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slipperyenvelope · 4 days ago

Note

Ok, hands down the best fic I’ve ever read in a long while. Wow. Just WOW. It’s been so long since I’ve read a fic this well-written. I love love LOOOOVE the slow burn, LOOOOVE small things that build up over time it’s just- UGHHHH. pleaseee consider making a full on fic like this, a really good slow burn, or if that’s not your thing I’d be happy with the 10k one shots ngl like you just write SO GOOD. Haven’t been THIS excited in a long time reading a fic, and certainly haven’t had this much reaction to a fic in a long while (putting the phone down at certain times from getting embarrassed -not in a I cringed reading this way but the embarrassment the reader felt also affected me and I had to take a lap around my house and look at invisible cameras as if to say ‘you read that shit too?- PLEASE continue writing!!!

~Take Me Home~

You’re Kris’ #1 prank victim. There’s just something about your reaction that’s proven to be satisfying as hell. Whether it be your screams of terror or lashes of rage; both must be some sort of appealing for them to target you as hard as they do. But you notice something. A crack in composure. And you discover exactly what you must do to get them off your back, even if it’s temporary. But you don’t mind; you’re not exactly opposed to this technique.

~~~ !!! JUST A WARNING some very light blood descriptions if ur like REALLY squeamish stay clear of this bad boy (i barely get into it so dw)

ANON u are literally gonna make me sob omg literally the sweetest thing ive ever heard ur amazing ILYSM !!! :(( <33 full ch fics are def smt ive considered but i find i lose motivation rlly quick if im not in love with my plot. but ill def keep it in mind !!!

besides that, ive got a 9.8k baby for u guys !!! and this one is BAD. its the most self indulgent, corny shit ive ever made (somehow worse than my first one) but IDC IT WAS SO FUN TO WRITE. nothing but pure FLUFF. RANCID. EW. enjoy the cavities :)))

~~~

You may combust from boredom.

Alphys is outlining the next few days of work, and you’re too tired to register any of it. But you don’t mind – there’s a joy in zoning out to the teacher’s voice. Your arms are comfy, anyways; the fluff of your sweater cushions your cheek like a pillow.

She starts writing down page numbers on the board and you decide maybe you should be a good student. You reach into your desk (with your free hand, of course. Can’t sacrifice the pillow) to feel for your pencil case, scooping out a sticky note. But you can’t find your pencil.

For some reason, you think you might’ve left it deeper into your desk.

What a mistake that was.

Your hands skim the wooden surface as you shut your eyes, trying to enhance your senses. You probably look like an idiot; arm flailing awkwardly beneath you as your head continues to rest comfortably on your other.

There’s a snicker to your left. You pause.

You squint, glaring at the obvious suspect: Kris.

They’re sitting almost identically to you. Hunched over their desk, sweater pillowing their chin, bored and monotone face; nothing out of the ordinary.

But you can’t help but feel a pang of nervousness.

They meet your eye, only for a second, and return to Alphys (definitely not listening, either).

Your ear catches something important. Test date, homework pages, something like that. You snap back into reality, continue your search, hand flailing like a maniac.

Then, you feel it.

Something wet.

Your hand flinches back.

…

The average person would probably back off, right?

You’re not slow, exactly. It’s just– your mind is much too confused to tell you to stop touching the unidentifiable moist object.

Your fingers return to it, gliding your index across the smooth surface. The substance is thicker than water, almost sticky. You apply pressure. It feels like rubber, shape morphing around your finger.

Sitting up, you pull your arm out to examine your hand. Your digits are drenched in red.

Your head goes to one place and one place alone.

Blood.

You internally panic, sent into fight or flight mode.

And for some reason, you decide to shoot your hand back into your desk, fingers finding the squishy object once again. You squeeze it like a bear trap.

You’re just really hoping you don’t see an organ–

Some of the fluid drips onto your pants as you yank it out.

Oh my god–

You don’t think you’ve ever screamed so loud in your life.

There’s a soul in your hand. A red, human soul.

Every eye in the classroom shoots to you, assuming you’re being murdered. But you don’t care– the blood’s drenching your arm!

…

Well, every eye but two.

Kris’ palm shields their mouth, deliberately facing the other direction.

You immediately catch on, a pang of anger and spite fueling your very being. You wind your hand back without thinking, using all your power to chuck it at them–

–in their general direction; your head’s a bit too cloudy to aim.

They lean back just in time (curse their perfect reflexes), rubber heart bouncing on their desk with a wet splat and landing on Catti’s. Her eyes boredly scan the, frankly, disgusting sensory overload.

“...cool.” She snaps a picture of it.

Your confusion returns back to rage as you bolt from your chair, murderous intention painting your face.

They don’t flinch. In fact, they’re staring at you like you’re the funniest thing in the world. Which, to Kris, doesn’t appear like a lot. But you can just see it in their eyes. They’re getting a kick out of this.

Alphys is trying to nervously deescalate the situation, but you can’t exactly hear it over Susie’s cries of laughter, which have now morphed into deepthroated coughs.

It doesn’t matter, anyways. All you can hear is ringing.

“I’m going to kill you, Kris!”

Some of your classmates are probably looking at you like you’re crazy. Or maybe they sympathize with you. Or they’re too busy trying to identify what the hell the fake soul is made of. You’re still trying to figure that out yourself.

The ‘blood’ feels like watered down slime. It’s nasty, that’s all it is.

Ignoring Alphys’ (failed) attempts at scolding, disciplining, whatever, you take one look from your sticky palm to Kris’ clean cheek and decide yeah, that’s a good place to wipe your hand.

They’re unphased, but leap elegantly to avoid your dirty fingers. It isn’t until Toriel shows up – confused and horrified from the scream – that you halt your chase to scoff.

While Kris emotionlessly takes the lecture from their mother, you’re escorted to the bathroom by Noelle to clean yourself off.

Mainly to ensure you don’t hunt them down yourself.

~*•*~

You have a love-hate relationship with Kris.

You met when you were younger, by proxy of being in the same elementary class. You wouldn’t call them a ‘childhood friend’, maybe a ‘childhood acquaintance’. You were never close with them like Noelle was, but you’re a bit grateful for that.

While they were relatively tight and eventually drifted, you were never close enough to drift to begin with. They felt like a safe constant in your life.

Felt. Past tense. Now, it’s like they’re actively trying to torture you.

It started at movie day in third grade. Toriel had put on the most PG, friendly film to exist. Even as an eight year old, you could agree it wasn’t exactly stimulating. All it took was a quick bathroom break from Toriel for everything to spiral out of control.

Snowy and Monster Kid revealed they found a scary movie DVD from one of the supply closets, insisting they put it on and skip to all the ‘jumpscares’.

You weren’t exactly sure what a ‘jumpscare’ was, but you thought that a movie with scariness sounded fun. It wasn’t.

Maybe you missed some sort of jumpscare tolerance class, but all it took was one screamer to make you nearly piss yourself. Your lungs were more burnt out than the man being murdered on screen.

And yeah, maybe you got some unfiltered looks from your class (who somehow weren’t nearly as horrified as you). But that didn’t compare to the absolute ghostly expression on Toriel’s face when she barged in.

Even after school, when everyone was dismissed (except Kris, of course), you stayed perfectly content in the corner of the classroom. You picked at the frayed edges of the sickly lavender carpet, trying to let Toriel’s comforting words embed deep into your mind. You will be fine, you won’t be tackled from behind by a chainsaw murderer. Yeah.

You were so distracted, you barely noticed the considerate, almost dreamy air Kris was giving off. You wish you could’ve warned your child-self; they were plotting.

Toriel began leading you to the front, not acknowledging the way Kris lingered at your side, just close enough to seem suspicious.

You don’t even remember what they whispered; some corny line from the movie. “Your guts are mine,” or something. But it got you.

God, did it get you.

You howl – nearly replicating your earlier cry – and stumble as far away as your jello legs would allow.

But, here’s the thing. Once you realized you weren’t about to die a gruesome death, you didn’t cry. You didn’t continue screaming. You didn’t keep running.

You were fuming.

You held your hands in front of you, clenching and unclenching as if trying to replicate strangling someone. You threatened Kris as efficiently as a child could; mostly with warnings such as ’I’m gonna get you!’ in the most serious tone you could muster.

Now, you understand why that was such a satisfying reaction for Kris to receive. Pranks aren’t fun if the victim starts crying; that’s a given. When the victim screams, that’s what makes it fulfilling. The identifier for the best reaction depends on what happens after.

More screaming? That’s probably boring to them. Too repetitive.

Flight mode? It’s just an end to the reaction.

Rage?

…

Now, that’s interesting.

And you hate that your first instinct is to unleash your frustration when you’re conned. It makes your reaction worthwhile, along with the fact that you’re definitely their easiest victim. You’re not scared of a lot, but they’ve learned what’ll make you jump.

You, for some reason, can’t ever see it coming. You always forget you should constantly be on edge to ready yourself, but Kris is so quiet that you’re only ever on edge after you’ve been scared.

Others learn to expect things. You can’t predict anything to save your life.

They’re like the ‘boy who cried wolf’. Except you’re probably that one villager who kept believing them every single time despite the obvious signs that they’re messing with you.

You’ve tried everything to make them stop. You’ve tried pranking them back, which garners you zero reaction. You’ve tried avoiding them at all cost, but they always find you anyway. You’ve tried upping your paranoia, turning every corner and expecting something. But instead, you end up wasting the entire day on edge, slowly lowering your guard as night approaches, only to be hit at the very end.

Nothing works. They’ve never budged, not for a second.

~*•*~

The final bell rings, signaling the end of the day. You stretch your arms above your head, joints cracking and screaming at you to take a fat nap when you get home.

Maybe you’re slow, but everyone seems to be in a rush to leave the classroom. You don’t blame them. You reach into your desk (not peeking to check for unidentifiable objects because you’re lowkey an idiot) and plop your notebook and pencil case onto the top with a sigh.

To your surprise, Alphys leaves the room too. She mumbles something about picking up something from Toriel but you’re still trying to wake up.

…

Speaking of waking up.

Kris is knocked out on their desk. As per usual.

Actually, they’re only usually asleep for the first half of class.

…you’re not sure why you know that.

Despite who they are, you’re a good person! You won’t let them rot in this empty classroom for the night (you know Alphys is coming back but you want the good samaritan points).

Abandoning your stuff, you find yourself at the foot of their desk, bending over to whisper in their ear. “Kris.”

Nothing. Their back isn’t even rising and falling to signify the air they should be breathing.

Your eyebrows furrow. From the proximity, you can certainly say they… smell weird.

There’s a hint of apple, their usual scent (again, not sure why you know that). But there’s something else. It almost smells like… your compost bin…

…after a week.

It smells like rotting. They smell like they’re rotting.

You’re not sure why you couldn’t smell it from your desk, but you smell it now.

“Kris…?” You mutter with a bit more urgency.

No response.

You’re not sure why, but you’re starting to panic.

“Kris?”

You poke their shoulder.

They don’t even stir.

“Kris.”

You shake their arm, fingers digging into the green hoodie, just barely brushing their silky strands.

And your pinky dips into something.

Something. Wet.

You come to your senses, immediately comparing the substance to the one Kris used to scare you a few days ago. It’s just… different.

It’s not as sticky. It’s more watery, but still thick.

You almost laugh at the comparison. If you were to compare that gooey concoction to this, you’d have slapped your past self for even beginning to believe that was blood.

No. You get it now.

This is blood.

It’s staining through the arms of their sweater, you realize. It’s pooling on the desk.

Your voice dies in your throat. But you try, anyway.

“Kris?”

Your eyes scan for something, anything.

…

That’s when you see it.

The pencil stabbed straight through the side of their neck.

You shriek like you’re dying.

Your heart pounds in your ears. The colour’s drained from your face. You push them by the shoulders until they’re leaning back on the chair.

Alphys trips over herself, poking her head into the classroom, but you don’t really register it.

You’re too busy screaming at what you’re witnessing.

Their entire neck, chest, and shoulders are drenched in blood. The stains have trailed down to their arms, drying and crusting at the palms of their hands. The old green and yellow of their hoodie is ruined; now a deep, red hue.

You think you might throw up.

They’re nearly blue. All the colour’s been drained from their face, besides the splotches of blood that’ve crawled up from their neck onto their cheeks and forehead.

Your hand gravitates to their slightly ajar mouth, hovering, checking for breathing, anything.

There’s nothing.

…

You’re going to throw up.

Alphys is by your side in an instant. If you gazed into a mirror, you think you’d have the same expression as her.

You turn 180, feeling your stomach churn.

But then, something changes. Her mouth defaults to a small line.

“What’re you– what–” You stumble out, voice struggling to keep up with your thoughts.

She almost looks… suspicious.

She presses two claws to their jawline– no, right below it, where the neck connects. Why? Is she doing magic? That won’t change the fact that Kris is–

“...Kris,” she raises an eyebrow, unimpressed–

Unimpressed?

…

No response.

What is she doing?! Wasting time?

Kris is bleeding! Dead?

What the hell do you do?!

“O-one second,” Alphys addresses you, making her way out of the classroom once again.

“Where–” you gasp, clutching your head.

