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decay-1 · 14 hours ago

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need...more...kris...maybe haha only if u want to haha lol

~The Other Side Of Paradise~

Curiosity is natural in everyone. For you, it’s cranked up to a thousand (and it’s frankly hard to keep up with). When you find yourself infatuated with the song of a certain piano player, you hide your curiosity decently well, but it’s eating you up inside. Little do you know, an odd compliment you give Kris causes them to spiral into confusion. Someone understands their emo ass? Who knew it was possible!

~~~ hellooo !!! anon i ALWAYS need more kris dont u worry. this one's a bit shorter than my last, a measly 8.8k words eyeroll (def need to preface this is a joke). this one's more chill and a bit angsty but i tried to steer MOSTLY clear of that, wanted to keep this lighthearted :) kris is def the bigger simp of the two in this one so if ur into that here u go. enjoy !!!

~~~

Studying alone with Noelle is what you’d consider a luxury these days.

Every time you suggest something even remotely close to an after-school meetup, Berdly always weasels his way into the conversation. Whether it be by force or by Noelle’s kindness, he’s always invited.

But you lucked out today; he had told you two, with absolute devastation, that he’d be busy volunteering at the library. You could just tell Noelle was about to suggest you both study there and wait for him to be done, but you quickly shut down the theoretical idea with an oh, how disappointing! We’ll miss you.

Eventually she had suggested her house as your home base, and it’s not that you were excited to go to her mansion, but you were excited to go to her mansion. She told you she doesn’t have people over as often anymore. It made you sympathetic because her outstanding hostess skills are being wasted.

The mini-tour? The snack platter? The Christmas cheer? It was definitely your (and maybe an eight year old’s) dream hangout.

You’re now planted on the couch in her room (couch? In her room?) while she sits on her bed, leaning on the wall to face you.

“What’d you get for 6c?” You ask, barely peeking over the notebook situated in your lap.

“Uhm,” she pauses, skimming her answers. “78.2 Newtons?”

“After sig figs?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes.

You’ve been matching answers relatively well, with the exception of a few. It’s always just a small mistake, like punching the numbers into your calculator wrong or not copying the question info correctly.

Deciding you deserve a break, you let your eyes wander. At first, you didn’t want to out of respect. You and Noelle also wanted to stay synced up with your pace to make it easier to compare. After an hour, you noticed that not only would Noelle be quietly (and patiently) waiting for you to finish, but you’d also feel pressured to be quicker and you’d make more mistakes. It wasn’t worth it, so you told her to continue onto the next one and you’d catch up eventually.

You did not. You’re not dumb, but she’s definitely smart.

You like her; she’s simple. Easy.

But now you just feel bad; you might as well be using her as an answer sheet.

Anyways, back on track. There’s something that stands out on her desk; a lone rock, stained with the pigment from dried algae. She doesn’t necessarily stand out as a neat freak, but it still confuses you why something so outside is very inside her room.

“Where’d you get that?” You gesture to the stone, curiosity getting the better of you.

Her eyes follow your finger. “Oh, the rock? It’s just something– a friend got me.”

You’re feeling nosey.

“Who?”

There’s a wavering, almost hesitant smile that grows on her face. “Susie.”

Susie… oh. Susie.

“The purple one?”

“Yeah, that’s her,” Noelle continues, despite not being prompted to. “She just… randomly came up to me at school and had it in her hand. Apparently, she found it at the beach with Kris and thought I’d like it, for some reason. Then, she proceeded to tell me she was going to throw it through my window to give it to me, but knew my mom would kill her for it. Which is weird, because I’m pretty sure she doesn’t care what my mom thinks.”

“She ‘thought you’d like it, for some reason’? But you obviously liked it enough to keep it,” you tease.

“Well, of course I kept it! But not because I– like rocks.” Her voice decreases to a murmur. “It’s because she gave it to me…”

You shake your head like a disappointed mother.

“I’m also pretty sure it was a joke. She laughed, like, right after.”

“Oh, wow,” you scoff jokingly. Her eyes widen, as if sensing what you’re about to say next. “I hate to break it to you. You’re down bad–”

Her smile explodes into an insane-looking grin.

“Okaywhatdidyougetfor6d?!”

“Noelle. You’re probably on 12. At least.”

“A-and? Maybe I want to check my earlier answers!”

“It’s also bold of you to assume I’ve even started d.”

She laughs, somehow willing away the rosy hue on her cheeks. She’s about to retort when you’re both interrupted by a knock on the door.

A knock? Her doorbell song is literally a Christmas jingle. It’s almost offensive that the unexpected visitor has chosen to ignore the doorbell.

She scooches off her covers. “I’ll get it!”

You’re about to question why there’d be a possibility where you’d get the door, considering you don’t live here, but she’s already headed downstairs.

Her little click clacks from her hooves sound like heels. For some reason, it puts a smile on your face.

You pretend to continue onto 6d while trying to eavesdrop. The front door opens, and you just make out the mumble of a name. You can’t actually tell what it was, though. Someone responds quickly and efficiently. Hm.

Noelle’s mom is far too commanding and, frankly, scary to have a voice so soft. You think you’d feel that iconic chill circle through the house, even if you’re on the second floor. You know Asgore occasionally helps out the mayor around the house, but he’s just… very loud. You know his friendly presence would cut through the walls.

This must be someone you don’t know.

Noelle sounds hesitant, almost confused as she shuts the front door. But she sounds affirming, and something else opens and closes; it feels like it resonates in a different part of the house. Or maybe you’re hearing things.

The deer returns with a smile ever-present, but she notably closes her bedroom door behind her despite you being home alone. You grow skeptical.

“Everything alright?”

She hops back onto the bed, adjusting to get comfortable. “Yeah– it’s fine.”

You doodle a star in the corner of your page, waiting. Her lack of elaboration makes you raise an eyebrow.

“Who was it?” You pry.

“No one. I mean, it was someone, but they were just asking to… use something.”

Huh. She’s being awfully secretive about this.

“Okay,” you hum, hiding your interest.

You both fall back into your wordless rhythm of work, blurting out answers every few minutes or so. Eventually, the regret of chugging those water bottles Noelle gave you begins to surface.

“Can I use your washroom?”

“Yeah, it’s the door at the end of the hall.”

Your notebook becomes forgotten as you rise, stretching out your limbs for a much-needed break. Instinctually, you shut her door behind you.

The washroom trip was pretty uneventful, believe it or not. But, as you freeze at the top of the steps, your eyes gravitate to the snacks. They’re technically for you, right?

Tip-toeing downstairs, you round the couch and pop a cracker in your mouth. Maybe you’re starving, but this tastes ten times better than it did the first time.

