Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you look back on this day in the future, you won’t be able to say with certainty exactly how old you were, and not for the reasons that one might think. You’ll remember when it happened and think back fondly. You’ll remember how old Frisk was, chronologically and bodily. 

It’s just, well, trying to put an age on yourself is a complicated affair, made even more complicated by sharing a body with someone else. 

A hundred-some years ago, you died tragically at the tender age of twelve years old. You had only just turned twelve in fact, how sad, only the good die young, et cetera. The prematurity of your death isn’t the point. The point is, you came back a hundred years later to haunt some poor child right when they were on the cusp of their eleventh birthday, a birthday coincidentally within a week of your own. When that birthday came to pass, did that mean you were turning thirteen? Or were you still twelve?

One of the first times Frisk turned eleven, you shyly admitted that your birthday had passed a few days prior. You had tried to boast about the fact that you were now thirteen years old, but Frisk argued that that couldn’t count, not if you hadn’t experienced the full year. You shot back that they had reset the timeline enough times that enough collective months had passed that you could have been thirteen through sheer experience of the passage of time. Frisk argued that, in that case, they were at least twelve. The argument devolved into complicated circuitous reasoning that made less and less sense the longer you two continued, filled with ridiculous attempts at compromise. Perhaps you should measure by literal birth year, making you at least one hundred and twelve years old. This idea is funny, but it also makes you kind of sad. Maybe you should measure age by the amount of birthdays personally experienced, one of you suggested. But no, that would make Frisk at least seventeen, and you at least eighteen. It wouldn’t make sense, it was convoluted, and nobody was going to let Frisk into an R-rated movie. 

Eventually, the two of you decided that you are whatever age Frisk is, plus one year. That seemed fair, if reductive when you consider the many timelines you both remembered and experienced.

That is to say, right now you’re fourteen. But you’re also one hundred and fourteen, or fifteen, or a very convoluted twenty. The possibilities of putting a date to oneself are endless in the vast world of time manipulation, you could argue. If you’re actually being honest and fair, however, yes, you’re fourteen. And because you’re fourteen, that naturally means that you know everything. 

Granted, you also thought you knew everything at thirteen, and at twelve. So maybe you don’t actually know everything about everything, but you certainly know everything about Frisk. It’s one part by design: the very nature of bodysharing makes it so. It’s difficult not to know everything about Frisk, not when you can hear their thoughts bubble to the surface or feel their heart beating in their chest as your own. Their hunger is your hunger, their joy is your joy, their excitement is your excitement. You feel every time they stub their toe, or try not to smile at a stupid joke, or eat something that they shouldn’t have. Everything that is you is immersed in everything that is Frisk at all times.

It’s another part by your own choice: you choose to stick around, to listen, to engage, to pay attention. You’ve never held humanity in high regard, but Frisk is your shining exception. You want to say that they’re your best friend, but there’s someone else you called your best friend before and you have complicated feelings about that, so Frisk is…something else. A partner, perhaps. Your partner in time, and crime, and grime, and all the -imes. A lover, of sorts: you have had plenty of love and LV together. And if, at the tender age of twelve (or maybe one hundred and twelve, or thirteen, or a convoluted eighteen) you decided that this was it for you and the two of you were as good as married, well. That’s that. 

Soulmate. That’s the word you’re looking for. Frisk is, quite literally, your soulmate. 

Anyways. The funny, terrible thing about meeting and falling in love with someone so young is that it doesn’t end with a happily ever after there, no, there’s puberty to contend with. What was once chaste is now…? You’re not quite sure. Which brings you back around to the knowing everything about Frisk thing. You’re used to seeing them naked, of course, though admittedly the penis thing took some getting used to in the beginning, seeing that you didn’t have one of those when you were alive. And, even if you’ve gotten used to it, you do have some limits. For instance, if you’re piloting, you refuse to pee standing up. It just seems like a recipe for disaster. You’ll leave that to the professionals with years of experience under their belts, thank you very much, you are not risking it. 

The frequent erections are a newer development, though. You’re not entirely sure how you’re supposed to respond to that, so you quash your automatic urge to poke and prod and tease, instead electing to do the mature thing and simply keep your thoughts to yourself in a little box where Frisk can’t see them. For the past year, it hasn’t been a very big deal anyways, nothing but a mild inconvenience that makes Frisk huff in annoyance before adjusting themself and going on their merry way. But lately, they’ve started getting all bashful and shy. Frisk’s dreams have a tendency to bleed into yours anyways, so some of the dreams you’ve been getting lately…needlesss to say, it’s certainly a step up from the usual nightmares, if a different kind of disconcerting. Frisk keeps waking up either hard and a little embarrassed, or no longer hard but sated and tingly and in need of a change of clothes (and extremely embarrassed). You reassure them (and very carefully do not laugh) as they change out of messy underwear that it’s fine and natural and no big deal, but you must not be very good at reassurance because their face usually gets all hot and they just apologize before changing the subject, thoughts blocked off and unreadable.

That’s the part you don’t like, the being blocked off. You know, logically, that Frisk has a right to privacy if they please, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it. It doesn’t suit them, anyways. You’re the only one allowed to be aloof and mysterious, and that’s just because it’s within their own best interests that you are. After all, there is a certain precedent to you that you would be loath to continue to exemplify.

You are fourteen years old and you may not know everything about everything, but you know yourself pretty well. The personality of one Chara Dreemurr can be summed up with a series of ‘m’ words: manipulative, maladaptive, malcontent, machiavellian. Murderer. You know you have a bitter determination to get what you want, often to the detriment to yourself and those you hold dear. And, well, it may be less serious than inadvertent fratricide, but you would hate to mess this up by suggesting something that Frisk isn’t ready for. Yes, sometimes their hands linger somewhere for a bit too long, touching themself in the literal sense, but they never actually commit to it and touch themself . You wish they would. Maybe then they’d stop having to wash their bedsheets so often. After all, a cup filled to the brim, if the most efficient, is still likely to spill. That’s what you would tell them, if you weren’t so apprehensive about coming on too strong. 