But she’s already gone.

Where the hell is she going?!

Kris is bleeding, potentially attacked. Left on the desk for dead. No one noticed. They always look– it was the perfect disguise–

You feel the tears before you register them.

You really can’t be in the same room as them, especially like this, you’re going to–

…

There’s two bloody hands on your shoulders, and you’re beginning to wonder if you believe in zombies.

“Boo.”

…

If you thought you strained your throat from screeching before, this one absolutely ruptured your vocal cords.

You manage to tilt yourself to face the culprit, eyes most definitely as terrified as you feel.

Kris turns you the full way, a faint amused smile gracing their lips. “Hey,” they capture your wrists to stop you from squirming. You’re squirming. Shaking, even.

Then, you slow your tremble.

…

Fucking hell.

You’re livid.

Heat floods your vision as you rip a wrist from their grasp, hand opening in preparation to slap their asshole stupid face–

They catch it again before you’re able to make contact.

You ignore how annoyingly strong they are.

“Are you stupid? Kris, you’re–” your voice breaks, but you don’t really care. You probably look like you’re sobbing right now. “You fucking moronic idiot, oh my god I’m going to bury you alive after I claw that dumb grin off your face–”

You’re rambling, just barely noticing the way their grin fades.

…

“You’d cry for me?” They murmur, and you almost don’t catch it.

The anger almost immediately dissipates, reforming into disbelief. No, no. There’s still some anger left.

“I–” you sniff almost comically. “Yeah?? I just saw what I thought was a dead body– w-who wouldn’t?– It’s like, also definitely a trauma response!–”

Your voice dies in your throat as you stare just a bit closer at their blue-hued face.

“...is that makeup?”

No response, and you’re almost sure they’re dying (once again) from the way they’re eyes are locked onto you. The discoloured blue of their face tints just the slightest red. It makes a deep, plum purple. You’d laugh if the mucus in your throat wouldn’t make you choke.

You forgot you’re supposed to be filled with rage.

“Whatever,” you scoff, yanking your hands once again. They release you willingly. “I hope you’ve– uhh, written your will. Because… I’m going to…”

Are you in some sort of spotlight? They’re not breaking eye contact. You’re turning a different kind of nervous.

“Bye,” you spit, shattering under the attention. You storm out all dramatically, because they better feel some sort of guilt.

Alphys stumbles into you in the hallway, Toriel following closely behind. They both gaze at you expectantly, as if already knowing what you’re about to say.

“They’re alive,” you roll your eyes. “Unfortunately.”

~*•*~

Susie trails behind Kris and their mother, trying to intently listen as Kris briefly tells the story. They’re both ignoring the way their mother’s dragging their red self across the school, trying to shield them from the innocent eyes of the children. It’s not working. Susie’s nearly sobbing of hysteria, which isn’t helping.

They intentionally leave out the part where you said you’d cry for them.

Susie happens to spot you at your locker as they continue to rush outside. You seem to be intensely ranting to your friends about something. They may have an idea as to what it is.

Their fake blood still covers your fingers. It’s also apparent you’ve touched your face, judging by the small stains of red that brush across your nose.

…

You’d cry for them?–

Susie shouts your name enthusiastically. You nothing but glare maddeningly.

She points to her own snout. “You’ve got a lil’ something.”

Your face dusts a light pink, immediately understanding what she’s referring to. Your eyes gravitate to them, and you instantly cover your nose with one hand, flipping them off with the other.

They can tell you’ve put no heart into it, though.

“Kris,” their mother scolds when they unconsciously slow down to gaze at you.

Susie regains their attention. “Hey, Kris.” She gestures to a group of kids, wordlessly giving instructions.

They slouch their back, giving off their best zombie impression. Then, once a few of the smaller eyes point to them, they widen their eyes as much as they can, teeth poking through their manic grin.

Susie’s howling syncs with the kids’ screams. They’re yanked by their mother right after.

They notice the smallest smile on your face, shaking your head as if saying I can’t believe I know them.

~*•*~

You’re like an evil mastermind, scheming up plots in your lair.

…if the grocery store was your home base. Only because the air conditioning in your house broke again and it’s really hot despite it being October. And the freezers just happen to work perfectly against your overheating face.

There was something off about Kris today. Although not the most talkative person, they’d usually grace you with some sort of response when you’d ask about their prank (because you can’t help but wonder how they put some of them together).

You had a million questions. How’d you hold your breath for that long? Did you try to make the perfect blood concoction for this? How’d you hold the pencil in your neck for that long? You assumed it was snapped in half and glued on, but it looked seamless.

And yet, you couldn’t even get an answer to your rhetorical makeup question.

…

Is it because you cried?

You’re actually not sure if they’ve ever seen you cry. Well, past age ten. It’s probably different seeing a child sob compared to a teenager tearing up (you’re a liar, you were definitely balling silently).

They don’t seem like they’d really mind you crying, to be honest. Maybe you’re being hopeful.

Hmm.

You tap the freezer edge in thought, eyes narrowing at the crusted red substance under your fingernail.

…

They did ask… if you’d cry for them.

Is that what made them uncomfortable? No, that’s not the right word. They didn’t seem uncomfortable.

If anything, they sounded kinda hopeful. Like they wanted you to say yes.

And you did.

And they… liked that answer?

…

C’mon brain. You can do something with this.

Okay. Whether they liked your response or not, it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that it did do something:

It snapped them out of prank mode. It surprised them.

That’s what you’ve been waiting for. Something to screw with their head. Something that allows you a brief window of escape. To get back at them.

You need to… be–

…weirdly intimate?

Ew.

…

But…

It might work. It might be what you need to throw them off their game.

After all, it’s like a plan with an unstable foundation. What’s a pranker without a stable execution?

~*•*~

You’ve been extraordinarily nervous.

And not just because they’ve been doing more and more ‘dead Kris’ pranks. Lots of loose limbs around the school, fake blood splatters, and even some appearances with their knife. Toriel has not been pleased.

You half wonder if they’re doing it to see if you’d cry again.

But, you’re proud to say you’re only startled by the initial reveal, less scared by the gore (may or may not be a good thing that you’re becoming desensitized to it).

No, all of that’s not why you’ve been a bit more on edge recently. You’ve been nervous about your stupid plan.

It sounds like it’d make sense on paper, given what evidence you now have. Don’t get it wrong, you have been trying. A little extra brush of your finger on their wrist when they’re trying to calm you down (using the term ‘calm you down’ very loosely), longer eye contact (in which they do break away first), even complimenting their scares (despite actually hating them).

But, besides a slight startle or subtle confusion, it hasn’t gotten them to freeze up the way you want them to.

Do you need to try harder? Be even more… forward?

Although somehow more alert than you’ve ever been, you’re still startled just as much.

You part from your friends during passing period, deep in thought on the way to your locker. Now that you truly think about it, you’re not really sure what could break Kris’ motto.

Whatever. You’re alright at improv; you suppose it mostly depends on the scenario– what you’re able to do in the moment.

You punch in the code on your master lock, unlatching the lock and–

A yelp tears from your throat.

Your notebook flops to the floor.

There Kris is, bent awkwardly around your bag like a tetris piece. Their clothes are filled with small rips, tears, and dirty stains–

And they’re about to plummet right onto you.

You let out an ‘urRGH’ as they drape themselves over your body– my god are they pushing down on you? It’s like they want you to both fall!

Your knees buckle and bend awkwardly as you try to support them by the shoulders, chests nearly pressed against each other. Their arms fall past your sides like they’re about to give you a weird bear hug.

The stares you feel at the back of your head are real.

But it’s nothing compared to the look Kris is giving you. They seem surprised beyond belief, as if expecting you’d be so paralyzed in fear that they’d immediately crush you. Of course, this only translates to a slight raise in their eyebrows, but you take what you can get.

Your elbows struggle to stabilize your arms – hands slipping from your grip on their sweater – only causing your faces to grow closer in proximity.

They’re covered in makeup again; face the familiar blue that scared you so horribly before. Except now, they’re littered in small cuts, black blotches, and an actual chomp mark on their neck (you wonder if that was susie or makeup too).

…

And your brain flickers with an idea.

Here we go.

You put on the most calm, smug expression you can manage (despite the burn pulsing through your legs).

“Y’know, if you wanted someone to bite you, you could’ve just asked.”

…

You hate it as soon as it leaves your mouth.

But–

It works.

You’ve never seen Kris’ eyes jolt open that quickly before.

Out of pure embarrassment, you try to glance somewhere else, anywhere else, but they fill your entire vision. They intently watch you eye the bite mark, then themself, and they flush like they’ve been lit on fire.

You barely register them stumble out of your grips, half thankful for the relief your spine gives you. You watch them take long strides to the front doors (even though school isn’t over yet), not once looking back.

…

And you can’t help…

…but stand there in triumph.

It really worked! They completely shut down. No snicker in your face, no knowing smirk that you want to slap off, nothing!

Oh yeah.

You’ve got the power now.

~*•*~

They feel like a mindless zombie. Or an automated robot.

Why the hell was their first thought:

Wow. Your hands are really warm.

It didn’t stop them, though. You didn’t seem to suspect anything. They hope you’re not too keen on the twitches in their face. They’ve pretty much perfected their deadpan over the years.

But you–

They rub their moist palm against the fake bite on their neck. They found an old set of plastic vampire teeth from many Halloweens ago. It was perfect. Exaggerate it with a bit of makeup, and–

…

What would your teeth feel like against their neck?–

…

Wow. That is such a creepy, stupid thought.

They’ve been demoted to a new type of low.

You’re just an old friend– classmate that they know.

Like messing with.

Enjoy watching your reactions.

That small upturn of your lip after you’re done cussing them out; it’s just so pretty satisfying.

…

They feel the vibration in their pocket. It’s barely been twenty minutes; they’re surprised their mother isn’t calling sooner.

Just the thought of going back to class makes them hot. Hotter than they already are with this damn sweater in this unbearable heat.

~*•*~

It’s been a few days. They’ve been too cloudy-headed to think of anything new to pull on you, and they know you can tell. The small glimpses they receive in the halls nearly pull at their soul; you seem almost disappointed, as if you think you upset them.

They’re not. They just don’t want to bolt mid-reaction again. Or freeze in place. Or, god forbid, say something they'll regret.

It’s funny, ironic. You’re so keen on pretending you hate it, and yet you seem to actively want them to continue.

It’s lunch. They’re giving half-assed responses to Susie when they watch you and your friends leave ICE-E's P"e"zza, sitting on the lawn across the street.

“Wanna get pizza?” They ask, interrupting her mid-sentence. They don’t mean to, but they do.

She snarls enthusiastically. “Do I?”

Susie nearly drags them down the sidewalk, barging through the doors. She orders them both a pepperoni pizza slice while Kris asks for a fountain drink.

They press their thumb against a random button, watching the half-syrup, half-water stream pour down the built-in drain. A menacing smile works its way onto their lips.

Tilting their cup, they gather the syrup-half with little water. As a test, they bring it to their face to try.

…

It tastes horribly concentrated.

Perfect.

They repeat the action with every button, gathering the syrups in their small cup. They whirl the concoction in a circle, hoping to mix it enough. They pop a lid on top, paired with a straw.

“I’ll be right back,” they call to Susie.

She waves back dismissively with an ‘EHH’, far too entranced by the pizza-making process to care.

Pushing past the door, they immediately spot you planted on the grass; your back to them. They’d rather your friends not be around, but they don’t really mind an audience (they’d just prefer none).

They debate if they should scare you, but when your friends’ eyes lock onto them – a sly upturn on their lips – you’re already turning around.

You barely try to hide your hopefulness as you jump to your feet. “Kris?”

They swear your eyes sparkle like an anime girl.

Clearing their throat, they hold the drink in front of them. “Got this for you.”

You both wince when your friends coo an exaggerated awwwhhh!

Your hand reaches out to take it, fingers brushing oh you’re still really warm–

“What is it?”

They’re startled, once again. You’ve really managed to surprise them lately. You look like you suspect something. Which is unusual, considering you never used to suspect anything before.

They put on their best innocent smile. “Surprise.”

You gaze at the straw once, expression unreadable. They think you’re about to sip it, when–

“You try it first.”

One of your friends scoff. “Just take the drink, weirdo!”

But you don’t budge. Instead, your eyes turn doe-like, quirking your head just enough.

“Please?”

They shutter. And immediately scold themself for it.

You mirror how they held it out for you. Except now, you seem to very intentionally caress their dorsal.

They’re nearly boiling. From what? They can’t tell anymore.

Distracting themselves, they don’t hesitate to bring the straw to their lips. You intently watch the liquid travel up the straw, pleased when it appears to touch their tongue.

And it does. And it’s one of the worst things they’ve ever tasted.

It’s pure sticky flavour. No carbonation, just a concentrated mash of the drinks they definitely should’ve identified before mixing in.

But they ensure there’s zero reaction on their face.

And you believe it. They can tell.

“Okay,” you chirp, snatching the drink back. “Thanks, Kris.”

And you sip.

Oh, so very trustingly.

They can feel the thrill pulse through their soul as your face scrunches disgustedly.