That’s when you hear it.

There’s… music.

Someone’s playing that huge piano in Noelle’s dining room.

For some reason, your mind immediately thinks ghost. This house is haunted.

But honestly, you wouldn’t mind.

You feel lured to the kitchen door like a sailor to a siren’s call. Pressing your ear against the wood, you listen.

You’ve always loved piano. It was one of those hobbies you picked up when you were, like, six, and eventually pushed away from as you got older. There’s something so elegant about the sounds, the hand movements, the player. You’ve never seen someone play and not look like they’re being shined upon by angels.

This player, however, feels different. They seem confident despite the occasional pause or wrong note. They don’t get upset when they mess up, from what you can make out. They just keep playing.

Like they’re too engrossed to care.

Like this is more than music to them.

…

You need to stop analyzing random strangers.

Noelle’s definitely wondering if you died on the toilet. You should probably head back.

She doesn’t seem to suspect anything (not that you have anything to hide). You find her notebook sitting next to yours. She opens her mouth before you can question it.

“I just finished the last question; if you wanted to look over my answers for me, check over any mistakes, that’d be great.”

You nod. You feel a bit hazy, for some reason.

“Are you alright? You, um, took a long time to get back.”

“Yeah, I’m, uh…” you trail off. “What’re you gonna work on?”

She’s already sifting through the files on her laptop. “I’ve got this group project in another class that I can start. Don’t worry, I’ll find something to do! Take your time.”

You plant yourself closer to the armrest. Only a minute or so passes until you’re fiddling with your pages, continuously skimming over the same problem over and over. Your leg’s bouncing, you’ve switched positions about three times, you–

“Who’s playing piano?” You find yourself blurting out.

“Who?–” She laughs nervously. “W-what do you mean?”

“I dunno,” you shrug despite being completely certain of yourself. “Thought I heard someone.”

You’re not exactly sure why she’s lying.

She gasps in faux realization. “Ohh! Yeahhh… haha. That– that’s Kris. Sometimes they just kinda… show up. And ask to play the piano. I– I usually wait for them to finish. Like, I won’t leave them down there alone– well, I do, but only because they don’t–”

“I’m not interrogating you, Noelle. I’m just wondering,” you giggle.

Noelle sighs in… relief. Her stress is stressing you out.

“Yeah, hehe. Sorry.”

You glance at the door. “Is that, uh, normal?”

She nods with an mhm, as if mooching off someone for their piano is normal.

“But do you, like… hang out? I don’t get it. Are they just here to play?”

“I mean, we used to. We’d play when we were younger. But then they’d see the piano, and kinda naturally drift to it. So I’d just listen to them play. From the other room–”

“‘Other room’?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles sheepishly. She doesn’t continue, so you don’t pry (despite really wanting to).

More time passes. You’re dying. Why? You have no clue. It takes ten minutes for you to finish off question six, and you’ve zoned out again.

Are they self-taught? Did their parents enroll them in piano lessons? You doubt it, considering how small this town is. They’re probably one of the only residents to know how to play.

Kris. That name is so familiar…

Oh, wait! That’s the human in your homeroom, right?

Kris… Dreemurr?

Uhh… that’s all you know. To be honest, you can’t remember where they sit. Or what they sound like. You only remember small parts of their appearance because they’re the only human you’ve ever seen.

And now you know they play piano. Beautifully, at that.

Though, you find it hard for any piano player to sound horrible unless they intend to.

You pause mid-problem. Why’re you thinking so hard about this?

You’re a naturally curious (nosey) person; when you start to randomly dig into the life of a stranger, you always find something that irks you.

Maybe you need to find something that’ll make you lose interest.

“Is it weird to go ask to listen to them?”

It’s been silent for the past few minutes; you can tell Noelle did not see that coming.

“I– I mean, you can try… but every time they’d catch me listening, they’d stop playing.”

Ooo. So they’re a bit closed-off. Are they insecure about their playing? Do they just not like the attention?

Only one way to find out!

“Ehh, that’s alright. We’ll just be sneaky.”

Her eyes widen as a droplet of sweat glides down her temple. “We?”

It took zero convincing to drag her down with you. You just rose silently and gestured for her to follow. A grin spread across your face as her clacks followed en suite.

You almost hope you get caught. Maybe they’d snap on you (hopefully not Noelle) and you’d realize they aren’t worth digging into. No tear-jerking, mysterious past; no built-up walls or soft, deep insides. Just some angsty teenage douche.

The piano increases in volume as you both approach the kitchen. You watch Noelle out of the corner of your eye. She seems to grow more nervous and yet relieved at the same time.

You give her a stupid thumbs up as if you were on a stealth mission.

Hovering by the door, you feel a sense of deja vu when your ear meets the wood. Noelle appears to become lost in her own thoughts. She’s staring at you, but she’s not really looking at you.

You understand the feeling.

They’re playing a song you’ve never heard before.

…

You feel a pang of sadness. But it’s not yours.

You feel comfort. An easy comfort, but it’s not that nice. It feels like you’re being hugged right after a tragedy.

It’s… odd.

There’s a sigh to your left. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

You can’t put into words how nice it is. Nice is just the start.

You close your eyes. Lean in just a tad more.

…

Your arm jolts the doorknob just slightly and the piano immediately stops.

Crap.

Your heart drops.

Noelle’s mouth cracks open, like she realizes your mistake, too.

You wanted to get caught, right?

This is extremely incriminating!

Why’re you freaking the fuck out right now?

Your spying buddy has scurried from the door, seemingly ready to bolt. You’re about to scold her and accuse her of making more noise, seeing as the obvious best decision here is to hope they didn’t hear anything!

The ear pressed to the door presses harder. You’re trying to make out any signs of investigation; footsteps, murmurs, anything.

But there’s nothing.

Are your ears clogged from the pulse echoing through them? Wow, your heart’s beating fast!

Or maybe they’re not moving.

Maybe they’ll start playing again.

Just the verdict of that possibility makes you a bit giddy–

The door swings open, uncaring of its hinges.

And the only thing you’ve been leaning on is ripped from you…

…as you stumble into a green sweater.

You fix yourself almost immediately, but you can’t seem to make much distance when you’re pinned by their glare.

You’re not exactly sure what you were expecting, but this wasn’t really it. They look normal. A brown mess of hair, shaded eyes, a green sweater, and some pants. They actually look… oddly boring.

Maybe you were expecting Mozart. Yeah, that makes sense.

They don’t appear mad, per say. They have a really good poker face. Noelle, on the other hand–

“H-hi, Kris! We were– just grabbing a snack when we heard you playing and we thought it was lovely– and I know you don’t like when you have an audience and we weren’t trying to spy– actually spy is a very denouncing word–”

“It’s fine,” they say simply.

