#if so i imagine its not pleasant to literally evaporate

[tuxedokit]

what would happen if dion's hydro form was exposed to heat. can we boil dion. can they have little wisps of steam coming off of them that they can vaguely control. can dion be evaporated, condensed, and then precipitated. can we make this girl participate in the water cycle

this ask is so fucking funny out of context

[canarydarity]

40 for the hurt/comfort dialogue prompt muahahahahhahaa >:)

A cornered animal was a dead animal; when Scar heard that phrase for the first time, still infected with the literal nature of children, he’d imagined an actual corner. Two walls on perpendicular paths, collusion course already set. He’d pictured the animal, cowering, and the predator, towering, and the fear of that image permeated straight through his mind and made a home deep somewhere inside of him. 

He’d learned later on that wasn’t even the correct phrasing—it was actually two phrases wrongly mashed together. A wounded animal was a dead animal, and corner an animal in a dead-end, and it will turn around and bite. 

By that time, it was too late; the sentiment had already stuck. The anxiety didn’t care that the phrase it was founded in had been wrong (no, that would’ve been too rational). It knew only fester, grow, latch onto whatever was to be found and then die—and to die was to decay, and to decay was to poison further; this would repeat uncontested—and, to Scar, unawares—until a corner was, as he thought, the worst place to be. 

It wasn’t claustrophobia, because claustrophobia implied an enclosed area absent of malicious intent; a tight space that was frightening for that reason alone—its confinement. A corner was purposeful entrapment; it was the deliberateness of the affair—a typical having been led there by someone or something—that spoke to its terrifying nature.

Scar was quite often almost cornered, and it was in this that he’d learned a lot—mainly, that walls didn’t need to be involved at all. A corner could be a lot of things; a building with only one exit, a deep valley too steep to climb your way out of—a flimsy lie in an uneven deal during an already imbalanced conversation. 

Scar had become an expert at spotting corners—even better at evading them. People were frequently trying to corral him, and he more often than not managed to get away; the trick was not running, the illusion of compliance—like a dog playing with something that was certainly not a toy, watching its owner creep closer and closer trying to steal it back, patient and still, before darting away at the last second like all was but a game. 

Fear was a good motivator—amusement a worthy prize. But all his worry didn’t stop him from falling into these kinds of situations again and again, and in this, Scar had learned that exposure therapy was not for him. The high of each escape would fade, the excitement would grow dim, and the spiral of almost almost almost almost beat in him in time with his heart. 

Though he had to admit, out of all the corners he’d been backed into, this one was by far the prettiest. 

With each heave of his chest, Scar dragged in another lungful of clean, fresh air—the kind that smelled like the scenery looked; water vapor evaporating slowly off the surface of the pond mingling with the pollen carried on the breeze. It sounded like nothing, the pleasant kind; quietness so still that, if Scar tried enough, he could drown out the pounding of his heart by focusing purely on the trickle and trill of the water as it resettled around them. 

The mud below cushioned his knees and the water cooled his exertion-hot skin and the warmth of the sun provided a blanket of comfort. He caught his next breath in before it could rush back out and put in actual effort to slow down, to relax. He’d hate to ruin the scenery��Scar loved a good view. 

The trees reached around the small pond like a fence, and he couldn’t see it but behind him he knew the rise of the mountain was steep, mossy, and overgrown from the moisture of the water in the air and below. Green was green in a way it only ever was when nature was left on its own to do as it knew how, and the water, though clear, absorbed some of that in its reflection until it sparkled a little green too. 

Picturesque, that was the word for it—he could only hope he didn’t ruin it. 

Grian certainly didn’t (then again, Scar would never admit it if had). His breathing was no more under control than Scars was, but while Scar had taken the time to take in their surroundings, Grians eyes never moved once from Scar.  

His hair was a wreck and his face streaked with dirt and a bit of blood that was probably not his own, but picturesque was the word Scar had chosen, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t sticking with it. His cheeks had odd patches and tracks of cleanliness working their way downward, but Scar would never accuse Grian of crying, and so he just smiled softly to himself at the understanding that he was loved. 

