Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“DON’T YOU BEND SPACE-TIME ON ME, SANS! AND FAR LESS LIKELY, DON’T YOU DARE RUN EITHER!”

Sans was certainly not considering anything so childish…not the least because Papyrus was too fast for him and had already caught him by the hood of his jacket.

Still, he did keep trying to pull away, awkwardly batting at his brother’s hand trying to make him let go.

“c’mon, Pap,” he pleaded, “it’s fine, just leave it…”

Papyrus wasn’t having any of it. “IT’S BEEN AT LEAST TWO MONTHS,” he snapped, tugging harder and nearly yanking Sans right off his mattress. “THIS THING IS FILTHY AND I’M GOING TO WASH IT. ACCEPT YOUR FATE!”

To go hoodie-less? For as much as an hour? Maybe more?

“death before dishonor,” Sans said, and proceeded to go limp—a sudden dead-weight that made Papyrus stagger forward a step if his sputtering was any indication.

“OH MY GOD, SANS, ARE YOU REALLY THIS CHILDISH?” he demanded. “I COMPLETELY BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE, BUT I WANT YOU TO THINK LONG AND HARD ABOUT THE KIND OF PERSON YOU’RE BEING RIGHT NOW!”

“heheheh… that’s what sh—”

“IF YOU SAY ‘THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID,’ SANS, I SWEAR, I’M GOING TO—”

Whatever he was going to threaten, Sans never found out.

Papyrus gasped and suddenly, Sans was facedown on the bed, unceremoniously dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Confused, Sans tried to sit up and turn to see what caused that reaction, only for Papyrus to catch him by the shoulders and keep him turned around.

“uhhh…Papyrus?” he asked a little helplessly. “what—”

“SHUT UP!” Papyrus exclaimed. “OH MY GOD??? SANS! WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?!”

Sans frowned, confusion mounting. “be…cause…i have no idea what you’re talkin’ about…?”

He knows his brother pretty well by now and he can physically feel Papyrus’ look of disbelief from behind him.

“YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN IT?!”

“…no?” Sans laughed. “what, did i lay in somethin’? big, terrible stain that i definitely need to take off my hoodie for, or…?”

Papyrus tsk-ed. “FORGET YOUR FITLHY HOODIE, SANS, THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT!”

Before the shock could even set in—the eternal neat-freak that was Papyrus so swiftly brushing off the dirty jacket Sans had been wearing for two and a half months— Sans heard the unmistakable click of a photo and a phone being shoved in his face.

It took Sans an embarrassingly long time to realize what he was looking at.

His own vertebrae, a little blurry from the lightning speed at which Papyrus had taken the picture, but not unidentifiably so.

And right there, swooping and twisting across his C7 innocent as can be, is an infinity symbol.

His soulmark.

“wh…”

He tries to form a sentence, even just a single word, but finds himself…utterly speechless.

Sans never thought…

Sure, soulmates were a thing, people found them all the time, but he wasn’t… he didn’t…

He suddenly realizes that he never thought he’d be one of them. He has no plan for this; not even a reaction.

As always, Papyrus seemed ready to bail him out.

“CAN YOU THINK OF WHEN IT MIGHT’VE HAPPENED?” he asks.

Slowly, still staring at the picture, Sans shakes his head.

No, he has no idea.

He can’t remember touching anyone new in months and even then…in such a weird spot, the mark could’ve showed up years ago and he’d have been none the wiser.

He wavers on the edge of defeatism for a moment—of course, this is more like it, a soulmate he had only to never know them, opportunity snatched away right in front of him once again, just like always—but Papyrus asks another question.

“WHAT ABOUT THE MARK?” he prompts. “DOES IT…REMIND YOU OF ANYONE? CAN YOU THINK OF WHO IT MIGHT BE FOR?”

And, oh…

Oh…

He can.

There is someone, somebody that comes to mind right away—a beautiful laugh and warm eyes and a feeling of hope that’s been painfully elusive until…

“yeah,” he says out loud. “i think…i think maybe……”

There’s really only one person in his skull when Sans even dares to think about ‘forever.’

And you’re just a shortcut away.

-

You startle pretty badly when Sans suddenly appears in your living room.

“Sans!” you snap at him, protectively holding your bowl to your chest. “Don’t do that, I almost spilled my popcorn!”

It gives you pause when the pun you’re expecting just…doesn’t come. You take a closer look at the skeleton standing before you and frown.

Sans looks tense, to say the least. His shoulders are stiff and his permanent grin is tight and the lights in his eye-sockets won’t quite meet your gaze.

“…Sans?” you try, a little more gently. “Are you… is everything okay?”

“uh. yeah,” he says. “yeah, it’s…m’fine…”

“You don’t sound fine.”

You set your popcorn aside and get up, walking over to him.

“Seriously,” you insist, “what’s up? You know you can talk to me, right? We’re friends.”

And nothing more. No matter what you…

That's not important.

“…yeah. yeah, i know.”

Sans finally looks at you and you spare half a second to feel self-conscious—you weren’t planning on seeing anybody today and you’re only dressed for a solo movie-marathon, in sweats and as minimally groomed as you’ve ever been—but if something’s wrong, you know that doesn’t matter either.

Sans’ eye-lights shrink a little. “i, uh…i……found somethin’…today…jus’ now, actually, heheh…”

That’s…much too vague for you to work with. “Yeah…?” you prompt.

And he says the words that make your heartbeat stutter.

“a soulmark.”

………oh.

You’d known, in the back of your mind, that…this…was only a matter of time. In the few short years since monsters hit the surface, people were finding their matches all the time, and somebody like Sans… funny and kind and effortlessly charming… Of course he had a soulmate out there for him, even if…

Even if it wasn’t you, the way he was yours.

You’d been quietly devastated when you found your mark and went days, weeks, months without hearing a single thing from the skeleton you knew it’d come from. Mismatches were rare, but they happened and…you’d done your best to make peace with the fact that you were one such unlucky case.

Your skin still feels unaccountably hot right where you know your soulmark to be and your heart aches a little in your chest.

“O-oh,” you manage to get out, sounding mostly normal, “that’s great! Who, uh…who are they? Do I know them?”

Sans’ grin inexplicably goes a little crooked, sweat starting to bead along his skull.

“shit, i hope so,” he mutters. Then louder, “actually, i…i think i probably musta had it…awhile? it’s…um…hard to look at…”

You frown again. “Is it really that bad?”

“heheheheheh…no, it’s, y’know, it’s literally hard to look at. ’less if i were an owl or somethin’, i guess.”

Sans turns, putting his back to you and tugging his hood down a little further and you get what he means.

The bright little infinity stamped on the knobby vertebra of his neck is beautiful.

You’re already jealous.

You remember his words, ‘i hope so,’ and think you know why he’s here: he wants your help figuring out who his soulmate might be because maybe you know them, and that hurts like hell, but you’re going to give it to him.

If nothing else, Sans is your friend and he deserves to be happy.

“Okay… alright, um…do you have any leads?” you ask.

“yeah.”

“………” Sans doesn’t say anything else, though, just staring at you. “And…?”

“and i’m here.”

Duh, you can see that—but how are you supposed to help if he doesn’t tell you anything?

You don’t realize what he’s saying until he starts to squirm under your gaze, sweating even worse than before and backtracking.

“i…! i mean! i don’t…s’not like i know for sure, uhh…i just…maybe you don’t, actually…an’ that’s fine, ‘cause i still…! even if you don’t, uh…have one, you’re my…we’re pals, obviously, an’ i like that, i like it a lot, i just kinda hoped maybe…maybe………”

Your heart does more than stutter when it dawns on you. It actually feels like it full-on stops, just for a second.

Your voice is hushed and tight with hope and disbelief as you say, “You think it’s me…?”

Sans swallows audibly and you still have no idea how that works, but then he says, “i hope it’s you,” and your face begins to feel very warm.

It’s nothing compared to your soulmark though, which is definitely starting to feel like it’s actually on fire.

“it’s…really okay if it’s…not the same for, for you,” Sans says, even as an unmistakably dejected look comes over his skull. “i just…y’know, i couldn’t think of anybody else it’d be, an’ you…you deserve to know that you, uh…that you’re………”

His cheekbones start to color an embarrassed blue.

“heheheh, may’ve jumped the gun a little on this one,” he admits. “i’ll just—”

“No!”

Sans’ eye-sockets go wide at your outburst and you hasten to clarify.

“You didn’t, it’s not, you’re…!” Your emotions feel like a flood, too strong to weather, and you find yourself floundering for words.

But you can’t just not say anything, you need to make Sans understand, and there’s only one way you can think of.

You grab the waistband of your sweatpants and start to tug them down.

You didn’t think Sans’ sockets could go any wider, but they do.

He says your name, sounding kind of alarmed and a lot flustered, but you cut him off.

“No, shut up, it’s, just look!”

You don’t pull your pants down far—just enough to expose the modest little shooting star that Sans unwittingly marked you with, streaking across your rear in cyan-blue.

His eye-lights disappear entirely when he spots it.

There’s dead silence for only a few seconds, and then…

“…heheheh…hahahahahaha, i was expectin’ a full moon, not a star.”

You resist the urge to sigh.

Yeeep…

Even as you jerk your pants back up, you have to press your lips together to keep from smiling while Sans’ grin gets brighter and broader.

“gotta say, that really eclipses my reveal, doesn’t it?” He snickers a little. “little relieved, though, comin’ over here like i did, thought you’d think i was a lunar somethin’.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, “get ‘em all out now.”

“oh, don’t worry,” Sans assures you, “this’ll be a quick phase, i won’t get too cheeky.”

You huff and storm over to your couch, mostly to hide the fact that you’re definitely smiling.

“This is how I knew it was yours,” you say, plopping down and scooping up your popcorn bowl. “Endless pun potential.”

You pointedly don’t jump when Sans appears right beside you, but the sassy comment you were gearing up to make dies on your tongue when you look at him.

His expression is so…soft, so warm. One of his hands is rubbing idly at the back of his neck and all he says to you is, “yeah. endless.”

Oh…oh, hell.

Face feeling hot again, you whip towards the TV and wordlessly cue up the movie you were going to watch before Sans wandered in and turned your whole day upside down and put this stupid fluttering feeling in your stomach.

Sans shamelessly shovels some of your popcorn into his mouth and asks, “wha’are we wa’in’?”

“A movie,” you reply flatly.

Thankfully, he swallows before speaking this time. “no way, i love those, how’d you know?”

You decide not to dignify that with a response.

“aw, c’mon,” he says, smiling wide and nudging you in the ribs, “you’re not still mad about the punnin’, are ya’? i don’t want ya’ to be mad on our first date ‘cause you were the butt of the joke for awhile.”

“…Pfft!”

Your poker-face shatters and you burst out laughing.

You don’t resist when Sans throws an arm around you and tugs you to his side, or protest when he blatantly shifts the popcorn to his lap instead of yours.

Your first date with your soulmate…

You think you can put up with a lot for that.

Chapter Text

You were just getting breakfast to go.

It was supposed to be a very boring, typical day for you, just like any other boring, typical day, with absolutely nothing outside the ordinary to befall you—because nothing like that ever happened to you.

But you supposed in retrospect that there really is no way to expect the unexpected because as you step outside the café with your coffee and your muffin, you’re nearly knocked onto your ass by a supersonic blur of white.

Heart pounding in your chest, you clutch your breakfast protectively and watch the retreating form of the…dog? sprinting down the street.

Whose dog is that? you wonder to yourself. And how is it so fast on such short legs?!

And it’s probably wondering these questions that keeps you from noticing the skeleton racing down the street after it until he collides with you.

You stumble with a wordless cry of dismay as your poor coffee flies out of your hands, more concerned about it than the fact that you were about to hit the pavement yourself.

Luckily for you, it seemed you didn’t have to worry about either.

A scarlet glove whips forward and catches your cup one-handed, not even spilling a single drop, and a bony arm curls around your body, stopping your fall.

On this supposed-to-be-boring day, you find yourself being dipped like a damsel in a movie, staring up at the most handsome skull you’ve ever seen.

“FORGIVE ME, HUMAN,” he says, “THAT SURE WAS CARELESS OF ME! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

You gape at him for a moment, stunned. “Uh…I…you…”

The small part of you that isn’t starstruck screams, Get it together, dummy! and you shake your head.

“No, I’m! I’m fine, really, I wasn’t… I should’ve been paying more attention!” you assure him. “You’re…very fast!”

‘You’re fast’? Ugh! Stupid! That’s not—

The skeleton seems to smile, his chest puffing out a little. “OH, THANK YOU!” he replies, sounding pleased as punch.

…Oh. Huh.

He straightens you back on your feet with ease and passes you your coffee.

“UNFORTUNATELY, AS CUTE AS YOU ARE AND AS MUCH AS I’D LOVE TO STAND HERE AND TALK ABOUT MY UNPARALLELED SPEED, EVERY SECOND I WASTE TALKING IS A SECOND THAT BASTARD DOG GETS FURTHER AWAY FROM ME AND I CAN’T ALLOW THAT! YOU UNDERSTAND, OF COURSE?”

S…sorta?

Still, you nod emphatically and say, “Yeah, of course, you…go get ‘im!”

“I WILL! AND OBVIOUSLY, CALL ME IF ANYTHING…UH, WELL, YOU KNOW!”