Their voice is mumbly. Quiet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but…

It makes sense why they’ve never caught your eye before.

“We’re both sorry, right?”

You realize she’s talking to you, now. She’s giving you the perfect opportunity to apologize.

When you keep your mouth shut, she squeaks your name.

You’re too busy trying to tear apart their face–

That sounds violent. You’re trying to watch carefully, for any slip in facade, any quirk of an eyebrow, twitch of the mouth, anything interesting. But you see nothing.

You’re hoping, if you don’t apologize, they might give you a demeaning look. You’re hoping they expect an apology; so when you don’t, their eyes will widen, just a miniscule amount.

But they don’t. As if they expect nothing.

No, no. That’s a good thing. If they react, that makes them intriguing. Well, not if they react in the stereotypical teenager way. Only if they do something you don’t expect.

Which is hard, because you expect everything.

They’re playing a losing battle. However…

You stand your ground, trying not to cower under their blank gaze. You won’t be intimidated by random strangers. Right?

Right?!

They’re pretty much screaming:

I’m just as uninteresting as I appear.

That’s the exact issue. They look boring, sound boring, are boring. But there’s just… something there. And you really want to know what it is.

But before you get that teenager reaction, they break eye contact first, stepping around you. “I’ll go.”

Noelle, afraid you’ve probably made an enemy, follows them to the door. “Hey! You don’t have to, we’ll just head back upstairs, and…”

But she can tell they’ve already made up their mind.

This is good. No need for some high-tech investigation about this kid’s deep, inner core. They may not be like the average highschooler with angst and anger issues, but that’s great. They’re so uninteresting, it’s honestly worse.

…

And yet your brain continues to spiral. You just know there’s something.

You really shouldn’t.

Some weird fixation on some human is not what you need right now.

…

You’re shouting despite the lack of distance between you two.

“Wait.”

They turn, just slightly.

Your voice is cold, empty. You might even mistaken yourself for Noelle’s mother.

“When you play, I feel like… I’m remembering a memory that doesn’t exist.”

…

And there it is.

Yeah, it’s covered in slight confusion, judging by the minute furrow in their eyebrow (the only emotion you’ve picked up by them thus far), but you can see it. In their eyes.

They know exactly what you mean.

That sort of… complicated emotion. They understand it.

And that’s not good.

It’s horrible.

~*•*~

Noelle texted them after their departure. It was as they expected; a million apologies on your behalf, as well as a few odd excuses from hers. They replied with a single thumbs up.

The streets are quiet, the haze of dusk spreading throughout the sky. They don’t spare a glance to the families having barbecues or those on walks. Their eyes are trained on the sidewalk as they head towards the water.

They don’t really feel like going home.

It’s not like this is unusual for them; their mother won’t worry.

They pass the picnic tables, resting themself at the edge of the lake.

Besides, that– what was that?

You.

They’ve never been more confused.

They’re relatively observant. They know of you. They’ve seen you in the halls with a plethora of friends. But they just assumed you were another trying to get through high school relatively unscathed. Another popular cookie-cutter teenager.

But that… compliment? Can they even call it that?

They’re confused as to why they took it as such.

They’ve never heard anything like it. Ever.

They’re not allergic to praise, or anything. They’ll still thank people for the admiration. But hearing the same you’re so talented over and over – especially when they’re not trying to impress anyone – can get old. Quick.

They do it for themself. And back then, their family and friends.

…

I feel like I’m remembering a memory that doesn’t exist.

That sort of off, tainted comfort. The type that doesn’t feel right. The type that makes them feel guilty.

They thought they were the only ones that felt that way; that even understood what that feels like.

But, they’re not.

You feel that too.

And that’s horrifying.

~*•*~

It’s like the universe is working against you.

Ever since you acknowledged that Kris exists, you’ve seen them everywhere. Around town, the school halls; Alphys even assigned you as partners for some random discussion thing.

You’ve kept telling yourself to pay attention to the outer shell. Nothing to see there! If anything, they seem to actively dislike everyone! (Might be their RBF, though.)

And then you hear them laugh, and your brain starts to spiral into detective mode.

What’re they laughing about? What do they find funny? What did Susie say? Was it actually funny or are they just laughing because Susie said it? How much does Susie know about them? Do they let selective people into their psyche or can anyone break in? Would they let you, a stranger, learn more about them? Would they laugh at something you said?–

Okay. Maybe not that last one.

They’d definitely just push you away. Probably spit in your face.

No, they wouldn’t.

How do you know? You don’t know them! Nor do you want to know them! Right?

You’re in denial.

…

You think you’re going insane.

And to make matters worse, Alphys is calling your name. Hesitantly, of course.

She fiddles with her claws, keys nearly slipping to the floor. “I-I need to lock the d-door, and… you p-probably shouldn’t be in here. W-when it’s locked.”

You– what? You’re the only one left in the classroom. Is it time to leave already?

“N-no,” Alphys responds, and you realize you’ve been speaking your thoughts. “We’re going to the m-music room! Tori– I-I mean, miss Toriel had the idea to l-lead, er, teach music for today.”

“Oh,” you stare blankly.

“A-are you okay? Usually, Kris is t-the last one to l-leave…”

Just the name makes you go stiff.

“Yeah. I’ll go.”

You’re thankful you’re hyperaware of your surroundings, as you’d rather not be wandering the school searching for an infrequently-occupied music room. You’ve seen some old, used instruments being transported to a specific hall. You can put two and two together.

There’s asynchronous music (if you can even call it that) being played through the walls. If that doesn’t scream music room, you’re not sure what does.

One peek into the room tells you everyone’s got no idea what they’re doing.

Jockington and Catti are fiddling with the electric guitars in the corner. Jockington is strumming the strings aggressively with his tail while Catti positions it upright, definitely doomscrolling on her phone.

Near the violins are Monster kid and Snowy. They’re both brushing the violin bow lightly against the lace, barely making a sound; almost as if they were nervous to break it. Temmie practices her singing into a microphone disconnected from any speaker.

Berdly is trying to impress Noelle with his (lack of) flute-playing skills, considering his beak leaves far too many holes for air to escape. She seems kindly uninterested.

Of course, your brain leaves Kris and Susie for last. Susie’s blowing as hard into her trumpet as possible, leaving an ear-piercing sound to echo through the already cramped space. Kris watches her with a light grin.

It’s a bit underwhelming; the room is relatively barren. A few corny music-themed posters are thrown up on the wall, but besides that, there’s nothing.