Your reasoning isn’t completely pragmatic, however. You also, well…well. It’s embarrassing, but you do have urges. You feel everything that Frisk feels, their joy, their pain, their excitement. Those physical tingles of interest when faced with a pretty person, how weird and good it feels after one of those dreams, all of it. Furthermore, you like Frisk, more than you like anyone else in the entire world. You like everything about them, not only including all the wonderful things inside but also their body. You want to explore it so badly, you want them to feel good, you want to feel good with them…

…you digress. What the hell are you supposed to say? Hey Frisk, I think it would be really cool and fun if you beat your meat while I helped, or at the very least watched and provided commentary? Dear god, no. No way. Nope. You’ll be quiet and let them come to that conclusion if they want to, you are keeping your trap shut tight.

…

Ah, the shower. A psychological labyrinth of twists and turns, one that must be tread lightly and carefully lest one fall through the floor and into a spike pit. Truly, it is a herculean test of your mental fortitude. One blatant, undisguised thought, and you just might give yourself away. 

The air is humid, but not as humid as it could be. Frisk has a habit of running the bathroom fan not only after but during a shower, mainly to disguise the sound of what any passerby would assume is them “talking to themself.” They don’t have to talk out loud to be heard by you, but they like to sometimes when the two of you are alone. You don’t mind. You like the sound of their voice, even if you hear it somewhat distorted through their own ears. You would worry more often about being overheard if their default volume wasn’t so soft.  

Showering is a top-to-bottom routine, starting with the hair and face and moving downward. Water beats down on Frisk’s head as they rinse out shampoo, surrounding them in a warm pitter-pattering of little raindrops. The water pressure is nice. It has to be, to accommodate the needs of a certain furry boss monster. Frisk doesn’t sing in the shower, but they do hum to themself, little happy nonsense tunes that are drowned out by the fan and the sound of running water, audible only to the select few that reside inside of their skull. You think it’s adorable, a cherished fact you keep in your dragon’s hoard of Friskisms that only you get to see. Things like the fact that they take forever to rinse their hair out, not because they need to, but because their scalp is sensitive and they love the feeling of water beating down on their head. They actually spend so long under there sometimes that it makes their scalp go dry and their hair turn frizzy. Now that you think about it, they’re starting to head in that direction right now.

You are going to give yourself dandruff, you chide. 

Frisk lets out a half-hearted grumble of protest. Despite that, they know that you’re right, and remove themself from the stream of water to reach for conditioner. 

I know, it is a tragedy. 

“Mhm,” Frisk agrees, squirting the conditioner into their waiting palm. “I might start crying.” They set the bottle aside, distributing the conditioner evenly in their hands before running their fingers through their hair. It’s starting to get long, the silky strands reaching just past their shoulders and sitting at their collarbones. They don’t tend to keep their hair short per se, but you can’t remember it ever having reached this length. You wonder idly whether they’ll decide to cut it. 

“Dunno,” Frisk says, apparently picking up on your thoughts. “I haven’t decided.”

It is pretty, you tell them. But the question is whether or not you will actually take care of it. 

“Rude.” They make to pull their hands away from their hair, but they stop as you nudge them aside, taking control. They allow you access with no complaint. 

You don’t even like to brush it, dummy. Despite your admonishing words, you bring their hands up to their scalp and gently run their fingers along, careful not to pull. Then, when you find a comfortable position, you begin to rub their head in little circles. 

“I would…um…” Whatever point Frisk was about to make is stopped in its tracks. Their eyelids flutter when you apply a bit of pressure, kneading the sides of their head above their ears. For a moment, they seem to search for whatever they were going to say, eyebrows furrowed.

Something to say, Frisk? you tease, widening the circles to a pleasurable stretch of the skin.

“Um…” They swallow. “It’s…not important.”

Really? It sounded like you had something to say to me.  

They hum out something that sounds vaguely like a negative, letting their eyes slip closed to the sound of the shower and the gentle scritch of fingers through their hair. 

Nothing?

“Nothing,” they breathe. They tilt their head subtly this way and that, as if trying to find a way to lean into their own hands. 

Well. If you say so, I guess I’ll just have to believe you. You wander up to the top of their head, continuing to massage there for a few minutes. They sigh in contentment. You imagine it would be a funny sight from an outside perspective, the way they melt under the ministrations of their own hands, but there’s nobody to witness it but you two. 

“Chara,” they mumble, “You’re the best.”

You adore these little moments, the way the world seems to stop spinning for a few minutes and everything but you two ceases to exist, consciousnesses curled up against one another. Gently, you position their hands so that their fingernails are instead gently scratching their scalp. Frisk’s mouth drops open into a little o shape. Cute. Their reaction to all of it is fascinating and pleasant to experience first-hand, the way that it sends funny tingles down their spine and makes their brain slow, relaxation taking over. Their soul feels all happy and bright. Their body feels a bit like putty, warmth pooling in their belly and thighs, and…um. Well. You suppose they like it a lot , if that full feeling between their legs is anything to go by. Wow. 

Once again, you have no idea what you’re supposed to do in this situation. Your own silly flirting got you here, so you certainly brought this upon yourself. Granted, you had no way of knowing that the scalp could even be an erogenous zone…they’ve never had this response to anyone else touching their head, and people ruffle and play with their hair all the time. What’s with that? You’re not entirely sure what the proper response is here. Keep up the flirt? Would that be weird? That would be weird. You certainly can’t just assert yourself, either, even if the hypothetical makes you feel a certain kind of way…

Frisk must sense your sudden consternation, or perhaps they just notice that you’ve stopped massaging their scalp, because their eyes flutter open and suddenly you get a view of shower tiles and various toiletries. Quickly and hopefully subtly, you sweep your thoughts and feelings under the rug and out of Frisk’s reach. 

“Charaaaaa…” they whine. “Why’d you stop?” 

Crap. What do you say?

Oh…just because. You know! Can’t stay in the shower forever!

“Mmmf.” Frisk rubs their eyes as if trying to wake up from a trance. “Felt so good though.”

Clearly. 

Yes, I could gather as much. That you were feeling good, that is. 