And with that, the skeleton took off down the street again—at impressive speeds—yelling some words you’d have to look up later at the nearly-invisible speck of dog on the horizon.

Leaving you the literal definition of dazed and confused.

What did he mean, ‘if anything…’? And…how could you call him? You didn’t even know his name, much less his number!

And…had he called you ‘cute’ somewhere in there?

You’re so confused.

So frazzled.

You need your coffee.

-

You don’t put it together until halfway through your cup, when your sleeve rides up a little and…

There’s a…shape…there, on your wrist. A shape that definitely wasn’t there this morning—your brand new soulmark.

You were so flustered and tunnel-visioned at the time, but you must’ve touched somewhere, skin-on-bone, when that skeleton had almost bowled you over. There was no other explanation for the mark on your wrist now and your chest tightens.

You don’t know your own soulmate’s name. You don’t know his number or, or where he lives, or anything at all, and…!

Instinctively, you grab at your warm cup for comfort against the devastating thought of having met and lost your soulmate in the space of a few harried sentences, anxiously twisting the paper coffee-sleeve.

A tiny click against your desk makes you jump.

You look down, finding that there’s something sticking out of the coffee-sleeve, sliding out of it.

A mere second of fiddling frees it, only for you to realize you’re holding a business card, glossy black with gold edging and flames on the sides.

And a name.

‘THE GREAT PAPYRUS – PERSONAL TRAINER,’ it read above a phone number, email address, and skull emoji.

“…Holy shit,” you breathe aloud after a moment.

Your soulmate was smooth as hell.

You can’t wait to see him again.

-

It’s the work of a few phone calls to set up a date in between introductions, pleasantries, and inquiring after the well-being of the apparently kleptomaniacal dog that wasn’t even Papyrus’.

He wanted to meet you at the park at noon, and at precisely 12:02 PM, you watch Papyrus stroll up to you with a smile on his skull.

He’s wearing nice slacks and a sweater vest…but also a spiked leather jacket and combat boots. He has a cute little bunch of tulips in his gloved hands and a pair of red mirrored sunglasses taped to his skull.

You are so happy to see him.

“Hi, Papyrus!” you say. “You look great!”

“OF COURSE I DO!” he proclaims, passing you the tiny bouquet. “MY DATECLOTHES STRIKE THE PERFECT BALANCE BETWEEN ‘APPROACHABLE SKELETON-NEXT-DOOR’ AND ‘ENTICINGLY DANGEROUS BAD BOY’—NOTHING BUT THE BEST FOR THE FIRST PROPER MEETING OF MY SOULMATE!”

He leans toward you a little, pushing down his sunglasses and confiding in what you’re certain he believes to be a whisper, “IT’S ACTUALLY THE REASON I’M SO FASHIONABLY LATE…”

You are…halfway in love with this guy already.

“BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME FOR NOW! YOU LOOK WONDERFUL, TOO! EVERY BIT DESERVING OF THE MARK YOU LEFT ME!”

You’re far too curious not to ask.

“Oh, can I…can I see it, or…?”

Papyrus is all too delighted to show you.

He rolls up his sleeve and pushes back his glove—you spare a second to marvel at the rarity, two people with soulmarks in nearly-matching spots—and your heart thumps a little harder at the sight of the colorful bow looped over the cluster of his carpals, flourishing ribbons twisting down around his ulna and radius.

You can hardly believe you left such a pretty thing on him.

“I THINK IT MEANS YOU’RE A GIFT!” he tells you. “YOU CERTAINLY FEEL LIKE ONE SO FAR, NYEH-HEH-HEH!”

Your face feels a little hot and you hasten to show him his mark in return.

“Here’s yours,” you say, holding out your wrist for his riveted inspection. “I, uh, I wasn’t sure what it was at first so I looked it up. I think it’s an…interlocking puzzle?” You laugh, a little sheepishly. “I can’t…really guess what that means…”

Far from disappointed by your lack of imagination, Papyrus looks excited.

“WELL, ISN’T THAT THE GREATEST JOY OF PUZZLES?” he asks, grinning eagerly. “SOLVING THEM?”

He’s so earnest— so positive and charming and delightfully offbeat.

You couldn’t have asked for a better soulmate.

“You’re absolutely right,” you say, holding out your hand to him.

Papyrus’ eye-sockets go wide behind his sunglasses, color dusting along his cheekbones.

“O-OH! HAND-HOLDING? ON THE FIRST DATE???” He looks around as if to make sure the coast is clear before slowly placing his hand into yours. “I…! I LIKE YOUR STYLE, SOULMATE! SO DARING AND EDGY!”

And with your bow and his puzzle-box side-by-side, the two of you head off to enjoy the park.

Chapter Text

Sans hasn’t yet had the pleasure of being invited to your bedroom, but it’s not as if it’s hard to find.

He can hear your great, wracking coughs from the living room, and what kind of friend would he be if he didn’t intervene?

He hefts his bag of supplies more securely over his shoulder and tracks you down to your inner-sanctum. His knuckles rap twice against your door—for manners’ sake—but he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer before barging right in.

“JUST AS I SUSPECTED,” he tsks at the sight of you. “YOU LOOK TERRIBLE!”

And you certainly do!

You can barely sit up to blink owlishly at him through bleary, bloodshot eyes. Your bed-sheets are in a haphazard tangle around your legs and your face is flushed—Sans can’t even tell if that’s snot dripping out of your nose or just sweat, but either way, you’ve clearly given up on trying to mop it off of yourself.

Your voice comes out of you in a pathetic croak, nothing at all like your usually delightful tones. “Sans…? What’re you…doing here? I told you not to come…” Then, as if doubting your own recollection, “…didn’t I?”

“YOU DID,” Sans promises, trying to assure you that you aren’t losing your mind. “BUT YOU ALSO SAID YOU WERE SICK! AND I’D BE A PRETTY GARBAGE FRIEND IF I JUST WENT ABOUT MY DAY WHILE MY BEST PAL WAS STUCK AT HOME EITHER DYING A HORRIBLE, INCURABLE DEATH OR SUFFERING FROM THE COMMON COLD.”

You squint at him knowingly. “…You’ve been on WebMD, haven’t you?”

“I HAVE! TERRIBLE WEBSITE, HATE IT, BUT IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA TO COME OVER AND DO A LITTLE CARETAKING, ANYWAY! …OR HOSPICE CARE, DEPENDING!”

You groan a little.

“I’m not dying,” you say, “and you don’t have to do anything, really… I was just gonna…sleep it off…”

Really, Sans thinks, you oughta know better than to think he’ll be that easily dissuaded.

“AND WHO’S GOING TO GET THE COUGH MEDICINE YOU LEFT ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER?” he asks. “OR HEAT UP THAT CAN OF SOUP I SAW NEXT TO IT? OR EMPTY THAT ABOMINABLY FULL TRASH CAN RIGHT THERE? YOU?”

You poor, sick, scatterbrained human. The both of you know damn well that you’re not going anywhere for the rest of the day—food and drugs and more room to cram used tissues be damned.

You could really use Sans’ help right now, and he watches you slowly realize that.

It’s not long before you physically slump back against your mattress, defeated. “I’m…not gonna be much fun,” is your last feeble protest, and Sans’ grin broadens.

“THEN, I’LL JUST HAVE TO BE ENOUGH FUN FOR BOTH OF US, WON’T I?”

And so begins Sans’ lovely afternoon taking care of his best friend and not-so-negligible crush.

-

………Sans will be the first to admit that he may have a case of the rose-colored glasses, here.

It’s not particularly lovely to have to dump out a bunch of snot-filled tissues…or to stop you from sleepily face-planting into your soup before you could finish it…or listen to you audibly gag at the terrible flavor of the cough syrup, triggering yourself into a wince-inducing coughing fit.

It’s actually kinda the opposite when your hacking sends a wad of…fluid…straight onto his favorite bandana, probably staining it beyond repair.

But the wide-eyed look of horror you give him just half a second afterwards shows off your entrancing eyes, and the sheer mortified panic on your face makes you look so cute, and it’s all Sans can do to hold back a laugh.

I REGRET NOTHING, he decides with ease.

Sans just reaches up to undo the knot at the back of his neck, even as you sputter, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, that’s so gross! I’ll! I’ll wash that for you, let me—”

He jerks his arm back, pulling his bandana off and out of your reach—your grasping fingers barely even graze his ulna—and he wags a finger at you.

“NO CHANCE,” he firmly tells your paling, wide-eyed self. “I’LL TAKE CARE OF IT. YOU STAY HERE AND REST, THAT’S AN ORDER!”

You’re…oddly compliant, almost uncharacteristically so…but Sans isn’t about to complain.

You just sit there and watch him leave in search of your bathroom, and Sans puts your gawping stare down to your illness.

-

At least…he does, until he starts to rinse his bandana in the sink and catches a strange flash of green in the mirror above it.

The soiled cloth slips right out of Sans’ fingers, his eye-lights winking out from shock at the sight of his own bare collarbone.

There’s a flower there, its stem coiling along his clavicle and bursting into a colorful bloom of petals across his manubrium.

It’s your favorite.

Sans knows that because you told him so when he asked and he's associated it with you ever since, just one of a thousand inane little facts about you that he memorized because everything you’ve ever told him feels like the most important, interesting thing he’s ever heard.

And…you’re his soulmate.

Somehow, he’s not surprised…but he is excited.

In the mirror, he sees his eye-lights pop back to life in his sockets, already star-shaped, and as lazy as it is, he doesn’t want to waste even a second—he has to see you, right now.

Sans shortcuts back into your bedroom.

In the few moments he’s been gone, you’ve managed to kick off your sheets and are puzzling very intently over your leg, where some squiggly blue lines seem to have taken shape.

“WHAT IS IT?” Sans asks eagerly, jogging all two steps up to your bed. “WHAT’S THE MARK???”

“I…I dunno?” you admit. “I’m happy, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t… It’s just, like…hexagons? And…lines? I don’t…get it…”

The up-close view triggers something in Sans, though, a nearly-buried memory from his schooldays.

“THAT’S…THAT’S A SKELETAL FORMULA,” he realizes.

“Uh…what?”

Sans doesn’t bother to explain, whipping out his phone and yanking you closer by your calf in spite of your startled squeak.

“C…43, H66, N……” He quickly types the values in and looks the chemical up, clicking through to the first reputable-looking website he can find. “OKAY, THAT’S……OH. OH!”

“What?!” you demand, starting to sound distressed. “What is it?!”

“IT’S OXYTOCIN,” Sans happily informs you, discarding his phone with the cockiest smirk he’s ever worn in his life. “IT’S A HORMONE IN HUMANS. DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT’S FOR…?”

“No…? I, uh…uh.” Your mouth drops open as Sans starts crawling onto the bed, eye-lights bright with excitement.

“YOU CALL IT THE ‘LOVE HORMONE,’” he purrs above you, “THE ‘CUDDLE HORMONE’… DO YOU GET MY DRIFT, DEAR…?”

Sans can practically hear the, oh, holy shit racing through your mind, clear as day. His grin goes crooked when you just swallow hard and shake your head.

“IT MEANS…THAT YOU MUST BE…IN DIRE NEED…OF SOME GOOD, HARD…CUDDLING!”

You yelp as Sans pounces, scooping you into his arms and snuggling you tightly against his chest. He nuzzles fervently at your sweaty neck, making you laugh even as he tucks the both of you back up against your pillows and pulls up your sheets.

You laugh until you start to cough and as much as Sans hates to hear you suffering, he can’t quite resist teasing you.

“SEE?” he says against your skin. “YOU’RE STILL SICK! CUDDLING’S ALL YOU’RE GOOD FOR RIGHT NOW. HEHEHEH, WHAT DID YOU THINK I WAS GONNA DO?”

“Oh…oh god…” you breathe between rattling hacks. “…fuck…”

Sans clucks the tongue he doesn’t have. “I THOUGHT SO—LEWD HUMAN! YOU’RE SICK AS A DOG AND WE HAVEN’T EVEN HAD OUR FIRST DATE AND THAT’S ALL YOU CAN THINK ABOUT!”

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, “I hate you…!”

“BLATANT LIES,” Sans declares. “YOU LOVE ME, YOUR SOULMARK SAYS SO. NOW, GO TO SLEEP ALREADY—AND DON’T HAVE DIRTY DREAMS ABOUT ME, THIS CUDDLING IS PURELY THERAPEUTIC!”

“Hhhhhhhhhhhh…”

But you turn and bury your face into Sans’ chest, clinging to him in a way that just makes him want to squeeze you tighter.

He can’t wait for you to get over this cold.

Chapter Text

“YOU HAVEN’T SHOWN HIM?!”

You wince at the nearly ear-splitting demand and hastily shush your friend.

“Undyne,” you nervously remind her, “volume…!”

Undyne’s gaping jaw clicks shut, her fins drooping as she looks around and realizes that you’ve attracted some stares from the other café patrons. The scales on her face darken and you watch her physically shrink in embarrassment.

“S………sorry,” she mutters eventually—at a thankfully normal decibel this time.

“It’s fine,” you assure. “And no, I haven’t. Yet.”

“Well…you’re gonna, right?”

“That’s usually what ‘yet’ means.”

“Don’t get sassy, human,” Undyne shoots back and…well, she has a point.

You keep your mouth shut.

