Archive of Our Own

“Oh my god. Have you tried the cream puffs?”

You shake your head, feigning ignorance. “Are they good?”

“Oh, man. You’re missing out.”

Your classmate pulls her friend over; a half-eaten strawberry cream puff lays unconsumed between her fingers. She holds the pastry between your eyes for you to see. “It has little bits of strawberries in the filling, and they’re– god they’re so good. And they’ve got this layer of jam between the– I think it's whipped cream, or something.”

“It sorta looks more like custard to me,” you ponder. “But tomayto tomahto. You don’t think there’s too many bits?”

“No way,” her friend pipes in. “I love the bits. Me and my dad make cream puffs sometimes and they’re always too much cream, not enough texture.”

You hum, tapping a finger to your chin. “What about the jam? Is it sweet or tart?”

“Sorta a mix, I think?”

She obviously doesn’t expect the follow up questions. She’s giving you a face. Looks like it’s time to migrate. She’s getting suspicious.

“Mkay, mkay,” you nod solemnly. 

“Why don’t you just try one?” She giggles. “I swear they’re good.”

“No, no. I’m good. I was just curious.”

You wave your goodbyes not too long after. It isn’t difficult for you to find your next test subject unknowing customer. 

The school’s hosting an orientation for all of the newly-graduated kindergarteners. Despite it being a relatively small accomplishment, the mayor and principal deemed it worthy of celebration, as they do every year. Might be one of the larger celebrations, actually.

Whether an event be so or not, you find yourself looking forward to it. Why wouldn’t you? It’s the perfect opportunity to gather information, opinions…

Feedback is what others would call it. You wouldn’t. It’s much more serious than that.

You jog up to another unsuspecting classmate, napkin nesting two puffs in his hand. “Hey!”  

“Hey,” he licks his fingers, dusted in powdered sugar. Looks like he’s had a few already. Perfect. “Do y’know what we’re supposed to be doing?”

You scan the cramped gymnasium. Everyone’s hovering around their assigned tables, distracted by deep and shallow conversation with friends and Berdly-equivalents. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be doing anything.”

“Figures. I’ve been caught with my phone, like, fifty times. It’s a non-device formal, or something.”

You look around for hawk-like teachers. “Who cares enough to take phones?”

“Ms. Toriel?”

“Really? I thought she’d be with the kiddies by now.”

“Oh, no,” he bites one of his cream puffs in half. “This was an hour ago.”

“So you’ve been distracting yourself?” Your pupils dart to the dessert.

He practically moans, eyes rolling into his skull dramatically. “Even if I wasn’t bored as hell, I’d still want to inject these into my blood stream.”

“Oh, wow,” you laugh abashedly, unable to hide your reaction. He shows you his uneaten half, expecting you to inspect the insides that you’ve seen more than a dozen times today. “What’s the jam?”

As if his mouth isn’t still half-full, he turns the puff to examine it himself. “Oh. It’s strawberry.”

“Is it sweet?”

“Yeah. It’s nice with the cream.”

“Not tarty?”

“Uh, not really. But I don’t really care.” He swallows the second half whole. “You tryna see if you should get one?”

You make a mental note to increase the tartiness next time. Add a splash of lemon juice while you’re making the jam, maybe. You were trying to go for a balance in sweet + tarty, but it seems like it might’ve leaned one way over the other. Or perhaps you could tone down the sugar in the custard? Or the shell?

He gives you a nudge, raising an eyebrow. “You can have my extra, if you want. Well, it's not really an extra, but you can have it anyways.”

“No,” you deny, not daring to take your blessing away from this sweet soul. “I’ll go get my own.”

You’re pretty happy with the responses. Despite your self-induced nitpicking, no one seems to have any issues. As you let your positive mindset get the better of you, you spot a certain trio that you’ve been avoiding.

You’re a baker, if that wasn’t obvious enough. To others, it might not be. You may just seem like you’re sweets-positive or a little too in tune with flavours, but that could be chalked up to your rather perfectionist personality. 

It’s become a trend; the staff ask if you’d be willing to scrounge up a few desserts for events – you’ve had Mayor Carol specifically request you before. Mayor Carol. If that isn’t a flex, you’re not sure what is – and you take it because you may or may not like the audience. 

Despite never openly showing nor hiding your skill, you’ve found yourself drifting to the shadows as your unknown baking persona takes the spotlight you’d rather not have. Not out of shyness or nervousness, though.

Self-doubt is a plague that corrupts all monster-and-human-kind. Perhaps you’re a tad full of yourself, but this isn’t necessarily the reason you’ve preferred the anonymity of it. Instead, you enjoy the raw, unfiltered opinions that’re shared when the creator isn’t in ear’s reach. It’s not like they know it’s you, so they let it rapid-fire when you ask. 

The system works itself out, surprisingly.

However, as of late, your system has been flawed. You get a bit pushy sometimes. Not when you get a negative opinion; you can take criticism. It’s when people lead with full neutrality. 

Very few get said reaction out of you. Very few.

Most openly admit how good your sweets are. It’s even better when they can’t articulate it into words.

Now. Onto the aforementioned trio.

You’ve never had a problem with Susie. She’ll eat absolutely anything and she’ll do it with a smile. You’re pretty sure she self-elects herself to clear out any leftovers after the events conclude. Though she doesn’t have quite a way with words, she doesn’t allow herself the restraint needed to not consume two baker's dozen in one night. Her actions speak, and they speak loud.

Noelle is her polar opposite – only ever eating one or two of your bite-sized options – but she’ll gush on and on to you if you ask. Maybe her background gives her knowledge that helps her appreciate the effort more than the average person. Either way, you look extra forward to her.

And just as two extremes require a stagnant middle ground, there’s Kris.

Kris. Krissy Krissy Kris Kris.

They’re the quiet, kept-to-themself type. You know this! You’ve known this. From the days your parents taught you to use a stove, to the days you’ve stuffed Dess and Asriel’s faces with your baked goodies. 

You don’t expect any feedback, any reaction, nothing. And yet, some dumb part of you still craves it like it’ll fuel your soul.

Do you understand what it would mean? To get an opinion from the human known for never giving an opinion to anything?