“Eugh!” You cry, sticking your tongue out to spit whatever you can on the grass. They intentionally begin walking away, taking note of your friends who’ve begun laughing hysterically.

You groan from afar. “Kris!”

They hear your footsteps approaching, speeding up to make more distance. You catch up. They let you.

There’s a hand on their shoulder, ushering them to face you. You… seem more amused, if anything.

“How the hell’d you not react to whatever this is?” The cup collides with their chest. “Drink it again!”

They nearly gawk at you. “You want me to drink it again?”

“Yes! Or did you just pretend to drink it?”

“Nope. Actually did it.”

“Then do it again!”

Although more than pleased to follow your very demanding command, you rip the drink away as they try to take it from you. “Actually, I don’t want you dumping it on me or something–”

They’d never do that to you–

“–just let me do it.”

…

…do what?

You lift the cup, pinching the straw between your fingers. And–

Their heart flutters.

You’re holding the straw close enough to their lips that they could latch on whenever they wanted. Your confidence vanishes instantly, replaced by your shy flush.

They’re probably wearing the most dopey grin as they sip from the straw. Their bottom lip nearly touches your finger–

God damn, get your shit together.

Maybe it’s the added distraction of your reactions, but they can barely taste it. Yeah, it’s still nasty, but they’re too busy watching your eyes dilate.

You’re not even hiding how closely you’re watching their mouth.

“Okay, that’s enough–” you stutter, bringing the straw to your own lips. They’re not sure why you’re trying it again, but they’re not opposed to following the movement of your lips.

Your face cringes once again. “My god, that’s rancid. How’d you even make it?”

They snap out of their daze. Right. You’re talking to them.

“Fountain drinks,” they mutter like they’ve just learned to talk.

“‘Drinks’?”

They only grasp the drink to smoothly remove the lid. “All of them.”

You sneer, narrowing your eyes at the brownish mixture. “I’ve mixed them all before. It does not taste like that. Nor does it look that… uh… brown.”

There's a click in their head, as if realizing something crucial. “Oh yeah. It’s just the syrups.”

“The syrups? You’re a psycho!”

You laugh like a songbird. All they can say is it’s definitely luring them in.

“What about my tongue?” You question. And before they can mentally prepare themself, they’re watching you stick out your tongue casually. “What colour is it?”

“Brown,” they squeak.

“Oh yeah? What about yours?” On command, their own tongue slithers from their mouth. You’re tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Mhm, definitely brown. Thanks, Kris. Now everyone’s gonna think I’ve been eating dirt. Or shit. But I’d rather not think about that option.”

They’re about to laugh, but something catches their eye.

There’s a flash that goes off behind you, and they just barely spot one of your friends being scolded by the rest of them. Once they all notice they’re watching, they start giggling like madmen.

You knowingly sigh, which is enough of an apology in itself. “They’re idiots. Don’t worry. I’m gonna kill them.”

You say it endearingly. It’s like a calmer, more loving version of what you usually scream while chasing them. They want this version instead.

Then turn when you do, both returning to your respective friends. They’re too busy letting their brain spiral to notice your halting footsteps, only for them to get closer and closer–

They feel your arms wrap around their shoulders–

“Thanks again for the drink, Krissy,” you laugh, shaking the cup in front of their face as if they forgot.

…

They did not forget.

They will never forget.

They’re suddenly very dizzy.

You’re gone as soon as you come, already cussing out your friends across the street.

…

They have to lean into the door to open it because of how jello-filled their arms are.

“Kris?” Susie spots them almost immediately. She’s sitting in front of two paper plates; both of which are empty. There’s half a slice in her claws. They raise an eyebrow.

“Hey man, you were taking too long, honestly thought you ditched. Couldn’t have a perfectly good slice go to waste– hey, where’s your drink?”

They don’t grace her with a response. Mostly because they don’t trust their voice not to break halfway through.

~*•*~

If you realized how easy Kris was to fluster, you’d have done this years ago. Literally. Turns out they’re relatively tolerant to everything except direct words.

So you’ve turned off your filter and absolutely let loose. It doesn’t matter how embarrassed or hot you are afterwards; Kris is always more flabbergasted. And it’s the most satisfying thing to ever see.

It also helps that the more you do it, the more confident you become. Actually, that may be a bad thing. You try not to think about it too hard.

It’s been multiple days of this strange back-and-forth thing you’ve got going on. But you don’t mind. In fact, you really look forward to it.

Their pranks have actually drifted from scary to more annoying, if anything. But you still scream when they startle you; react when they taunt you. You can tell they’re enjoying the change, too.

You don’t register the hand caressing your head until your eyes peep open. It immediately returns to the owner– Kris’ side when they see you’re awake.

The classroom’s empty. Even Alphys is gone. You don’t like how this is going.

As if sensing your question, they smile. A bit too friendly. “Told Alphys I could wake you up.”

You lean back and yawn. “Was I asleep?”

“Snoring and everything.”

“Shut up, Dreemurr,” you snicker, punching their hip. They’re taking it awfully well.

You try to read their face, but that never goes anywhere anyways. Even their eyes (which you don’t think you’ve ever watched so intently before) are thoughtless.

…

“What did you do now?”

If they were more expressive, they’d have gasped and clutched a hand to their chest. But it’s Kris, so they just tilt their head; their small smile growing subtly. “Am I always up to something?”

“Uh, yeah. Don’t play innocent.”

“I am innocent.”

“No, you’re not.”

You immediately start rummaging through your notebook, pencil case, desk, pockets, hair, everything. Did they plant a bomb in your shoes, or something? (Maybe ‘or something’)

Once you detect there’s nothing on you, you start scanning them. There’s nothing particularly unusual about them, but…

They’re hiding their hands in their pockets. Not exactly atypical, but still suspicious!

You’re yanking them by their wrists, revealing their–

“Aha!” You cry in victory. “What’s this, then?”

You gesture to the splotches of red that lightly sprinkle across their hands, almost reminiscent of their fake blood. It’s too bright to be that, though. It’s like an obnoxiously bright red.

“Art class,” they answer effortlessly.

“I–” you utter. “Oh.”

You’re not entirely sure why you trust them, but you half shrug it off, half accept your fate as you leave the classroom with them. But then they split from you, leaving to find Susie as you continue down the hallway.

That’s when you notice something’s off.

You’re getting the oddest stares. Some laughs. You’re honestly offended, assuming they're making fun of your face. You’re beautiful, thank you very much.

Your friends already have their bags, waiting patiently at your locker. Once one of them notices you, they gawk.

“What?” You spit, a bit fed up with the attention.

Another faces you, eyes widening comically. “The fuck? What happened to you?”

“What do you mean? Nothing happened!”

One of them pulls out a phone, immediately flipping the camera for you to see–

Your mouth falls open.

No fucking way.

You’d say your face flushed red with anger if you weren’t already painted like a tomato.

Your cheeks, eyelids, nose, lips, ears, everywhere is just red, red, red–

And, of course, you somehow fell for it again!

“Kris?!”

Your battle cry echoes across the halls, garnering you more stares than you already have. But you don’t care; you’re about to strangle a human, for heaven’s sake! That’ll give you some real attention.

You’ve apparently gained x-ray vision from the way you directly spot both Kris and Susie. When she finds where the scream came from, she instantly breaks down into tears. You don’t really blame her; you probably look like anger from Inside Out from how creased your forehead is.

Then, your target narrows onto you. You can just see the gears turning in their head.

…

You’re at a standstill.

Then, as per usual, they make the first move.

They bolt in the other direction.

“No!” You yelp, revenge actively being torn from your grasp.

You weave in and out between students; through large groups with no courtesy in mind. You get stuck behind slow walkers (because you’re not mean enough to shove past them, even if you really want to) while they escape through the side door. You eventually follow ensuite.

They’re halfway down the street. Damn.

Mustering all your energy gained from adrenaline, you sprint like you’ve never sprinted before. You don’t even think you’d run from a murderer this quickly.

You close the distance with little effort, tackling them from behind. They let out an exhausted huff of amusement.

“You think this is funny, huh?” Despite your words, you’re nearly grinning like a maniac. “I’ll show you something funny!”

Your palm aggressively collects whatever facepaint you can from your cheek and smears it satisfyingly onto your victim. Their face squishes like putty beneath your hand.

After continuously laughing like a maniac, you’ve decided this isn’t efficient enough. You thread your hands through their fluffy hair (trying not to think about how nice this feels– think about your rage!). Their throat lets out a mini groan and your stomach flutters–

Shake the thought!

You (reminder: without thinking) bring your faces abnormally close and start rubbing your cheek against their own like a deranged and affectionate cat.

You really hope it isn’t obvious how warm your cheeks are.

Oh, wait.

That’s exactly what they’re currently feeling, idiot!

You stumble away; the redness of your face is probably filling in the blank spots you’ve just created. Trying to maintain any semblance of confidence you have left, you point at them accusingly.

“T-That’s what you get!” You yelp, voice breaking. But it doesn’t matter; you can tell they’re not listening anyways.

…

You’re already too far gone. Who cares?

You swipe your (very shaky) thumb against your still-very-painted cheek, gathering more facepaint.

You rub the pad of your finger on their nose.

Then, you plant the tip right on the corner of their mouth and glide it upwards, mirroring it on both sides. Their lip quivers.

Sliding your phone from your pocket (ignoring the prints of red that stain your screen), you take a picture of their, frankly hilarious, expression. Their mouth’s morphed into a squiggle.

“There,” you tilt your phone to show them the clown-like markings. “Now we match. In idiocy, I mean.”

They break their frozen state to laugh. Silently, but it’s there.

You’re tempted to record it. Just because it sounds really nice.

~*•*~

It’s quiet outside. The night is still. Midnight, to be exact.

You’re not even sure why you’re up so late. You’ve been photoshopping you and your friends’ faces onto random stock photos. For some reason (might be your sleep depravity), you find it hilarious.

You’re in the middle of a gut-wrenching laugh – one of those laughs that's made funnier because you’re supposed to be quiet – and rolling around on your bed when your phone buzzes.

It’s a contact-specific ringtone you set as a joke a few years ago; your friends recorded you telling Kris you were going to shave them bald. You don’t remember the context. Probably good you don’t.

At some point, your friends – unbeknownst to you – switched Kris’ notification sound for your voice. You barely noticed because of how little you text them, and when you eventually did notice, you were too lazy to change it.

If anything, it just makes you laugh harder.

Retrieving your phone, you open your chats to be bombarded with old texts of you cussing them out, usually after getting pranked. Mostly because you couldn’t catch them after the crime.

Although they very rarely responded with more than a thumbs up or something ignorant like a plain ‘what’, you could just feel their grin behind the screen.

You scroll to the most recent text. It’s actually not a text. It’s a photo.

A photo of a very familiar DVD.

You shiver and immediately judge yourself for it. The chainsaw man was responsible for most of your childhood fears and your very first memorable nightmare. Yeah. But you’re a teenager. Why the hell are you still scared of it?

Following the picture is a text. It doesn’t even have words.

It’s just:

???

…

You’re not sure how you’ve learned to interpret vague texts like this, but this is very obviously asking if you want to relive your greatest fear for funzies. With them, of course.

You’re delirious from your lack of sleep, but you still manage to scoff dramatically, even without an audience.

“Like hell I’d ever do that,” you whisper to yourself.

You sprawl back onto your bed, shutting your laptop mid-face-transplant.

They’re probably luring you, anyway. It’s definitely an excuse to get you in some sort of trap. Their home is free-territory; they’ve probably been setting up some intricate prank for hours.

…

It’s not like they’d actually want to watch a movie with you…

Haha.

…

You’re dialing their number before you can stop yourself.

They pick up after two rings, but they don’t say anything. They’re not usually the one to initiate.

“No fibbing?” You almost whimper, slight fear bleeding through your tone.

Maybe they hear it. Your nervousness.

There’s silence. Then: “Nothing.”

“Okay.” You hang up.

You’re opening your window, logical senses long gone.

It’s second nature to you by this point. You slide off your roof effortlessly, landing semi-gracefully on your house’s trash bins. They’re closed, thankfully. You’d rather not smell like garbage.

You’re not sure why you care. It’s Kris.

…

Somehow, that fact changes everything.

The streets are dark, empty, dead. There’s not a single person in sight. The houses appear inhabited because of the lack of light shining through the windows. It’s honestly a bit nerve-wracking (wow. How surprising; you’re scared of something).

You unconsciously lead yourself to their house, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. There’s only the dimmest shine in their living room window. Besides that, it’s identical to every other house.

You’ve been over before, only by proxy of knowing them for the better chunk of your life. It’s mostly been for dumb projects or something school related. Nothing ever because of the strength of your friendship bond.

Even so, this doesn’t feel as unnatural as it probably should.

As your knuckles hover at the door, you think twice. Instead, you fish your phone and send them a text.

hey

You hear the faintest footsteps approach the door. There’s the click of the lock, and–

“Hey,” you repeat, drunk on tiredness.

They leave the door ajar, just enough for you to squeeze inside. You notice a distinct lack of Toriel and your mouth glues shut. You’d rather not jinx anything (you freak).

“I was rummaging. Found it in an old box,” they mutter, answering the question lingering in your mind.

