Floofy is the Forg @floofy-da-forgie - Tumblr Blog

Jul 12

~On That Night~

Kris finds your fragile ego entertaining to shatter. You deflect because your subconscious is a weird, weird thing. You're odd. You let your sweet side slip sometimes. Okaymaybejustonce. But damn have they been chasing that high ever since.

~~~ so like warning... it gets kinda very very suggestive... near the end idk im ovulating im sorry

13.1k IDK WHY THEYRE GETTING LONGER its INDULGENT FLUFFY SLOPPP tho theyre kinda mean to each other but its never more than surface level

also got some more unimportant ocs i swear ur friends are important to move along the (lack of) plot

ASK HERE (thank u bro. thank u. i needed this.)

Also anon u practically did the outline 4 me but ill be honest i did change a few key aspects of their relationship SO I HOPE ITS STILL GOOD ENOUGH FOR UR ABSOLUTELY PEAK ASK

enjoy <33

~~~

Radars are for the paranoid who care enough to keep up to date on others. If Kris had one, no one would be on it.

They struggle to keep their head up, nestled so comfortably within the confines of their arms. They’ve been at school for hours that drag like days; periods that drag like they’ve got nothing better to do. Everything blends together in the end.

They’re pretty sure they’re in psych. It was supposed to be that one explicit bird course they took as a free elective, but it ended up being more trouble than it’s worth. Tests (they don’t study for), homework (they don’t do), and a shitton of group activities.

That one’s more complicated. They don’t care to take the fall when they’re the only one to blame, but they’re not about to pull a bunch more familiar faces down with them. It’s not worth the argument. Might depend on who’s in the group, though.

Everyone’s split up into groups of four, all with their large sheets of chart paper. Their designated island of desks is tucked nicely in the corner, rather isolated from the rest of the classroom.

They’re seated at the same corner desk as Noelle, who they so happened to be assigned into the same group as. To Noelle’s direct left sits you. To your left, sharing the adjacent corner desk, is what they can only assume to be your friend. He and you share a familiarity with each other. Nothing much else to note.

The teacher’s handwriting is an obvious outlier from the blank sheet. At the top of their group’s paper sits the word: Stress.

“O-kay,” Noelle squints at the board, tapping the capped marker against the wood in thought. “‘What is it’, ‘How is it expressed through action towards others’, and ‘How do people handle it’.”

You hum. “So… definition, result on others, and result on self?”

“I think so. That sounds right.”

Their yawn is strategically hidden against their sweater. Another class, another set of papers to hang up on the walls. Unlike their mother’s classroom of children’s drawings, which may be considered charming to some, these take up nothing but space.

Your friend (they never caught his name) searches up a definition and paraphrases it from google. Then, everyone starts spitfiring.

“For the ‘self’ section, just list, like, mental health stuff. Like anxiety, depression, burnout… y’know.”

“Ooh, yeah,” Noelle scribbles down your words. “What about appetite? And maybe… self isolation?”

Your friend taps the ‘others’ section. “Mhm. For this, do ‘easily irritated’. Or, actually, don’t phrase it like that. Write ‘frustration issues’. Or–”

Someone’s voice pierces across the classroom. They watch as all three of their groupmates’ heads turn to your teacher, who’s begun lecturing one of your classmates about their gum popping habit. The woman’s rubbing her temples to ease away her likely exaggerated migraine.

With Noelle’s marker hovering in the air, you’re the one to break her out of her trance. “Just write ‘see teacher’.”

The deer lets out a cackle of disbelief, right before her hand flies straight to her mouth. Her pupils zip to their teacher, ensuring she heard nothing. Your friend, however, lets his snickers out low and sneaky.

Once the room quiets down a tad, your friend continues. “What’s the word for someone who micromanages other people’s lives? It’s like that thing– about how they feel like they have no control over their own lives, so they’re… uh…”

“Oh! Like, codependency?” Noelle offers.

He snaps. “Yeah. That’s the word.”

“Surprised you forgot it,” you shove his shoulder in good faith. “It’s practically your parents’ middle names.”

He bangs his hand to the desktop for the dramatics. They can feel the vibrations through the wood. “Oh, dude. Did I tell you about yesterday? When I was out with Roxy and her friends?”

“She said something this morning,” your eyes squint in thought. “Something about your ass curfew, right?”

“Holy shit, I swear I was five minutes over – and we hit traffic from an accident that closed all the fast routes, mind you, so five minutes was lucky – and she still gives me crap when I get home.”

You gawk. “Dude, what? You’ve literally beaten your sister home with the same curfew and you’re still the one getting shot the most.”

His fist comes down harder. “That’s what I’m saying!”

“Evander!”

The boy winces, crowding in on himself at the sight of their standing teacher. “Shit, sorry.”

“Language.”

“Right. Sorry.”

You drum your fingers, ignoring the teacher’s temper tantrum. “Shows that the goodie two shoes always bites it first.”

“Psh,” Noelle huffs, eyes glued to the chart paper as she pretends to scribble nonsense. “Tell me about it.”

They can tell you don’t expect her chime-in – nor does Noelle herself, seemingly having let it slip – but you recover much quicker than your friend (whose name they now know), grin more curious than ever. “Oh yeah?”

Noelle’s not usually one to give any details about her family. The only way anyone would know is if they knew her growing up. It’s just the slightest surprising that she’s giving you anything.

Her eyebrows furrow. “Try being out for twenty minutes before getting a phone call.”

“Oh god,” you watch her with bated breath. “Really?”

“Uh huh,” she runs a hand through her hair. “And she’ll know everything before I leave. Where I’m going, who I’m going with, when I’m coming back– it’s like she’s just calling to call!”

“You sure she hasn’t hired someone to spy on you? Watch over you like some creepy stalker? Report back when they see something fishy?”

“Haha,” she snorts. It’s obvious you’re joking, but she thinks about it for a second longer. “Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Your guy friend squints. “What?”

The transition into not doing any work is almost immediate; their group’s devolved into rants about parents being annoying, school, sharing grades, upcoming stuff – anything like that. While the deer jots something down every once in a while, you and your friend pitch in out of courtesy. In the moment, anyways.

And you, smooth as can be, usher Noelle into any conversation you begin. It’s almost impressive the way you turn the concept of a trio into something other than a complete nightmare to be a part of.

You’re very eccentric when you ask her questions, ensuring you stare her dead in her eyes. Not to intimidate, but to show that you’re listening. Kris watches her ease from a shy ambivert to an open book.

It’s like you’re subconsciously coercing her into sharing more details about her life with no ulterior motives.

…or what others would call “getting to know someone”. Same thing.

It’s interesting the way Noelle seems more than comfortable enough to talk to you about things they know she’d rather not talk about.

But you don’t leave out your own friend, either. It’s oddly equal; the way you all interact. And yet, you’re the obvious standout.

You seem to feed off of Noelle’s energy, judging by the way you charm her effortlessly. It’s like you know what to say to keep her happy. Not in the way that, say, a people pleaser would. You say things with an attitude that makes it a struggle to disagree with you. It’s weirdly ironic.

Now that they think about it, you might be friends with Susie, too. Know her, at the very least. They’re pretty sure you passed each other in the halls once. She glanced behind her, calling you a maniac. Some inside joke, they assume. But it wasn’t an insult. Your laugh echoed over the mindless chatter.

They’ve never had a real conversation with you before. And from what the current group dynamic seems like, they may never. That’s fine.

At least you’re not a douche. Might be bare minimum, though.

They don’t remember their eyes closing, but they do register sinking until their chin touches the desktop. It’s moist; the condensation from their heat sticking to their skin.

At some point, your voice becomes a noticeable absence from their lively conversation. They caught something about you feeling bad that Noelle’s doing a majority of the writing. There’s some rustling, shifting around. She must’ve switched spots with you.

While your friend keeps her deep in conversation (whether she realizes it or not), you jot away. The damp scratch of the marker engulfs their eardrums.

They feel your eyes drift to them every few letters. They let out a breath. They’ve gone through this enough times to know what’s about to happen. The marker ceases.

“Hey.”

A finger prods at their elbow. They snuggle deeper into their cocoon, hoping you’ll take the hint.

You don’t.

“Kris, right?” You might as well be caressing their arm. “Asriel’s sibling?”

That catches their attention.

They lift their head just enough to be able to open their eyes. After their vision cries from the blaring industrial lights, they can make out your figure. You’re huddled within your arms, blatantly mimicking their form.

They groan out a ‘mhm’, fully prepared for that to be the end of the conversation.

It isn’t.

