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Papyrus’ room looked like a brothel, save for the racecar bed and action figures, which he was in the process of turning away so as not to feel watched. There were candles lit and dotted around the room, a series of scatter cushions that, contrary to actually being scattered, were placed delicately and with great purpose on the bed, and a long, winding stream of fairy lights that branched from object to object like luminous, pulsing veins. It was warm. It felt cozy. It was so, so close to being traditionally romantic, but you had both agreed on an extra feature and now it was staring you dead in the face.
There was a empty pot on the table next to you. You knew what it was for, a prop for the roleplay, and yet you still could not quite believe it.
“Papyrus,” you said, still in a vague, distant sense of shock, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“HUMAN...” He tutted. “I’M NOT SURE WHAT PART OF ‘WE SHOULD MAKE A SEX TAPE’ IS ELUDING YOU. THERE AREN’T EVEN ANY DIFFICULT WORDS IN THAT SENTENCE. I MEAN, MAYBE ‘ELUDING’, BUT THAT WASN’T IN THE ORIGINAL STATEMENT SO QUITE FRANKLY I AM AT A LOSS.”
There was a camera with a flip-out screen, and you could see yourself stare at it, saw the lag in the recording’s movements, Papyrus looming over the bed. You weren’t sure where he had gotten the chef’s outfit from. All you knew was that he was wearing it, and you were dressed as a French maid, flat on your back, still bemused. No underwear, of course.
“I TRIED TO GET YOU A TRAIN-ROBBER OUTFIT, BUT THEN I REMEMBERED I DON’T KNOW WHAT A TRAIN IS, OR WHY YOU WOULD BE ROBBING IT.”
“So... Why a maid outfit, then?”
He ducked his head meekly, smiling. “I-I THINK THEY’RE CUTE. I LIKE THE FRILLS.”
You shrugged your shoulders. The costumes were neat, you admitted, even if he had gotten himself a real chefs garb and you, a maid outfit with velcro attachments. He smooched your scalp, bopping your forehead with his chin. He adjusted his buttons, rocking on his heels.
You were on board, the idea was exciting, but Papyrus struggled to say the word ‘vagina’, so having him walk up to you, dinner in hand, and shout ‘HUMAN, I BELIEVE WE SHOULD MAKE ONE OF THOSE SEX TAPES THAT SEEM SO POPULAR NOWADAYS’ did more than surprise you. You had agreed, but hadn’t put all that much thought into it, outside of reading the ‘script’ he gave you. And here you were.
“... Why?”
Papyrus blinked at you, confused. “I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE A, YOU KNOW... A-A SEXY THING FOR US TO DO! THE IDEA, UM... APPEALS TO ME.” He scratched his head, thinking of the best way to frame his thoughts. “WELL, THINK OF IT LIKE THIS. I CAN’T MAKE LOVE WITHOUT FOREPLAY, AND THIS IS... FOREPLAY! FOR, YOU KNOW, WHEN I WANT TO... MAKE LOVE TO MYSELF. AND, HOPEFULLY, IT WILL HELP YOU, TOO!”
You looked at him softly, silently, and he rushed to fill the gap.
“IF I’M NOT AROUND, OF COURSE. YOU ARE MORE THAN WELCOME TO ASK ME FOR, UH... FAVORS. MAYBE WE COULD WATCH IT TOGETHER, AT SOME POINT...” He trailed off, smiling to himself and tenting his fingers, the crisp white fabric of his jacket scrunching under the movement.
You laughed affectionately. “That’s the reason? You’re personalizing your spank bank?”
“IF YOU WANT TO BE LEWD ABOUT IT.”
He took a deep breath, before steadying himself, more than aware that his nerves were unwarranted.
“A-AND I LIKE THE IDEA OF PEOPLE WATCHING U-US, YOU KNOW, DO THE HORIZONTAL TANGO, BUT WHENEVER I THINK ABOUT IT FOR TOO LONG I END UP GETTING SELF-CONSCIOUS... SO THIS IS FUN FOR ME IN THAT WAY, TOO! I PRETEND THAT OTHER PEOPLE ARE WATCHING. IT MAKES IT... IT MAKES ME FEEL GOOD.”
Papyrus’ mind ticked away, before he thundered forward, blustering, holding onto your shoulders.
“I-I’M NOT ACTUALLY GOING TO SHOW IT TO ANYONE, I JUST REALIZED HOW THAT SOUNDED--”
You gave him a soft smooch, trusting him entirely, a gentle kiss that soothed his panic.
“WELL... IF YOU’RE SURE!”
He took a deep breath, glancing between you and the camera.
