Chapter 1: Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry
“IF YOU LOOK AT ME WITH THOSE GODFORSAKEN PUPPY-DOG EYES ONE MORE TIME, I WILL TURN THIS CART AROUND IMMEDIATELY.”
“He’s licking his paws Papyrus! How can you be so blind to his charm?”
“AND WHAT CHARM WOULD THAT BE?”
You sigh, pressing your hand up against the glass. “Do you not see how soft and cuddly he is? And he would just let you pet him forever and ever.” Behind you, Papyrus groans.
“YOU’RE JUST AS SOFT AND CUDDLY AND YOU WON’T COST ME ANY MONEY TO BRING HOME.”
You look back at the skeleton, mouth molded into a smirk, but he merely looks exasperated. He’s leaning heavily against the shopping cart, body bent to about half his actual size.
“You said we could get anything.”
“WHEN I SAID ANYTHING, I MEANT A GOLDFISH. PREFERABLY ONE THAT HASN’T ALREADY BEEN NAMED ‘LORD THUNDERTOES’.”
“That doesn’t matter! We could give him a cute nickname, like…” You bite your lip, thinking of all the variants on the cat’s given name. “Thunder! Just Thunder.”
“Pap, baby, pleeease? Can we please, please, please get Lord Thundertoes?” You stick out your bottom lip, walking to Papyrus and wrapping your arms around his torso. His face softens a bit at the contact, and you lean your head against him, squeezing tight. “I will love you forever.”
“I THOUGHT YOU ALREADY PROMISED TO DO THAT.” He raises a delicate brow bone, and you huff.
“I’ll double love you forever.”
“YOU REALLY WANT LORD THUNDERTOES?”
“More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
“THAT’S REASSURING, THANK YOU VERY MUCH MRS. SERIFF.” You blush a bit at his words, but he still places a kiss on the top of your head anyway and embraces you back. “I CAN’T BELIEVE MY IMPENETRABLE NO-CATS-ALLOWED RULE AT THE HOUSE IS SUDDENLY DISSIPATING RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYESOCKETS.”
“It’s honestly about time you’ve had a different pet other than that ‘pet rock’ you insist on keeping around the house.”
“IT’S THE VERY LAST PIECE OF THE UNDERGROUND I HAVE. IT’S NOT A CRIME TO HAVE AN EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENT TO THE PART OF MY LIFE I LEFT BEHIND.”
“‘Very last piece’, right. Along with all of your action figures, your pirate’s flag poster, most of your books, your freaking race car bed that’s sitting, untouched, in the attic. I still have no idea how you managed to smuggle that thing out of there without a lot of trouble.”
“MAGIC IS A WONDROUS THING, Y/N.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Is there anything I can help you two with today?” says a voice from behind you, and you both turn, you still clinging helplessly to Papyrus’ body. A young girl in a blue PetSmart vest is standing shyly to the side, eyes wide as she glances at your husband. You can’t say you blame her, exactly. She probably doesn’t have many monsters coming in to buy hamsters or fish, and she probably doesn’t see too many monsters outside of her work either.
“WE WOULD LIKE ONE. LORD THUNDERTOES, TO BE SPECIFIC.”
“This one.” You point to the the cat in his cage, who is still curled up in a small ball in the corner. “We would like to get this one.”
“AGAINST MY WILL, OF COURSE.”
“Oh, shut up, you dork. You’re gonna love him.”
He did, in fact, love him.
Chapter 2: Sheriff Pipaprys and His Loving Dame
Papyrus writes a book, and, against your better judgment, you read it.
You walk into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes tiredly and yawning, and stop when you see Papyrus sitting patiently, hands folded neatly in front of him, at the kitchen table. You furrow your eyebrows.
“OH. HELLO, MY BELOVED FETTUCCINE NOODLE. HOW DID YOU SLEEP?”
“Er, fine. What are you doing here? Don’t you have work today?”
“THE RESTAURANT IS CLOSED UNTIL SATURDAY, REMEMBER?”