“And you thought I’d be overjoyed to watch it?”

They take a seat on their couch, slyly gesturing for you to join them. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

You shrug. “It’s for nostalgia. Nothing more.”

“Nostalgia,” they echo. They look at you like they don’t believe you.

It barely takes a minute for you both to get comfortable under a blanket, just far enough to pretend it’s a casual hangout. There’s a bowl of popcorn resting between you two – something you deemed was a bad idea while Kris brushed you off wordlessly.

Despite having watched it before, you’re still startled by every little sound. You want to blame it on the fact that it’s been nearly a decade and you don’t really remember the jumpscare spots, but you know damn well you’d still recoil.

You have decent self control; you know it’s late and you hold in most of your screams. Although, some really get you. You might’ve screamed at the top of your lungs. And Kris might’ve slapped their palm over your mouth, eyes popped open from nervousness, gesturing to the room upstairs that their mother might be sleeping in.

They pause the movie, listening for any signs of movement upstairs. When you hear nothing, you can’t help but giggle.

There’s times where you jump, spilling half the popcorn on Kris’ lap. Neither of you seem to mind that much. Besides, you’re not opposed to lap popcorn. You do take note of how their face always tilts away from you when your hand brushes their leg.

Everytime you feel their hand get just a bit too close to your neck, or their head angles itself just enough to whisper in your ear, your newly built-in scare detector sends screaming alarms throughout your mind.

…and all it takes is a little scooch closer to make them stiffen and lean away. You’re proud of how resourceful you’ve become.

But, as the movie comes to a close, you’ve found yourself…

…thoroughly disappointed with the plot. It’s actually a really boring, generic recreation of every other horror movie out there.

Damn. Younger you couldn’t have chosen a good horror movie to be scared of?

“That’s how it ends? Nothing even happened. The girl escaped. The chainsaw dude got away. No one relevant even died,” you slur, on the verge of passing out from exhaustion.

“Yeah, it’s… painfully average.”

“Painfully overstuffed with cheap jumpscares.”

They toss the blanket off your legs, setting the empty bowl aside. “You flinched at every single one.”

“I said they were cheap. Not– unflinchworthy.”

You stare at the glow of your phone. Two thirty.

“Damn,” you rub your eyes. “Gotta get back before my parents wake up. They’re, like, early early birds.”

Maybe it's the hesitance in your step – although definitely tainted by fatigue – but they stare at you like you’re some vulnerable drunk in a dangerous city.

They come to some conclusion in their head.

“I’ll walk you home.”

You’re too tired to oppose.

~*•*~

You keep zoning out. You’re heading to your house, and yet they’re the one directing. You’re not sure why they’re so– not tired. Energetic was the wrong word.

The loudest noises are your steps. Little rustles in the trees make you quiver. Turns out you’re still on edge. Get it together.

Your hand brushes theirs every other step.

It’s an animal this time. You straight up shove yourself into them. They silently steady you with a hand on your shoulder. It grounds you.

You like the contact. Maybe a bit too much.

They’re firmly staring ahead, almost lost in thought.

Then, their hand smoothly slips into yours.

…

You’re so glad you’re delirious. You might’ve erupted on the spot if you were conscious enough.

They don’t expect it – you can tell from the way their hand freezes – but you squeeze.

…

After a moment, they squeeze back.

~*•*~

For some reason, they insisted on walking you straight to your bed.

They– they’re on the roof. With you.

You actually forget for a second, taking a deep breath in your stuffy room, flinching hard when they tap on the glass of your window. You don’t remember closing it.

They’re grinning, you realize. You start fuming. Because they definitely meant to scare you, you’re preparing to cuss them out again. You press their contact, letting it ring for a second.

…

They decline it. In your face.

You’re about to swing the window open when you get a buzz.

…

There’s two messages. Both from them. Of course.

One is a picture of you scared shitless, blanket pulled to your face. They’re in it, but half cropped out. You can make out their obvious amusement.

It’s followed up with a single word:

blackmail

~*•*~

It’s hot. It’s been hot. All you do is complain to your friends about how hot it is.

A nice thing about being in a small town is that the complaints of a few random people actually mean something. Apparently the school acknowledged the spike in temperature over the past few days, preparing an ‘exciting after school activity’ as compensation.

Water balloons. It’s water balloons.

But you’re not allowed to fill them yourselves. The teachers are the only ones permitted to use the hose.

Oh, and you’re not allowed to throw them. That was deemed too dangerous by none other than Toriel. What you’re supposed to do is pop them by ripping them apart with your hands. Or stab them with claws, if you have them. No biting (a weird specification, but you suppose it may happen). And you can only pop them on yourself. Like, awkwardly hold it above your head. You can pop them over other people, but you need ‘permission’.

You’re not surprised. Just a bit disappointed.

There’s some students (Susie) who immediately disregarded said rule.

Which one? All of them.

She chucked one at Berdly so aggressively that he toppled onto the pavement (it didn’t even pop; just ricocheted like a bouncy ball). She stole the hose, set it on jet mode, and aimed the nozzle at Kris like a laser. She also might’ve eaten one, you’re not sure.

You’ll have to thank her for getting all the teachers off your collective backs. They’ve all been hovering like eagles, ensuring you’re not splashing a single drop onto anyone else.

“God, it’s so hot. And this one’s not even popping,” you groan, piercing your nails into the rubber repeatedly. You were going to burst it on your head, but nothing’s working.

You’re drenched in your own sweat, your skin feels like it’s blistering, you’re–

“Ooh, incoming,” your friend nudges you in the most obvious, indiscreet way.

You can already tell how this’ll go.

Tossing your garbage balloon to the grass (still doesn’t pop), you face the culprit of your friends’ attention.

“Kris,” you greet civilly. “You– oh.”

You’re rendered speechless as you notice the giant ass water balloon casually resting in their arms. It’s almost the size of their head.

You’re automatically confused. You never saw them have it pumped up, nor do you think Toriel would’ve allowed one this big to be made, let alone for someone like Kris.

“Heard you were hot,” they lift the balloon, just barely. “Got this one for you.”

…

Oh no.

Nuh uh.

Your senses have been heightened by the heat (somehow).

You see right through them for the first time in your life.

“No,” you voice sternly, slowly backing away like prey.

But they don’t stop. In fact, they’re advancing.

“No!”

You bolt.

Their fast footsteps behind you makes your blood rush, adrenaline pumping like never before.

The students are easy to navigate through, thankfully.

But that means there’s no obstacles for them to get caught on.

“Kris, I swear!–”

Eyes glue onto you as you run for your life. Except you find out you’re not good at running for your life. You’ve run in a straight line.

You spot the police tape blocking off the rest of the road. Panicked, with no other ideas, you dip into the plumage of the forest.

They follow, no hesitation.

“I was joking! It’s actually really nice out– I don’t wanna get wet!–”

You continue to run despite the trickles of sweat gushing down your back. And you’re a liar! Have you felt how hot it is?!

And all this running isn’t helping!

You catch the odd branch on your leg, nearly faceplant a few leaves, but you remain unwavering. You will not be caught–

Okay. You know you can’t outrun them.

Need a plan. Now.

Uhh… oh–

What if…?

…

They’re gaining on you. Quick.

There’s a small clearing up ahead.

Perfect.

You skid your foot in the dirt, slowing down. You pivot just in time to catch the raise in their eyebrows; they weren’t expecting it.

You nearly collide, but they stumble before you touch. They’ve shifted to hold the balloon in their right hand, despite it consuming their palm.

Stabling yourself, you use one hand to capture their free arm by the bicep. You snake your fingers around the wrist of their balloon-filled fist. Angling it towards the sky, you try to push it as far away from you as possible.

You’d snort at their rosy cheeks if you weren’t just as red. You’re very close. You can feel their exhale on your nose.

“Haha!” You cheer breathlessly, ignoring the obvious standstill you’ve put yourself in. This is victory in your eyes.

As if in mockery, they nearly rip their bicep from your grasp, clutching the same wrist to mimic.

You’re both panting like dogs, although they’re arguably much more graceful. Small, nervous giggles escape your lips every time you feel them tense. They keep fighting back, pushing against your grip to tilt the balloon over your head.

And every time, you thrust back with all your might.

It’s held ominously above your heads, moreso over Kris’ than your own. You see the gears turning. Slowly. Calculated. Their hand strains in preparation.

You gasp. “Do not pop it.”

They’re trying to remain their usual neutral monotone, but they’re wheezing out little laughs between their deep breaths.

“It’ll cool you down,” they offer ominously.

“Please. I don’t wanna cool down.”

“You know you do.”

Your grip tightens. “W-what about you? You’ll definitely get hit in the crossfire,” you gesture to the looming rubber above you.

Their smile is reminiscent of a supervillain. “A small casualty.”

Their balloon-filled fingers twitch as a threat. You start to panic.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

…

And then it hits you.

An idea.

What all your training has come to.

The past few weeks of experience interpreted – knowledge gained.

How to make them stop.

You know what you must do.

…

This is… by far…

…the dumbest idea you’ve ever had.

They’re trying to read you. You can feel it. Their brows furrow in confusion.

Then, you glance at their lips. A small, innocent glance.

And you’re pressing your lips to theirs before you can think twice.

…

You’re tense, at first. But you ease into it.

Their lips are soft. A bit chapped, but you don’t mind. They… taste like pie. You’re smiling into the kiss involuntarily.

Kris, however?

They’ve stiffened into a brick wall.

Oh, and they’re squeezing your wrist so hard you might lose a finger.

…

And you realize you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life.

They squeeze their other hand just as hard, crushing the delicate balloon with ease. The… insides splat onto the both of you, painting every crevice and every strand of hair.

You squint through your eyelids, examining yourself. You’re covered in… slime.

You will admit, it is kinda cooling.

“The hell?” You heave. “You were gonna slime me?”

Kris makes no move. They’re reminiscent of your red-painted face.

You sigh, disconnecting the two of you. Their grip turns to sand, allowing you to slip away with ease. Their hair is sagging from the weight of the slime, and you don’t doubt you look the exact same.

“Kris?” You tap their cheek.

They clear their throat. “Y-you…”

You feel a heat bloom across your face. “Don’t!– Just… I thought you’d go slack. Y’know, drop the thing. On the ground. It felt like a good idea, at the time–”

When they don’t respond, you’re absolutely sure you’ve ruined your relationship. Well, regret’s not too far from embarrassment–

“Do it again.”

You pause.

“W-What?”

“I’ll do it right this time.”

You’re grinning despite your confusion. “You– you’re not even holding anything to drop.”

They squeeze some slime from their hair, collecting it in their palm.

You deadpan. “It’s not threatening if I’m already covered in it–”

They smush the glob onto your cheek. Your lips seal shut on instinct.

“Eugh! That almost got in my mouth, idiot–”

They repeat the hair squeeze, and you realize you’re not about to battle this out with slime.

“Fine–” you grunt, lunging forward to wipe a glob from their cheek, getting as clean of a surface as possible. You’re sure you’ve already ingested some of it, so you’re not that worried.

You peck their cheek, cupping the much slimier other. The goo makes your lips sticky, but you try to ignore it.

They freeze at first, but they recover quicker.

…

You lean back, ignoring the way your heart flutters.

They’ve got the dopiest smile on their face.

“Pfft–”

You can't help but pull out your phone (now slimified), snapping a picture before they can stop you. Their grin drops, shock ever-present.

You show the photo just in time to see the life drain from their eyes.

“Blackmail.”

~~~

...i told u this was corny. AND U DIDNT LISTEN. this was literally just an excuse for me to put them in the dumbest romance trope ahh type scenarios. there is ZERO and i repeat ZERO real plot. HOPEFULLY it didnt drag on for too long but i hope u enjoyed this mess !!!

also not sure if i explained it well but yknow how some of the actual fountain drink machines contain the syrups and the water (instead of a pre mixed drink)? and the nozzle is split like half syrup, half water (idk how it actually works its smt like this tho). WELL if u didnt know, u can actually put ur cup half under the nozzle (if that makes sense) and mostly only get the syrup (and it tastes like concentrated ass dont do it)

i couldnt get an exact pic but this one has the brown only in the middle bc thats where the syrup comes in, while the rest is the carb water OK IM DONE BYE LMAOO

#im not sorry #my friends have so many blackmail pics of me im going to jail bro #deltarune #deltarune x reader #kris dreemurr #kris deltarune #kris x reader #kris dreemurr x reader

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slipperyenvelope · 10 days ago

Note

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

#im late for smt trying to post this asap #ignore spelling errors im rushing so bad LMAO #deltarune #deltarune x reader #kris dreemurr #kris deltarune #kris x reader #kris dreemurr x reader

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slipperyenvelope · 16 days ago

Text

~Taking What's Not Yours~

You’re a bit salty (really jealous) that Kris never had to try to get good grades; they’re just naturally talented. You’ve never interacted with them one-on-one, but it doesn’t stop your resentment from growing. Turns out all you needed was a nice, close stare at their face and a good ol’ sniff of their apple scent to think maybe you just admire them a lot more than you’re willing to admit.