“REMEMBER, IT’S ALL PLAY PRETEND, AND IF YOU WANT TO STOP, JUST SAY!”
Another soft kiss, a nervous exhale of breath, and a saunter to the tripod, making sure to position the screen correctly. You saw him tinker with it, ducking down to peer through its lens and make adjustments, painstakingly. He stood up to his full height, coughed once, and let his hand hover over the button.
“HUMAN? I LOVE YOU.”
He pressed record.
“I love you too--”
“QUIET, PASTA-WHORE!”
He reeled backwards, clamping his hand to his jaw before hitting stop, and you were left looking at him.
“WOW. WOW, I GOT TOO IN-CHARACTER, SORRY ABOUT THAT. GOOD LORD, THAT’S... LETS TRY THAT AGAIN.”
He pressed record again, and scampered out of the room, ready to begin the scene. This exercise was going to be a testament to your willpower, to your determination, because you couldn’t break down and laugh, it would hurt his feelings. You did your best to look innocent, holding the empty cooking pot. You glanced at it. Boy, that was a stubborn tomato stain.
You heard Papyrus’ voice, his cadence warped under his attempts to act, from outside the door.
“OH, GOSH, I SUPPOSE I WILL NEED TO CHECK UP ON MY SPAGHETTI, BECAUSE PUTTING IT ON TO BOIL AND THEN LEAVING THE ROOM IS SOMETHING I DO FOR SOME REASON.”
You couldn’t laugh, you couldn’t. He would get surly. He wouldn’t shout, scream, but he would pout and somehow that made you feel worse. He wanted to make a sex tape like those cool celebrities he liked, you were down to make a sex tape, and so help you God, it was happening.
He kicked open the door, bringing his hand to his forehead as if he were going to feint from the sight of you and your heinous crimes, as if he were witnessing something unspeakable.
“NO! THE LEGENDARY PASTA HARLOT OF THE WEST!”
You guffawed, pressing your face to the flat of your arm. He was ad-libbing. He was ad-libbing and it was going to ruin everything. You composed yourself quickly, and luckily he was too caught up in his gestures to be offended.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM--KITCHEN, WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY KITCHEN! YOU ARE ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE HERE TO CLEAN! AND COOK, ACTUALLY, I THINK THAT’S A THING THAT MAIDS DO, BUT I’M PRETTY SURE YOU’RE NOT HERE TO DO THAT. YOU’RE HERE TO...”
He stormed to the bed, ripping the pot from your hands in a gesture he probably thought made him come across as troubled, and brooding, before clasping your cheeks.
“STEAL MY SPAGHETTI!”
You gasped, scandalized, such a long intake of breath that you were sure you were going to pass out.
“Never!”
“HUMAN, DO YOU ADMIT YOUR...” He struck a pose and held it, and if his pause became any more dramatic it would last for an hour.
You heard the bed creak a little as you shifted your weight.
You saw a bluebird on his windowsill.
“... MISDEEDS!”
“No,” you bit back, “I re-fusilli.”
He snickered at the pasta pun, before catching himself and shooting you a withering look. He reared his hand back, smacking you on the ass, and you cried out, gasping.
“CONFESS! DON’T MAKE ME PUNISH YOU.”
Like a twig under a weight, you broke.
“But, oh, master chef Papyrus,” you simpered and God love him, you saw his cock twitch a little at the title, “I am but a sultry maid! And I was hungry for your...”
You sighed wearily, recalling the script he had begged you to follow, even if he himself had veered wildly from it.
“Spaghetti.”
“OF COURSE YOU ARE! WHO ISN’T! BUT YOU’LL BE GETTING A CERTAIN KIND OF... NOODLE. I’M AFRAID YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO REPAY ME.”
Noodle, oh God, oh no. He thought that was a great line, apparently, because he licked at his teeth. You threw your head back in an ingratiating gesture, trying to spare yourself his ‘wrath’.
“No! Please! This is all a misunderstanding!”
“A MISUNDERSTANDING? NON, NON!” He faltered, before leaning closer. “’NON’ MEANS ‘NO’, RIGHT?”
You broke character. “It does.”
“SILENCE, PASTA THIEF!” He reared his open palm back before bring it down to sting at the fat of your ass, making your groin ache and your leg twitch. You hissed at the pain, teeth clenched, and he waited to see if you were ready to continue. You did. “YOU CAN’T HIDE YOUR CRIMES, SAUCY MAID-HUMAN!”
He grabbed your hair, balling it tightly, and you felt a twinge in your groin.
“YOU CANNOT JUST WALK FROM PLACE TO PLACE, PILFERING PASTA! THIS IS A--”
You looked at him affectionately, and he stuttered, before finding his confidence again, enjoying the chance to be in control.