The sword he held in his hands was low, pointed down into the water where it was out of each of their lines of sight but not nearly as far away as to be out of mind; it couldn't be, not when the sunlight refracting off of it spread a prism just above Grian’s cheek, highlighting his eyes and the fact that they were red. 

The smile was a trigger, ruining the still-life they had created by hesitating in this singular moment—and before Scar could successfully commit every detail to memory to the degree he had wished. He had smiled, and Grian had blinked and returned to shaking his head.

“No,” he pushed out between grit teeth, and, coming from Grian, it was both an answer to what Scar had said and a declaration in the direction of their circumstance—protestation for the way that things had gone and the place they’d ended up. He shook his head more obstinately, “I can’t—I literally can’t.”

He could—the sword was in his hand. His grip was loose and the blade lowered but his ability to complete the task wasn’t of question—it was his willingness. Scar understood this as well as he could when he wasn’t the one holding a weapon, but they were also out of options, and, more regrettably, out of time. 

Scar was calm, firm. “You can.” 

The sword dipped lower as Grian bent more, and Scar was struck by the weirdness of the role reversal they’d found themselves in. Grian, shorter than him but more commanding, telling Scar what was to be done next and Scar leaning in to haggle for his own demands—this was what they had known. What they’d come to now was Grian towering over Scar, body language nothing short of pleading as he pitched forward to beg Scar to change his mind. 

“Scar, no, I—”

Unlike Grian, Scar could not be persuaded; compromise wasn’t something they could afford. 

He didn’t want to hear whatever Grian was going to say next. There was no version of this conversation in which Scar would be the least deserving party of the fate to which they discussed. The problem was not that Grian didn’t agree with this, it was that he did, and that agreement scared him. 

If Scar was going to die, he was going to do it without allowing Grian to perjure himself and pretend that it wasn’t warranted when they both knew that it was. 

He delivered his interruption with a nod and a slow blink—the kind of dismissal that was factual and informed, not apathetic or uncaring. He was leaving no room for disagreement, for posturing, but he was not negligent. 

“I deserve it.”

There was not a player in this game that wasn’t aware that, without Grian, Scar would not have made it nearly as far as he had. It wasn’t even about lives—it was about monopoly mountain, about everything. Scar was an idea man, what he lacked—what Grian gave him—was direction. Scar himself was a notion better left on paper. 

We shall prevail Scar had said, arms thrown wide, beckoning Grian to take in the desert before them—the desert that was going to be theirs. The scrunch to Grian’s nose said he didn’t agree, the glance he sent over his shoulder said there were other things he wanted to be doing. Scar didn’t care, because he’d looked out over the endless expanse of sand and cacti and had seen opportunity; Rome wasn’t built in a day, but the idea of what it was to become had to exist before construction could take place, didn’t it? The empty desert was their golden city, their empire. He’d been sure Grian would come around—Scar could be very persuasive. 

(He hadn’t; he’d owed Scar a debt, and those weren’t the same thing. But he had been the one to turn that idea into reality. All Scar had done was lose another life less than a week later, and with no one at fault but himself.)

Still, Scar had been right, in a way—they did prevail; however briefly their victory lasted, victory was what it was. They and they alone ruled for 5 glorious minutes; and then they remembered that victory, here, was a word in the singular. Last man standing was not a title for two. 

5 minutes—sand through an hourglass, or reclaiming their recently abandoned home. Scar thought he understood now why desert was the root of the word deserted. 

“You don’t,” it was half a whisper and fully a lie, which was probably why it came out sounding like it did; breathy and unmoored—the balloon that split away from the bunch and floated off, its string just too far off the ground to reach, even if you jumped. 

Now that he had cooled down, the water didn’t feel soothing anymore; breath under control and temperature back to normal, it wasn’t anything but cold; the shade no longer refreshing but chilling. This sensation mixed with the quality of Grian’s voice—something fragile about it in a way he has never heard—made Scar shiver. 