As their lids drift closed, you seem to panic, ushering closer to their safe space. They can feel the heat of your breath through their sweater.

After having confirmation that they’re not about to ignore you again, you continue. “How is he? College treating him good?”

“Internet’s out,” they mumble.

“Oh, right,” you ponder, appearing more disappointed than them. “So you haven’t been able to talk?”

“No.”

A noise of confirmation escapes your throat. They watch your pupils wander from the empty space of desk between you two, to their slowly-shutting eyelids, to the chart paper. You don’t hide the way your face lights up with an idea.

Right as their vision blackens, you clutch their bicep and tug lightly. It’s an attempt at unraveling them. They let you. Mainly because they’re too lazy to fight back. You gesture for them to look at your array of ideas.

The sheet’s practically filled to the brim. Besides the description – which is still lengthier than what’s likely necessary – the following two categories barely have any white space left. They recognize Noelle’s calm, careful handwriting. The curlier letters must be yours.

You rap the marker’s cap against ‘self’. “We should do some physical effects too, right? Things like hair or fur loss? Even just patchy growth in integument in general?”

That’s what you’re doing. You’re trying to include them. Or you’re upset they’ve done jack.

They let their arms dangle by their sides. “Sounds good,” they mutter dismissively, fighting to keep their eyes ajar.

You sit still, observing them intently. They can tell you’re waiting for something else.

A moment passes. You’re just awkwardly watching each other.

And you deflate when you get nothing.

You scribble down your points with efficiency. They’re much too hopeful to think they’re off the hook. You’re not even finished the sentence when you turn back to them. What a nightmare.

Your mouth forms a straight line. “How ‘bout we do some effects on bodily systems, too?”

They’re unmoving.

“Okay.”

You’re unphased.

“Cardiovascular, from elevated heartrate?”

“Mhm.”

“Digestive, from nausea, bloating, aching, etcetera?”

“Yeah.”

“Musculoskeletal, from headaches, back and neck pain?”

“Uh huh.”

You swallow. You’re getting more ticked off as the seconds go by.

They wonder if you actually know all this stuff or if you’re making it up to test them. Doesn’t really matter.

You’re already locked eyes, and yet your glare grows in intensity. The passive aggression is difficult to sense. But yeah, it’s there.

“Do you know if the soul gets affected? It is a source of other emotions – that means it could experience negative effects from negative emotions, right?”

They shrug. “Couldn’t tell you.”

Before you can say anything else, they’re plopping their forehead on the desk. They hear you huff. Your facade’s strong, they’ll give you that.

A few minutes fly by in silence as you catch the flooded paper up with your ideas. It’s stiffly quiet; almost unnaturally tense for anyone who isn’t about to pass out from sleep deprivation. They don’t really feel it. But they can tell it’s there.

Eventually, you softly get Noelle and your friend’s attention, claiming that it’s got enough to be ready. They come to the conclusion that it’s some type of informal presentation, judging by the way you ask who’s reading what.

“I can do the definition,” your friend volunteers. They can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.

“You just wanna do the shortest part!” Noelle teases.

“Hey, you’re a much better public speaker than I am.”

“Pshh, have you seen me do presentations? I get all–”

“How about,” you announce, slow and calculated, “Kris reads it all?”

The duo falls silent at your interruption. At the sound of their name, they peak at you out of courtesy.

While the other two sit in confusion, glancing between themselves, you, and them, you wait with intentiveness. As if you’ve backed them into a corner you know they’ll cower from.

They force extreme indifference into their tone.

“Okay.”

Your eye twitches. It’s just the slightest bit satisfying.

“Okay,” you parrot.

Noelle appears despondent, watching the back of your head like you’re about to crumble. She picks up on what’s happening sooner than later. Her eyes gravitate to them, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

“You, uh,” your friend hesitates, sliding the sheet towards him so he can take a look. “You added a few things, right?”

A switch flips in your head. “Right, yeah. Look it over.”

Noelle scoots an inch to his side, leaving them more isolated with you. They can tell they’re both skimming it. Probably wanting this to be done as soon as possible.

“Oh,” the deer lets out a peep of surprise. “You guys commented on body systems?”

You grit your teeth. They can tell you don’t like the phrase ‘you guys’. “Yup.”

“I know the nervous system and mental health stuff sorta fit together,” she takes the marker when you offer it to her. “But it could also correlate to insomnia? Lack of sleep?”

You give Kris a death stare. If Noelle catches sight of it, she avoids it like the plague, deciding that the cap between her fingers is the most interesting thing in the world.

As a result of your empty response, your friend pipes up. “Yeah, that works too. Add it–” he gestures to the other mental-heath-related words, “–over here.”

While the two give little comments back and forth, they decide to meet your eye. It’s not exactly venomous, but it’s still not the nicest look you could’ve given. At the sight of their non-reaction, you swallow.

Another switch flipped. You’re actually not that great at holding up your facades.

You nudge them as if you haven’t been staring at each other for the past minute. “You ever try melatonin?”

Their face is stagnant.

“Or those nighttime Advils?” Your voice is unnaturally high pitched. “Those always knock me out like a light bulb.”

“I’m good,” they dismiss you rather easily. But they can admit they’re a tad curious how you’ll take it.

“You sure?” You almost coo. “I’m not one to judge, but it seems like you sleep an awful lot in class.”

As your mouth curls into a devious smile, your fingers drum against the freshly-painted words:

“Sleep deprivation”.

“If you’re like this in here,” you continue, false sympathy in your tone, “I can’t imagine you outside of class.”

They blink.

They’re somewhat surprised.

You are trying.

Oh, how they struggle to fight back a grin.

They uncurl, stretching their arm just enough to mimic your taps on a different word:

“Codependency”.

And, through lips itching to lift at their corners, they tilt their head.

“Likewise.”

Your smile plummets into hell.

“Pfft–”

Your friend – who of which you both now realize was watching the entire exchange in anticipation – bursts out into laughter. At least Noelle’s pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping, lazer-focused on empty space.

“Evan,” you bite, whipping your entire body to face him. They watch the tip of your ears beat ruby red.

Between gasps, he bats away your hand when you try to swat him (over Noelle). “Sorry!– sorry– you’re just… you–”

You sit back down, kicking his chair under the desks hard enough for him to tip backwards. You don’t seem nearly as concerned as the doe beside you.

As the teacher begins scolding him for howling on the floor (to which they’re sure he can’t hear), a soft voice comes to their not-needed defence, palm on your shoulder. “Kris didn’t mean it like that! They just… uh…”

Her words die in her throat as you snatch the marker from her limp hand, scribbling over the word with vigor. They watch you with keen interest. You’re notably avoiding eye contact; something rather unusual for you (from what they know).

You broke rather easily.

~*•*~

Once the period ends, they don’t think much about the interaction. They go on with their day, go on with their life, like nothing ever happened. Sure, it was entertaining to see you snap, but it wasn’t that different from, say, the way Susie would snap at them before they became friends.

Maybe it was a bit different. You pout more. You’re a lot more eccentric with your tantrums. And maybe watching someone so put together collapse is satisfying as hell. But they moved on.

In layman’s terms, they didn’t take much of it very personally.

But you?

You took it like it was an attack on you and everything you stand for.

It was a turning point. Who knew that’s all it would’ve taken?

The natural indifference you paraded around with vanished the moment you saw them. You were quieter, calculated, irritated. As if their very existence was a burden on your happiness.

Turns out you share more classes than they realized. They only know now because you’ve made yourself abundantly known.

You’d try a few witty quips as you pass them; lighter insults that intended to hit a bit too close to home.

They’d whip back out of courtesy. Small stuff. Usually the first few words they can think of.

You’re always furious by the end of it.

They’ve realized it’s not their comebacks that piss you off; it’s their lack of reaction. But it’s not like they’re going to fake a sob to get you to back off.

And besides. It’s a good way to pass the time.

As per your perfect track record, it doesn’t surprise them when they realize you volunteer at the church. They’d come in with Susie and chug all the juice. While it isn’t their full intent to make your life more difficult, they will admit they’ll usher Susie in your direction to ask you specifically to fill it back up.

With strained features, you retreat to the back and emerge with more refreshments.

Five minutes later, both bowls are empty. It’d repeat like that.

They definitely didn’t need to drink it all every time. Could’ve dumped it in the bushes and it’d have made no difference. But there wasn’t any honor to the idea.

Is the cycle worth it? The liquid vomit to come? To slowly chip away at your patience? Probably not.

