues to lie to your faces, or an honest man who’s willing to rid the ship of such a nuisance?”

Marvin freezes. “Rid?”

John’s grotesque smirk widens. “Yes, rid. I, for one, say that we reclaim this vessel from it’s disgusting owner through force. I say that we make our dear captain walk the plank!”

To say that all hell breaks loose would be an understatement. As John makes his announcement, the atmosphere of the ship becomes pure, unfiltered rage towards Marvin. Several cheers fill the air. A legion of drunken, homophobic men, his crew-- is pitted against him in a matter of seconds. He feels a pair of arms yank him towards the railing, many other men trailing close behind. Marvin’s mind begins to shut down. He doesn’t think about his sexuality, or the contempt he feels for his wife. Instead, he’s momentarily bludgeoned with thoughts of betrayal. Sure, he’s always known John to be a bit jealous of his title, but to completely break his trust and do something like this? He never thought he’d see the day.

As he’s led to the spot where he’ll soon die, his mind reverts back to it’s typical, anxious self. It occurs to him that he’ll never see his family again. Though Marvin’s never been the particularly religious type, he silently mumbles a prayer, the words catching in his throat before they can reach his tongue. He hopes that Trina finds another husband, one that supports her in the ways that Marvin cannot. He hopes that Jason lives his life to the fullest. He hopes that neither will remember his bad qualities over his good, and that his memory will be carried through their love, not their stoic regrets.

“Move!” his first mate shouts, shoving Marvin haphazardly towards the plank. The thin wood buckles under his weight, as if threatening to end it all at any moment. Though he’s facing the ship’s interior, he can feel the waves churning wrathfully beneath it, and with every few seconds comes a new threat to keeping his balance. One wrong move, and he’ll fall into the ocean’s unforgiving embrace without so much as a final word.  Marvin shudders, tears of anger filling his vision.  He hates the lack of guilt that shines so evidently on his first mate’s face. He’s on his knees. A sword is soon pinned against his throat, lest he try to escape.

His crew leers at him, relentless laughter filling the deck. He closes his eyes, inhaling the salty breeze. Any ounce of respect they once held for their captain is gone, replaced suddenly with a bigoted haze. They care not for the cunning leadership he’s shown in the past, but rather which gender he finds himself drawn to. They spit in the name of equality, considering themselves above the likes of such lowly attraction. Even his first mate, the man he’d chosen to support the crew through thick and thin, approaches him with newly-found betrayal. By targeting their captain-- the one man aboard who isn’t enveloped by his own hatred-- they ultimately validate their own, meaningless lives. Marvin finds himself contemplating this as the sword digs uncomfortably into his neck, not quite drawing blood.

John can hardly contain his glee. “Any last words, faggot?”

Marvin opens his eyes, focusing on the man in front of him. His expression is nothing short of joyous, as if he simply can’t wait to murder the man who had trusted him most. Inexplicably, his heartbreak dissipates. Anger floods his veins. Marvin is overcome with such an overwhelming sense of spite, he knows exactly what he wants to say to his first mate.

Marvin shivers, exhaling the salty air he’s grown to love throughout past voyages for the last time. “Suck a dick, John.”

“Bad choice,” John sneers, throwing the sword behind him with a sad clang.

And with that, Marvin is pushed. The plank gives one final, depressing shake as his weight is removed, the sensation of falling soon coursing through his body. His hint of bravery dies as suddenly as it was spawned. If he were to say that his fall is graceful, that he laughs in the face of death as he resigns himself to fate, he would be lying. Mostly, his plummet consists of screaming. The air from his lungs is stolen as he crashes unceremoniously into the murky waves.

His vision quickly declines into a blurred streak as he fights for air. His limbs flail uselessly around him, desperately trying to grab hold of something that simply doesn’t exist. He’s sinking, sinking into the unknown legions of blue. His lungs seem to crush themselves; he can’t breathe. Black dots begin to invade his sight. His heart clamors in his chest as if to take a final bow, to remind him that he indeed once lived and breathed without the weight that’s crashing into his lungs. This goes on for what feels like decades, the ocean laughing airily at his struggle for breath. Eventually, his limbs tire and he’s unable to continue fighting. He falls eerily still, oxygen-deprived brain unable to process his actions. The pain that grips his throat lessens, and the last thing he sees before his vision goes blank is what appears to be a stunning flash of blue scales.

—

When Marvin drifts back into consciousness, he’s rather surprised to discover that he’s still alive. Broken, admittedly, but somehow breathing. A headache sweeps incessantly through his skull. His lungs inhale almost greedily, as if to make up for the oxygen he lost. He tries to assess what he’s capable of doing. His fingers curl without issue when he attempts to move them, and he’s able to let out a choked cough. There's a moment of difficulty that comes with opening his eyes, which feel like lead atop his already-throbbing features. Slowly, fragmented pieces of the world begin to blend together, and Marvin is made uncomfortably aware of his surroundings.

He’s on a beach, for starters. Based on the sky’s warm, citrus hue, he assumes that several hours have passed since his midnight drowning. He frowns. The ship was miles away from the nearest shore when he was pushed. How did he get here? More importantly, where the hell is ‘here’? Despite the startling thought, he continues to observe. The sand beneath him is cold; the rising sun hasn’t quite crossed the land. Other than the gentle lapping of waves, the water’s edge is eerily silent. He’s facing opposite of the waterfront, staring instead into what appears to be a forest. He watches a grove of palm trees, emerald leaves swaying in the early morning wind. Admittedly, the scene is gorgeous. If he weren’t so terrified, perhaps he’d be in awe. With a huff, Marvin steadily eases himself into a sitting position.

From behind him, a warm voice interrupts his movement. “Finally! I was starting to think that you wouldn’t wake up, sailor.”