He moved slowly, not because he thought Grian might startle but because if this was a still-life, he’d like to think the artist wasn’t finished yet, their portrait still being painted—and their story couldn’t end until it was done. Scar would be okay with it if this was the way he was remembered, kneeling, so long as it was Grian he was kneeling before. 

His hand around the flat of Grian’s blade, Scar carefully drew it out of the water and placed the tip against his neck; it, too, was cold. He hesitated, holding it there for a minute as he tracked the way Grian swallowed and closed his eyes. Scar only let go when he was sure Grian would keep it there. 

He waited until Grian opened his eyes before speaking again. 

“Yes, I do.” 

It was a statement as much as it was also a prayer. Scar was never a religious man—if he was going to put blind faith in something it was going to be himself—but of what he understood, their current position was a preface, and he knew no devotion more holy than the kind that Grian had given him. It was a shame that religions needed to be founded upon a following of more than one person, because this was worship he wasn’t willing to share. 

“And you deserve to win.”

For all his protest before, Grian had nothing immediately to say to this one; Scar was pleased that this, at least, they both weren’t pretending wasn’t true. Of course, this left a self-evident truth that if nothing else firmed Scar in his decision; with mutual understanding that Grian deserved to win came the knowledge that Grian was not keeping him alive out of any hesitation to kill him not grounded in his own want not to. What a worthy cause to die for, Scar thought Grian was. 

“Can’t—” the sword still kissed the line of Scar's throat, but Grian’s voice broke as if he was the one afraid of speaking for fear he’d rub against a blade. “Can’t we just win together?” 

And that was how Scar was almost certain he was going to win—not the game, but the conversation. Because what a last-ditch effort it was to rely on the outlandish idea of changing the rules of a game they hadn’t any control over. There would be no denying that Grian deserved to win, and for him to have no other argument than this meant—

Scar didn’t answer, because Grian wasn’t really asking; they both knew better than to waste any time on the notion of shared victory—not when they were being watched. Not with their audience of closest friends and worst enemies alike, the very same that had died for them to arrive at this moment.  

Scar felt the sword tremble as Grian did, and took a moment to close his eyes and send out one final plea; let it end here—he did not want to see what came next should it not.

But when he opened them again, the blade dropped completely from Grian’s hand, and he gasped out, “no, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Scar watched the sword float to the bottom of the pond, drifting until it lodged in the mud as well. He stared, feeling none of the relief one should at a weapon having been dropped from their vicinity, and instead, all of the grief that came with the frightened dread that things were going to go from bad to worse. 

Grian dropped too, the water splashing up again, but Scar stood from his own knees just as Grian's found land. He rose on command, he felt, rather than his own volition; a man in court about to receive his sentence from a judge. This decision of Grian’s, it wasn’t salvation—it was just a different brand of condemned.

The thing about prayer that Scar had never liked—the thing that had always stopped him from taking to it—was that it wasn’t a promise; no one was obligated to answer. And no one answered Scar that day. 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t I—I’m sorry,” Grian’s eyes were closed, his head bowed. He blindly reached out a hand in Scar’s direction, latching onto his forearm when he found it. Scar looked away as Grian kept up his onslaught of delivering apologies and repentance; all the vigor of a man making confession, but no past transgression to prove he’d needed to. Scar certainly wasnt pious enough to offer forgiveness—not the omniscient kind this line of thought demanded—for he knew whatever sins Grian committed, what Scar was going to be made to do next was worse.

He wanted to be angry, but there was no world in which he wished Grian had loved him just a little less, even if it meant he’d gone through with it; not angry, but he was regretful. This did not mean that Scar was going to live, this meant Scar was going to have to get more creative. He wanted Grian to choose to kill him, he wanted to save them the dishonor of having to deceive him into doing it instead. It wasn’t fair; maybe after Grian lived, he’d have the hindsight to offer Scar forgiveness. 