Oh, it’d be the highlight of your career.

“Susie, Noelle, Kris,” you greet casually. You’ve never been necessarily close with any of them, but you’ve learned that forced proximity with good people blooms the more simple, pleasant friendships.

The three, to your delight, have been hovering around the dessert table for the past ten minutes. You usually suggest to Toriel that your selection of desserts should be prioritized over the quantity of which were made. Variety over quantity, or something. You find it’s easier to see who likes what, what’s the most popular; stuff like that.

The extras are usually brought out in batches to discourage horfers. But it seems like the trio (specifically Susie) prefer to camp the table for the new batch. Which is then stolen of half its content to be retreated to their claimed corner of the gym.

While Noelle watches – willingly or unwillingly, you’ll never know – you’ve seen both sources of chaos take multiple of each flavour of cream puff. You think it’s per Susie’s lead… but, again, you’ll never know.

The doe welcomes you with your name, attempting (but failing) to look as inconspicuous as the other two.

The void, empty trays of what used to house cream puffs catch your eye. Susie – though offering you as friendly a smile as she can muster – possessively taps her claws against the circular steel.

“You making sure no one licks the plate before you?” You tease, cocking your head to the side.

“Duh. Actually– not right now,” she jabs a thumb to one of the exit doors. “We’re waiting for them to refill the table.”

If your math is correct, the next batch should be the last one. 

“‘Refill’ makes it sound like a service.”

“Isn’t it crazy? It’s like they’re magically appearing in the back as soon as the table’s empty.”

“Um, Susie,” Noelle snorts. “Are you sure there weren’t extras prepped in case they ran out?”

“Nah. There’s probably a million back there. I’d sneak back there myself if they weren’t guarding the doors.”

Damn. She’s going to be hella disappointed. 

Pretending you haven’t been anticipating the conversation all night, you turn to Kris. With an expression as stoic as ever, a golden blob stands out in front of their green sweater.

A single cream puff lays uneaten in their hand.

Oh no. Please don’t say they didn’t like them.

“Saving that one for later?” You try, grin faltering with uncertainty.

“If by ‘later’, you mean ‘ten minutes from now’,” Susie chimes in. “Then yes. Later.”

“I don’t think they taste better after sitting out for longer.”

“It’s not about taste. We gotta prepare for the worst.”

That piques your interest. “What’s ‘the worst’?”

Instead of taking the cream puff from the human for her demonstration, she snatches their wrist, tugging them to stand closer to you. With her free claws, she points to its brittle surface. “If their magic machine back there stops working, at least we’ll have this one left. Split it three-way, y’know?”

“Actually, I don’t need a piece,” Noelle rejects the notion, albeit not rudely. “I already had a few earlier.”

“Psh. Your loss,” Susie smirks. “More for us.”

Though she never outright says it, her desperate attempt to snake the puffs as soon as they appear and her odd backup plan for any future absences keep you greatly satisfied. Now, you just need–

“You can have it,” Kris extends the pastry to you, definitely mistaking your questions as you subtly hinting that you want it.

Or worse. They want an excuse to give it away!

Crap. If they don’t want it, to deny the gesture would be more of a nuisance on their end. 

But what if it’s just a kind act? Maybe they’re tired of your creepy-but-accidental staring? Maybe–

Susie’s dashing between the two of you before you can formulate a response a thought. “Dude! You can’t just give away our last resort!”

Her hands act as would a toddlers’; she scrambles for the cream puff, deciding that the only way she’ll get her cut is if she eats it now. Kris doesn’t fight back. Obviously.

As she rips it down the center, the filling squirts through the air like some shitty pinata. The two halves are hardly identifiable, with most of the insides having oozed out onto her fingers. While one hand pops her half between her canines, the other tosses Kris’ half back into their open palm. 

She’s shaking what should be Kris’ half’s filling onto the corpse when Toriel comes through the gym doors with a metal cart, stacks of cream puffs lining both the top and bottom shelves. 

Susie’s mouth curls. “Aw, hell yeah.”

When the goat woman begins moving the treats onto the displays, she gives Susie a stare of pure discipline.

“Make sure you leave some for your classmates, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The gym door’s barely shut before she scarfs down three vanilla, four chocolate, six lemon, and ten strawberry. Yeah, you counted. Yeah, you wanted to know for future bragging rights. Yeah, you have issues.

Her chomps pop the puffs like balloons; cream painting her face with not a care in the world. Noelle’s the one to wipe a dab from her snout, sticking the custard-jam mix between her own lips after ensuring she has no audience. You were looking.

Your attention slyly drifts to Kris, hoping they’d think you’re too distracted by the show in front of you. Lucky you; they’re as oblivious as ever.

Seeing as the backup is now destroyed (and there’s new ones to replace it), they seem to try to salvage whatever’s left in their hand. They scrape the excess filling back into the halved-puff as if it were a bowl. 

Their lips part. You couldn’t blink, even if you wanted to.

Those little human incisors brush the shell as it enters their mouth.

They take small, slow bites. You can see the indents of choux pastry flesh through their cheek, right around their molars. 

When the remaining piece is little enough, they toss the rest of it in their mouth.

And they lick their fingers shamelessly.

A deep, perverted knot forms in your stomach.

This is a professional examination! Snap out of it!

You definitely shouldn’t have queued the question in your brain while their index finger was knuckle-deep in their mouth. 

You try to say: “Was it worth the wait?”

You think you actually say: “Worth… wait?”

Thank the Angel they don’t question your odd phrasing. 

“Mhm,” they hum around their digit. “‘re good.”

Compliment or not, your hazy brain was hoping for something more. Maybe you shouldn’t try pleasing your hazy brain. It’s hazy. And very, very wrong.

“Which one should I take?” You ask, your very hazy and very wrong brain yearning for a complete, in-depth analysis on which flavours they enjoyed and why they enjoyed them and why they’d eat a million more.

To your very strong dismay, Susie decides to answer on their behalf and points to the newly-filled strawberry puff platter. “These ones are the shit.”