Frisk lets out a happy hum, blinking the world back into clarity. Blurry toiletries un-blur. Fuzzy-looking drops of water un-fuzz. When they idly look down and come to realize that they are noticeably erect, they do so with perfect vision. 

“Oh. Um.” Awkwardly, they lower their hands from their face. “That’s what you meant, I…sorry. I wasn’t paying attention, I didn’t mean…sorry.” They nibble at their lip, glancing sideways. In a move that is probably supposed to be subtle, they wrap their arms around their midsection, blocking their member from your (and their own) sight. That in itself is weird, because they don’t usually care about you seeing their junk.

It’s okay! you quickly reassure, because even if you’re out of your element, it is. Perfectly natural, nothing to be embarrassed about.

When their mind reaches for yours and finds no purchase, Frisk frowns. “Yeah,” they say, like they don’t believe you. “Right.” Something that feels distinctly like hurt weighs heavy in the pit of their stomach, uncomfortable and leaden and cold. 

Truly, you continue, trying to salvage the mood that was just shattered upon the rocks. It is, as they say, “no biggie.” 

Frisk glares at the shower wall like it personally offended them. “Uh-huh.”

You feel like you’re digging a deeper grave, but you don’t even know how you’re doing it. Still, you keep trying. Really! you insist. Better than things not working, right? It just means you are healthy and hearty! Perfectly on track for your age, and um–

“Please stop,” Frisk begs. 

Sorry, you say, and mean it. 

Frisk nods, frowning. Their brows are deeply furrowed and their erection thoroughly killed. They take a moment, picking at their cuticles, all kinds of shame and anxiety swirling in their core. You leave them to it, remaining silent for fear of making things even worse. You don’t know how you’re so bad at this. Literally moments before they were blissfully melting under your touch, but then things got weird. 

At a certain point, Frisk seems to realize that they should probably finish showering. They rinse the conditioner out of their now very slimy hair, and then wash their face. When it comes time to wash the rest of their body, they stop, scowling, as if averse to the idea of coming into contact with any of their own nooks and crannies right now. They look up at the ceiling like it might, maybe, give them an answer. It doesn’t. Frisk sighs, very deeply. 

“I can’t help it,” they blurt out. “Sorry.”

I…I know that. It is alright. 

“A-and, I’m not trying to weird you out, I just, it just happens sometimes and I don’t mean to. Especially when…” They trail off, closing their mouth like it is something they very much do not want to say. 

The fact that they don’t want to tell you makes you want to know even more. Especially when…? You prod. 

Frisk makes a little frustrated sound. They squeeze their eyes shut. “Um. When you.” They gesture vaguely. “Get all…lovey dovey and nice to me. Or when you take over and…do things like that. It. Um. I just…” Their shoulders tense, climbing toward their ears. 

Your heart sinks. Oh. Do you…want me to stop?

“No!” Frisk exclaims, shaking their head so fervently that strands of wet hair hit them in the face and stick to their cheeks. “No, that’s not it, I like it when you do that, but sometimes I…I just. Really like it, you know?” 

Oh. You’re not sure whether to be mortified or giddy. I…get you going, then? Actually? I make you feel like that?

Their face goes hot. 

Me? you continue, disbelieving. That’s not just some physiological nonsense? I do things that…that make you horny?

Frisk nods miserably. “And I know you get uncomfortable so I just…”

Wait a minute. 

Why…why do you assume that I am uncomfortable?

Frisk pulls a face like you just said something stupid, which you think is rich coming from someone who is blatantly wrong.

“You always freak out,” they say. 

I do not!

“You do, ” Frisk insists. “You get all private and weird and then you start being all…” Their face scrunches up again. “Ugh, I can’t remember the word. What is it?”

Your mind brushes up against theirs, searching. Oh. You know the word they’re looking for. 

Patronizing, you respond, dismayed.

“Yeah. That. And like…like you’re trying to make me feel better? But you just act weird and fake and won’t let me see what you’re actually thinking. You act so nice. You’re never that nice. I don’t…” Frisk’s frown deepens. They kick idly at some water pooled at the bottom of the bathtub. “It’s okay. If you say I’m making you feel weird. At least it’s honest.” 

Frisk…that’s not it. That’s not it at all. 

“Well then what is it? Because I can’t tell and I don’t want to keep…” They cringe. “This is embarrassing and it sucks.”

Leave it to someone like Frisk to have died gruesomely on multiple occasions and still have the wherewithal to get angsty about boners of all things. Annoyingly, you suppose that you are no better. But, if they can have Important Conversations in the shower while as naked as the day they were born, you suppose you can have your moment of emotional vulnerability. Even if it sucks.

… I like it, you admit. 

Frisk makes an affronted sound. “Me being embarrassed?"

Wh…no! Well, actually, sometimes, yeah. But no! I actually enjoy when you get all…hot and bothered. I become…I get excited. 

They blink. “W-what?”

I can feel what you feel, you know? It feels good when…when you are aroused, or when you get one of those dreams that make you wake up, um, you know. Even if it is messy afterwards. It’s…it’s kind of hot…

“Oh. Uh.” Frisk’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. “Oh.”

And I don’t want you to be too embarrassed so I try to tell you that it is okay, because it is! But I do not want to come on too strong, either, or make you do anything…

“M-make me?” They know exactly what you’re talking about, but still they ask: “Make me do what?”

You know. Take things to their logical conclusion. Into your own hands, so to speak. Jerk yourself off. Or let me do it. That…that kind of thing. 

“That’s—!” Frisk’s head is reeling. “That’s what you’re thinking about? When you shut me out?”

… yeah, you say, a little lamely. All the time. 

“Oh.” They swallow. “Huh.”

Their face is indescribably hot. Fire-brand hot, the kind that spreads down their neck and makes them the slightest bit lightheaded. 

Is that…is that okay?

Frisk clears their throat, somewhat awkwardly. “I didn’t know you liked me like that . I thought you were weirded out…um…” They fiddle with a strand of their hair. “That’s cool…”

You let out the metaphysical equivalent of a sigh of relief. 

That’s cool? you repeat, letting yourself take on a slightly teasing tone. That’s your response?