You hear your name as you fully enter the room. “Which instrument would you like to try, dear?”

Someone’s talking to you. It’s Toriel; she stands adjacent to the door, watching the ‘blossoming talent’ with a gleam of motherly love.

“Instrument?” You ask stupidly.

“Yes. This is music class, is it not?”

You honestly thought this was an excuse for Alphys to stop teaching for the day and goof off on her computer. Maybe both are possible.

“Uhh...”

To be honest, you’re not exactly thrilled about spending an hour messing with stuff you don’t know how to use, nor are you that interested in learning any.

Well, all but one.

Because of a certain player.

“Do you have a piano?”

She barely hides her shock. “Piano? I’m not too sure. There may be one in the classroom next door. It’s where we keep all the extra equipment, music or not. You can go ahead and check it, if you’d like.”

You huff out an okay and return to the hallway.

~*•*~

Is it bad they notice you leave?

They’ve been thinking about what you said. Maybe a little too hard. Maybe a little too much.

You probably didn’t even know what you were saying. They’re reading too far into it.

They don’t read into anything. This feels so abnormal.

Susie’s honk snaps them back into reality. They both get a few annoyed looks. She raises an eyebrow, amused as hell. “You good, dude?”

They don’t get the chance to respond when their mother rests a hand on their fluffy hair. “Kris, you did not tell me someone in your class also plays piano!”

Susie gasps. “Oh, what?”

Yeah…

…what?

And, as fate would have it, your name slips from their mother’s mouth. She proceeds to explain how she could tell you held no interest in the instruments here, and wanted to find–

They didn’t think you played piano. Not that they know that much about you. But they’d think they’d know something like that. Or at least be able to assume it.

You’d looked at them like they’d done magic. Maybe you didn’t intend to look that mystically invested in them, but you did anyway.

Why would you seem so amazed if you could do it yourself?

“Kris?” They feel a nudge. They ignore it.

They’re on their feet before they realize it.

The door squeaks painfully as they throw it open, scanning the empty halls for that classroom filled with extra junk. Not you. You’re far too fascinating to be junk.

And they find it. The entrance has been left slightly agape, and they can barely make out a figure moving inside. It’s you.

They brainlessly push the door ajar just slightly, enough for them to slip inside. It’s only then that they realize you’ll notice the increased light shining in from the hall.

And you do. Their throat tightens.

You scan the room like a lighthouse. They watch your brow tense.

They conceal themself behind some random crate of supplies before you spot them.

You’re quiet; unmoving.

Then, they hear footsteps. Extremely close to their hiding spot.

Shit.

Your figure stands in front of the door. You tilt your head, just enough to glance out of the sliver. Then, you shut it fully.

That’s probably worse for them, actually.

Why’re they doing this, again?

You return to what you’ve been so invested in: an old keyboard, sheeted in dust. It’s not a piano, but…

They watch you run your fingers against the keys, not quite applying enough pressure to make a sound. Your pointer skids to a halt on a C. They think. It’s hard to see from here.

They can hear your breath in. You press. It makes no noise besides the rustic clack from the force itself.

“What?” You mumble, sorta pissed. You rapidly hit the note a few more times before letting out an exasperated sigh. Their lip starts to turn up–

–and they immediately run a hand over their mouth to force it back down.

Then, you spot something. A cord not plugged in.

They allow themself the grace of looking away to wipe the sweat from their hairline. This is way too stressful. They just wanted to see if you knew how to play. For some reason.

After inserting the cord, you repeat your previous motion. The C key. It works.

You laugh in disbelief.

Although they usually hate their classmates who talk to themselves, they wish you did. It’s really hard to read what you’re thinking.

You experimentally play some random keys, one after the other. Two D’s, an E, F#, two G’s, G#...

Your other hand lays thoughtfully on your chin, as if you were memorizing something.

You play a note confidently. Then, another. More hesitantly. Then another, and another, and another. You start over, again and again. Starting with the same note every time.

Or maybe… remembering something.

You get more confident as you play. But they’re not paying attention to you anymore. They’re listening to the song.

It’s so familiar.

It… almost sounds like–

It hits them like a semi. But instead of blacking out, they’ve flown above the road, ricocheting off of other cars.

They flush. Hard.

They feel warmer than they’ve ever felt before.

…

That’s the song you caught them playing at Noelle’s.

They duck back behind the crate, running a shaky hand through their hair.

You remember the song. Why do you remember it?

You’re also really good at playing by ear.

When you mess up, you let out a little ugh. You’re only playing the melody, but it’s still… more than they expected. And you’re getting better; faster.

They don’t know how long they sit there, concentrating on the song. Playing the notes in their head before you play them. Letting out a huff of amusement when you groan.

You start from the beginning. Multiple times. You perform it, continuously. They can almost hear your thoughts when you’re debating which note comes next. They don’t blame you; everyone’s memory is faulty at times.

They want to come out of hiding, tell you which note to play. Show you. Hum the tune in your ear; see if you can guess it. When you don’t, they’ll guide your hand with their own–

Their breath hitches.

You stop, fingers hovering on the next key.

God fucking damnit.

You heard them.

“Hello?” You call out. You’re not scared, you’re skeptical.

That is ten times worse.

Apparently hearing someone search for them is much more stressful the second time.

The squeaky tiles are trying to warn them of what will be the most awkward moment of their life. They better have the best excuse to ever exist to get out of this; something that would work on the most narcissistic person on the planet.

And then, their non-existent prayers were answered. They hear you stumble over something. A wire, toys, doesn’t matter. It takes them a millisecond to lock eyes with your head, currently trained on the floor.

That’s their ticket.

They bolt. They’ve never swung a door open faster in their life. They’re just hoping you’re too busy detangling yourself from whatever to take one eyeful of their neon-green sweater.

Damn, they should just wear full black from now on.

~*•*~

You can’t get that poison virus of a song out of your head. You hear it everywhere you go. And, of course, that means you think of Kris wherever you go.

Just hearing it ring in your mind makes you depressed. Manic. Longing. Curious. Did they write it? How’d they come up with it?

You want to ask them. Ask them everything about them. Screw being a normal, functioning being. You’ve never been so nosey ever.

So you give into your weird impulse; you somehow convince Noelle to text you when Kris comes over. No context given.

With no texts related to such for days, you’re beginning to think she ignored your request (and maybe blocked your number while she’s at it). But your phone buzzed with a specific ringtone you may or may not have set for Noelle for this exact moment.

They’re here.

A pause.

If you wanna come.

You’re there within the minute.

Noelle greets you at the door, graced with a weirdly-knowing look. “I don’t blame you for liking their piano playing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You definitely are not. You’ve given up hiding your fascination (not that you were really hiding it to begin with).