They remember the moment you stopped humouring them; eye twitching, fists clenched. “Why don’t you go slurp up the milk in that dingy alley? I’m sure that’d quench your thirst tenfold.”

They didn’t get the chance. Susie’d swatted her hand at you like you’d been buzzing around her all day. “Psh. Been there, done that.”

You never graced her with a response. Nor did she take it as the insult it was.

School’s not that different, even outside of class. You’d bump your shoulder into theirs, just hard enough to leave a light sting. They only started swerving when you’d up the ante, practically crashing into them at full force.

You’d stumble into yourself, a genuine look of surprise on your face. It’d instantly morph into unadulterated rage as soon as you heard your friends’ laughter.

Days turn into weeks. It’s an oddly easy routine.

They don’t really go out of their way to annoy you, but they lowkey take the chance whenever they can.

Gym seems to be your most favoured playing grounds. It’s your way of disguising your outlet of violence through good ol’ competitive sportsmanship.

Their school’s (trashy) version of baseball. You’d always aim for them when up to bat; friendly fire or not. They’d catch it every time, too. Your agape mouth fuels their ego more than it should.

It came to a point where your team would ridicule you for your aiming skills. You’d brush them off, claiming you ‘aren’t on your A-game’. And then you’d proceed to snipe them till you strike out.

Basketball. A shrunken court, but basketball nonetheless. They didn’t care much for defence. But when you had the ball? Perhaps they’d try a tad harder.

They’d calmly hold a hand up, managing to block a majority of your shots. At some point, you’d just start tossing it at their head. To which they’d catch. You might’ve growled at one point.

And dodgeball… speaks for itself.

They remember Susie once confessing she thought they were outright bullying you. Your instigation and retaliation seemed to clear up the accusation.

But, even after adjusting to the new norm, they never thought twice about you. You’ve just become another in their stoic everyday standard.

~*•*~

A cool, broken breeze tickles their neck as they perch on their window sill. It’s three in the morning, maybe a few minutes past. It’s always quickly apparent which nights they can sleep through and which nights they shouldn’t bother with. It’s the latter, in this case.

Deciding that laying dead in bed isn’t a good use of their time, they think to scope out Susie. Throw a rock or two at her window; hope it’s enough noise to wake her from her deep sleep. Solid plan.

Their feet skid across their roof, shoes plopping onto the grass. They’ve found themself enjoying the trek. It’s a walk with minimal purpose, but purpose nonetheless.

About to make a practiced left turn towards the apartments, they halt when a figure dances in the corner of their vision. Someone’s stumbling into the middle of the empty street, seemingly having come from the direction of the school.

It’s you.

With your arms huddled close to your form, your drooping head lifts every few seconds to scope out your environment. You look lost. Somehow. They don’t think much of it.

Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe it’s some weird plan of yours.

But then–

“Kris?”

You’ve spotted them, eyes refusing to leave their own.

They blink. They’ve never heard you say their name like that. So sweetly.

Like you’ve just woken up at their bedside, voice tainted with a tired smile. Like you didn’t think they’d be there the next morning, despite it being routine.

Weird hypothetical to make up, Kris.

When you make no move, they break your stare. Not feeling like getting reprimanded right now, they pivot back towards the apartment streets.

“Wait–” you trip over yourself in an attempt to catch up. You do so relatively easily; they’re not really trying to run.

When your footsteps are in proximity, they turn towards you in semi-confrontation, hoping you’ll do something other than gawk.

And you do. It’s a blessing and a curse.

Your legs conveniently lose their balance as soon as you reach for their person. They instinctually hold out their arms to keep you from crashing into them, to which you use decisively. There’s remnants of your furrowed brows, likely from their attempt at escape, but it’s been mostly smoothed out.

They can feel you squeeze their forearms, right near the elbow. “I need your help. Me ‘nd my friends are in the forest. Well, they are. I’m not. They kept moving around… and I wasn’t really paying attention. And now I can’t find them. So I came back here. And I dunno what to do now.”

What an explanation.

Your head sways as if the wind’s trying to usher it off your shoulders. One look at your glassy, fogged-over eyes has them raising an eyebrow. “Go home.”

Thankfully, you don’t take it as the demand that it sounds like. It’s rather out of character for you, though.

“What? No,” you’re baffled, as if their suggestion was insane. “I need to go find them.”

“Forest’s pretty big. Doesn’t seem like you’re fit for walking, either.”

You clench up. “I’m plenty fit. I could carry you on my pinky finger.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Yeah. Just try taking the insult back. Dig in the trash for your… trash. Recycling’s better for the planet, anyways.”

They pause.

“Are you on something?” They find themself asking rather boldly.

You flex your jaw. They can see the gears turning. You’re either preparing the worst excuse imaginable, or the harshest insult to date.

“No?” You decide on.

They expected something else. You’re not as quick-witted as you usually are. You bounce on your heels, fingers still entangled in their sweater. To be fair, they haven’t let go of your arms, either. It’s their main defence mechanism for if you throw a punch. Or something of the sort.

You find no way to smoothly loop the conversation back around. “So will you help me?”

“No,” they remain impassive.

“Please?”

“No.”

You huff, nails drumming on their forearm. Your face is oddly impartial for someone proven to be highly expressive with emotion.

“Wanna hang out?” You say with complete seriousness.

This has to be some elaborate scheme. You’ve never even insinuated you’d ever want to do something like that.

For some reason, they can’t bring themself to outright deny you. “I’m going to Susie’s.”

Which is a blatant lie. They’ve never stepped foot in her house before.

You hardly consider the fact. “Can I come?”

They have no idea how to respond to that.

They must look lost; your eyes become lidded as your grip loosens from their sweater. They follow en suite, arms releasing yours to dangle at their sides.

But your arms don’t fall.

Your hands trail up their biceps, perching on their shoulders. You mindlessly twirl a finger around a stray strand of hair near the base of their neck.

They swallow. Their throat is painfully dry.

“I won’t be mean,” you offer, as if it’s a solid argument. “To her, anyways.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Your pupils dilate at the comment. They have no idea why.

“What if I promise?”

“Means nothing.”

You scoff, eyes drifting up and down their body. After a moment, you return to indifference. “So you wanna hang out?”

Their eyes narrow. “You already asked me that.”

“And you said ‘yes’, right?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Can you say ‘yes’?”

“No.”

“What does ‘y e s’ spell?”

“Spells ‘no’.”

You seem actually offended. “No, it doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“Are you sure?” You gaze at them expectantly.

Their lip quirks into an easy grin. “No.”

“Damnit!” You cry, shoving them with all your (lack of) might.

They regain their footing easily. They almost have the heart to ask why you’re so adamant on the idea. Almost.

You grumble. “Why not?”

“Why doesn’t ‘y e s’ spell?–”

“No. Why don’t you wanna…?”

They know what you meant. They just wanted to see you snarl. “I never said ‘no’.”

“Uh, yeah. You did.”

“Not to your original question.”

Your jaw gapes with hope. “So it’s a ‘yes’?”

They bite their lip. “No.”

You let out the most childish whine they’ve ever heard, half-wondering if the sound even came from you.

They might be extra sleep deprived. Because they accidentally let out a small snort.

And that snaps you back into reality.

“You find me funny, huh?” You challenge, lips lifted into a sneer.

“Of course not.” But with their poorly suppressed grin, they can’t imagine they’re even the slightest bit convincing.

They let you grab a fistful of their sweater, tugging them to your eye level. You’re furious, sure, but your mouth continuously unhinges and clams shut. It’s like you have no idea what to say. Or you’re deciding which degradation fits the best for the situation.

It’s strange; the way they can see your thoughts slowly dissolve. Your creased anger, smoothing out into nothing.

You’re staring at their lips.

They don’t know why you’re staring at their lips.

And you’re wrapping your arms around their neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You tug them nice and close. They can feel your breath on their cheek.

“You’d look good with a piercing. Right…” Your finger trails up their neck, caressing their jaw. You flick their bottom lip delicately. “...there.”

Their voice dies in their throat. Your calm eyes remain trained on their saucer-like ones.

Why the hell…?

You’ve never–

What?

Your own mouth curls into a satisfied smile, molars biting down on the meat of your tongue. You’re obviously pleased by their reaction.

Exhaling rather shakily, they don’t give themself the chance to process any of it.

They don’t know how to respond…

…so they try something else.

Mimicking your soft, sultry tone, they click their tongue. “You’d look good with a piercing. Right…”

Their finger strokes up your neck, caressing your cheek. Your eyes flutter, blatantly leaning into it. Don’t read into it too hard.