“S-super cool.” They rub the hair between their fingertips. “Um. I might have maybe possibly sorta kinda been thinking about it, so…”

Yeah? you prod, leaning forward in your metaphorical seat. You’ve been wanting to touch yourself too, then?

Frisk fiddles with that strand of hair very intently, staring at it like it is the most interesting thing in the world. “Maybe.”

Maaaaaaybe? you coax. 

A shy smile worms its way onto their face. “Maybe kinda.”

Maybe kinda, hmm?

“Okay,” they admit. “Maybe kinda definitely…”

Maybe kinda definitely. Well . If you maybe kind of definitely want to…

You take control of Frisk’s hand and use it to poke their cheek.

… then perhaps you maybe kind of definitely should. 

You can feel their heart pounding in their chest. They lick their lips in what seems to be some combination of nerves and excitement. 

If you want to, of course. You relax the hand, cupping their cheek. At some point. 

Frisk leans into your/their hand, nuzzling it slightly. You can feel their flushed face radiating heat against the palm, anxious little puffs of breath tickling the skin. 

“What if…” Frisk mumbles into your hand. “What if I wanted to right now. What would you do? Hypothetically.”

Hypothetically?

You don’t miss the way that their free hand is now resting right where their hip meets their thigh. 

“Y-yeah. Hypothetically.”

You make an exaggerated ‘thinking’ noise. 

You know, sometimes I’m not as “here” as I am right now. You wiggle their fingers against their cheek. So hypothetically…I would ask if you wanted me to be fully present in your body. What would you say to that?

Frisk takes in a shaky breath. “Um. I’d say yes please.”

So polite! You want to share with me, huh? Make me feel what you feel?

Frisk nods shyly. 

Oh wow. Yes, I would be amenable. Absolutely. 

Tentatively, their fingers wander toward their groin, running over their pubic hair and resting right at the base of their shaft. 

“Yeah?” they whisper. 

You rub a thumb along the edge of their jaw where your/their hand still rests. They shiver. 

Yeah. Go ahead. 

There’s an awkward moment where Frisk fumbles a bit, trying to decide how they want to do it. They’re mostly soft to begin with, but that doesn’t last long. Maybe it’s underlying excitement from your conversation, or maybe teenage hormones just make young people inherently reactive, but with a few experimental squeezes their penis is already beginning to swell, the pink head peaking out from under the prepuce. 

That’s so weird, you say, appreciatively. That your body just…does that. 

“Uh. Yep,” Frisk says, awkwardly. “It…does just do that.”

And so quickly! It’s kind of cool. You should keep going. 

Frisk adjusts their grip, copying the classic “jack off” motion people mime when they want to be crude. Their foreskin moves with their hand in a velvety glide, sliding up to cover the head of the penis before retracting again. 

Oh. That feels pretty good, huh?

“Mhm,” they hum. Their touch is slow and gentle.

Weird good. Like scratching an itch. Fascinating…

After a minute or so, they begin to figure out a regular rhythm, their grip tightening somewhat. Like a surfer catching a wave, they find their groove, and pretty good starts to feel really good.

There you go, Frisk. You stroke your/their thumb against their cheek. You like that? 

They mumble out an affirmative, nuzzling against your/their hand. God, they’re so cute like this. Granted, you can’t exactly see them, but the way their eyes squeeze shut and their mouth falls open just has to be adorable. 

Yeah, you say. You don’t actually move any air, but you say it like a sigh. I like it, too. You’re making us feel so good, Frisk.

That actually gets a whine out of them. Interesting. You file that information away for later use. As it is right now, you’re too busy focusing on the feeling of Frisk’s hand around their own member, the way they’re stroking themself off in earnest. It’s a funny sensation, and you weren’t too far off saying it was like scratching an itch. In the same way that the itch of a mosquito bite makes you want to scratch and then just itches worse, touching relieves the desire to touch but also exacerbates it. All the same, you’re left with a desire to start rutting into Frisk’s hand. You don’t do that, but it’s a near thing. 

All in all, they don’t last very long. Or maybe you should say the two of you don’t last very long—you can almost swear that your own mental arousal mixes with Frisk’s to make their physical arousal all the more potent. Or perhaps they’re simply an adolescent and therefore on a hair trigger. It’s hard to tell exactly, but it only takes a couple of minutes before the building pressure rises to a peak and they’re coming with a muffled whine and trembling thighs. It is something alright, a radiating sensation of pure pleasure, an incredibly satisfying release of tension that tapers out and is over with too soon. 

Feeling a bit knock-kneed, Frisk elects to sink down and sit at the bottom of the bathtub and catch their breath. 

“Huh,” they say. They’re weirdly sleepy, but also warm and tingly. You know afterglow is a sex thing, and maybe that wasn’t sex, but you certainly feel glowy, and like you really want to cuddle something. 

Huh, indeed, you agree. That was…indescribable. 

You two sit in silence for a long moment. 

“You know when you need to sneeze really bad,” Frisk says, “and then you sneeze so hard that your face tingles and it kinda feels good?”

You consider this. 

I take it back, you say. I suppose that was entirely describable. “A sexy sneeze.”

Frisk gives you a smile. They’re leaning back on their hands, all happy and sated, lukewarm water catching them indirectly in the spray. Maybe it’s the distance the water has to travel, or maybe it stopped being warm at some point and neither of you noticed. 

Descriptions aside. We should do that again sometime. 

“Or all of the time,” they suggest. 

Or all of the time! Yes. You are a genius. I knew there was a reason I kept you around. 

“Good to know you don’t just want me for my body,” Frisk deadpans. 

You bark out a short laugh through their mouth. Their eyes widen in surprise at the intrusion, but then they’re grinning, incredibly pleased with themself. 

It is a pretty good body, you admit. 

“…you think so?” Frisk responds, a bit shyly. 

Sure, you tell them, bringing a hand forward and wiggling the digits. I like it a lot. Even with the pruny fingers…hm. 

“Hm?” they repeat, almost sing-songy in their contentment. 

Very pruny fingers. How long have you been in the shower for, anyways?

Frisk thinks about it for a moment.  