“Oh, yeah. Paul and his wife are having a baby, or whatever. That’s sweet of him, closing down the place to spend time with his family.” Something soft brushes against your leg, and you look down to see Thunder, purring loudly. You bend down to pet him, humming.
“WE SHOULD GET ONE OF THOSE.”
“What?” you ask, eyebrows raised. “A kid?”
“And how do you propose we do that?”
“WELL, I WAS THINKING… BABIES ‘R’ US WOULD MOST LIKELY HAVE A WIDE SELECTION OF SMALL CHILDREN.”
“I PASS BY THAT STORE EVERYDAY ON MY WAY TO THE RESTAURANT. IT’S VERY LARGE.” Papyrus raises a hand to his chin and strokes it as if stroking a beard. “HOW MUCH DO YOU THINK AN INFANT COSTS AT A PLACE LIKE THAT?”
“Papyrus, babe, that’s not how it-” You cut yourself off with a laugh, walking over to him and dropping a kiss on his smooth skull. “Nevermind.”
“DESPITE THE INTENSE HAPPINESS I FEEL WHEN I THINK ABOUT CHILD BROWSING WITH YOU, IT IS NOT THE THING I INITIALLY WANTED TO SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT. SIT DOWN.”
"But I’m hungry! Breakfast-”
“I WILL MAKE YOU A PLAIN, BORING, NON-EXOTIC OMELETTE JUST LIKE YOU LIKE AFTER THIS IF YOU WISH. JUST SIT DOWN FIRST.”
“Alright.” You pull out the chair next to him and sit down, closing your bathrobe tighter around you. “What do you want?”
“SOMEONE WOKE UP ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE PROVERBIAL BED THIS MORNING,” Papyrus laments, but says nothing further as he takes a stack of papers from off of his lap and slaps it down on the table.
“Um… what is this.”
“YOU KNOW HOW, A COUPLE OF WEEKS AGO, I ASKED YOU IF YOU HAD EVER ATTEMPTED TO GENERATE A NOVEL.”
“AND HOW YOU LAUGHED BECAUSE OF MY ODD WORDING AND THEN PROCEEDED TO SHOW ME ALL OF THE THINGS YOU HAVE WRITTEN ON THE INTERNET.”
“Not really the internet, Papyrus, just Microsoft Word-”
“AND HOW I TEASED ABOUT WRITING SOMETHING OF MY OWN.”
“Yeah, sure, I remember.”
“VIOLA! SURPRISE! IT WASN’T A JOKE AFTER ALL! I’M TERRIBLY SORRY FOR FOOLING YOU IN THIS WAY, BUT I WANTED MY NOBEL PEACE PRIZE-WORTHY MASTERPIECE TO BE A WONDERFUL REVELATION!”
“You… you wrote a book?”
“YES I DID. ISN’T IT MARVELOUS?”
“When did you have time to do this?”
“WHEN YOU WERE SLEEPING, OF COURSE. YOU’RE A VERY HEAVY SLEEPER, I WOULDN’T EXPECT YOU TO HAVE HEARD THE ECHOEY CLACKS OF MY KEYBOARD AS THE BRILLIANT AND CLINQUANT WORDS WERE BEING WRITTEN DOWN.”
“Yeah, I had no idea this was happening.” You reach for the stack and flip through the pages gingerly. “How long is this?”
“APPROXIMATELY 100,346 WORDS.”
You choke. “What.”
“NOT COUNTING THE BRIEF NOTE AT THE BEGINNING, WHERE I EXPLAIN MY INSPIRATION AND MY DRIVE TO WRITE THE BOOK. BOTH YOU, OF COURSE.”
“What do you want me to do with this, Papyrus?” you question, face contracted into a grimace.
“WELL, I WAS HOPING YOU WOULD READ IT, AND PERHAPS PROVIDE SOME FEEDBACK.”