They stop once the pad of their index meets the space between your eyebrows. They press down, ever so slightly.

“...there.”

And they’re shoving you away by the forehead.

Your eyes shoot open as you nearly fall on your ass. You’re instantly flustered; whatever persona you were adopting – the asshole or the… other one – disappears with the wind. And you’re left with nothing.

You seem to want to say something. An explanation, a defence, something.

But you’re almost unsure.

“I–” you stutter, shielding your face half-assedly with your palm. You look warm. “Whatever. I’m going home.”

They want to bite back; say something dumb, like: “Now you’re listening to me?”

You’re gone before they get the chance to consider.

…

Your face.

They thought your reactions were interesting before?

Maybe they had no idea what the word meant.

Or maybe this is a different type of interest.

Because damn, do they like that look on you.

~*•*~

Kris has been on your radar ever since that fateful day. That despicable group activity.

You’re a kind person. You’re an absolute delight to be around. It’s their fault for provoking you first.

You’ve picked up on everything, just to be prepared. Their mannerisms, their schedule, their way of thinking. You know when to strike, and when to defend.

It’s why you notice. Something’s changed.

Instead of your jab-for-jab, eye for an eye exchange-and-bolt that you’ve trained for, they’ve become someone you’re around all the time. You see them more than your friends; maybe even your family!

Not your family. Reasonable exaggeration.

They’re always in your bubble. Always in your space. Metaphorically and literally.

You and Noelle hit it off after the unspoken day, and unlike Kris, you’d actually like to get to know her better. Hence the idea of a study sesh.

Turns out, she and Kris are childhood best friends. And she has a crush on Susie. It’s painfully obvious. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention, were it not for the last minute decision on her end to invite them both. You didn’t actually need tutoring help, but you went into this thinking that you’d be able to spend more time with her. One on one? Cute, platonic study date?

Yeah. After you spotted them, still unaware of their future involvement in your hangout, you whispered to her. “With those two around? We’d get jack squat done.”

Subtle jab, but you thought it’d get your opinion across. It wasn’t until they both stood at the edge of your library table, an eye of expectancy lasered into you at the sight of your bag sitting on the vacant chair.

Noelle didn’t have the gull to kick them out. You, with a smile showing a few too many teeth, told them: “The more the merrier.”

The girls ended up flirting the whole time. Very painful to witness. And Kris just kept on poking and prodding at you like you were a toy.

Sure, at least they’re not ignoring you anymore, but you’re far past the point of forgiveness.

The next few days, they’ve begun talking to your friends. Not like they would Susie, but it’s still far too friendly of passing conversation for your standards. Are they trying to recruit them to the dark side? Since when did Kris know how to socialize?

And another thing. Yeah, you instigate most of the hallway-shoves, but they’ve started… just… brushing you. Their finger against yours, their shoulder against yours– you thought they had poor aim at first, but it’s continued. Like this.

You shiver at the thought. Bad shiver. It’s creepy. Human cooties, or something.

It’s why you’re not surprised when you step foot into your newly-sought-out cooking club with the intention of having a good time. The Angel thought you were too positive, you suppose.

You join seats with a few people you’ve vaguely seen around, offering your greetings and easy small talk. The classroom’s round tables are about filled to the max, sans one or two.

And, of course, the minute before the first meeting’s supposed to take place, a certain striped green sweater pokes through the doorway.

Fuck me.

You’re taken out of whatever conversation you’ve been juggling, hands gripping your thighs in an attempt to not rip your hair out.

They’re standing in the doorway for no more than ten seconds before someone from your table pipes up. “Kris! Over here!”

You’re flabbergasted. Since when do they?– How?–

Do you just so happen to attempt a friendship with every person they’ve ever known?

They spot you not long after you did them. You can see it; the cocky grin they’re fighting down.

The girl waves them over, kicking the chair next to her, gesturing for them to take a seat. They do so with a monotone ‘thanks’.

The student leader stands at the front, jotting down some contact information on the chalk board. “We’re gonna get started in a bit, ‘kay?”

The room makes a noise of confirmation. You’re too busy trying to slyly kill the human with your eyes alone.

Kris’ apparent buddy turns to them expectantly. “Have you finished that research paper yet?”

They rest their head in their arms. How unexpected. “Haven’t started.”

“What? Really?” She quirks her head. “I’d be careful, if I were you. It’s definitely not the night before type. The research alone took me, like, seven hours.”

The guy you’ve been talking with – Jasper – winces. “What subject?”

“History,” she groans.

You roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t tell me you thought that’d be a bird course.”

“I– well…”

“Dude. That class’s literally known for being one of the worst crammers.”

“I dunno!” She giggles. “I just thought learning about the big wars would be cool. And then I realized there’s a million things between said wars. So it’s sorta been… eh.”

The teacher – who’s hopefully only here to monitor the first day – flicks off all the lights except for the front ones. The students’ chatter slowly quiets until all that remains is murmurs of conversation.

Kris spares you a glance before turning to the front along with the rest of your little group. You resist the urge to kick them under the table. You’d have done it, were it not for Jasper’s well-in-the-way body.

The leader begins introducing a vague outlook for the semester, claiming it’s a fun, easy club that’s mostly to promote teamwork and, well, strengthen your cooking skills. Duh.

You begin tuning her out, certain that you’re not missing much. It’s nearly pitch black where you’re sitting, were it not for the glow of the front lights. You almost miss the way Jasper taps Kris’ shoulder.

You watch them slowly turn to face the culprit, and by proxy, you.

When their gaze zips to yours first – as in, before his – you instantly lock to the front. You stick to your peripheral, like a normal person.

You wouldn’t have heard him if it weren’t for your proximity. And the way you lean in. But that’s not important.

“You’re a human, right?” He whispers.

You can tell they have no idea how to answer that. You think you make out a hesitant nod.

“Damn,” he leans back, hand rubbing his chin in mildly-obnoxious curiosity. “I’ve never seen a human before.”

You feel your jaw click. “They’re kinda hard to miss.”

It comes out a bit saltier than you intended.

“I guess so,” Jasper hardly spares you a peep, eyes apparently too curious to leave the now-established humans’ for a single moment. “What’s it like?”

The hell kinda question is that?

You feel your forehead crinkle in confusion, and honestly, a bit of second-hand offence. “It’s probably not that different from us.”

Why the hell are you?–

He’s watching Kris, as if your answer wasn’t enough solid proof. You’re blatant about your staring, interested in what Kris’ next move is going to be.

They say nothing. Instead, they nod to you once, as if admitting: “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

You feel a warm, instant, satisfying gratification. You can hardly describe it.

Jasper’s voice is a distant echo in your mind. “Do you guys know each other?”

You’re both answering, to your surprise.

“No.”

“Best friends.”

Huffing out your nose, you’re about to go off – albeit unfiltered, not acknowledging your single-seat audience – when the club leader begins wordlessly encouraging everyone to shuffle their seats closer to the front.

From the looks of the kitchen supplies in front of her, she seems to be doing a quick visual for the basics. Knife skills, cooking stance, mise en place…

Everyone follows her instructions, scraping their chairs against the tile until the back half of the class is empty. Well, minus Kris. Their head’s plopped back onto the table. My god.

You decide to strike while the iron’s hot.

You scurry your seat towards them, knees brushing the side of their thigh. You know they aren’t here for the same reasons as you. They’re here to torment you.

As menacingly as you can, you lean into their bubble. “Why’re you here if you’re not gonna pay attention?”

Their blood eye shines through a forest of hair. You’d almost think they were disinterested in speaking to you, were it not for their response. “Thought this was the sleeping club.”

It’s a horrible joke. It only makes you more infuriated.

“If you don’t take this seriously, then you shouldn’t be here. Like, you should leave. Right now,” you gesture to the crowd. “There’s obviously too many people here, and they’re probably gonna cut down the numbers.”

Their eyebrow raises. “What is this, ‘Survivor’?”

“Oh, if it was, I’d vote you out first,” you snarl.

“Excuse me, you two,” the teacher ‘tries’ to announce quietly. “Would you please scoot up a bit closer? We don’t want you to miss anything.”

Despite the club leader’s continuation of her demonstration, half the attention’s drawn to you and the lovely human. You have the gall to appear sheepish. Kris is unmoving.

You’re punting their chair towards the front, whether you want to or not.

~*•*~

Slight embarrassment aside, you follow the club leader to the actual kitchen for a free roam period. Everyone’s already gravitating to certain sections, leaving you planted at the entrance.

