Hello! You may call me CJ or Charm! Thanks for checking out my humble little blog <3
This is a blog for all of my fanworks, whether written or drawn! (Mostly written, though.) This is my main.
I tend to jump fandoms a lot, so don't expect me to write for just one thing only. On the same hand, I also write for myself. I may open requests at some point, but for the most part, this blog will be filled with things I want to write. I'm in need of assistance paying for cancer treatment for one of my dogs! If you are able to donate, I'll write a short fic in exchange!
I may write mature themes sometimes, but I do not write explicit material.
I would like to apologize if you followed for something specifice. I tend to just write what I want when I want. So... Sorry!!
Now then, on to my Masterlists! Most fanfiction should have a link to the fic on AO3, if you prefer!!
Character Only
Fics that involve characters only. May be introspective, may be platonic, may be romantic.
Art and Edits
Exactly as it says. Will mostly be anime or manga edits with some fanart thrown in.
Reader Insert
Simple and easy, fics about Characters I want to date<3
Original Characters(Coming soon!)
I have two original characters that I use for fanworks: Cass and Charm.
I need some help. One of our dogs, Wolfie, has a tumor on his leg, and is at risk of cancer spreading. He needs to see an oncologist, but we can't really afford that or any treatment he needs. So if we could get some help, I'd really appreciate it.
Thank you for your time.
Meet Wolfie, our mix-breed baby boy! He is twelve years old, soon to b… Cindy Morris needs your support for Help Wolfie Get the Cancer
Fandom: Genshin Impact
Characters: Tartaglia, ChiScara
Summary: Sparring. Sarcasm. Kisses exchanged in the heat of battle, the taste of blood passing from one tongue to another.
A/N: One of my dogs has been diagnosed with cancer, and i’ll need help to pay for treatment. I am offering fics in exchange for donations!
389 // AO3 // Masterlist
The wedding is…
Nonexistant. A fairy tale. Once upon a time, in a far away land.
But the ring still sits on Tartaglia’s glove. He doesn’t remember who slid it on his finger. He doesn’t know for whom he wears it.
Maybe it’s for the girl in Moreposek, the one he had a crush on as a child?
A drunken night in Nasha Town could also explain it. The laws are loose at the border; impromptu marriages happen all the time.
Or perhaps that man in Inazuma, the one that wanted to marry as research for his novel.
None of those theories carry the weight of reality. The girl's been gone for years, and Tartaglia tries to keep a clear head on the border. And the Inazuman…
Something akin to memory comes to the front of Tartaglia’s mind. Blue eyes. A black kimono. Red paint on porcelain lips. A steel ring, just a few shades lighter than black, slipped onto his finger. The same ring he wears every day.
It blends in with the rest of his jewelry. Whoever gave it to Tartaglia knew him well.
Or maybe it’s just another trinket from some forgotten adventure. A shiny thing to tinker with until it bores him. It’ll be gone, one of these days, sold to some swindler or gifted to a sibling or thrown into the icy rivers of Snehznaya. The emptiness he feels at its removal will surely be a fleeting thing, gone by the time the currents carry it away.
And yet the idea haunts him. The very thought that he would be separated from the one thing that ties him to some unknown paramour wrenches at his heart. Preys at his mind. Every time he removes that damned ring, he is consumed by dreams so wistful they hurt.
A pub in Nod Krai, floating among cotton-candy clouds.
A man from Inazuma holding a blade to his throat.
Sparring. Sarcasm. Kisses exchanged in the heat of battle, the taste of blood passing from one tongue to another.
Electro runs through his veins as someone teases him. As someone straddles him. As someone whispers words of love into his ear, quiet enough to hide beneath the rain drumming on the roof. Relationships between Harbingers are forbidden, after all.
Fandom: Genshin Impact
Characters: Kinich, Kinilani
Summary: Kinich doesn't mind a celebration if that celebration is for Mualani.
Technically, the celebration is for him, too.
A/N: One of my dogs has been diagnosed with cancer, and i’ll need help to pay for treatment. I am offering fics in exchange for donations!
325 // AO3 // Masterlist
The wedding is loud.
Like, loud loud. Live music plays throughout the entirety of Toyac Springs. People gather along the boardwalk, chatting and drinking. Couples dance across the waterfront, nearly dragging passersby into the ocean. It’s wild. It’s crazy. It’s…
Too much for Kinich.
Sure, he's no stranger to partying. He's drunk his fill at many a gathering. Nothing truly alcoholic, of course — that's one thing he avoids no matter the occasion. Except for today. He was coaxed into a glass of wine from everyone except Mualani.
Mualani. Kinich doesn't mind a celebration if that celebration is for Mualani.
Technically, the celebration is for him, too.
But Mualani is the one that pushed for it. And if there is anything he cannot do, it is to deny Mualani. And she is more than understanding. She let him sneak off after greeting their first few guests, and now he sits atop the roof of Colomche Plaza’s main building, legs crossed and hands in his lap. Fidgeting. Twisting around the ring on his finger — an emerald from deep within Coatepec Mountain, polished until it was smooth and shiny, then engraved with the symbol of the Meztli. A piece of his heart carved into a piece of his home.
Mualani has a ring to match. Lazurite sourced from Toyac Springs and carved with the Huitztlan emblem. They were a gift from Xilonen, meant to be a symbol of their union. Natlan doesn’t have such traditions, but she picked it up from a librarian and her wife in Mondstadt.
Kinich runs a thumb over the ring as he scans the party below. Mualani is dancing with Kachina, laughing as they twirl through the crowd, the skirts of their white pareos floating in their wake. The edges of the engraving scrape at his skin, and he presses the pad of his thumb into it until his blood pulses through his hand.
Fandom: Genshin Impact
Characters: Cyno, Tighnari
Summary: The wedding is secret.
No. Not secret. Secret implies a reason to hide. Secret implies shame.
A/N: One of my dogs has been diagnosed with cancer, and i'll need help to pay for treatment. I am offering fics in exchange for donations!
312 // AO3 // Masterlist
The wedding is secret.
No. Not secret. Secret implies a reason to hide. Secret implies shame.
Tighnari feels no shame, and neither does Cyno.
Their fingers twine as they lay in the forest, staring up into the night. The Traveler claims the stars as false, claims the sky that circles Teyvat is little more than show. The sun and moon and clouds all dance across some invisible shell to hide the true nature of the world.
Cyno points to a cluster of lights directly above them. “That’s you,” he says, finger tracing lines between stars that don't connect. Tighnari thinks he’s drawing a fox.
“How so?” he asks, and Cyno smiles.
“I can’t stop starring at it.”
True to the pun, Cyno’s eyes have not left the sky. Even when a cloud rolls over his imaginary constellation, his gaze remains locked to it.
Rain drizzles over them. They don't move. Cyno continues to stare. Tighnari doesn't feel jealous.
He doesn't.
But he does rise onto his elbows and flips onto Cyno, face hovering between him and the image his mind has conjured.
“You're pouting,” Cyno says, lips quirking into a smile. He lifts a hand to swipe away the hair that hangs between them.
“Am not,” Tighnari protests, but even he can hear how petulant he sounds. It makes Cyno's smile widen.
“I could see a thousand foxes in the sky,” Cyno whispers, “but they will never compare to you.” He cups his hand over the back of Tighnari's head and pulls him down until their foreheads touch.
“I’m yours,” he breathes, right before pressing their lips together.
There is no announcement. No grand declaration of love. No proposal, even.
But there are rings. Two simple wooden wedding bands; one that Tighnari wears under his thick ranger’s gloves, the other tucked into a pouch sewn to the inside of Cyno’s belt.
I need some help. One of our dogs, Wolfie, has a tumor on his leg, and is at risk of cancer spreading. He needs to see an oncologist, but we can't really afford that or any treatment he needs. So if we could get some help, I'd really appreciate it.
Thank you for your time.
Meet Wolfie, our mix-breed baby boy! He is twelve years old, soon to b… Cindy Morris needs your support for Help Wolfie Get the Cancer
Hey guys! As you can see, I'm in need of some help. If you are able to donate, I will write a short fic for you! Just provide proof of donation, please.
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: Susie, Kris
Ship: Krusie
Summary: “Penance must be paid,” she hisses, reaching out. Susie steps back, but the elegant indigo hand follows. Her wrist is snatched in an iron grip before it can make contact with her forehead.
>“I’ll do it,” Kris grounds out, forcing the words through stiff lips and frozen tongue. “I’ll take her punishment.”
3.2k // AO3 // Masterlist
The music floating from the Dark is soft and slow, drawing the faintest of forgotten memories to the front of Kris' mind.
Their body moves, swaying back and forth, as their fingers tap their thigh alongside the rhythm, hitting notes as they fall. The movement is not fully under their control, but neither is it guided by the entity that pulses between their ribs.
“Weird that we can hear it already,” Susie says, eyeing the hospital door, opened into pure Darkness. “I didn’t think anything escaped the Dark World until it was closed.” Her gaze moves to the sky, just barely starting to dim, then to their dancing fingertips. “Know what it is?”
Kris hums. The song is familiar, yet frustratingly distant. The past clings to them like smoke, ashes filling their mouth with every unwelcome memory. It is not often that they dredge the shadows of their life, but they think back, back, back to a time that was full of fun and light. Losing balance on the tips of their toes. Walls mirrored to see and correct their posture. Noelle standing stock-still as Kris struggled to keep their attention on the teacher.
“Ballet,” they mumble.
Her snout wrinkles in a sneer. “Hoity-toity shit, then.” A second passes as she swipes at her nose. “Which one?” she asks, lips falling into a curious line.
