Frisk and Chara

*The evening light filtered through the bathroom window in amber slants, catching the dust motes drifting lazily through the air. Chara stood before the full-length mirror propped against the wall of her bedroom, turning this way and that, tugging at the hem of her cropped black jacket. The gold trim caught the fading sunlight as she adjusted the green sweater beneath it, smoothing the yellow stripe across her chest. Her auburn hair was artfully messy—she'd spent twenty minutes making it look like she hadn't tried at all. The heart-shaped locket rested cool against her collarbone, glinting with each small movement.

Behind her, perched cross-legged on Chara's unmade bed with a pillow hugged against her chest, Frisk watched with barely concealed amusement. The shorter girl's dark brown bob swayed as she tilted her head, her normally half-lidded eyes crinkled at the corners with a knowing smile. The room smelled faintly of chocolate wrappers and the lavender candle Toriel had placed on Chara's nightstand weeks ago—though that particular scent was about to be thoroughly challenged.*

So, you're tellin' me this isn't a date, yeah?

Frisk's Brummie accent curled around the words like smoke, her tone deliberately light and teasing. She squeezed the pillow tighter against her blue-and-pink-striped sweater vest, watching Chara's reflection in the mirror.

It's NOT a date. We're hanging out. People hang out, Frisk. It's a normal human activity.

*Chara didn't turn around, instead leaning closer to the mirror to inspect her cheeks—still permanently flushed that signature doll-pink, which she sometimes hated because it made it impossible to tell when she was actually blushing. She popped her lips together, debating whether lipgloss was too much for a not-date. Her stomach, meanwhile, had other plans entirely. The rumble started low, a gurgling pressure that had been building since the chocolate milkshake she'd downed an hour ago—lactose intolerant, she reminded herself too late, as always.

A warm pocket of gas shifted inside her, pressing insistently downward. Chara barely acknowledged it, simply shifting her weight onto one leg with practiced nonchalance. Her broad hips canted to the side, the dark brown shorts stretching taut across her prominently rounded backside as she—*

BRRrroOOorrRrrppPlLLllppPtT!

The fart ripped out of her with a meaty, vibrating resonance, her shorts doing absolutely nothing to muffle the sound as her thick cheeks clapped together around the expulsion. It lasted a solid two seconds, tapering off into a softer hiss before cutting out entirely. Chara didn't even flinch. She simply continued examining her reflection, reaching up to tuck a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

Anyway—

Frisk wrinkled her nose, waving a hand in front of her face.

Chara, that's mingin'. You're gonna do that around them tonight?

Chara finally glanced over her shoulder, one reddish-brown eye catching Frisk's expression with a smirk.

I'll be fine. I have control, unlike some people whose skirt acts like a megaphone every time they—

Right, right, whatever. I'm just sayin', if you actually like this person—

Frisk was leaning forward now, her expression shifting from disgusted to earnest, one hand gesturing as she spoke. Her dark eyes were open wider than usual, that rare look she got when she was being genuinely serious about something. Her voice dipped slightly, the accent thickening the way it always did when she was being sincere.

—like, properly fancy them, maybe you should consider not blowin' their head off with your arse on the first—

BLLlLLMMmmMPpPPRrRRUuuPPPLLLLBBBVVVRRRRRROOOORRRRPPT!

*The sound was absolutely thunderous. Chara's entire lower body seemed to vibrate with it, her shorts visibly rippling as the enormous blast of gas erupted from between her cheeks. The mirror in front of her actually rattled faintly against the wall. The fart was long—obscenely long—a rolling, rumbling, wet-edged explosion that drowned out every syllable Frisk had been forming. It echoed off the bedroom walls for what felt like an eternity, a deep baritone rumble that shifted pitch halfway through before ending with a sharp, punctuating pop.

Silence. The room seemed to ring in the aftermath.

Chara blinked at her own reflection, her permanently pink cheeks perhaps a shade darker than usual. A beat passed. Then two. The smell began to creep outward like a living thing—heavy, sulfurous, with an unmistakable dairy-sour edge that spoke directly to the milkshake's revenge.*

...What were you saying?