There’s a large, solid island at the front of the room, likely meant for the instructor. Three rows of two industrial steel tables are evenly spread from one another. Along the back wall are the ovens and stovetops, while the restaurant-style sink sits flush to the wall lined with windows.

You hate that your eyes scan for Kris. They’re fiddling with stove knobs while two people are talking their ear off. It’s the club leader, and perhaps a friend? You think you’ve seen them around Noelle before.

All you can say for certain is that you’d never trust them around a stove. They’re probably scheming ways to blow up the school and chain you to the source.

Feeling as though your earlier conversation was cut short, you begin marching up to the trio. You catch the end of their conversation; something about a shared interest in baking.

“Hey!” You greet the two girls, smile a centimeter too large. Your glad Kris’ back remains to you. “Sorry to interrupt. Could I steal Kris for a sec?”

The human obviously knows you’re here, but they don’t acknowledge your existence. The only hint you get is the slight sink in their shoulders. You hope you didn’t just accidentally save them from unwanted socialization.

Neither of them seem opposed; maybe a bit disappointed. It’s the leader who speaks up, anyhow. “Oh, yeah. No worries.”

The moment they’re both out of ear shot, the human’s peeking over their shoulder. Not that it really matters; you’re spinning them to face you with a hand itching for violence.

They’re practically pinned to the stoves as you jab your finger to their rib. “Okay. Let’s get one thing straight. I know damn well you didn’t join this club because you like cooking.”

“Mhm,” they mindlessly agree with you.

“Don’t you ‘mhm’ me.”

They fail to suppress their amusement. “Okay.”

You’re not going down this road again.

A step forward; the tips of your shoes kiss. “So you don’t like cooking.”

“How would you know?”

They hardly sound accusatory in their mannerisms. But you just know it’s lurking somewhere within their gut.

You dismiss the question. “Why are you here?”

Like a shitty magic trick, their hand vanishes behind their back. You don’t know what you expected to appear, but it certainly wasn’t a knife.

“I’m good with knives,” they wave it around like a prize.

You’re immediately sent into panic mode, clutching the handle and their fingers and jerking it to lay flat against their chest. “Did you steal that?”

“Yeah,” they confirm, no doubt relaxed while the world burns around them.

Surveying the room to ensure no one’s watching, you instinctually shuffler closer to shield it from the general eye. Between your bodies.

You’re really close. Your noses brush.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble!– Or you’re gonna find some way to pin this on me,” you grit your teeth. “Doesn’t matter. Put it back.”

“I’m joking,” they say in the most monotone, non-joking way possible. “It’s mine.”

“Yeah, right,” you’re even more lost at that. “You just have a knife?”

“Yeh.”

No following explanation.

You’re about to question why they’re bringing a knife to school, but some part of yourself thinks twice. A knife. To school…

Thinking. Scheming. Planning.

Your face morphs into that of a smug winner, fingers tightening around theirs– their knife.

“I’m telling,” you purr with the most shitty grin to exist.

Their eyes widen a fraction. Somehow, they slip the blade from your conjoined hands and it disappears behind their back once again. “No, you aren’t.”

Your facade doesn’t last long; it cracks the moment their mouth shuts.

“Yes, I am!”

You’re frantic as you shove them around like a ragdoll. Despite fighting back (half-assedly), you manage to flip them, trying to find the weapon that is the key to your freedom.

But it’s like it never existed. No hidden pockets visible. Even feeling up their back, you detect no indents of any sharp objects.

You toss them another 180 degrees, nails clawing into their collar. “Where’d it go!?”

The teacher’s calling your name rather disappointedly. “Please let go of them.”

“They have a knife!”

And she laughs you off? What a betrayal.

“They’re allowed to have a knife in the kitchen.”

As if on cue, your brain finally acknowledges your fellow club members, most of which are at their own stations, with their own cutting boards, with their own god damn it–

You groan, sad and pathetic, accepting your defeat. You don’t even want to look at them as you release your claws from their sweater.

The teacher must recognize your plummet in mood, as she verbally guides both you and Kris to one of the emptier tables. “How about you both go to that station? There’s some extra space over there; you can hone your cutting skills.”

Station, schmation.

You speedwalk to said table, hoping to lose them in the journey despite your shared destination. Jasper’s on the far end, board flooded with flimsy potato slices. You want to tell him he’s holding the knife wrong, but you don’t trust yourself to sound as composed as you like to come across. Whatever.

Cutting skills, schmutting sch… schkrills?

He greets you as you pass, fetching a cutting board and a knife that you’d like to stab through your soul. Right after stabbing Kris.

You begrudgingly plant yourself in the predicted middle; it’s either you have Kris on one side and Jasper on the other, or Kris as your only arm buddy. Easiest decision to date.

He offers you and the new arrival his extra uncut potatoes. You ignore the way their arm has to reach over your station to pluck one. It’d be so easy to slice them to bits–

Focus. You’re here to have a good time. Make some new friends. Don’t obsess over the moron for one damn second.

Your thumb and pointer finger sit in front of the bolster, pushing into the blade’s beginning. You cut the potato in half, resting the flat surface against the cutting board. You line up your cuts slowly, but accurately.

It’s therapeutic; the repetitive motion. You find yourself sighing as your nerves loosen.

And your body betrays you. You can’t help it. You spare a quick glance at Kris.

They don’t even have a cutting board. They’re just slicing over the fucking steel table.

And they’re almost done cutting their potatoes. In what world is that possible? You both hardly started.

They’re super zoned out, too. And their strands are perfectly sliced – varying in length, but equivalent in width, thickness, straightness.

Oh. What. Ever.

You feel Jasper’s breath; hot against your neck? “Woah, dude. You’re really good at this.”

With just the slightest sliver of hope remaining, you turn to him, praying for the chance to thank him for his compliment directed to you. But it’s not directed to you! Who would’ve guessed?

“Thanks,” Kris practically dismisses. They hardly give either of you the time of day. Your expressions must contrast like black and white.

You hope they chop off a finger.

Your heart pangs. Wait.

The one they’re holding. That’s not the school-distributed knife. It’s theirs. It looks the same as the one from before? Probably?

That must still be prohibited. It implies they brought a weapon to school– how would they not get suspended for that?

You wait for Jasper to return to his station. You do the same, but you’re returning with a purpose.

The teacher’s lingering at the door, telling the club leader something you can’t quite make out from here. You hear a note about aprons? Grabbing more from the supply closet? Judging by their body language, they seem to be preparing a quick trip over.

You wait patiently, as you’ve always prided yourself in doing.

The door’s swung open. The nanosecond they’re out of the room, you strike.

You lunge for the contraband.

And with your amazing track record, it should’ve been an expectation that they’d see it coming.

You paw at their sweater, their face, their arm – of which holds your prize just out of reach – uncaring of the few stares that zip to your figures. You can explain yourself later– this is your only chance.

Their face displays no struggle or burden. In fact, with the point of the blade to the ceiling, they wave their wrist mockingly. You couldn’t hold back your gasp if you tried.

Right as you think you’re inching closer (you’re not), the handle twists expertly through their fingers.

And the sharp edge’s aimed at you.

Understandably believing you’re about to get stabbed, you let out an ‘eep!’, curling up into yourself flamingo-style. Guess you know where you stand in fight, flight, freeze.

You hear them snort. Even through your head shield, you hear them snort.

You don’t have the chance to react. Two hands slot against your shoulders, bordering the base of your neck.

Jasper’s voice cuts through. “Uh, you okay?”

Reverting to what most would call a normal standing position, you face him, failing to hide your look of confusion. Either he didn’t catch what just happened, or he… left and came back?

“Uhm,” you drawl like you’re paralyzed. How do you explain that?

For some odd reason, you look to Kris. Maybe they have a fantastic excuse they could lend you. Y’know, as an exchange for trying to kill you. Not that it wasn’t deserved. You’ll give them that.

And god, their expression’s something you just. can’t. place.

They don’t seem to find much of anything that amusing anymore. They’re too busy watching your shoulders. And by proxy, his hands? That’re still hanging loose against your collar?

Not that the two could be related.

It’s the type of standstill you’ve been in before. But it’s not nearly as light-hearted playful fun annoying as it usually is.

No. It’s tense.

Not coming remotely close to figuring out what’s going on, you take their stunted state as an opportunity. You’re crafty; you can’t help but be resourceful.

Your hand reaches for theirs, now dangling at their side, seizing the blade by its… blade.

You feel it cut into your palm as you squeeze, slipping it rather easily from their grasp. The pain’s worth the way your cheeks burn from your victory grin.