~~~ heyy !! yeah so dont let the summary fool you, this is 10.5k words of pure disgusting slice-of-life fluff and i definitely went too far with this but i have no self control. reader's also lowkey a weirdo. please enjoy !!!

~~~

You can’t keep your leg from bouncing as Miss Alphys calls each name, one by one.

“J-jockington… Snowy… Monster kid…”

They all rise, one by one, accepting their marked tests with an odd enthusiasm. Some faces drop to frowns, some rise to grins.

You might piss yourself. No joke.

“S-susie.”

You wince from the shrieking groan of the metal chair in the back of the classroom as Susie prances to the front, swinging her arms like she owns the place. She snatches the paper from Miss Alphys’ trembling hands with a confident smirk.

With one quick glance to a certain human in the classroom, she doesn’t even look at her test before crumpling it into a paper ball and shooting it perfectly into the garbage can. She lights up.

“Haha! Fifty bucks! Pay up!”

She laughs, weaving between desks to slam her fists on the one behind you. You glide your hands over your face, trying to tune out the bickering.

“S-susie, ah, please d-don’t damage school p-property.”

You hear roaring laughter following a joke you couldn’t make out. Is it because your heart is beating out of your chest? Maybe you should go see a doctor.

“B-berdly.”

The bird rises quickly, ready to give his I-just-did-better-than-you-plebeians-on-this-test speech. Miss Alphys, surprisingly, shuts him up this time. Politely, of course. Wish she could’ve done that the last ten times.

He plucks the test by the stapled corner, holding it delicately as if it were an ancient artifact. It would mean something if he didn’t get the clear 100% every time. You’d hate him if he wasn’t your self-proclaimed study-buddy. He proclaims it. Not you. Let that be clear.

Whatever mark you get on this test is partially on him.

Noelle is called right after, shyly holding the paper to her torso as if the red marker didn’t glow through the pages, a faint 98% visible. You can’t help but be a little jealous despite not knowing what you got yet. Not a 98, that’s for sure.

Your teacher barely glances in your direction before your piercing gaze sends her into a sweat-inducing panic.

She squeaks out your name, though very drowned out from your desk screeching and nearly tipping over from your force.

Maybe you sprint. Maybe it’s a bit embarrassing. But it doesn’t matter now; the pages planted in your hand.

…

72%.

You seem to freeze in place.

Damn it.

Your life force is being drained studying with that feathery nerd and you don’t even have a good grade to show for it.

You stand like a statue, flipping through the pages one after another. The small, polite X’s (how are X’s polite?), circles, and underlines are scattered everywhere. You got so many partial marks that were definitely undeserved; you don’t even think the 72 is accurate.

You don’t even realize Miss Alphys called another name until you feel a looming presence behind you.

Embarrassed, you crumple the paper to your chest and glance over your shoulder.

Kris.

Your mood somehow sours even more.

They don’t say anything. They just sorta… stare. At you.

You barely attempt to hide your disdain as you shuffle to the side, letting them pass. You probably look like an idiot, standing barely a foot away from the two as Miss Alphys hands them their test. You just want to see the–

94%. Yeah. Exactly what you expected.

You scurry away, back to your seat, ignoring Berdly’s pestering and grubby feathers trying to paw at your test. You hand it to him to get him to shut up.

You watch Kris stride back to their seat, but you conveniently glance at your desk when they meet your eye.

A paper swish is heard from behind you, right before a gasp.

“What?! A 94?! What are you, a nerd?”

You can somehow hear the shrug.

“You studied just as much as me!”

“...Nothing?”

A laugh. “Nada.”

“Maybe you got perfect,” they gesture to the garbage can. “Only one way to find out.”

A pencil case is lodged across the room, bashing the side of the can and tipping all the papers onto the floor. “Eh, guess we’ll never know. Hey, think if I erase your name on this one, Alphys’ll give me the mark?”

“Number seven!”

Right. That’s you, according to Berdly.

He’s waving your test in your face, mark blatantly out in the wild for everyone to see.

You cringe. “Yeah, I’m not so sure about that placement after that test.”

“Ah, but to achieve top status such as myself is unrealistic for a simple normalton like you! Tsk…”

He starts going off about how he’s admirable and he pities average folk such as yourself. Or something. You’re not really listening anymore.

Your distaste for smart people grows exponentially everyday.

Berdly’s the smartest in the class, by far. At least he acts like he is. That’d mean something if it weren’t him. Despite that, you can’t help but not hate him as much as you probably should.

He helps you with everything. Your homework, studying, assignments. Well, if ‘helps’ means ‘reprimand you for everything you do wrong and give unwarranted and unwanted sympathy’. You’ll strangle him. Someday.

Despite being what you’d consider runner up (maybe even tied for first), Noelle’s not nearly as annoying as her brainiac buddy. You’d like to consider her a friend, actually. When Berdly overlaps homework ‘dates’ by ‘accident’ (they’re not dates. And definitely not by accident) and you three end up in the library, you actually enjoy her company. She’s quiet, but kind.

And then there’s Kris.

…

Kris.

God, do they make your blood boil.

There’s a difference between Berdly/Noelle and Kris. That being, Kris doesn’t try. And they do amazing.

How? You try, and you do awful. In comparison. Of course, you should never compare yourself to others, but it’s hard not to when all your efforts are being put to waste.

You don’t actually hate them. There’s just a mild, growing dislike for them that’s made ten times more obvious when they’re in slight proximity to you. But it’s not just because they’re naturally smart, talented, maybe a bit charming–

But, there’s the little things too.

Like the way they look at you. Especially when you’re with Berdly.

It’ll be minutes before class; they’ll arrive fashionably late or on the dot, not that you’re paying attention, and their gaze just lingers on you for a second longer than anyone else. You’ll be ‘listening’ to blue boy spew what you’d consider nonsense, but you’d look up out of instinct from the door being opened. And do you know what kind of look they give?

The one that says damn, looks rough.

They’re so lucky they don’t have a study partner (folding the worksheets into a tower with susie doesn’t count). And the audacity to look down on you because you need one? The ego that human has is beyond this world.

And that’s not all.

During work periods, when they’re not destroying the classroom with Susie, they’re napping. As if saying yeah, I get an extra two hours of sleep while you tried to pull an all nighter but passed out three hours in.

Sometimes you can feel their feet nudging your chair. Or hear their small, faint snores. Or the scratch of their black, chipped fingernails on their desk. Or–

And that’s not all!

They have the nerve to ask Noelle for pencils when Noelle is your designated pencil lender. It’s like they want to steal all her pencils so there’s nothing left for you–

…

Are you being petty?

Of course not! These are reasonable, realistic accusations to make about someone, especially with the ample amounts of evidence you have.

They wish the worst for you, so you wish the worst for them.

Totally.

~*•*~

It’s another day of group work. Miss Alphys had overexplained how she’d watched a show where teamwork created unity and had immediately zipped her mouth shut.

With groups of two and three, you’re with Berdly and Noelle. No surprise there, right?

Your teacher has given you chart paper that’s way too big for your desk, as well as mostly dried-up markers. Noelle has this really weird hack where she can instantly revive them, but it’s far too complicated for you to even bother trying to understand.

Most groups actually don’t have functioning markers, so Miss Alphys seems to give up and says you can use pencil, too.

While Noelle and Berdly sift through their notes – arguing what parts are relevant for your group’s given topic (if arguing meant Noelle suggesting something and Berdly morphing it into his own idea) – you’re the writer.

You feel confident enough to go straight with marker, but Berdly insists you write it all with pencil first and trace over it later. Like a toddler.

Okay. Sure.

A few minutes pass, and Noelle begins reading off what you need to write down. Easy enough.

You’re mindlessly listening, hand smooth and controlled to keep it neat, when you suddenly stop.

Because you’re not listening to Noelle anymore. She’s actually gone silent.

You’re listening to Kris, who’s standing right next to you.

Now you want to shield away like a toddler.

“Got a pencil?” They ask effortlessly.

Damn pencil stealer.

Noelle nods. “Oh– yeah. Just let me… find my–”

She’s twisting every which way, searching for her pencil case, but you remember clearing the tops of your desks to make way for the chart paper.

She’s not going to find it, is she?

You don’t bother keeping up with the conversation, turning Noelle’s laptop to view the notes she’s highlighted; the ones she was reading to you. Kris is still as a statue, but you can feel the heat radiating from their body.

Ew. Is that creepy to think?

…

You’re a bit skittish now.

You will your hand to stop shaking as you continue writing.

Another minute goes by. It’s the longest minute of your life. Even Berdly’s telling Noelle to give up, piled under stupid gamer metaphors.

But Kris isn’t leaving.

…

Fine!

They win this time.

You stop writing mid-sentence, stretching your arm to jab the pencil towards their face.

“Just let them have this one, Noelle.”

She seems a bit confused as to why you’re talking to her, but gesturing to them. You’re not too sure either! All you know is you’d much rather talk to her than them.

They seem to give a face of slight doubt from the way Noelle reassures them. “It’s fine, Kris! We can just use the marker.”

“No, we cannot!” Berdly argues. But it’s too late.

Kris’ digits wrap around the wood, barely brushing your own. You can’t help but notice they’ve got chilly fingers–

Not important.

The marker calls to you now. Even if Berdly shrieks otherwise.

~*•*~

So you tried pulling another all nighter. Chugged half a carton of milk because you thought that since milk typically goes in coffee, there has to be some sort of energy boost associated with it. Didn’t work. Kinda stupid too, considering one google search would’ve told you it does the exact opposite. But it wasn’t warm, so you thought it’d be different. Like a reverse sleep agent. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

Not only is your neck sore from awkwardly passing out over your desk, but you’re also going to be late. Well, you are late.

You’ve never sped down the halls like this before. There’s only a few kids still chatting, uncaring of the warning bell, but most of them are gone.

It’ll be fine, you ration as your bag nearly falls off your shoulder. One last quick turn, and–

“HuuAH–”

You slam into someone as you cut the corner, letting out the most unattractive sound imaginable; a mix between a huh and an ah. Something falls on the floor, but you’re too distraught to look down.

You’re about to slap your palm to your mouth out of embarrassment, but you realize your back leg lost its footing. You’re falling backwards. Quickly.

Your arms flail behind you as you squeeze your eyes shut.

This is gonna hurt. Bad.

Brace brace brace–

Brace…?

…

You’ve stopped falling.

But you don’t feel the bruising impact…?

There’s two hands on your shoulders, righting you to your feet. They’re soft, but stable. You shiver when the coolness seeps through your clothes.

There’s a breath on your cheek, a warm contrast to their palms. You feel so close, you can’t help but creepily take a sniff. They smell sweet. Like apples. And pine. There’s something so familiar about it, but you can’t put your finger on it.

And you kinda just… want to keep breathing it in. Bottle it. You’d love to smell something so… pleasant every morning–

“You okay?”

Your eyes burst open. You may have gotten an aneurysm.

Of course, your knight in shining armour is none other than Kris.

Their grip on your shoulders loosens, but you’re very aware of the fact that they don’t step away. It seems like they’re almost scanning you. You nearly twitch.

Then, they…

…mutter your name as a question.

Oh.

You squint your eyes in confusion. In… disbelief?

You don’t think you’ve ever heard them say it before.

…

And you hate how much you want to hear it again.

Their voice doesn’t sound as monotone and mumbly up close. Just soft. Very soft, from the way their tongue wraps around your name like a prayer–

Nope. Keep moving!

With such a confession now being buried into your very soul for no one to hear, you become acutely aware of how close you are.

“I–” you stutter, tripping over your own feet to make some distance. “T-thanks! I mean, sorry–”

They barely react. You wouldn’t have noticed the slight raise to the corner of their lip if you weren’t staring so intensely at their face. It’s to show no weakness, you tell yourself.

And your eyes drift upwards, to their strikingly beau– average eyes. Red? Pshh. You see that… everywhere. Like, on… uh– that one… guy…

Bail. You’re being an idiot! Go. Now!

“Okay!” You grin like a maniac, swerving around them like a car in traffic.

You swear you hear a small chuckle as you round to your locker, making your eyebrows furrow automatically like some sort of rudeness detector. And you can’t have them thinking you’re some joke, so you snap into an immediate U-turn. Just to be met with an empty hallway.

That damn zombie ghost hybrid.

But your eye catches something on the surprisingly pristine floors. You can’t help but approach it; the shape being all too familiar.

It’s a pencil.

Kris’ pencil.

~*•*~

You try not to think about the fact that you know this is Kris’ pencil and not Noelle’s, because that’s sorta creepy, right? Noelle’s pencils are always themed (Christmas, of course), perfectly sharpened, and in peak condition. You never believe she’s ever used any of the pencils she’s lended you because they look so fresh.

This pencil? It’s atrocious.

There’s nothing horribly wrong with it, like, for example, Susie’s pencils (which are usually snapped in half, chewed to oblivion, and found on the ground). It just looks very used. Which is unbelievable, considering you’ve never seen them use it ever. Not that you’re keeping track.

It’s got no eraser; the ferrule was squeezed to push as much of the remaining eraser out as possible. That might be a bite mark? The orange paint’s been scraped off the edges. The lead end is dull and the grey colour has smudged onto the wooden tip.

Also, what kind of maniac brings nothing but a beaten up pencil to class, courtesy of their pant pocket? You’d think with a mother like Toriel, they’d be swimming in school supplies. Y’know, like a pencil case?