“I don’t have time to read a 400 page novel for you, babe. Summer's almost over, you know, and I have work-”
“YOU DON’T NEED TO READ ALL OF IT. MAYBE JUST A FEW CHAPTERS?”
You look at him helplessly for a moment, and then cave at his eager expression. “Fine. I’ll read a few chapters.” You grab the papers and drag them closer, examining the front.
“YES! OH THANK YOU, THANK YOU!” Papyrus leans over and kisses your cheek. “IMPART YOUR VETERAN-WRITER WISDOM UPON ME. I AM READY TO TAKE HARSH CRITICISM WITH MY SKULL HELD HIGH AND MY CHEST PUFFED OUT, LIKE A DARING NOBLEMAN! DO YOUR WORST!”
You scan the title: SHERIFF PIPAPRYS AND THE AUDACIOUS-IF NOT SOMETIMES TERRIBLY SOFT AND LOVING-DAME FROM THE NEIGHBORING WESTERN TOWN, ONE THAT HAS BEEN RECENTLY OVERRUN BY BANDITS AND MURDERERS AND MUST BE SAVED!
Oh boy. A mouthful.
“Papyrus, I think the title might be a bit too long-”
And with that (hardly) said, the skeleton bursts into tears, throwing his head down dramatically on the table and clutching a hand to his heaving chest. You don’t know what to say.
“SAY NO MORE, I KNOW IT’S TERRIBLE. IT’S FLAMING TRASH ON A STICK-AND NOT A GOOD, MARSHMALLOW ROASTING STICK, BUT A COARSE, BROKEN STICK. ONE THAT WAS JUST SNAPPED OFF OF A TREE WITHOUT CARE. I SHOULD JUST THROW THE WHOLE THING AWAY AND PRETEND IT NEVER HAPPENED-”
“Shit, dude, calm down.” You pat him awkwardly on the back, and he raises his head. Tears streak indelicately down his cheekbones, and you frown. “It’s not flaming trash on a stick. The title may need some revising, but I wouldn’t give up on the rest quite yet. I’ve barely even started it.”
This seems to sooth him, and he sits up straight again. “THE TITLE WASN’T ROCK-SOLID, ANYWAY. IT COULD USE SOME ALTERATION.”
I continue to read the story, stopping only five times in the first three pages to subtly cringe at his punctuation mistakes, and finally set down the papers.
“HAVE YOU FINISHED THE FIRST CHAPTER?”
“Not quite.” You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms, and then decide otherwise, standing quickly and moving to the kitchen. “I’m gonna need food to be able to do this.”
You glance at the stack one more time, and groan. “Or maybe some alcohol.”
Chapter 3: Halloween!
A Halloween snippet from the Seriff home!
There's still an hour and a half left of Halloween, so this counts! This drabble isn't very long, but I decided that I couldn't NOT whip up a little something for Spooky Day.
“OH MY! LOOK AT ALL OF YOUR AMAZING COSTUMES! I DO HOPE YOU’RE GETTING EXTRA CANDY FOR HOW ADORABLE YOU ALL LOOK!”
You smile fondly at your husband as he drops a few pieces of candy into each of the children’s bags and sends them off with a wave. He shuts the door and turns to you, smiling broadly.
“Having fun?” you ask, walking towards him and plucking the candy bowl out of his firm grasp. This is your first year staying at home and handing out candy instead of begrudgingly going to one of your friends’ Halloween parties, and you could safely say that it was a success so far.
Papyrus nods with so much enthusiasm his pirate’s hat nearly slips off of his skull. “I DIDN’T KNOW HANDING OUT CANDY TO LITTLE CHILDREN AND COMPLIMENTING THEM ON THEIR EXQUISITE CHOICE IN ATTIRE COULD BE SO WHOLESOME AND ENTERTAINING!” he admits, pecking you on the cheek. “I’VE NEVER HAD A HALLOWEEN THAT’S BEEN THIS MUCH FUN.”