Scar looked back down at Grian, could feel him shaking from where he still gripped Scars arm. He’d give him a minute, and then they’d have to go. The sand pooled rapidly at the bottom of the hourglass; it blew heavily in the wind and piled into the crater where their home once stood. Circumstances may have changed, but their ending felt too pre-determined to change with them. There was a certainty in the air about what came next, a lack of exits in this quickly burning building, a train barreling down the tracks he was tied to—cornered didn’t even begin to describe it; but even so, Scar couldn’t find it in himself to care.

This cornered animal, this broken and pathetic thing—it wasn’t going to turn around and bite; there was no fight to be found, not in him, not for this. It turned out the phrase as he knew it rang true all along; a cornered animal was a dead animal. He brushed a piece of hair off of Grian’s forehead. Scar didn’t find that he felt afraid, though, for there was more peace to be found here than his wildest and worst imaginings had predicted. 

Besides, every good religion needed a martyr.

[themalicealyce]

Sarcasm and Puns: Chapter Nine

Summary:  You're an introverted person, have been all of your life but it wasn't as if you were shy, you were just content to have your only friends be your brother and your roommate. Though when your brother's young daughter makes friends with the human ambassador of monsters you open up to the idea of having a larger group of friends.

Rating: M

You very quickly began to regret your decision to take a taxi. The ride seemed to take an eternity, and you felt trapped, shackled into the backseat of the yellow metal prison. You found yourself gritting your teeth in annoyance, nearing the breaking point of shit you could put up with from the driver. It wasn’t just you, Vincent's entire focus was funneled into his phone. He was staring down at it so hard you worried it would burst into flame due to sheer determination to ignore the man.

“All I’m saying is, I think everyone would be more comfortable if they just kept to themselves." The taxi driver added to the lengthy rant he was on about monsters. Chuckling as if it was pleasant conversation he spoke again mimicking secret sharing. “Personally, I think they should just go back to that hole honestly, Right?” Even though the both of you ignored him, he didn’t stop. It was disgusting, you didn't even know there were that many racist slurs people had come up with for the peaceful race. “I mean seriously!” He chuckled jovially.

You checked the map on your phone again, praying to whichever deity in the sky that wanted to listen that you got there soon. You could feel your anger rising, calming yourself with the thought that it would really suck to go to jail on an empty stomach. Thankfully, whatever cruel force that was currently screwing with you must have grown bored because you saw you were approaching the restaurant. “Just drop us off on the corner here.” You directed trying to keep your voice even. Vincent let out a long breath beside you, some tension easing off his features. You however were still stressed and upset that you had to stay in the man's presence for even another second.

The driver had the nerve to scoff as you pulled in front of the quite honestly beautiful, rustic looking diner. "See, places like this, these monster-run businesses are bringing down this whole neighborhood." he sighed shaking his head sadly to himself only causing you to grimace further. "Careful as you pass by ma'am who knows what those things get up to."

Vincent reached out to you as if in a silent attempt to quell your rising rage. It didn't help, and he couldn't blame you, he did however scurry quickly out of the car without a word.

“Actually, this is my stop.” You forced yourself to smile as you tensely handed him his fair. “It looks like a great place for lunch.” You said in an eerily calm rage flinging the door open so harshly it bounced on its hinges back to you.

"You’re not really going in there are you?" his face morphed from utter confusion to contempt as he snarled, "That ain’t no place for a nice young lady." You stepped outside the car but leaned back in to get the final word "Maybe I’m not a," You rolled your eyes and said the next bit with air quotes. “’nice young lady’ but at least I am a good person.” With that you slammed the car door, something petty you couldn’t help but indulge in.

The taxi peeled away from the curb, and you allowed yourself another petty indulgence, flipping it off as it sped away. As soon as the yellow blob disappeared out of sight you sagged and exhaled wearily. You noticed a few people and monsters watching your outburst curiously, causing you to shove your hands into you jacket pockets and look down at your feet.