Flashes of story sprint across their mind: a forbidden love, a broken heart, a dancing death.
Which narrows nothing down. It’s a common formula for any performance.
“Dunno,” Kris tells her, half-shrugging. Even if they recognized the song, they couldn’t place it — they’ve only seen three or four different ballets in their teenage years, but they have been through showings of each.
The thing controlling them shivers. It takes all of their concentration to resist its command to jump, already, JUMP!
“Well,” Susie starts, stepping one foot into the door, “one way to find out.”
And she spins, shooting Kris a daring grin as the Dark swallows her.
Music assaults their ears as they follow. A transformation sparks across their skin, changing their clothes into armor and whisking away every ounce of autonomy they have. The entity — parasite, Kris has taken to calling it — tightens its grasp over them in the Dark Worlds. There are very few situations where they are granted freedom.
Kris is a mere spectator by the time they land beside Susie and Ralsei. They wave greetings that Kris can only return with a slight nod. And then they take off.
Rooms and halls and hours pass quickly, every step accompanied by music. Flutes and violins rise and fall, a drum beats steadily in the background. The soft tinking of a piano never leaves, always playing just below the other sounds. It follows along with their footsteps. Every step they take has the same note playing, over and over — a G chord. They listen, trying to gauge what sounds have been assigned to the others. A low C for Susie, Kris thinks, and a high E for Ralsei.
“Are you okay, Kris?” Ralsei asks as he stops before them. “You seem distracted.”
“The music,” they mutter, lips barely moving. Their already stiff back straightens as more words are forced from their tongue. “The music is watching us.”
Like a broken spell, flowers descend on them. Twirling petals circle Kris and Susie and Ralsei. Thorns reach out, grasping at their clothes, drawing them into a dance amongst a giggling cloud.
Kris spins on their foot, until vines wrap round their throat.
Ralsei is guided through a waltz over broken needles and shattered glass.
Susie thrashes until she’s free of the storm surrounding her. Her axe forms in her hand, and she waves it in front of her. “Stay back!” she shouts.
The flowers laugh, high and tinkling, as they fade into the dark. Kris and Ralsei fall to the floor, breath heaving. Susie kneels beside them, conjuring a ball of healing magic. “Ralsei,” Kris coughs, waving her towards him and his bleeding feet.
“Let’s hope,” Ralsei gasps as a hundred small cuts close over, “that we don’t see them again.”
“Music's louder,” Kris wheezes. They point to a large, ornate door at the end of the hall. “Boss.”
“And the Fountain after that, right?” Susie asks. They nod. She hefts her axe, resting it over her shoulder as she offers a hand to Kris. “Let’s finish this.”
They stare at her as they slowly take her hand — she’s beautiful, with the dim light of the Dark World highlighting the edges of her smile, the deep purple of her hair. She pulls them to their feet, and they extend a hand to Ralsei.
Together, they open the ornate door.
Inside is a forest of lilac and periwinkle. A low glow tints the fog a pasty blue. A floral scent permeates the air; a carpet of small flowers bloom under them as they walk.
The trees part. In the distance, the Fountain flows. Flowers extend into a large clearing. A casket sits in the middle, glossy black wood reflecting false stars from above. A Darkner — the first they’ve seen — twirls slowly around it, slipping through the grass on the tips of her toes.
She’s gorgeous. Her skin is a deep blue that shines indigo in the light. Her hair is coiled into tight locs that flow around her as she dances, ghostly white save for a few strands of black sprinkled in. Golden string wraps around her body, a skintight bodysuit that covers her chest and hips and falls into a sparse skirt. Tears sparkle as they fall from her face, turning to diamonds as she comes to a gentle stop above the casket. Her arms rest by her side, her feet crossed flat on the ground.
“Come to mourn the girl you killed?” the Darkner asks, eyes half-closed.
“We haven’t killed anyone,” Ralsei steps forward.
“Lies,” she hisses. Her gaze turns to glare. Anger mars her face as she looks at Susie. “You lied your way into my daughter’s weak heart,” she says to her, “and now you claim no guilt for breaking it?”
Susie’s eyebrow twitches. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about,” she says, raising her palms to the Darkner.
The Mother motions to the casket, lips parted in a sneer. “You do not care to even remember her name?”
And this is where Susie’s own lips twist as she pouts. She turns to Kris. “Any idea who she's talking about?”
The story, they want to say, she thinks you’re the prince.
“No idea,” falls from their mouth, completely monotone.
Again, Ralsei steps forward. “We're sorry for your loss,” he says, “but we must move on. All we want is to close the Dark Fountain.”
The Mother lifts a finger to his brow. An eighth note lights up between his horns. His body begins to sway, feet sliding through the grass as he twirls away, shouting at the loss of control. When she turns back to Susie, she is furious.
“Penance must be paid,” she hisses, reaching out. Susie steps back, but the elegant indigo hand follows.
Her wrist is snatched in an iron grip before it can make contact with her forehead. Silence — true silence, an utter lack of sound — falls as the Mother frowns at Kris. They had no plan when they grabbed her; pure instinct is what drove them to protect Susie.
“I’ll do it,” they ground out, forcing the words through stiff lips and frozen tongue. “I’ll take her punishment.”
The Mother stares. Sits. Lounges against her daughter’s casket. “Dance,” she says, and the music picks up once more: A light piano, poking out a back-and-forth tune beneath barely louder violin. A soft flute picks up as they step into the clearing, free of all tripping hazards. The music is unknown to them, but neither is it fully unfamiliar. It has the same ring of story that all ballet music carries.
If there is a specific choreography that the Mother desires, she will not get it. But Kris has spent their fair share of time consuming the art of performative dance. They can bullshit a passable routine.
The only problem is the parasite that has taken up residence in their chest. If it leaves them alone, they can make their way through this problem. If it grants them their freedom, they will make quick work of it.
They lift their arms above their head, stand on the toes of their armored boots. Begin a slow turn. Lower their arms. Leap.
When the music swells, their limbs go numb. They tumble as their ankles lock half-twisted. On the ground, their arms still extend, jerking in every direction. Something pulls on their chest, yanking them into a sitting position.
“What a farce.” The Mother stands above Kris, frowning. Leaves grow around her, blades of grass sharpened by her rage. When she lifts her hand they launch at Kris and Susie, sink into their skin with pain and blood.
The fluttering of the parasite disappears, just as it does at every battle. Kris can feel control flow into their numb body.
What a cowardly thing that has taken up residence within them. To cause a mess and run away from the consequences.
Battle is something they can handle. Pain is welcomed, as is the swinging of their sword. It is something they can find comfort in, the mindless hacking at whatever enemy blocks their way — except for this time.
Kris knows what item formed this Darkner. They’ve played it enough to know each mistuned string as it was struck. They know which key to hold to draw out the sound they desire. Which pedal to press to alter the music.
This Darkner, this Mourning Mother...
She came from the hospital piano.
She will not survive the battle.
And when the Fountain closes, and Kris stands above the ruins of the Mother, and the piano is shattered into a thousand shards…
There is no time to mourn. Patients stir deep within the hospital, woken from their slumber by the commotion. Footsteps thud down the hall, rapidly approaching the waiting room. Susie grabs Kris and runs to the door, jumping over the chaos left when a Dark World closes, carries them into the overcast night outside.
They’re hiding in the shadows of a lamp halfway down the street when Nurse Big Mouth storms out onto the sidewalk. They have no face, but the tilt of their giant lips speaks clearly of their anger.
Kris can’t bring themself to care. The piano is gone. Sure, they can ask the Holidays for access to theirs. Sure, the church has an organ they can attempt to play. But the hospital piano — it was special. It was a place they could go to get lost in music. It was a familiar friend when they needed to clear their head.
To find it destroyed leaves them empty.
Thunder rolls through the clouds. Rain sprinkles along the ground.
Susie guides Kris home, her hoodie thrown over their shoulders to guard from the rain until they stand under the Dreemurr porch. Their body remains their own, untouched by the parasite, as they hug the jacket to their chest. Reluctantly they hand it over, and she pulls the hood over her head as she disappears into the night.
Toriel makes them shower before bed. Their hair is still wet when she gives them a hug bids them good night.
Fury sits in their room, lays alongside them in bed. Festers. Rots.
Until they feel the tingle of the parasite settling into their chest. It makes them stand. It walks them to the bedroom door.
They rip it out before it can move them into the hallway.
“I had that,” they seethe. The little heart squeezed in their fist flutters. “I did not need your ‘guidance’ for it.”
It glows in their hand, pulsing in time to their own heartbeat. That is the only answer Kris ever receives from it, no matter what they do. Complete and utter silence.
Its prison sits open in the wagon. The bars rattle as Kris slams the parasite into the birdcage and twists the hook into the latch.
It shines, still flickering along with the pulse that thunders through their ears. Glaring proves no use in dimming its glow, so they slink over to the closet for a blanket. A navy blue comforter sits in the bottom of the closet, thick and dark and heavy enough to completely smother the light.
A small white box clatters across the floor as they toss it over the birdcage, landing upside-down. Kris stares down at the pink ribbon spilling from one corner. Their hands shake as they flip the box.
A small, worn pair of ballet slippers stay in the carpet. Crossing their legs, they measure the shoes along the bottom of their socks. Kris has long outgrown the shoes — ballet lessons held no interest to them when Noelle quit — but the arc of their feet still match the curve of the sole. A brief debate passes through their mind, but they find their hands acting before an outcome is decided.