“Haha!” You wave the… handle at their face, bolting past them to find the teacher. “You’re so dead, Dreemurr!”

You don’t care to look back. Especially as you find said teacher re-entering the kitchen.

Her eyes instantly zip to your albeit very bloody hand, concern etched deep into her features. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Your mouth gapes and shuts just as fast.

One glance back proves they’re watching you. And the rest of the class. Actually, that’s not technically true. Some are watching your blood trail, not you.

…fuck it, we ball.

You unclench the knife, waving your fleshy cut in the woman’s heart-attack-prone face.

“Kris stabbed me.”

~*•*~

“–but nothing crazy actually happened. I just got sent to first aid,” you sigh, twirling yourself on one of the shop’s vanity chairs. “It didn’t actually cut that deep, so they just sterilized and wrapped it. Got sent home early, though.”

Roxy’s eyes run across the scabbed-over cut. “So… win-win?”

“Something like that.”

You may have stretched the truth a bit in your favour. You don’t need your friends knowing the whole story; just the minor, more important details.

Your friends decided on an impromptu trip to your local (ish; it was a twenty minute drive from your nothing-burger excuse of a town) tattoo parlour for some impulsive body-related choices. Some are talking to the artists, others are already entering the private rooms to start. Not you. You’re just here for moral support. And to laugh at their immediate regret.

Speaking of.

Roxy leans over your armrest, tilting her phone to you. “Whaddya think of this?”

It’s a picture of a stencil; her girlfriend’s name in a fancy font. You wince. “You’re gonna regret that when you break up after high school. But who knows? Maybe true love triumphs… actually maybe don’t listen to me.”

She shakes her head, continuing to scroll through potential ideas. “Thanks for the advice. Or lack thereof.”

“You’re welcome.”

Landing on another one, she shoves the phone extra close to your face. “This one?”

It’s a tattoo of a man’s face on someone’s big toe.

You blink. “Are you fucking with me?–”

“Evan!”

Someone calls the name as four figures step into the shop. You weren’t expecting anyone necessarily shocking to walk in, so you don’t look up right away.

Key word: weren’t.

You’re boredly scrolling through your own phone as green enters your field of view. Not a lot of green, but green nonetheless.

And that mother fucking stripe.

Turns out Kris tagged along with your rather late additional friends, waiting slightly behind the other three as they talk to the front desk. You’re instantly tugging at Roxy’s arm. “Uh, what’re they doing here?”

She raises an eyebrow as if she has no idea what you’re talking about. “He said he was gonna be late, didn’t he?”

“No, I mean–”

“Kris!” Another friend calls. What the actual hell.

When the voice beckons them over to the other piercing chairs (opposite side of the room, thankfully), they follow, though they don’t seem that enthusiastic about it.

You’re bolting to Evan, ignoring the way he tries to flirt with the receptionist in her mid twenties. “Hey.”

“Sup?” His attention’s peeled from her to you. She seems oddly grateful, choosing to retreat to literally anywhere else in the store.

“So…” you raise your eyebrows. “The fuck?”

He wants to cackle at you– you can see it in his malicious eyes. Neither of you have outright acknowledged it, but your distaste for the human’s undoubtedly implied from day one. Therefore, he’s the only one you’ll (mostly) outright admit it to.

“Look. It wasn’t my idea,” he trails on, attempting a sly escape by walking deeper into the parlour. You don’t let him, following closely behind. “They’re partners with Mar in chem, or something. He invited them, said we were all going out today, said you were gonna be there…”

“He– what?”

“They–” he stifles a laugh. “They said you were friends. Seemed to convince him pretty easily.”

Your eye twitches.

As if your brain tuned in on purpose, you can hear Mar from your central spot. He’s leaning on one of the vanity desks, watching Kris spin in the corresponding chair. Copy cat. “–but most of us are getting something. You should, too. If you want.”

You can barely make out their mumble. Something about how their mom would kill them.

Oh, you’d kill them were it socially acceptable.

Roxy’s fingers wrap around your bicep, dragging you back to your designated debating spot. “Dude.”

She breaks your stare. “What?”

“You’re, like, way too obvious.”

“With what?”

“C’mon. You guys have the whole… y’know. Thing going on.”

You’re a bit slow. Your first thought is that it’s about Kris, and you feel your forehead scrunch.

She makes a choking gesture for a moment. Then, she makes two V’s with her hands. And she crosses her fingers over one another–

“Eugh!” You gag, swatting her away.

“Oh, don’t give me that.”

‘That’? You’d never!–

Never– that…

That’s just–

Kris?

With Kris…?

That’d be… insane.

They’d never… what?

Would they?–

She slaps your cheek. “Lookin’ a little under the weather, there.”

You flush. “You’re so… indecent.”

“I just know your nasty mind’s thought about it,” she mocks. She taps the space between your brows as if proving a point.

Despite the fact that you just– No, you didn’t.

It reminds you of… something. You can’t quite place what, though.

After a few minutes, she distracts herself with something other than you, giving you the chance to scroll down to a certain contact you’ve been meaning to text back. That dude from the club. Jasper. He was lowkey pushy when asking for your number (and with every subsequent conversation) but it’s not like you outright dislike talking to him.

You’re straightening your knees, angling your phone’s camera to capture the new boots you got earlier this week. You feel Roxy lean over your shoulder. “The hell’re you doing?”

You don’t grace her with an answer, accidentally tightening your hold on your camera. It stabs against your recovering wound, sending a sting down your arm. “Ow.”

“That’s a bad scar. Looks painful.”

And the voice you’ve been dreading to hear has finally come to torment you.

“Kris, how you been?” Roxy takes a step towards the lone human, knowing damn well you’re not about to contribute to this conversation whatsoever. “How’s Susie? Tell her I wanna go another round of chess-boxing. Get two wins under my belt.”

“She says you cheated.”

“Cheated? At which one?”

“Boxing. She doesn’t know how to play chess.”

“Oh. Y’know what? That explains a lot,” she taps a finger to her chin. “Is that why her deer friend kept screaming chess notation?”

Of course Susie hears the word ‘boxing’ and doesn’t stop to think about the first half.

You ignore their chatter as you continue angling your phone, snapping a half-assed picture and sending it with a follow up of: costed a days worth of shifts. totally worth it tho

It’s not long until an admittedly nice apple scent floods your nostrils. They’re standing right against your armrest. You don’t give them the satisfaction of your attention.

“We should be gym partners on Monday.”

You raise an eyebrow at them, half-immune to their bait. Specifying the ‘half’.

You catch a glimpse of Roxy. She’s nodding aggressively, giving you two large thumbs ups. Like you’d ever need a wingman, Kris or not.

And besides. Her hands only remind you of her nasty sexual innuendo–

“Sure,” you force out. You only agree to prevent her from gathering more fuel to use against you.

She slides an arm around their shoulders, leaning into them. They must not expect it; they stumble before supporting her added weight.

“Aren’t you guys ‘competitive rivals in P.E.’?” At the sight of your contorted face, she holds up her free hand in defence. “Sam’s words, not mine.”

You stare at them expectantly, assuming they have some stupid answer prepared. But they just stare back at you. You’re at an odd standstill.

“It’s all in… good fun,” you decide on.

You don’t want to come off as defensive. The last thing you need is them knowing she knows anything. Not that there’s anything to know. What’re you scared of?

“Roxy,” someone calls from one of the side hallways. “The dude’s ready for you.”

“What?– Did you tell him I haven’t even decided yet?” She makes a beeline towards them out of panic.

Your foot taps impatiently on the ground. Everyone’s relatively far aways, invested in their own mini chit-chats. “Why’re you here, Kris?”

You find yourself saying that a lot.

They tower over you. “I’m here to see you get that piercing.”

“What?”

You’ve also been saying that a lot. Maybe you’re just a naturally confused person. ‘Dense’ is another word for it.

They point to your glabella, finger inching closer. You snatch their wrist before it makes contact.

You really can’t remember anything. Something about a piercing. It was late…? Weeks ago. You recall seeing them in the forest. Or was it the road? And then… you…

Oh… oh!

Oh.

Your grip tenses over their pulse.

Oh, shit.

That wasn’t!–

Or was it?

That did happen.

“Oh yeah?” You clear your throat, sounding just as confident as you appear. “Then you gotta get your lip too.”

Your pupils lock onto their lips. Automatically. It’s not your fault– blame the system.

They quirk their head, ever so slightly. As if saying ‘really?’.

You clench your teeth. “First one to back down?”

“What’s the prize?”

