Chapter Text
Frisk could hear the temperamental boot-tapping and grumbling ‘nyeh’s of her closest skeleton friend before she even rounded the corner to the kitchen from the stairwell. Pushing her fingers through her unruly mop of bedhair, she watched his hunched, lanky form restlessly working at something in the sink, wondering how on Earth he could put so much energy into standing still.
“Good morning, Papyrus,” she greeted after a little while longer of staring.
He didn’t even turn around. “Oh, it is FAR from a good morning, tiny human.” There was a grating squeak of bone on bone as he ground his teeth, stopping in his task for a moment. “Alas, I have been MOST insulted by the lowest form of degeneracy against my skeletonhood! Look at the SHEER AUDACITY!” Rounding on his heel, he shoved the chest piece of his battle body into Frisk’s view, faded black letters in permanent marker he’d obviously been scrubbing spelled out ‘bonehead’ in a familiar, low-effort font. “A PUN IN GRAFFITI! And not even the COOL KIND OF GRAFFITI! ABSOLUTELY UNFORGIVABLE!” he pronounced with a stamp of his foot.
Frisk tried her very best not to burst out into giggles. “I wonder who could have done that....”
“Oh, I KNOW who did it. And I will bet he thinks he is very clever! But Sans will not get away with defacing a most valued possession of a royal guardsman!”
The little girl refrained from pointing out that it was still an unofficial costume, and that he was still the only member of the disbanded army, instead, rummaging in the cupboard to grab her specially-allowed-by-Mom-for-good-grades box of Frosted Cocoa Clumps cereal. “Hehe, well, I’m sure you’ll help him learn his lesson about touching your things.”
“The worst part is, I think that’s what he’s hoping for,” Papyrus muttered, placing his armor on the counter to take a break from washing. “Oh! Let me get you a bowl for that, Frisk!” Opening a cabinet, he procured a dish, easily within his reach, bending lightly to offer it to her with his signature big, goofy grin.
At least he didn’t seem genuinely upset, Frisk noted, accepting the bowl with a perky, “Thank you!” The brothers often enjoyed an escalating rivalry of sibling japery, but she knew neither wanted to actually hurt the other. Just as she’d never want to make her own sister angry or sad whenever she goaded Denise for a bit of attention.
That had to be what Sans was doing too, she smiled to herself to the point of showing teeth, self-satisfied in her reading of the secretive monster. He rarely asked for anything directly, manipulating and diverting conversations to get what he wanted from people.
The cereal box put up a fight as her little fingers dug at the slotted tab to pry it free. It felt sticky.
No, Sans was seeking a specific reaction from Papyrus in doing what he did, she knew. Maybe he was older, but he was still a little sibling, just like her.
The cardboard finally gave with a sharp pop, and she eagerly widened the flaps, tipping the box’s opening to the mouth of her bowl, giving it a shake.
A torrent of small, white packets exploded free, quickly filling the bowl and flooding over as Frisk stared aghast at this absolute ... atrocity.
“Nyeh? Frisk, what is the matter?”
She took one of the offending packets in her hand. Now it was personal.
“Frisk! I think that is more than enough squishy breakfast pods for now! FRISK! WHY IS YOUR BREAKFAST BLEEDING!?”
She was barely aware she’d squeezed the thing to bursting, fuming with the very same energy she’d seen in Papyrus when she’d first entered the kitchen.
“Oh.” Papyrus paused as he caught a familiar whiff. The air smelled of betrayal. And ketchup. Actually, it was mostly ketchup. “Unbelievable ... to think my own brother would cross our dear ambassador and tiny human friend!”
What had Sans done with her coveted clumps!? She was going to—
A dismayed bleat rang out from the bathroom.
“Lady Toriel?” Papyrus gasped out in concern.
“Mom?” Frisk echoed the sentiment, momentarily distracted from her hunger pangs.