The ribbons pull tight around their calf.
It has been a long, long time since Kris has practiced ballet. There were times in the past, after their mother dragged them to a show an hour away, that they would dig the shoes out and try to imitate the movement of a ballerina. When Dess disappeared, the Holidays were too stressed to continue Noelle's lessons. Kris only lasted four more without her, and all thoughts of ballet abandoned them shortly thereafter.
That does not stop the memory that surges through their muscles.
First position is the easiest to recall. Heels together, directly beneath the body, toes pointed out. Holding the position makes their spine burn; while their body may not have forgotten the postures, it has forgotten the work required to keep them steady.
Second position shifts their feet below their shoulders, arms straight out to the side.
Fourth position is difficult. Toes pointed to the sides, legs crossed at the knee, feet lined up with one in front of the other. Their arms windmill in an attempt to keep their balance, until they shift back into second position.
Pointe is not something Kris has ever been taught. They were warned of the dangers of dancing pointe before they were ready, or without the proper equipment. Their feet do not fit in the ballet slippers, and the slippers aren’t even pointe shoes in the first place. Trying pointe would be foolish at best.
Foolishly, they tilt their feet until they are standing on the tips of their toes. Flailing arms and tiny steps are not enough to keep them standing. Only ten seconds have passed when their balance finally falters. They make no move to stop their fall; instead they welcome the anticipation of hitting the floor.
Carpet is not what catches them. An arm across their back steadies Kris and pulls them into a chest. Wind blows through the room, rustling their hair. Susie smiles down at them, sheepish and shy.
“Sorry, dude,” she apologizes. They glance to the covered birdcage as she rights them, then to the now open window and the rain pattering through it. “Got a little heated at home. Mind if I crash here?”
Of course, they try to say around the lump in their throat. Despite their freedom, temporary though it is, they find themself tongue tied around her. They nod instead, moving to slide the window shut. When they turn they find her sitting on Asriel's bed, brow furrowed.
“Are you okay?” Kris signs at the same time Susie asks. They both startle, eyes wide and jaws popping open. Kris recovers first, hands moving slowly as they ask, “What happened at home?”
“Oh.” She rubs the back of her neck. “Just late, is all. Got bitched at.”
There’s a good chance she’s hiding a new bruise somewhere beneath her jacket. Kris doesn’t press any further.
“What about you? The piano–” Susie stops as their faces falls, numb anger-anguish-despair crumpling their expression. They sit in their bed, head down, until she switches to another touchy subject. “That… dance you did,” she starts, “it felt off. Like you knew what you were doing but couldn’t control how you moved.”
It’s not much better than asking about the piano. But the parasite is temporary. It will be gone, and hopefully soon. They force themself to not look at the birdcage.
“I'm fine,” Kris whispers, “just out of practice.”
Susie perks her head, then shakes it, feigning disinterest. “You one of them ballet nerds?” she asks to cover the excitement in her eyes.
“Ballerina,” Kris corrects, a small smile returning to their face. “Haven’t danced in years. Thought I could…”
The sentence trails, doubt and regret floating through the air.
“I mean,” sincerity seeps into Susie's voice as she thinks over her words, “it's kind of cool. Piano. Ballet. What else you got in that nerdy little head of yours?”
“Video games.” They sign. “Food.”
Susie snickers, resting her head in her hand. “That’s all I got,” she says. “All I’ll ever have.”
She doesn’t sound wistful. She doesn’t look sad. The only thing to give away any sign of negative emotion is the flickering of her gaze, slipping from Kris to the door to the window. Something about eye contact. Losing focus. They understand.
“You’re everything,” Kris blurts, and they feel just as surprised as Susie looks. The words came unbidden to their mind, for neither the first nor final time. It was a slip of the tongue, a small part of Kris wants to say. It was forced out.
But the parasite floats in its little cage, hidden from view. There is no escape for their blunder, no otherworldly entity they can blame.
Seconds of silence turn to minutes. Susie’s face grows the slightest bit pinker. “Y’think so?” she asks, eyes hidden in her bangs.
“Of course.” Kris goes to her side of the room, placing their palm flat against hers. “Warrior.” They slide one of their fingers into the gap of hers. “Healer.” Another finger slides down. “Pianist.” Another finger. “Ballerina.” Smiling, they wrap their pinky and their thumb around her hand. Her fingers curl, but not enough to return the hold.
“I’m not ballet shaped,” she says, frowning at how much her hand overtakes theirs. “Too meaty.”
“Nah.” They pull her to her feet and drag her to the middle of the room. Her fingers are long, long enough to nearly meet at the small of their back when they wrap her hands around their waist. “Lift me,” they whisper, and she raises them an inch off the ground.
They place their palms on her elbows and press them in. “Arms straight,” they guide, “back straight." She adjusts her posture, arms lengthening until they’re fully extended, spine stretched as she sets her shoulders.
“Higher,” Kris encourages.
Susie holds them higher. Higher. As high as she can, at Kris’ urging, until they’re above her head. “You’re perfect,” they tell her, voice soft and sweet as their hands rest on her wrists.
She looks up at them, eyes gleaming. Their fingers glide along her skin, slipping beneath the sleeves of her jacket.
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: Susie, Kris
Summary: There’s a mark on her hand.
100 // AO3 // Masterlist
There’s a mark on her hand. Dark blue, almost black, wrapped around the middle knuckle of her left index finger. Susie wonders, for a brief moment, where it came from.
The answer is Kris, of course. They hooked their teeth into her finger as she wiped tears from their face, leaving an imprint of a kiss on her skin. It has since smudged into something nigh unreadable as they traversed the Dark World, but it bears that same vivid blue that sits on their lips.
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: Susie, Kris, implied Frisk
Ship: Krusie
Prompt: Trick-or-Treat
Summary: “What are your parents like? If I see them, I’ll send them this way.”
The child shrugs. “Didn’t like them. Ran away.”
Ah. The age old solution to every shitty situation.
1.4k // AO3 // Masterlist // Krusie Month fics
There is a backpack full of tricks sitting between their feet as they wait on the graveyard bench. The white stick of a chocolate-filled sucker hangs from their mouth. A chill wind blows their hair into their face, obscuring their phone screen.
Kris tucks their cellphone into a pocket. Nothing good on it, anyway. Instead of endlessly scrolling, they open the backpack to double, triple check its contents.
Six rolls of toilet paper.
Five cans of silly string.
Two dozen eggs.
Fire starters, matches, and s’mores ingredients.
A perfect recipe for a perfect Halloween.
Its all a little banal, to them. Disappointing. They’re known for much better pranks than… egging houses.
Which is what they hope everyone in town believes, too. No one expects such normal shit from them. All they need to do is show up at a few houses for candy, then ditch their shitty vampire costume to start the bland pranks. End the night with a bonfire by the lake, and they’re gold.
Susie's on her way with another bag of supplies. If not for her, they’d skip the trick-or-treating. But she's never been, and Hometown has always been lenient when it comes to the ages of candy collectors. Two houses, she promised, just for the experience.
The sucker is soft. Kris crunches through the outer shell to bite into the gooey chocolate center.
To hide their backpack, they stand and remove their cheap cape, retying it over the bag once they’ve put it on. They’ve just refastened the knot around their neck when a force knocks them back onto the bench. Shaggy brown hair half-covers the eyes of a human kid, looking at them with determination.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Kris asks, before realizing they should probably not be cursing in front of a child.
“Shh!” the child holds a finger to their lips, and in a dramatic whisper says, “There are monsters over there!” Their head jerks to the graveyard gate.
“Uh. In town?”
“Yes!”
“And that surprises you?”
“Of course!” They throw their hands up, exasperated by Kris' lack of alarm. “Monsters hate all humans.”
Raising a brow, Kris thinks of their monster family, their monster friends. Every monster in town learned sign language, just for them. “I don’t think that's true.”
“I do.”
“Have you ever met a monster before?”
An echo of pain twists their lips. “A few. They tried to kill me.”
“Not all of them.”
“Yes all of them!” the kids yells, glaring. “And it hurts, too!”
“I think the ones around you just suck.”
The kid pouts, crossing their arms as they plop onto the bench beside Kris. “You’re not listening.”
“Neither are you.” Kris stands. “Look, just stay here. Only a few monsters visit the graveyard, and they’re nice. They won’t do anything, except offer you a hot meal.” After a second of watching the kid sulk, they ask, “What are your parents like? If I see them, I’ll send them this way.”
“Don’t have any.”
“You don’t?”
The child shrugs. “Didn’t like them. Ran away.”
Ah. The age old solution to every shitty situation. "That’s something Susie needs to learn,” Kris mutters under their breath.
The kid looks at them, one eyebrow raised. “Who’s Susie?” they ask.
“Yeah,” a gruff voice replies. An arm locks around Kris’ neck, hot breath fanning across their head. Her rough chin rests on their hair, tongue lolled out the side of her mouth. “Who’s Susie?”
Though they cannot see her face, they know Susie must be making a scary face; maybe glaring, or showcasing her claws — or... or maybe she’s baring her teeth, and something warm settles in Kris’ gut, and their face burns like fire–
Nope. Cannot think about that right now. Not with an actual child present.
Said child backs into the arm of the bench. Their mouth and eyes are wide open. A noise between a cough and a scream rattles from somewhere within their chest.
Kris pokes a finger into her mouth, tapping the pointed ends of her teeth. “This is Susie,” they say, finger traveling up to her cheek. “She’s an ass.”
“No worse than you, dude,” Susie snickers, lifting her head to rustle their hair. She keeps them in a headlock as she asks, “Did you clone yourself?”