“Yeah, I wish it was just that,” you mumble under your breath. She doesn’t catch it. Or she does, but doesn’t comment on it.

You’ve never been to Noelle’s house so many times in a month. And yet here you are, sitting on her cold floor like a loser, just outside of the kitchen. The kitchen door’s been left open; they’re already playing.

You’re entranced. Once again.

This one’s a lot happier. Faster paced, higher pitch. You don’t mind; you’re happy to listen to anything they play.

Right. You also plan on hardcore interrogating them.

You rest your chin on your knees, hugging your legs closer to you. Yeah, that doesn’t seem as morally sound now that you’re sitting here.

You don’t realize you sighed until their song slows til it stops.

Seriously?

Are you really about to get caught again?

…

But they don’t lift from the piano bench.

At least, you don’t hear them do so. But you’ve given up on your senses when trying to detect them.

Instead, they start a new song.

That song.

Your favourite song.

Since when was it your favourite?

You’re not sure, but you can’t help but close your eyes; a faint smile paints your lips.

And there’s that feeling again. You haven’t been able to fully recreate it since you felt it the first time. You’ve tried to replicate the song, but you can’t get the notes perfect. It ruins it for you. But when they play it?

It’s like death decided to sing you a lullaby. You love it, but you shouldn’t.

Hours could’ve passed; you wouldn’t have noticed.

They play the song. Over and over.

You let it consume you. Every time.

And you push down that nagging feeling of why every time.

Why do you feel this way? Why can they make you feel this way? Why do they keep playing it? Why do you feel their eyes on you?

The why’s don’t feel as important when you’ve got the answer ringing through your skull.

It may not be the answer you’re looking for, but it’s an answer you’re content with.

~*•*~

They’ve never felt so giddy before. It’s like all their senses have been heightened to detect you.

The way your fingers rake against the ground, the way you sigh blissfully, the way they can blatantly hear you humming along with their song.

They wonder if you’re smiling. They want to watch you smile. They want to make you smile.

They maneuver their hands automatically, pressing each key like it’s muscle memory.

It takes two hours, but they take note of the front door opening and closing. You must’ve left.

They play one more song to not seem suspicious and proceed to get up, heading out.

Noelle still sits on the couch, head whipping to face them at the sound of their departure. “You’re leaving?”

They nod. “Who was over?”

They ask. Just to see if she’ll say.

And she does. She mumbles your name mindlessly. She recognizes her mistake immediately afterwards, zipping her lips tight.

“Why?”

Not even they know. And they doubt you do either.

She plays with a strand of her hair. “Ohh, b-because… she needed help. With homework.”

They don’t bother pushing. They already know she’s covering for you.

They offer her a goodbye, slipping their hands in their pockets. They still don’t understand. They usually hate audiences. Why’re you any different?

Because it’s more than just a nice tune to you?

They stiffen. Speaking of you, you’re standing at the end of the driveway, just beyond the gate. You’re holding down a button on the side of your phone. Then, you lift your speaker to your ear.

Their song plays. Albeit slightly muffled, it’s there.

Their neck is warm to the touch.

You recorded it.

~*•*~

It takes a few more days, but Noelle texts again. You’re slightly more urgent this time, digging through your desk to find a certain small bundle of paper stapled together.

You really hope you don’t get flat-out rejected. Actually, maybe that’ll turn you off of them. The embarrassment may steer you away forever. Maybe you want to get rejected! Then, this whole weird infatuation with piano and this human might end.

You swallow the single voice of thousands in your head that speaks the truth you deny: you want them to say yes.

You run, maybe sprint, hoping to catch them despite Noelle’s text coming through five minutes ago.

Hiding the paper behind you, you greet Noelle civilly. She can definitely tell how flushed and out of breath you are, but she doesn’t comment. You appreciate that. You don’t need to hear what you objectively feel.

Making a beeline towards the kitchen, you halt. They’re just finishing up a song that you totally recognize oh god you remember their rotation of songs–

Okay. Don’t overthink it. Just ask like a normal person.

One glance to Noelle makes her quirk her head in confusion. You don’t hear the muffled yelp she lets out when you head face first into the shark’s den (the kitchen).

Kris immediately notices you, and your heart flutters. You scold your body for being so stereotypically corny. You watch their hands clench as they drift above the keys, returning to their side.

“Hi. Again,” you smile courteously, halting by their side. You can’t believe how confident you sound. Although, you probably look like you’re giving a presentation. Maybe a bit too sure of yourself.

“Hey.”

And your confidence immediately goes down the drain as they stand. Maybe you felt the height difference of them on their ass made you feel in charge of the conversation. Maybe it vanishes when you’re both eye-level. Maybe they’re still staring through your soul!

They gesture to the piano. “Did you…?”

You snap into reality.

Oh, no no no. You’re not letting this opportunity slip.

“No, no. I actually–” you clear your throat. Your cheeks burn. “–wanted you. To try this.”

You whip the papers from behind your back, trying to ignore the crinkled spot from where your hand was squeezing. You force yourself to loosen your grip.

One glance to the sheet music makes their face flare.

You’re not entirely sure why, but you don’t care. You’ve never seen their eyes so expressive before.

A hand snatches the bundle (maybe a bit too aggressively) while the other glides its knuckles along their cheek, definitely attempting to will the colour away by force.

You hold back a snort. That is adorable.

“It’s one of my favourite songs,” you explain. “I’ve always wanted to hear it in a piano rendition but I don’t think it’s popular enough to warrant one. And I think you’ll be able to play it because you’re skilled, but that’s besides the point.”

Their lip shakily turns upwards as they seat themselves, skimming the notes like they’re on auto pilot. There’s still a faint tinge to their nose when they realize you’re still standing awkwardly beside them. They gaze at you expectantly.

“Oh, do you want me to?–” You jab a thumb at the door.

Their eyes widen, just slightly. As if that was the most offensive thing you could’ve asked.

…

And they pat the spot beside them.

“Sit,” they offer.

You quiver. Quiver.

Now, that wouldn’t be unusual for someone playing a piece you suggested. It’s of your request, after all.

But this is Kris. You know they don’t want eyes on them! Noelle, their childhood friend (which you can’t believe you didn’t know until recently), would make them flat out stop playing if they knew she was listening.

And they’re just offering you a front row seat?

You wipe your drenched palms on your clothes. “Okay,” you shakily exhale.

The bench is small, but you make it work. Make it work means you’re hyper-focused on ensuring there’s at least an inch between your shoulders.

You’re too distracted to watch them position their hands over the white keys.

Then, they play the first note. And the next. Yeah, that’s how music works.

