#undertale self-insert

26-Years-Old

Non-Binary | She/They. She by default in narration.

Caucasian/Native American

Bisexual/Biromantic. Yes, this includes monsters.

Has a black kitten named Shadow, who she takes everywhere with her.

Grew up in a dysfunctional, abusive household that she struggled to escape. Finally escaped to Oregon for university, only to be forced to drop out due to mental health and low funds.

Prior to falling into the underground, she struggled to pay rent with freelance work and her part-time job at the library.

Outside of drawing or cooking for her blog, Kit was most productive in the park or at a coffee shop, and did most of her writing and photography work outside.

Though usually keeping Shadow on a leash, Shadow got loose one day while Kit was working in the park, and Kit packed up and gave chase. Shadow found Frisk by the mouth of a cave they had just entered, and though Kit tried to beckon Frisk out, Frisk stumbled at the edge of the whole.

Kit managed to grab them, but with both their weight, the side of the hole gave way and they both fell. Shadow tumbled along with them.

Kit now tries her best to protect Frisk while they navigate the Underground and try to find a way home. If they even end up wanting to go home.

Buys her own home in Faeus. ...well, 'buys'. More like took over an old house no one was using.

Her old laptop and cell phone still get reception and internet somehow, both for the internet and the Undernet. No one's quite sure how. She blames it on 'wibbly wobbly, timey-wimey stuff'.

The descendant of a mage from ancient times, Kit possesses natural magic, specifically telekinesis, healing magic, and flower magic.

Because of her soul being so similar to one with DETERMINATION, she has access to time as well. She can SAVE and LOAD, but unlike Frisk, she can't RESET. Whenever she's killed, she'll automatically reload at her last savepoint, but the area where she was killed will scar over.

Due to her severe anxiety, she gets into a bad habit of reloading over trivial things, like saying the wrong thing or making a mistake. She assumes no one else is aware, so it's fine, right?

Autistic, ADHD, PTSD.

Copes with everything with humor. 'Near death experience' laugh is common.

He stood in the living room, staring down at you. He didn’t understand, so you tried again. “I love you. I really, really love you.”

“YOU’RE JOKING.” He stalked towards you, his long fingers curling up in on themselves and his spiked shoulders hunching. “I’M READY FOR THE PUNCHLINE NOW.”

He didn’t sound ready for the punchline. He sounded like he wanted to hit something. “It’s not a joke; I love you.”

You didn’t look up at him, burying your face in the confident blaze of the idiotic pillow. He didn’t move, didn’t speak - but you could feel his presence next to the couch, and from the edge of your vision, you could see that clenched fist tremble.

“IT - IT IS NATURAL,” he finally began, his voice sounding... oddly tight and hoarse. “THAT YOU WOULD - ADMIRE ME, THE GREAT AND DANGEROUS PAPYRUS, FOR ALL OF MY HORRID AND NIGHTMARISH DEEDS! BUT DO NOT TRICK YOURSELF; THAT IS ADMIRATION, NOT LOVE!”

That was strange. He sounded strange. You peeked up from the pillow, and your breath caught at what you saw.

His entire face had been devoured by a profound orange glow that stained his sharp cheekbones and made his mouth waver. He was blushing. Papyrus was blushing, and his denial of your feelings both filled you with confidence and tore at your heart in grief.

“No. I know how I feel; I love you.”

“YOU DON’T,” he said, putting his hands on your shoulders and clenching at them in desperation. “YOU DON’T - THAT’S RIDICULOUS.”

“It’s not ridiculous! I love you!” You stared him down now, not backing down, and his teeth grit.

“YOU DON’T.”

“I love you!”

“YOU DO NOT,” he hissed, his head bowing as his shoulders shook more. There was a strange weight to his expression, his posture.

“I. Love. You.”

“Y-YOU, YOU DON’T, YOU’RE NOT,” he stuttered now, and then suddenly tried to pull away, but you lunged forward and grabbed his scarf. He was not escaping from this; not when he was acting like that. Not when...

It seemed like he almost couldn’t bear to hope. Bear to believe it.

“I love you,” you said, hauling him down to the couch with you. One hand found his face, and the other used his scarf like a leash. He couldn’t look away from you like this; he would look at you. “I love you. I love you.”

“YOU - YOU - ” He could barely form words now. One hand kept him propped up, kept him from actually being on top of you, and his knee dug into the couch by your leg. His chest hovered over yours, and he didn’t seem like he could look away, even when his expression clearly conveyed his own nerves. He was embarrassed. He was blushing.

You weren’t going to let this go, and you said those words over and over again until the syllables blurred into each other, like it wasn’t a sentence you were saying, but a rope you held onto to survive. Like knitting, like weaving, you treated those words like thread - as if you could form something from the endless repetitions.

Maybe you could, because - in the middle of that senseless babble - you kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you, it was hard to tell, because the both of you sort of met halfway. One hand held onto his collarbone, the other spread across his face, and you pressed your mouth to his for one second, two, three, before you pulled away and opened your mouth again.

“DUH-DON’T SAY IT!” He cried out, suddenly plastering a hand against your mouth. “I GET IT, I -- YOU D-DON’T HAVE TO SAY IT AGAIN!”

“But - “ you managed, the sound muffled, and he shook his head.

“BE QUIET! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS ORDER YOU TO - I MEAN - IT IS MY - I...”

You couldn’t help it; maybe that pillow really had made you more daring. “Oh, you’re ordering me now? I thought you’re the one with the collar?” As if to prove your point, you tugged on his scarf, and Papyrus shoved your face into the couch as he squeaked.

“YOU’RE TERRIBLE, I - I - YOU’VE - THESE ARE D-DIRTY, UNDERHANDED TRICKS, I...”