Noelle gasps. “Susie! This party’s for kindergarteners. What if they hear you?–”

“You sure? I haven’t seen a single kid all night,” she shovels three more into her mouth. “An’ no one’th doin’ anathin’, either. Is thi’ e’en a par’y?–”

Susie hums, interrupting her own complaints. When you blink, shell-shocked, she tosses you a cream puff despite being so possessive of one minutes ago.

“Stop standing there like an idiot and take one,” she swallows, smirking as if she’s gotten you all figured out. “You’re less begging and more creepy.”

You huff, biting into the recipe as if you haven’t tried it and a million previous versions before. 

“See? It’s good.”

Duh, it’s good. 

“No way in hell these beat your mom’s pies, though.”

No way in– huh?

Kris shrugs in response to the rather bold claim. 

“Do not–” Susie punches their shoulder. They wobble like jello. “You eat entire tins past midnight.”

You know Toriel’s a baker. Mainly specializes in pies, though. 

But you don’t think you’ve ever heard such an… interesting fact before. 

They’re sheepish; shielding their face to hide the slight tint to their cheeks.

Maybe they do like certain sweets more than others.

You just gotta figure out which ones.

~*•*~

Though you seemed like the most motivated detective on the planet, you’ll admit nothing much has changed since that day. 

You pay slightly more attention to their eating habits, when you can. Of which include lunch and outside of school. The latter is much less likely; you don’t intentionally hunt them down, or anything.

Your elbows buckle as your arms lift your body up to the window sill. You’re careful to slide the frame up without making a sound– which is rendered obsolete when you tumble onto the carpet with a thump.

It’s not like you have every waking moment to watch them. The most you can get is through natural interaction, natural encounters, natural eavesdropping. Not like it’s a common occurrence of a conversation topic.

There isn’t a distinct anything that they eat, from what you can make out. Mostly just seems like they either watch Susie eat garbage (and others), or they mooch when applicable.

You peek into the long, unfamiliar hallway to watch for any unwanted residents. Looks like the coast is clear.

Even then, the whole pie evidence is purely on Susie’s word alone. Sure, the pieces work themselves out, but who’s to say Kris isn’t horfing down whole pies to make their mother happy?

How are you supposed to go off of that? There’s a million pies to choose from. You don’t even know what type she was referring to. If you weren’t so starstruck on that fateful day, you would’ve asked. Naturally, of course.

You’re sifting through drawers and bookshelves, scanning for something that can help you. The drawer has a– yeah you’re not looking at that no thanks. But the bookshelf…

It’s got exactly what you’ve been banking on.

There’s dozens of pictures and albums from previous years. Events, festivals, good ol’ childhood photos. Absolutely perfect. 

You pull out your phone and begin skimming through the thick binders. For every scene of them eating any sort of dessert – lots of cakes, cookies, pastries – you snap a picture of the more unique-looking items.

So baked goods, cobblers, tarts. Those are some major hard-hitters, so it seems. There’s no way there isn’t one dessert in here that they’ve thought about from time to time. Nostalgia bait.

Though, you don’t want to completely rule out frozen or confections. Baby-Kris is seen with such sprinkled throughout, like having tarts topped with ice cream. You’re also sure you’ve caught them slyly eating your own of the type. It’s the little details that count.

“Hey.”

The voice makes you drop the album in a fit of panic.

Kris stands at the top of the stairs, statue-still, making you feel as incriminated as you probably look. 

Shit. You didn’t think you’d see them. 

In their own house. Mhm.

Is it deserved? Should breaking-and-entering be shamed? It’s not a robbery if you put everything back the way it was.

You’re surprised they say anything at all. You’re sure they’ve gone through an entire conversation with you without exhaling a single word. Conversation is a generous term.

Or maybe they’ve been standing there for longer than they should’ve needed to. Considering you’ve only just noticed them.

You clear your throat. “I got lost. On the way home.”

Not a single change in their expression. 

You pocket your phone. They definitely didn’t see you snapping pictures of their child-self. You should be good to go.

As smoothly as you can, you retrieve the fallen album. It nearly slips from your fingers. It might’ve started melting from how drenched it is. Or it’s from your sweaty palms. No, your palms are at a normal temperature.

You’re practically tiptoeing up to their unmoving form. 

“Okay,” you pat them on the shoulder like you’re old pals. “Bye.”

And you awkwardly sidestep around them, trekking down the stairs with triumph running through your nerves.

That went pretty well! You should be a spy!

Toriel catches you on the way to the door, glancing up from her book. “I did not know you were over! Did Kris invite you? Would you like to stay for dinner?”

“Nope! I’ve got some important business to attend to!”

She sighs all-knowingly. “Does Carol have you working so soon after the graduation, dear?”

“You could say that,” you shrug, exiting with a swift ‘have a good one’ with a level of transparency you definitely thought you could hide.

Just replace the word ‘Carol’ with ‘Kris’ and ‘working’ with ‘spying on your kid’ and it’s an exact one-to-one.

Word of mouth isn’t enough for you, as you’ve previously established. You also want their specific opinion on your desserts because it’s easier to get a gauge for what they like with your own stuff as a baseline.

No other reason, really. It’s all about technicality. And human mouths are sorta cool. It’s an innocent interest.

So seeing them eat your desserts gets you worked up a more clear idea. Of their interests. 

…it’s a part of yourself you’ll somewhat acknowledge but refuse to indulge in. For obvious reasons.

After being caught in action – with a swift, unsuspicious recovery – you decide a hands-on approach is a better idea, especially with the little but key info you’ve gained so far.

Tests, to put it bluntly.

You delicately slip the strawberry cupcake from your bag, right onto the first shelf of their barren locker. It brightens up the space, that’s for sure. With it, you leave an envelope containing the name of the dessert and flavours included. You’re a professional, it’s what you do. 

…and you like to tag your work. Make sure that even if you’re anonymous, they know it’s the same person each time. Attention whore behaviour.

You’ve been leaving a variety of goodies in their locker. Yes, lockers are locked. Yes, you stalked them until you got their combo. But they weren’t actively shielding their hands from the outside world while punching in the numbers. It’s a scary world – they should know better!

And besides. They’re the one actually eating the random stuff that’s been appearing in there. That’s more of a concern than your rather questionable techniques.