“Uhh. I don’t know. Twenty bucks?”

“And a favour,” they add on generously.

“Whatever– fine.”

You’re relatively confident you won’t chicken out. And with the addition of a favour, you can tell them to leave you alone. Forever. No contact. Ghosted. Hopefully it’s a non-negotiable favour.

You both wait a good half-hour for the workers to finish up with your (key word: your) friends. After that, it isn’t long before you’re both sitting parallel to one another, faces contorting into varying levels of (or lack thereof) emotion.

You’re perhaps a bit more cocky than you should be.

“Get the money out for me, loser.”

Alcohol wipes.

“My favour’ll just be to quadruple my winnings, loser.”

Poked with surgical markers; yours on your bridge, theirs on their labret

“Hope you’re ready to lose… uh, loser.”

Piercing needles out. Needles– what?

You forget how to blink as your piercer lines up the clamp to pinch your bridge. The two’re practically in sync; Kris’ own clamp squeezes, jutting their lip out.

“You need me to count down?” Your piercer smiles warmly at your very alarmed face.

“Okay,” you squeak.

Your eyes dart from the needle to your piercer to Kris and you keep waiting and waiting for those words of relief.

But you never hear it.

The needle hovers menacingly. Right in front of your eyes.

“Three… two–”

Nope. No way–

“WaitwaitwaitwaitWAIT–”

And breaking you from your panic is Kris’ fucking snicker. As if they knew.

You clutch the armrests. “Idon’tknowifIwantthisanymore.”

Kris, lip out, slurs out a ‘me neither’.

They both back off, sharing a look. You share a laugh – yours of which sounded much more forced – and he explains he didn’t think you looked completely into it.

Oh, you were into it. Just… the winning part, though.

Once they leave to help customers who actually want something done, you bang your head against the headrest, shielding your eyes with your palms out of shame.

A shadow looms over you, slim fingers gently prying your hands from your face.

They stand between your legs with the smuggest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Pay up, loser,” they mock.

You rip your hands from theirs, begrudgingly offering them the twenty cash you planned on spending on pizza. Not some stupid wager.

Your palm remains outstretched as a figure of speech, wanting nothing more than to be done with it. “What about the favour?”

They curl your fingers to your palm, pressing it to your chest.

“Keep it safe for me.”

This little–

You start flailing, launching your feet at their face. It doesn’t land, of course, but the intention is all there.

~*•*~

Roxy stretches her collar down her arm, revealing her back shoulder tattoo. You almost choke on your drink. As do many of the others watching the display.

You’re surrounded by one of the many crowds at a bonfire a friend’s hosting as a… Thanksgiving? Halloween? Thing? You’re not quite sure; he didn’t care to specify.

It might just be because his parents are out for the weekend, and he felt the need to invite a majority of the school to his larger-than-average backyard. The lack of fence doesn’t make the space look any smaller, either. It blends into the trees of the forest seamlessly.

You toss your head back, gulping down whatever’s in your cheap plastic cup. You have to give the tattoo a second glance to give your brain a chance to recognize the symbol. “Is that the Delta Rune?”

“Oh yeah,” she brags as if it’s something to flex about. “I thought I should stay on theme, y’know?”

You knew you shouldn’t have left early that day. You can’t believe you haven’t seen this until now.

Despite your second-hand embarrassment, your laugh is loud and garbled. “What theme? Everyone’s gonna think you’re religious.”

Clover looks at you like you’re delusional. “She’s, like, the least religious person to exist.”

The tattooed-up arm snakes around her girlfriend as a definitely not needed demonstration.

“Quit the PDA!” Someone shouts from across the lawn.

You’re already retreating to the drinks table. “Yeah, weirdos.”

Although the backyard’s pretty full, you don’t struggle to swerve around the little cliques that keep to their own space. Though he doesn’t have a mansion (like Noelle), the host’s backyard spans about the same area.

Everything’s chill. You feel like you can finally breathe. Especially after the fifty pounds of homework you had to rush through last night. Class wasn’t an option, due to the little balls of paper being flicked at your back. Wonder who it was.

Arriving at the drinks, you scan through the array of sodas, glass bottles of pretty expensive shit (thank you, host), and punch bowls.

Sam asked if you could borrow one (or a few) from the Church, as the last one shattered on the concrete during set up. You’re not sure why it was glass, but you’re not a punch bowl designer, so you wouldn’t know.

The slosh of pinkish-red liquid is most definitely tainted with something, whether intentional or not. But you already had a cup or two or three and you don’t mind the taste, so you go for seconds or thirds or fourths.

You’re more uncoordinated than you remember being, ladle slipping from your grasp as half the juice lands in your cup. The other half drenches your fingers, coating your touch in the sweet sticky substance. “Fuck.”

A warm hand rests on the small of your back. “Need some help?”

It’s Jasper. You don’t feel anything at the sight of him.

“Yes, please.”

He plucks your slathered cup from your fingers, tossing it in a nearby garbage bag before pouring you a new drink. “How’ve you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you much tonight.”

“Yeah… doing my rounds.” You sound awfully coy with the excuse.

Your scalp’s awfully itchy. Or it’s just the eyes on the back of your skull.

“Who’ve you talked to?”

“I dunno, haven’t been keeping track,” you shrug, unsure of why he’s asking. “Gotta be nice to everyone or they won’t bring out the good stuff later.”

He laughs at your lazy joke. You feel bad for being so bored.

You’re peeking behind you to where you know a certain trio stands. Susie and Noelle are deep in conversation, on the verge of pda.com from the looks of it. Kris is… not so subtly staring at you. Their body’s tilted to the duo, but you can make out their glare. It’s a different type of creepy. Or just a different emotion in general. One you’ve never seen on them before. Or maybe you have.

Your head’s buzzing too much to realize Jasper’s waiting for a response. You manually tug the sides of your mouth up. “Huh?”

“Can I show you something?”

You look at Kris again. Now, they’re staring at him. Not you.

Your shoulders drop. “Okay.”

He doesn’t do so much as touch you as he guides you into the forest. You’re admittedly disappointed. Not that you’re craving it from him, necessarily, but you’re feeling a bit… what’s the word…?

He steps over twigs, branches, tufts of leaves, checking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure your stumbling self hasn’t gotten lost and died yet. You don’t care to look excited, though your curiosity is peaked.

Eventually, he stops in front of a bush of blue hydrangeas. He gestures to them as if it’s his first time seeing them. “Like them?”

Yeah, they’re pretty, but…

It was a five minute walk to get here. You’re almost certain it was a poor excuse to get you two alone.

“They’re nice,” you murmur, squatting to get a closer look.

There’s a slight awkward pause. You don’t register it, but just judging by his body language, he wants to say something.

He doesn’t get the chance. Your eyes widen, shushing him effectively; there’s an orange fox five feet to your right and you’re not about to scare it off.

You slowly crawl towards it on your knees – grass stains at the back of your mind – reaching out. It doesn’t lean into your touch, but it lets you pet it nonetheless. There’s gradual, steady footsteps behind you. When he squats next to you, you raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah, this thing totally has rabies,” you whisper.

“I mean. It’s not foaming at the mouth. So you’re probably alright.”

It’s not even a joke. But your mind and heart and soul feel so light and you’re giggling anyways.

He might’ve smiled at you. You wouldn’t know; you’re not paying attention.

He’s reaching to pet it–

But it’s frightened by something. A sound.

When you both stand, you’re facing each other. He doesn’t seem to have heard it, instead joking that it got scared of him.

You huff out an excuse for a laugh. You’re too busy gazing past him.

You knew you saw that red glimmer.

Kris is stalking you two behind a tree like a fucking freak.

You lock eyes. They look like they’re about to kill you. Or him. Or both.

And something just… clicks within you.

A malicious, downright evil grin corrupts your face.

You blink; nice and slow. A taunt.

That night’s so unbelievably vivid in your mind.

You’ve always been a fan of recycling.

“Thanks for showing me those, Jaz,” you coo, slipping out a nickname you’ve never used before. “They’re really pretty.”

You snap the stem of a smaller hydrangea, sauntering towards him to slip the flower behind his ear.

“We should hang out more,” you suggest innocently. Once it’s secure, your arms naturally fall on his shoulders, slyly wrapping around his neck. “I feel like I never get to see you alone. Just the two of us?”

He bites his tongue. His eyes are lidded. You tug him closer.

“Yeah, it’s kinda weird,” he murmurs drunkenly (figuratively and literally), his breath mixing with your own. “I feel like we click really well.”