You spin it between your fingers.

Why’re you still holding it? Why didn’t you just leave it on the ground?

Why’re you even debating what to do with it? Throw it out.

You brush your thumb along the chipped paint. You’re touching something that belongs to Kris. You’re touching a place that Kris’ fingers have definitely touched. And that shouldn’t make your neck heat up the way it just did.

You pause.

You hold the pencil to your nose and sniff. Of course it doesn’t smell like apples, you creepy idiot.

~*•*~

Susie’s been in the bathroom for thirty minutes.

Kris watches Alphys scurry back and forth in the front of the classroom, nervously debating what to do next. “I d-don’t understand what she might be… doing i-in there that would take this long. I-is she okay?”

“Maybe she FELL IN! HAHA!”

No one graces Snowy with anything. Not even a cough.

“W-well… I can’t– shouldn’t leave a student u-unattended for this long. It’d be nice if a-anyone would volunteer to s-search for her–”

Berdly leaps onto your desk dramatically. “Worry not, Miss Alphys! I shall find the wretched beast, only tamable by a valiant knight such as myself!”

Your notes, which Berdly currently plants himself on, fly to the floor like leaves when he bolts into the hallway. They witness you groan, clutching your face in your hands.

“...He knows he’s not a-allowed in the girl’s bathroom… right?”

Noelle almost instinctively rises. “I’ll, um, watch over him, Miss Alphys. And find– S-susie.”

Noelle’s face turns beet red as she dashes after him, closing the door much more smoothly than Burghley. They ignore how the rest of the class resumes chatting, resting their head on their desk. It’s weirdly loud, especially with the two most noisy people absent.

Susie barely looked conscious before asking to go. They think she was half asleep, likely intending to leave the walls of the classroom and not return. Wherever she is, she’s not coming back.

Their eyes close, almost perfectly comfortable, when they feel something brush against their leg.

They lift their head, immediately met with your very stiff back. You’re really still. Probably not breathing.

They lean back to glance at their feet. One of your pages rests perfectly on their shoe. Without thinking, they pinch it between their fingers and scan it on their lap.

It’s just some random worksheet Alphys assigned to them a few days ago, marked courtesy of Berdly. They can tell by the obnoxiously long pointers and tiny checkmarks, as if embarrassed to say you did something right.

They always wondered why you bothered with him. Why not go to Noelle? She’d be a much better tutor; much more uplifting, helpful, useful. Anyone would be a better option.

Hell, even Kris would be a better option.

They mindlessly poke you with the corner of your worksheet, half-assedly trying to get your attention. You tilt your head back just enough to make slight eye contact.

“You dropped this,” they offer.

And there’s just something about your eyes. The way you looked at them in the hallway when you bashed into them. The way you’re looking at them right now.

They’ve never talked to you before. Not once, not until yesterday. And they barely said anything.

Yet, you’re looking at them like you’re looking at nothing but them.

There’s something that swells deep within their chest. Makes them feel weird. Warm. A bit uncomfortable.

You never used to look at them like this before. You always seemed in a constant state of pissed off. Not that they really cared; it was none of their business.

It wasn’t until the test scores came in, and you followed a similar pattern. You’d very unsubtly glance at their percent and scoff like they’d just insulted your entire family. That’s when they realized your mood was specific to them.

Again, they didn’t really care. You can feel whatever you want. They won’t stop you.

But now, they talk to you once – randomly, in a scene straight out of some sappy romance movie – and your entire persona’s been flipped.

You somehow seem even more uncomfortable. But not a bad uncomfortable; like a flustered uncomfortable. They’re not sure if it’s better or worse.

Did they make you feel weird when they caught you? Should they have just let you fall? Probably.

They’re still holding the sheet, arm getting a bit tired from supporting itself. They have to rustle the sheet, just slightly, for you to snap out of whatever daze you’ve put yourself in and take the paper with a squeaky thank you.

You twist awkwardly, facing the front once again. Eventually, you seem to refocus, sorting your papers in some intricate, over-the-top way Berdly probably taught you.

They realize they’re still staring at the back of your head when you itch it thoughtfully. You’re talking to yourself; planning out your thought process for the next problem, mumbling small quips to the comments Berdly wrote in your feedback (stuff they doubt you’d ever say to his face)...

They have to stop themself from straight up laughing at one of them. Only so their classmates don’t think they’re crazier than they’ve already presented themselves to be.

It feels almost magical the way they’re able to tune out everything around them and listen to your commentary.

They barely register their eyes closing. They’re too busy focused on the smile etched into your voice.

~*•*~

It’s been a few long days of unbearable work periods, pretending to do the worksheets you’ve all been assigned by Miss Alphys (you’re three pages behind). You were going to catch up at home, but that’s been a disaster, too. There are so many ample distractions that have kept you from even starting. Like the texture of the carpet. Or Kris’ pencil– not Kris’ pencil.

Okay. Maybe you’ve been glancing at it every once in a while from where it sits in your pencil holder. Maybe you’ve used it once or twice, despite the lead being actual ass cheeks.

What is wrong with you? Nothing even happened!

Did feeling their stupid hands on your shoulders and being close to their face really do that much? You don’t even like Kris! You’d be happier in the kindergarten class!

…

You’re jealous of their natural academic talent. You know that; you’re not that much of an egomaniac to think otherwise. But… maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it always has been.

Maybe deep down, you actually… admire… Kris. For being so stupidly effortlessly smart. Eugh.

And maybe you just needed a small excuse to indulge in your admiration. Like getting a good look at their face.

Not that it matters, anyways!

A small admiration for a fellow classmate. You admire Noelle, too! No different! You admire many people. Maybe even Berdly!– okay not Berdly.

It’s. No. Different.

You’ll return the pencil tomorrow.

You’re not even sure why you’re giving it back. You just don’t want to stare at it anymore. It’s just a reminder of the lack of effort they put into everything. Which is totally rubbing off on you, considering the absolute flunk you’ve found yourself in.

So the next day comes. And your hands are way too sweaty.

You’re a punctual ten minutes early, for some reason. Definitely not a good idea, considering now you’ve got ample time to just think about how to do this.

“Hey, you left your pencil on the ground a week ago and I kept it and wanted to give it back–”

No. Too much info.

Should you lead with something?

“Hi Kris. How was your weekend? Oh? That was days ago? Oh? I’m being weird? No! This is how I always act–”

…

Why’re you trying to explain yourself?

How about…

“Here. You dropped this.”

Solid, straight to the point, easy. Done. Okay. Okay.

The bell rings. Thankfully, Berdly has occupied himself with Noelle (sorry, Noelle. Valiant sacrifice). But Kris is nowhere to be seen.

Another ten minutes pass. Nothing.

Miss Alphys is about to take attendance, waiting extra long in case more people show up, when Susie busts through the door, Kris not far behind her. They both look a bit… battered. Small scratches litter their hands, some on their faces.

“Kris! S-susie, you’re b-both here.”

“Yeahh, we had to ward off the leftover raccoons. Just don’t know when to quit. Would’ve definitely followed us into the school.”

The class goes silent. You can barely hear Noelle giggling to herself.

“...R-raccoons?”

“What? You’ve never seen ‘em behind the school? Near those big bins?”

Miss Alphys breaks into a sweat. “You mean… you and Kris were… d-dumpster diving?”

“Eh, more like dumpster rummaging. Diving is for the weekends.”

Susie waltzes to the back, leaving behind a very… interesting odor. Like a mix between old school lunches and paint. It’s not pleasant whatsoever.

Miss Alphys eyes their cuts. “D-do you need to see the school nurse?”

“Nahh, we’ll be fine. Right, Kris?”

Kris, who’s still standing at the doorway, nods with a quick yup and moves to take their seat.

You can’t help but eye them intensely, bracing yourself for the same odor. But it never comes.

They radiate the smell of fur. Not like wet dog, rotting grass type of fur. But like a cat, where you know they haven’t taken a bath in months but their self-cleaning makes them smell like an odd flower anyways. And, of course, apples. Sweet, sweet apples.

They stare at you as they approach. Then, they glance at Berdly. Then back at you.

Wow, they’re good at holding a stare. You’re sure you could cook an egg on your face.

You grip Kris’ pencil harder in your lap, immediately pretending your eraser is the most interesting thing in the world.

You take a deep breath as they pass you. Yeah, furry apples.

Miss Alphys announces what you already know; it’s another work period for the upcoming test. This unit is more self-taught, anyways, which is both good and bad. Good because you have more time in class to work, bad because the self-taught aspect is usually replaced with Berdly-taught.

Susie immediately gets Kris’ attention with a flying eraser (likely meant to hit them but instead it skims your cheek and hits Berdly square in the head), commenting on how badass their scars look.

Okay. Before they both somehow find another excuse to leave, you need to do it. Now.

Just turn around.

Your body stiffens up.

C’mon! Just pretend you absolutely hate their guts like you did before.

You brace yourself.

Do you turn slowly? Or quickly? What if you scare them? Oh, who are you kidding. You couldn’t scare them even if you tried.

You turn. You can feel how awkward you probably look.

Susie’s the first one to notice you, since she’s facing you. You’ve never seen her look so confused before. You open your mouth to speak, but your voice dies in your throat when Kris notices Susie’s perplexed expression and turns to the culprit.

Yeah.

Susie’s right. They do look badass with all those scars.

Shut up. You wish you could just stop thinking.

Kris never shows any emotion, ever. Which is why you’re so shocked when you watch their eyes widen, just slightly.

“Hi,” you wince at your shaky voice.

“Hi,” they echo.

You’re staring.

“You–” you clear your throat awkwardly. “You dropped this?”

Why’d you say it like it was a question?

As if there was a delay in your actions, it takes you a second to realize you need to give Kris the pencil you’ve been gripping so hard it might snap. So you stiffly offer it, acutely aware of your moist palms and probably moist pencil.

They watch it as if they don’t trust it– don’t trust you. They just got here; they’re probably wondering when the hell they dropped it. Explain yourself!

“It’s yours,” you say stupidly, as if that wasn’t already implied. “You dropped it a few days ago–”

No! That’s exactly what you weren’t supposed to say!

Your mouth clamped shut. Their expression doesn’t change one bit; they’re giving you a poker face. Y’know who’s expression does change?

Susie’s.

She gives you an incriminating, almost knowing smile. You want to crumple in your seat.

“A few days ago? You couldn’t have given it back earlier?”

And you do the worst thing you could’ve done. You launch into defense mode.

“Well, okay, but returning a pencil isn’t exactly at the top of my priority list. I have tests to study for and homework– And I was going to, but class has been busy, and I’ve been busy, and I’m sure you’ve been busy… with…”

You insinuate to the whole dumpster diving thing.

“Hey, Kris?” She gets their attention, playful mockery dripping in her tone. She gestures to the pencil now in their hand. “How long’d that take? Three seconds?”

Yeah, she has a fair point.

You’re about to debate between cowering under Kris’ intense glare or give another stupid excuse that Susie of all people could probably pick apart, when the screeching caw of a bird catches your attention.

He didn’t actually caw. Though, it did sound like it.

“Don’t busy yourself with the lower class when I’ve already maxed out my level of genius.”

You’ve never taken a Berdly beckoning so quickly before.

You give an almost manic smile to the most blank face you’ve ever seen. “Okay have fun!” Have fun? “Bye!”

Totally taking the chicken route, you scoot your chair further from the pair and way closer to the front. You can feel both their eyes stabbing you from behind.

Berdly seems unimpressed but ultimately (some form of) proud of you for being beckoned like a dog. Noelle, who’s sitting next to you by proxy, would have stars in her eyes if this were a cartoon.

“You were talking to Susie?” She leans forward, just slightly. “What were you talking about? What was she saying? Did she say anything funny?”

Your eyes gravitate to the chalkboard and you start to zone out, trying to calm your heartbeat and reduce the heat from your face. But a voice cuts through your rushing thoughts.

“Hey Kris. I think you have an admirer.”

Your eye twitches. You turn just in time to see Susie punching Kris’ shoulder and laughing. But Kris isn’t laughing.

Their eyes are on you. And you can make out just the faintest flush on their cheeks.

You feel all your hard work go down the drain as your face heats up again.

Damn it.

~*•*~

You’ve never felt so hyper aware in your life. It’s like everything you do now has an ulterior motive.

You used to be so on top of everything you did. Not that you were amazing at it; that’s what Berdly is for. You’d scooch your chair just enough to reach his desk (but far enough to keep your much needed distance), sitting on either side of him. Now, you sit in front of him.

Why? Because it gives you a good view of Kris. And a good view of the rest of your classmates. That’s the important part! It’s about knowing your competition.

Not that it really matters, of course. You’re here to work diligently and efficiently.

Berdly’s showing you some random function and what pieces of the graph correlate to what parts of the equation. It’s covered in a bunch of gamer lingo, but he’s ‘trying’ in his own way. You’re nodding along to him, a bit too focused on pretending to pay attention for you to actually process anything he’s saying.

Oh well. Looks like you’re skimming decade-old YouTube videos for tutorials later.

