Thinking about how vaultknight are back as a duo but they also haven't seen each other in so long which means.... VAULTKNIGHT SEX SCENE IN SEASON 3 LET'S GO!!!
When she left Haymitch’s, the sun was nearly gone, and the sky was a dusky and soft orange. Before she realized what her feet were doing, Katniss found herself at Peeta’s front door. She lifted her hand to knock and hesitated. The pressure was building up behind her eyes again.
Katniss should never have even thought of opening her heart to anyone. She had basked in the possibility for just one second, and her heart had been ripped away from her. A bloody red, hiccupping thing. Stolen and pulsing in Snow’s iron grip, waiting until he could finally crush it and end Katniss once and for all.
She whipped around and ran back home.
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.