“ Crap,” they hiss, taking over control again and scrambling to their feet. Frantically, they grab a bar of soap and start washing themself as speedily as they can possibly manage. “Ugh, I’m gonna get in trouble.”

Pssh, please. You may be the notorious scourge of the water bill, but I doubt you will get in trouble. 

“Okay, maybe not, but mom’s gonna give me The Look.” Quickly, Frisk scrubs their arms, their chest, and under their armpits. “And then she’s gonna tell me that keeping track of time is an important skill… ”

And then she will begin offering suggestions. Music. Setting a timer. Lowering the temperature of the water so you stop getting so dang comfortable. She will be so incredibly understanding and kind about the whole thing that you’ll feel like the scum of the earth. 

“Exactly!” 

Frisk hurriedly gets their legs, their feet, and their groin. When they touch between their legs, you exert just enough control over their face for a suggestive eyebrow waggle. 

“Don’t be weird,” they chastise you, fighting a smile. 

I am going to be so weird. 

Frisk huffs. “Then can’t you be weird later?”

Hm. Okay, you agree. Let’s be weird later together. Tonight, when you’re in bed? Maybe you can let me have a go at touching you like that.  

For the millionth time today, Frisk blushes. 

“O-okay. Yeah. Later. You can do that. Um...” 

They trail off, thinking about what you said. Their breath catches. You can feel the cogs turning as they begin to fantasize as to how exactly that might go down. 

To your chagrin, they promptly flip the knob of the shower to its coldest setting. 

Chapter Text

Determination is an incredible thing. 

It is not a concept that is well-understood, because it does not always comply with our usual standards of reality. It is varied in its uses and its methods, but it can typically be described in a magical context as “the ability to persist after death.” Despite everything, despite the impossible circumstances the determined individual faces, they refuse to lay down and accept fate, spitting in reality’s face and insisting that no, it cannot end here.

The Undying was determined to live so that she might fight for her cause and protect her people. Flowey was determined to live if only because he was afraid of death. Frisk was determined to live so they might set an imprisoned people free. The determined continue on to achieve their goal, at whatever cost. 

So what happens when such an individual is determined to die?

You have always been a funny outlier. All the other listed determined individuals were adamant on continuing on. You were adamant on your end. And yet, a part of you persisted, burned into the world like an image into a CRTV. It is the very nature of determination to assert itself upon reality. And so, wherever your corpse went, it left behind a mark.

Asriel died in the throne room clutching your body. From that spot, golden flowers flourished, a constant reminder to the King of everything that he had lost. 

Your mother stole away with your body and planted it beneath the dirt in the place where you had first fallen, and from it sprouted another carpet of those yellow blooms.

And finally, when the Barrier was broken and monsterkind went free, the human child you haunted carried with them a sweater full of sticky seeds. When the liberated people settled on the surface, your sweet human host was kind enough to plant a garden in your name from the seeds of your final resting place in Toriel’s backyard. From it grew their first save star on the surface, twirling and dancing and illuminating the memorial. 

(Unbeknownst to you, that resting place was not so final. The creature that you once called your best friend and brother did not think it was right to leave you to rot so far below the earth. And so, your bones were transplanted into more fertile soils, under the sun and the stars in your mother’s garden.)

(Wherever you go, so do golden flowers. And, apparently, wherever the golden flowers go, you follow.)

…

You come to awareness slowly, as if awaking from a long, deep slumber. You do not remember Frisk going to bed or falling asleep, so the fact that you wake at all is quite confusing. You have a moment between unconsciousness and lucidity where nothing quite registers, and you do not feel anything about this situation. You are asleep and then you are awake, and that is it.

And then sheer wrongness creeps its way in.

It is dark. It is cold. There is something heavy weighing down on you. You are compressed on all sides and unsure which way is up or down. You attempt to wriggle and find that you cannot. When you open your eyes, not only do you see nothing but it pains you to do so, so you squeeze your eyes shut again. There is no air to breathe. There is no air to breathe. You gasp, open-mouthed, and get a mouthful of dirt, gritty and heavy on your tongue and down your throat as you reflexively swallow.  

You struggle. The earth weighs back against you, heavy and oppressive and uncaring. You struggle harder, throwing all your weight into the frantic motions, giving your all for the futile hope that you might get some space, some room for respiration. Where is Frisk? Are they still asleep? You cry out for them in your mind, reaching inward and trying to yank them to the surface, demanding they pay attention to the situation at hand. 

There is nothing. It is just you. You want to scream. You have no air in your lungs nor space to do so. Instead, your heartbeat thunders in your ears in a deafening, rhythmic roar. You want to call out for help, but you cannot. You continue to reach out desperately in your mind for Frisk, but you find yourself bereft of their presence. The wrongness strikes you, sickens you, resonates through your entire being like the chime of a church bell. You are alone. You are alone in the ground and you aren’t even allowed the decency of a good scream. 

Your chest burns. How long will it take you to suffocate? It is a thought that half-forms in your panic, further fueling your frenzied struggle. In your thrashing, you finally feel a slight shift of dirt, just enough room to dig your fingernails into the soil and attempt to claw at it.  

You scratch, an unavailing endeavor with your range of motion as limited as it is. The soil is wet and clumpy and the sensation of dirt and pebbles under your nails is horrendous but you would prefer pain and discomfort to death. Your fingers tangle in something as you dig, some kind of strings? Wires?

Roots. Of course. You are underground. Of course there are roots, such a thing is essential to soil health, avoiding erosion and binding the soil…binding you. This isn’t right, it can’t end like this, you want out, you want out you want out you want out you want out–

You grab a root and pull.

Inexplicably, the ground shakes, the root structures quivering, and…  

…and then suddenly they are moving, undulating around you and softening the soil. You are not picking up much sound, so you feel the deafening RRRRRRRRRIPPP of the ground being torn asunder more than you hear it. Suddenly, you are a completely different kind of stuck, not pinned in place but instead a hapless victim of soil liquefaction. What kind of hell is this? Your lungs are burning so terribly from lack of oxygen that your extremities tingle, but still you flail and toil desperately to get out, gripping roots and hoping that you are going the right way. 