“Okay, but like…why not?” she wonders. “You already know it’s mutual.”

Also true.

Papyrus—your dearest bonefriend—had been sporting your soulmark for months for everyone and anyone to see…all while you hid yours away beneath your clothes.

“I mean…he’s asked about it…right?”

That makes you scoff.

“Of course he hasn’t,” you say. “He’s Papyrus!”

Soft-spoken, gentle, patient to a fault—that was Papyrus, and he hadn’t said a single word about it since it happened.

Undyne grimaces at you. “Ugh… Well…is it…is it bad…?”

“No! It’s not…”

You frown, reconsidering.

Really, you know the reason you’ve been hiding Papyrus’ mark.

You’re worried he’ll take it the wrong way; that he won’t see it the way you see it.

But as much as she’s your friend, Undyne is Papyrus’ best friend, and the last thing you need is for him to hear anything about his own soulmark from somebody who isn’t you.

“Look,” Undyne says, peering at you over the rims of her glasses. “You gotta show him.”

“I know.”

“Soulmarks are an incredible thing! They don’t just happen every day, y’know!”

“I know.”

“It’s…! It’s two passionate hearts beating as one, ambient soul energy reacting so powerfully to its match that it just…! Bursts forth onto their bodies in living color! Calling out to everyone who sees it to say, ‘HEY WORLD, I FOUND MY MATE!’”

You don’t even bother to hiss another ‘volume’ at her.

“I know,” you groan.

Only to pause at the fiery passion in Undyne’s eyes, her raised fist and squared shoulders that make you chuckle, “You look like an anime right now…”

Undyne flushes again, but looks downright grumpy as she settles back down. “Anime’s awesome, don’t be a punk,” she mutters.

“Sorry, ‘dyne.”

You must not sound very sorry, because she growls at you a little.

“Rrgh, listen, though! It’s serious business!” She points to the patch of sunny-yellow scales on her cheek. “Do you know how cool it was when I got my butterfly from Alphy?”

You’ve heard the story—from both of them—at least a hundred times.

Which is plenty for you to know that you’re about to hear it again.

“She was handing me a glass of water…she’s so thoughtful, Hotland sucks and she knows how much I hate it…”

Undyne really looked like an anime now, with sparkly eyes and kissy fish-lips just from thinking about her wife.

“But her claws brushed me, and she went so red! She tried to tell me I had something on my face, but she was so nervous, I couldn’t figure it out through her stutter, stars, she’s so cute… And when I finally got to a mirror, I wasn’t even surprised! Do you know why?”

“Because you’re big gay for that lizard.”

“Because I’m—hey! Who’s telling the story here?!” she demands.

You shrug and let her continue.

“But it wasn’t just that, alright! I wasn’t surprised because Alphys…she’s my butterfly! She’s all tough on the outside, but if you give her time to open up, she’s so! Pretty! And dainty! And cute! Fuck, she’s cute, I love her!”

Undyne was hardly one to talk with how adorable her gushing was.

Until suddenly, she goes serious again, looking at you sternly. “I knew what she was already. I didn’t know who I was until I saw my mark on her.”

You remembered—the mossy green compass across the back of Alphys’ hand.

“I found out that the way she thought about me was… She looks to me when she’s lost, even though she’s so strong on her own, already. She’s my butterfly…but I’m her compass and that’s so… It was wild, seeing that for the first time. It was so cool, I never felt so special in my life!”

The sheer romance of it all makes you want to sigh…but you know where Undyne is going with this now.

“Papyrus deserves to get that from you,” she says, in a tone brooking no argument. “You know that, don’t you?”

You sag in your chair. “Yeah…”

You must look pretty dejected, because Undyne reaches over the table, grabbing at your wrist in a very awkward gesture of what you assume is meant to be comfort.

“Hey…whatever his mark is…do you see it and think of him?” she asks. “Do you look at it and know that it’s just…him? And everything he is to you?”

Stars above, you do.

“Big time,” you say.

Undyne seems satisfied. “Then just…make sure he gets it! When you show him. And you’ll be fine…okay?”

You huff…but you really don’t have any other option here.

She’s right: Papyrus deserves to see it.

“Okay.”

-

It’s a lazy summer day—Papyrus’ favorite kind of day—and he’s lounging peacefully in his favorite hammock with his favorite human.

Between the gentle sun and the warm weight of your body snuggled right up against his, he figures he’s been dozing in and out for at least an hour with no responsibilities, no interruptions, just the two of you swaying idly in the breeze.

perfect…

It’s not until he feels you squirming a little that Papyrus even bothers to open his eye-sockets.

He thinks, at first, that maybe you need to go to the bathroom or something, but when he looks, he realizes instantly that isn’t it.

You seem tranquil enough…except your shoulders are tense, the way they only are when you’re in deep thought about something that upsets you, and your gaze is directed straight down—locked onto his soulmark.

Papyrus spares a second to admire it himself. The fluffy cloud curling whimsically around his tibia is one of his favorite things to look at, and as often as he just throws on his cleanest pair of cargo shorts, he gets to ogle it plenty.

Sans told him once that it’s the same color as your soul and Papyrus has no idea how his brother would know that without having pulled you into an encounter… but that’s impossible.

Sans is the biggest pacifist Papyrus has ever seen and he’s always seemed to know a lot of stuff it didn’t make much sense for him to know.

That was just Sans and Papyrus was used to it by now.

Besides, it seemed like a reasonable fact to him: he loves the color floating over his bones like a fanciful dream and if it’s yours, that seems perfectly logical.

You, though…

You don’t seem quite as thrilled with it as he is.

Papyrus follows his instincts and takes a wild guess.

“hey. you know you don’t have to show me, right?”

You freeze and he knows he hit the nail on the head.

“How…?”

He chuckles. “didn’t read your mind,” he promises. “just saw you lookin’. you don’t have to show me if you don’t wanna.”

You squirm against his side a little more.

“I feel…bad,” you admit, a little petulantly. “You show yours off all the time…”

“nyeh-heh-heh, that’s not showin’ off, hon,” he says, nuzzling the top of your head. “i just hate long pants. gettin’ to look at your mark’s a perk, not the intention. last thing i wanna do is pressure you. you know that, yeah?”

“Mmm…yeah. I guess.”

“good.”

Considering the matter duly settled, Papyrus wraps his arm around you and tugs you just a little further onto him. Your cheek settles nicely against his chest and his fingers curl around your hip, fitting like they belong there, and he’s not sure he’s ever felt more comfortable in his life.

Actually, he’s almost asleep again by the time you speak up.

“…You’re touching it.”

And hell, that has a way of waking a skeleton up.

Unbidden, his gaze angles toward his own hand, wrapped around your hip. He squeezes you once, and can’t deny the sudden surge of curiosity he feels.

“here…?”

You don’t say anything else, but you nod, just once.

Papyrus starts to stroke at you with his thumb, staring hard. If he had a heart, he thinks it might be starting to beat out of his chest by now because as content as he was—is—to wait…

There really is something exciting about your soulmark; the thrill of knowing exactly the spot he’d marked his mate and wondering if…

If this was your way of telling him you were ready for him to see it.

He can’t possibly look until he’s sure.

Slowly, Papyrus lets his phalanges slip beneath the hem of your shirt, resisting the urge to push it aside.

He says your name with just as much care, making absolutely certain you’re listening.

“do you want me to…?”

You take a deep breath………but you nod again.

And Papyrus tugs up the fabric and gets his first look at your soulmark.

It’s…bigger…than he thought it’d be.

Sat there on your bare hip is a thick, heavy-looking anchor, solid steel with sharp prongs and a weighty chain.

…Papyrus isn’t sure what to make of it.

He laughs a little, probably very awkwardly.

“well. i, uh…i’m not…draggin’ you down…am i?”

He jumps when your grip around him tightens almost aggressively.

“No,” you say forcefully. “Never.”

Papyrus’ soul melts a little when you nuzzle his chest. It always melts, no matter how many times you do that.

You seem to take a moment to sort out your words, and when you do…

“You’re…steady. You keep me from…floating away. Getting lost.”

It’s not exactly poetry…

But it reminds Papyrus of some.

“‘the guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul of all my moral being.’”

He can feel your wide-eyed stare turn to him, lit up with delighted agreement.

“Yeah!” you exclaim. “It’s like that!”

Papyrus…might be blushing, just a little.

“can’t…can’t take credit for that,” he admits with a cough. “s’wordsworth.”

You keep looking at him, blankly, and the color on his cheekbones feels like it must be darkening.

“tintern abbey,” he clarifies. “er, well. it’s…actually, the full thing is, ‘lines composed a few miles above tintern abbey, on revisiting the—’”

The sound of your laughter is like instant relief.

“Oh my god,” you snicker at him, “you’re such a nerd. You make me wanna…stuff you in a locker or, give you a wedgie!”

Despite himself, Papyrus laughs, too.

“give it your best shot, hon,” he dares you. “too big for lockers since i was twelve and not wearin’ any underwear today.”

“………you’re kidding.”

“nyeh-heh-heh, wouldn’t you like to know…?”

“Papyrus, you can’t just say that and—hey, don’t go back to sleep!”

Papyrus gives you a blatantly fake snore and lets the airy sound of your laughter lift him up.

He knows now that the two of you aren’t about to drift too far.

Chapter Text

You were surprised he lasted as long as he did before uttering the fateful words you’d been expecting all night.

“what the fuck are we watchin’?!”

“I warned you,” you tell him.

Sans scoffs, still in disbelief.

“nah, nah,” he says, “ya’ said, ‘garbage movie.’ ya’ said ‘worst thing ya’ ever saw.’ ya’ didn’t say nothin’ about ‘batshit, z-movie crap-heap diggin’ itself into crazier and crazier holes it ain’t ever gonna climb back out of’!”

You shrug. “That should’ve been implied.”

The horrible movie, uncaring of your scathing assessments of it, plays on in front of you, the only light in your living room.

The only light, of course, excepting the indignant red of Sans’ eye-lights, seeking answers from you that would never come.

“so…what even happened?” he demands. “the lady fuckin’…caught the immortality-herpes from that asshole? an’ now she’s just…pregnant forever?”

“As long as she has access to human spinal fluid, I guess.”

Sans shakes his head. “ya’ say that like it ain’t crazy.”

“Oh, it is.” You lean back against the couch, propping your feet up on the coffee table. “I’ve just seen weirder.”

“pfft, no, no way the tentacle-faces were weirder’n that.”

Poor Sans—so naïve, so innocent…

So deserving of this.

“I’m not talking about the first act,” you inform him coolly. “I’m talking about the next one.”

You take great, sadistic pleasure in watching Sans’ eye-lights shrink in horror.

“no,” he breathes, clearly in denial. “how can it possibly get more fucked up than that…?”

The dramatic pause you hold for effect makes Sans tense. He knows you’re going to say something terrible, but his skull just can’t imagine what it will be and he can’t brace himself for it.

“Brain-eating, fetus-stealing, alien bat-things.”

“……………”

Yes.

You are dead serious.

“oh, fuck me, stars above. no, nuh-uh, m’out.”

“You’re not allowed to be out,” you tell him with a frosty glare. “I told you this was a shitty movie and you insisted we watch it anyway for laughs, and I sacrificed another precious hour of my life to this thing—we’re finishing it!”

Sans groans loudly.

“but it sucks,” he whines. “i can’t even make fun of it anymore! it ain’t funny-bad, it’s just bad!”

“I know that, Sans.”

“uuuuuuuggggggggghhhhhhhhh.”

You don’t know why it surprises you when, after a long, sullen silence, Sans snakes an arm around your shoulders.

Your name drawled in an enticingly husky tone isn’t a surprise, though.

You know how this goes.

“c’mon, doll,” Sans coaxes, tugging you a little closer. “you don’t wanna watch this either… why don’t we shut it off…do somethin’ a little more…fun…?”

You smirk up at him, tilting your head. “Oh? Sans, what are you implying?”

He chuckles. It’s a sultry sound that sends a shiver up your spine, at odds with the scorching warmth of his body pressing against yours.

“oh, i dunno… i can think of a few fun things me an’ you could get up to.”

You don’t have to pretend to sound a little breathless when you say, “Do tell…”

Sans leans in, just a bit.

“not so fast: gotta kiss me first…”

For a split second, you’re so tempted that you almost do it.

His sharp, grinning teeth, his glowering red eyes, his deep, rumbling voice daring you to do the very thing you’ve fantasized about for months…

But it’s not real.

It never is.

You plant your hands against his chest and shove him back.

“You fucker,” you laugh, “you don’t think I’m that easy, do you?”

Sans laughs, too, just as casual and unbothered as you knew he’d be.

“ah, can’t blame a guy for tryin’, can ya’?”

You lightly smack him on the arm, forcing him to pay attention to the horrible movie still playing on your TV and trying not to feel too hurt.

Sans was…your buddy.

You hung out and ate junk food and watched bad movies—though not usually this bad—and it was…good.

It was fine.

As long as you ignored your raging crush on the guy, which got harder and harder to do every time he playfully flirted with you like that.

You knew that he didn’t mean it, and you were sure in your heart of hearts that if he knew how much it really hurt you, he’d knock it off, but whenever you went to say something about it, you’d… go a little cold inside.

Thinking of a future where Sans keeps his distance, where he doesn’t flirt at you or get close to you or touch you at all…

You hate it.