“Is that an insult?”
“Dude that guy looks just like you.”
And, yeah, okay. Maybe they do look alike. The kid shares Kris’ hair — the same color and very nearly the same style. Their eyes are hidden behind the same bangs the Kris uses to hide theirs. Even their sweaters are similar, if mostly different in color. The kid has a blue sweater with two pink stripes, while Kris wears a green one with a single yellow stripe.
“....not a clone,” Kris settles on. “They just showed up.”
“That so?” She bends down to study the child, making them press themself deeper into the arm of the bench. Kris tugs her collar to pull her up. “Why’re you so scared, kid?”
“Monsters keep attacking them,” Kris answers when they don’t speak.
“Why?”
“Because I’m human!” the kid finds their voice. They stand on the bench and yank Kris behind them, whipping a shaky stick between them and Susie.
A snarl curves Susie’s lips. She punches her fist into her palm and cracks her knuckles. “Monsters bullying you because you’re human?” she asks, “Who the fuck are they? I’ll take care of ‘em for ya.”
The quivering of the stick lessens, but it remains firmly in place. Their gaze flickers between Susie and Kris. “You’re not going to hurt us?”
A glint of something dangerous sparks in her eyes, an appetite to her smirk. “Maybe I’ll get Kris later,” she says, and it goes straight to their groin. “But I ain’t about to touch you, squirt.”
The child continues to look between Kris and Susie, not quite picking up the silent Fuck yous and Maybe laters that pass through the air. “She’s really friendly?” they direct to Kris.
“Everyone in town is,” they shrug.
“They won’t get mad at me?”
“Eh,” Susie cuts in, pulling Kris back into her arms. “Not like you’re thinking. Just don’t get caught doing any stupid shiii-stuff.”
“Speaking of stupid stuff,” Kris says, “how much did you bring?”
Susie slides a messenger bag off her shoulder. It’s scuffed and dirty, matching her costume of a zombie apocalypse survivor. Inside is another four rolls of toilet paper, two more cans of silly string, and one dozen eggs. She shifts the TP to one side to reveal a six-pack of beer swiped from her place.
“Woah,” Kris breathes. “They won’t be missed?”
“Just throw the empties back in here,” Susie tells them. “I’ll leave them in her pile. She’s already drunk enough to think she got through all o’ them.”
Susie will have exactly one, Kris knows, and she will only drink from it because of their goading. Who wants to get smashed alone, after all? Kris certainly doesn’t. Even if she barely sips from the can, it will feel better knowing that someone else is as close to losing their senses as they are.
Peer pressure is a wonderful thing.
“Let’s get this started,” Kris grins.
“Still missing a piece of my costume,” Susie reminds them, holding out her arm. They study it, move it, twist it to find the perfect angle. Once they find a place the deem artistic enough, they open their mouth and sink their teeth into her flesh.
Human teeth are incapable of breaking through a monster’s scales, but Kris has come pretty damn close before. Their bites leave bruises that Susie sometimes has to cover for weeks.
A minute passes with their teeth baring into her arm. The imprint is deep when they release.
“Sweet,” Susie says, using a ketchup packet to dot fake blood in the divots. “Trick-or-treating now, right?”
“Yep. We’ll hit–”
The hand that takes theirs is tiny, but it is strong, crushing their fingers in an iron grip. When they jump, trying to yank themself free, the child stumbles as they follow their movements.
“Kid!” Kris seethes, “That hurts!”
“Sorry,” the kid shrugs. They take Susie’s hand next, and she can’t shake them either. “I’m going with you.”
“Why?” Susie asks.
“I’ve never been trick-or-treating,” they say.
And the look, that damned begging look Susie gives Kris, works every fucking time. They sigh.
“Four houses,” they relent. “Then we party.”
Susie and the kid celebrate with twin cheers. Laughing, the kid makes a declaration.
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: Susie, Kris
Ship: Krusie
Prompt: Scare
Summary: Susie is scary. She knows this; has been made to know it by a hundred different children in a dozen different schools.
People do not like her.
There is only one person who does not shy away from her: whatever man her mom has decided to entertain.
1k // AO3 // Masterlist // Krusie Month fics
Susie is scary. She knows this; has been made to know it by a hundred different children in a dozen different schools. They tiptoe around her, hush when she passes, stutter if they absolutely must talk to her. Flinch every time she raises a hand, no matter the context. People do not like her.
And who can blame them? She’s big and strong, with untrimmed claws and teeth that taper into sharp points. Even if others didn’t act like she was constantly three seconds from biting their faces off, she would know. Susie knows how scary she is.
The confirmation is just salt in the wound.
As it burns her, she will burn them.
The fear they show Susie becomes a part of her. She works it into her body, forms it into her strength. Her stance widens, drips with danger as she stalks down roads. Her expression remains angry and defiant, daring anyone to approach her. The sneer she wears always shows a hint of teeth.
People stay away.
Mostly.
There is only one person who does not shy away from her: whatever man her mom has decided to entertain.
Sometimes he stays one night. Usually he stays a few weeks. Rarely does he stay a few months, but there was one that stayed for a year and a half. That one was decent, until he was arrested. A myriad of men whose names she forgets the second she hears it, and they do the same. Every Jeffey or Phillip or Tex that passed through their door treats Susie as an object — something to walk around, something to ignore. A little trinket decorating his hookup's house.
Except for those more interested in Susie than her mother.
Never mind the fact that she’s twenty years younger than them. Never mind the fact that she's a fucking child.
Hungry eyes trace the curves of her body before she developed any. A number was whispered into his ear, and he would look away.
At ten, her teeth draw blood for the very first time. Joe or Bob or Don — some pedo with a single syllable name — grabbed her arm to force her from her bed. She reacted, half-awake and without thinking, by very nearly tearing off his hand.
That was the last night she slept at home while a man was inside.
Hometown offered a small respite. Susie still had to deal with her bitch of a mother, but men willing to occupy their shitty little apartment were few and far between. Some slipped in, every now and then, and tried to warm her up. A rare few tried to touch her.
She slams them into a wall. Glares and hisses at them. Uses every scary trick she knew to make them regret meeting her mom.
Then she would leave to sleep in the graveyard.
Or her room in Castle Town, once she got it. She’s going to repay Ralsei, somehow, for giving her a space to call her own. There are times she doesn’t ever feel like returning to Hometown.
A life built there would be fake, according to Ralsei.
Why should she care? Her life already feels fake. She’s reminded of that every time there’s a new car parked beside her mom’s beat-up red sedan.
Like the shiny new convertible she spots while venturing home for textbooks. She’s pretty sure that one’s been here before.
Kris comes to a halt beside her. She doesn’t remember stopping. Just the silver glare of the sun off the hood of the fucker’s car.
“Someone you know?” they sign, eyes flicking between her and the car.
A shiver runs through her. “Think that’s the guy that grabbed my ass two months ago.”
Their shoulders stiffen. That incident still bothers them; it was the third time Toriel allowed her to spend the night before a school day, and the fifth time she was offered Asriel’s bed permanently. Why she refuses to stay with them is a mystery to Kris; she is always welcome among the Dreemurrs.
Her tongue clicks as she makes up her mind. “Let’s ditch,” Susie says. “Do we really need to study that bad?”
“All Alphys asked for was a B,” Kris reminds her. “If you flunk finals, you’ll have to repeat senior year. Without me.”
“More time with Ralsei,” she grumbles. An elbow to her hip jostles her into moving. She sighs. “Let’s get this over with.”
Climbing to the third floor gives Susie plenty of time to prepare. She dons her scariest persona — back straight to give her height, mouth curled into a perfect sneer, the sharpest of her teeth poking through her lips. Messy bangs cover her eyes, a look she hasn’t had since the first Dark World.
By the time she reaches her apartment door, she’s sure she’s ready to face him.
The clicking of the lock unravels her just the tiniest bit. The door creaks as she swings it open.
And there he is. Asshole number who the fuck cares, draped across the couch with a mountain of booze. A smirk curves across his lips as he studies her chest, her hips, her ass. “Sssssusie,” he slurs, waving his third or fourth or seventh can of beer. He pats his thigh, then the couch beside him. “C’mere, sweetie.”
Her mom is nowhere to be seen. Likely asleep in another room.
Bile builds in Susie's throat.
Kris wraps her arm around them shoulders and stares at the asshole. Or, at least, she thinks they do. Her own glare is locked onto Asshole's face, making sure he stays exactly where he is as she passes by.
His face pales. His back straightens. He gulps, loud and nervous.
He... he’s afraid.
This fear is not Susie’s doing. She tried last time to scare him off. She tried several methods to scare him off. Nothing she tried ever worked.
Whatever Kris is doing, she doesn’t get to see. They smile at her the second they cross into her bedroom.
A roaring engine reverberates through the cracked window. The silver convertible is gone before they can look out at it.
“You are one scary motherfucker,” Susie chuckles, bumping the top of Kris’ head with the side of her fist. “Love ya, dude.”
hey kris we gotta save the world from a fascist governor whose last name shares 6 letters with foreskin. and we will fight him in a giant robot powered by us and our willpower. hmu
i couldn’t pick between their dw or lw palettes so I just did both :p
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: Susie, Kris
Ship: Krusie
Prompt: Hot Cocoa
Summary: They race to the door. The knob does not turn in their hand. The door does not give when they slam themself into it. Words float through their head, encourage them to touch the flat of it.
The wood is cold under their palm.
Or maybe they are just too hot.