Vincent returned to his place at your side but instead of looking at him you just lifted your head to watch the calming movement and flickering lights from inside the building’s large window that spanned nearly the entire length of the wall.

Vincent shifted awkwardly from foot to foot before releasing an exaggerated breath of air "So Grillby's huh? How hot do you think that grill be?" he laughed nervously at his own joke.

You gave him a half-hearted glare that quickly became a smile. "I'm pretty sure that's the owner's name." you let out a small laugh as you bumped his shoulder with yours.

Sensing the tension in the air quickly evaporating he smiled and continued, "I repeat, how hot you think that Grill Be?" You rolled your eyes but continued to smile. "Come on dork, I'm starving." You said, walking into the building with him following at your heels as he giggled to himself.

Upon entering the diner, the bell hanging over the door rang causing all sorts of different monsters to look up at you and Vincent for a long moment. Most regarded you with curious expressions, but some looked wary to see you. They soon all returned to their activities, a wide variety of monsters all so different from each other ate, drank, played cards, and chatted happily together. A small group of humans sat on their own in one small booth tucked away in a corner curiously trying to study the monsters without looking at them for too long. You noticed the smell, standing in place for a moment to take it in. The aroma clung thickly in the air was like a mixture of a wood burning stove, burgers, and something sweet you couldn't put a name to. It was mouth-watering, and your stomach growled violently at the scent. Belatedly you noticed the warmth of the place. Glancing around you figured that it was probably due to the large number of people inside with help from the candles on the tables. Hunger mostly in control now, you pulled Vincent past the more crowded central area crammed with tables and booths and moved instead towards the bar along the back wall that looked like it was straight out of a noire film.

As you took your seat at the bar and glanced around in search of a waiter or bartender you soon laid eyes on what was probably the biggest reason why this place was actually this toasty amidst the bitter autumn weather. You leaned over to tell Vincent, but his eyes were already locked on the heat source.

"Oh. That hot." Vincent whispered breathlessly.

Fire. It took you a moment to quell your panic. The place was not on fire. The fire was man shaped. A thin, stately man who appeared to be entirely made of fire. The flames around him crackled and danced in an entrancing way that reminded you of watching the fireplace during winters as a kid. He kind of seemed overdressed for the venue. His neatly pressed black pants and matching vest looked out of place in a bar this casual and cozy, but it somehow fit the timeless vibe. He turned toward you a pair of black, neat rectangular framed glasses sat on his face making it clear where he should have eyes. When the man made of fire saw you he nodded in acknowledgment. It completely fascinated you the way he didn't have any clear facial features, yet you still got the gist of his expression.

“Oh, of course Vinny. You fucking pyro.” You rolled your eyes, but you agreed the man was very intriguing, and also kind of confusing. You once again had to silently remind yourself that magic was real even though it still felt very odd to think about, since you never used to believe in that sort of thing. Though, if a bartender literally made of fire didn't start to fully drive the fact permanently into your brain nothing else probably ever would.

As if drawn to you and Vincent’s intrigue the fire monster gracefully approached you dropping off a very short menu before flitting away again, giving you what you interpreted as an apologetic look as another monster motioned him over. Vincent pulled his leather jacket to himself and you knew he wasn’t cold, it was way too warm in here. It was a shy gesture, it was even easier to tell when he begun to curl up into himself. His social anxiety had to be hitting some pretty high levels.

You nudged him encouragingly, "C'mon dude, lighten up." you stage whispered to him in a playful manner.

You thought it was the overly crowded restaurant he was having an issue with, he didn’t really like talking to new people or large groups. Though you were hopeful he would have fun because he genuinely seemed more comfortable around monsters than other humans. He gave you that pleading stare, the one with those big round puppy eyes that only he could pull off that innocently. Once he was sure he had your attention his eyes quickly darted back to the fire elemental pointedly.