So, you do your best to be okay with the alternative, even if it doesn’t mean anything to him like it does to you.

Sans is your friend, after all, and you’re happy to have him around however you can get him.

-

Sans is a bastard in the extreme.

With only a half-hour left in the movie, he manages to pass out another ten minutes in, sagging against your couch and snoring like a chainsaw.

Annoyed, you shut off the nightmare film—no point suffering it if you can’t make him suffer, too—and get up.

You stretch a little and then go about gathering up your trash, empty cans and chip bags and other such debris cluttering your coffee table.

Sans doesn’t even stir and the sight of him so peacefully snoozing away, blissfully ignorant of everything around him makes your chest feel warm.

Things were…rough for monsters, Underground: you know that, everybody knows that.

Like many monsters, Sans was tense and on edge a lot, but here he was now, totally conked out on his human friend’s couch without a care in the world and…

That made you happy to see.

He deserved the rest.

You decide to let him sleep, and sleep, he does.

Sans sleeps through the flood of the lights you turn back on, through the noise of your cleaning, through the crinkling bags and clinking cans, and through the shifting of the cushions when you carefully sit back down beside him.

He even stays asleep when he tips to the side, slumping over on top of you like you were his own personal pillow.

You choke back your squawk of outrage at the last second, but the bastard’s heavy and his breaths are ruffling your hair with every snore and it tickles, so you reach up, hoping to gently shove him off again without waking him.

Instead, you freeze.

Right in front of you, as you watch, there’s color flooding along your forearm—cherry-red flames coming to life across your skin, licking all the way up to your elbow.

In the moment it takes shape, it looks like nothing less than the real thing, like an actual crackling fire has just sprung to life on your body.

By the time it finally settles, you’re clear-headed enough to know that you’re in shock.

This…this is your soulmark.

Sans is your soulmate.

You think that maybe in a more genuinely calm state of mind, you might handle this revelation with a little more poise than you actually do.

Instead, Sans finally snorts awake to the feeling of you trying to pull off his jacket.

“whoa, whoa, hey,” he murmurs, voice still gravelly from sleep. “what’re ya’ strippin’ me fer? heheh, not even gonna buy me a drink? jeez, an’ i thought we were pals…”

You don’t answer him.

You’re not entirely sure you can.

You just keep trying to tug at the clothing in the way of the most imperative question you’ve ever needed the answer to—are you Sans’ soulmate?

Sans seems to realize you’re not playing a game.

Thoughtlessly, he catches you by the wrist, frowning down at you.

“hey, seriously,” he says, “what’s goin’ on? yer actin’ ffffuuuuhhhhh………”

He’s noticed your new splash of color.

His eye-lights shoot back up to meet yours with sudden appreciation of your urgency.

“did… you…?”

You have no idea what question he’s trying to verbalize, but you figure a vigorous nod is enough answer.

Apparently, it is, because Sans lets go of your wrist and whips off his jacket himself, eagerly searching his body for the match to your mark.

You spot it first and with a wordless exclamation of delighted surprise, you grab him by his humerus.

Sans doesn’t try to make you let go, just craning his neck to see it himself.

“a bird…?” he asks, sounding curious.

And it is…but it’s not just a bird.

“It’s a dove,” you realize, tracing the outline of the little swooping thing gliding across his bone.

A dove…

Was that… is that…really what you are to Sans? For Sans?

Your throat feels tight… which is fine ‘cause you have no idea what you’d say, anyway.

Sans to the rescue, filling the silence with a hushed observation.

“you, uh…ya’ don’t look too broken up about this.”

…

‘Broken up’…?

Of course you’re not broken up about this, this is…amazing! Incredible! Easily one of the best things that could’ve happened to you in this moment! How could Sans ever think…

…But then, you look at him.

And he looks…wary… a little scared… maybe even a little…hopeful?

You think you must be wearing the same expression right now.

A spark of realization seems to pass between you and it occurs to you that you’re both stumbling on the heels of a huge misunderstanding.

“……heh…heheheh… ah, jeez…”

You still, eyes going wide as Sans reaches out to you, gently cradling your cheek in his claws.

His signature cocky smirk looks almost sheepish now as he says, “think, uh…think both of us may’ve been a little stupid, huh?”

You feel your face heating, but you can own up. “Yeah…”

“maybe…played some chicken? hopin’ somebody’d say somethin’ or… wouldn’t pull back last minute…?”

“Y…yeah…”

Sans huffs out something that could be a laugh.

“games ain’t workin’ too well for us, are they?”

You swallow. “Not…not really, no.”

“crazy idea,” he murmurs, “how ‘bout we give words a shot?”

A giggle bubbles up past your lips and you feel a little giddy, a little nervous still, but when Sans starts to lean in…

You just say it.

“I don’t want you to pull back.”

Sans grins at you.

“good. i don’t wanna, either.” He pauses for a split-second, considering. Then deciding, “think that’s enough words for now. c’mere…”

Sans pulls you close and as his teeth brush against your lips for the first time, you can’t help but agree.

The rest of the words can be for later.

Chapter Text

When that nasty, nitpicky ladder-climing bitch, Gertrude had gotten you fired, you had been incensed.

It wasn’t a great job, you weren’t heartbroken to be let go, and most of your coworkers you wouldn’t even miss—save one.

BP had been there when you were gathering up your things, not really helping but with a look on his face that so resonated with your innermost feelings of impotent, nihilist disgust at management that it felt like he was helpful, anyway.

“This sucks,” he’d muttered in solidarity, watching you angrily cram a sweater into your bag. “Probably gonna make me do your job instead of hiring somebody else…”

“Sounds right,” you’d agreed. “Such bullshit, I can’t believe they’d fire me over…!”

Feeling the burn of injustice threatening to erupt from your mouth in a stream of very loud cusswords or maybe from your eyes in actual tears, you’d forced yourself to laugh instead and even attempted a joke.

“Ha, I should sue for this… Know any good lawyers?”

You hadn’t expected BP to actually look like he was considering it, or to say at length, “…Well…actually…?”

As it turned out…he did.

Tail twitching, ears flicking nervously, BP told you in a hushed and hurried tone that he knew a real good lawyer—a monster one, of course, but if that wasn’t a problem for you, he might even be able to hook you up.

“He works pretty cheap,” BP said, “all things considered. Likes the tough cases mostly, stacked odds and hard wins… I think he’s into the challenge more than the money—he’s probably bored otherwise, y’know he used to captain the Royal Guard, Underground? When we still had one, anyway. Point is, he’s one scary prick, he’d knock something like this out of the park for you.”

You felt you could hardly be blamed for being a little incredulous.

You eyed the visibly jumpy cat beside you, whispering while pretending to walk you out and looking like he’d jump a foot in the air if he heard a manager speaking too close.

“You can get somebody like that for me?”

BP’s ears flattened, in either offense or embarrassment.

“I…! Listen, I…! His brother owes me a favor, I can…make something happen for you…pr…probably…” He shook his head. “Just…keep an eye on your email, okay? You actually did your job instead of dumping it on me like… I…owe you, or whatever.”

You hadn’t been expecting much at the time.

It was a sweet sentiment by monster standards that he was even willing to try to do something like that for you, and you appreciated it for what it was.

The look on your face was probably hilarious when you actually received an official-looking email asking if you were the human seeking a wrongful termination suit— and asking after your availability to meet in the coming week.

-

Obviously, being newly unemployed, your availability was fantastic, which is how you ended up here, nicely dressed and sat outside at a nice little sidewalk bistro, waiting for your pro bono consultation regarding your legal recourse per your recent termination.

…Or at least, that was what Captain Papyrus’ email had said.

Since you have so much time to kill these days, it’s no surprise that you’re early. The past fifteen minutes have been spent fiddling with hems and tracing idle circles around the rim of your complimentary glass of water.

Normally, you’d fool around on your phone but you’re waiting for an Important Meeting with a monster you’ve never met and the last thing you want is to get too absorbed in a game and end up making an embarrassing first impression, or miss the guy entirely.

It’s not until ten minutes to the time you’d set that you realize how silly a thought that was.

You don’t see how you could’ve missed a monster like Papyrus.

The skeleton that strides into the bistro is tall and smartly dressed, exuding such a powerful aura of confidence that you swear for a second you can actually, tangibly feel it. His cheekbones are sharp and his fangs are sharper and when the roving red lights in his eye-sockets land squarely on you, you have to hold back an instinctive shiver.

You have to admit, you’re a little mad at BP, right now.

He never told you Papyrus was hot.

You don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because he’s coming over to you and you have to seem like a normal, respectable human—instead of a thirsty one.

You stand to greet him, smiling pleasantly. “Hi! Captain Papyrus, I presume?”

“YOU PRESUME CORRECTLY.”

He asks your name, his voice surprisingly deep and more than a little sexy raspy and you nod. You absently note that he’s not wearing gloves and hasn’t extended his hand to shake, so you don’t offer yours, either.

“THANK YOU FOR BEING PUNCTUAL,” he says curtly. “I HATE HAVING TO WAIT ON PEOPLE. MY SCHEDULE IS TIGHT ENOUGH AS IT IS.”

“I understand,” you agree, wordlessly encouraging him to sit as you do the same. “You’re doing me a big favor, I really appreciate this.”

Is it your imagination, or did Papyrus’ chest puff out a little just there?

“OF COURSE YOU DO,” he says, the hint of a smile playing along his jaw. “NOW, LET’S NOT WASTE TOO MUCH TIME, WE MAY AS WELL GET RIGHT INTO IT. YOU’RE CERTAIN YOU DON’T MIND DISCUSSING HERE?”

You shake your head ‘no.’ It’s a public place, but relatively deserted at this time of day and you’re not concerned that any really sensitive information will be discussed.

“RIGHT THEN.”

Papyrus pulls a hefty stack of papers from his briefcase, carefully carding through them as if to refresh his memory.

“I’VE REVIEWED YOUR CASE,” he tells you, “AND IT’S SOLID. YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY WITHIN YOUR RIGHTS TO PURSUE WRONGFUL TERMINATION AGAINST YOUR FORMER EMPLOYER.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “I…really? I am?”

“YES. ARE YOU SURPRISED?”

“I…a little bit, yes,” you admit. “I didn’t…really think I’d be on the right side of this… ”

You’d been angry, certainly. Indignant, absolutely. Utterly railroaded by months of Gertrude’s petty hair-splitting, definitely.

But you had been in violation of the employee dress code, however technically.

You glance down at your hand, the small bit of commemorative ink you’d gotten there staring up at you.

“My tattoo really isn’t a problem…?”

Papyrus scoffs.

“IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN,” he says, “HAD YOU NOT HAD THE TATTOO FOR MORE THAN A YEAR PRIOR TO YOUR EMPLOYMENT AND WORKED WITHOUT INCIDENT UNTIL…VERY RECENTLY.”

He starts flicking through the papers again, pulling out one you recognize—an email chain you’d sent to him, displaying one of several unpleasant exchanges you’d had with Gertrude.

“YOU DID WELL TO DOCUMENT THESE COMMUNICATIONS,” Papyrus tells you. “I USUALLY TAKE ACCUSATIONS OF WORKPLACE SABOTAGE WITH A GRAIN OF SALT, BUT THESE… IT SEEMS CLEAR TO ME THAT THIS…GERTRUDE…REALLY WAS OUT TO GET YOU. AND WITH YOUR TERMINATION, SHE STOOD TO TAKE YOUR PLACE FOR PROMOTION, IF I RECALL CORRECTLY?”

Petty as it was, you’d…kept track of her on social media. You can confidently answer, “Oh, she got it, alright.”

Papyrus nods in satisfaction. “THEN THAT’S ALL THE MORE INCRIMINATING. IF YOUR EMPLOYER KNOWS WHAT’S GOOD FOR THEM, THEY’RE GOING TO WANT TO SETTLE THIS MATTER OUT OF COURT, IT’S BLATANTLY DISCRIMINATORY CONDUCT.”

Out of court? Really?!

“My case is that good?” you ask, still unable to fully process it.

“WELL, WITH CLEAR PRECEDENT ON YOUR SIDE…”

“There’s been a case like this before? That a tattooed employee actually won?”

It sounds unrealistic to you. You’d been so immersed in the rhetoric of tattoos as ‘unprofessional,’ unsuitable to be shown around customers and clients for any reason, no matter what or where they were, that the concept feels foreign to you.

“TECHNICALLY,” Papyrus says, “IT WAS A SOULMARK, NOT A TATTOO. A YOUNG LADY HAPPENED TO MEET HER MATE AND HER MARK FORMED ON HER NECK QUITE VISIBLY. SHE WAS FIRED FOR HER ‘UNPROFESSIONAL’ APPEARANCE, IN SPITE OF HER WORKPLACE’S DRESS CODE FORBIDDING THE KINDS OF COLLARS AND CHOKERS THAT MIGHT’VE CONCEALED IT. SHE SUED AND WON.”

That makes you frown a little.

“Mine isn’t… It’s just a normal tattoo,” you insist. “I got it on purpose and everything, with boring old ink and needles.”

Papyrus doesn’t seem concerned.