A/N: Promare AU inspired by this art, feat. Burnish Kris and Firefighter Susie
1.4k // AO3 // Masterlist // Krusie Month fics
There is fire inside Kris. It speaks to them. It burns them to ash.
They have tried, their entire life, to ignore it. Not only do Burnish walk the line of legal and criminal, Burnish humans are few and far between. The first time Asriel saw Kris summon fire left him a terrified, paranoid mess. “You can’t tell anyone,” he hissed as he doused the flames.
Never let anyone know.
They’ll take you.
They’ll experiment on you.
They’ll kill you.
Do not listen to the flames!
But they are so very, very, LOUD.
Kris ignored them. The voices that whispered of fearsome blazes. The images of buildings, trees, monsters burning in the sunset. Every outing was cut short, else they’d let the fire slip. When Mad Burnish attacked, they ran and hid alongside their family.
Their fingertips burned hotter as they passed from child to teen to adult. A constant flash of pink and purple under their nails, covered by whatever shade of black conceals it best.
December knows. She looks at Kris with mischief, sometimes, when her mother is nagging.
December burns. She’ll pass her flames to Kris. Kris will pass them back and leave.
Kris does not listen to the flames.
Not until the day they explode.
Snow melts under their feet. The blaze stays at bay, barely, painfully. Their body burns as they stumble through the wintry midnight wind. Shivers pass up and down their spine, despite the heat that threatens to devour them.
Embers glow along the cuffs of their jacket. They tuck their hands into their arms to smother it.
An inferno erupts from their back. It latches to the closest combustible — a nearby bakery — and it burns, and it burns. Fire spreads, licking along all three floors.
They hope there is no one inside. They pray for it, despite the absence of the Angel in their life.
A third floor window slides open. A child pokes out their head and screams for help.
Kris smashes through the glass door. The fire cannot kill them.
Smoke fills their nose, their lungs, chokes them to their knees.
Their chest warms. Their breathing evens until it is powerful again.
An empty display case separates the queue from the kitchen. Kris jumps it. Running past industrial mixers and closet sized ovens puts them at the bottom of a staircase. They take the steps two at a time, sprinting for the landing. It opens into a once-cozy living room, shadows now dancing in flames. Two mismatched sofas darken into coal. The fire flows under a wooden door opposite the one Kris stands within.
They race to it. The knob does not turn in their hand. The door does not give when they slam themself into it. Words float through their head, encourage them to touch the flat of the door.
They do not listen to the flames.
Except this once.
The wood is cold under their palm.
Or maybe they are just too hot.
Gray envelopes the door. Ash falls away in bits and pieces. A cloud obscures their vision as they burst through and rush up the other staircase.
The third floor is one big hallway, not yet fully ablaze. Cracked windows sit along the left wall, looking out into a dark alley. Three doorways line the right wall, all in various states of burning. Six people sit huddled at the other end of the hall, coughing and wheezing. Kris runs to kneel beside them — three adults and three children.
“Are you okay?” they ask, and immediately feel stupid. Both their house and their business are burning around them and a stranger just broke into their home. “Yeah, dumb question,” they whisper at the glares they receive.
“How did you get up here?” hisses a bunny monster with blue fur.
“A better question is how do we get out,” a pink dog snaps.
Voices buzz inside their head, a million suggestions tugging their thoughts a million ways. Kris presses their head into the carpet, trying to ignore the pressure that causes it to ache. They pluck a single strand of instruction from the multitude.
It tells them to stand. To punch out the window. To melt the sharp edges of glass into dull ones. To hold a hand over the empty air and force the fire into their will.
A black slide forms a gentle slope from sill to street. “Go,” they tell the family.
The bunny glares as her family escapes. She is the last to leave.
They draw their hand back inside.
The roof collapses on top of them. Hits their head, buries them under rubble.
And really, what a way to die. Consumed by the fire they’ve ignored their entire life.
Blood drips into their vision before it floats away as ash. They shut their eyes.
Glass shatters. “Found ‘em!” a gruff voice yells. Mechanical whirring fills the space above their head, and they can breathe again. Gloved hands pick Kris up, throw them over a pair of thick, burly shoulders.
An angel greets them when they open their eyes. Her face is long, purple, and covered in small, square scales. Her eyes and teeth are off-white, almost yellow. The muscles that ripple under their body are big and brawny. The Burnish flames light every edge of her in pink. And her smile–
Angel, her smile. It’s half manic, full of joy as she fires freezing bolts from her pistol. Ice spreads where fire once roamed, coating the room in blues and greens.
She is the very definition of beauty. Kris finds their face aflame — in a much less literal way than they fear.
The floor buckles beneath her. She laughs as she grabs a wench hook from her abandoned mecha suit and carries them out the window, using the line to rappel down the building.
She is much gentler on the ground. When she sits Kris on the sidewalk it is with enough care to make them feel pampered. Her face scrunches into a frown as she studies them, then removes her firefighter’s jacket, revealing a white tank top underneath, and drapes it over them. They bite their lip at the show of her bare muscles and the burn scars that wrap round them.
“Didn’t think the fire got ya that fast,” she mumbles. “Missin’ the whole back of your shirt.”
Cold has never bothered them. They really wish it did right now.
“Name?” they croak around their dry throat.
“Susie,” the angel answers with a smile. She lifts the edge of her jacket and pulls a canteen from an inside pocket. Water sloshes when she opens and offers it. They drink gratefully, water dripping from the corners of their mouth as she tilts it into them. She takes a swig next, and they try to ignore the fact that her lips now touch where theirs once did.
“Building’s clear,” she speaks into a walkie talkie. “Gonna flag down an EMT.”
She stands. Kris lunges for her wrist.
“Lunch,” they say when she looks back at them. “Let me repay you. Please,” they add at her doubtful expression.
“Tomorrow,” she answers after a dangerously long pause. “Top Bakery. Meet you there at noon.”
And so she pulls away.
And so they meet the next day.
And so their relationship progresses.
One year later, Kris stands in their shared kitchen, heating milk for their shitty holiday movie marathon. They don’t use the stove, or the microwave, or the imaginary kettle(why would they own a kettle?), but they do use a pot with a handprint burned across the bottom. It’s one they use to cook when they’re alone, when they can use their flames without fear of being caught.
Susie sleeps on the couch the next room over, waiting for them to finish. She doesn’t know she’s dating a Burnish. A ridiculous concept, really. A firefighter, fallen in love with a fire starter.
Not that Kris has started any more fires. The big one released a lot of pent up energy, a lot of the voices fed up with being ignored. They have since learned to utilize their flames in smaller ways. To light a fire. To perform tricks with Dess. To aid in ballet.
Or to cook. The milk boils in the pot balanced on their palm. They pour it into two mugs already half-full of chocolate and marshmallows, then carry them to the couch where Susie naps. She jumps awake when they kick it.
“Sorry, dude,” she says with a crooked grin. “You take too long.”
They shrug. It can be hard to control the fire for such small instances.
She settles next to the arm of the couch. They hand her one mug of hot chocolate, then snuggle into her side with the other.
If she ever finds out what they are, will burn bright enough to wipe her memory of it.
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: QC, Susie, Kris
Ship: Krusie
Prompt: Diner
Summary: QC watches. She listens. She knows everything there is to know about the sleepy little residents of sleepy little Hometown.
QC knows. But she never repeats.
2.5k // AO3 // Masterlist // Krusie Month fics
The diner doors have seen many a family pass through. QC has seen them, too, as she grew alongside Hometown.
Hell, Hometown wasn’t a thing until she hit eight. There was a single road. At one end sat the school, at the other was her family's diner, and there were maybe four houses in between. Everyone was on a first-name basis with everyone else, and everyone was invited to the lake for every celebration. Parties were wild and drunken, even for the under-aged.
At twelve, QC took her spot at the restaurant's register, taking orders and bussing tables. She remembers some big shot businessmonster, in his dark suit and darker sunglasses, coming in and ordering a coffee. He had one of those big brick phones, the kind that can be taken anywhere, and he chattered into without pause. If someone was on the other side, they did not get to speak.
He only spoke of the lake. Lake this, lake that. It doesn’t have a name, can you believe that? It's pretty. It's a steal.
And so the land surrounding the quiet little neighborhood was snatched up. Developed into houses, apartments, businesses. The school was expanded. The Librarby was built.
The ICE-E’S was inflicted. No one wanted that, not even the businessmonster. QC's not sure she ever saw it being built; it just appeared one day.
It did a meager job of staying afloat.
KC's Diner, on the other hand, did well with the influx of newcomers. QC was kept busy, helping her mother in the kitchen and her father in the dining room. Sweeping at night gave her a pile filled with tufts of fallen purple fur. Business did not slow for months.
Rumors flew just as fast as plates from the kitchen.
Relationship rumors were as good as gold.
There was a time, QC remembers, that it was Toriel-and-Carol.
This was long before Toriel-and-Asgore and Carol-and-Rudy. They were fifteen or so, in QC’s high school class, and she was witness to the only confirmation that they ever were — a single chaste kiss, shared while she was cleaning tables on the opposite side of the diner. She was rooting for them, excited to see where their relationship would land.
They fell out of love.
Or, maybe, it was never love. Maybe it was just… a desire to be seen. Maybe the only way they felt seen was by seeing themselves in each other.
There was no nasty breakup. No fighting, no yelling; they remained friends all through high school and into college. They just moved on, though they never strayed far. Neither from Hometown nor the other.
QC was witness to the growing bonds between them and their future husbands. She watched them come together, watched their families grow. Watched as new children filled the seats between loving parents. She inherited her family’s restaurant the week before her own child was born.