The scream that escapes Marvin’s lips is admittedly priceless. The shrill sound echoes beyond the water’s edge, becoming jagged as he forces his aching body to face the voice. Immediately, his gaze his held by a man in the water, who smirks Marvin with a raised brow. His brown eyes light up with humor as he absentmindedly combs a set of tanned fingers through his hair. He waits for the pirate’s outburst to come to an end, but that moment doesn’t happen naturally. Eventually, he rolls his eyes.

“Are you done yet?”

“Who the fuck are you?!” Marvin shouts, tone nothing short of panicked as a multitude of thoughts race through his head. Why is there a hot stranger in the water? Where the hell is he? Why does he have an urge to touch his hair?

The stranger scoffs. “Well, if you could shut up for a few seconds, I’d probably tell you.”

Abruptly, Marvin stops screaming. He clenches his fists, fear still in his eyes. Once he’s standing, he shuffles several feet back from the shore.

“Thank you. Anyway, I’m Whizzer. Also known as the man who saved your ass from drowning,” the man states, making no attempt to move from his spot in the water.

“W-wait, what? That was you?”

Whizzer hums in confirmation. “Mhm. So, sailor, can I ask what were you doing in the middle of the ocean? Something tells me it wasn’t your choice.”

“As if I’d tell you,” Marvin exhales, looking Whizzer up and down. He has to admit, there’s something interesting about the man, and it’s not just how attractive he is. Despite his distrust, Marvin can’t help but yearn to know more about him.

He pouts mockingly. “Aw, what’s wrong with telling me?”

“I don’t even know you!”

“Actually, you kinda do,” Whizzer begins, a devious smile tracing his lips. “I told you my name. Which is more than I can say for you, speaking of which.”

Marvin groans. “Why do you care?”

“Shit, I wasn’t aware that first names were too intimate to share with others.”

Marvin hesitates. Sarcastic as he is, Whizzer has a point. Why does Marvin feel so terrified about the prospect of opening up? The man saved him, for Christ’s sake! After a moment of silence, his voice fills the empty air. “I’m Marvin.”

Whizzer laughs, which makes Marvin’s heart pound once more. “That’s a nice name, Marvin,” he says, genuine warmth in his tone.

Slightly flustered by the compliment, Marvin changes the topic. “Where am I?”

“A beach,” Whizzer deadpans, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Fucking hilarious. Seriously, where the hell did you bring me?”

“Sorry that this shore doesn’t meet your standards, Mr. I-don’t-care-that-I-could’ve-died, but I was a little busy dragging you to dry land to take note of the exact location.”

“So what you’re saying,” Marvin hisses, “is that we’re lost?”

Whizzer shrugs, uncaring. “Better than being dead, sailor.”

A sound of contempt escapes Marvin’s throat. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re not the first person to say that, y’know,” Whizzer replies, splashing contently at an oncoming wave. It then occurs to Marvin that Whizzer hasn’t moved from the sea since this conversation started. It’s a bit odd, to say the least.

“You don’t have to stay in the water all day,” he huffs, noting the shocked expression that his words leave.

“I, uh-- I like it here,” Whizzer laughs nervously, speaking too quickly.

Marvin narrows his eyes. “Seriously, just come ashore.”

Whizzer’s tone is now notably panicked. “No, thank you.”

“Why not?”

Whizzer doesn’t reply, and Marvin’s curiosity begins to swell. Before the conversation turned towards the water, the man was the epitome of confidence. Now, he’s practically quivering. He continues to stare, silently pleading with Marvin. For a split second, he almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. He doesn’t want to break his trust, but his interest is at a maximum. He needs to know what’s stopping Whizzer. What if it’s something dangerous? With the thought of his new friend being harmed, any hesitance within him disappears, and Marvin starts to walk towards the shore.

Whizzer’s eyes widen, a petrified stare inhabiting his features. “Sailor, don’t--”

Before he can finish his sentence, Marvin’s feet touch the water. He raises an eyebrow towards Whizzer, who responds only with an anxious gulp. Without thinking, he extends an arm to the brown-eyed man. “C’mon, it’s not so hard. Just follow me out.”

Whizzer takes his hand, but still doesn’t move. The look on his face becomes notably sadder as his lips fall into a frown, soon followed by the darkening of his eyes. “I-I can’t.”

Ignoring the fact that his heartbeat pounds yet again at the feeling of Whizzer’s hand in his own, Marvin repeats his question from only minutes ago. “Why not?”

“You’ll be scared if I tell you,” Whizzer exhales, voice trailing off.

A knot begins to tug at Marvin’s stomach. “Whizzer, what the hell are you talking about? Obviously, I was pretty apprehensive at first, but from what you’ve said, you’re not anything to be afraid of!” he says, wanting desperately to know what’s plaguing his attractive stranger. “I know we just met, but you can trust me.” As the words leave his mouth, he realizes how much has changed throughout the course of this conversation. What started as a relatively annoyed exchange between the two has quickly become something else, something softer. It scares him, just how fast he’s started to trust a man he knows almost nothing about. Even more so, he hopes that Whizzer trusts him in return.

“People have run off in the past,” Whizzer counters, though his discomfort seems to be easing. He holds Marvin’s hand as if it’s his saving grace. “I-I don’t wanna freak you out, sailor.”

Marvin sighs. “I’m not those people! I swear wouldn’t run away. If there’s something wrong, I need to know now.”

“No, no,” his friend shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong, exactly, but… it can be a little surprising, I guess.”

“What does that mean?” Marvin queries, gently folding his other hand atop Whizzer’s palm.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Positive,” Marvin confirms.

Whizzer hesitantly takes back his hand, frowning as he gestures to the waves churning beneath him. “I don’t— please don’t get scared,” he pleads, eyes brimming with anxiety.

Marvin offers him a smile. “I swear that I won’t.”

There’s a shaky, somewhat collective inhale as Whizzer leans backwards, submerging his face in the sea. Before Marvin can question the strange action, he raises the lower half of his body. Words die in Marvin’s throat as he stares not at a pair of legs, but the most magnificent tail he’s ever seen. A kaleidoscope of purples and blues glisten in the haze of the morning sun, outshining the countless illustrations he’d seen in books as a child. He’s reminded of the fascination with fantasy he’d lost over the hardening years, and the thrill that clouds his thoughts is undeniable. A mermaid!