“A MINOR DISTINCTION,” he assures with a dismissive flap of his hand. “A MARK IS A MARK REGARDLESS OF HOW IT GOT THERE. ANY LAWYER WORTH THEIR SALT COULD ARGUE THAT YOU COULD GET A SOULMARK ACROSS THE BRIDGE OF YOUR NOSE TOMORROW AND YOUR EMPLOYER WOULD’VE BEEN WRONG TO FIRE YOU FOR IT, SO WHY WOULD SUCH A MODEST LITTLE THING LIKE THAT BE SO OBJECTIONABLE?”

You spare another glance to your ink when he gestures to it, and when you look back up, the skeleton’s expression is nothing short of boastful.

“AS A MATTER OF FACT, I COULD WIN YOUR SUIT FOR YOU IN MY SLEEP!”

A bolt of excitement strikes through your soul.

Hesitantly, hopefully, you ask, “Are…are you offering to represent me?”

Even if on a purely professional basis only, you can’t deny that you’d…really like an excuse to see Papyrus again sometime.

Not only because he’s a very handsome guy with the kind of voice that could make the dictionary sound riveting.

But as you watch, his eye-sockets go wide, his cheekbones reddening at the look on your face.

“I………NO. NO! THIS WAS—IS! JUST A CONSULTATION!” he denies. “I’M ONLY REPAYING A FAVOR INCURRED BY MY SCOUNDREL OF A BROTHER, I’M…! I’M TOO BUSY BY FAR TO TAKE ON YOUR CASE, EVEN AS OPEN AND SHUT AS IT OUGHT TO BE!!!”

……

You thought he was hot strutting over to you before with his chiseled face and his sleek suit and his squared shoulders.

…And now, you think he’s unbearably cute with his impossible blush and flustered expression.

Maybe it’s a good thing he’s not going to be your lawyer, because if he’s not going to be working for you…

You think you kinda want to ask him out.

“Alright,” you decide aloud, “I guess I’ll…start looking for another lawyer, if I decide to…pursue this. Um…in the meantime, though, maybe…maybe……… Oh, no.”

Buzzkill in the extreme, you spot the absolute last person you want to see right now walking down the street—and she’s noticed you, too.

Even worse, a smirk comes across her face and she swaggers on over to your table with a ‘delighted’ cry of your name.

“Hello, Gertrude,” you manage to grit out.

You watch as Papyrus flinches at the laugh that comes out of the woman’s mouth, feeling validated.

You always hated it, too.

“Oh, sweetie, please, I keep telling you, you can call me Gertie! Especially now that we don’t work together, haha!”

As if she wasn’t directly responsible for that.

“Right,” you say flatly. “Look, I’m…really sorry, but I’m… I’m kinda busy right now, so I—”

“Really?” The fake incredulousness of her tone makes you bristle. “I thought you’d have so much time now! You know, since you’re…ahem…job-hunting, at the moment.”

“…Yeah. L—”

“I’m actually kind of jealous,” Gertrude has the nerve to giggle. “I’m so busy since you left, with the assistant manager thing and all. I wish you were still around to help out, but…” She clucks her tongue. “I know you just weren’t a good fit there, what with your ‘lifestyle.’”

Stars above.

You’re out of patience.

“It’s one tattoo, not a ‘lifestyle,’” you snap, “and I’m in the middle of something right now, so can you please just…go?”

This was…sadly, very familiar to you.

Good ol’ Gertie was just too good at the passive-aggressive game: she was a bitch with a beaming smile and she knew just how to work people up until they got mad and then she was the victim who was only making conversation…

And you were the bad guy.

You feel your cheeks heating with instant regret, even as Gertrude gasps and puts on her ‘innocent pearl-clutcher’ act.

“So rude!” she exclaims, scowling at you. “I was just checking up on an old friend from work and you tell me to ‘get lost’?!”

You try not to squirm in your seat. “That’s not what I—”

You’re cut off, like you always are.

“You know, it’s exactly that horrible attitude that got you let go,” she says in a decidedly lecture-like tone. “You’re never a team player, you never accept any criticism, it’s like you don’t even care about your work! You obviously don’t care about your appearance, just look at what you did to yourself!”

Your eyes widen as Gertrude actually reaches out to you, making to grab at your tattooed hand. Shocked, you start to stand—to shove her back or scurry out of her reach, you have no idea—but you never make it up.

In one fluid movement, Papyrus is out of his chair, pressing you down with surprisingly gentle claws and moving to stand directly between you and the bane of your existence.

“MA’AM,” he says to her, and the stony chill of his voice makes any words you had die on your tongue. “I WOULDN’T.”

Suddenly, you remember what BP told you about Papyrus—that he was a soldier before he was a lawyer—and that seems abundantly clear now. His entire bearing is obviously military, ready for combat and poised to defend you from even the minor threat that was a judgmental, self-righteous jerk.

Your companion’s demeanor certainly seems to have spooked Gertrude.

She takes a step back, blinking up at Papyrus in shock.

“I… Who are you?” she demands to know.

Your hero doesn’t even flinch.

“I AM THEIR LAWYER,” he declares. “AND I WOULD SERIOUSLY ADVISE AGAINST ANY ACTION ON YOUR PART EVEN RESEMBLING HARASSMENT OF A FORMER EMPLOYEE CURRENTLY PURSUING LITIGATION. THAT WOULD LOOK CONSIDERABLY UNFAVORABLE FOR YOU AND YOUR EMPLOYER SHOULD THIS MATTER GO TO COURT, ESPECIALLY WITH MYSELF AS A WITNESS TO YOUR BEHAVIOR.”

That was a lot of big, loaded words for Gertrude to take in and for the first time in your life, you get to have the pleasure of seeing your nemesis look afraid.

Faced with the potential of actual consequences for her pettiness, all she has to say for herself is, “I…! I’m leaving!” before scurrying off down the sidewalk, tail between her legs.

And you have never been so attracted to anyone in your life as this fucking skeleton.

God damn…

Papyrus watches her retreating form until she’s out of sight and slowly retakes his seat.

“……EIGHT MONTHS?” he asks you after a moment.

The amount of time you’d had the joy of that woman as your coworker.

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“YOU’RE A SAINT.”

The deadpan delivery makes you laugh despite yourself, and the sharp grin Papyrus gives you in return makes your heart beat a little faster in your chest.

“I, uh… I couldn’t help but notice,” you slowly say, “that you…might’ve told her you were my lawyer. Did… do you mean that, or…?”

He didn’t.

It’s pretty obvious to you, especially with the way that cute blush comes back across his face—just something he said in the heat of the moment to make getting rid of Gertrude easier—but you can’t resist pushing your luck.

“I…HONOR MY COMMITMENTS,” Papyrus says, even as it looks like it’s killing him. “YES, FINE, I’LL TAKE YOUR CASE. LET’S EXCHANGE NUMBERS SO I CAN CONTACT YOU TO DISCUSS THE DETAILS.”

You have to admit, it’s not really the way you’d been hoping to get Papyrus’ number…but you’ll take it.

Maybe when everything’s said and done, you’ll have worked up the courage to ask him out for real!

…Naturally, that resolve is only strengthened when you get home and take off your nice blazer to find something that definitely didn’t get to be on your skin with ink and needles…

-

You’re half-expecting it when your phone rings later that afternoon.

What you don’t expect is to answer it to Papyrus’ bold, authoritative voice practically barking at you without a shred of the professionalism he’d spoken with earlier.

“WHAT KIND OF SOULMATE ARE YOU?!” he demands, sounding beyond indignant. “TO LEAVE SUCH A, A…MARK ON ME!!! I CANNOT BELIEVE…! I AM A RESPECTABLE SKELETON, AND NOW I CAN’T SO MUCH AS TAKE OFF MY SHIRT IN POLITE COMPANY AGAIN BECAUSE OF YOU, I HOPE YOU REALIZE THAT!”

He sounds so mad, so…unlike the controlled impression he’d given you before, and it feels strangely…

Natural.

You smile a little to think that you might actually be talking to Papyrus this time instead of just The Professional.

It was a very good mask—you wonder how many he has, and if you’ll get the chance to meet any more of them—but your focus is admittedly elsewhere.

Excited, you ask, “You got a mark, too, then? What is it? Can I see?”

“OH, OF COURSE, YOU WOULD WANT TO SEE YOUR HANDIWORK, YOU DEVIL! FINE!”

There’s the sound of shuffling and then your phone buzzes with an incoming photo. You switch Papyrus to speaker so you can properly ogle it.

The breath comes out of you in a whoosh when you get your first good look. Your skeleton soulmate just sent you the type of picture guys usually sent unsolicited, with a towel hanging low on his pelvis—obviously fresh out of a shower—and a view of his scarred spine and ribcage that could only be described as 'gratuitous'.

Not excepting, of course, the cherry on top: the colorful little heart-shape stamped right in the middle of his sternum.

“Ohhh,” you coo, “that’s so cute!”

“CUTE?!” Papyrus practically shrieks over the phone. “IT IS NOT CUTE! IT’S…IT’S LEWD! A SOUL, RIGHT THERE FOR EVERYONE TO SEE! YOU, YOU LECHEROUS HUMAN, YOU, MAKING ME LOOK LIKE I’M…SOME KIND OF DEVIANT PERVERT! HOW DARE…”

You tune him out a little, letting him keep right on ranting. You need to make sure you have the right angle and lighting for the picture you’re about to send back to him.

You know instantly when he gets it because his words trail off and there’s a noise that sounds suspiciously like his jaw clacking shut.

“What do you think?” you ask after a long moment of silence.

Personally, you’re very fond of the ruby-red rose that’s announced itself on your arm, its thorny stem curling gracefully around your bicep.

You hope he likes it, too, and you can easily imagine that he’s blushing again like he did before…maybe even darker this time.

Eventually, Papyrus speaks.

“………I…I CAN’T BE YOUR LAWYER. I’M…IT WOULD BE HIGHLY INAPPROPRIATE AT…THIS… ” He pauses to clear his throat…or the skeleton equivalent. “AT THIS POINT IN TIME. IN LIGHT OF RECENT DEVELOPMENTS.”

Ah, his composure is coming back. You wonder if you can’t fix that.

“Maybe you can recommend one to me,” you coyly suggest. “Over coffee, maybe. At my place…?”

“………S-SEND ME THE ADDRESS!” he snaps, and then he rudely hangs up on you.

You just laugh and hope you’ll be able to wipe the grin off your face before Papyrus shows up.

So, you lost your lawyer…

But you’ve snagged yourself a date with your soulmate and that feels like a damn good trade-off!

Chapter Text

The moment it happened was burned into your brain in perfect clarity.

It goes like this:

You’re outside, enjoying the first real taste of decent weather after a seemingly interminable winter. Your boyfriend is early to pick you up for your date—as always—but he surprises you with an uncharacteristic offer to simply relax and kill time at a nearby park until your dinner reservations.

In hindsight, you think he must’ve seen how tired you were from the less-than-intentional all-nighter you’d just pulled and wanted to give you a chance to rest until you were fully functional once again.

At the time, though, you’re just touched by the suggestion and let Sans lead you to a park bench, excited to people-watch and spend a little time with your favorite skeleton.

The latter was a given, but the former… apparently, not so much.

Somewhere between the crisp, spring breeze and the dulcet tones of Sans chuckling about all the laypeople’s egregious fashion faux pas, you manage to doze off right then and there.

You don’t know how long you’re out, but you wake again to the bony line of warmth against your side—and the surprise that Sans seems to have fallen asleep, too.

You admire him, your skeleton beau: the tired droop of closed eye-sockets, the severity of his handsome features softened somehow by unconsciousness, and slowly, your eyes begin to drift down…to the claws he has gently curled around your knee.

The bare claws, free of the gloves he always wore.

You don’t know what compels you to reach out.

(Yes, you do.)

(Nearly a year of dating, and Sans hadn’t once touched you, skin-on-bone. Hugs and hand-holding and flirty words aplenty, but he ‘LIKED TO TAKE THINGS SLOW, IF YOU DON’T MIND…?’ and you’d agreed to that, no matter how curious you were to know if the two of you…)

(…It’s no excuse.)

With a pathetically thin veneer of deference to your promise, you settle your hand on your own thigh, so dangerously close to Sans’ phalanges that you can feel the magical heat of them, radiating.

It’s exactly as thrilling as you thought it’d be, knowing that all you’d have to do is twitch and it would finally happen, but knowing with even more certainty that you shouldn’t be doing this.

But…

It’s fine, you reasoned to yourself, over your nagging conscience. I’m not touching him. I’m not gonna move. He’ll never even know. It’s not hurting anybody. It’s fine.

And it was.

Until…

Well, suffice it to say that your brilliant, impulsive, ‘I just won’t move my hand’ strategy didn’t account for Sans moving his hand more than a fraction of an inch.

And with the barest brush of your pinkies, that was that.

-

It’s been three days since that moment.

Three days since you touched Sans for the first time and got away with it, passing off your squeak of surprise as not expecting him to have woken up, going on a lovely date that you managed not to ruin, and later undressing to find what you’d hoped for more than anything—unequivocal proof that Sans was your soulmate.

And also, three days in which Sans hadn’t said a thing about you being his.

The way you see it, there’s only two possibilities.

Either your soulmark did show up on him, somewhere unusual that he just…hadn’t found yet…or…

Or you’d incurred the worst karma in the universe and you were one of those tragic, rare cases where you weren’t a match to your own soulmate.

There wasn’t much you could do about it.