December Holiday came into the world months after the name was changed to QC’s Diner. She was a spitfire, even as a newborn, always knocking over the salt or spilling a drink or pouring food over herself. Carol was driven half-mad trying to care for her. Toriel — ever the mother, even that young — offered her respite by babysitting new December alongside the even newer Asriel.
They’ll be great friends, she told Carol one night in the diner, just like we were.
And there was a gaze between them, a longing, a brush of fingers so soft it felt intimate.
QC watches. She listens. She knows everything there is to know about the sleepy little residents of sleepy little Hometown.
QC knows. But she never repeats.
December grew up alongside Asriel. They played together. They explored together. They found trouble, then found a way out of it. Thick as thieves, those two, even after they were joined by their newly acquired siblings.
Noelle was a chip off the old block — the spitting image of a young Carol. Kris was... human. An odd choice, coming from the powerful Dreemurr family. Toriel insisted they belonged, that they were just as welcome as any monster.
Growing up the only human in a town of monsters is bound to mess with anyone’s head, QC told her once, but Toriel just waved her off.
“They’ll grow with love,” was her excuse. “They’ll never want for anything.”
Let her make her own mistakes. QC had her hands full with not just the restaurant, but also the twins inside her that still needed two months to cook.
Kris took to the town the same as Dess — a little troublemaker-in-training. They were nigh inseparable, save for Dess’s dates with Asriel.
The first date was a recipe for disaster. Asriel showed up to the diner ten minutes late, holding a bouquet of wildflowers he very clearly picked on the way. His furious blush was visible through his patchy, preteen fur. Not a single word left his mouth successfully the first time; he had to stumble through several iterations before the sentence finally slid out. But the real kicker?
He forgot his wallet.
Dess, for some reason, found all of this charming. She decorated her hair with the flowers. Showed more patience than QC thought possible as she waited for Asriel to speak. Picked up the bill, then took his hand and swung it between them as they walked to the lake. Rumors quickly swirled of Dess-and-Asriel, of the town’s latest sweethearts.
QC grew alongside their parents. QC saw their families come together. QC watched as they crashed apart.
The disappearance of December Holiday would have been ruled a runaway, if not for Asriel’s devastation. Flyers went up. Commercials were aired. Some sort of TV show shoved cameras into everyone’s faces, looking for any information on the missing teenager.
A rift tore through town. Asgore was dismissed as both Police Chief and Toriel’s husband. Asriel threw himself into his studies. Carol did not leave Noelle’s side for a year. Kris–
Angel above, poor Kris. They were found in the woods near the bunker the night it happened, and they were traumatized. Not a word left their mouth for months after, and when they did choose to speak, their voice was low and mumbly. Toriel adopted sign language for them, encouraged Hometown to learn as well. Nearly every resident still practices, all for their lonely little human.
Though they never said it, Kris was eternally grateful to them. It brought some comfort to their heart.
Carol stopped following Noelle on her thirteenth birthday. She was given a cell phone instead, and made to promise a call every few hours. While she never quite recovered from the loss of her sister, she was distracted by her newfound freedom. Kris did not stick to her as much, but she found other friends. Berdly was her self-proclaimed best friend and academic rival.
He also had a teensy little crush on her. Noelle never addressed it, never replied to or refused him. Just continued to stay by his side.
Though she doubts she will ever know, QC wonders if Noelle strung him along on purpose. She doesn’t believe so — a child is a child, after all, and they aren’t as well versed in right and wrong. She will grow out of it. Will respond to Berdly’s feelings sooner or later.
Sooner comes in the form of a subtle crush on the new girl.
Susie blows her way into town like a springtime storm — subtle, at first, with gentle winds that grow in intensity until the first crack of thunder. Her presence is small the day she walks past the diner, nose twitching at the savory scents floating through the door. QC gave her a wave, and she returned a small nod. She seemed sweet enough.
Unfortunately, a child is a child. Susie’s peers, the teenagers she shared a class with, all feared her.
And the fear spread.
Kids refused to go near her. Adults turned her away from their establishments. Leered at her. Told her to leave. Scared her.
QC felt like the only one to see the sad child Susie had become.
Until, one rainy day, Toriel brings her into the diner and sits her in a booth. Talks with her. Welcomes her into town with a smile and a burger. QC threw in a hot chocolate, just for her.
When Susie departs, it is with a smile full of hope.
Which is why QC is surprised when word of the bullying drifts into the restaurant. It is not the bully that surprises her — Susie was halfway there long before this incident — but the victim was a true shock.
Surely, surely, Susie would not target the child of the only person to show her kindness.
But Kris is strange. They had never really moved past the disappearance of December. It haunted them even when Asriel was still around to keep them distracted. The bags under their eyes whispered of countless nights without sleep. The scars that peeked from beneath their sweater whispered of countless hours spent in guilt.
None of this is counting the fact that they’re human, but the bullying never strays into that territory. It is a fact that QC is glad to hear.
The rumors grow in intensity. The town fears for Kris’ safety.
Kris is full of surprises. They drag Susie into the diner the day before the festival.
And they have never looked happier. QC gives them a hot chocolate to share, on the house. The mess they leave behind is well worth the smile she was able to spy on their face.
QC’s Diner closed for the festival. She spends her day at a mobile stand instead, her husband and kids helping her run their small space as close to the restaurant as they can. Carol Holiday visits. She has with her her husband, the healthiest he’s looked in years, and her daughters.
Daughters. Plural.
QC cannot help but hug the whole family. Tears run mat her fur as she squeals her congratulations. She asks Dess what happened, where’s she been, why has she only returned now?
Carol answers amnesia. She’ll need time to recall. It could take weeks. Months. Years, even, or her memories may not return at all. QC lets them go to enjoy what’s left of the festival.
It is not until two days later that she learns one disaster was traded for another.
Kris has not been seen since the festival. Susie was last seen looking for them.
Another devastating loss results in another round of trauma. Asriel does not return to college for months. December grows angrier and angrier. Toriel–
Angel, poor Toriel. She prints new flyers every day. She runs through town, shouting their names. She drinks herself to tears. Not even Sans can comfort her. Her baby is gone.
Her baby is gone.
“It was her,” she mumbles one night, head down at the diner bar. The stench of wine wafts from her clothes. QC pretends to ignore it. “Carol did something. I know it.”
Plodding footsteps alert QC to the skeleton that appears beside her. Not the squeaking of hinges or the ringing of the bell above the door. It is the footsteps that tell QC that Sans has arrived. She narrows her eyes at him.
He nods back, gathering Toriel in his arms. “Gonna get this one home,” he tells her.
The bell rings on his way out.
Life must move on. Asriel returns to his studies the next year, and December goes with him. She fought with her mother, exploded in the middle of the night, and actually dragged his ass back to college. Sans comforts Toriel, keeps her from drinking herself to death before Kris can see her again. Because, dammit, they’re going to come back, just hold on. Please.
They marry two years later. It was the only time Dess returned to Hometown.
Noelle took up waitressing alongside Catti. A shame, really. She had such a bright future ahead of her. Her grades plummeted after the festival, and she made the decision not to further her education. QC wants to ask why, but the darkness in Noelle’s eyes scare her questions away. She just pays her what she’s owed and ignores the growing bags beneath her eyes.
At night, QC’s dreams connect dots. December disappears, Kris suffers from guilt. Kris disappears, December comes back. She fights with her mom. She leaves. Noelle suffers from guilt.
Lines form a web of strings, all leading to a single answer.
She always wakes before she learns what the answer is.
Her twins graduate. They leave for college.
The town feels strangely empty.
One day, the bells above the door ring. QC greets the customer from the booth she’s cleaning.
Her smile falters when she finally lifts her head. A child stands in the middle of the diner, staring all around at the bright lights and flashing menus. It is a human child — a girl, she thinks — wearing a green and yellow striped dress. A ruffle of thick brown hair sits atop her head, and when she looks at QC, her eyes are a vivid red.
She looks exactly as Kris did at five years old.
“Are you a Darkner?” she asks, and it makes QC blink.
“Is that a type of monster?”
The girl shakes her head. “I’m a monster,” she says, one hand splayed across her chest, and, yeah. The tips of her fingers boast long black claws instead of normal human fingernails. If QC looks closer, she can see patches of purple scales half-formed along the girl’s bare arms.
The bell rings again. A low, mumbly voice echoes through the room, pierces QC’s heart.
“Your mother told you to stay close,” they say, and she is afraid to look.
“Kris?” she whispers.
The person sighs, shifts, waves an arm in her periphery. The bell chimes again.
A deep breath is all she needs to prepare. QC turns her head.
Susie stands beside Kris, one hand draped across their shoulders. She still wears that ratty old jacket, but it is clear she’s grown out of it. It’s tight across her biceps, doubled in size since she was a teenager. Her hair is cut short, falling in waves around her face. A scar crosses her nose, and another disappears under her shirt.
Kris leans into Susie. They’ve also filled out, their muscles lean yet defined. Their hair has darkened from chestnut brown to near black, and has grown down to the middle of their back, even while tied into a ponytail. Their shirt is old and off-white, stained with sweat and dirt. Their right hand grips the hand of the girl’s. A swathe of pink fabric holds an infant to their chest, head cradled by their left hand. More scars mar their skin, inflicted by something that was not themself.
The family stands proud in the bright, fluorescent lights of the diner. QC swallows a sob.
“Have a seat, hun,” she chokes out. “I’ll start some hot chocolate.”