“Never? Not even when you were a kid?” You set the candy bowl on the nearest end table and then take Papyrus’s hands in yours, adjusting the sleeves of his buccaneer coat.
“I DIDN’T GO TRICK-OR-TREATING WHEN I WAS A CHILD. I WAS MORE FOND OF STAYING HOME AND DOING THE SAME THING SANS WAS DOING.”
“EATING AN ENTIRE BAG OF STORE-BOUGHT CANDY AND THEN FALLING ASLEEP ON TOP OF ALL THE WRAPPERS.” The skeleton frowns then, thinking over his words. “ALTHOUGH THE ‘FALLING ASLEEP’ PART ALWAYS CAME EASIER TO HIM THAN I. I SUPPOSE THAT’S STILL HOW IT IS.”
“You two are shockingly different when it comes to the sleeping department,” you say, dusting off the shoulders of his jacket. “I should know. More than once he’s fallen asleep on our couch, and more than once I’ve had to prod him for several hours to wake him up.”
The doorbell rings again, and snagging the candy bowl, you shoot Papyrus a urging look. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
For a moment, he stares at you, as if trying to figure you out. Then, his face breaks into a grin once more, and he gently cradles your head in his phalanges.
“I’M NOT TOO SURE HOW I GOT SO LUCKY TO HAVE YOU, Y/N. YOU MAKE ME HAPPIER THAN ANYONE I’VE EVER KNOWN. WE’VE BEEN TOGETHER AWHILE NOW, BUT SOMEHOW I FIND ANOTHER PART OF YOU TO FALL IN LOVE WITH EVERYDAY. I’M SO FORTUNATE TO GET TO BE ABLE TO EXPERIENCE THAT. I LOVE YOU DEARLY.” He presses a chaste kiss to your lips before breaking away with the bowl and opening the door to greet the kids.
You’re still blushing when you hear him say, “OH, YOUR COSTUME IS SO AUTHENTIC! YOU DESERVE THE WHOLE BOWL FOR YOUR OUTFIT!”
Chapter 4: The Third Batch of Potatoes Is the Charm
Papyrus attempts to make Thanksgiving dinner, and you can imagine what a feat that is.
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
"QUICK, Y/N, TRY THESE! ARE THEY TOO SALTY?"
You barely look up from your book before Papyrus is shoving a spoonful of mashed potatoes at your mouth, and your jaw drops in surprise, a clear invitation for your husband to force feed you.
"Hphm--Papyrus!" you yelp around a mouthful of food, and the skeleton crosses his arms. You swallow quickly, nearly choking. "What the hell was that?"
"PLEASE BE HONEST; WERE THEY TOO SALTY? DID THE POTATOES SUPPLY A HEAVY AMOUNT OF SODIUM CHLORIDE? DOES YOUR TONGUE FEEL AS IF IT IS OXIDIZING?"
"What are you even saying?"
Papyrus lets out a whine and throws his arms out dramatically, letting go of the spoon. It flies across the room and clatters to the floor, leaving smatterings of stray mashed potatoes in its wake. "I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE THIS. A SKELETON OF MY ATTAINMENTS, FAILING TO MAKE A SIMPLE BATCH OF MASHED POTATOES."
"Pap. Stop being such a drama queen--"
"METTATON'S THE DRAMA QUEEN, NOT ME."
"--and just restart the potatoes. Didn't you buy, like, a billion at the grocery store?"
"YES." A pause, and then a defeated sigh. "BUT NOW THAT WE'RE ON THE SUBJECT, MY GREEN-BEAN CASSEROLE ISN'T FARING TOO WELL EITHER."
"Did you follow the recipe I gave you?"
"Hmm," you say, tapping a finger against your chin. Papyrus's brow bones knit together, and his shoulders slump.
"HMM? THAT'S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY?"
"I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO PROVIDE SOME SOUND ADVICE." A weak glare is directed your way. "OR MAYBE SOME HELP."