Sans was far too sharp to be fooled by any sneaky attempts to get him to undress around you ‘just because,’ and to simply ask him would be to admit that you’d thoughtlessly betrayed his trust for a selfish reason, and the thought alone was enough to make your heart leap into your throat.

So for awhile…you just stewed in anxious guilt, in silence.

You’re not the type to just sit around forever, though!

You feel the need to do something, and you find yourself heading over to Sans’ house—not to see him, he was working, but maybe you could do something nice for him!

A few chores around the house, some light cleaning, a head-start on dinner, the usual ‘being a thoughtful datemate’ stuff that took a little bit of responsibility off of Sans’ shoulders.

And made you feel less aware of your sins crawling on your back.

You’re bent over Sans’ mattress, struggling with a particularly stubborn yet freshly laundered fitted sheet when…

“MY, MY, WHAT A VIEW…”

You jump, whirling around to find Sans right behind you, his shark-smile spread into a lascivious smirk.

Even as your cheeks heat, you very intelligently squeak, “Sans! You’re home!”

“LOOKS AND BRAINS,” he teases. “YOU NEVER CEASE TO AMAZE, DEAREST.”

You spin right back around and return to making the bed, grumbling a petulant, “Shut up, I thought you were at work…”

“I WAS,” Sans says, “AND NOW I’M HERE. FUNNY HOW THAT WORKS, ISN’T IT?”

“Hilarious,” is your retort, and his only reply to that is an undeniably fond laugh.

The sound eases the tension in your shoulders, though, because despite yourself, Sans has rapidly worked his way into your heart.

Sans has become a little like home to you.

“…SO, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO SHOW ME MY SOULMARK?”

Home, and maybe also a heart-attack.

“Sorry, what?!” you ask, wide-eyed and stunned.

Seemingly oblivious to your distress, Sans merely shrugs.

“I’VE BEEN QUITE PATIENT,” he says, “BUT REALLY, THREE DAYS IS PUSHING IT. IT IS MY MARK.”

“I! You…! How did…”

Slowly, though, the answer comes to you, the one you should’ve known all along.

“You were awake,” you realize. And then, infinitely more infuriatingly, “You did it on purpose?!”

Sans snorts, rolling his eye-lights.

“OH, COME ON, NOW,” he tsks, “YOU DIDN’T REALLY THINK I’D EVER FALL ASLEEP IN PUBLIC, DID YOU?”

………

You grab the closest thing you can reach and swing, beaning Sans full across the face with his own overstuffed pillow.

The ‘WHOOMPH’ it makes is pretty satisfying…but by the look on his face, you know he could’ve dodged it.

He let you whap him and that kinda makes you want to do it again.

Instead, you hiss, “You son of a bitch, I’ve been freaking out about that!”

Damn him, he thinks this is funny, his eye-lights brightening with obvious mirth. “HAVE YOU?”

“Yes! I thought I’d…! Violated your personal space! Betrayed your trust! I thought I was the shittiest datemate ever!”

Sans laughs—no, he cackles, like a goddamn super-villain and you raise the pillow, fully ready to swing on him a second time.

“OH, DON’T,” he chuckles, “PLEASE, NO MORE…NO MORE PILLOW WARFARE, I’M ALREADY IN STITCHES!”

You open your mouth, fully prepared to say something scathing about his sense of humor.

“JUST LOOK, DEAREST,” Sans says, peeling off a glove and…

………

It is…so funny how the sight of your soulmark seems to rob you of any emotion even resembling annoyance.

It’s a little more abstract than you expected, broken up as it is across several small bones, but you still know immediately what you’re looking at, its prongs arching majestically along Sans’ metacarpals.

It’s a crown.

“DO YOU SEE?” Sans murmurs, giving you appropriate bedroom eyes. “DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU ARE TO ME? WHY IT’S SO FUNNY TO THINK OF YOU ‘BETRAYING’ ME?”

…Oh, stars above, your heart.

“I KNOW YOU LIKE THE BACK OF MY HAND—HEHEH, LITERALLY—OR I’D HAVE NEVER LET YOU SO CLOSE TO ME IN THE FIRST PLACE. NOW, COME HERE…AND SHOW ME MY MARK…”

Something in Sans’ low, husky voice demands your cooperation…and on the heels of your relief at this reciprocation, you’re inclined to give it.

You drop the pillow on the bed and step forward, closing the gap between the two of you.

Sans’ eye-sockets turn to pleasantly surprised crescents as your hands come up to the buttons of your shirt and start to undo them, one by one.

Halfway down, you hesitate.

You’ve never…

Sans has never seen you in quite this state of undress before and beneath his scorchingly intense gaze, you’re not sure you have the nerve…

Your skeleton seems to realize your predicament.

Sounding only a little amused, he asks, “ALLOW ME TO ASSIST YOU…?”

And…you let your bashful silence speak for itself.

Sans reaches out, holding eye-contact with you as his claws pluck at your buttons. They’re razor-sharp, slicing through the feeble threads sewing them on—once, an edge just grazes your bare skin, light enough to raise goosebumps—but the last thing on your mind is your ruined shirt.

Sans can buy you a new one.

You take a breath when all the buttons are gone, trying to be bold as you hold your chest out for your soulmate to see.

Knowing now that it’s mutual, you’re proud of the big, flashy diamond sat right over your heart, swirled with cool colors nearly iridescent against your skin.

Sans seems fond of it, too, his expression abruptly darkening to nothing short of ‘hungry.’

“PERFECT,” he breathes.

And without any further ado, you’re practically tackled backwards onto the bed, instinctively arching up into the pointed claws clutching your hips; the even pointier teeth ghosting along your neck.

You spare less than a second to think about protesting.

Why would you?

It’s been a year, and Sans is your soulmate—you think you’ve both waited long enough for this…

Chapter Text

You…may have made some bad decisions.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time to go out and celebrate your move to a brand new city. You didn’t have any friends yet to go with, or any idea of where to go, but you didn’t really see why that should stop you from having a good time.

You were in Ebott now, the very definition of excitement and opportunity!

…But…you were coming to realize that there was perhaps such a thing as too much excitement.

Casual revelry with strangers at a monster bar was fun at first. So were the glowing, sparkling, color-changing drinks they’d encouraged you to try, even buying them for you when you admitted you were on a bit of a budget.

You’d been having a great time.

But now, somewhere between the drinks and the strangely-colored smoke in the air, you’re…kind of intoxicated and… the smiles your new monster friends are giving you seem to be taking a turn for the sinister.

You wave off the next glass slid your way and get up, trying not to stumble. You’re met with groans, chiding and coaxing you to stay, just a little longer, but no, no, you really can’t.

You’re disoriented, struggling to remember where the exit was and how to get there while cloying claws and paws and tentacles brush against you, not quite trying to hold you back…

Yet.

It occurs to you that probably every eye in this place is squarely on you—the lone, dizzy human making itself easy pickings—and it sets your heart going hard against your ribs, robbing you of precious breath.

For one terrifying second, you feel like you’re about to faint.

And then, an arm drapes across your shoulders, pulling you into somebody.

You look up into the eye-lights of an actual skeleton— tall and menacing, with one gleaming golden fang.

“you’re cute,” he tells you in a low, raspy voice. “let’s get out of here.”

“Uhh—?”

You don’t have a chance to argue.

The skeleton is strong and he tows your dazed and staggering self along with him like it’s nothing, and you certainly don’t have the wherewithal to fight him.

You look around and in a moment of clarity, you realize you’re suddenly being given a very wide berth.

You don’t know what to make of that.

As you’re dragged out of the bar, into the empty street behind it, the ever-worsening nature of your predicament hits you: you were really, actually about to become a statistic, mugged or murdered or worse in an alley with no one around for miles to call or even notice you were missing.

You think you’re too scared right now to even scream for help, anyway.

Suddenly, you stagger as the arm around you unceremoniously lets go.

“……sorry,” the skeleton says. “i shoulda asked ‘fore i… i just……didn’t really have any other…ideas…”

All you can do is stare at him, blankly.

Under your gaze, his cheekbones go a stunning shade of violet and he turns to stare at the wall of the building, like he can’t quite look at you.

“i mean. you… you just…looked kinda nervous? i…i saw you an’ thought, ‘hell, i know that feeling,’ an’ you didn’t come in with anybody, so. …not!” he hastily adds, “that i was watchin’ you or anything, uh, weird, just, humans, you stick out, an’ you were alone, so if you needed help, i………”

The skeleton pauses, sweat beading along his skull as something seems to occur to him.

“maybe you were havin’ fun?” he wonders with a wince. “in which case, i, uh…probably ruined your night ‘cause i didn’t… i didn’t even ask you…!”

He breaks off with a wordless noise of embarrassed frustration and your fuzzy brain can’t quite parse…most of all that anxious word-vomit, but you at least get the last bit.

“I wasn’t,” you hastily blurt out. “I wasn’t…having fun, I… Thank you, for…for getting me out of there? I… Thanks.”

The skeleton looks very relieved to hear that.

“o-oh…yeah, that’s…it’s fine,” he shrugs, with the most forced nonchalance you’ve ever seen in a shrug. “i mean, you probably shouldn’t…go places like that alone, though? humans know about the buddy system, don’t they?”

You can’t be sure, but you might be blushing, too.

“Yeah, well… I didn’t see you with a buddy,” you mutter, maybe a little childishly.

“i got…connections,” the guy tells you. Then, he laughs a little. “…nyeheheh, and a…a pretty good ‘resting bitch face.’”

You snort. “Yeah? Let’s see it.”

The skeleton takes your dare and it’s like flipping a switch—the shy magic coloring vanishes from his cheekbones and he fixes you with a look nothing short of stony. His expression is flat and his skull is abruptly all sharp, spooky angles where there’d only just been a cute, sheepish grin.

He tilts his head back, just so, and you think you understand now why nobody tried to stop this monster from absconding with you: looking like this, he seems like the type of guy who really would’ve dragged you into this alley to murder you.

“Snrk…holy shit. That’s… that’s really good, dude!”

The skeleton flips right back the second you laugh, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

“papyrus,” he says, introducing himself at last, and you happily introduce yourself in return.

When he asks if you’ve got a ride home and you admit that you don’t know your new address too well—you wrote it down, on your phone, but of course it’s dead, your forethought is in peak form tonight—he offers to let you spend the night at his place.

It’s probably another bad idea and maybe you’re still reeling a bit from all the monster-drinks and secondhand who-knows-what, but he feels like a nice guy.

Trustworthy.

You let Papyrus take you home with him.

-

It turns out you put your faith in the right skeleton.

Even though he only had his own bed to offer you and you insisted he not go sleep on the floor, you woke up safe, sober, and fully-clothed (albeit very thoroughly cuddled).

You stayed the morning to make breakfast, as a ‘thank you.’ You met Papyrus’ very scary brother who stared at you across the table until Papyrus wandered in and eased some of the tension.

It was still a little awkward—turns out, Papyrus’ default state was ‘quiet’ and he spent most of the time wolfing down his syrup-drowned pancakes while Sans held eye-contact with you and downed a whole bottle of Sriracha (a power move?), but somehow, by the end of it…

You still decided to give Papyrus your number, in case he ever wanted to hang out or…do whatever. You were new to the city and anyone you could call a friend was a good person to know!

All things considered, it wasn’t long before Papyrus went from ‘friend’ to ‘boyfriend.’ He was a sweet guy with a real gift for snuggling and an untapped well of affection that he was happy to shower you in with only the slightest provocation.

Just a few short months after your first near-disastrous night in Ebott things are going great for you—you’ve got a decent job, actual furniture in your apartment, a cuddlebug boyfriend, and even a passing civil relationship with said boyfriend’s brother.

There’s not a single thing you would change about your life right now!

…Except…

Well.

You have a soulmark.

Which is either really, really good, or really, really bad.

You found it when you got home from that first breakfast, after your…unpleasant…night at the bar.

You’d been out of it and so many strange and dubiously-intentioned monsters had brushed up against you, skin to scales and slime and any number of textures.

Really, any one of the people there that night could’ve sparked your soulmark to manifest.

In your heart—and maybe even all the way down to your soul—you know which strange and dubiously-intentioned monster you want to have left the twisting strings of ivy wrapped around your belly, climbing up your torso and always seeming to have moved from the last time you looked.

And…Papyrus has a soulmark, too, you’ve seen it, so he’s…

It’s probably yours.

But you’re just not sure.

It doesn’t really matter if it isn’t, of course: you’d rather be dating Papyrus than any of the shady creeps who’d plied you with drinks that night, and even if he’d gotten his own mark long before he met you, he seemed perfectly content with your relationship; more than!

It doesn’t matter… but there’s still a part of you that wants to know.

-

Papyrus is sprawled out on the couch, and you’re lying on top of him.

It’s not the most comfortable position for you, with him being a literal skeleton and all, but he told you once that he likes to feel you on him, so you’re hanging in there awhile longer.

And thinking about the soulmark thing again.

Papyrus seems to notice your preoccupation and cranes his neck down a little to nuzzle your hair.

“what’cha thinkin’ about?” he murmurs.

You don’t see any reason to lie.

“The night we met,” you say. “…you were pretty smooth back then. Y’know, the first…five minutes or so, at least.”

You bounce a little as he laughs.

“daiquiris, angel,” Papyrus winks up at you. “coupla those an’ i’m a regular casanova.”

You snicker…but, “Knight in shining armor, more like.”