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: Susie, Kris
Ship: Krusie
Prompt: Carving Pumpkins
Warnings: Violence, Torture, Gore
Summary: Rude Buster hurts. It hurts like hell. She knew this from her fight with Gerson.
Rude Buster buffed by pure Darkness is hell. It rips right through her scales and cuts straight into her skin. Blood spills from a dozen wounds, all formed in a single half second.
A/N: this is a sequel to Carve: Perfect Faces
2k // AO3 // Masterlist // Krusie Month fics
Kris will be absolutely devastated. All their hard work, all the carving they did. Every moment of sweat as they cut away a new chunk, they way their hands shook as the faces of their friends took form. All of that, gone.
The pumpkins have been smashed.
Susie doesn’t remember where they put each one. She does know when she finds Gerson, though. He was the third one she found, stomped to pieces outside her room in Castle Town. His pumpkin hammer is the only thing still intact.
She’s been following the trail to the roof. Makes sense, considering the history there. The roof of Card Castle is, after all, where the Delta Warriors first encountered King. He’s probably heading for the Fountain.
Which is much more dangerous than an average Fountain. It's pure Darkness, unlike the Dark Worlds created outside Castle Town. If he’s able to get to that kind of power…
She shudders to think of it.
A Rudinn Ranger slithers up beside her. “Lancer is safe,” he says. “He has been locked in the dungeon under suspicion of assisting in his father's escape. We have our best protecting him.”
Susie told them that he had no part in the breakout; outside Ralsei, he’s been here the longest. So why did it take until now for King to get out?
But another argument won't help. “Any sign of Ralsei?” she asks instead.
The Ranger shakes his head. “We are still looking. Kris has been running all around to find him. Even now, they are searching through town.”
Shit. So no backup. “Tell them I’ve tracked down King. I'll keep him busy until they find Ralsei.”
“Can you fight him alone?”
“’Course I can.” Susie smiles, letting her anger show through the snarl of her lip, the baring of her teeth. She’s gotten a lot stronger since they last fought.
“I can send troops with you to help.”
She shakes her head. “Just make sure you find Ralsei. That’s all the help I’ll need.”
“Of course!” he salutes. He slithers away, barking orders down the hall. Susie runs the opposite way until she comes to a staircase.
Hesitating for only a deep breath, she ascends. Skips up every other step, passes right by every landing to every floor. Another broken pumpkin greets her at the rooftop door. It was Queen, she thinks.
Outside, standing tall and facing the Fountain, is King. His arms are outstretched towards it, absorbing the Darkness that flows into them. The entirety of his arms are black up to his elbows.
Susie fires off a Rude Buster.
He deflects it with a swat of his hand.
“I should have known one of you brats would find me sooner or later,” he growls. Inky slime drips from his fingers. When he swipes his hand, it lashes out in a whip. She lifts an arm to block it.
It wraps around her wrist, but does no damage.
“That it?” she snarls. She twists her wrist to grab the whip and yanks it with all her might.
King does not move.
Her smirk falters.
He shifts his weight and pulls. Susie stumbles forward. She cuts the whip with her axe.
“I can see how this is going to go,” King hisses. “You cannot win, child.”
“Just watch me,” Susie snarls. She lunges forward, swinging her axe. King jumps back, slashing with both hands.
Whips hit her hip and shoulder. She swipes her axe in a circle to break them.
More ink takes their place, drawn from the Fountain.
And, shit, he’s gotten stronger because of it. The Darkness spreads across his chest. When he swings again, it catches Susie across the chest.
And knocks her breath out.
She tumbles along the ground, left hand keeping grip on her axe. Blood wells from her collarbone.
Pulling herself up while still moving takes more effort than she’d like to admit. She pants as she settles on one knee, glaring at King.
He keeps his back to the Fountain. Tendrils of Darkness branch from it to curl around his shoulders, a constant supply of that shit he’s throwing around.
Simple solution, really. Get behind him and sever the connection. She doesn’t even need Kris to tell her that; they’ve fought something similar before.
Another Rude Buster sits on the edge of her blade. She launches it directly at King’s face.
Laughing, he raises his left hand.
Susie charges. Slips around his left side. Raises her battle-axe. Swings.
It cleaves the tendrils to wispy strings.
Her own attack crashes into her.
Rude Buster hurts. It hurts like hell. She knew this from her fight with Gerson.
Rude Buster buffed by pure Darkness is hell. It rips right through her scales and cuts straight into her skin. Blood spills from a dozen wounds, all formed in a single half second.
She lands on her back, unable to breathe. Her body twitches, muscles spasming in the aftershocks of pain.
Footsteps echo across the roof.
Her axe. Susie has to find her axe. She wills herself to get up, to look, to at the very least dodge.
All she manages is to roll onto her stomach.
A pumpkin is set in front of her. Lancer’s smiling face, carved by her own hand, stares back at her. She thinks, for a horrified moment, that King will crush it in front of her.
But he does not. “I’ve seen these around,” he tells her. “They piss me off. Decorating the castle in such a childish way. No hint of any regality.”
Chains circle Susie’s body. Thorns poke from the links, digging into her now broken skin.
“But at the same time, I’m saddened.” He brandishes one of his spades as he walks around her. “I could not find a single one of these bearing my royal visage.”
“Y-you don’t–” she breathes in through her teeth. “You don’t deserve one.”
The chains rise, lifting her by the arms, pressing the thorns deeper. They stop when she dangles half on her feet.
“Then I shall take matters into my own hands. But you’ll have to forgive me. I am no artist.”
What the hell are you talking about? Susie opens her mouth to say.
She gasps as a blade cuts through her shirt.
When Susie gets hurt, she expects it. She’s good at reading people in fights. She can see the tensing of their muscles, the race of their heart. Even if she isn’t expecting it, most injuries come from blows that only bruise or claws that barely cut.
The drag of the blade across her back is none of that. It is deep and angled, made to produce pain over anything else.
She cries out, weak and pitiful, before she can bite her lip to stop it.
“Come now, child,” King says, “your cries are half the fun.” He flicks the knife over another wound.
Susie bares down on her lip until there is blood on her tongue. She pulls at the chains, tries to free herself.
But her feet have no traction.
The blade carves into her flesh. She flinches away.
Chains wrap her neck, tighten until she can only get a whisper of air. “If you will not scream for me, then you must stay still.” The knife returns to her skin. Ice crawls from its edge. “You do not want me to start over.”
Something wet and warm slides down her back. She’s pretty sure it’s layers of her skin.
Tears gather in her eyes, but if there is anything she will not do, it is cry. Pain has never made her cry before, never. Even when starved, even when beaten half-dead by her own mother. There is no pain in this world that Susie cannot bear.
She gasps as the knife digs in a little deeper.
And is swept away, cutting a line from her waist to her tail. It clangs against something, another knife, a blade of some sort, or... or–
A sword.
Steel clashes against steel as Susie hangs limp in her bonds.
King falls to the ground. The chains dissipate, dropping Susie as well.
She lands — blessedly, blissfully — on her stomach. It does not stop the fire of her back burning through her resolve to never cry. She sobs, curling into herself, stretching the scraps of skin left dangling from her back.
Kris stands before her, face pale and a slightly green. Their hands shake, for just a second, and then they run out of sight. The sound of retching hits her ears, and she can only imagine how bad it must be for Kris, of all people, to crack.
Her head swims. She shuts her eyes.
When she opens them again, she is on Kris’ shoulders as they drag her down the stairs.
“I can walk,” she wheezes; it’s a lie even she cannot believe.
“Like hell you can!” they snap. There is anger is their words, but it is drowned out by concern.
“Where we goin’?”
“Infirmary. I’m out of food.”
Susie does not believe there’s enough food in all the Dark Worlds combined to fix her. “Ralsei?” she asks.
Their face softens. “That’s where all my food went.” They walk in silence for a moment, an ever-growing frown troubling their face. “I’m sorry.”
“For?” She has an idea, sort of, but the pain makes it hard to string the thought together.
“I can’t heal,” Kris whispers. “Ralsei is still out. He won’t wake up ’til tomorrow, probably.”
“Take me home,” Susie whispers back. “It’ll disappear. Mostly.”
“You’re not serious. You–” They cut themself off with a sharp inhale.
“I have no back,” she finishes.
The line of their lips suggest this is an understatement. “Ralsei will heal you tomorrow. Promise. I’ll take care of you until then.”
“You got a curfew.”
“Mom will understand.”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
“What can I say to make you leave?”
At this, Kris laughs. They don’t answer. She really can’t blame them; she wouldn’t have an answer to that either.
Inside the Infirmary is mostly empty. Ralsei is tucked into a bed at one end, sleeping soundly. A bandage is wrapped haphazardly around his forehead and one of his hands. Kris lays Susie on the bed beside him and gathers a bucket of water alongside armfuls of medical supplies. But when they return to her bedside, they hesitate, face going green again.
“Just how bad is it?” she mumbles. “You look like you’re about to vom again.”
They shake their head. “Don’t ask.”
It’s enough to get them unstuck. They wet a rag with water and dab it on her back, moving slow and steady from her shoulders to her tail. It takes them a while to finish; they had to switch out three buckets of water before the blood no longer tainted it.
A new cloth comes with a new substance — alcohol. “This is going to sting,” they warn before slathering her back with fire. She cusses from the second it makes contact to several minutes after the stinging stops.
Bandages are next. Kris lays gauze across Susie’s back, taping it on the top and bottom. They hesitate as they hold a piece at her side, dangerously close to her (almost) bare chest.
“Go ahead,” she grumbles.