Just as dizziness begins to overtake you, your hand breaches into open air. Yes. Yes, you think deliriously, you have found which way is up. That is half the battle, is it not? Your limbs are weak and sluggish, but you reach for it still. That is one hand out of the grave, now the other. Both of your hands shake, reaching out for…for…

It is right when you are on the edge of losing consciousness when someone grabs each of your wrists and yanks.

It is not a graceful exit. Your arms are slippery with mud and your rescuer struggles to find the proper leverage to pull you out of the ground. You are weak-limbed and unhelpful, but your head breaches through the dirt and you come into this world for the second time with a gasping wail. A pair of arms support you at the axillas and you are clambering onto solid ground on hands and knees, cold and afraid and as naked as the day you were born. 

Breathing is a struggle. You gag and retch, taking in labored lungfuls of air before coughing them right back out. You cannot hear the world around you as your ears are clogged with debris, but you can hear the sounds you yourself make as if through a thick layer of gauze. And oh, what terrible sounds they are, wracking and visceral and disgusting attempts to expel grave dirt from your lungs, until you cough so hard that you begin to vomit. Your empty stomach protests, wringing out sparse amounts of water and bile and dirt in sticky, acrid mouthfuls of spittle.

A warm hand comes to rest on your back, rubbing little circles that are probably supposed to be soothing. Your nerves alight in displeasure at the contact. You do not feel soothed. No matter what kind of good samaritan this person may be, they have no right to be touching your back. Not in such a vulnerable position, not when you’re too weak to fend them off. Not when you can’t see or hear them. 

Your coughing fit dies down. With the coordination of a newborn calf, you roll to the side into a seated position, landing flat on your naked ass, hopefully some distance away from the puddle of vomit and the stranger’s hands. Your breaths come in reedy wheezes through your dry mouth, but you are breathing, and that is something. 

Your rescuer says something. You have no idea what it is exactly that they say, seeing as everything currently sounds like it is underwater. When you don’t respond, they touch your arm. You recoil, and the touch recedes.

You can’t look down at your body, but you know something isn’t right. Again, you mentally reach for Frisk, but they aren’t there. Ugh, your head is pounding. This isn’t…

You flex your cold, aching hands, running your thumb pads along the base of your fingers. It’s hard to tell under a layer of grime, but your palms feel unnaturally smooth, as if you haven’t had to grab anything in a very long time. You rub your middle fingers against your ring fingers, to the same result. No writing calluses, not like Frisk who has one on each hand.

You shift your weight. It’s hard to tell with the mild vertigo from your clogged ears, but you think your center of gravity might be different. And the…the equipment does not feel the same, far less…in the way. Wherever you are, whatever body you are inhabiting, it isn’t Frisk’s. 

Panic rises in your throat and triggers another coughing fit. This isn’t right. Where’s Frisk? You need to find Frisk. Frisk is somewhere without you. They haven’t been without you in a very long time. They must be so scared without you. This isn’t right. You need them. You need to find them. 

Your rescuer speaks again. You shake your head, uncomprehending. Instead, you grip the grass in front of you. You need to stand. If you’re going to find Frisk, you need to be able to walk. Your limbs are heavy and trembling, weak as if with fever, but you have to do it. Slowly, shakily, you clamber back up onto your hands and knees and make to stand. The voice rises in pitch, perhaps bidding you to sit back down, but you ignore it. Whatever this stranger wants, if it will keep you from Frisk, then you do not care to hear it. With wobbling knees, you bring yourself up into an unsteady standing position. One foot and then the other, right? One foot and then the other. You do not actually know where Frisk is, but if you start walking, then maybe…

You are admittedly a bit dizzy, but you refuse to let that stop you. You bring one foot forward and…

Your entire body tingles with the worst head rush you have ever experienced. Your ankle buckles underneath you and then there is a muffled exclamation and there are a pair of arms encircling you and lowering you gently to the ground. You don’t know who gave them the right. 

“Let go,” you rasp with a throat as rough as sandpaper, triggering a short series of coughs. You shove your arms weakly against their body. They say something, but you don’t know what, and they do not unhand you. No, instead they keep…caressing you, running their hands up and down your arms and saying something. You scowl, pushing their hands away from you. You make to stand again, but they stop you. You really wish they would quit doing that.

“Frisk,” you say in explanation, hoping that maybe they will see reason. “Gotta…find Frisk.”

They say something, gripping you tighter. Your skin crawls, but you are clearly in no position to fend them off. 

“I don’t…” You cough. “Can’t hear you.”

More indistinct speaking. And then, they are letting go of your arms and there are two hands enveloping your right. The touch is gentle, bringing your hand forward to touch their face, right at the angle of their jaw. Yes, there is a cheekbone, there is the shell of an ear at your fingertips, there is the gentle brush of eyelashes on your thumb. And then, the stranger’s face is turning into your hand, nuzzling it before pressing a firm kiss into your dirty palm and undoubtedly smearing mud across their face…

Oh.

“Frisk?” you whisper.

You feel the ‘stranger’ nod fervently, kissing your palm again. They then continue to pepper it in several more subsequent pecks to really drive the point home. 

Your voice is so shot that the sound you let out cannot rightfully be called a laugh, even if it intends to be one. Still, whatever wheezing, scratching noise you make is one of pure and utter relief. You reach out, desperately, and they catch you midway, allowing you to clamber unsteadily into their arms. Everything is weird, everything is wrong, but Frisk is right there, flesh against your flesh. 

“It’s you,” you creak. You run your filthy, shaking hands all over them, touching where you cannot see. “It’s you!”

They say something again, and you cannot hear it but you feel their chest vibrate. You suspect they may be repeating the sentiment. 

You laugh, or perhaps you sob, or perhaps it is an unholy combination of the two. By some grotesque miracle, you are breathing and in your partner’s arms, deafened and blinded but alive. You’re not entirely certain how you feel about that yet. What you do know is that they are so very warm against your freezing cold skin, so you focus on your physical reality to try and distract yourself from the gaping open wound that is your mind. They’re holding you. You never thought they would ever hold you. 