But their fingers. They’re so… graceful.

You realize how amazing they are at sight reading.

They take it slower, but they never lose a set tempo. They barely make any mistakes, barely pause, barely struggle.

Sometimes they have to reach over your lap to hit the lower notes. You change your mind; you want them to brush you. You want to feel their skin against yours.

…

The thought makes you hot.

When you finish thirsting like a dehydrated hyena, you find yourself closing your eyes. You love this song; it’s one that you never get sick of, no matter how many times you play it.

But there’s something… off.

Maybe it’s the piano. Maybe it’s Kris.

But you don’t feel the usual rush of warmth that comes from this song.

No, if anything…

You feel nothing.

Like your family’s celebrating your birthday without you.

Like you wake up in a place you do not recognize.

Like you’ve just made a decision that’ll change your life forever. For the better, and the worse.

…

Is it bad that you like the feeling?

It’s something you’ve never felt before.

You like new.

You like Kris.

You like how they make you feel.

You really like it.

You’re humming the song, you realize. They become rigid beside you, slowing down. They’re watching you. You can feel it. They’re trying to be conspicuous, but you can tell.

“Don’t slow down on me now, Kris,” you tease.

They let out a huff, almost a laugh. You shiver from the sound.

You absorb each note, ingraining the feeling into your soul. They’re still playing, but you can’t stop yourself from asking. Not out of a curiosity for why, but a curiosity for Kris.

“How do you make it sound like that?”

Each press of the keys becomes softer; notes quieting but not quite halting. “Like what?”

“Like we really are just some tiny speck in this stupid universe. It’s not just a phrase dumb adults tell you to calm you down.”

A pause.

“I don’t know,” they respond honestly.

“Really? I’ve listened to, like, hundreds of composers. I’ve never heard anyone who…”

They’re studying you like they’re screaming for you to keep going.

And you do; you’ve rambled on about worse things.

“–who, I don’t know, sounds so real. They all feel so practiced, perfect, performative. Not that you aren’t any of those things, but… y’know. You feel right, I guess. Raw. Like I can taste every emotion you put into your playing, rehearsed or not. Your songs or not. Happy or not. I can see it, y’know? I…”

That phrase. The one you told them, when you first met. That describes it perfectly.

Damn it, what was it?–

“You feel like you’re remembering a memory that doesn’t exist?”

…

“You remember it?” You find yourself asking.

Confidence from who knows where plasters over their face. “Best comment I’ve ever received.”

You laugh nervously, shoving their shoulder like an old friend. “It was a compliment, believe it or not. It’s definitely kinda weird, but–”

There’s a pang of sincerity in their voice.

“Don’t worry. I took it as one.”

~*•*~

They hate to admit they’ve been finding themselves at Noelle’s doorstep more and more lately.

Somehow, you always know when they’re over. And you always approach them at the piano, no matter what. They can hear Noelle questioning what you’ve done to earn an audience spot beside them. But to be fair, they don’t really know what you did either.

You just… understand them.

To be honest, you barely talk when you’re together. You just sit and listen. You don’t pry. That’s normal; that’s what they’ve come to expect from most.

It doesn’t matter that you’re not really getting to know them as you hang out. You’re still open, gaining more confidence the more you see each other.

But afterwards, you’ll tell them something. A metaphor, of sorts.

It’s become a game.

A game with a very gloomy, depressing meaning.

But they still enjoy it. Still enjoy you.

You’ll say something like:

“It feels like dancing in the ruins of a home I helped build.”

You’ll gasp it like a poet; exaggerated for dramatic effect.

And they’ll chuckle, softly. You’ll laugh. But their mind always wanders to a different thought, like:

I wonder what dancing with you would feel like.

And it keeps going.

“It’s like laughing in a dream I don’t deserve to have.”

Your laughter is like a dream.

“This is what sunlight during a funeral creates.”

Your presence feels like a ray of sunshine.

“A sweetness with a bitter after taste.”

I wonder what you taste like.

Oh, god.

Their eyes shoot out of their head. They blame the heat for the way fire spikes up their neck.

…

They take a deep breath out.

Noelle’s not home right now, probably in the library with Nerdly. That wouldn’t be an issue, if they didn’t have an itch to play right now.

They’ve been playing more, they’ve noticed. In general. Not just because of you.

So they’ve arrived at the hospital. It’s the only one in town that’s free to play whenever. But when they push past the doors, they see–

You.

Despite the lack of receptionist at the moment, you still seem to be hyperaware of your surroundings, pressing the keys with a distinct gentleness they’ve never seen from you. You’re trying not to disturb the patients, not knowing they can’t hear you from here.

That’s… really cute.

You’re playing a few notes, pausing every few seconds to listen to something on your phone.

Oh.

You’re playing their song. You’re listening to the recording of them.

It’s just as heart clenching the second time.

They wait for you to continue playing before shutting the door as quietly as possible. You don’t peek over.

An evil grin spawns on their face step after step.

Step after step.

If they were about to kidnap you, you’d be screwed. It’s odd, considering they know you’re very observant. You must be extremely invested in their song. The idea makes their pulse quicken.

“Boo.”

A quick slap on both shoulders makes you scream, dropping your phone.

They snicker as you clench your heart. “Kris! Holy shit, oh my god.”

You groan in embarrassment as they pick up your phone. Your hands brush and they hate how much it affects them.

“What’re you listening to?” They ask as monotonously as possible, really hoping to fluster you.

However, your eyes sparkle guiltily.

“You.”

“W-what?”

They curse themselves for stuttering.

You shrug nonchalantly. “I may or may not have recorded you playing at some point. But it’s alright, because it’s my favourite song that you play. That totally makes it okay.”

They try to spit out a retort, but they’re so hot and bothered.

You just admitted it?

“What?” Your hand wraps around their wrist. “I’m man enough to say it!”

They’re yanked to sit next to you, flushed to your side. And if things weren’t bad enough, they feel your hand slither around their back, resting on their hip.

They let out an urgh as you squeeze. They couldn’t get any redder if they tried.

You smirk. “Are you ticklish, Dreemurr?”

“No–” they stammer. “I…”

They can’t bring themselves to finish explaining. You’re gazing through their soul.

Really hoping it’s because you’re in a weird position and not because you see how much you’re viscerally affecting them, you shift your hand to their shoulder with a cough. “Anyways, wanna help me out? You’re the expert, after all.”

They’re really glad you asked. They shift the arm around them to rest on the piano inconspicuously–

–and almost immediately regret your absence of warmth.

But, with something more familiar, their composure returns. “What do you know?”

You attempt to play through the first verse, hands a bit clumsy and uncoordinated. You’re not truly a piano player, so they don’t blame you.