The smallest of blushes can be seen along their cheeks as they secure the gauze.
“Guess that’s it?” Susie asks she starts to shift, to test her range of motion–
A hand on her shoulder stops her. Kris leans down, pressing their lips against it. They move to her other shoulder. Her back, in a dozen places. Her arms.
Every cut, every slice, every wound; each one is covered with a kiss.
Kris sits on the bed beside her head, fingers running through her hair.
“Get some rest,” they murmur. “I’ll be right here.”
The burning of her back will keep her awake for hours. The fear of King’s blade will haunt her for years.
But right now, as Kris pets her hair? With her best friend’s promise to stay by her side?
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: Susie, Kris
Ship: Krusie
Prompt: Carving Pumpkins
Summary: Her first Jack-O-Lantern is finished with a tilted face, but it's a pretty damn good face for a first timer.
A/N: this has an optional part 2: Carve: Fear
595 // AO3 // Masterlist // Krusie Month fics
One of Kris' favorite fall activities is to carve pumpkins. It’s been a tradition since they were young; their father would drive them and Asriel out to some secret pumpkin patch, where they would choose — at minimum — eight pumpkins each. When they got their haul home, they would sit on the lawn, throw the guts at each other, and carve faces into each one. The next day was spent decorating the entire town with the new Jack-O-Lanterns.
It has been a tradition since Kris first entered the Dreemurr family, and it…
It was put on pause when Asriel left for college. They just did not have the same spark for it, not alone. They wandered the field of pumpkins, lost and aimless, until they chose a single, tiny pumpkin to cart home with them, and they would pout every time they passed by it, untouched, on the front porch.
Or so Asgore says. His stories tend to have a bit of exaggeration, Susie knows. But when he brought the pumpkins up to her and Kris, suggesting that they pick up the old habit, well…
The way their face lit up would have made Susie feel bad for saying no. Besides, she’s never actually carved a pumpkin before. Sure, she’s smashed them open to reach the stringy flesh and tough seeds inside, a mini-meal when she had nothing else to eat. But that’s very different to cutting it with purpose. Every stray jerk of her knife adds another imperfection to ruin the face she's trying to make. She's only on her first pumpkin, gouging out the rind in different ways to test different techniques.
Kris is on their third. Their skill with a blade is unmatched. Susie could carve pumpkins for the next three years straight and never catch up to them.
Her first Jack-O-Lantern is finished with a tilted face, but it's a pretty damn good face for a first timer.
The second pumpkin gives her a little more trouble. It’s a tiny bit smaller, the rind thicker, and she knows what she wants to do with it. She takes her time, slipping the knife along the edges of her cuts, gently carving away tiny piece by tiny piece until Lancer's face is at least somewhat recognizable. Half of her wants to keep fiddling with it. Make it look better.
That half is completely ignored as she grabs a third pumpkin. Quit while you're ahead, after all.
Gerson takes form on this one. His face is more difficult, lots of little wrinkly lines and old-person spots to work in. Kris is almost done with their seventh pumpkin when she finishes.
“Dude, look,” she says, nudging them.
They laugh when they see her three masterpieces.
She punches them.
Waving their hands to call her off, they turn their pumpkins to face her. Tenna stares back at her, alongside Queen and a Tasque and someone who could be either Asriel or Ralsei. All expertly done. She gives a low whistle.
“Didn’t know you were that good,” she says.
“Lots of practice,” they sign, grinning. They pick up a few of the discarded pieces and use them to fashion a hammer that they tuck into a notch beside Gerson's head.
“Looks good,” Susie snickers, “but what are we going to do with a bunch of Darkner pumpkins? Can’t exactly let the town know about them.”
“Let’s decorate the castle with them,” Kris signs like that was their plan all along.
Almost a dozen more pumpkins need faces. Susie starts on her fourth, trying to do a Jigsawry justice.
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: Susie, Kris
Ship: Krusie
Prompt: Apple Picking
Summary: An apple whizzes past her shoulder, thumping off the wood of the old building. She turns — still no sign of them, but there aren’t many places to hide. The trees are really the only option, and their trunks aren’t big enough for proper cover.
But they are big enough to climb.
532 // AO3 // Masterlist // Krusie Month fics
Kris is around here somewhere. Sure, they’re small and sneaky, but they made a pact not to leave the grove of apple trees.
It was a proper orchard, once upon a time. The trees were planted in defined rows, ten across and ten wide. Small brush grew up between them now, alongside skinny trees the height of Kris. Fallen leaves line the ground, crunching with every step. An old shed sits at the edge of one of the rows, half collapsed into itself.
Susie makes her way to it, trying her best to keep quiet. The wind moves through the trees, rustling the branches; it will cover the sound of her approach, so long as she moves slowly.
Twenty feet from the shed, she bends down beneath a tree. Her hands search for half-rotted apples, soft enough that they won’t hurt Kris. She finds four, cradles them in the crook of her right arm as she collects a fifth in her left hand.
A tree behind her creaks. She tiptoes closer to the shed.
An apple whizzes past her shoulder, thumping off the wood of the old building. She turns — still no sign of them, but there aren’t many places to hide. The trees are really the only option, and their trunks aren’t big enough for proper cover.
But they are big enough to climb.
Susie looks into the treetops just in time for an apple to bounce off her nose.
“Got ya!” she yells, launching the first of her ammo into nearby branches. It splats against the bark. Kris giggles as they disappear into the foliage.
The leaves shudder as they move, jumping from one tree to the next. Susie continues her barrage of apples.
One hits them as they try to move into a new tree. It smears across their face and into their hair, knocking them off balance. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and breathlessness.
She stands above them, final apple poised to throw, eyes scanning their fragile human body for injury.
“You win,” they wheeze when they have enough breath. They lay their hands palm up beside their shoulders.
“Sweet,” Susie says, lying next to them. She tilts her head to lick the mashed apple coating their cheek and hair.
“Super apple flavored,” Kris smiles.
“More apple flavored than the shampoo alone,” she agrees. “Don’t know which I prefer.”
They hum, digging through the grass for an apple and biting into it. The skin crunches under their teeth, over and over, until they hold half of it in front of her snout. She swallows it whole.
“This is better,” Kris says, and there is no argument to it, no need to convince.
The sun begins to set. Susie knows that their curfew is coming up, and that Hometown is an hour's trek east of the abandoned orchard. They should get up and head back before Toriel has a fit.
Neither move. They lay on their backs, staring into rainbow clouds as the sky turns dusky blue-orange-purple. On occasion one of them will rise, search the ground beneath a tree for an apple, and split it with the other.
Fandom: Deltarune
Characters: Susie, Kris
Ship: Krusie
Prompt: Smile
Summary: When Kris finally walks out, Susie greets them by shaking them. Noelle gasps, wondering if she should intervene. She takes a single step–
Oh. Okay. Kris is smiling.
554 // AO3 // Masterlist // Krusie Month fics
Kris has not smiled in years. Sure, they’ll grin, or they’ll smirk, or they’ll bare their teeth in what they believe is a genuine expression of happiness.
It fools no one. Noelle has watched their emotions fall away, one after another, since they were children.
Since Dess disappeared.
They had to have something to do with it. Noelle knew them too well, at the time, and she knows that it is guilt that has stripped Kris of Kris.
In the past, Noelle has tried to reach out, to make them laugh or just to make them stop hurting. She’s talked to them, invited them over, asked them to play for her. The only response she’s ever gotten was an eerily empty stare.
When Susie is chosen as Kris’ partner for the group project, Noelle thinks this will be the absolute end of them. The scars on their wrists were not present as kids. Susie will only make them worse.
As much as Noelle loves Susie, Kris was a part of her life long before her crush. Her heart is torn between wanting to get closer to Susie and wanting to protect Kris.
The perfect solution is to switch partners with Noelle. She hasn’t talked to Berdly about that yet, but surely he’d understand. Kris would, too. Hopefully. And they would finally switch desks, and she could sit closer to Susie, and-and–
Ohhhh, she can just feel the way her face heats.
All she has to do is talk Kris into switching. Won’t be too hard, she can corner them after school.
She does not see them again that day. Kris and Susie disappear during class, on a run to the supply closet. Vanished for... well, she doesn’t know how long. But Susie is in her desk long before Noelle the next morning.
She still has to wait for school to end. Kris slept through class, not even stirring when the bell rang. Noelle is not about to wake them, so she exits the classroom. Susie follows, and Noelle lingers at the door while she leans against the lockers outside.
It’s... unexpected, at the very least. Why would she wait for Kris? Oh, maybe... Maybe she’s actually taking their project seriously?
Their eyes meet, and Susie gives her a malicious grin.
It makes Noelle’s spine tingle. She rushes to the end of the hall, busying herself with the lockers on that end to... not spy, per se, but to watch. Wait until Kris leaves and she can confront them.
And, sure, she might be trying to hide her blush, too.
She has got to be Susie’s partner.
When Kris finally walks out, Susie greets them by shaking them. Noelle gasps, wondering if she should intervene. She takes a single step, eyes scanning over Susie’s hands on their shoulders, tracking the way Kris’ head moves back and forth, trying to–
Oh. Okay. Kris is smiling.
It’s small. It’s casual. It’s nothing huge, not bright or beaming, no show of teeth.
But it’s real. It is a true, genuine smile.
Kris has not smiled in years.
Maybe... Maybe they like this. Partnering with Susie. Maybe there’s something about her that makes their heart stutter in the same way Noelle’s does.
And maybe, just maybe, Noelle should let them have her, at least until this project has passed.