“--CIVILIZED--”
He smacked your ass again, and the pain was fantastic.
“SOCIETY!”
Another two hefty whacks, until tears beaded in your eyes, until you cried out, and he tugged you to his face by your hair, his breath heavy and hot against your skin.
“SO I’M AFRAID I’M GOING TO HAVE TO--”
You gave him a peck on the mouth, craning your neck to do so, and laughed at his high squeak.
“HUMAN, YOU’RE EMBARRASSING ME IN FRONT OF MY FUTURE SELF, WHO IS PROBABLY MASTURBATING TO THIS!”
His eyes widened.
“OH NO, NO, NO, I’M BREAKING CHARACTER! CURSE YOUR SMOOCHING CHARMS!”
“Oh good, now I can finally ask you; why spaghetti? Why not choose a sexy food, like... Melted chocolate, or strawberries?”
“SPAGHETTI SAUCE IS KNOWN FOR BEING AN APHRODISIAC.”
“Is it?”
“ONE OF THE INGREDIENTS MUST BE. A TOMATO IS A SEXY FRUIT.” He let go of your hair, smoothing it with his palm, before bunching it up in a gentler fashion.
“I’LL CUT THIS IN POST.”
“You’ll cut it in post? Post-production? You’re editing this?”
He blinked as if you had just said something incredibly stupid. “OF COURSE I AM! THIS NEEDS TO BE EDITED.”
You were about to feel a little insulted before he piped up again, and you melted.
“I THINK I GOT THE LIGHTING A LITTLE WRONG, SO I’LL NEED TO UP THE CONTRAST! YOU ARE, SOMEHOW, GOING TO LOOK BETTER THAN YOU ALREADY DO! I ALREADY LOOK FANTASTIC, SO CONSIDER THIS A ROMANTIC GESTURE. NOW, IF YOU’RE READY?”
You nodded, and he stayed perfectly still, an action that would help him later when he was editing. Out of nowhere he smacked your thigh, and tugged at your nape, dipping his head to your neck to bite at you, to punish. You felt his slick teeth pierce your skin, not dreadfully, and he went to pull away, worried he had went too far. You pushed his head back. He hummed appreciatively into your neck, suckling and licking at the bites with his tongue, making you writhe. He retreated, just a tad.
“I’M GOING TO TEACH YOU NOT TO TAKE THINGS THAT AREN’T YOURS! YOU’LL NEED TO...”
He furrowed his brows. Ad-libbing was all well and good, but he wasn’t sure how to finish the statement.
“YOU’LL NEED TO TAKE ME INSTEAD! BUT NOT IN THE ROMANTIC WAY, BECAUSE WE HAVE JUST MET, AND I AM VERY ANGRY WITH YOU. I’M TALKING ABOUT MY PENIS.”
You looked at him, flush, trying not to laugh.
“YOU’RE GOING TO NEED TO TAKE THE PENIS.”
“No,” you cried, so dedicated to overacting that you almost pulled a muscle, rolling up the front of your skirt with your free hand, “anything but that!”
“SOME PEOPLE WOULD CONSIDER THIS A REWARD, BUT UNFORTUNATELY FOR YOU, IT’S NOT. IT’S A PUNISHMENT. IT’S WRITTEN INTO THE... CHEF’S GUILD SOMEWHERE, I THINK!”
You let out a weak wail of ‘protest’, and the absurdity of his statement forced you to giggle, making it come out as a warble. You saw his chest jump with suppressed laughter as well, but he was set off because you were tittering, and not at the script, because he was a fantastic writer. He must have been. He was fantastic at everything.
You attempted to ‘struggle’, as you were a criminal about to face a hefty punishment, and you kicked your legs, thrashed your arms, and to your delight he pinned your arms to your sides with his considerable strength. He let them go, satisfied you had been defeated in combat, and tore your costume to bits. Your nipples perked in the cool air, and you saw him survey you, cupping your breasts gently, before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to be gentle, it didn’t fit his character! Fuck, he had only been acting for five minutes and he had already betrayed their integrity!
He groped your breasts, before scraping at them with the tips of his fingers, the hard bone leaving welts.
“YOU’LL HAVE TO BE PUNISHED PROPERLY--”
He looked to your torn, cheap outfit, to your soft form. You blew him a kiss and he stuttered.
“I-I’M SURE I CAN T-THINK OF SOMETHING. YOU’LL NEVER ST--”
He looked to your open thighs, to your dripping cunt, skin hot and flushed. The volume of his voice rocketed with every spike of arousal, and now he was mapping you with his eyes, shouting, cheeks on fire.