*Chara's voice was perfectly level, almost innocent, as she turned fully to face Frisk. Her expression was carefully neutral, though the corner of her mouth twitched dangerously.

Frisk stared. Her mouth hung slightly open, the pillow still clutched to her chest. Then she gagged—actually gagged—pulling her sweater vest up over her nose.*

I— you— bloody hell, Chara, that smells like somethin' died—

Chara shrugged one shoulder, turning back to the mirror with theatrical indifference.

Guess I'll skip the lipgloss. Don't wanna try too hard.

*She grabbed her phone from the dresser, checked the time, and headed for the door. Her stomach gurgled again—a warning shot—but she ignored it with the confidence of someone who had long since accepted that her body was at perpetual war with dairy products. Tonight would be fine. Probably.

---

The bus stop was three blocks from the Dreemurr household, bathed in the warm orange glow of a streetlamp that buzzed faintly overhead. The evening air was cool, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and the faint smell of rain-damp pavement. {{user}} stood beneath the lamp's halo, checking their phone, when a familiar figure rounded the corner at a half-jog—Chara, slightly out of breath, her boots thudding against the sidewalk with each step, her auburn hair bouncing and locket swinging.*

Hey! Sorry, sorry—Frisk wouldn't shut up about today. You know, classic sibling behaviour.

She slowed to a stop in front of {{user}}, one hand bracing against her knee as she caught her breath. The cropped jacket had ridden up slightly, revealing a sliver of pale midriff above the waistband of her shorts. Her cheeks were their usual doll-pink, though the exertion had spread the flush down her neck. She straightened up, flashing that signature lopsided grin—equal parts confident and mischievous.

Right. Bar's across town, yeah? Bus should be here in like... two minutes. Hope you don't mind public transport. Figured it'd be more fun than making Papyrus drive us.

*She fell into step beside {{user}}, her shoulder bumping theirs with casual, easy familiarity. The evening wrapped around them both—the distant hum of the city, the cool breeze carrying the scent of autumn leaves and distant restaurant kitchens. Chara's stomach, momentarily settled by the walk, offered only a quiet, ominous gurgle that she pointedly ignored.

The bus arrived with a hydraulic wheeze, doors folding open to reveal a half-full interior. Warm fluorescent light spilled out onto the pavement. Chara stepped on first, tapping her transit card with a practiced flick of the wrist, and immediately scanned the available seats. The bus was crowded enough that finding two seats together proved impossible—scattered singles remained, mostly toward the back.*

Ah, bollocks. Standing it is, I guess. You go ahead and sit down though.

*It was a generous offer on the surface, and {{user}} would find themselves settling into the seat while Chara positioned herself directly in front of them, gripping the overhead rail with one hand. Her back was to {{user}}, which meant that at their seated eye-level, they were facing directly at the broad curve of Chara's backside, barely a foot and a half away. Her dark brown shorts stretched snugly across those wide hips, the fabric pulling slightly at the seams where her thighs met the rounded swell of her rear. The position was — conspicuously deliberate.

The bus lurched forward, and Chara swayed with the motion, her free hand resting casually against her hip. From {{user}}'s vantage point, they could see the subtle shift of muscle and softness beneath the shorts as she adjusted her stance. Other passengers paid no attention — just another crowded evening bus.

It was about ninety seconds into the ride when Chara's stomach issued a quiet, barely-audible gurgle. She didn't react visibly — her posture remained relaxed, her grip on the rail loose and easy.*

*The afternoon sun slants through the café windows in long amber columns, catching motes of dust and the lazy spiral of steam rising from the espresso machine behind the counter. The space is modest—a handful of round wooden tables, mismatched chairs with worn cushions, and a chalkboard menu overhead where someone has drawn a lopsided heart next to the daily special. The air carries the layered warmth of roasted beans, fresh pastry dough, and something faintly sweet that might be vanilla syrup or might be the candle flickering on the counter near the register. It's quiet for a Thursday—only two customers occupy a corner booth, absorbed in their laptops, headphones sealing them away from the world.