If you start listening now, you won’t understand a thing. It’s like jumping midway into a book; there’s no context for what the hell’s going on. And God forbid you use any intuition skills to piece together what he’s saying. The reason you’re sitting here with him is because you have none.

Plus, you’d rather look conveniently behind him at a certain duo.

Kris has turned their chair to face Susie, so all you see is their brown tuft of hair. From where you’re sitting, you can barely peak over their shoulder to view the array of stuff on her desk. They’ve got pencils, crayons, pencil crayons, and chalk (ironic) that’re nearly rolling off the edge.

Susie whispers something as she continues dumping more drawing material from the plastic bag she got from who knows where, Kris nodding in confirmation.

They subtly scan the class – an action you’d likely not notice if you weren’t ogling – twisting their body uncomfortably.

You seem to make eye contact much more frequently as of late.

Their eyes linger on you, just enough for you to see their eyes poking through their bangs.

You really like their eyes. Yeah, you’ll admit it now. Do all humans have red eyes? Or is Kris just apple-themed?

And they smile at you. It’s a small one, sure, but is anything Kris does anything more than small?

They quirk their head, like a cute bird. They’re probably so confused as to why you’re resting your chin against your palm, sighing like some corny schoolgirl staring at her crush.

For some reason, the shame leaves you when you ogle at them.

And it returns tenfold when they break eye contact.

Oh wow, you’re such a loser.

You follow where they’ve set their eyes – on a certain teacher who’s engrossed in the school computer, watching something she’d probably immediately alt+tab from if someone snuck up on her. May or may not (definitely may not) be school related.

They seem to get all the confirmation they need, slipping their hand against their leg, pulling something out of some mysterious pocket that you can’t make out. It isn’t until they lay it on the desk when you realize it’s a knife.

Susie seems to raise an eyebrow unamused, not nearly as shocked as she should be. She nods as they grip it confidently and start… scraping the crayons to make fine powders.

Huh.

You figure they’re doing something stupid, so you try to tune back into Berdly’s explanations. After about three seconds, you realize you don’t have the energy, so you end up zoning out for a bit.

Miss Alphys gave a new worksheet today, so you definitely need to catch up on that. The one Berdly’s going over is yesterday’s worksheet, on which you got half the questions wrong. No need to panic; you have all of tonight to figure out the logic.

There’s also the one before that. You can probably squeeze that one in tonight too. There’s also that workbook she handed out a while ago. Apparently Berdly claims some of the questions are of your ‘skillset’, so maybe you can fit those in sometime tomorrow. Work periods aren’t exactly work periods for you anymore, moreso tutoring sessions that you don’t think are useful in the moment, but actually end up helping you on the homework.

Doesn’t make them any more fun to sit through, though–

Berdly stopped talking. Oh no.

Did he notice? No, no. He’s not looking at you.

You follow his spiteful gaze to Susie, who’s planted herself right next to Noelle’s desk; hands in her pockets, leaning back casually. On instinct, you glance over to Kris. They’re already pinning you down with their eyes; the raise of their eyebrows is a clear oh crap.

“–and it’ll be cool. Trust,” you hear Susie finish.

Noelle’s definitely too busy listening to her voice to understand a word she said.

“Oh– huh?” Something clicks in the deer’s head, cheeks glistening red. “It’s not mine. But I can get mine from my locker? If… you want?”

Nevermind. She heard something. What’s not hers?

“Nah, it’s fine. Who's this, anyways?”

Curse your eavesdropping addiction. What’re they talking about?

Then Noelle says your name, gesturing to you like it’s the funniest thing in the world, still staring at Susie.

Your what? Your what?

You’re already sweating and you don’t even know what’s happening.

You blindly stare up at Susie, who’s already inspecting you like fresh meat.

Berdly squaks, flailing his arms around animatedly. “I’m afraid not, Susan! I have claimed ownership over the water, as I own the owner who therefore has ownership over it!”

“What does that even mean? You don’t own me,” your eyebrows furrow. At least that clears up what she wants.

Despite that, Susie still decides to ask you directly.

“Hey. We’re doing– uh, a science project. And we–” Something clicks in her head and she grins villainously. You don’t like it.

“Kris needs your water for it. Mind lending a hand? Er, a bottle?”

You freeze. Berdly’s about to say something more, so you squeeze his beak shut.

One glance at Kris reveals they’ve turned back around, facing away from you. They’re scraping more aggressively than before, from the looks of their quick arms.

“C’mon,” Susie offers an all-too-friendly smile. You’re unnerved. “We’ll give it back faster than you gave back Kris’ pencil–”

Okay! That’s enough of that!

“Sure!” You announce, snatching your water bottle from Noelle’s desk and shoving it in her face, hoping to shut her up.

Susie seems pleased you’ve agreed, but there’s something else in her eyes. A glint of mischief.

“Wait one sec.”

She smoothly spins to face Noelle once again, now mumbling something you can’t make out. Noelle seems beyond flattered for some reason, proceeding to offer Susie her entire pencil case and the few pencil crayons scattered across her desk with an ecstatic smile.

Coming back to you, she shrugs. “Actually, could you bring it over for me?” She gestures to her newly acquired materials. “Hands are full.”

You squint your eyes. “Just put the pencil crayons in the case, man.”

“Can’t get the zipper,” she’s already begun walking away. “Hands are full.”

You sigh, a bit more dramatically than you actually feel, and release Berdly. You ignore when he starts going off and follow Susie.

She’s just about sat down when Kris starts talking, and you register you’re not on your A-game when you realize you’ve been duped. Your realization comes through the squeeze in your chest at the sound of their voice.

“I was trying to tell you that wasn’t–” they notice Susie’s not holding the water bottle. You are. And their voice dies, just a bit. “–Noelle’s.”

You’re still standing. They have to tilt their head up to look at you. You feel your stomach churn at their expression.

Their expression.

You want to dissect it. There’s so much and yet so little to see.

Shock, confusion, amusement, something else. Something else. What is that?

…

You don’t think you’ve blinked for a minute.

You feel so unbelievably pinned to the spot. Is it bad you kinda like it?

Susie’s the one to clear her throat, reminding you that you’re still alive and here with a purpose.

“Right,” your voice is hoarse. You lift the bottle in your hand. “What’s this for, again?”

It’s only then when you notice the giant accumulation of rainbow powders that sit in the center of the desk, all the corpses of school supplies circling around it like some insane campfire.

You can hear the smile in Susie’s voice. “Told you. Science experiment.”

She dumps the rest of Noelle’s hoard in front of Kris, who immediately gets to work. They glide the blade effortlessly along the tips of the pencil crayons; thumb controlling the movement. You’re maybe staring just a bit too hard at their hands–

“Do you think this’ll explode?”

Kris shrugs. “Hopefully.”

You let out a laugh before you can stop yourself.

They’re trying to hide it, but you can make out the small squiggle of their mouth turning upwards.

It takes about a minute, but Kris has gone through about three quarters of Noelle’s stuff. Susie told them not to completely ruin the supplies, to which Kris raised an eyebrow at. Susie made up some random excuse about it being someone else’s property and Noelle will give her shit for it, but you can’t help but jokingly scoff internally. That fact never stopped her before.

You’re still stupidly standing next to Susie’s desk like you’re lost. You don’t realize you’re getting a bit tired until you start fidgeting, switching between each foot.

Susie notices. “You okay there?”

“Yeah, I’m just–” you adjust again, tilting slightly to rest your hip on the desk. “Yeah.”

She, to your surprise, picks up on context clues, and you can just see something formulating in her brain when she peers at Kris, then you.

She tips back, as if she’s about to say the most casual thing in the world.

“Just sit on Kris’ lap. They’re pretty much like that one dude– Santa Claus. Since they radiate jolliness and positivity. Y’know, especially with the knife.”

It’s a joke. You can tell from the way Susie howls right after.

But you’re not laughing. You actually might pass out just thinking about it. Did you even hear the second half of that? Probably not!

Kris’ lap? Feeling their chest against your back? What if you start sliding off, and they have to wrap their arms around your stomach–

You brush your hand against your cheek as if you were wiping something away, but you’re just trying to feel how hot you are. It’ll help you translate to how red your face is.

You don’t even notice Kris freezing, too. Their movements, still as a pond.

You’ve now decided the ceiling is very fascinating; all those indents, oh wow! Is that a stain? You’d crawl into the vents if you could!

“What?” Susie sneers, defending herself against Kris’ probably violent stare. “I’m just tryna help!”

They brush their sleeve against their face, trying to rub the colour off their cheeks.

Oh, and you’re staring again.

The colour’s just so entrancing. You’ve never seen Kris truly off their guard.

It’s… really cute.

But there’s something else. They’re thinking. Hard. Smoke coming out of their ears, rusty gears turning, all of it.

They’ve decided something, and so you wait.

Kris shuffles, sitting so they’re hanging off their chair, leaving half of it vacant–

Oh.

Oh no.

“Sit,” they pat the empty half once, then return to scraping with their knife.

Susie’s got a hand over her mouth, not-so-obviously trying to hide her tear-inducing laugh.

Sitting next to Kris? And not in an oh we’re kinda close and maybe we’ll brush a bit– no. Like, flushed against each other. Spreading body heat. Not being able to look in each other’s general direction because you’ll end up nose-kissing–

Oh my God.

You don’t want to deny them. That’s just rude, right? They offered. You’re not just accepting because you want to feel their sweater with your own hands. No.

You don’t bother saying anything, because your soul might leave through your esophagus if you open your mouth.

So you scooch next to them, stiffly sliding until you’re just touching the chair. You might as well be squatting.

But you didn’t give your legs a break from standing just to make them squat, right?

You scooch a bit more. You’re maybe a quarter on.

When their arm adjusts to get a better grip on their next victim, you feel them brush against your own.

You swallow. It goes down very slowly. Very painfully.

Just rip the bandaid off.

You usher yourself closer maybe a bit too fast, okay a lot too fast and you end up nearly slamming yourself into their side. They still.

…

They’re very warm.

Definitely not as warm as your malfunctioning body, but it’s really nice.

You try not to think about the fact that they’re still not moving. Was that too much? You’re thinking about it. You should just fling yourself to the floor and crawl under the tiles–

“You’re really warm,” they mumble, replicating your thoughts back to you like a mind reader.

You’re on autopilot now. If you weren’t, you’d likely start laughing hysterically.

“Am I? Didn’t notice. Must be my natural insulation and heating unit.”

For some reason, your default is humor. But it worked, because they’re laughing softly.

They’re laughing.

You made them laugh.

Oh, you need to hear them laugh again. Right now.

A voice interrupts your thoughts. To be honest, you forgot you were in the classroom.

“Better?” Susie asks with an incriminating smile. “That was painful to watch.”

You’re not sure why, but you feel more confident now. “Hey. I’m the one with the water, remember? Don’t insult me unless you wanna cancel the science fair.”

“Of course. Sorry, boss.”

Kris shakes their head to themself as you and Susie start to bicker. You notice them switch hands after nudging your side one too many times; your curiosity starts to spiral.

Oh, they’re mixed handed!

…

That would’ve pissed you off a week ago.

It doesn’t take long for Kris to finish scraping the last bits of pencil crayon. They both begin forming the collection of powder into a giant mountain, as if this was just a part of the plan. You don’t question it. Out loud, anyways.

While Susie creates a little divot in the top, Kris turns expectantly to you. Which would’ve been fine (it wouldn’t, you would’ve cowered under their gaze anyways) if they weren’t an inch from your face.

“Then you pour it on top,” they instruct, as if this proximity was completely normal and okay.

The movement makes your eyes zone in on their lips. You didn’t mean to! It’s just– eyes naturally gravitate to change!

And they notice. Oh boy do they notice.

You thought they turned red before? This time, their ears burst into flames. They’re somehow able to stop it from spreading, but it concentrates right across their cheeks and nose.

You applaud them for their self-control; you probably look like you just ran a marathon. Maybe the rest of your body will shut down from all the blood leaving it and rushing up your neck.

Once you calm down just a tad, you’re left identifying every shade of red in their eyes. Your self-control has left alongside your dignity.

You’re an actual idiot. You wanna know why? It’s such a stupid thought.

Do you want to know what your first thought is?

…

I really

want to

lean in

right now.

…

“Ahem.”

You both immediately break away. You might’ve gotten whiplash from the way your head snaps in the opposite direction.

Susie nearly cries your name from how much she’s holding it in, but she keeps her composure.

“You’re up,” she clutches her mouth like she’s about to throw up.

Your hands quiver as you uncap your water bottle, splashing just a bit too much water into the divot due to your pumping adrenaline. It pours over the edge like a volcano.

Susie instantly gets to work mixing it all like some sort of messed up baking concoction. The water becomes discoloured, staining her hands in the process.

Speaking of hands, Kris is suffocating their knife in a death grip. Might kill someone, actually.

Stop staring at their hands.

“What’s with the bottle, anyways?” Susie peeps at you for a second, then back to the concoction.

You raise an eyebrow, clearing your throat. “What about it?”

“Why’s it on Noelle’s desk?”

“Oh,” you sigh, as if expecting something much worse than that. “Because there’s no space on Berdly’s.”

“‘No space’?”

“Worksheets,” you answer simply.

Susie fake gags. “Gross.”

“Yeah. We’re going over stuff from the last unit. Apparently, you need stuff from that to understand stuff from this.”

