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Kinktober Is My Kink

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It wasn’t Sans’ fault, really. Papyrus couldn’t blame his brother for his less than magnificent sense of patience, brought on by the not entirely unusual night of working on a new trap. He’d been dead set on sketching out the plans in full, building a breathtakingly accurate miniature replica (with working flames and real time water slide) and ensuring a perfect and flawless design, thus missing his designated break time. Or as Sans called it, sleeping.

Normally he wouldn’t be bothered by such frivolousness and utter waste of valuable time, but Sans had been adamant about keeping a scheduled sleep cycle and Papyrus was a fan of schedules. He hadn’t realized how much he’d gotten used to it, until he missed it. He was still awake when the ceiling crystals brightened bringing about a new day and he yawned as he traipsed down the stairwell, heading for the kitchen to make breakfast.

Tugging open the fridge door, he was met with a loud pop and shower of glitter and streams of paper in his face, startling him. Papyrus jumped back with a high pitched yelp, knocking over the carton of eggs he had been reaching for. They splattered across the floor and much to his irritation, his formally pristine boots. A sleepy chuckle echoed behind him as he picked a pink streamer from his eye socket and tried to get the taste of stale glitter out of his teeth.

Sans leaned into the kitchen, holding himself up by the doorframe and grinned. “wow pap, what an eggs-plosive predicament ya got there.” He huffed and shuffled into the kitchen, plopping down into a chair. He barely made it before dropping his head atop of his crossed arms and yawned sleepily. “you're lookin’ a little shell shocked.”

“SANS!” Papyrus whirled around, a scolding already in the works and found his jaw drawing wider as he yawned in return. He gave a quick shake of his head to shake off the wooliness before refocusing. “THAT WAS A WASTE OF PERFECTLY GOOD FOOD.”

“heh. better than egg on your face.” His smile widened at the groan as Pap turned around to gather the ruined carton, grimacing at the slimy mess as he scooped what he could back into the cardboard container and disposed of it in the trash. “guess the yolks on you, bro. i don’t even like eggs.”

“SANS.”

“all right, i’ll put away the eggs-cellent jokes before breakfast.” Sans missed the grumbled reply as he dug into his jacket, pulling out a packet of ketchup he kept for snacking emergencies and chewed on the edge of the plastic pouch, content to watch his brother clean up his little prank.

The morning had only been a precursor to an overall annoying day. Breakfast turned out to be more of a hassle, having run out of his favorite hot cereal treat and was reduced to munching on dry toast, ensuring Sans got out of the house on time before heading off to his own shift. Papyrus had fallen into an accidental snow puff trap dug by the Canine Unit and grumbled as he crawled out, scooping snow out of his uniform. He had torn his right glove, catching it on a pair of frozen gears he had been working on thawing before neatly slamming his phalanges in the hatch door. Sans hadn’t been any help, showing up with ill timed jokes, finding a niche to work in more egg related puns that no one else seemed to get. Papyrus fell for the buzzer gag, not once but three times as he distractedly worked through his traps.

Any other day, Pap enjoyed his brother’s lively antics, finding he preferred it when Sans wasn’t locked in his room all day. Today, however, every previously charming little thing rubbed him the wrong way. It really, really wasn’t Sans’ fault.

Sans skittered away laughing after a warning shout of, “BROTHER!” But was quick to return to cause more daily mischief that had his younger brother stamping his foot in frustration. All the while Sans seemed oblivious to the increasing tightness in Papyrus’ grin. The last straw was the ever brewing sock issue when they came home.

“SANS!” Papyrus’ voice felt strained, as if he’d been yelling all day and there was a dull pulse in the back of his skull he’d been ignoring for the last three hours. “PICK UP YOUR SOCK. THIS IS THE LAST TIME I ASK YOU.” Standing with a wooden spoon in his crossed arms, a spaghetti noodle dangling from the end, he glared across the living room to his couch potato of a brother.

Slouching low enough to make his own spine ache in sympathy, Sans threw a leg over an armrest and flipped the obnoxiously pink slipper on the ends of his metatarsals, the rhythmic muffled slap against his foot increasing the dull throb with each gentle sway. “you know i’m a real sock-er for…”

Papyrus didn’t hear the rest of the pun, his sigh loud enough to drown out his brother’s low voice. The wooden spoon clattered into the sink as the apron was yanked off his frame and wadded up in a tight ball to be tossed behind him as the taller skeleton marched across the span of the living room.

The determined stride pulled Sans’ attention upward, only to shrink back at the oddly placed scowl. “hey, uh, bro?”