Their reactions are hard to read. Very hard. It mostly boils down to two things:

One – how long their eyes scan the dessert before taking a nibble.

Two – how long it takes for them to eat the thing whole.

Which, in bakers terms, translates to how appetizing it looks to them and how good it actually tastes. 

Some things they take forever to eat, but end up gobbling quickly. Others, they instantly take a bite and slow down from there. And yes, you wait around the corner to watch their teeth bite down expression.

Noelle might’ve caught you. She didn’t say anything, but you could feel her stare on your back. Hopefully she just thinks you’re weird, or something.

It’s about overlapping types and styles. Like how you’re doing now; a strawberry cupcake to contrast the strawberry ice cream you tried yesterday. Yeah, it was mostly melted in the hotbox that is their locker, but they slurped up the cream soup nonetheless.

Lots of flavour variety, too. They seem to like lemons and berries. Rasp, black, blue, straw… fruit-based desserts. 

And you’d like to applaud yourself on your tarts and cobblers assumption from those photos; those are by far the fastest to be scarfed down.

Now, it’s all about the specifics. Seasonings? Toppings? Crunch? No crunch? What specific type of fruit?

This is the most important thing you’ve ever done. You can’t mess this up.

~*•*~

Susie was there when Kris first discovered their, as she deemed it, ‘secret admirer’.

They don’t really bring anything to school (because school is for nerds), but their locker’s become a base of operations for the duo between classes. She was hovering over their shoulder, complaining about an assignment that she was most definitely not going to do.

It’s not like they should’ve expected the inside of their locker to look any different than it did before. That might’ve been why it broke their train of thought.

They could tell Susie noticed the little blueberry scone the moment her sentence cut short. “Woah, what’s that? You didn’t tell me you brought snacks. Can I have it?”

It takes them a second to register her voice. “‘S not mine.”

“Uh, yeah it is. It’s in your locker,” she reassures(?), pinching the pastry between two claws. “Finders keepers, right?”

Very solid reasoning.

Ripping it in half, she tosses the scone down her gullet. The second half is pressed to their mouth before they can protest.

A dollop of jam sneaks past their lips. At least the filling’s good.

As if they had any objections to begin with, they let the bread touch the flat of their tongue. And chew. Obviously.

“Holy shit, this thing’s amazing,” Susie gasps with a full mouth, speaking the thought they’re consumed with, clear as day. “Where’d you get it? I need more.”

“Not mine,” they choke between bites.

“I already told you, it–”

“I didn’t make it.”

She seems stunned that they’d even suggest such a thing. “Of course you didn’t make it. I’d be forcing you to make ‘em every day if you did. Who made it?”

“Dunno.”

“How do you not know?”

They shrug. “Dunno.”

Susie shoves them aside as she peers into their locker. Alongside the napkin that cushioned the scone, there sits a lone… damp envelope.

She seems ecstatic at the sight of it. “You didn’t even read the love letter?”

They still. The thought alone makes them nervous.

The second she steals the suspicious note, they can’t tell if they want to read it or not. A part of them wants her to rip it up. Maybe digest it. She’d probably do it if they asked.

Though, she seems rather disappointed at the inside. “Who’s ‘scone’?”

They glance at the paper, filled to the brim with flavours and descriptors. Thank the Angel. “It’s a dessert.”

“Well,” she sighs, rolling her shoulders. The paper’s tossed back into their locker. “Looks like it’s nothing– why’s the envelope slippery?”

Nothing, sure. But why their locker? Was it a mistake? They’re pretty sure they lock it. Actually, they definitely forget sometimes. Not like there’s anything worth stealing in there anyways.

With no answers, it turned back into the nothing it was labeled as. Their life went on.

Until it didn’t.

They didn’t have the guts to tell Susie it happened seven more times. It got far more specific. A creepy amount of specific. An intimate amount of specific.

They hardly batted an eye when more started appearing. They just chose not to think about it too hard. Free sweets; who could say no to that?

But then, they ate a tart a tad faster than they ate any previous desserts. Just– everything about it was near perfect. They can appreciate a good tart when they see it.

And the next three days were nothing but tarts. They weren’t complaining, per say, but…

Susie only found out at the ninth. 

“Dude, are you still getting these?” She picks up the mini apple tart, of which they were embarrassingly excited to try. “I’m starting to think you’ve got a secret admirer.”

Okay.

When you say it like that, it’s a lot more serious than it sounds. It’s not that deep.

Though, their cheekbones can’t help but redden at the thought. The attention to detail is… something. Unwarranted. Unnecessary. A tad enjoyable.

So unlike the usual attention they get. The ones that border on negative. It’s… a nice change of pace.

After heavy silent opposition, Susie decides to ignore them and declare that a bit of investigative work is in order.

Which led them here. A baking club. 

They (plus Susie) aren’t here to join, per say, but rather to take advantage of the trademarked ‘beginner’s day’. It’s an open-house style day meant for those who actually look to sign up. 

Susie had asked Noelle – rather blatantly – where to find aspiring bakers, to which she suggested the club meant for exactly that. Their best friend obviously didn’t know of its existence, judging by her ‘oh shit yeah that makes sense’. They only know about it because their mother insisted on funding it after her and a few students requested (begged for) it.

The room’s a glorified kitchen extended to the max. A few metal tables thrown around with tons of baking equipment and ingredients, all surrounded by students alike. Susie casually saunters in like she owns the place, to which they’re both instantly sent to a lone, beat up station in the corner. 

“Guess showing up late doesn’t have its perks here,” Susie grumbles, gazing longingly at the groups with student supervisors. The light flickers ironically.

They’re mindlessly people-watching when she nudges their shoulder, gesturing to someone with the mutter of a familiar name. It’s you.

You’re at the front, chatting with someone they can only assume to be the president. You somehow hear Susie’s callout despite being on opposite sides of the room.

And you seem to light up at the sight of them. The collective ‘them’? Or just them? It’s hard to tell. 

Their eyes hardly drift from your own as you pull up to their abandoned table, hands dusting off any unknown substances from the surface. “You guys here to make something kooky?”

“Nah. We’re doing detective work,” Susie outright admits. “But the free food’s a total plus. It is free, right?”