His skull turns a very cute shade of lilac.

“…aaahhh, stop,” he grumbles. “it wasn’t…that big a deal……”

“It was to me!” you insist, pushing yourself up on his ribs. “You saved my ass and you know it, Rus.”

“mmmnn…s’a cute ass…”

Papyrus was hot garbage when it came to just accepting a compliment.

You fully intend to work on that, but you decide to have mercy on him and let it go for now.

Instead, you go for a different sort of gamble.

“You’re just saying that ‘cause we’re soulmates,” you accuse.

You keep your eyes on Papyrus’ face, not sure what kind of reaction you’re looking hoping for.

The way he just…smiles at you, eye-sockets crinkling at the corners, feels a little like running into a step on the stairs that you didn’t know was there.

“nah,” he says, “it’d be cute no matter what.”

You sag a little in sheer surprise— was it really that easy?—and Papyrus tilts his head, trying to piece together what’s going on in your head.

For as awkward as he is around people, he’s not half-bad at jumping to conclusions.

“……did you…not know?”

“No,” you hasten to assure him, “no, I…knew. Or, I mean, I kinda figured… I hoped, mostly, but…” You laugh a little, more at yourself than anything. “It was kind of a…weird…night, and we never exactly talked about it…”

Slowly, but surely…

Papyrus starts to snicker.

And then to outright laugh.

“nyeheheheheheh, holy shit,” he wheezes, “i thought i was bad… yuh…you weren’t sure and you took this long to ask about it??? pfft, stars above, you’re the best…”

If it wasn’t for the total, unflinching sincerity in that last bit, you think you might be a little offended.

As it is, you don’t really protest very hard when Papyrus deftly turns you over on top of him, so your back is to his chest, or when he starts to wriggle a bit and you can’t really see what he’s doing.

Apparently, he was shrugging off his jacket.

When he wraps his arms around you again, they’re bare and you can see the artful line of feathers along them, trailing all the way down from his scapulae.

“why d’you think i call you ‘angel’ so much?” he chuckles, setting his jaw atop your head. “m’wearin’ your wings…”

He says it so simply, so matter-of-fact…

And honestly, it’s everything you needed to hear.

You’re so glad Papyrus found you.

Chapter Text

You met him online.

It wasn’t under the most favorable circumstances, all things considered—he beat you in a bidding war for a really uniquely shaped hunk of coquina jasper at the very last minute and you spent probably a solid few hours cursing his username in your head no matter how cool it was.

Naturally, you were pretty surprised when he messaged you through the site the next morning.

geode-dude: hey, sorry about the coquina, kinda stole that from under you, didn’t i?

As much as it had galled you, you had to reply…

xXgoblincoreXx: Oh, don’t worry about it, you won fair and square! That’s how these things go, no hard feelings.

geode-dude: mm, still didn’t feel too gneiss of me, no matter how good a shale it was

……Pfft.

xXgoblincoreXx: Haha, not to quarry, dude, I’ll get over it, enjoy your spoils. Just don’t take it for granite, alright?

geode-dude: lol i like your style

geode-dude: think you’d be up for a consolation prize? sure there’s something around here i can part with to send you. might make me feel like less of a jerk for doing you dirty like that

It was…an unusual request to be sure.

The guy was well within his rights to have screwed you bought the stone for himself and he not only apologized, but was actually offering to send you something else? For free?

It occurred to you to be wary, but you had a PO Box for this kind of thing—too many doorstep package thieves who assumed ‘heavy’ meant ‘valuable’ instead of ‘ten bismuth geodes that you never saw and didn’t get a refund for and were definitely not still salty about’—so you didn’t see the harm in seeing where this went.

xXgoblincoreXx: I’m not one to turn down free shinies, if it’ll really make you feel better. You don’t have to, though, no pressure! ;)

geode-dude: think i will anyway, thanks for being so coal about this

You laughed and sent over your PO Box address and then promptly forgot about the whole thing, not quite expecting the guy to follow through. He was probably more after an excuse to try out those sweet rock puns on somebody and you were happy to be the audience.

At least it had put a smile on your face!

You imagine that expression was nothing compared to the awestruck one you wore when you picked up an unexpected package a couple days later and opened it to the most incredible-looking rock you’d ever seen in your life.

xXgoblincoreXx: Dude, did you send this?!

geode-dude: oh you got it, cool

xXgoblincoreXx: Yeah, what is it? I’ve never seen anything like this before!

Even as you frantically typed, the fuchsia crystal sat beside you, innocently illuminating your room with its warm, fluctuating glow.

geode-dude: don’t think it has an official classification, it’s mostly magic, but we call ‘em lantern rocks. they’re everywhere Underground.

Only one kind of person capitalized ‘underground’ that way and had free access to what was down there.

Your punning, rock-loving pal here was a monster.

You were fascinated—there were no monsters where you lived, their population was still small after everything and hardly any had branched out from Ebott, even though it’d been a few years since they surfaced—and you can’t quite restrain the burst of curiosity this revelation sparks.

You…probably embarrassed yourself a little, to be honest… but all of your eager questions about what other magic stones and crystals he had or could tell you about were met with good-natured amusement.

Good-natured amusement and surprisingly detailed, informative answers, the kind that turned out to be better suited to actual phone texting than a limited bidding site’s chat feature.

‘geode-dude,’ or Sans as you eventually found out, had a pretty extensive geological background and seemed happy to answer anything and everything you threw at him. The only real drawback was the unstoppable slew of puns that came with those answers, but… to a person like you, the puns were less of a bug and more of a feature.

In addition to being a funny guy with a varied rock collection, Sans has a horrifically messy room, a self-sustaining tornado of trash in it, and a younger brother named Papyrus.

He’s also a skeleton, which he didn’t exactly tell you, but he sent you an awful lot of puns about bones and once—when you’d insisted he prove he wasn’t catfishing you—a video of Papyrus balancing a seashell on his head, since that was too weirdly specific to fake.

The guy in the video was definitely a skeleton and he definitely had a seashell atop his skull, effortlessly keeping it there even as he proclaimed to the camera, “Well, Sans’ Pen-Pal, I Have No Idea Why You Want This, But I’m So Stunned That Sans Is Actually Making Friends That I’m Not Going To Question It Very Hard—So Behold! My Impeccable Balancing Skills!”

After that, you wholeheartedly agreed with Sans’ assessment of his brother’s coolness levels: clearly off the charts.

For several long, albeit fun months of chatting and memes and pictures of rocks, though, that’s all you really know about your apparently-a-skeleton friend.

He’s never sent a picture or video of himself, and he’s flatly turned down anything resembling a phone call.

It doesn’t bother you too much. Some people are just private that way, and that’s okay!

You figure you’ll see him when you see him, and that’s just fine by you.

-

You get the text early in the morning—which you’ve gathered is approximately the witching hours over in Ebott.

geode-dude: hey

geode-dude: i’m trying to be a little boulder so i’m kinda petrified here but

geode-dude: do you want to come visit for the festival?

The Freedom Festival—held to commemorate the anniversary of monsters’ escape from the Underground and reunification with the surface world.

Being held in Ebott, next weekend.

You don’t have to think about your answer for more than a minute.

xXgoblincoreXx: Sounds rockin’, I’d love to! :D

-

Ebott isn’t quite as far away as you’d thought.

It’s a few hours on a train and then you’re there, wandering around in search of the skeleton you’d been promised to pick you up.

You’re expecting Papyrus, taller than tall and decently loud, presumably very easy to spot in a crowd.

But he’s not the skeleton you see.

His brother is stupidly tall, but even slouching, Sans is a pretty big guy himself. Dressed in a well-worn blue hoodie, some basketball shorts and the cutest pair of hot-dog-shaped slippers you’ve ever seen, the big skeleton leaning up against the wall is hard to miss.

…And so is the massive gaping hole in his skull, black as pitch above the giant red light darting nervously around in his socket.

It’s…

Not that much of a surprise, honestly.

You understand a lot of monsters suffered permanent injuries in the living hell they crawled out of and while grisly, it’s really nothing worse than what your imagination’s cooked up for you over the past few weeks—reasons ranging from the embarrassing to the outright horrific that Sans had been hiding his face from you.

In comparison to that, a bit of jagged bone is nothing to bat an eye at.

You head right on over to say hello.

Sans stiffens a little as you approach and somehow a bead of sweat seems to appear on his skull. He asks your name in a surprisingly soft voice and you nod.

“Yep, in the flesh,” you chirp. “Which I guess makes you Sans the flesh, right?”

It seems to take him a second to process what you said…but then his shoulders start to shake with laughter.

“good one,” he chuckles. “here five seconds an’ you’re already tryin’ to steal my thunder…?”

“Just trying to make a good first impression,” you joke with a shrug. “I have a feeling I’m not gonna get more than a couple over on you, Mister Funnybones.”

Sans is just a pinch slower in person—or maybe his puns just seem to come across a little snappier with a screen between you—but the moment or two you have to wait is more than worth it.

With a screen and miles of distance separating you, you’ve never had the pleasure of watching Sans’ skull go a dusty shade of blue, or hearing a downright bashful laugh escape him.

“eheheheheh, you, uh…ya’ might be surprised…”

You already are.

You came down here to meet a friend and spend some time with him.

You weren’t expecting him to be this cute, or to feel a spark towards something beyond simple friendship already, within mere minutes of talking to the guy.

“…This is going to be an exciting weekend,” you decide with a smile.

Sans grins back. “yeah? ya’ feel it in your bones?”

You laugh and your duffel bag slides down off your shoulder.

Luckily enough, you have pretty quick reflexes…and apparently, so does Sans.

For all you’d have expected a slow reaction, he reaches out lightning-quick and catches your bag before it can hit the ground—at the same time you catch it.

You touch.

Forming soulmarks don’t cause a physical sensation.

They don’t, it’s been studied: no one, not even monsters, the most soul-attuned sentient species on the planet can conclusively feel a soulmate match being made or say where the mark is forming with any degree of accuracy. Anyone who says otherwise is wrong, reacting psychosomatically at best.

And yet, you swear your skin is tingling all over from that one little brush of skin against bone.

Sans is…… you think Sans is your soulm—

You jump a little as suddenly, Sans has your entire hand in his grasp.

“hey,” he says, and through the very nice sensation of the warm, rough bones of his hand wrapping around yours, you notice that his grin is a little tight. “can we…not…?”

You blink at him, not understanding. “N…not?”

“the…the whole…soulmates thing,” he unhelpfully clarifies. “we don’t have to…look, y’know?”

………Ouch?

“Uh… I… I mean, I…guess?” you try. “If that’s…”

Sans looks pretty damn relieved and that’s yet another thing you hadn’t planned for. The ‘spark’ you’d felt must not have been very mutual if your pen-pal didn’t even want to know if you were soulmates, and that was…

Well, ouch.

“cool,” says Sans, “cool, it’s just…you’re… it’s… you’re here the whole weekend, it’d be……… no need to, uh, ruin the trip…right? it’ll… if we are, it’s…it ain’t like it’d be goin’ anywhere.”

………

Wait.

You almost actually, physically facepalm at the dramatic direction of your thoughts as reason finally occurs to you.

It would be insanely awkward to get all excited about a soulmark…and then risk not finding one immediately before having to spend a whole weekend with somebody—especially since Sans and his brother had so graciously offered to host you while you were visiting.

You think you feel equal parts silly and relieved.

“Yeah,” you agree, much more easily this time, “you’re right! We can…check that out later. For now, you just focus on showing your pal a fun Freedom Fest!”

Sans smiles, passing your bag back to you.

“that’s the plan,” he says and as he starts to amble off, you happily follow. “c’mon, let’s get ya’ settled in first.”

-

You last about two hours.

After arriving at the brothers’ house, meeting Papyrus, and enjoying some delicious (homegrown!!!) cucumber sandwiches for lunch, you’re shown to the guest bedroom and then the bathroom.

“This Is More Sans’ Hostly Duty Than Mine, But Quite Frankly,” Papyrus confided in you, “I’m Not Certain Sans Remembers We Have A Shower. But! You Seem Like A Fine, Upstanding Human With Standards And I’m Sure You’d Appreciate Knowing Where To Find It In Case You’d Like To Freshen Up Before The Opening Ceremony And Fireworks Tonight!”

That had sounded perfect to you, so you’d stripped down for a quick shower to rinse all the miscellaneous travel funk off and…

Well, there it had been.

You manage to contain yourself long enough to actually get clean and then you dry off, grabbing your phone to snap a…very carefully cropped photo of your inner thigh.

At first, you figure it’s just for you, because Sans had said…

But the longer you look at it, the less restraint you have and it really, really, really feels like Sans should get to see this.

You could easily go down the hall and knock on his door to show him, but you’ve been texting buddies for months.

It feels like the most natural thing in the world to pull up your chat and send the picture.

xXgoblincoreXx: [IMG-96]

xXgoblincoreXx: I looked, sorry…

And after a moment of thought:

xXgoblincoreXx: No regrets, though. :)

The dark, rough oyster shell on your thigh, just barely cracking open to reveal a pretty little pearl hiding inside…

It just gives you a really good feeling about your relationship with Sans, and you don’t know how to regret that.

You watch your phone, nervously awaiting a text that…never comes.

Because suddenly, from behind you, you hear, “i looked, too.”

