Archive of Our Own

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. 

…

“Are you crying?” 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 insinuated 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.

~*•*~

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.

Huh.

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

…

They did ask… if you were crying. Even if the answer was obvious.

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.”