“You eat your own stuff. And, uh, are you supposed to say that out loud?”

Something clicks in her head. “You didn’t hear anything.”

You don’t seem like a gossiper anyway. Not like they’re that invested in this, ahem, plan. They’d just rather not be the topic of any spreading news. 

You decide to ignore the statement nonetheless. “Okay. Wait one sec.”

When you bolt back to the president, Susie gives them a ‘I totally just saved our asses’ smirk. Though, they’re too occupied listening in on your conversation. Something about how there’s an extra group, not enough leaders, or equipment, or anything.

The president seems to know exactly where to look, sparing a quick glance to their pair, specifically Susie, before his eyebrows furrow. He says something about wanting you to watch over them because of a certain track record that they’ve developed. Very flattering.

On the way back to their station, you scoop up a buttload of stuff into your arms. Standing on the opposite side of the metal, you begin rather sheepishly. “Okay. So there’s, like, absolutely nothing left for you two, so we’re improvising. And–” you pull out a vanilla box cake that they’re sure you didn’t have before,” –I get to be your leader. So don’t make me look bad.”

“Look bad?” Susie’s already ripping the box apart, the untouched packet of dry ingredients slipping through the cardboard. “We’re gonna make you look fantastic, right Kris? Shoot you straight to the top.”

When you look to them for confirmation, they offer you a simple thumbs up. You smile, albeit a bit too wide.

You take the box before more damage can be done. “I’m already the VP. Not sure how much more there is to go.”

“Well, you’ll just have to knock that snarky president outta office.”

“No way. Too much responsibility. Second place is good enough for me,” you present some of the ingredients you gathered. “We don’t have any stand mixers left, so it’s all muscle with this one.”

“Oh, I got this,” Susie steals the bowl and whisk despite it being empty.

You point to the ingredients displayed on the back of the box. While they’re both reading, you tear open the plastic and shake the dry ingredients into Susie’s guarded bowl. “One cup water, a third cup vegetable oil, three eggs. But replace the water with milk.”

“Uh,” Susie pulls the carton of eggs towards her. They can tell she hardly heard a word you said. “I’ll do the eggs. You got the rest, right Kris?”

They don’t bother responding, already pouring the liquids into a liquid measuring cup. They’re mostly eyeballing, only checking the marks on the side of the glass when they’re sure they’ve spouted enough. They feel your eyes on them every few seconds.

While Susie struggles to crack the eggs without any shell (you had to explain why that’s not a good thing, to which she responded that it adds ‘texture’), you’re doing your own thing. Adding in some sour cream, greek yogurt, and a packet of vanilla pudding. You don’t bother measuring anything, either.

You’re fixated on the batter, head moving a million times a minute. It’s sorta cute admirable.

When everything’s in the bowl, you offer it to Susie to stir. She’s seemingly in her own world, enjoying beating the batter to death. That’s when you turn to them. With an array of seasonings in tow.

None of the glass containers are labeled – must be from your own secret stash. You point to each one individually. “Cinnamon, cardamon, nutmeg. You choose.”

Thinking it’s an innocent question, they say the obvious best one. “Cinnamon.”

But then, you seem to nod to yourself, as if saying ‘oh yeah, that makes sense, yes yes yes’.

You sprinkle in a teaspoon or two into Susie’s batter, telling her to continue as you beckon Kris to follow you.

As you did on the way to their station, you pluck different ingredients from different parts of the kitchen, handing them items that you don’t have the arm space to carry. “Batter isn’t hard to mix, but icing is a bit more specific. So we’re using my mixer.”

You have your own mixer? The perks here are crazy. Seems like the funding paid off. No pun intended.

In the complete opposite corner of the kitchen, you’re somehow further away from everyone compared to their assigned corner. You lay out the ingredients beside your pristine stand mixer, gesturing for them to do the same. Butter, icing sugar, salt, cream, and a bunch of extracts and juices.

You hand them the stick of butter and a measuring cup. “First, beat a cup of butter until it’s creamy.”

The stick’s already partially used; it’s not a full two-cup block. Maybe a cup and a third?

Though you seem to want them to measure it out, they’re feeling a bit too lazy to do all that. They take the stick between two hands, snapping off the extra third. They’ve done enough baking with their mother to know, but eyeballing usually ends up with a lecture about hygiene and now the butter’s in your hair.

They offer you the block, not thinking anything of it, because why would they? 

But you’re staring at them like you’re infatuated.

Angel, you look–

They break your staring contest and figure you’re not going to take it, deciding to toss it into the bowl instead.

The clang snaps you back to the present. You turn on some internal switch, beating the butter until it turns to your aforementioned creamy texture. After, you add in three cups of icing sugar, splash of cream, and a pinch of salt.

You stick your finger against the paddle, quickly taste testing. “Okay, good.”

As you did before, you lay out the extracts and juices with their labels showing. “Choose away, Dreemurr.”

And they’re only a bit more self conscious with what they choose after you seemed to analyze their answer so thoroughly before.

They purse their lips. “Whatever Susie wants. Or you want.”

You narrow your eyes. “But what do you want?”

You’re awfully forward.

They don’t know what else to do other than shrug.

Obviously unsatisfied with this, you take a dollop of buttercream on each finger and dab a drop of extract and/or juice on each one.

“Taste test,” you coo, giving them a big, innocent smile.

Though their mind goes to places far less innocent than that.

Maybe you do, too. You seem too excited.

Your eyes drift to their mouth. Then back to their eyes.

This is so… what’s the word–

“It’s not poison,” you roll your eyes, impatience leaking from your face. “Just try it.”

It’s probably fine.

No overthinking it.

Such a waste of utensils, right?

Just use your fingers. That’s the right way to think about it.

You’re fine with it.

Taste test, right?

They slowly lean in.

Your eyes glass over with a hint of confusion.

And their lips crack open to envelop your pointer finger.

They kitten lick the buttercream as quickly as they can, trying to focus on the flavours and nothing but the flavours and not your wide, beady eyes watching them with an intensity they’ve never felt before.

They do so for each finger. Each of your fingers. 

It’s only when your pinky curls to brush their tongue do they realize what’s happening right now.