You keen, burying your face into Frisk’s neck. You try to inhale through your nose, try to see what they smell like, but the action just makes you break out into coughs again. It was a stupid idea. All you can smell is dirt and vomit, anyways. Frisk rubs your back, and this time you accept the touch, even if the sensation of coarse dirt against gooseflesh makes your skin painfully sensitive and raw. Because you’re here. They’re touching you. 

You sob into their shoulder. You hurt. You’re cold and weak and so, so confused, your entire body aches and your stomach swims and your throat burns. You know what dying feels like, and this isn’t too far off. And yet. Here you are. Here they are. 

“Frisk,” you whimper into their skin. You want to stop hurting. You want to crawl up inside them, you want to hear their voice and feel their feelings, to nestle your mind against theirs and taste their soul. 

But they also stroke your muddy hair and kiss your forehead. You didn’t cry when you were twelve years old and on your deathbed. You cry now, however, clutching Frisk’s shirt and trembling. You feel them speaking, running soothing, reverent hands up and down the length of your body, and then they are bringing their hands to the backs of your thighs as leverage to lift you up into their arms. You might be offended if you weren’t completely unable to stand on your own, or if it wasn’t Frisk holding you. No, instead you let out a surprised squeak and wrap your legs around their waist, holding back a retch as your stomach swoops with the sudden movement. They continue talking to you, indistinct sounds and comforting vibrations against your chest. You wish you could understand what they were saying. You’ve never been unable to understand Frisk before. 

The thought fills you with such foreboding dread that you gag a little. Or maybe that’s the vertigo. 

Frisk carries you…somewhere. Inside? You feel the tell-tale gentle jostle of walking, and then the air gets warmer and you are being gently set down on something soft. The sofa? Yes, it must be. They have carried you over the threshold of the house and into the living room. 

How very romantic, you think, half-delirious. Nobody laughs or responds at all.

Instead, Frisk says yet another thing that you can’t understand, gently wiping your wet cheeks. Then, they pull away.

You reach out to the air in front of you. It is empty. 

Where are they? Why did they leave you? That isn’t…

You swipe at the air again. Nothing. Shakily, you reach out in several directions just to be sure, but the only contact you make is with the back of the couch when you bring your arm all the way backwards. You let out a broken sob. 

You attempt to open your eyes. Your vision swims and your eyes itch to the point of pain. All you see is some bright light and color before you’re squeezing your eyes shut again. Not that. You can’t do that. But you have to…

You scoot yourself to the edge of the cushion. Maybe you can’t walk, but you can probably crawl. Gracelessly, you push yourself off the couch and onto the floor with a thud, rattling your spine and making your head pound. Right. There you go. Now you just have to figure out where they are. Maybe the kitchen? Which way is the kitchen? It’s…

You feel for the edge of the sofa, but overshoot and accidentally smack it. Then, you feel for the place where the rug meets the hardwood floor. There it is. The kitchen is forward from here. 

You hear a shout. Oh. Frisk is back. They join you on the floor, going on about something and running hands over you as if to check for injuries.

“Why?” you croak. Why did they leave?

Frisk grabs your hands and wraps your fingers around something smooth and cylindrical. They guide it up towards your face, the cool glass rim brushing your mouth. Carefully, they tip the bottom up, and your lips meet water. It may as well be the nectar of the gods. You down it in greedy gulps, rivulets spilling down the sides of your mouth and neck and chest. You drink a little too quickly, in fact, almost making yourself choke. You pull the glass away from your mouth, gasping and coughing. Frisk rubs your arm softly through the pitiful display. 

You lift the glass again. Your proprioception feels off, so it’s hard to tell, but you think there may be some water left in it. Shakily, with both hands, you bring it up to your face… 

…and proceed to dump it in your eyes. It turns out there was not all that much water in the glass, so you splash yourself rather ineffectually. Frisk exclaims, taking the glass from your hands, and then they are gently wiping the wetness away with a piece of fabric. Did they bring a cloth with them? No, that can’t be it. It must be their sleeve. 

You try to open your eyes again. There’s a vaguely Frisk-shaped blur in front of you, but the discomfort proves to be too much and you shut your eyes again, letting out a growl of frustration, which you immediately regret with the way your throat pains you. You would like to bring your hands up and wipe your eyes, but they are filthy and would almost certainly exacerbate the problem at hand. 

“Can’t see,” you whimper. “Too much dirt.”

There is the faint impression of speech, and then you feel arms wrapping around you again and lifting you. Ah. More disorientation. But what are you supposed to do, ask where you’re being taken? You would not hear the response. Yet again, you grip Frisk’s shoulders and wrap your legs around them, wary of just how much it might hurt to hit the ground. 

“I am at your mercy,” you rasp.

Frisk’s hold on you tightens. 

You are yet again transported somewhere, likely another room. There is a bit of an awkward shuffle, and you are being lowered, lowered, lowered…all the way down to the ground, the very hard and cold ground. It bites at your bare bottom and legs and makes you flinch on contact, spreading your arms out to steady yourself. Your hands smack against some kind of cold wall on either side of you. What? You feel it, confused. It is smooth and ever-so-slightly curved, not straight vertical like a traditional wall. And, as you bring your hands up…it ends somewhere just below your shoulders, flaring outward to create a sort of ledge you could rest your arms on. It’s…

Oh. You’re in the bathtub. That’s what that is. 

There is movement, and you are alone for a few moments on cold porcelain. Frisk is nearby, right? Yes, they must be. They wouldn’t leave you here alone. They disappeared for a moment earlier, but then they came back. You will just have to wait patiently. It will be alright. It will be alright. 

The few moments pass. Sure enough, a warm hand comes and rests in the space between your scapulae. There is a shuffle, and then they are settling in behind you in the tub and pulling you backward gently by the shoulders. You oblige, letting them guide you down until your head is resting on their lap. Frisk taps your shoulder in warning, and then it is being sprayed by a stream of warm water, probably the gentlest setting on the showerhead. They remove it, and then tap your forehead. 

You nod. 

