. ☆･*:.｡.

Title: clearest blue
Fandom: Undertale
Characters/Pairings: Chara/Asriel, implied Chara/Asriel/Frisk
Rating: Mature (non-graphic intercourse)
Other Tags: Heavy Body Dissociation, Established Relationship, Everybody is Alive, implied BDSM, Second Person POV

Summary/Excerpt: (You take a peek. Scandalous! You want to tell Chara to pay attention during sex.)



You feel like a soda can popped open to let fizz under the hot afternoon sun, not altogether comfortable, not altogether solid. Maybe it’s over a decade of magic finally giving up on keeping your alabaster body together. Maybe the chemicals in your brain are acting up again, knocking you out of sync, leaving you to hover somewhere in between eleven and nineteen years old.

You know you’re solid, but when you open your phosphorescent eyes to look up at the stars, you feel yourself slipping past your shoulders, ready to be swallowed by the heavens and shattered across it.

Asriel opens you slowly. From between your legs to your waist to your belly, you feel your components swirl inside you like glitter in a shaken snow globe. Your stomach swoops with fear that you’re surely falling apart at the seams this time, and your hands scrabble for purchase at the fur in between your fingers (or is it grass beneath your palms?) There are moments when you know you’re Chara. You are here, needy and young. But then your breath hitches and you’ve been flung outside yourself, impassively watching you and Asriel rock against the mattress. You’ve got a different name (too many names), a different purpose for moving your limbs (not all of them you agree with, and almost all beyond your control until the very end). Your flesh is merely a vessel...

“...and the spirit so much more,“ comes a whisper in the wind.

Your vision swims and you feel lightheaded. You breathe in the smell of star bursts and ozone. Asriel’s rough paw pads are warm against your sensitive skin.

“Breathe,” he says, and you do.

You’re a child once more, meticulously pulling weeds from the yellow daisy shrubs behind your home. The breeze blowing from the Shoshone ruffles your hair.

“Breathe,” he says.

You’re cavorting atop an asteroid, only vaguely aware of the circumstances of its exile. You’d rather watch the way the constellations emblazoned on your sweater twinkle with smaller and smaller stars.

“Breathe,” he says.

You fall and break your back against Death’s carapace. Its many hands tear into you, filling with you miasma. Your people have stopped believing gods. Everything you walk on turns into dust.

“Breathe,” he says.

You are aware that you’re decomposing. Your blistered flesh falls from your skin painlessly. Your teeth are stained with dirt. Buttercup roots unwind into filaments and fill in the widening gaps in your bone marrow.

“Breathe,” he says.

Frisk winces against your brain. You take control of their limbs and immediately feel the stinging on their arms (not unlike your own so long ago), and the Chaos Sabers lodged in your thigh and gut. They’ve grown sturdier throughout your journey together, but your pain tolerance has always been higher than theirs. Both of your breaths pick up—theirs out of pain, yours out of nerves. Both your arms are shaking—theirs out of exhaustion, yours out of disbelief. Some days you don’t know where you end and they begin, but now, right now, while leaping and dodging the onslaught of galaxies, you hold Frisk steadfast beside you and tighten your grip around your dagger (good for cutting leaves and vines).

“I know...I know his name,” you whisper. Frisk is confused. You are too. You’ve never felt more alive in years. Something in the soul you share resonates stronger and stronger. You call his name...

“Asriel.” You moan against him, hot skin flush against fur. He moves with you, running his hands down your back and the callouses of his pads are your tether.

“I’m here,” he whispers. His warm, warm hands are on your hips and yours are still on his shoulders. You gently fall, but you’re not quite home yet. He rises to meet you in the most intimate of places. Once, twice, thrice still. The embers in your belly grow hotter. He fans your heat.

You’re being cleaved in half (with a trident, with a spear, with flames, with bones). The noises you make escape your mouth in little bursts of light. This should be painful, you think distantly. But instead electricity fires across your synapses and burns them out, leaving you pleasantly numb, drifting higher and higher until you’re a wisp in the atmosphere.