They can feel your finger’s heartbeat.

Yeah, this isn’t happening.

They quickly release your final finger with a pop.

“Raspberry,” they squeak out, hoping that’ll shut down whatever the hell that was.

Your fingers are glistening with their spit. Their stomach churns at the sight.

They’re sure they’re as flustered as you look.

Your mouth quivers. Quivers. “Y-you could’ve, uh… used your own finger to scoop it off.”

Fuck. Yeah, they probably should’ve done that.

“But that works too!” Your voice cracks, sounding much less composed than you always come across as. “Same result, right?”

“Mhm,” they pretend to agree, definitely feeling their impulsive stupidity dawn on them. 

You drip in the concentrated raspberry juice, lasering your focus on the mixer and the mixer alone. 

Right past the bowl, they see you rubbing the pads of your fingers together. The strings of their spit web them together. 

God fucking damnit.

Everything goes smoothly after that. Sorta.

You let them both pour the batter into a pan and they both forget to keep an eye on it. A little crisp never hurt anyone, right?

After it’s cooled down in the freezer, you hand them all the remaining decorations from other groups, deciding that the lack of coherency itself is its own theme. 

It looks like hot ass.

But it tastes amazing. They didn’t expect much less.

Although. It got them thinking. 

“Totally worth it.” Susie’s shoveling chunk after chunk into her mouth, somehow lowering her voice to a quiet murmur. “By the way. I think I’ve got a few suspects, if ya know what I mean.”

They’re not sure what else she could mean.

Their pupils find you with the president, stabbing another piece of their cake with your fork. 

They watch you lick your lips.

“Me too.”

~*•*~

A week has passed in grueling testing and experimentation. You’ve got it all down to a science.

You’ve been refining your options more and more with what you’ve gathered. And you’ve been staying under the radar. They don’t suspect you one bit!

Although, as you watch them tear your tart in half – examining the insides with a curiosity you’ve grown used to – you realize you’ve hit a roadblock.

It’s between two options. And you just can’t tell which way you should lean the shoulder of fate.

Your first is a peach and blackberry cobbler. Although their choice of raspberry is absent in this pastry, there’s still a strong focus on cinnamon and vanilla in the filling. The peaches add a more syrup-like texture while the blackberries add some much needed tart. You’d plan to top it with vanilla ice cream.

The second is a raspberry lemon mascarpone tart. This one has a much stronger focus on their preference of fruit (though you wanted to lean apple for a certain non-hair-smelling-related reason), but loses the seasonings. It’s filled with mascarpone, of course, and cream cheese, topped with raspberries and lemon curd. 

You sigh, ignoring the one off looks you get passively. The corner’s never let you down. As long as they don’t see you, you don’t care much.

“Uh, whatcha doin’?”

A hand – a scaly, purple hand – rests on your shoulder. You’d have screamed were it not for Kris’ instant recognition of the voice. 

And turn around they do.

You shield yourself with the wall, shutting her snout shut with a panic you’ve never felt before.

Once you ensure Kris saw nothing, returning to their locker in a perfectly ignorant peace, you let out a breath of relief. Susie’s the one to rip your hands from her face.

Your dread returns tenfold.

You’re hoping the pieces don’t click.

She raises an eyebrow, glancing over your shoulder to Kris, then back to you. Then to Kris. Then back to you.

And her jaw drops. Shiiiiiiit.

“That’s you leaving that stuff there?” She scream-whispers. You instantly shush her.

“Whaaaat?” Your voice becomes unnaturally high-pitched. “I– I don’t– leaving what?”

“Oh, I totally knew it. Well– you were one of the guys on my list.”

You cringe. “Your list?”

She ignores you, dragging you further from their locker out of a surprising want for privacy. Her cocky grin morphs into that of a beggar. “Can you make me some?”

Your mouth opens. And shuts.

“I will if you help me. Whatever you want.”

“Really?” She gasps.

“Yeah,” you bite your cheek, hoping she’s not about to throw away your fair trade for an easy blackmail opportunity. “I’m trying to make them something. Like, something so good and so tailored to them that they can’t help but tell me.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “Dude. Don’t they already?”

“Yeah, sorta– but not like everyone else! Or, like, Noelle. Or even you! They just say ‘good’ and move on as if that’s… y’know…”

She seems even more confused. Fuck, right. Your anonymity isn’t exactly helping your case right now. She probably thinks you’re insane. 

“Wow, you really thought about this.” Is that an insult? She’s looking at you like she’s making fun of you. Or something else. “Well, it’s Kris. Not really sure what you’re looking for.”

“That’s the point. I’m gonna absolutely break them to bits.”

Well, she definitely thinks you’re insane now.

You’re about to go off on another tangent, explaining your choices, but she beats you to it. “Don’t ask me about any of that stuff. I’m not the expert here.”

“You’re the biggest Kris expert I know,” you whine.

“Really? Even bigger than, say, Toriel?”

You mentally facepalm. Why the hell haven’t you thought of that?

~*•*~

Church, church, church.

It’s all you’ve been thinking about. The weekend couldn’t have come any sooner. 

You’re jittery throughout the entire sermon, hardly aware of the contrasting bodies around you.

The moment it ends (and it has been deemed socially acceptable to get up), you’re speedwalking to the front where Toriel’s begun cleaning up, thankfully by her lonesome.

“Ah. Hello, dear,” she greets the second she notices your approach. “You seem more… on edge than usual. I could not help but notice during service. Is something wrong?”

You halt, perhaps a foot too close. “I’m prepping for the next big school event. Thinking ahead of time, y’know? I’m between two for the big focus, but I can’t decide which one.”

She smiles. “I would be more than glad to help.”

“It’s either a peach and blackberry cobbler or a raspberry lemon mascarpone tart. I like the flavours of the tart more, but the cobbler’s got more details that I think they– the school would like more. Which one sounds better?”

She thinks with an absence of finality. “They both sound lovely, dear. Why not do both?”

You can’t do both. You need one.

Your eyes narrow, pretending you’re thinking hard about what you’re going to say next. “Well… what do you think the students would like more? Say, someone like Kris?”

Reminder to pat yourself on the back for that sly transition.