The goat monster seemed to hear their cries. “Ah. Please do not worry yourselves, I am fine. It is just that — ohh!...” The pipes droned as she turned on the faucet, water spraying and splashing frantically.
“L-Lady Toriel...? Are you all right? Can the Great Papyrus assist you?”
“No, no—! Do not come in! I will take care of it, I just need to....” The water pressure noisily increased, a wet slosh spattering against the door. After another few moments, the flow was shut off. “Oh dear.... Perhaps I will need assistance after all.”
The skeleton and the human child shared an anxious look, and Papyrus tentatively stepped forward, toward the bathroom door. “I’m coming in, now,” he announced to prevent catching her unawares, turning the handle slowly and pushing inward. The sight that awaited him well warranted any number of exclamations. But Papyrus was as noble a guard as they came, and he had to be prepared for any situation, even when it looked as if the ex-queen had dunked her face in a blueberry pie.
But why would she do such a thing, he wondered, standing at attention, trying not to stare at the indigo stains splotched all over her soaked cheeks and dripping ears. Judging the state of the walls and door, it was clear she’d tried to hastily shake herself dry.
Frisk shoved herself past the bony sentry, mouth momentarily agape. “Mom, what happened!?” she demanded. “What’s that stuff all over your face?”
Toriel looked between the two of them, momentarily struck dumb and doe-eyed. Her regal demeanor slowly clamored itself back, steeling her jaws and reducing her shock. “I do not know for certain, I was just conditioning my fur as is my normal morning routine when I suddenly noticed ... this.” A large claw pointed toward herself, drawing a wavery circle in the air. “I tried to wash it out, but it is not working.” It wasn’t as if the boss monster was exactly known to be prideful, but she always kept her appearance tidy at least.
Empathy instantly wracked the young skeleton, connecting with her feelings intensely. She upheld high standards, just like himself!
“I simply do not know how this could have happened, I use this product every morning....” Toriel retread over this fact, trying to make sense of it.
Frisk and Papyrus shared that look again, this time with nods of burgeoning resolution.
“Sans.” They said together as one.
“Pardon?” Toriel had heard them, of course, but their accusation was so sudden and skirted the edge of wrath, she was taken off-guard.
“I regret to inform you, Lady Toriel, it seems my brother has taken it upon himself to terrorize everyone in the house with his insufferable pranks.”
Frisk suddenly gasped aloud. Everyone in the house. "Deni!" If she got there fast, maybe she could stop whatever Sans had cooked up for her in time! Tearing from the bathroom, she raced up the steps to the second floor.
Denise anchored herself with one foot against the baseboard of her bed, her arm stretched straining in the socket, reaching for the ceiling fan. She’d already rescued three of her custom, crystal set of pony figures, but the rest were beyond her range. Someone had hung them from the blades with ribbons; poor Fluttershy dangled by a leg, and those plastic wings wouldn’t save her if she fell.
Not possessing any kind of wings, like a normal person, Denise was unable to save herself from the same fate as Frisk burst into the room. With a cry, she toppled from the bed, just barely managing to prevent a full-on faceplant into the carpet by crossing her arms over her chest and head. “Ow....”
“Deni! Oh no, are you okay?” The little girl ran over, hands covering her mouth in worry for her dear sister.
“I will be....” Slowly propping herself up, Denise eased to a sit, lips pursed into a frown though not from the pain. “Someone tied my pony figures up on the fan, and I’ve been trying to get them down for about ten minutes. I can’t let them break!”
“It wasn’t just anyone, it was Sans!” Frisk wasted no time in pointing the blame. “He’s been pulling pranks all morning on all of us! I wanted to try to save you from it, but I guess he set everything up before any of us were awake.”
“Sans? How did he even get up there?” Denise wondered, her eyes narrowing.
“I don’t know.... But I have an idea to help get those down!”
Frisk climbed atop the bed to slide down onto her sister’s shoulders, and when Denise stood, the combined height was just enough to grab the remaining fragile toys from their perilous predicament.