There’s a specific part that makes you relinquish. “I just– can’t get to those notes fast enough.”

“Here,” they adjust your wrist slightly. “You’re too far, that’s why.”

You lay your fingers on random notes. “Here?”

“No, here–” they guide each finger, nearly interlocking with your own. They can just barely see your grin grow.

You twitch a finger to brush against theirs. They hope you can’t feel how hot their palms are.

“Take this seriously,” they try to say sternly, but it comes out as a laugh.

“I am, teacher!”

“I won’t teach you if you–”

“Okay, okay. Fine.”

You replay the first verse again. You’re a lot faster; smoother with the transition between notes. They’re proud.

“Wow, that actually worked.”

“You thought it wouldn’t?”

You shrug sheepishly. Stretching your arms above your head, you eye them curiously. “Any new songs you got for me?”

They embody the most emotionless expression they can muster. “There’s one.”

You watch expectantly. The smile never fades from your lips.

Their hands hover above the piano like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

…

They play the song they wrote for you. But you don’t need to know that.

There’s a repeating verse that you hum along to. You really are amazing at playing by ear.

At some point, you lean on their shoulder. They don’t mind. Of course they don’t mind.

…

Midway through, you break the silence. “What’s this one called?”

They’re paralyzed.

You’ve never asked for song names. Why now? Why this song?

As if sensing their hesitance, you roll your eyes. “C’mon. By now, we’ve pretty much admitted we’ve both spied on each other before. This can’t be as incriminating–”

They choke. “‘Both’?”

You pause.

“I can’t tell if you’re asking if I’ve done it, or if I know you’ve done it.”

“Both,” they repeat.

“Well,” you gesture to your phone; the recording. That answers the first one. “And I know you were watching me in the music room.”

They stop completely. “I–”

You hold a single finger to their lips. “It’s the sweater. Caught the end of it on your way out.”

This damn sweater.

“So tell me.”

They’re already lost, pricking your finger from their face. “Tell you what?”

“The name of the song.”

They pause. “No.”

“That’s the name?”

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s not it.”

Why can’t they will themself to lie to you?!

You’re insistent. “So what’s the name?”

“You’ll live without it.”

“No, I won’t. Tell me. Please?”

It’s like you already know and you just want to hear them say it.

You wait patiently.

And they cave. They mumble your name.

“Yeah?”

…

“That’s the name.”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

They repeat your name.

Their shame morphs into amusement as you shield your face, mumbling oh my god’s over and over again.

~*•*~

You’ve realized you’ve never been more happy without Kris by your side. Even if the thought makes you cringe hard. So what?

You laugh together. You’re depressed together. You zone out together. It’s odd how much you used to do alone. Now, you can’t imagine a world where Kris doesn’t sneak through your bedroom window and sit on the edge of your bed until you wake up.

They’ve told you how self-indulgent you make them feel. Like you’re something they shouldn’t be around. That things are maybe so good that they feel bad.

You don’t really care if you make them feel guilty. All you care about is if any of this feels wrong.

And so you asked them.

They told you they’ve never felt more right.

~*•*~

But you don’t know what changed.

Something’s wrong.

You haven’t seen Kris in days.

At first, you thought it was a you thing, selfishly enough. Maybe you did something wrong.

But it isn’t.

You’ve realized, throughout everything, you never got their number. You know where they live, but after hearing that Toriel’s been signing them out day after day, you didn’t want to intrude.

It’s not like you need them to be sparkly shining everyday. You just want to make sure they’re okay.

You don’t like how empty your days feel.

~*•*~

It takes another week, but you find them.

For some reason, your nerves spike at the thought of talking to them. You’re not sure why.

It’s like everything’s reset; everyone’s reset. But not you. You’re still the same.

They’ve been scouring the town, conversing with everyone they’ve come across. An egotistical part of you wants to believe they’re looking for you. But there’s something off.

This doesn’t feel right.

You’ve never seen them talk to so many townsfolk before. Nor do you think they’d ever willingly do so.

So, you revert to your old self. You investigate.

You follow them from a distance, certainly making eye contact multiple times. But they don’t seem to care. It’s like they don’t recognize you. Your mind fogs over.

They head into the hospital. You’re not far behind.

The hopeful part of you lights up when they beam straight for the piano.

Okay. Keep it lighthearted and casual.

Just naturally ask them where the hell they’ve been.

Just–

You’re about to tap them on the shoulder when–

Plink!

…

They just…

…mashed the keys.

…

You barely realize they’ve turned to face you. They don’t seem surprised to see you, either.

Like they knew you were behind them.

“K-Kris?”

They don’t respond. It’s like they’re a husk of their former self.

Their eyes, however, paint a picture.

A horrifying picture. They look like they’re screaming for help; clawing at chains– no, strings.

And just as soon as they came, they’re gone.

…

What was that?

…

You stare at the piano, brushing your fingers on the random keys they played.

Is it weird to feel as though their talent was ripped from their hands?

…

Or maybe–

Maybe it’s something else.

