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The Lovebird and the Pun-King	By : Otaku_Girl Category: +S through Z > UnderTale Views: 1066 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Undertale and I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
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“What did I do to deserve this?”
The last 48 hours have seemed like the longest in your life. This is what I get for trying to be nice to people. I should have just minded my own business. I could have spent the whole weekend drinking cocktails and watching MTT reruns.
You take a long gulp of your white Russian, wincing at the taste. You’ve added too much vodka again. Reaching across your coffee table, you pick up the half-empty bottle of Disaronno to top up your glass. But nooooo, I had to go and try and- “Shit.”
The tinkle of breaking glass make you sit up. You didn’t think you had knocked your glass with enough force to break it. “Maybe it’s time to switch back to virgin coladas.” You sigh, as you stand. Stepping over the spreading puddle of creamy alcohol, you pause, frowning. “Huh.” Your glass is fully intact. “I thought…” Is that crunching glass you could hear?
Grabbing the remote, you put the TV on mute. You reach for your phone, fingers hovering over the lock screen. It’s probably just racoons or something. You reassure yourself. Swiping your screen, you go to open the torch app when you spot your messages flashing.
“Eight missed calls? 27 messages? What the?” Your pause, finger hovering over the icon. Who would be that desperate to get in contact with me? It’s not like the office is even open at weekends.
Your stomach churns uneasily. You dodn’t exactly have the most active social circle. Sure, at one time you had hung out with a few people, but you probably would have called them more friends-of-a-friend at best. Well, until a certain someone decided they didn’t like how I’d dress around them, or ‘flirt’ with them, or… You take a calming breath. “I’m just being stupid. It’s not…”
Crash! Crunch.
“Fuck!” You gasp, as the sound of your back door slamming open echoes through your house. You stumble back in the dim light, fear now clawing at your throat.
“You think you can just keep ignoring me, bitch? I try to do something nice for your good for nothing ass, and this is how you repay me?”
You can feel yourself begin to tremble. Eyes darting between the open hallway door and cupboard, you hesitate. The living room would be one of the first rooms he would check, but your backdoor was just inside the kitchen. Depending on where he may be standing, he could have a clear view of the hallway.
“I buy you flowers, and this is how you treat me? I see I’m going to have to teach you proper manners all over again.”
You bolt for the stairs. You nearly trip over your slippers in your scramble to get out of sight as quickly as possible. You can see the entire frosted glass half of your backdoor is low littering the kitchen floor, jagged shards glistening beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting. A smear of blood is on the inside handle; he must already be inside.
You dart past the master bedroom door - too risky, he’ll check there next - past the bathroom -nowhere to hide - and into the unused guestroom. Boxes still litter the barren room, the bare metal frame dominating the majority of the small space. You had such high hopes for the second room when you had first moved in. You make a beeline for the walk-in cupboard door. Crawling on hands and knees, you edge yourself into the back corner, pulling musty clothing on top of you as you go.
Eyes screwed shut, you desperately try to calm your breathing. Quiet. Don’t let him hear. Need to be silent. You don’t notice as your phone falls from your grip, lost beneath the scramble to cover every exposed inch. The cold tendrils of dread claw at your stomach. It’s just like old times you think, biting back a hysterical giggle. You can feel the coppery tang of blood filling your mouth. You bite down harder, using the pain to ground yourself. Why can’t he just leave me alone?
“You think you can hide from me?”
You gasp. Your hands fly to your mouth, pressing in the sound. You can hear the destruction he is leaving in his path. Is that your TV being smashed, or the second-hand glass coffee table you had picked up from goodwill only a couple of months ago? “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” The tell-tale sound of photo frames smashing, one after the other, drifted up to you.
You press yourself further back into the corner. You had only just begun putting photos back up, starting in your downstairs hallway to give yourself a little boost each time you came in or out. Just a little reminder of what you used to have, of the people who once cared for you. Before him.
Please don’t come up here. Please. Not again. I can’t - I can’t do this again.
You can hear the tell-tale thud-thud-thud on the steps. Tears streaming down your face, you force your hands down. He used to hate it when you tried to block him, no matter if it was an open hand or a fist. You feel around on the floor beside you, hand passing over your phone, a discarded pen, a penny. Nothing of any use. You reach further. Something, anything. Please. I can’t do this again.
You reach further. The footsteps stop. Your hands fall on something hard, rectangular. It’ll do. The footsteps continue, making their way into the master bedroom. Slamming draws, tearing fabric. You can hear his harsh panting as he tears his way through your space once more.
“I’m going to find you, and when I do, you are going to have such a bad time. I’ll go easy on you if you just come out now, [y/n]. If you make me find you, I’m going to make our last little visit seem like a walk in the FUCKING PARK.”
Another smash. What is there left for him to destroy? The mirror over your tiny vanity table? Another window? He’s going to come in and he’s going to find me and he’s going to kill me this time. Why do you feel so calm? Why keep fighting it?
“Who the FUCK are you? Is this some kind of joke?” It wouldn’t be the first time he played mind games with you. You push down the spark of hope pressing at your chest. If you strain, a second low murmur can be heard. He’s done this before; putting something on his phone or the TV, making it sound like someone had called the cops or had come over to see what the commotion was. It was never real.
You close your hands more firmly around your prize, forcing your eyes open. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right. You want to look him in the eyes one last time. The sound of footsteps drew closer. You can hear the crunch of glass, as he comes to a stop outside of your door. You hold your breath. The footsteps continued on towards the bathroom; the click of the light switch flicking on, then off. You shake your head; did you miss the sounds of smashing? Were you zoning out again?
Focus. Just a few more minutes, and this can all be done. Just a little longer.
The footsteps return. Lightswitch clicking, the bright, fluorescent glow of the exposed overhead bulb peeks through the bottom of the door. This is it. The door swings open. Without giving him a chance to reach in, to find you, to touch you again, you swing into action. Pulling the large wood and glass frame from beneath your hiding spot, you smash it against the wall. A shower of jagged pieces of glass, large and small, rain down on you, your now ruined diploma falling amongst the remnants. You reach for the largest of the shards with sure fingers.
You can’t have me again. Not this time. I can’t do this again.
Pulling it out, you hold it against your wrist. Pointing the shard up, not sideways, you push it in deep, dragging it up in one jagged motion. Forcing your eyes away from the river of blood now pouring from your torn artery, you look up to meet his eyes one last time.
You made me do this. I spent years cleaning up your messes, covering for you, apologising after every pain-filled argument. This time, it’s your turn to explain away the marks and the mess. This time, I won’t be here to fix things for you.
Letting the shard fall from your fingers, you can feel the adrenalin wearing off. You won’t have the stomach, or the energy, to make a second cut. You look up, a mixture of triumph and acceptance in your eyes, and you meet his shocked - eye sockets?
“P-Papyrus? What’re you…”
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The Lovebird and the Pun-King