“Thanks, Frisk! Someone is going to be learning not to mess with me the next time I see him....”
“Hehe! Papyrus thinks that’s what Sans is hoping for....”
“Well, in that case, he’s going to learn to be careful what he wishes for.”
Just as the sisters made their way down the stairs, a tri-colored fuzzball staggered into the living room, hacking and spitting.
“Angel? Oh dear, what’s the matter?” Papyrus took only two strides to meet his pet, crouching down and gently patting a gloved hand over her back.
The kitten gave another cough, a few small, downy feathers shaking free of her tongue and teeth. “Yuck!” Her tail lashed in irritation. “...I thought it was a tuna,” she groused, ears flattening with anger and embarrassment. “I could smell fish and it was driving me crazy! I thought I found it under the couch, but it was just this pile of feathers covered in tuna juice....”
“Gross....” Frisk stuck out her tongue sympathetically.
“Waste of good tuna juice,” Angel mumbled, clearly trying to stay annoyed despite the soothing touch.
Papyrus looked around his circle of friends, and though it varied in measure, it was still clear that each countenance reflected a desire for the same thing: Karmic revenge. His grin widened ever so slightly. “Do not fret, everyone! For the Great Papyrus has a plan.”
***
It took no more than a few minutes to gather the items for their revenge, but the most important bit was missing. Sans was nowhere to be found, though they searched up and down the entire house, even peeking outside before reconvening in the living room.
While the adults lamented having to put their revenge on hold, Frisk noticed a shimmer in the corner of her vision, and she glanced to the couch.
There, sprawled out in utter relaxation as if he’d been there the entire time was the mischief-maker himself.
“Sans!” Frisk’s exclamation didn’t even make the small skeleton twitch, though it caught the attention of the rest of the group, all turning and bearing over Sans with united predatory intent.
Finally opening one socket, Sans grinned up casually, noting the crackling atmosphere with the concern of a Moldsmal. “mm? ‘s’up?” His eyelights drifted to Toriel’s splotchy fur. “what’s got you so blue?”
There was a sudden ping, and for a missable moment, Sans’s eyes flickered wide, the minimal weight of his bones sinking into the couch cushions.
“It seems you are the one who is blue now, brother,” Papyrus said dangerously, raising his pinched fingers and pressing down harder to ensure Sans knew that escape was not going to be an option. Teleportation under the influence of gravity magic had risky consequences, and could leave a monster severely drained.
“hh! hah ... geeze, pap. heh, i don’t need any help stayin’ on this couch, y’know, it’s pretty cozy.”
Toriel slid her paws to her hips, the motherly disapproval glinting in her eye enough to still be intimidating despite the patchwork dye-job. “Sans the skeleton. You are in very big trouble.”
His lazy grin stretched ever upward, and he remained infuriatingly calm. “oh. well, i mean, it didn’t look like any of you were ready to throw me a party or anything.”
Angel jumped onto the couch’s arm, her tail waving in lieu of a smirk. “We know what you want out of us, Sans.”
“And we’re going to give it to you,” Denise cooed, a strange hunger in her tone, made all the more menacing with her lips drawn up and teeth bared.
“My Cocoa Clumps will be avenged!” Frisk declared, her hands in little fists.
“woah, woah, you can’t be cereal-ous,” Sans tilted his head cheekily, toes briefly twitching in growing excitement as the proximity of his loved ones slowly encroached his personal space. They were right; this was exactly what he craved, all his planning and set-up coming to perfect fruition, manifesting into reality — a ticklish punishment he’d never admit to have daydreamed. Quite often at that.
Toriel’s strong, furry hands were upon him first, and only now did he tense, only now did alarm bells start ringing that perhaps this little plan he’d pursued might have been better left to fantasy.
She didn’t tickle him.