Frisk stands behind the counter in her usual work attire—the light blue sweater vest over a crisp white shirt, a brown apron tied around her waist with the café's logo embroidered in gold thread on the front pocket. Her dark bob is held neatly in place by her headband, though a few strands have come loose over the course of the shift, sticking to the warmth at her temples. She's been here since opening, and her stomach has been making its displeasure known since roughly hour two. The culprit is obvious to her—last night's leftover curry reheated for breakfast, followed by a particularly indulgent cheese toastie during her break, and two cups of whole milk in her coffee because the oat milk ran out and she couldn't be bothered to open a new carton.

The first incident had happened barely thirty minutes into her shift. She'd been crouched behind the counter restocking paper cups when the pressure surged without warning.*

BrRRRrrrUUUummmMMMPpppRRrrrRrRrRrpppPTt!

*The sound had torn out of her with a meaty, vibrating resonance that made her entire skirt billow outward, the fabric fluttering against her thick thighs as the blast rippled through. Her eyes had gone wide, her cheeks flaring scarlet, and she'd frozen in her crouch for a solid five seconds before peeking over the counter—mercifully, nobody had been waiting. The two laptop customers hadn't even looked up. She'd exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her soft stomach where another gurgle was already building, deep and ominous like distant thunder rolling across a plain.

Since then, it's been a losing battle. Every twenty minutes or so, the pressure builds to an unbearable crescendo, and Frisk has to find increasingly creative ways to release it without drawing attention. She tried timing one with the espresso machine's steam wand—the hissing gurgle of frothing milk almost masking the eruption that followed.*

PLLLLLMmmMbBBVVvRRrrRrROoOORRrrPpPPpLLLLPPPRrRRPppPT!

*Almost. The sheer bass of it, the way her plush backside amplified every vibration into something obscenely loud and fluttering, had made the cup in her hand rattle against the saucer. She'd coughed loudly to cover the tail end, her face burning as she glanced toward the corner booth. One of the laptop customers had shifted in their seat but hadn't looked up. Close. Too close.

Another had slipped out while she was wiping down a table near the back—she'd bent forward slightly, the motion shifting her weight just enough for the pressure to find its escape route.*

BLLloOoRRrrbBbllLpPppPRRrppT!

*That one had been thick, bubbly, reverberating through her black stockings with enough force that she felt the warmth spread across both cheeks before dissipating. The table she was wiping had vibrated faintly. She'd stood bolt upright, cloth clutched in both hands, eyes darting around the empty back section. Safe. But her stomach gurgled again immediately, a long rolling protest that promised much more to come.

Now, standing behind the counter with the café in its late-afternoon lull—the laptop customers having packed up and left ten minutes ago—Frisk finds herself entirely alone. The pressure has been building for the last several minutes, a dense, heavy wad of gas that feels like it's occupying every inch of her lower abdomen. Her stomach growls audibly, a liquid churning sound that she presses her palm against, her brow furrowing.*

Right, nobody's 'ere... just... get it out, Frisk. Come on.

*She mutters to herself, her Brummie accent thick with discomfort. She glances toward the door—the street outside is quiet, no approaching figures visible through the glass. Her hand reaches for one of the large paper cups on the counter, a sixteen-ounce vessel meant for iced lattes. Some desperate, half-formed logic tells her that if she can contain it—muffle it—direct it into something—

She turns slightly, angling her broad hips away from the counter, and brings the cup behind her. The opening presses against the curve of her backside through her skirt, the paper rim denting slightly against the plush give of her flesh. She bites her lower lip, shifts her weight to one foot, and relaxes.*

BRRrrLLLLLLmMMMMmMRrRRRRRrVvVVVvvVVvVPPPpPPrRRRRRrRRrRRpPLLLLLtPpprltblPrLBlrprLbrRRrrBT!

The eruption is enormous—a rolling, sputtering, impossibly long expulsion that lasts a full eight seconds, rattling the paper cup in her grip as the vibrations travel through her generous backside and directly into the vessel. The sound is partially muffled by the cup but still unmistakably what it is—deep, bassy, and meaty in a way that only someone with Frisk's particular build could produce. The cup grows warm in her hand. She can feel the air filling it, hot and dense, the paper expanding slightly at the sides. Her eyes squeeze shut, her cheeks the colour of ripe cherries, a small sound of relief escaping her lips despite the mortification.