After a few moments, he watches the tail fall back into the waves. Whizzer’s face resurfaces. His expression is visibly flustered, though indeed no longer terrified. He gives Marvin an uneasy smile, which is immediately returned with a grin of his own.

“Whizzer, that was-- holy shit, I just...” Marvin starts, stumbling over his words as he tries to accurately convey how wonderful that was. His new friend is a mermaid. A mermaid saved him from drowning! He doesn’t know where to begin, how to express his intrigue.

The thought of leaving exits his mind completely.

Whizzer laughs, the stress in his shoulders disappearing. “Thank you, sailor.”

Fragmented sentences fire from Marvin’s mouth like bullets, excitement filling his tone. “You gotta-- well, it’d be great if you could-- would you please--”

“Slow down, Marv,” Whizzer says, playfully splashing the pirate with an oncoming wave. “You’re talking so fast, the speed of light is a little jealous.”

Blushing, Marvin takes a step back. His words become slower. “Yeah, sorry. Would you, uh, tell me what it’s like?”

There’s a brief pause before Whizzer speaks, though his voice is notably softer when he does so. “Absolutely, sailor.”

---

The unlikely pair talks for hours. The morning soon stretches into a muggy afternoon, and the afternoon gives way to a magnificent evening. Before they know it, the sky is filled with a legion of stars, pale moonlight drifting through the quiet beach. Marvin sits centimeters away from the waterfront, cross-legged and holding Whizzer’s hand in his own once more. Hours upon hours of conversation, he muses to himself, and he’s still enamored by the man in front of him, completely intrigued by everything he has to say. He’d like nothing more than to sit here for the rest of his days, exchanging stories and laughing with his new friend.

Based on the spark in his eyes, he assumes that Whizzer feels something similar. He tells Marvin everything he can think of, sharing stories about the underwater society that even Marvin’s most intricate fantasies couldn’t compare to. He talks of humans who’ve run away in fear after being saved from similar drownings, and how Marvin is the first to stay. There are mentions of domestic lifestyle, of coral homes with pleasant neighbors and kingdoms lined by seashell streets, all of which amaze the sailor to no end. Once Whizzer runs out of things to say, a comfortable silence comes and goes, which leads into a question that startles the pirate.

“Tell me,” he starts, tracing a finger over Marvin’s hand. “Do you like it up there?”

“Up where?”

Whizzer scoffs. “Above the water, sailor.”

Marvin falters, contemplating the existence that he’s lived thus far. He’s married a woman he doesn’t love, raised a son who resents him, made a dishonest living as a pirate, and found himself betrayed by his first mate after discovering a part of himself he hadn't known existed. Perhaps not the greatest life ever lived. “I guess not.”

He soon opens up about everything, from the way he trusted his first mate to how he felt nothing at his wedding, to which Whizzer gives his full attention. He doesn’t judge Marvin’s past or laugh at his mistakes, but instead listens to his tired stories with respect. He comforts, makes the sailor laugh whenever needed, and continues to hold his hand in a gesture of support. By the end of his rant, Marvin’s heart is beating so forcefully, he’s once again sure he’ll faint. It’s only the steadiness of Whizzer’s voice that manages to calm him.

“I grew up on fairytales where everyone is given an ending, where good triumphs over evil and ‘happily ever after’ is real, y’know? And I suppose a part of me always thought that it’d all work out that way in the real world, too. But it just… didn’t, and now I’m realizing how stupid those thoughts were,” he finishes his final thoughts, a sad smile on his lips.

Whizzer lowers his gaze. “Don’t say that, sailor. You deserve a happy ending, and you still have plenty of time to find one.”

Another sad laugh. “Let’s face it, I’m out of time. How do I find an ending when there’s nowhere else to look? Life on land brought me nowhere, and it’s not like I can start over.”

The mermaid inches closer, practically falling into the sailor’s lap. “It’s not nowhere. Life on land brought you here, Marvin.”

“And what’s so great about here?” Marvin scoffs.

Whizzer offers him another smile, a quick squeeze of his hand. “You don’t have to be alone anymore, sailor. You have me.”

His pulse races once more. “Whizzer, I don’t--”

“Listen, I know it seems hopeless, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“I can’t stay here forever, Whizzer! This island is abandoned, not to mention the fact that you can’t actually visit dry land,” Marvin argues.

Another spout of silence. “It wouldn’t be here, sailor.”

Marvin’s eyes widen as he begins to realize what the mermaid is implying. A life under the sea with a person he’s grown to care about, an escape from the cards he’d be dealt by fate. A chance to explore the kind of love he’d never had on land, to spend the rest of his days in happiness. A future that seems too good to be true. “Jesus, don’t make jokes like that.”

Whizzer holds Marvin’s face in his palms, tucking a stray strand of hair behind the pirate’s ear. His words come out as a gentle whisper. “I’m not kidding, Marv! Screw the surface, we can find a happy ending together.”

“I couldn’t survive underwater,” Marvin points out, voice trailing off as his heart thuds in his chest. He’s now nose-to-nose with Whizzer, his vision filled by the mermaid’s brown eyes.

He can’t imagine this new life. The thrill of waking up next to the epitome of love each morning is a fate he’s never so much as considered, much less indulged in. Despite his disbelief, however, he realizes just how badly he wants this. He craves the feeling of caring for someone, of living on a lover’s shoulder, of forgetting all the times he’s been wronged and focusing on what’s right in the world. And as far as he can tell, the only right he sees is an easygoing future with a certain mermaid.

A shallow breath. “Did your fairytales explain what happens when a mermaid kisses a human, sailor?”

“Show me,” Marvin says simply, breath hitching as his eyes close and their lips finally meet.