"Ooooh." The realization dawned on you suddenly and you saw the blush creep up his face. He couldn't speak up because he thought the bartender was cute. He gave you a weak nod in confirmation and you smiled comfortingly at him. "You can do it man. Go for it." you urged him on eagerly with a light punch to his arm. He shot you a glare, but there was no malice behind it. You returned it with a stern expression. Vincent groaned and swiveled back to face the bar in his stool. The man made of fire returned appearing very patient, though you seriously weren't sure if he was making these expressions or if you were imagining them since his few facial features seemed as though they would be impossible to read. You still felt as though you got the gist of what they meant.

Both you and the monster behind the bar patiently watched as Vincent took a moment gathering all of his courage, straightening himself out and sitting as tall as he could in his seat. Vincent offered the bartender a shy smile after clearing his throat.

"S-so uh... Has anyone ever told you that you look really hot?" Vincent finished, smiling a little brighter clearly a bit proud of his pickup line. You groaned barely resisting the urge to hide your face in your hands, embarrassed that he actually used that dumb pun to the barman’s face. You braced yourself for the awkward silence, but it never came. Instead you heard a deep chuckle rumble behind you.

"yeah, i'm pretty sure i have."

You jumped, startled at the sudden interruption, but Vincent nearly fell off his seat. His face was entirely red, and his eyes went wide in shock. You turned to face the speaker to find a short skeleton watching the two of you with an amused smile. He was about the same height as Vincent, he stood with his stands shoved into his baggie blue hoodie, standing in a pose that exuded casual ease. You quickly turned back to Vincent to see your friend’s face had grown so dark with his blushing it was kind of worrying. He let his head drop down on the counter with a dull thud and a defeated whimper.

The bartender’s breathy laughter drew the attention of everyone within earshot. It sounded like crackling logs in a bonfire, and made the air feel warmer. Vincent’s head immediately darted up, the embarrassment in his eyes replaced with awe. If he was a cartoon character, there would have been gleaming stars in his eyes. “Now, now Sans. Play nice with the new customers, unlike you they don’t have tabs yet.” It was the first words you heard the monster actually speak and you watched in amazement as his face cracked open becoming a mouth. The only word you could think of to describe his voice was… smokey.

“aww, c’mon grillbz. you know i ain’t gotta bone to pick with nobody.” The skeleton who must have been Sans shrugged, posture slacking even further as he did, slipping away to pull himself up onto a nearby barstool.

Wait, Sans? Why was that name familiar to you? Had you heard it recently? You were pretty sure that you had.

Then it clicked. You instantly felt stupid, a skeleton named Sans.

“Wait! Sans?” You asked aloud while frowning at the furnace like heat in Grillby’s, shucking off your jacket mid thought. “Are you Papyrus’s brother?” Turning away from your friend instead facing the ever smiling skeleton, you questioned the new monster at the bar.

He chuckled, it was a lazy but really pleasing sound. He turned to face you “who’s askin’?” His retort cut short as he made a strange choking noise.

Your eyebrows scrunched up in immediate confusion. You followed his line of sight from the bright white pinpricks of light that seemed to serve as pupils. They lead down to your now visible tee shirt. You weren’t even sure what you were wearing, having grabbed it in a rush this morning. When you caught a look at the design you couldn’t help but laugh, mostly out of nervous habit, as your cheeks glowed with a heated blush.

Standing out starkly from the black fabric was the design two white, skeletal arms wrapped around the shirt with their hands placed over your breast.

The atmosphere of bar was warm and inviting with the soft lights flickering dimly like candles, casting slowly swaying shadows across the dark wood paneling of the walls. All around, the ambient chatter and laughter reverberated happily through the large cluttered building and filled the space with life. Despite all the joyous noise and the general uplifting mood, you and the skeleton sitting beside you had fallen into a slightly uneasy staring contest after your nervous laughter petered out. Drawing your bottom lip between your teeth you couldn’t be sure how much time had passed since took your jacket off making the interaction tense. You definitely didn’t know what to say in this situation, you’ve honestly never encountered one like it before, so you just let the awkwardness hang thickly between you. Unable to stop staring at him you thought you saw his cheekbones turn a faint blue color, but it was gone so quickly you weren’t sure if it was some kind of trick of the light. He was first the break the silence causing you to let out the breath you didn’t realize you were even holding.