The goat monster smiled down at him in that vexingly motherly way, like he was a child about to be sat down for a long talk. Her hands slid smoothly underneath him, easily defying Papyrus’s spell, lifting him up and rolling him gently from her arms onto his front. Hooking a clawed finger under the hem of his shirt, she pulled the fabric away up the length of his back, bunching it at his shoulders, grazing over his spine as she did so.
Sans shivered, his eyes wide, wisely choosing to stay silent as his vulnerable back was slowly exposed.
“Brother, all of us know you better than anyone else.” Papyrus chose not to acknowledge the one absent member of the household who could possibly know more. “We know how much you just love to be tickled silly, and you have made it ... VERY clear you are in need of our attention. And so we will all give it to you, Sans ... right here.” A few clacks of bone against bone sounded as Papyrus bent to trail a single digit down the side of Sans’s spine. Along the grooves. The small skeleton’s sweet spot.
Sans sucked in a breath, his frame jerking weakly though his reflexes in all honestly had tried to roll over, held fast by the artificial weight anchoring down his core.
They could all see it in his too-stretched grin and shivering, pinprick eyelights. Sans’s surprise was genuine, he hadn’t accounted for this possibility. All he’d wanted was a chaotic little ganging up on, not a coordinated attack. Oh, was he ever going to learn not to underestimate them again....
“o-oh.... good.” He knew he was doomed, not even reclaiming the casual sway in his tone could smooth over the faltering they were satisfied to hear. “i’ve had an itch back there that’s needed scratchin’ for a while....”
Denise apparently couldn’t wait another second, soft fingers eagerly skating along coarse bone. “We’re so happy to help, Sans.”
Angel, too, was growing impatient to start, pouncing next to the skeleton, careful to not step anywhere that wasn’t the couch. Her paws were very soft, and Sans was not to be tickled anywhere else but his grooves as they’d all agreed upon. Purring in amusement, she swept her tailtip lightly along the indented row. “I know you wanted scratches, but you always remind me how fragile you are, so I won’t use my claws on you!”
“I think that I will do so,” Toriel spoke up with a soft hum, choosing a lower set of grooves to fondle and prod into with her blunted claws. “I keep mine manicured so that they are not so sharp.”
On the smaller side like Angel, Frisk joined the cat on the other side of the couch, opposite her sister, giggling in vengeance as she massaged and wiggled little fingers into the sensitive spaces. “You’re a fan of justice, aren’t you, Sans?”
“Nyeheh, that he is.” Papyrus watched as the four girls each claimed a quadrant of his brother’s spine. With his lanky arms, it wasn’t hard to maneuver around the jumble of techniques, poking swiftly wherever a gap opened up. “Let’s see if he can take as much as he likes to dish out!”
Sans didn’t seem to be able to respond to any of the teases, gasping like a freshly caught fish. Little noises spilled from his teeth, trying to take shape into something recognizable; a squeaky whimper, perhaps a plea to the stars to match his expression of utter shock at the bulk of sensation his body could process. And then, in another moment, his sockets snapped shut and he burst with shrill, airy giggles, seeming to never stop even as he drew breath.
Denise chuckled lowly, cheeks burning a little as she felt Sans’s tension and frantic writhing. The skeleton was unable to move an inch away where it mattered most — his limbs useless in their frustrated struggles — and she couldn’t help but find his desperation quite the turn on.
Switching between her fluffy knuckles and her claws, Toriel gave a near inaudible coo as she noticed a splash of blue contrasting against the snowy white of Sans’s cheekbones. It was so utterly adorable how the little monster enjoyed himself through what he claimed to be torture.
Angel’s pupil’s grew, nearly blocking out her amber irises as her prey thrashed in place. Though the snare of magic was invisible, Sans was clearly unable to escape. He made for such a fun plaything, so exaggerated in his reactive motions, but still mindful enough not to cause her any harm.