Asriel reaches out to you through the fog. You can barely feel him, but at the same time, he is everything that surrounds you.

“We live like the lowliest of worms,” he starts.

“Always defeated—defeated we make dinner, we eat, we sleep.” you answer, automatic. There’s a tugging deep in your gut. The world slowly clears.

“Everyone we love is dying.” Asriel whispers against your skin, peppering kisses down your neck.

Your breath hitches in your throat. “Still, to cease living is unacceptable,” you reply breathlessly. Gravity yanks you further down, hooked at your navel.

“I battle each demon in turn,” Asriel says, low and velvety, pushing into you with a force steadier and stronger than the last. Your cries rise in pitch and you’re crashing back down into your body, hard and fast.

His words fuse you back together. The viciousness of his grip on your thighs (claws leaving little pinpricks on your skin), the heat radiating from your bodies, the heady mix of your sweat and the comforting scent of his soft fur matting against your grip and your movements bring you closer and closer to home. You are very aware of your body, your senses painfully sharp. With his every push, you short circuit. The coil of heat and nerves in your gut tightens slowly, powerfully. Your muscles tremble with the effort of holding yourself up, but Asriel is there, he’s got you. His touches are hot against your clammy skin.

Asriel pushes deeper still. You’re aware of his warm, ragged breathing against your neck and chest, the small noises he makes that all but send more fire down your gut. The tight coil in your belly just beneath your navel beings to unravel, gentle, but steep, and for a moment you’re terrified of falling uncontrollably fast. There is white noise in your head, but it’s not enough to take you away anymore. After all, there is no room in Los Angeles for visions.

“Ch-chara,” is Asriel’s only warning before you’re finally, finally coming (home) in sharp gasps, muscles tense, blood fizzing and breath shuddering, as if you physically feel the effort with which your soul stitches itself back to your body.

You lay together for several moments. Asriel’s pulse is helplessly fast against your own, his breaths slowing down to something calm. The mid-afternoon air circulating through a surreptitiously open window in your bedroom cools your skin. You are Chara. You are here in the apartment you, Asriel, and Frisk share. Nowhere else.

Asriel shifts to lie against the pillows and you settle more comfortably on his chest. He smooths your sweaty hair away from your face and gently runs his thumb against the rise of your cheek.

“Hello,” he greets softly, and gently kisses your lips. “I thought I lost you for a second there.”

You smile (one of your genuine ones reserved for him and Frisk), and bury your hands in his growing mane, giving his snoot a boop with your nose. You love it when his face scrunches up at the gesture. “You always know how to bring me home.”

And he does. Although not as frequent as before, you still have moments when you feel like a stranger to yourself, understanding your existence in theory, but glitching out because the concept strikes you as so foreign. You become lost in the multitudes of timelines you’ve lived (and are living in), making you a needy, clingy thing that craves physical contact (which you are vastly averse to otherwise). Over the years, Asriel has learned to bring you back with a spell specially woven for you (and you’re pretty sure needn’t explain why it’s so effective, right? It's from your bible after all. You know all its words by heart now.)

He has his moments as well—nightmares from too many lifetimes relived that you can’t quite be there for him to fend off. Instead, he begs for atonement, which you carry out with a controlled sort of savagery. A part of you is upset that he needs this, but you understand him all too well. You and Frisk always make sure he receives proper aftercare, a large part of it consisting of the three of you holding each other on the bed (or carpet, or kitchen floor), waiting for the darkness marking Asriel’s fur and eyes subside until he is his white, wide-eyed self once more.

“What are you thinking about?” Asriel asks from beneath you, bringing you out of your reverie.

You gaze at his stupid, squishy face for a moment more, the surge of fondness and love stamped down by your embarrassment. Yup, you’re definitely home alright.

“Nothing,” you say and attempt to hide yourself in his fuzzy chest. His giggles foil your attempt and you huff, crawling up to rest your forehead against his, eyes closed.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His hands tangle themselves in your hair. “I love you too,” he sighs, happy.

It’s evening when both of you wake up to the sound of Frisk coming home.

END