[diamondsareapearlsbestfriend]

Sans/Toriel 30 Day OTP Challenge: Day Six

On AO3 | Day One | Day Two | Day Three | Day Four | Day Five

day six: new to the family

prompt: “Each member of your OTP meeting the other’s family for the first time. Does each family approve of the one dating the other? What sorts of shenanigans do they get into?”

"So...finally meeting the family, huh? Seems like things are getting pretty serious between you guys, am I right?"

"...Kid." Sans couldn't help but be amused, if a little puzzled, by Frisk's 'so what exactly are your intentions with my mother' routine as they smirked across the sofa at him. "We've known each other for how long now? Unless I'm missing something here, I feel like maybe that ship's sailed."

"I'm not talking about me." They were definitely up to something, a worryingly familiar determined glint in their eye as they turned to Toriel, tugging on her sleeve as she sat with her hands folded in her lap. "There's someone else we thought should join us for a nice family dinner tonight. Right, Mom?"

"Ah...in a sense, I suppose, yes." Toriel seemed much more reluctant, only offering Sans an apologetic smile when he looked to her for an explanation. "Dear, are you quite sure this is a good idea? He does tend to be rather...how should I put this..."

"Mom, don't worry," Frisk assured her, patting her hand. "I feel like we've been making real progress on the whole, um...attitude problem. Anyway, he's got to find out about you guys sometime, right?"

"I suppose, but..."

"We'll be right down!"

Frisk scurried eagerly off upstairs before she could object any further, and Toriel sighed before turning back to Sans, placing a hand gently on his patella. "Sans, I...do apologise in advance for this evening. I did hope we might be able to enjoy a nice, peaceful dinner, but you know how Frisk can be..."

Well, that wasn't ominous at all, but he smiled back anyway to reassure her, linking their fingers together. "Tori, don't sweat it. How bad can it really –" 

"Hey, watch the stem!" A disturbingly familiar squeaky voice pierced the air, interrupting him as they both turned towards the stairs. "Why are we doing this? You know I don't actually need to eat – there's this thing called photosynthesis? That's pretty basic science, Frisk – golly, don't they teach you anything in school? Your mom must be so..."

The contents of the offending flower pot wisely fell silent as he met Toriel's steely gaze, a stark contrast with Frisk's determinedly cheerful smile as they reached the bottom of the stairs and placed the pot carefully on the coffee table.

"Sans, Flowey – you guys, um, remember each other, don't you?"

"How could I forget?" Sans gritted his teeth, hoping his resting smile masked his instinctive unease as he met the flower's belligerently unimpressed stare – he could still feel the vines tightening around him, scratchy and suffocating, remember looking over at Papyrus, at everyone helplessly ensnared around him and only thinking, as the energy drained out of his soul, that he'd seriously screwed up this time..."Hey, buddy. Steal any good souls lately?"

Flowey ignored him entirely, turning his head indignantly back towards Frisk. "Is this some 'cruel and unusual punishment' kinda thing? 'Cause if so, I'm actually..." His eyes widened to comical proportions as the proverbial penny dropped, darting from Frisk to Sans to Toriel and back again. "Wait, is this a – no. No way. You're dating him?!" He dissolved into hysterical, high-pitched giggles, doubling over at the stem. "That's too rich! M – Toriel, I know you're getting a little over the hill, but gosh – even you must be able to find someone better than some...bag of bones?"

Frisk winced; Sans just smirked, because honestly it was kind of cute if Flowey thought that was going to get to him, like he didn't already know he was punching way above his weight with Toriel.

"Heh – little harsh, but you're not entirely –"

"Actually, I think you'll find you are very much mistaken," Toriel cut him off, her voice sharp and cool as a knife, but Sans could tell from the pink spots rising on her pristine white cheeks that she was pissed, unforgiving eyes trained on Flowey like a laser, "for there is, in fact, no one – nobody I would sooner be with, tonight or any other." 

Flowey gulped, wilting back against his pot despite himself, and it was probably one of the most satisfying moments of any timeline, especially when Sans caught Toriel's eye and her mouth twitched at their old corny joke. "Anyway," she continued pleasantly, the fire fizzling out almost as soon as it had appeared as she smoothed down her dress, "I had better get started on dinner. You three..." She narrowed her eyes, a watchful, teacher's gaze over Sans, Frisk and Flowey in turn. "Do try and play nicely, won't you?"

"He's not...always like this," Frisk spoke up after their mother had returned to the kitchen, shuffling their feet guiltily while shooting Flowey a reproachful look. "Sometimes he's nice. Well, kinda. To me, anyway."

"I tolerate you," Flowey corrected them, rolling his beady little eyes. "There's a difference."

Sans glanced longingly back at the closed door, tempted to make an excuse about helping Toriel with dinner, but Frisk was looking increasingly uncomfortable, fidgeting in the silence that followed, and he couldn't help feeling for the kid – they really wanted him and Flowey to be friends, and even if Sans had a pretty good idea of how that was going to work out, he figured he owed it to them to at least try and be nice to the little weed.

"Well, hey, that's progress, right?" he offered. "Good job, buddy. Sounds like you're really...turning over a new leaf."

At least that got a smile out of Frisk, who stifled a giggle behind their hand as Flowey let out a loud groan, drooping dramatically over the edge of his pot.

"Oh, sure, you're real funny bones. Never heard that one before. You know, if you insist on hanging around, the least you could've done is brought your brother along. Now he's much more fun."

Sans frowned, instantly not liking where this was going. "You know my brother?"

Flowey nodded, suddenly lighting up with a sunny smile Sans didn't trust one bit. "Oh boy, we go way back! We had some entertaining little chats back in the day – golly, that one was gullible. He believed anything any old flower told him. Hey, Sans, here's a fun puzzle – how many times do you think I could've killed him? Because, let me tell you, he sure couldn't have made it any easier for me. Seriously – what kind of Royal Guard member leaves himself open and vulnerable to a strange flower like that? When you think about it, I was doing you all a favour when I –"

"But all that was in the past!" Frisk interrupted, desperately lunging forward and clamping both hands across Flowey's mouth before he could finish. "And now you wouldn't ever...new leaf, remember? That whole murdery phase is over – that's what you told me, remember, Flowey? Right...?"