Frisk brushes your bangs back, and then the warm spray is being pointed at your forehead, allowing water to run down your face and over your eyes and into your mouth. You spit the water out, tilting your chin upward to avoid accidentally drowning yourself. Frisk’s free hand gently caresses your face, brushing away coarse dirt from your brows, from the tender skin of your eyelids, from your undereyes. It is a tedious task, but they do it dutifully and meticulously. It takes a minute or two, but they eventually seem to decide that you are clean enough, and point the showerhead away.

They softly tap your eyelids. Oh, joy.

You feel the shower spray again, but it is not directly on your eyes as you thought it would be. No, Frisk points it again at your forehead. You spend a moment confused, not entirely sure why they tapped your eyelids in the first place, until Frisk’s thumb comes to rest on your brow and their forefinger comes to sit on your cheekbone. They spread the digits apart, miming open. You let out a long breath. Right. Fine. This is going to be uncomfortable. 

You force yourself to open your eyes. It is unpleasant, to say the least. The sensation of water running over your corneas is unnatural and sensitive and stinging and weird. Your vision quite literally swims, a bunch of indistinguishable lights and blurs that do nothing but exacerbate your migraine. You clench your fists, hissing in discomfort. Even so, you persevere, keeping your eyes open wide, only occasionally allowing yourself to blink. Thank god, after a few seconds the cursed sensation slowly starts to become bearable, going from a sting to an itch to simple foreign pressure. 

You don’t know exactly how long it is before Frisk points the showerhead away. Minutes, maybe. Despite your discomfort, despite the way the bright overhead bathroom light makes your head throb and your stomach lurch, you endure it. And then, blessedly, the sensation subsides. 

The feeling of wet eyelashes in the open air makes you squeeze your eyes shut on reflex. You bring your hands up, wanting to rub them, but think better of it halfway through, remembering that they’re covered in mud. You let out a frustrated sigh. Frisk’s thighs shift underneath you, and then what feels like a hand towel is gently dabbing water from your face and eyes. 

Once again, you attempt to open your eyes and focus your vision. The glaring white of the ceiling assaults your retinas and sends another stab of pain through your head. You squeeze them shut. 

“Too bright,” you whisper. “Please.”

Hands come in under you and help you sit up. Your head spins with the movement. Frisk pats your shoulder as if to say, I’ll be right back. You nod. They climb out of the bathtub and the bright light shining through your eyelids is quickly reduced to a dim glow. 

You open your eyes again. The first thing you notice is the color—the bathroom no longer shines a bright white but instead the soft yellow of the night light plugged into the wall outlet. You blink a few times, trying to bring the hazy world into better focus. Sure enough, you are in the same bathtub/shower you have used hundreds of times before as someone else, surrounded in filth with you as the epicenter. The sides of the tub are splattered with flecks of mud, while the bottom is colored brownish-black from the sheer quantity of silt and sand and garden soil. You are equally disastrous. Every inch you can see of yourself is painted with mud, occasionally smeared to reveal pinkish skin underneath. And you…

Well. It is as you suspected. That is a female form. You look down at yourself and see the shape of breasts under a layer of soil, and the organ beneath your dirt-caked pubic hair has a distinct, non-penile shape. You swallow hard, throat aching. That is. That’s. Ah. You swallow again, your throat suddenly feeling as if it is full of cotton. You don’t have the wherewithal to process this. You tear your gaze away from yourself and instead look out over the bathroom, and…oh.

Standing in the nightlight glow is Frisk. They are…they’re…

For starters, they’re there in front of you in the first place. Actually there, not a reflection in the mirror, not the host you share a body with, but there. You felt them against you before, yes, but now you see them, gently illuminated in gold and admittedly a bit of a mess. Their jeans are in a pile on the bathroom floor, presumably kicked aside before they climbed into the bathtub. Their shirt and boxers are muddy and wet and sticking to their skin in odd spots, courtesy of you. Hell, they’re muddy in a lot of places. There is dirt smeared across their face where your hands cupped their cheeks, on their mouth where they kissed your temple, across their arms where they held you, and on the fronts of their thighs where you rested your head. Worst of all is the look on their face: blank and serious in the way they get when they are upset, but with eyes bloodshot and puffy as if they have been crying. 

They’ve never been a crier. You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve witnessed them cry, and you spent the last decade as their constant companion. They shouldn’t be crying. They’re not meant to cry. You don’t want them to cry.

“Oh, Frisk…” you whisper, voice heavily laden with sympathy. 

Frisk’s face crumples, their shoulders shaking with a sob you cannot hear. They sink down and climb back into the bathtub with you, cupping your face in their hands. You see the shape of your name on their lips, Chara, Chara, Chara, and then they’re leaning in and their poor, blubbering lips are on yours, planting a trembling kiss on your mouth. They taste salty, like recently-shed tears. You imagine that you likely taste like vomit and dirt. But still. It is a kiss, if a very short kiss. You don’t have any other kisses to compare it to, so it is at this moment both the best and worst kiss you have ever had. 

Frisk pulls away with a shaky swallow, your face still in their hands. Their eyes dart about, taking in every detail of your face. Seeing their eyes move is uncanny—it’s a thing you knew happened, of course their eyes move, you’ve moved their eyes. However, every time you’ve looked at them has been through a mirror, the place where their reflection always gazes back at them head-on. But now, you see Frisk blink, see the white of their eyes when they look a certain way, see the way their eyelids shift and their lashes fan across their face when they gaze downward. You’re caught between admiration and feeling sick from just how unnatural it is to be apart from them. 

There is the feeling of cool air on your wet skin as Frisk shakily exhales. Reluctantly, they let go of your face. They speak, and their mouth moves in the shape of you okay? 

What a silly question, you think. You cannot hear, you cannot stand. Your entire body aches with sickness and your soul aches with emptiness. You give Frisk a long look, taking in their red-rimmed eyes and their lip that is doing its damnedest not to quiver. Neither of you are okay, and you both know it. You consider your response carefully. 

“I’ll live,” you settle on. 

Their shoulders shake in another involuntary sniffle-sob, but when they duck their head you see a little smile pulling at their face. They nod.