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You're awoken, quite abruptly, by a loud voice and boney arm physically picking you up out of the comfort of your bed.
“HUMAN! I HAVE TAKEN THE LIBERTY OF PREPARING YOU BREAKFAST! WELL, QUEEN TORIEL HELPED. SHE WAS QUITE INSISTENT THAT SPAGHETTI IS NOT APPROPRIATE BREAKFAST FOOD. I DISAGREE, BUT I CAN'T SAY NO TO ROYALTY, SO PANNED CAKES IT IS!”
You are only half aware of being thrown over a hard shoulder and being carried down the stairs and through the house to the kitchen, where you are plopped down on one of the bar stools lined up along the outside edge of the island. A plate of perfectly browned pancakes is slide under your nose as you blink your bleary eyes and try to process what is happening to you at this ungodly hour of the morning. Looking to your left reveals Sans slumped in the chair next to you, looking equally groggy.
“What time is it?” you mumble, trying to suppress a yawn.
“uh… seven thirty. i think…” his head is nodding in a way that makes you fairly certain he'd been dragged out of bed in much the same manner as you.
“Oh god why? Please tell me someone at least made coffee…” You slide out of the chair and make a beeline for the coffee machine, only stumbling like a drunk slightly. It's full and warm, and you could have sworn you heard angels singing as you pour yourself a mug, dumping an unhealthy amount of sugar and creamer inside. After downing almost half the cup in one go, giving out a pleased sigh, you can already feel the fog lifting from your brain. Unfortunately with that comes the realization that Papyrus brought you down in your pajamas, which consists of a worn tank top and itty bitty shorts, as evident by the cold morning air raising goosebumps on your thighs. Subtly looking behind you reveals that Sans has noticed too. He's very clearly staring at your legs with a dazed expression frozen on his face, and you decide to chalk his blatant creeping up to drowsiness. Why would a skeleton even be interested in fleshy legs? Who knows, but you're still too sleepy to be embarrassed, and just enough of a little shit to have some fun with him.
“Take a picture, it'll last longer, bonehead!” you call over your shoulder with a smug grin. You're rewarded with him startling so hard he almost falls off his chair, followed by sputtering and a face so blue you could mistake him for a berry. You turn back to your coffee with a self-satisfied chuckle, but freeze when you hear the distinct sound of a phone snapping a photo. Slowly you turn to face him, revealing that he really does have his cellphone out, tiny camera lens pointed at your butt. He's got a nervous grin plastered on his face, and he even appears to be sweating bullets. He laughs shakily as you narrow your eyes at him.
“Well played, bone boy, well played…”