Sans saw their face twist in concern as it faded away, edges bleeding away to black before his eyes as he clenched his fist, struggling to block out the images – he'd tried his hardest to forget those timelines, but sometimes he still got flashes; dust scattering in the wind, bright red scarf garish as blood in the snow as it slipped through his fingers, grabbing for whatever was left; a retreating shadow, sometimes, but he never saw a face. He didn't want to give Flowey the satisfaction, but he could already feel it burning in his soul, white hot rage like nothing he'd felt in a long time, blazing through his bones and creeping up through his socket until Frisk and his surroundings all faded and there was only Flowey, illuminated in a cold blue glow as he took a step forward off the couch.

"Listen. You better stay away from Papyrus, or..."

"Oooh, or what? Let me guess – you're going to kill me?" Flowey's smile grew increasingly menacing, mouth stretching into a grotesque grimace as he wriggled free of Frisk's grip and leaned forward, stem stretching out until he was right up in Sans' space, eyes glittering with malice. "And what will your precious Toriel think of that, when she finds out you're just like all the others?" Suddenly, his face shifted, flickering like a TV set into an unsettlingly accurate imitation of Toriel's, her white fur and big, sorrowful eyes gazing out. "Oh, Sans, how could you? To think, I truly thought I could trust you – that I could love you – but now I see how foolish I was –"

"You guys, cut it out!" Suddenly, Frisk's voice cut through the darkness as they pushed their way between them, forcing them apart so that Sans stumbled and collapsed back onto the sofa, his vision fading back to normal in time to see Flowey shrinking back into his pot. "Just...stop with all the creepy face stuff, okay? Both of you," they added sternly, turning back towards Sans; he lifted a hand to his cheekbone and saw the magic still pulsating there, rising to the surface instinctively even though he wasn't intending to do anything with it. He shook his skull to let it settle, but as his vision cleared all he could see was the disappointment in Frisk's eyes. "You know, I really thought maybe we were..." They shook their head, silence hanging heavy in the atmosphere between the three of them as they turned away, back towards the door. "Forget it. I'm going to go help Mom with dinner."

"Kid, wait –"

But they were gone before Sans had a chance to defend himself, and he let out a sigh, glancing out of the corner of his socket at Flowey.

"That wasn't very nice, y'know."

"Your face isn't very nice," Flowey replied sulkily; Sans let out a quiet snort of laughter, tempted to come back with something even more childish, but then he remembered the look on Frisk's face, and yeah, that didn't feel too great. It looked like it was up to him to be the responsible one this time, which, welp – this was gonna be interesting.

"I don't care what you think about me," he continued, seriously, "but Frisk really wants us to be friends – yeah, I know, but would it kill you to at least try to pretend to play nice for a while? You know, it might not be so bad."

"Frisk wants everyone to be friends." Flowey laughed bitterly, the words dripping with derision. "That's their thing, right? That's why they had to drag me all the way up here, instead of killing me when they had the chance. I mean, gosh – I came so close to destroying everything in the Underground, and now they want to let me loose on the surface? They'd really risk your happy ending for some...idiotic hero complex, 'cause they just had to prove they could save everyone?" His squeaky voice rose with frustration as he cocked his head to one side, widening his eyes in fake concern. "Well, gee – when you put it like that, sounds pretty messed up. Don't you think, buddy?"

"Sure. I get that." Sans glanced back at the closed door to the kitchen before lowering his voice, leaning forward to rest his humerus on his patellas. "But what I'm wondering is, if you hate it here so much...why didn't you reset?"

In an instant, Flowey's theatrical shock shifted into the real deal, his stem stiffening in indignation. "You – how'd you know about –"

"Did some research," Sans replied with a shrug, as Flowey squinted suspiciously at him before breaking out into a smirk.

"Golly, isn't today just full of surprises! Alright, I admit it – that's a new one. I guess maybe I didn't explore every single possibility, after all." Flowey leaned forward again, vines creeping out of the bottom of his pot to anchor him in place as he sprouted two leaves and rested his head on them, mimicking Sans' pose. "Well...who says I'm not thinking about it, hmm?" His eyes grew bigger and blacker, voice becoming more distorted like he was speaking through static. "Maybe I'm just biding my time...waiting 'til you all think you're finally safe, free from the nightmares of the past. I could do it, you know. Anytime I wanted, I can turn it all back. Any...moment..."

Flowey kept inching forward, grinning into Sans' unblinking sockets like they were locked in a staring contest – until finally he couldn't hold it in any more and started to laugh, soft snickers turning to full-blown guffaws as Flowey jerked back in surprise.

"Whoa, dude, that's intense," he eventually managed to get out. "A+ for effort, gotta give you that, but – pfffft – you thought we were safe up here? Buddy, lemme tell you, I don't even remember being safe from all of this. You. Frisk. The others...heh, that's a good one.” Sans' laughter slowly petered out as he counted them off on his fingers. “There's a lot we didn't figure out, but we knew we were never safe – so hate to break it to ya, but you're really nothing new.”

"What...?" Flowey's nightmare face slowly faded away into something almost inadvertently adorable as he shook his petals, tilting his head in confusion. "And you're saying that doesn't...scare you? Hanging out with the kid who has the power to take everything from you – from Papyrus, from Toriel? Everything you've all worked so hard for and suffered so much, and knowing you could still end up right back where you started? Not even a little bit?"

"Nah," Sans shrugged, leaning back and kicking his feet up on the sofa. "Not any more. You wanna know why?"