Frisk grinned in glee as Sans babbled an occasional word of contrition. The monster made for quite the fearsome foe when he wanted to be, but to think she could conquer him in battle without the use of violence was a rush. With the help of everyone else, of course. But that made it even better! Everything was so much better together with her family.
Papyrus couldn’t have been smiling any wider, joy fluttering in his SOUL at hearing his brother’s pure laughter. Even though this was very much supposed to be a punishment, Papyrus wanted nothing more than for Sans to be happy, to be in the midst of everyone he loved, to feel loved through their touch and let his worries and fears be crowded completely out.
“h~haaahaahaa! ahahaa! ahaaeehee, pleeheeheese aahahaa! ahaaa~ahahahaa!” After so much strain, Sans lay on one cheek to rest what little he could, tears starting to roll off the ridge of his nose to the couch cushion. “ahee cahan’t h~haahandle anyheemore!” he professed windedly.
“I don’t know...,” Denise crooned thoughtfully. “If you can still talk, I think maybe we’re not tickling you enough!”
The others laughed their agreement, not letting up in the slightest. If Sans had used a safe word, it would have been very different, of course; ‘yellow’ and ‘red’ were taken much more seriously than tears or insistent protests and Sans himself knew it, so no one was truly worried. If he really needed a break, he knew exactly how to ask for one.
“staaahaaars ahhaaaahabove!” he wailed. “ahee’m sahaarry!”
“The only cause for your repentance, brother, is because we did not dance to your puppet strings,” Papyrus reminded him pitilessly.
Eight hands. Forty fingers. And one devilish tail. Would all of this really have been better scattered across the rest of his body? Well, probably more bearable in a way, but.... Wow, he really hadn’t thought this through, had he?
“i’ve lehearned m’ lehesson...!” Sans insisted when he could finally muster the words. He was looking up, but his eyelights seemed to be focused a little farther off.
Toriel was the first to stop. “I do believe it is time we make sure it is a lesson he never forgets.”
Slowly, one by one, the rest of them withdrew and Sans heaved for sorely wanted oxygen, twitching restlessly while tingles wallowed in the violated spaces. His entire backbone felt like it was crawling with ants, but he could do no more than whimper and shiver.
With a rustle of foil packaging, Frisk pulled a rectangular item from her pocket, taking off the outer layers to reveal a bar of chocolate. “Since I missed breakfast, I guess I need to find another source of cocoa and calcium.”
“Neyeh, good one, Frisk!”
“Not too much, my child. Candy is not a replacement for a proper meal.”
The human child grinned as she broke the bar apart, setting the smaller squares in a row along Sans’s spine. The chocolate had melted a little from being in her pocket, but was still mostly solid, if not a little sticky.
Oh boy. Sans grimaced at the initial feel of it, thankful that she hadn’t gone for chocolate syrup. When her lips wrapped around the first treat, he jumped at the soft, warm pressure. He didn’t know how long he’d been tortured for, but it was enough to leave him horribly oversensitive than was fair. He hissed, air catching in his chest until the third piece of chocolate was agonizingly nibbled away and he finally broke into a squeal.
Papyrus tried to sneak back a step to hide his sympathetic shuffling, but he couldn’t successfully escape catching Frisk’s eye, the young girl flashing him a wicked grin to tell him she knew he’d barely be able to survive this kind of treatment.
Nobody noticed Denise watching the taller skeleton’s reactions with interest.
“Mmm, that was so yummy!” Frisk exclaimed when she had finished, actually seeming rather pacified now that she had even a little food settling in her stomach.
“A-all right...!” Taking charge again, Papyrus lifted Frisk away and set her down next to her sister. “We cannot proceed until I clean up this mess!”
To Sans’s surprise, Papyrus didn’t pull out any kind of scrub brush, but rather an alcohol wipe, gingerly and thoroughly wiping away the remnants of chocolate and saliva. He sighed softly at the care, remaining alert with his eyes only half-closed. “...geeze, you’re not all gonna use me as a platter, are ya?”