“gotta hand it to ya kid, that’s a pretty cool shirt.” His smile stretcher into an amused smirk as he gestured nonchalantly at the design.

“I didn’t even realize I was wearing it I am so so- Was that pun?” you asked in disbelief, your minding reeling at his reaction. Glaring when he began to laugh.

“nottin’ gets past you huh?” Sans shrugged settling into a far more relax position.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. So, you closed it again with a slight frown, staring at him while you tried to process. Was he making fun of you? Did he think you were dumb? Luckily you were saved the mental energy of overthinking it when an urgent nudge from Vincent.

“Dude, I’m starving.” He whined pushing the menu into your open hands, willing you to order quickly before Grillby moved on to another costumer again. You briefly scanned the, admittedly limited, menu. You wondered to silently over some of the stranger items that caught your eye, but you knew as soon as you saw a description that made your stomach growl embarrassingly what you wanted.

“The burger for me.” You smiled up at Grillby handing your menu back over to the bartender before glancing back to your friend who was nodding in passionate agreement. You waited a beat to see if he’d speak up, but he seemed unable to do anything more than watch Grillby in lovesick awe. So, you spoke up for him, “Make that two.” Taking Vincent menu, you offered it to Grillby as well.

Grillby nodded taking both menus from you and wandered off into a backroom that must of housed the kitchen.

Vincent stared after him as he left, and you rolled your eyes. “Can I take you anywhere without you crushing on some guy?”

He sputtered turning back to lightly slap your arm, his face turning red again. “I do not crush on guys everywhere! And I mean…” he paused his furious blush darkening. “HE”S MADE OUT OF FIRE WHAT AM I SUPPOSE TO DO?”

You laughed at his flustered speech. “Of course, you fucking pyro.”

He crossed his arms in a huff “First of all, I am not a pyro… fire is just aestheti-“ he sighed cutting off his usual response. “secondly it’s not just, just that…” he muttered defensively pulling his jacket closer to himself once more as if trying to sink in it to get away from the conversation.

Taking pity, you relented from picking on your friend and instead you could resist the urge to curiously glance around the bar. You deeply regret not having your camera on you. When you caught sight of the skeleton sitting next you it caused you to groan, instantly mentally berating yourself for your pervious fuck up. You tried to come up with something to say to end the silence without sounding like an idiot or a jerk. He was your new friend’s brother, so you didn’t really want him to hate you. It was admittedly more for Papyrus’s sake than your own, you didn’t really mind people not liking you, though for some reason this felt different.

Your eyes grew wide at the thought of Papyrus, you suddenly remembered this is the shirt you put on when he was over earlier. You were instantly glad for jackets, sending a silent thank you for their invention.

“Papyrus didn’t see this shirt.” You blurted out in a matter of fact manner, not really to anyone in particular more just comforting yourself in that fact. Instantly you knew that sounded ridiculous, your stare boring into the bottles lining the back of the bar as if they had suddenly become fascinating. You could only hope it didn’t come out of your mouth as loud as you thought it did. Though, you were pretty sure he heard you because he choked on his drink, one of his skeletal hands shoot up to cover his mouth but doing little to help the amber liquid from spraying out and dribbling down his chin.

“m’sorry, what?” he asked voice rough as he tried to clear his throat, coughing slightly. His attention was now locked on you again.

“I uh, just realized I was wearing this shirt when I saw him earlier… and that just… feels weird.” You mumbled picking at the hem of your shirt, eyes darting from the bar to him over and over finding it hard to keep contact with those bright lights in his socket trained on you.

“so, you’re the new human tori was talkin’ about heh.” His head tilted a bit to the side and his eyes never wavering. He watched you as if he was searching your face for something.