"Why should I care about your idiotic –"

"I trust Frisk," he continued anyway. "They wouldn't do it, not now. I know it's not their first time – maybe they didn't always get it perfect, heh, who does? But they're a good kid, and I...believe in them." Sans felt a warmth growing deep in his chest – in his soul – and he never realised just how good it felt to be able to say that – to feel it. "Sure, they could reset any time – hell if there's anything I can do about it. All I know is, I spent a long time not trusting, not believing in anyone, and sometimes...sometimes you just gotta appreciate what you have, you know? If I didn't let myself trust Frisk, that they'd come through and do the right thing in the end – even for those who, some would say, really didn't deserve it – we wouldn't have any of this. And I wouldn't have Tori."

"Golly, isn't that just swell for you," Flowey retorted sarcastically, but there was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes that wasn't there before. "Frisk sparing me didn't change anything. It doesn't matter what they want – we'll never be friends, not like they are with all of you. Not like it was with..." For a second, he almost looked sad, expression softening as he gazed somewhere into the distance, to timelines past, although it was gone in a flash when he caught Sans' sockets and glared defensively. "It's not like I haven't thought about resetting. I could still do it. I just...I'm just tired of it all." Flowey let out a bitter, world-weary chuckle, and yeah, Sans definitely recognised that feeling. "I'd seen everything down there. Nothing was fun any more, not when I already knew what everyone was going to do, right down to the pitch of their screams. I didn't have anything to stick around for – I just wanted Frisk to finish me off. But they were just too...too nice."

Sans had to laugh at the way Flowey screwed up his face in disgust at the word, nodding in solidarity. "Yup, sounds about right. Kid's pretty damn persistent."

"Gosh, it's sickening, really. I had to go along because they just wouldn't quit." Flowey rolled his eyes, but not with quite so much vitriol as before. "I still don't get it, but I guess this place is..." He lifted his head, looking around at Toriel's cute, cosy house. "At least it's new. I'll probably get bored of the surface soon, too, but for now – it's not the worst I've ever had it, I guess." He smirked again, but it looked more like a mischievous kid than a being of ultimate evil. "Although who knew there's a timeline where Toriel gets desperate enough to date you? Golly, even I almost feel sorry for her, and I literally have no soul!"

Sans just chuckled; he hated to admit it, but Flowey was trying so hard to be intimidating, he was almost starting to find it endearing. “Thanks, bud. I'm sure she'd be real touched to hear that.”

“Heh – you're, um...” Flowey's smile wavered, eyes darting around the room nervously like he suspected Toriel might have been hiding behind the couch all along , “not actually going to tell her I said that, are you?”

“Soup's on!” Frisk burst through the door before Sans even had a chance to consider all the ways he might be able to leverage this newly exposed weak spot. “Hey, you didn't kill each other,” they added brightly. “Good job! If you're lucky, Mom might even give you a sticker.”

Flowey groaned as Sans grinned, reaching out to tap the edge of his flowerpot as he slid off the sofa. “Now you're talking. You need a lift there, buddy?”

Flowey grimaced, but apparently even he wasn't immune to Frisk's hopeful smile at this indication that maybe they'd bonded, or something.

“You know I don't have to stay in the pot,” he grumbled, as Sans picked him up and followed Frisk through to the kitchen. “It's just easier, is all. You better not drop me.”

Tempting as it was, Sans thought, it had nothing on the way Toriel's face lit up as he walked in carrying Flowey, her smile simultaneously astonished, relieved and proud.

 “Oh my goodness – flowers, for me?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in mock surprise. "Why, Sans, you shouldn't have!"

“Actually, Tori, I might just have to hang onto this one,” he replied, setting Flowey down on top of the pile of books Toriel had thoughtfully placed on his chair. “What can I say – this guy, he really grows on you.”

“Ugggghhhh.” Flowey buried his head in his petals as Toriel snorted with delight and Frisk giggled guiltily. “Are they always like this? How have you not – uhhh...” He faltered as his pot mysteriously wobbled, just as Sans' foot collided with his chair leg under the table. “I mean – how do you stand it?”

“Pretty much,” Frisk sighed sympathetically, reaching out to ruffle his petals. “You just kinda get used to it.”

“Well, don't get used to this, 'cause I'm not hanging around waiting for you losers,” Flowey muttered, flinching away from their hands, but his face immediately brightened when Frisk slid a perfectly sized, snail-patterned watering can across the table. Sans grinned, unable to resist winking as he caught his eye; Flowey stuck his tongue out in retaliation, but somehow he didn't seem quite as threatening.

Frisk beamed and shot Sans a double thumbs-up while Flowey was happily drenching himself; Toriel smiled indulgently, and, psychotic flower sort-of family and all, Sans was starting to feel like this was definitely something he could get used to.

"Your Majesty! Dinner...is served!"

"Papyrus, my dear, you know you do not have to call me that," Toriel answered as he knelt extravagantly at her feet, smiling as she took in the impressive spread laid out before her; granted, it was only spaghetti, but everything was beautifully arranged and garnished, the three places set impeccably and cutlery polished to perfection. “This is far from the first time I have had the pleasure of your company, is it not?”

“I know,” Papyrus rose to his feet, sockets shining as he met her eyes with a bright, hopeful smile, “but it's been my dream to cook for the queen ever since...Well, ever since I found out we had a queen! Plus...” He cupped a gloved hand to Toriel's ear in a stage whisper, “my brother, finally bringing home a date?! Now that hardly happens every day!"

“Goodness, is that so?” Toriel feigned shock, pressing a hand to her chest and biting back a giggle as she caught Sans' socket as he sat at the table, nonchalantly munching on a breadstick. “Why, I would have imagined the eligible young monsters of Snowdin would be lining up outside your door.”

Papyrus let out a cackling nyeh heh heh, clutching his ribs as though it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. “For the Great Papyrus, naturally – but Sans?! I didn't think he could even find a pair in his sock collection.”

"Alright, bro, take it easy," Sans finally interjected, grinning along despite the hint of blue colouring his cheekbones as Toriel laughed guiltily, both of them turning to look at him. "Ever think maybe you're not the only skeleton around here with high standards?"