She lights up in recognition. Yeah, that’s your child’s name. “If it is Kris’ opinion you would like, I can call them over.”

No, no. Obviously not. “Oh, that’s alright. I’m sure they’re busy at home doing… whatever they do.”

The inclusion of the word ‘over’ should’ve been your first red flag. Who says ‘call them over’ and is referring to a phone call?

“Actually, they attended today’s service with Susie!” Toriel’s eyes drift to someone else, someone a distance behind you and that’s when you realize you’re screwed.

She’s calling their name before you can stop her.

Your heart drops. Turns out Susie and Kris go to church now?

You begin shushing her rather rudely (something you’ve gotta apologize for later), terror absolutely strewn across your face. She looks like she’s preparing to give you CPR.

“Is something wrong?” She asks concernedly. 

Forcing yourself to peek over your shoulder, both Kris and Susie watch you intensely, mid cup-dunk at the punch bowls. You try your best to give the latter a ‘please don’t let them come over here’ look. To your relief and mild surprise, she reads it immediately. 

She’s telling them something with the tug of their sweater, obviously trying to pull them away from the horribly suspicious (and first and only incriminating) scene. They don’t budge at first, choosing to stare you down with a blank yet curious gaze.

Though you talk to Toriel quite often, it’s not like you purposefully do so in the light of day. Another anonymity con.

Deciding her child is too busy with their friend, she attempts to fill in the blanks. “I am not quite sure which one they would prefer. I would assume they would like both. Perhaps Susie would know? They spend a lot of time together.”

Well, now you’re just going in circles.

Your voice glints with the tiniest bit of desperation. “Well, what about–”

She doesn’t let you finish, cutting you off with one simple word:

“Kris!”

Her callout isn’t one of beckoning, it’s one of greeting.

You don’t need to turn to feel their very unwarranted presence behind you.

“Okay, well, thanks for the help!” You jabber on, already readying your feet for the sprint you’re about to do. “I’ll keep all that in mind! My parents want me home for dinner, so I’ll just–”

You intentionally skirt around where you know they’re standing, barely making it to the top of the steps before a hand – their hand – grips yours with a tightness that makes your head spiral.

Your hands are so sweaty you might’ve been able to slip away were it not for your paralyzing fear.

And as if it couldn’t get any worse, Toriel opens her sweet, thoughtful mouth.

“Did you not want Kris’ opinion, dear?”

They lightly tug you back. Close enough that you’re forced to face them.

“What opinion?” They mumble with a smugness that makes you want to bomb the town.

Deciding that there’s no way out of this, it’s time for you to use your impeccable improv skills. 

Not too many details. Just keep it short and sweet. Nice and simple.

“If– if, uh… the school… could pick between a– peach and blackberry cobbler, and a raspberry lemon mascarpone tart… which one would you– they choose?”

Absolutely nailed it.

They glance at your still connected fingers. And their head tilts. “The school would want both.”

And they totally fall for it, too!

“I told you, dear. The, hehe, the school would like both.” Toriel places a paw on both of your shoulders, giving you a super obvious look of triumph. She’s not nearly as good at this as you are– she’s blowing your cover!

“Sounds fantastic!” You cry, ripping yourself from both of them. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks!”

And you escape, unscathed. But your mind clicks like the final piece has fallen into place.

Huh. Why don’t you do both?

~*•*~

When they open their locker, they find themself without a dessert to munch on. Instead lies the signature envelope.

There’s no name or confession written on the paper. For some odd reason, they expected it. 

There’s only one sentence of finality:

Come behind the school at 5:30 pm, I have something I think you’ll like.

If they didn’t know their stalker observer was you, they’d be just a tad more hesitant.

It’s four. They’re not about to wait out the reveal like it’s some big mystery. They’re pretty sure you know they know as well. You must, right?

They know where you live. It’s not creepy. They know where everyone lives.

Your door’s locked, but the front window’s open. They climb inside without a second thought.

You’re sitting on your kitchen island, back to them, scrolling through your phone. The toaster oven’s humming, lit up with an orange hue. 

They’re able to take a few steps before you feel their presence.

Your phone clatters to the floor, though you’re too shocked to check if it’s shattered to pieces. “Kris! What– uhh, what’re you doing? Here?” Your face drops. “How’d you get in?”

Maybe you don’t know they know.

“Window.” They close the distance, tossing the envelope to the marble. It slides and slides until stopping at your thigh. You don’t seem to acknowledge it.

“You… broke into my house.”

“Mhm.”

“Well, you gotta go,” you hop to the floor, picking up your unbroken screen. “My parents already think I ask too much of your mom. If they see you here, they’re gonna think I’m asking you for favours, too.”

“What favours?”

You scramble for words. “Unrelated to anything relevant.”

“What counts as relevant right now?”

All it takes is one gander at the envelope for your eyes to widen.

“What’s that?” You squeak, smile far too large for your face. “Actually, don’t tell me. It looks super uninteresting.”

“It’s pretty cool. You should look.”

“Should I? It seems pretty private. Is it a letter?”

“Juciest letter ever. Read it.”

“I don’t know, that’s your business. I wouldn’t want to–”

They manage to slide it an inch closer to your cowering form. “I insist.”

You stare at them for a solid minute, outwardly debating what to do next. Then, your hands shakily reach for the envelope. “You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Super sure?”

“Super sure.”

“Positive?”

“Positive.”

“Absolutely?”

“Read it.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Then I look in your fridge.”

You choke. “What’re you gonna find in there?”

“My dessert.”

You don’t hide your shock. Or you try to. But it’s a horrible attempt. “Your what?”

They take a seat on one of the barstools. “My dessert.”

“I–” you cut yourself off. And then, with a sigh of defeat, you admit it. “How’d you know?”

“Mom told me.”

“She knows?”

They nod. They knew before she knew, but they’re okay with pretending you fooled the world.

“Susie didn’t tell you?”

That’s something that catches them off guard. Though they don’t let it show. “No.”

Actually, that’d explain some things. She’s been a bit… pushy as of late. Asking about the envelopes.

Your toaster oven beeps. It cures your slowly depressive mood. “Ehm. Have you eaten?”

“Was saving it for you.”