“Um? Maybe, I guess?” you tried to smile but it was weak. “I’m kinda making a bad first impression, right?” you grimaced, remembering how dumb you came off to Toriel as well.

“God, which one of us is worse at meeting new people?” Vincent chuckled having been eagerly eavesdropping.

You left out a startled laugh a Vincent’s interjection, but before you could reply Grillby had come back from the kitchen with a plate in either hand. The smell alone made your mouth water as he placed them in front of you, and Vincent couldn’t help but stare at his burger lovingly at the big, juicy burger. Vincent even ley out a slightly pornographic moan next to you as took a large bite and nodded enthusiastically.

Eager to dig into your own you scanned the bar in search of ketchup. You pouted upon not finding any and you considered flagging Grillby back down to ask for some when something firm was tapped against you’re the back of your hand. Looking up you saw Sans, he had apparently figured out your dilemma and was leaning over to you, arm outstretched. He was holding out a glass bottle to you tapping it against your hand to get your attention.

You looked at him, not sure of what to say. He just shrugged at your silence and set the ketchup next to you.

“no need to bottle things up, you should speak up. plus, it looks like you need’a ketchup with your friend.” He nodded at Vincent who had already eaten half his burger with zeal.

You repressed an eye roll at his puns and nodded in thanks. Taking the bottle from the counter you moved the top bun aside and tilted the ketchup over the burger only to have the top fall off and a river of red spill from it messily coating your plate.

You could hear San’s laughing off to your side. You frowned at your plate, had he sabotaged you?

“sorry‘ll get a you a new…” He started, confirming your suspicions, but you shrugged to yourself and picked the top off your food and replacing the bun.

You took a big bite, you usually drowned your food in ketchup anyway.

Vincent grimaced looking up from his own plate. “Ugh, I don’t know how you can eat that. It’s disgusting.”

“Don’t you judge my burger.” You answered back. “You can’t throw stones, you put salt in your chocolate milk.”

Vincent slammed his burger down on the plate looking very offended at you comment. “A little bit of salt enhances the flavor of chocolate!”

You laughed and shook your head at his outburst. “It’s so wrong though.”

Sans chuckled, again catching your attention, and once he noticed he had it again his smile grew wider. “my condiments to the fellow ketchup lover.” He winked and brought the now half empty bottle to teeth and tipped his head back to down the rest of it’s contents like it was nothing.

You smirked at him amused, the food warm in you stomach making you more comfortable. His face fell for only a second to express disappointment at your lack of response. Probably hoping his drink of choice would make you squeamish.

“Well, I guess we have something in common, that’s a good start. I’m sure we’ll find out more thing we agree on.” You said.

He shrugged, the blue hood of his jacket bunching up around his skull. “if you’re plannin’ on stayin’round that long maybe.” His smiled dopily.

You were going to ask what he meant by that, but your phone rang out its whirring Dr. Who tone alerting you that your brother was calling. Your eyebrows furrowed together, not expecting his call. “Sorry I have to take this.” You apologized to Sans while fishing your phone out of your pocket.

“Hey Gabe, what’s up?” you answered your phone with a smile, covering your other ear in hopes it would make you hear better in the loud bar.

“Morrigan is asking about her mom again.” Came his voice, it sounded quieter and sadder then you had heard his voice in a long time.

The smile quickly slid from your face. “I’m on my way.”

He mumbled out some kind of goodbye response before hanging up.

“I’m sorry, I gotta go. Nice to meet you.” You said this time to the people on either side of you.

“What’s wrong?” Vincent half whispered in worry.

Pulling out the money for your meal, passing it to Vincent. “Gabriel needs me.” You said as you did, hoping he wouldn’t press further. You were doing all you could to keep yourself looking calm and polite.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk with you?” He asked hesitantly.

You answered with a look.

He sighed as he backed down. “Alrighty then, see you later.”

“Later.” You agreed. You hated the way your voice sounded so cold and stern. You leapt down from your barstool sparing Vincent and Sans one last strained smile as you pulled your jacket back on. You fled without another thought.