You jump, whirling around to find Sans looming over you. You hadn’t even heard him come in and you marvel that such a big skeleton could move so silently, but that quickly falls by the wayside.

Sans is fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie, blushing again, but at your encouraging, curious smile, he shoves it back and lets you see.

“guessin’…guessin’ it’s a human thing,” he says, “‘cause i got no idea what it means. google ain’t helpin’ either, heheh…”

You don’t imagine it would—without already knowing the name of it or at least its context, it would probably be a little difficult to just stumble across a Rod of Asclepius.

You reach out and gently grab hold of Sans’ ulna, tracing the line of the rod all the way up to the thick cluster of his carpals where the head of the snake had settled.

He must be able to read some of the emotion on your face because after a moment, he tentatively speaks.

“s’it good?” he asks. “ya’ look like… seems like it’s…something good…yeah?”

It is so good.

You actually think you’re genuinely honored to have caused a mark like this because if there’s anybody out there who deserves to heal from everything they’ve been through, it’s a monster.

It’s Sans, your friend.

…But you don’t think you know him well enough yet to be able to say that out loud.

Instead you put a teasing smirk on your face and shrug.

“I’ll tell you later,” you say, letting go of his hand and heading out of the guest room. “Isn’t the fest starting soon? We should probably get going.”

There’s a pause…but then, Sans is hot on your heels.

“c’mon,” he pesters, “you know, just tell me.”

“I don’t recall,” you tell him. “I think you’re gonna have to refresh my memory somehow…”

“…you’re…ya’ want a bribe?”

“Sans!” you gasp. “I’m hurt! We’re friends, aren’t we? I thought you knew me better than that.”

Sans does know you better.

He quickly realizes, “ya’ want bribes.”

You elect not to respond.

“………eheheheheheheh, oh stars…”

You turn and Sans’ red eye-light is glowing brightly with mirth.

He looks like he’s having fun.

He looks happy.

“alright, twist my arm,” he mutters, shoving his sleeve back down. “you’ll get your bribes, but m’pretty sure i already know what it means, now.”

“Do you?”

“yeah—you’re a snake.”

You laugh.

“Oh, don’t get all hissy, I’ll tell you! You just might have to buy me one of those Spider Ciders I’ve heard so much about before I can remember properly.”

“an’ a funnel cake, too, i guess.” In spite of Sans’ put-upon tone, he looks just as amused as you are. “some popcorn. maybe a nice cream or two?”

“Now you’re getting it!”

You shoot Sans a wink and he snickers, shaking his head but hardly protesting your demands.

Depending on how the night goes…you think you might even be able to finagle a smooch onto the list.

The idea of getting to plant a kiss on this skeleton under the fireworks is very, very appealing.

You guess you’ll find out what fate has in store.

Chapter Text

Papyrus could easily say that it was the best date he’d ever had in his life… and not only because he could count the number of dates he’d been on with one hand.

You, his wonderful datemate, had been taking it upon yourself to show him all of the cool, fun things a cool, fun couple like yourselves could get up to here on the surface and he really had to hand it to you: the waterpark was one of your most fantastic ideas yet!

He was…admittedly too big for a lot of the attractions—most of the high-velocity slides, as thrilling as they looked, just weren’t a safe fit for him, designed for humans roughly half his height—but Papyrus was delighted to find that there were plenty of things he could enjoy without risk of maiming himself.

(He’d made a point of doing a few mental calculations before waiting in line for anything dodgy-looking, anyway, just to be sure. Not for the first time, he thanked the stars that he was such an avid reader, and that Sans kept approximately ten billion physics textbooks around the house at any given moment for him to have read and reread a hundred times when he was bored!)

(…he was even willing to thank Sans for being so responsive by text whenever he wanted to be extra sure his math was right. The handful of thumbs-up emojis he’d gotten back with his waterproof phone before potentially risking life and limb had been really reassuring!)

But!

He was having a great time!

The hot sun in the beautiful blue sky made every splash of cool, chlorinated water on his bones feel divine, rivaled only by your beaming presence beside him while he enjoyed it.

His favorite thing so far was definitely the wave-pool, watching you bob in the rippling water like the cutest buoy that ever was.

He’d managed to distract you twice before you caught on that he was doing it on purpose, because you were adorable when you caught a wave right to the face and had to sputter and shake it off, all embarrassed and disoriented.

You only got cuter when you tried to ‘yell’ at him for it and the urge to scoop you up and pinch your squishy human cheek was almost too powerful to resist!

It was good! It was fun! Papyrus was having a wonderful date with you!

Tense is important to note here.

Was, because it seems pretty clear to Papyrus that what he’s doing now is completely and utterly ruining everything.

Funny how one dying child could do that.

Papyrus isn’t sure on the details, it all happened very fast—a woman yelling, a gathering crowd, a lifeguard pulling a very small body out of the water—and he’d been three steps forward, ready to declare himself as a nurse, someone who could help…

And then there was a flicker of static in the air, the energy of a small soul winking out of existence.

And Papyrus just…froze.

He doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t, it’s stupid, he is no stranger to death, he’s seen it dozens of times, he sees it every day at work!

But it wasn’t supposed to be here…

All he knows is that it felt like everything in him was locking up at once and it took everything he had to mutter, “Excuse Me,” to you before running off to the nearest changing room.

To hide, like a coward.

He’s so mad at himself and he feels so helpless, slumped against a wall of lockers trying to make his own panicking body cooperate; trying to get his legs back under him, trying to breathe normally, trying to Stop. Fucking. Shaking.

But he can’t.

Even with sockets squeezed painfully shut, he sees that boy, his grief-stricken mother holding him…and he thinks of Sans.

Sans, looking devastated and broken, with blood on his hands and a disturbingly limp human in his arms, begging his brother to help him.

The body, just the first in a line of way too many, laid out on his kitchen counter, dead empty meat that he had to… because everyone was hungry, everyone was starving, and it was already done, Sans had already… so he had to do this part, for everyone, but stars above, the blood, the smell, the taste…!

It always comes back like this, crystal-clear, and Papyrus feels nausea roiling through the stomach he doesn’t even have.

He’s been out of his braces for years—why are his teeth hurting so bad now…?

He clamps his hands over his mouth and hunches down into himself, wishing his own rattling would drown out everything else in his skull.

“…Papyrus…?”

And he freezes again.

No. No, Please, No, Not…

But he can’t catch a break because there you are, standing right in front of him, so sweetly concerned and the shame strikes like a lightning bolt, sizzling all the way down to his soul.

“No,” he gasps aloud, “I…You’re Not Supposed To…”

Be here, see him like this, know that he’s like this.

You’re supposed to see his good side: The Great Papyrus, cheerful and resilient and strong, recovered from the trauma of the Underground in every way!

You’re supposed to admire him, you’re supposed to think he’s cool and tough and never, ever see this weak and stupid thing he is sometimes when it all comes back…

The sound he makes is downright pathetic, dripping with despair, and he folds into himself even more, wishing he could disappear.

You…seem to have other plans.

Papyrus jumps when you throw your arms around his shoulders and squeeze him in the tightest hug you’ve ever given him—the first hug you’ve ever given him.

“Hey,” you say, and your voice is so soft and so kind when you say it that he doesn’t even think of trying to pull away. “It’s okay, you’re… I’m here, it’s…it’s okay.”

The words, so earnestly spoken, make Papyrus sob, just once…which is stupid, because…because he’s not even crying.

…Is he?

Suddenly, he’s not sure of anything anymore except what you said: you’re here and it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…

He breaks.

Without a second thought, he picks you up, hugging you tightly against his body while he shakes and falls apart and even as it’s worse, somehow it’s…better than it was before.

You’re so warm and soft and slightly damp, like a soggy teddy-bear that can pet him and whisper soothing words and kiss the top of his skull, and Papyrus doesn’t think he ever wants to put you down again.

Especially when, ever so slowly, his body starts to cancel all the blaring Panic Mode alarms and he’s left weakly clinging to you with his face safely hidden in your neck.

It’s…it’s a real, actual struggle to put you down.

He’s pretty sure his cheekbones are glowing and he can’t quite make himself meet your eye.

“That… I’m Sorry You Had To See That,” he mumbles reluctantly. “That Was…Very Embarrassing.”

You stare up at him with hands on your hips and you cluck your tongue.

“No, it wasn’t,” you say, and the certainty in your tone is such that he almost believes you. “That was…a messed up thing that happened out there. I’d be more worried if you weren’t upset at all.”

Oh, Stars, The Child…

Papyrus frowns before he speaks, scared to hear the answer but also needing to know…

“The Boy,” he asks, “Was… Did He…?”

Your smile is the most reassuring thing he’s ever seen.

“He’s fine,” you promise, “the lifeguard did CPR and he coughed up half the pool. Guess he wasn’t a strong swimmer and took off his water-wings when mom wasn’t looking. He got an earful over that, but they left for the hospital just to make sure he was okay.”

Oh, Humans.

Papyrus would never cease to be amazed by their ability to survive the deadliest of things, even coming back from the dead if somebody fixed the problem quickly enough.

Humans were so strong, so incredible…

Papyrus looks at you and feels his expression soften.

So Amazing…

He opens his mouth, ready to deliver the most flattering, touching, affection-filled compliment he’s ever uttered…

Only for you to gasp and mutter a surprised expletive.

When Papyrus follows your gaze and looks down at himself, he sees the source of your impolite language and…may even repeat it himself.

There just aren’t polite words to properly encapsulate the feeling of shock at seeing your soulmark for the first time.

Even if you have no earthly idea what it is.

All Papyrus can tell, looking down at himself, is that it’s bright and it’s everywhere, yellow lines squiggling across his entire thorax and even tagging his humeri with a stray lash here and there.

“…Well,” he says at length. “That Certainly Happened.”

Papyrus has always had a talent for understatement.

But there are more important matters at stake here than that.

“I Hate To Ask, But You Seem To Have The Better Vantage Point,” he admits, “So… What… Is It? I Can’t Quite Make It Out From This Angle.”

You take a few moments to process the question.

Papyrus is happy to wait while you sort it all out—you can’t spell ‘patience’ without…at least two letters from his name!

“It’s…it’s a…” you sound so stunned to be saying it, like you can’t believe your own words, but eventually you manage, “it’s a sun…”

Papyrus isn’t surprised at all.

It’s perfect.

Unable to restrain his grin, he finally gets to his feet, his soul bubbling with excitement at this wonderful revelation.

It more than makes up for that bit of unpleasantness that he’s on a date with his soulmate, one date of surely many, and he’s sure he can salvage the rest of it!

But when he moves toward the exit of the changing room, you don’t follow.

Papyrus says your name, but it’s clear he doesn’t have your attention—not with the way you’re frantically examining your arms and legs and every bit of exposed skin you can see.

You’re looking for a mark to answer the one you’d left on him…and not having much luck, by the look of things.

“Come on,” you grumble to yourself, managing to sound both frustrated and distressed, “where is it?!”

Papyrus comes back over to you.

“Don’t Worry About That,” he gently chides you. “It’s Not Important.”

Your head whips up, your eyes comically wide. “What do you mean, it’s not important?! It’s your soulmark!”

Papyrus laughs. “Well, Yes, In Theory, But I May Not Have Given You One.”

You just gape at him that time, utterly bewildered by his casual tone.

“It’s Perfectly Okay If I Didn’t,” he continues, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder now that he can; now that the touch-barrier between you has already been broken. “Just Because You’re My Soulmate Doesn’t Mean I Have To Be Yours—I’m Not Going To Break Up With You, Or Enjoy This Date Any Less, You Know!”

“…but it’s! Probably here somewhere!” you insist, starting to tug at your swimsuit, and Papyrus stills your hand.

“Maybe It Is!” he agrees. “But You Don’t Have To Get Naked Right Now Just To Look For It! I’m Sure There Are Much Better Places To See Your Soulmark For The First Time Than In A Filthy, Bateria-Ridden Public Changing Room, Don’t You Think?”

You pause, looking around like you were remembering where you both were.

And then you start to laugh.

“There, Now!” Papyrus grins triumphantly, “I Knew You’d See Reason! Now, Why Don’t We Go Try Out That Slothful River Of Yours In The Meantime?”

That makes you perk up a little. You had been so excited about that attraction and so (not so secretly) disappointed when Papyrus hadn’t really wanted to go.

“Really?” you wonder. “You want to, now?”

Papyrus shrugs. “I Suppose I Can Grin And Bear It, For You! Especially If We Can Share A Tube…”

He says this with the emphasis normally reserved for very saucy activities indeed, being sure to waggle his browbones at you ridiculously enough to make you laugh again.

“Alright,” you agree, revitalized, “alright, yeah, let’s go!”

Your mark is perfect: you truly are his sunshine.

…and as you bounce off just a few steps ahead of him, back out into the light of day, Papyrus sees what he is to you, painted across your back in a colorful tableau that nearly makes his jaw drop off.

He thanks his lucky stars that he’s composed and in control of himself again by the time he sees it.

It means that he’s able to play it cool until he can snap the ideal selfie for you about halfway through the lazy river, while you happily doze against his chest.

The hardy desert garden between your shoulder blades—a cluster of blooming cacti and colorful, concentric succulents bursting forth onto your skin—looks fantastic under actual sunlight, but even more incredible beside the daisy-yellow sun rays you’d seared into his bones.

Papyrus is willing to admit to…a small bit of bias.

But only a little.