It doesn’t register how pathetically personal that comes across – nor did they realize how much of their diet lately consisted of you – until they see your ears tint. “I made pizza bagels,” you open the oven door, eyebrows scrunching. “I think I burnt them.”

Despite the obvious ‘char’ (it’s straight up black), you slide the mini bagels onto a plate and place them on the island counter. You stand across from them, watching as they bite into what might as well be charcoal.

It’s… an acquired taste.

“You don’t like them.”

They swallow. It sears their throat, no doubt staining their tongue black. “Love them.”

You instantly hug the plate to your chest. “Stop lying.”

“‘m not.”

“It’s pretty much my best work.”

They blink. “Better than anything I could do.”

“Don’t taint your tastebuds.” 

You push the plate to the corner of the island, as far away from you as it can get. Then, you reach into your fridge and pull out a small tin. 

“I was gonna let it sit in the fridge for another hour, bring it out for my crazy reveal, but you… y’know.” Tapping your nails to the countertop, you gesture for them to lean in. “It’s a peach-raspberry cobbler. Peaches, raspberries, obviously, some lemon juice, cinnamon…”

The crust is golden and flaky; cracks of pinkish orange shine through the pastry. On top lies a cookbook-worthy scoop of vanilla ice cream. Their mouth can’t help but water at the smell of it all.

They watch you explain the intricacies with their chin in their hand. To think you spent so much time thinking about what they’d like? Actual insanity. Waste of time.

You smile when you realize they’re staring.

They’re so fucking lucky. Best month of their life.

“–and I made the ice cream from scratch and everything. I had to use liquid nitrogen for it.” 

They raise an eyebrow. What?

You wince. “Don’t ask.”

You pull out a drawer on your side of the island, fishing for a fork. Instead of offering it from your side, you round the island to stand next to them. They can feel the heat from your body as your arms brush.

Under your watchful gaze, they take a bite. 

And of course it’s good. It’s as good as it looks. Maybe even better. 

They couldn’t describe the taste if you had a gun to their head. But then again, could they ever, anytime you’d ask?

They can see your hands grip the counter. You’re not even the slightest bit ashamed at your staring.

Their heart races.

And they can’t help but wonder.

Do you taste as sweet?

“Can I get a taste?” Your voice reaches their ears; hardly a whisper.

They’re mid-bite when you read their mind. Sorta.

Why’re you asking to taste your own dessert?

“Yeah,” they say anyway.

And your lips press to their own.

They’re left in crippling shock.

Your tongue runs against their bottom lip, catching the caked ice cream that’s sticky to the touch.

You hum. Just once. The buzz vibrates straight to their soul.

And they decide they really, really want to kiss you back.

But then, you part.

“That was cheap, I’m sorry,” you wince. “That's all I could think of.”

If they could gawk, they would’ve. “Don’t care.”

They slide off the stool, just enough to wrap a hand around your nape. They kiss you before you can stop them.

Not that they think you would.

Although, you recover far faster than they ever could.

Your hands bunch into their sweater like you’ve been waiting all day for this. You’re heated, most definitely taking the lead, but they can’t seem to care. Not when you bite their lip, sucking like you’re trying to remember the taste.

At some point, you pull away just to stare at their agape mouth. They close it out of sheer nervousness. Your eyes are too pretty intense.

Through uneven breaths, your mouth curls. Your thumb pokes at their chin, guiding their lips to part. They do.

Because they’ve never been watched the way you’re watching them right now.

They could say they lift you onto the island, but you’re the one hopping on, wrapping your legs around their hips and fuck is it getting hot in here?–

You’re coercing their tongue from their mouth with your own. They watch you– feel you swallow and swallow and you just can’t seem to get enough.

You nearly slip off the island when they chase you. They think they’re okay with asphyxiating like this.

Your nose nuzzles theirs. “Fuck, you’re so–”

But the sound of a splat stops you.

Your face morphs into one of pure horror.

You turn to see your hand perfectly dug into the tin. And the filling’s absolutely everywhere. On the counter, your clothes, your hand, up your arm–

“Nooo!” You sob, albeit over the top. “I spent so much time researching that! I knew it needed more time in the fridge, it wasn’t solid enough–”

“Research?” They can’t help but ask.

You raise an eyebrow like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah? The locker? The questions? You thought all that’d accumulate into nothing?”

They… guess they didn’t think about it like that. One big elaborate scheme.

Huh.

“And now it’s…” You lift up your dripping hand. “Angel. This sucks.”

Their fingers wrap around your wrist. They don’t question it.

They lead your index straight between their lips. All while maintaining as much eye contact as physically possible. 

“Don’t–” You suck in a breath. “Y-You don’t have to, it’s not that big of a deal, I was sorta just–”

“I want to.”

It’s to fuck with you, for one – you’re not that slick with your, uh, interests – but the way you’re looking at them? 

Fuck, they way you’re looking at them.

They’re slow with their cleaning job, gathering as much of your sweet pastry onto your tongue as possible before swallowing.

You’re giggling, they think. It’s a low, throaty giggle. They can’t quite hear it over your hips grinding into theirs.

A few fingers down and you’re practically drooling. You end up slotting your tongue to theirs to gather whatever filling you can get.

They watch you swallow. Practiced and unhurried.

Their stomach twists in anxiety and excitement.

But you place a finger to their mouth before anything happens. They have half a mind to take it between their lips. They know you’re thinking it, too.

“So, did you like it?” You drawl, sounding not nearly as composed as you did when they arrived. “The dessert, of course.”

And the disbelief they feel. The disbelief.

You’re a horrible liar, but you’re really good at getting what you’re looking for.

When they don’t answer, you run your clean hand through their hair. Maybe they lean into it. “I’m serious.”

“Good,” they mumble offhandedly, closing their eyes.

Your face drops. It’s the most earnest they’ve ever seen you. “I’m not taking that for an answer again. How good?”

“Good good.”

“Like this good?”

You peck their lips.

“Or this good?”

You crush their mouth to yours. They might’ve let out a sound or two. They hope you don’t notice.

They couldn’t open their eyes if they wanted to. “That good.”

You kiss their cheek. 

“Then prove it.”