Toriel smiled back, bushing a little herself as she turned back to Papyrus with a conspiratorial wink. “Ah, but you see, he is a fast learner. Impressive, what one can achieve with the help of a good teacher, is it not?”

Papyrus nodded thoughtfully as though appraising Sans' performance, before clapping his hands together, positively glowing with pride. “Congratulations, brother – your dating power is way higher than I thought! If you keep it up, who knows – one day, maybe you'll even be as strong as Frisk!”

“Hmm, I am not sure I would go that far just yet; there is always room for improvement,” Toriel quipped, before deciding to follow her child's example and show Sans some mercy by changing the subject, as much as she enjoyed teasing him just a little. “But I digress – surely the greatest significance of this occasion is that I finally have the honour of sampling the Great Papyrus' world-famous spaghetti!”

Papyrus' chest puffed up with pride as he gestured excitedly for her to sit down. “Of course – sit, eat, enjoy! Cooked to perfection just for you, Your – Toriel, if I say so myself. Bone appetit!"

Toriel grinned as she took her place opposite Sans. "Do my ears deceive me, or was that a pun?"

“A pun?! Obviously not!” Papyrus wrinkled his nasal cavity as though it were the worst thing imaginable. “It was a...sophisticated play on words.” “Otherwise known as a pun.”

"Sans, would you just – just stop flapping your mandible for a moment and let the queen enjoy her dinner in peace."

Shaking her head fondly at their squabbling, Toriel lifted a forkful of spaghetti to her mouth. Having been extensively warned that Papyrus' cooking was something of an acquired taste, to put it mildly, she was pleasantly surprised – it was perhaps a little undercooked, but the sauce was thick and rich with a good, strong flavour.

Swallowing, she was just about to pay her compliments to the chef when it hit – a searing heat burning through her throat like nothing she had experienced before. Toriel heard her fork clatter to the floor as her mouth fell open of its own accord and she found herself unable to do anything but pant helplessly, as though her tongue was trying its best to escape the cavern of burning hellfire.

"Tori? Tori, you okay? Stay with me here." Sans' concerned face blurred into an indecipherable white blob as her eyes stung with hot tears and he turned accusingly to his brother. “Pap – what the hell did you put in there?”

"Well – I – you said it was too cold! So I just added some more chili before –"

"How much chili?"

"A few...um...cups?"

Sans hissed something under his breath Toriel would not have approved of under normal circumstances, but for now she could only gasp, thumping the table in a wordless plea for help. “Well, get her some water or something!”

“Water! Yes!” Toriel could just about make out Papyrus frantically searching the fridge, various food items flying through the air. “Oh my god, Sans, what if we've killed the queen?!”

“We?”

“Just hold on, Your Majesty! I'm coming to your aid!”

Before Toriel or Sans could respond, Papyrus hurled himself across the table, plates of spaghetti and salad splattering on the floor as he thrust an unidentified bottle in her face; Toriel was so desperate she seized upon it like a long lost lover, gasping with relief as cool, creamy milk hit her throat, soothing the burning sensation. She kept gulping straight from the bottle, draining every last drop until no more remained. Blinking the last of the tears from her sore eyes, she took in the scene of disarray surrounding her: food splattered everywhere, Papyrus still splayed out across the table like a trophy rug and Sans wearing half of his dinner across his skull like an unconvincing wig.

“Toriel! I'm so sorry!” Papyrus was the first to break the silence, sockets drooping as though he might be about to cry next; Toriel was about to reassure him, but he grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks together inelegantly to prevent her from speaking. “Sssh, no – you must protect the royal tongue! I'm afraid the Great Papyrus has been foiled, once again, by his own lofty ambitions. I just wanted tonight to be...” He sighed, sliding surprisingly gracefully off the table and back onto his feet, only taking a few salad dressings with him, “special.”

“Pfff – Papyrus,” Toriel eventually managed to say, finally prising his hand from her jaw and setting it gently but firmly back on the table, “my dear, please do not worry yourself over this! I am quite all right – in my time, I have attended many more disastrous dinner parties, and none quite so entertaining.” She smiled at him, squeezing his hand in hers in what she hoped was a soothing manner. “In any case, I would even say you have succeeded – for this is certainly one of the most...memorable evenings I have spent, possibly ever. And I would not have it any other way.”

“She's right, bro.” Sans joined in, leaning over to pat his brother on the back. “Don't be upsetti over spicy spaghetti – that's how it goes, right?” Papyrus smiled and nodded, looking more like his usual self as Sans rolled up his tomato-splattered sleeves, uncharacteristically motivated. “Now throw me a bone here and let's get this place cleaned up for dessert.”

“Oh yes, of course – dessert!” Toriel clasped her hands together, trying to conceal her excitement as she caught the knowing glint in his sockets – she had almost forgotten it in all the commotion. Papyrus' brow bone shot up in suspicion, but he was soon smiling again as the three of them set to work, wiping spaghetti from the walls and plucking strands out of places they should not be – most frequently between bones – until the kitchen was once again in an acceptable state to reveal what Toriel hoped would still be the jewel in the crown of their evening.

“Now, this is just a little something I cooked up,” she announced, placing the covered pie down on the table, “in honour of the Great Papyrus' many, many wonderful achievements and services to our kingdom! Though, I confess – such a fitting tribute would not have been possible without the help of your brother here.”

“Pretty sure it would have,” Sans shrugged off the compliment, but slipped his arm around her waist with an affectionate squeeze as he grinned up at her, both barely able to restrain their glee. “Tori just likes to pretend I can be helpful sometimes.”

Despite his modesty, Toriel knew without a doubt as she lifted the cover that her own hands could never have so skilfully crafted the extra special decoration that adorned the top of her usual recipe – or, for that matter, have elicited quite such a perfect reaction, as Papyrus' sockets bulged almost right out of his skull, hands pressed to his cheekbones as a wonderful, seemingly contradictory yet uniquely beautiful symphony of utter rage and unbridled joy played out across his face.