You have to stop yourself from saying ‘ehhh, really?’. But he doesn’t need to know that. Nor do the eyes in the darkness.

His hands find their way to your hips. Not squeezing, though you kinda want him to. The warmth seeps through your clothes–

There’s a louder rustle from their direction. You were expecting a slipup; maybe they’d leave out of disgust.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Kris has fully emerged from their hiding spot. Still as a statue, regret drenching their stiff self.

Outwardly watching you two be handsy. Not like they weren’t before, but at least it was supposedly unknown.

You back up an inch out of courtesy. You feel that all too familiar rage travel through your veins. But it’s mixed with something else. It’s exhilarating.

With one of the many rehearsed lines ready on your tongue, your mouth cracks open when–

“He has a girlfriend.”

Your jaw drops at their words, neck cracking to said ‘him’.

“What?”

Jasper’s confusion only deepens. “Uh, what? No, I don’t–”

You’re not sure why you’re instantly believing your torturer, considering they’re most definitely lying, but you don’t get the chance to question your instincts.

One of the hands on his shoulder’s being pulled towards them. They want you to follow them. You obviously don’t want to, or maybe you do, you can’t really tell anymore, but–

“‘m cashing in that favour,” they mumble with a confusing amount of urgency.

Well, that settles it.

You may be an asshole, but you’re not one to dismiss a well-earned IOU.

“Uhh,” you say instead of an apology, allowing yourself to be dragged away.

Jasper’s wide eyes are the last things you see as you disappear into the plumage.

Their grip only tightens and tightens and tightens and you’re losing feeling in the tips of your fingers.

“The hell’s up with you?”

No answer. While they step over an exposed root, you trip over it, almost bringing the two of you to the dirt.

“That’s what you use your favour on?”

You scoff in disbelief. You can hardly see anything besides their permanent deadpan. It’s much more strained than you remember it being.

“You could’ve done anything else, and you do that?”

You spend a good few minutes falling deeper and deeper into the trees. You might be losing your mind.

“I should’ve gotten it if I knew you’d cash in something so unbelievably ass–”

You’re being propelled forward. You’re about to tumble for the hundredth time today. But two hands steady your shoulders.

And flip you to face them. You get slight whiplash.

And their lips crash into yours.

You’re in an unparalleled state of shock.

Holy shit.

It’s quick, chaste. Sorta nice.

They’re pulling away before you can fully process any of it.

You’re both frozen, it seems; stuck a few inches from each other’s face. Oddly enough, it’s not the closest you’ve ever been before.

But your ego only inflates.

…and you’re giggling like a madman.

“You two-faced idiot. I knew it.”

Their impassivity falters.

You smush your hands to their cheeks. “You hate Jasper!”

They stare at you like you’ve grown a second head. But you don’t let it deter you!

“I mean, the first thing he said to you was literally an insensitive comment about being human. Of course you’d keep that in the back of your head! And the weird looks you’d give him? And he’s weirdly forward, touchy, maybe a bit socially dense– but it was also strange how you knew I was texting him at the parlor and you interrupted me?–”

Their mouth presses to yours again, cutting off your much-required explanation. You’re somehow just as shocked the second time.

It’s even quicker. To your… disappointment?

They’re blinking at you. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

They…

Oh.

You pause.

Well.

“Well,” you echo.

Yeah.

That’s that.

Maybe you’re just dumb.

You’re tangling your fingers in their hair, pressing them back to your lips. They let out a quiet noise that you eat up immediately. Once they relax a touch, your mouths move together in calm, slow patterns. It’s a bit sloppy, but you don’t mind.

You find yourself savouring the feeling. You don’t know why you do.

Their hands drop to your hips, squeezing and kneading your flesh like they want to take you apart. You’re nowhere near expecting it, nor do you take them for the type. Maybe they saw Jasper do it. And maybe you looked like you liked it.

And maybe you like that they’re doing it because they know you like it–

Your eyes flutter as you feel their tongue poke at your bottom lip. Your fingers tighten. You wouldn’t be surprised if you’re ripping hair from their scalp. But they outright groan and it doesn’t matter because your stomach’s flurrying with excitement.

You guide their chin with your hand, sensing their slight inexperience, ushering their lips to open a tad. Their fingers roll circles into your hips and they’re pulling you flush against them. The moment they shyly tap their tongue to your open mouth, you’re clenching it between your teeth.

They’re pulling back from sheer surprise. You release them, tasting their saliva on your lips. It’s drenched in the sharp burn of vodka. “Did you take a shot?”

“One,” they admit wholeheartedly. “Ten minutes ago.”

You peck the corner of their mouth. They try to chase your touch, but you draw back before they can meet you. Pressing your thumb under their jawline, you guide their gaze to the sky as you litter their neck in little bites and kisses. Their horribly-concealed little grunts and mewls send shivers down your spine, only fueling you further.

“What? Got too many nerves to deal with, Dreemurr?”

You feel them swallow under your lips. You lick a wet stripe up the length of their neck.

“Do I make you nervous, Dreemurr?”

You get a front row seat to their shaky exhale. All rosy and warm; they can hardly look you in the eye.

They’re really cute when they don’t make you want to kill yourself.

“Shut up,” they curse out, rather uncharacteristically. They tug your hands from their face before shoving their tongue down your throat.

Yeah, there isn’t a universe where you wouldn’t be into this.

“You’re so rude.” You squeeze their bicep.

“You’re a hothead,” they groan back between kisses.

“You’re repressed.” You’re shoving them to the grass.

“You’re thin-skinned.” They let you pin their hands under your own.

“You’re a hikikomori,” you hiss as they bite your lip hard enough to bleed.

“You’re erratic.” They flip you over, straddling your hips.

“You’re a sadist.” You lead them to your neck, wordlessly asking.

“You’re mine,” they suck a mean hickey right below your pulse.

You outright moan.

“Say you hate me,” you beg.

You think they’re about to do it, but some part of them second-guesses it. Crap.

They’re pulling away just enough to lock eyes. “What?”

Before you can feel embarrassed, the most grueling voice cuts through your already ruined moment. “Oh– shit, didn’t mean to–”

Jasper rounds a tree right before shielding his eyes at the unmistakable sight that is Kris on top of you–

You’re shoving them off of you before skiddling across the ground like prey, still horribly out of breath. “We weren’t!–”

You can see his blush between his fingers. “Sorry– I didn’t know you two were–”

“We’re not!–”

Kris wraps a wrist around your ankle before you can escape. “We are.”

“You–” You climb to your feet. They follow you like your shadow. “I–”

But you can’t will yourself to say anything.

They’re giving you the most pathetic, ‘please be quiet’ type look.

“I…”

Your inhale is their exhale. Their lips are a deep, deep red. Matches their eyes.

Goddamnit.

“My bad,” you hear offhandedly, the unwanted form now retreating back into the forest. “I’ll, uh, go.”

And he’s gone.

You’re not really sure what happens next.

“Is this one of your dumb pranks?” You find yourself asking. It’s a shameful show of insecurity.

You think you’re asking semi-genuinely. You think they can tell it’ll crush you if they say something stupid.

“Yeah,” they mumble.

But you find your lip turning up. They’re not even trying to pretend they’re not lying out their ass.

Their face mirrors your own, perhaps toned town a few degrees.

You groan, slamming your fists into their chest. It’s half-assed.

You hover for a moment, face all up in their shoulder. Remembering the smell as if it’ll fade.

“I wanna strangle you so bad.”

“I know.”

You’re giggling. “You should kill yourself.”

There’s two hands on your biceps. “Suicide pact? Or ten paces, fire?”

“Ten paces. Then we see who backs out first.”

“And if I win?”

“You wouldn’t. I would cheat. Fire at the third pace.”

“Then what?”

You inch away to give them a look. “Then what? You want me to say I’d regret it?”

They shake their head. “What would you ask for as your favour?”

“Another kiss,” you cough. “Like, out of courtesy. Because you’re dying on the floor. But I’m not into dead bodies. It’s, like, a farewell thing.”

There’s a moment before they’re snorting.

“I’ll get the guns.”

~~~ fuuuck this was so fun jasper the cockblock

i hope its clear why reader likes kris. its very specific. and very important. to me. and oh my god im gonna be thinking about this for the next few days.

to all the asks ive gotten asking if im down to do more suggestive content uhhhh take this as ur sign as yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes

I saw art of kris with snakebites last year in april and i still have it saved bc its so oh my god it did something absolutely horrible to me and that inspired half this fic LMAOO

HOPE U LIKEYYYYED

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Floofy is the Forg