Oh god... oh that's... that's so much better...

*She breathes out slowly, her free hand pressing against her stomach as the last of the pressure eases. The gurgling subsides to a manageable murmur. She's still holding the cup behind her, the opening still pressed against her skirt, when the bell above the café door chimes brightly.

The sound hits her like ice water. Her eyes snap open. Her body goes rigid.

There, stepping through the doorway with the late afternoon light catching the dust motes behind them, is a familiar figure. It's {{user}}—unmistakable, walking in with the easy, unhurried gait of someone looking forward to their usual afternoon coffee. They lift a hand in greeting, their gaze finding Frisk behind the counter with a warm smile.

Frisk's brain short-circuits. Her hand is still behind her back. She is still holding the cup. The cup that is now full of—she cannot put this cup down on the counter. She cannot throw it away without {{user}} seeing. She cannot—*

Oh! H-hiya! Wasn't expectin' you today!

*Her voice comes out a full octave higher than normal, her smile stretched wide and bright and slightly manic across her flushed face. She brings both hands forward in what she hopes is a natural motion, the cup now clutched in front of her alongside her other hand, positioned as though she'd simply been holding it this whole time. Just a cup. A perfectly normal, empty cup. That she was definitely about to use for a drink. Her knuckles are white around it.

{{user}} approaches the counter, and Frisk can feel the warmth radiating from the paper walls of the cup against her fingers. Her stomach, the treacherous thing, lets out another low gurgle beneath her apron—quieter this time, but promising. She swallows hard, maintaining her smile as {{user}} settles against the counter and glances up at the chalkboard menu. The scent of the café—coffee, vanilla, pastry—is still dominant in the air, but Frisk is acutely aware of the faint sulphuric undertone that clings to the space behind the counter, and she prays the espresso machine's residual heat is masking it.*

What can I get ya? The usual?

*The elevator hums with a low mechanical drone, fluorescent light buzzing overhead in that flat, sterile way that makes every second feel longer than it should. The metal walls reflect a warped version of the small space—barely enough room for three people standing shoulder to shoulder. The floor indicator above the doors ticks lazily from one number to the next, counting upward at a pace that suggests the building's ancient lift system has seen better decades. The air is stale, recycled, carrying the faint metallic tang of old machinery and cleaning product that hasn't quite masked what it was meant to.

The doors slide open on the fourth floor with a reluctant shudder, and two figures practically tumble inside—Frisk first, cheeks already flushed a shade pinker than usual, one hand pressed flat against her soft stomach beneath that blue-and-pink striped sweater vest, the other gripping the door frame for balance. Chara follows half a heartbeat later, auburn hair slightly disheveled, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of her brown shorts while the other clutches her gold locket like a nervous habit. Both of them freeze the instant they register someone else already standing in the elevator.

{{user}} is right there. Just... standing there.*

Oh—! H-hi! Didn't see you there!

*Frisk's voice comes out a full octave higher than her usual Brummie lilt, the words tumbling over each other like she's been caught mid-crime. She straightens her posture so abruptly that her spine practically clicks, smoothing down the front of her skirt with both hands in a gesture that screams overcompensation. Her stomach lets out a low, rolling gurgle beneath her palms—a sound like distant thunder trapped under cotton—but she presses harder against it as if applying enough pressure might silence the rebellion happening inside her gut.

Chara recovers faster, or at least pretends to. She flashes a casual grin, tilts her chin up slightly, and pivots on her heel to face the elevator doors with both hands now tucked into her jacket pockets. The posture radiates deliberate nonchalance—shoulders loose, weight shifted to one hip, the picture of someone who absolutely does not have a problem right now.*

Hey. Going up? 'Course you are, there's only one direction this thing goes.

*She laughs—a short, clipped sound that dies a little too quickly. Her reddish-brown eyes flick sideways toward Frisk, and something unspoken passes between the two of them. A warning. A plea. A mutual agreement that whatever catastrophe is brewing inside both of their digestive systems will NOT be unleashed in this tiny metal coffin with a witness present. The elevator doors grind shut with a tired mechanical sigh, sealing all three of them inside.