“Oh my god, Sans! Toriel! It's...You...I...”

“What's the matter, bro,” Sans asked innocently as he took his seat, “don't you like our Papierus?”

"Like it?! I...I love it! It's awful! And yet perfect!" Papyrus clutched at his skull in anguish, but it was a broad smile, as warm and dazzling as the sun, that broke out across his face – an even more satisfying sight to behold than his pastry likeness on top of the pie, as he cut carefully around his own image. “Quite an ingenious ruse, Your Majesty,” he conceded, around a mouthful of butterscotch and cinnamon, “even the Great Papyrus must admit – sometimes puns can be palatable, when presented in pie form!”

“Really?” Sans' voice was casual, but Toriel already recognised the sparkle in his sockets at being handed such a golden opportunity. “Well, that's all I kneaded to dough.”

Toriel burst out laughing, unconcerned about the crumbs spraying her dress – it was already liberally stained with spaghetti, anyway, and there were far more important things, like the pride in Sans' smile as he dropped the punchline before joining in with her laughter, or for that matter Papyrus' strangled groan as he shook his skull in despair at the two of them before speaking up again.

“Actually, Toriel – there's one more thing I forgot to give you.”

“Oh?” Toriel inclined her head in curiosity as she set her fork down, praying that it would not be more food – she didn't know if her poor stomach could survive another round. “How sweet – but there is no need, you really do not have to give me anythi–”

Before she could finish her sentence, Papyrus had already produced a sturdy contraption of wood and metal seemingly out of nowhere, presenting it to her with a flourish as she blinked in surprise. “Oh! It's a...”

“A shovel!” he beamed, enthusiastically if a touch unnecessarily. “I read it on the internet – it's a surface tradition!” He cleared his throat, as if reciting from memory. “When someone starts dating your close friend or family member, you're supposed to give them a 'shovel talk'. Except I'm...not really sure what I'm supposed to talk about,” he admitted with a shrug. “But anyway – now you have a shovel, just in case dating Sans ever gets too stressful and you need to go away and plant some flowers!”

“Ah...of course.” Toriel smiled, suppressing her laughter as she glanced slyly over at Sans, whose expression was somewhere between amused, bemused and perhaps even a touch offended. “What a lovely tradition, and a thoughtful gift! I shall treasure it – thank you, my dear Papyrus. As the children say...I dig it.”

She was unable to help herself, a snort escaping as Sans chuckled and Papyrus, for once, did not voice his displeasure as his left socket twitched a few times. “It's...going to be like this all the time now, isn't it?”

“'Fraid so, bro,” Sans replied with a shrug, his grin becoming just a little more bashful as he caught Toriel's eye and added, “I, uh...really hope so, anyway. Sorry about that."

"No, you're not." But Papyrus was undeniably smiling, fondly exasperated, a sentiment Toriel was coming to recognise all too well. “But I forgive you, because the Great Papyrus is nothing if not selfless. And...” His voice became quieter, more serious, glancing between Sans and Toriel as the sharp lines of his skull appeared to soften for a moment, “it's a small price to pay, to have my brother back. Sans, I used to...worry about you, you know, back in the Underground. I knew something was wrong, but I just didn't know how to...”

“Pap,” Sans interrupted, his voice catching on the single syllable as he laid a hand on his brother's arm; Toriel bit her lip, an ache in her chest at the rare glimpse of raw emotion that  flashed across his face, just for a second, before he ducked his head, letting out a soft chuckle. “Don't you worry your great and powerful head about me, okay? I'm doing great.” Toriel knew he meant it, smile smaller but genuine when he glanced back up at her, then at Papyrus. “Never been better.”

“Thanks to her!” Papyrus reached out over his head and grabbed Toriel's hand, holding it in the air like a prize fighter. “Toriel! Despite your...equally questionable sense of humour, I'm honoured to pledge my loyalty to you both as former member of the Royal Guard and current mascot of monsterkind – but, mostly, as someone to share the considerable responsibility of looking out for my brother.”

"Oh!" Toriel found herself unexpectedly emotional at the sincerity of Papyrus' words, the warmth shining in his sockets – Sans was indeed lucky, as he had always said, to have such a cool guy looking out for him, and, as she squeezed his hand gratefully in return, Toriel knew that she was, too. “From the Great Papyrus himself, it is indeed an honour and a privilege. Rest assured, between the two of us, I trust we will not find the task so...punishing.”

“Okay, guys,” Sans interjected, evidently trying and failing to appear annoyed at this assessment of his character, “that's sweet and all, but seriously, what am I here? A skeledog?”

Toriel and Papyrus glanced at each other, a telepathic understanding passing between them, and without a word they reached out and grabbed him, each hooking an arm around his ribs to pull him up into a three-way hug. Sans let out a yelp of half surprise, half laughter as he was effortlessly lifted off the ground and firmly sandwiched between them, but Toriel knew he had no desire to escape even if they had any intention of letting him. Papyrus leaned in to bump his skull affectionately against his brother's as they clung together, and Toriel felt a surge of tenderness as she held onto both of them, at once familiar yet renewed – the need to nurture and protect, to preserve the love she felt so strongly in this moment, enveloping all three of them and warming her through to her soul.

“I know dinner didn't exactly go according to plan, guys, – but I gotta say, this has been really uplifting.”

“I could still drop you,” Papyrus threatened, but he was still smiling, as genuine as it was reluctant as Toriel giggled, leaning in to steal a quick nuzzle against Sans' cheekbone.

"I do not think he will.”

“I know,” Sans replied, running his fingers through the fur on the back of Toriel's neck while reaching out to pat Papyrus' skull with his other arm, somehow maintaining a perfect balance between the two – until he wobbled, almost bringing them all crashing down before they caught him, laughing, stronger together. "I think I got a pretty good thing going on here."