Susie already looks confused. “Don’t look at me, I don’t even bother with that stuff.”

“With school?”

You give the obvious answer, but she takes the opportunity to jab at you anyways. “With Nerdly.”

“He’s making you do more than you need to.”

For some reason, Kris’ voice surprises you.

(And not just because they’re pretty much caressing your eardrum with their voice.)

“How so?”

“Don’t do every worksheet we’ve ever done. Just do the important ones.”

You cross your arms, ignoring how it brushes theirs slightly. “And how am I supposed to know which are important if I don’t know any of it?”

“You won’t know asking Berdly. Ask Noelle.”

“Noelle?” You instinctually glance at Susie, who’s become very focused on squishing the soggy powder into a ball. “Like hell her mom would ever let me come over to study one-on-one. She barely knows me; I’ve talked to her, like, twice. And it felt like she wanted to kill me with her gaze alone.”

They snort, and you remember you’re talking to Kris and you immediately smile like a giddy loser.

God, what a pretty sound.

With the dusting of red on your cheek bones, you continue. “And plus, we’re not like that.”

Susie’s attention is immediately brought back. “Oh? And you’re ‘like that’ with Berdly?”

“I wish. Maybe then he’d stop slyly calling me an idiot.”

She wheezes as she finishes packing the wet powder into a tight ball. The colours have mended together slightly; now, it’s just streaked brown with swirls of rainbow. It’s kinda cool, actually.

“What now?” You ask, for some reason, completely on board with whatever this is.

“Well, it didn’t explode. Y’know how every good science experiment ends with an explosion?”

You’re not exactly picking up what she’s referring to. Well, not until she stands, placing the ball in the center of her desk. Your eyes widen as she cracks her knuckles.

Susie clasps her hands together, not once hesitating before she slams her fists on the ball,

You barely have time to shield your face.

Weird, rainbow-brown, sticky substance flies across the classroom. Either this stuff was made to be a projectile, or Susie’s a lot stronger than you give her credit for.

It’s coated the tiles, the desks (not just her’s, also the ones adjacent)…

It’s also all over your arms.

You try to shake the stuff onto the floor like a dog, but you halt when you feel shuffling next to you.

Kris seems to have just accepted their fate, bits of rainbow sludge coating their cheek.

You realize they’re snickering to themselves while Susie’s screeching on the floor, unintentionally rolling in the sludge that’s made it onto the floor.

You’re about to blame the dazed look on your face from the frankly toxic-smelling fumes.

…

Yeah, you think to yourself as some of their pearly whites peek through their lips. You could do this more often.

Their head turns when Miss Alphys starts gasping in confusion, but they forgot you’re both hip-to-hip. Face-to-face.

They quirk their head again with a smile, sludge dropping down their face.

But their smile vanishes.

Your hand’s started gravitating towards a large chunk.

You brush it off with your thumb before you realize what you’re doing.

And that thumb? The one that greedily caressed their warm cheekbone like some disgustingly sweet trope? It leaves behind a pink trail. Might be the colour smudge from the slime, but you swear their eyes are glistening.

Save face! Hurry!

“Sorry!–” You lean back, acutely aware of the decreasing surface area of chair you’re sitting on.

You’re falling– again!–

You try to grab onto the desk before your ultimate demise, but your hand slips right off from the water.

So, from your panicked state of mind, of course, you go for the next logical option: Kris. Digging your fingernails into their sweater, their eyes widen a fraction.

But you’re already falling, and your legs are tangling with the desk and with their own.

And you end up dragging you both to the floor.

They land on top of you with a crazy grin, and you think you might’ve passed out for a second.

~*•*~

Yeah, the knife wasn’t a good look. And the mess. Who knew Miss Alphys even considered detention as a punishment? Not you, that’s for sure.

She wasn’t even that mad; more shocked, if anything.

And since both Susie and Miss Alphys considered you an accomplice, you got roped into it too. Probably well deserved.

It takes ten minutes of sitting in silence for your teacher to combust from the pressure – making up the excuse that you’ve all probably got places to be and families to get home to – allowing you to leave.

Susie all but bolts from her seat, shoving Kris’ head and not bothering to watch if they jolt from their nap or not.

They don’t.

…

Do you wake them up?

No, no. They need their sleep.

…

You wouldn’t have hesitated with the opportunity before all this.

You forget Miss Alphys is still in the room when she awkwardly clears her throat, breaking your attention from Kris (nothing new).

You hear them twitch. You make like susie and run.

The halls are cleared empty. You’ve seen stragglers of students, but it’s never been this dead before. It’s a bit creepy how silent it is.

You find yourself in front of your locker, legs having automatically pulled you here. You must’ve forgotten to lock your locker because the opened master sits on the hook, never having clicked in place.

Your heart drops.

Inside your locker sits a lone bottle of apple shampoo.

You twitch, mouth agape.

What the hell?

You try to hide the bottle like contraband, peering down each hallway for any witnesses.

Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but it just feels… incriminating for some reason.

Susie’s down one of them, standing next to Kris. She notices you, the bottle, and snorts. She looks as guilty and culpable as possible.

Is this?–

Kris follows her eyes, landing on the bottle you’re poorly hiding. They mirror your shock to the best of their monotone ability.

They slam their locker and immediately speed walk in the opposite direction. Susie’s not even trying to hide her amusement as she follows en suite.

Susie glances back and waves at you. “See you tomorrow, apprentice!”

You wait until she turns the corner to examine the bottle more closely.

Apple…

You pop the cap. Take a whiff.

You sigh from the familiarity. It smells really good.

It smells like…

Kris.

Yeah. That’s why it feels incriminating.

…

Wait.

That means…

It can’t mean what you think it means, right?

But… what else could it…

…

Oh no.

It can only mean one thing.

One thing.

Kris knows you’ve sniffed them.

~*•*~

You’re practicing self-control.

Maybe the shampoo bottle was a bit of a wakeup call. You hope it’s that and not the approaching unit test. Actually, maybe that's more of a concerning motivation.

Test. You need to do better on this test. Above an 80 at least.

Which is difficult with this new hobby of yours.

You’ve been flunking on quizzes, not even bothering to show Berdly due to the predicted reprimand you’d get. He might as well be your mother.

The staring-at-Kris has died down. You still peek, because your restraint is that of a rubber band, and they almost always meet your eye immediately, even when you’re glancing at the back of their head.

And they smile. No hesitation.

Not good!

You need them to… give you the finger, or something. No, that wouldn’t do anything. Susie gives you the finger all the time and you just laugh instead of scowl.

It’s like they know what they’re doing.

It’s like they want you to keep looking.

No way.

Doesn’t matter. You need to stop zoning out and start listening to the beak yapping in front of you. Wait. Maybe that’s contributing to the issue.

You shuffle your chair to sit beside Berdly instead of in front of him. He’s too busy in his own head to notice. You’re getting odd flashbacks to when you’d sit like this before; when you’d purposely face your back to Kris.

It takes about five minutes for your composure to break.

You glimpse over, twisting your back enthusiastically.

They’re still for a second, but they peek, too.

Their lip curls upward.

Your head feels fuzzy.

Damn it!

~*•*~

Test day.

Alphys scrambled the seating arrangements, mostly to separate Kris and Susie, since they have a known record for cheating.

They’re sitting next to you. You look beyond terrified.

They almost want to comfort you, but wonder if that’s too much. It’s a test; it’s not that big of a deal. But they know you’re different. You think differently.

You’ve been acting differently, as of late. You haven’t reverted back to the hateful glances you used to give them, which is nice. They’re not sure why they think it’s nice.

But you’ve stopped staring as frequently. And it’s an issue for them. Is it bad they’ve gotten used to it? Is it bad that they like it?

They thought they did something wrong (stupid, right?), so they started smiling at you more often. Nothing seemed to be wrong; you still flush when they look at you. But then, you immediately revert back to your brainiac mode. Face forward, listening to Berdly.

They don’t like how the roles have reversed. Why’re they the one staring at your head?

Susie’s definitely noticed. Surprisingly, she doesn’t comment on it. Not that much, anyways.

Might be a silent apology after the shampoo. They were so ready to rip her to shreds.

…

They realize they’re studying you again. You don’t notice because you’re working through the test.

Right. Everyone’s started already.

And ten minutes have gone by, their test white as snow. They haven’t even put their name.

Eh, they’ll be fine.

~*•*~

They pretty much finished their test in under an hour.

They don’t bother looking over anything, because that’s way beyond their energy levels right now (and all the time), so they prepare to hand it in.

Berdly’s been triple-checking his answers, mumbling so loud Susie told him to shut up. Noelle’s just about finished, too. They can’t really see Susie from here, but she seems ready to hand in whatever she has and go home early.

But you? You’re stressed.

You’ve skipped half the questions, now working your way back through the ones that gave you trouble. They don’t blame you; some of the multiple choices were horribly worded. Nothing new, though.

Now you’re just blankly scanning your page, reading the words but not really reading them.

They’re fondling with the pencil in their hand. The one you gave them. It’s technically theirs, but it feels different now. Just knowing you’ve touched it makes them shiver.

…

They’re tapping the pencil on their desk before they realize they’re doing it.

It’s not exactly quiet, as the sounds of lead scraping on paper and pages being flipped kinda drowns it out. But you notice. You always notice.

They like how much you notice.

Your head hangs low as you offer them a quivering smile, almost saying I’m doomed.

One glance at a semi-busy Alphys makes up their mind.

They’re holding up a finger. You seem confused.

They phantom-write the letter B on their desk.

Your eyes widen. It clicks.

Yeah, they’ve been caught cheating with Susie, but they’ve also gotten away with it more often than not. Can’t be persecuted for the crime if you’re not caught, right?

You both follow the same pattern for the next ten minutes. You erase some of your circles to replace them with Kris’ answers. They wish they could tell you to not put that much faith into them. But from the gleaming look in your eyes, they wouldn’t have the heart to tell you so.

The written application questions are harder. At that point, they just lend you their calculator (disguised as friendly borrowing) with the answer displayed on the screen. You’re not stupid, you know the steps and the process to getting the right answer. They know that.

Which is why they can’t help but break out into a toothless grin when your face lights up from getting a matching answer.

It’s probably not great to make you rely on them like this, but they can’t deny it makes them feel almost guiltily good.

They stay with you until the bell rings, half the class already gone.

They make sure to hand theirs in first – a minute or so ahead – to quell any suspicions Alphys might have.

All she does is give Kris her signature nervous grin and they leave, not sparing a single moment. The front doors funnel out the rest of the students. They let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding.

They barely realize you’re sprinting after them until they’re outside near the bike racks.

You seem to still be running on adrenaline from the way you jump right into conversation.

“Oh my God, holy shit thankyousomuch. You don’t understand how unbelievably screwed I would’ve been if you didn’t– I would’ve aimed for a fifty, max. Passing would’ve been a luxury! I’ve just been really– out of it–”

They can’t help but ask. “Berdly being a pain in the ass?”

You’re over explaining, but they’d never stop you. “Surprisingly, no– well, not more than usual, hehe. I’ve just been tuning him out for some reason. I never used to do it– well, not this much. He’s just been too much for my brain to handle, y’know, ‘cause I’ve been spending so much time staring–”

You halt, blooming more red than before. Their heart squeezes.

“–at. Things.”

They’re definitely looking at you like you’re the most precious thing they’ve ever seen. You can’t seem to tell.

You tilt your head curiously. They realize you’re waiting for them to say something.

Their mouth is moving before they can stop it.

“If you ever need a break from Berdly, I could…”

They trail off. Unintentionally. Accidentally. They’re too busy glancing at your lips.

But you get the jest.

You’re hopping from foot to foot. “You would?– Actually, yeah. That’d be– yeah. Great, I mean. After all that, I think I’d trust you more tenfold… I’d really like that, Kris.”

…

They’ve decided they love the sound of their name on your tongue.

~*•*~

“I was actually about to go to the diner. Grab a quick bite, probably start studying for the next test. Y’know, better safe than sorry,” you start to hesitate, fiddling with your fingers. “Would you… wanna come?”

You realize they’ve processed half the things you’ve said, with the oddest expression on their face.

“Yeah,” they sigh. “That sounds good.”

It’s almost…

Like–

They’re looking at you like they’re looking at nothing but you.

…

That’s what that is.

Is that how you look? When you look at them?

Wow, you…

…

You kinda look like an idiot.

In the cutest, most adorable way.

…

You’re also a liar. You weren’t supposed to go to the diner. You were supposed to meet Berdly in the library for another impromptu studying session.

But he’s been torturing you inadvertently for the past few years, he can wait a few hours.

He can wait.

~~~

ok believe it or not ive been in a writing flunk for like two years and apparently this is what happens when ch 3/4 drops. i had a few 'why am i giggling at my screen' moments when writing it, so thats something. anyways i really hope you liked it !!!

#i need to go outside #not beating the touching grass allegations with this one #deltarune #deltarune x reader #kris dreemurr #kris deltarune #kris x reader #kris dreemurr x reader

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