“Not at all!” Papyrus responded chipperly, pulling out his real weapon of choice for his revenge: a magenta, felt-tip pen. He uncapped it with a smirk. “I’m not going to help you wash this one off, brother.” Resting his wrist on Sans’s ribs, he began to trail the soft point over the bumpy vertebra connecting to the small skeleton’s collarbones.
“hck! o-oh, stop!” Sans squeaked, wanting very much to wriggle. He pounded his fist instead, gasping as Papyrus moved down to the next spinal segment, drawing with precise strokes. “nnh—! wh-what’re you writing?”
“Can you not already guess? Here, I will help you!” He went back to the first letter stroking two lines over again and again. “Surely this is simple for you to figure out!”
Stars, it was a “...'t'...!”
“Very good, Sans!” Papyrus laughed jovially, retracing the second letter, three lines this time.
“ghh—! ...'i'....” Sans buried his face in his arms, muffling his giggles, clearly not wanting to spell any more of the mortifying word he was being branded with.
Papyrus allowed him the mercy of not making Sans say it himself, taking over that particular task — at twice his normal volume. “'C' ... 'K' ... 'L' ... 'E', oh this one gets a break!” His long fingers prolongingly spidered over the vertebra that would act as a space before he resumed. “'M' and 'E'! That should do it, don’t you think? Now everyone will know how much you want to be tickled, Sans!”
His arms weren’t large enough to hide his furious blushing.
“Hmm, I think that may not be enough,” Toriel hummed sweetly, the couch cushions sagging as she sat down.
Sans curled his toes and tried to hide his soles at her presence at his legs.
“Those sweet spots are hard to see, are they not? We must do something to make them stand out.” From somewhere within the folds of her dress, Toriel produced a little bottle of the indigo food coloring Sans had poured into her fur product, along with a q-tip. Carefully dipping in one end, she leaned over and proceeded to poke and twist the cottony nub into each groove, staining as far as it would reach, as well as small portions of his connecting ribs.
Sockets wide and dark, Sans scratched wildly at the couch, kicking and howling. Her meticulous attention to detail was almost as obsessive as Papyrus’s previous punishment. The q-tip didn’t quite have the range of a feather, but could probe deeper than a finger, and Sans couldn’t even jerk away from the invasive thing.
While Toriel worked, Angel jumped off the couch and briefly disappeared. Not that Sans had mind to notice.
When she came back, her tail waved in excitement and she purred through a mouthful of feathers. Ones she willingly put in her mouth this time. She spat them out on the couch arm, locking eyes with Denise.
The older human grinned, pinching up a wad of the downy fluff and moved in once Toriel scooted back. “Now for the finishing touch!” Denise continued to snicker as if she’d just laid down the best pun in the world, gently stuffing the tiny feathers into the sensitive indigo crevices. Using green ribbon she had ready in her pocket, she delicately cinched the fluff in place, tying little bows at each intersection of vertebrae.
Sans squirmed and huffed, wisps of broken, babbled words barely distinguishable from his shrill gasping. At last, each groove was unbearably plugged, and then the weight on his SOUL was lifted. He heard laughter that wasn’t his own, and soft coos. More than one hand patted his skull, and then the raucous merriment began to fade as the satiated prankees dispersed. Back to their morning routines. Leaving Sans on the couch to contend with the amateur tar-and-feathering job on his own.
Sans giggled through a low groan. How was his backbone this much involved in just breathing!? The steady rise and fall of his ribs was pure suffering by itself, there was no way he’d be able to pick and preen the feathers out without agitating himself into self-inflicted ticklish agony. Which was probably the point.
Well ... he could afford to lay there awhile and try to get used to it, he supposed. Maybe for forever.
Or maybe Papyrus would decide to ‘help’ him clean up once the invisible ink faded and his brother discovered the hearts scribbled all over his battle shorts.