“SANS,” Papyrus sighed. “I HAVE HAD IT UP TO HERE.” He drew his hand up to his face, hovering it just above his crown and he took minute pleasure in the slight flinch when he bent and gathered his brother in his arms. Flipping the smaller monster over his lap, he sunk down in Sans’ place with a light bounce and reached for the slipper that had fallen in the brief struggle. His other hand rested atop of Sans’ spine to hold him gently but firmly in place.

“IF YOU INSIST ON BEING SO CHILDISH THEN I WILL TREAT YOU THUS. AND CHILDREN…” He raised the slipper, aiming for the squirming skeleton on his lap. “GET SPANKINGS.” And brought the flat sole down on his brother’s covered tailbone.

Sans yelped, arching underneath the light swat. It hadn’t hurt at all, his clothing giving more than enough bulk to absorb the floppy, thin slipper but the oddly loving intent behind it sent a shock up his spine. “pap,” he grunted, gripping a knee that had been pressing into his sternum and struggled to lift himself up only to receive another swat.

“PICK. UP. YOUR. SOCK.” Each sharp word was punctuated with a following smack, growing bolder with each downward strike until the last one left his bones tingling. His magic reacted, awakening embarrassingly fast and Sans couldn’t stop it from filling out his shorts with simple rounded shapes along his thighs and bottom. When the next smack resounded a little louder than normal, only then did Papyrus start and realize what he had done.

“BROTHER!” He dropped the slipper and grabbed at the blue jacket, horrified at his actions. “OH, OH BROTHER, I’M SORRY, I WASN’T THINKING. ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!”

“f-fine, bro.” Sans stuttered, struggling to reassure Papyrus even as sweat slicked his brow and his soul thumped in his ribcage. His breath came out ragged, catching when the hand on his spine moved downward to rub in what he assumed to be a soothing gesture and paused at the give of ectoflesh.

Silenced waned between them as Papyrus took note of the rather obvious bulge pressing into his knees. “Brother,” he muttered, voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Sans buried his bright blue face in his hands, giving up on trying to scramble away. “i’m sorry,” he pleaded, “i’m sorry.”

“Do you…” There was a shy curious inflection to his voice, “like this?” His hand drifted minutely along the curve of a rather luscious bottom, his thumb kneading small, light circles. He hadn’t known Sans could form this rather, soft squishy yet strangely enjoyable part.

“i’m sorry, you were just, and then the slipper, it was kinda hot.” Sans sagged like a boneless skeleton, the ensuing silence suffocating and he mumbled, “m’sorry.”

“How sorry are you really?”

The cool, eerily calm, bordering on an entirely too read into, seductive tone took him by surprise and it went straight to his cock as Sans lifted his head briefly. “p-pap?”

His brother gave no warning as he lifted the previously still palm just enough to bring it down in a light and rich sounding smack to his clothed bottom. Sans lunged forward by the surprising impact, jarring him across the boney legs just tall enough to keep his feet from getting any real purchase. The hand immediately steadied him, pressing firmly along his lower back.

“papyrus!” Sans sputtered.

“Yes,” he purred back.

Whatever rebuttal died in a hitched surprised cry when Papyrus caught him a second time, a calculated fraction harder and he had to grit his teeth to stop any sound from slipping free. The third had him gasping, grabbing at smooth bone, fingers wrapping around a deceptively strong fibula. The hand holding him steadily trailed teasingly along clothed ribs, distracting him in a ticklish way before the fourth came down the hardest with enough force to feel his ectoflesh ripple. A low moan ripped itself from him and he arched up, grinding his hips down. Shit, he was hard.

The soft, soothing brush of gloved phalanges rub and soothe away the sting, curving around the enjoyable shape, innocently sweeping further down. The movement at odds with the genuine concern of Papyrus. “Are you all right, brother?”

“y-yeah.”

“Good.” The switch startled him again and Sans would later admit, he liked the darker shade that painted his brother’s unusually husky tone. “Because you’ve been a naughty boy all day, and deserve quite a few more of these.” Papyrus followed with several quick light blows with the flat of his palm. Each one rocked Sans further along his brother’s knees in delicious, frustrating friction.

Sans buried his face in his hands, smothering the whimpers that squeak out of him with every shaky exhale. Only when he started mumbling did Papyrus still, allowing Sans to lift his head, an azure blush coating his round, flushed cheeks. “g-guess this is a brand spankin’ new thing for both of us, huh.”

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Papyrus sighed and Sans could hear the annoyance in the unnecessary exhale, one of utter resignation. “I’m going to spank you for real if you keep that up.”

“promise?” he returned cheekily.

His hand came down sharply with a ringing smack.

“fuck!”

“Yes.”