Someone else.

~~~

AND ITS OVER !!! ok ill be dead honest with u guys, im not FULLY happy with this one. i kept getting stuck and remotivated over and over (was even thinking about scraping the whole thing at some point but i wanted smt to show for the past few days) BUT i finally finished it !!! i really hope u guys enjoy it even if its not up to my standard sob

ALSO thank u guys so much for the support on the last fic ahhhh !!!! u r all so SWEET it kills me ugh. if u have any ideas u think i can do justice send me an ask !!! it can be as generic or specific as u want !!! or just questions. comments. support. ILL TAKE ANYTHING !!! <33

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decay-1 · 2 months ago

Text

“ we haven't found one lipstick that's kiss proof! ”

a/n: based on tht one art meme going around iykyk anyways happy holidays, and merry christmas if u celebrate! nd happy day to everyone else! enjoy this lil gift <3 i wanted to get it out today so it might b a little rushed, and definitely shorter than i would like but i still like it so. i'm posting it.

includes: homicidal liu, eyeless jack, jason the toymaker, nina the killer, and jeff the killer.

warnings: gn!reader but it's assumed u wear lipstick, italics my beloved, so much fluff it'll make u sick, lots of kissing. is kiss even a word anymore. it's short, with varying different lengths, and it's sweet this time for real i promise.

HOMICIDAL LIU

Perhaps a bit confused when you ask him to help find some kiss proof lipsticks, but nonetheless willing to help. He just assumes you wanted to go out to a cosmetic store or something to find some.

He's very confused when you drag him over to the couch and tell him to stay put while you gather every tube of lipstick you have.

He's oblivious guys okay you're his first relationship ever how is he supposed to know you're about to smother him to death with kisses?

Liu will be a bit caught off guard when you place the first kiss on his cheek, your lips gentle, mindful of the sensitive skin surrounding his scars.

"What was that for?" He'll ask. And maybe you'll give a cheeky smile and respond with something like, "I'm just testing out my lipstick, babe."

And oh. Oh. That's what you meant when you said you wanted his help.

Liu is nothing if not the greatest boyfriend haver, so even though he gets increasingly more flustered with each kiss you press against his skin, he stays painfully still so as to not interrupt you.

Every time you pressed a kiss against his skin, he'd let out a little sigh. It was rare for him to ever really feel at ease, but it came easy with you.

Sometimes, he wonders if you truly understood the gravity of the love he felt for you.

Each kiss makes his heart race faster and faster, so much so that when you place one last kiss against his lips, he's so overwhelmed by the amount of love he holds for you that Sully thinks he's fucking dying and takes over.

Sully is very confused when he finds that Liu was, in fact, not dying. And you're certainly no help, just smiling and telling him to wash his face off as you clean up.

What.

One look in the mirror gives him the answer he was looking for. His entire face was covered in lipstick stains. This is what had Liu's heart racing so much? Sully really thought he was dying, man.

Turns out the guy is just an idiot in love.

EYELESS JACK

One of the only ones here to really understand what you meant when you asked him for help in finding a kiss proof lipstick, already taking his mask off.

He didn't have anything better to do, and he liked how your eyes lit up when he agreed, so.

He'll sit patiently, watching as you set out all of your lipsticks, setting them out in a color-coded pattern.

Jack will take this very seriously, I think. You won't really be able to get him flustered, because he's determined to figure out if you have any kiss proof lipstick. He's a man on a mission.

Every time you kiss him, he'll pull away from you and look at himself in a mirror to study how visible the stain is. The less he can see it, the better he thinks the lipstick is.

If anything, he'll end up flustering you from the way he'll grab your cheeks and press his thumb against your lip, rubbing the lipstick gently to see how much pressure it takes for it to transfer.

He's not doing this on purpose, he just... doesn't realize the effect he has on you. But between you and me, he's 100% teasing you.

He's the one covered in kisses, and yet you're the one shying away from him and getting all embarrassed. Seems your plan to fluster him backfired.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" You would ask.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. You're the one who asked for help." Would be his response.

Somehow you end up with more marks on your skin than he does?? Since you get to kiss him a bunch, he doesn't see why he can't kiss you back. And maybe he bites a lil, idk.

This will either end with you scurrying away, or with him pouncing you and abandoning the lipstick. Make your choice.

JASON THE TOYMAKER

He's busy tinkering with a new creation when you enter his workshop carrying every single lipstick you own.

He's too focused on his own work to really pay attention to you, so he just mutters a vague 'yeah' when he hears you ask a question, not really catching anything you said.

Jason's only vaguely aware that you're in the same room as him as he leans forward, brows pinched together as he focuses on stitching up a small stuffed animal.

It's not until he feels you resting your hand on his shoulder, pulling him back slightly and pressing a kiss against his cheek that he's brought to reality.

Just sits there, confused for the longest second, his hand coming up to his cheek where he had felt your lips. He's not against the sudden affection by any means, he's just a bit curious as to why you were suddenly giving him so many kisses.

When you explain how you're trying to find kiss proof lipstick, he lets out a small 'oh' and he goes back to his work.

Or, at least, he tries to get back to his work.

But you continue placing little kisses against his skin every few minutes, and it's making it really hard to focus, and he can feel his face getting hotter and hotter the longer this goes on.

Jason fucking loves you, okay? He tells you it multiple times a day. You are the one for him. So you smothering him with a bunch of kisses has him feeling all soft and gooey inside.

Whatever the hell he was working on before was no longer important to him, his gaze now seemingly glued to you and every little move you make as he leans back in his chair, basking in your attention.

Like hell he'll let you leave when you run out of lipstick.

You doomed yourself the moment you walked into his workshop to even start this little game.

He'll be dragging you down onto his lap and will refuse to let you go until he's had his fill of you. Which could be like... all day. Jason could never get tired of you.

NINA THE KILLER

Hell yeah!! She's been meaning to go through her lipsticks too, so she takes this as an opportunity to do that.

She definitely makes it into a game as well, I think.

You two will trade lipsticks without looking at the labels, and you'd both have to guess who was wearing what lipstick based on the shade and the feel.

The two of you trade kisses, lipstick stains covering her cheeks and your jaw and neck.

She really did just want to find a kiss proof lipstick, but each kiss had her letting out a small giggle.

And she knew you were teasing her, always leaning in for her lips before dodging and pressing another kiss against her cheek.

All that teasing had her feeling flustered, and she just wanted you to stop messing around and kiss her lips already. So when you put on a new thing of lipstick, she doesn't even give you a chance to do anything before she's pulling you closer and slamming her lips against yours.

You probably planned for this to happen, she thinks, but she didn't really care much.

You don't need an excuse to kiss her silly, you just gotta do it.

And when the two of you finally break the kiss, you're both breathless. Lipstick stains your skin, and both of your lips were smeared.

Nina didn't even care about the little game you two had been playing anymore, her hands resting on your cheeks.

She thought you looked stunning like this.

And it's not like you two had any pressing matters to attend to, so she didn't hesitate before leaning in for another kiss.

JEFF THE KILLER

When you had asked him for help with finding a 'kiss proof' lipstick, he honestly didn't understand why. Like... did you want him to put the lipstick on and kiss napkins with you? And why would you need his help doing that anyways?

He would've said no, if you hadn't asked really nicely.

Definitely grumbling about how dumb he thought this was as you get everything together.

Someone would probably assume you had a gun to his head or something from the way he looked as if he didn't want to be there, arms crossed and somehow frowning even though his scars made it look strange.

It really isn't until you place the first kiss against his cheek that he finally shuts up.

Oh. So this is what you had planned?

Truth be told, Jeff wasn't that big a fan of affection unless he was initiating it, but... he supposes he could let it slide, just this once. Especially after you press another kiss to his cheek.

You could never get this man to admit that he's enjoying this, but it's not like he was doing a good job at hiding it, either.

The frown he had was gone, replaced by a smile he was barely able to conceal. Do not point out the smile, he will leave the room if you do.

Each kiss you give him makes his heart race faster and faster, and when you're wiping off the last lipstick you have, talking about how you've yet to find a kiss proof one, Jeff is an utter mess.

He's got his face buried in his hands, cursing to himself for being so weak when it came to you.

Fuck, he really loves you.

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