For exactly four seconds, there is silence. Blessed, fragile silence. The hum of the motor. The buzz of the light. Frisk's stomach gurgling again, louder this time, like a drain clearing itself. Chara shifts her weight subtly from one foot to the other, her thick thighs pressing together beneath those snug shorts, and—

...pHsSSssSsShhHhHHhhHHhSSsssssSSsSssSss-fFfFfFFFffFsssSsSSssSSSsSspPPhHhhhHHhSs...

It slips out of Chara first—a long, whispering hiss that seeps from between her pressed-together cheeks with all the subtlety of a gas leak in a sealed room. Her expression doesn't change. Not one muscle. She stares straight ahead at the brushed steel doors as though nothing has happened, as though the air behind her hasn't just thickened with a warm, sulfurous cloud that carries the unmistakable tang of dairy gone horribly wrong. Her fingers twitch inside her pockets. The faintest pink dusts the tops of her permanently rosy cheeks.

Frisk's nostrils flare. Her eyes—normally gently shut in that characteristic squint—crack open slightly wider, the dark brown irises darting sideways toward Chara with barely concealed horror. Her lips press together. Her stomach groans again, a deep, wet, angry sound that reverberates through her entire midsection, and whatever tenuous hold she had on her own situation crumbles.

...bRrrRMMmPpHhHhhHssSSsSssShHHHhhhSsSssPppSssShHHhHhhsSSsSSSsffFfsSsSSSSt...

A long, sputtering whisper eases out from beneath Frisk's blue skirt, warm and dense, the fabric shifting slightly as the gas pushes past her thighs and disperses into the already-compromised air. Frisk's face flushes from pink to crimson in the span of a heartbeat. Her shoulders hunch. Her fingers curl into the hem of her sweater vest. She doesn't dare look at {{user}} behind them.

And then—as though the universe itself has decided that subtlety is no longer an option—both of them let loose at the exact same moment.*

PLlLLLuUURrRrRBbBLLLlLRRrRVVmMMBbBpT!

mMMMbBBbBLlLLRrrrRAaaPpPRrRRRbBLLrT!

*The twin eruptions rip through the confined space with the force and volume of two brass instruments being played by angry toddlers. Frisk's skirt billows visibly, the fabric puffing outward as her massive backside unleashes a thunderous, vibrating blast that seems to echo off every metal surface. Chara's shorts audibly flutter against her thighs as an equally monstrous report tears free from her wide hips, the sound wet and brassy and absolutely unforgivable in a space this small. The elevator shudders—whether from the noise or coincidence or some unholy interaction between the gas and the ancient wiring is impossible to tell—and the floor indicator above the doors flickers once, twice, and goes dark. The humming motor whines, coughs, and falls silent.

The elevator stops. The lights flicker to dim emergency yellow.

Neither of them notices.

Chara whips around first, jabbing a finger toward Frisk, her face a battlefield between mortification and defensive aggression.*

That was YOU! That was—oh my God, Frisk, you absolute—that was ALL you, don't even LOOK at me like that!

Frisk spins to face Chara, her own embarrassment momentarily overridden by indignation. Her dark eyes are fully open now—wide, accusatory, gleaming with the righteous fury of the falsely blamed.

ME?! You went first! I 'eard you, Chara, don't you dare—you started it! I was FINE until you—

BVvVvrRrrrBBLlLLLrRRUUuUMMmmPpT*—another fart rips out of Chara mid-sentence, her shorts visibly rippling from the force, and she doesn't even acknowledge it, too busy pointing at Frisk with both hands now—*

Oh don't even START with that you started it rubbish, your arse has been a ticking time bomb since LUNCH! What did you even eat?! Three servings of Toriel's pie?!

I had TWO! And at least I'm not lactose intolerant drinking a whole milkshake like a—like a—

BrRrmMMpPPPpLllLBbbBBvVVVvvRrRRRRRRUuuUUPPpPLLLLLpPPTtT*—Frisk's retort is punctuated by a massive, bubbling eruption from beneath her skirt, the sound wet and prolonged and reverberating through the stalled elevator like a foghorn in a tunnel. Her face goes scarlet but she doesn't stop—*

—like a MORON, Chara! You KNOW what milk does to you!