You smirk at him, mirroring his posture and crossing your arms. "I thought you said you didn't want help. This morning, when you started on the turkey, and I said, 'Pap, baby, would you like help with something?' and you replied, 'no, no, of course not, I am completely fine, no help is needed here, just watch me make a brilliant Thanksgiving dinner for my family and friends all by myself.'" Papyrus deflates. "Or something like that. Do you remember saying any of those things?"
"Then you're completely okay with finishing the potatoes and the green bean casserole on your own?" you ask sweetly, moving to grab the spoon from the floor.
"I HAVE TO CONFESS SOMETHING," Papyrus says, pressing a hand to his breastbone. "I LIED WHEN I SAID I DIDN'T NEED HELP. I DO NEED HELP. ALL OF THE HELP. PLEASE HELP ME."
You smile at him, giving him the spoon and standing on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his mouth. "Aw, it's always so cute when you admit you're wrong."
Papyrus gives you an ailing grin. "I'M ONLY HERE TO PLEASE THE MASSES."
You wink at him, and then turn on your slipper clad heel, marching to the kitchen with your husband in tow. "First order of business: rectifying those ridiculously salty mashed potatoes."
“well, shit, guys. this looks great.” Sans says later as he looks at the carved turkey in the middle of the table, and you smile knowingly at Papyrus.
“I HOPE IT TASTES GREAT AS WELL. AS MUCH AS I WOULD LIKE TO SAY I MADE THIS FANTASTIC THANKSGIVING DINNER ALL BY MYSELF… I DIDN’T. IF CREDIT MUST BE GIVEN TO ANYONE… MY BEAUTIFUL Y/N DESERVES IT.”
“good job on the food, y/n.”
“BUT I DID HELP, THOUGH!”
“He remade the mashed potatoes at least three times to make sure they were… edible,” you laugh, setting down the last dish and sitting down in the chair your husband pulled out for you. “It was adorable, in a strange way.”
“ALRIGHT, EVERYONE PLEASE SIT DOWN!”
“we are all already sitting down, pap. you're the only one who's standing.”
Papyrus blushes lightly as he realizes the validity of his brother's statement. “OH. RIGHT. OF COURSE. ANYWAY!” He pauses to lift up his glass and tap a knife against it a few times, smiling proudly. “I WOULD LIKE TO MAKE A TOAST EXPLAINING EVERYTHING I'M THANKFUL FOR, IN THE SPIRIT OF THE HOLIDAY!”
He glances around at the table, at all of his close friends from the Underground; Undyne and her girlfriend, Alphys; TV star Mettaton; Queen Toriel and King Asgore; his brother, slumping in his seat and grinning lazily. And at you at his side, chin resting on your hand, eyes trained intently on him.
“I HAVE SO MUCH TO BE GRATEFUL FOR. MY INFALLIBLE COOLNESS; MY ASTUTE COOKING SKILLS; MY COUNTLESS ACHIEVEMENTS. BUT IT’S TIMES LIKE THESE--SITTING HERE, WITH ALL OF MY FRIENDS--THAT I AM REMINDED OF WHAT I AM TRULY THANKFUL FOR: YOU GUYS.”
“aww. isn’t my little bro the sappiest thing?”
“I AM ESPECIALLY BEHOLDEN TO YOU, Y/N. YOU NEVER FAIL TO CHARM ME, DAY AFTER DAY. I THINK IT’S IMPORTANT TO ALSO MENTION THAT THIS IS OUR FIRST THANKSGIVING AS MR. AND MRS. PAPYRUS SERIFF.”
The table breaks into applause, and you take a small bow in your seat.
“I LOVE YOU DEARLY, Y/N. HAPPY THANKSGIVING.”
“I love you too, Papyrus. Happy Thanksgiving.” Your husband leans forward and pecks you delicately on the lips, and you beam at him.
“so... are we allowed to start eating now?”
I'm not sorry that I keep making my skeleton boy so cheesy in the end of all my recent chapters. I can't seem to write him in any other light except "ridiculously mushy in every way shape and form".