“Y-YOU’LL NEVER STEAL AGAIN, A-AND I--”
Slowly, you dragged your hand down your front to settle at your lips, stretching them just enough for him to make out the wet flesh inside, well aware of the effect you were having.
You moaned his name, hamming it up, as if you were already about to cum. He snapped. He abandoned any semblance of plot entirely.
“OH, SCREW IT!”
You gasped, and before you knew it he had crushed his face to yours in a desperate, panting kiss, his impossible tongue probing the inside of your mouth as your own swirled back, the taste of him forcing your hips to keen. The kiss, that grew in intensity until it hurt wonderfully, a ravenous one, pushed him forward, his hand cupping your face firmly before it trickled downward to your side. He pressed his groin into you, feeling your warmth on his pants, the thick layers of fabric forcing him to press harder if he wanted to feel anything. He did. As hard as he was able, gasping into your mouth. You rocked into him in turn, the front of his pants dampening with precum.
He was getting greedy. His hands groped at you roughly, every bone aching with lust, as they traveled your curves, settling before moving once again. He groped at your thighs, your ass, your shoulders before pulling you closer still. He was hunched over you, and you wrapped your legs around him, desperate and needy. He pulled his head away, only slightly, to rest at the crook in your neck, stuttering praises and dishing out kisses, running his tongue slowly up the sensitive flesh. You felt his hands dip downwards to undo his pants, and you were set on his shirt, unclasping the buttons one by one, hands shaking in anticipation. He shook the garment off, and you plunged your hands into his ribs in the way you knew he liked, scraping with your nails and tugging occasionally. You hit the mark. He whined and panted, every scrape forcing a whimper from his throat, body shaking. He scooted his pants off and he was there, long body hunched above you, with a piercing stare, a silent plea for consent before you finally did the deed on camera.
You rubbed yourself, folds wet against him, and that certainly seemed to be a go-ahead. The feeling, the burgeoning arousal that had been pressing against him, spiraled downward from his abdomen to settle fully in his cock, and he bucked, his body forcing him to. His eyes were lidded, so much as to appear shut entirely, his mind foggy, all outside thoughts falling away until all he could possibly think about was fucking you.
He glanced quickly to the camera to check if it was recording, and glanced back to you, eyes skirting up and down. He grabbed your breast, still feeling your cunt slide against him in tantalizing bursts that made him want to hiss and curse. You expected the big speech, the one he had written, the one you had glanced over in his handwritten ‘script’. He improvised.
“YOU’RE SO SOFT...” He mumbled, and you were sure it was for his own sake. His ribs were heaving with every breath, and he pawed at your breast, keeping his pelvis still. He ghosted his hand to your stomach, and then to your hips, before gently pressing in, feeling the flesh give until he felt bone. He rocked the pads of his phalanges back and forth, alien and comforting. He shot a glance to the camera, and although he was heavy on the foreplay you knew he was hamming it up a little, both for your future enjoyment and his own. The fact it also felt good in the moment, well... You weren’t complaining.
He pressed at your legs, watching the imprints of his hand against your skin fade away when he shifted.
“SO...”
He trickled his fingers to your thighs, groping and squeezing gently, huffing, rock hard.
“SO...”
He slid his finger to your slit, running it up and down, following your body as it keened. He pressed his finger to your clit, firmly, but kept it still.
“SOFT,” he groaned, right into your ear, his arousal giving his voice a gravelly quality that continued to be a novelty to you.
He pushed, just a little, and moved his finger slowly, up and down, watching with rapt fascination. You gasped, legs twitching.
“AND WARM...”
It occurred to Papyrus that this was supposed to be a ‘punishment’ within the grand tapestry of a story he had woven, one that would surely get him nominated for every possible award in the world if it were to get out somehow, and yet he wasn’t being all that ‘punishing’, not really. He could slow it down, or speed the process up until it was agony, sweet, wonderful agony, could spank you again or yank at your hair, could bite you until you bled. And afterwards you would cuddle, and he would kiss your wounds as you both lay together, chatting idly, embraced. He loved that part. The aftercare scratched an itch in him that he didn’t know he had, to soothe and protect, even if he did enjoy the sadomasochism, no matter how much he had tried to keep that fact under wraps. He generally liked to be the one in pain, but it was nice to switch things up a little. It was all in good fun.
“AND WET...”
He slid his finger in, gently, before withdrawing it. He brought it to his mouth, slowly, and you prayed he wouldn’t make some kind of culinary reference as his costume would almost force him to. He sucked on it.
“YOU’RE DELICIOUS,” he murmured, and to your relief it wasn’t that bad.
He brought his finger back down, circling your entrance, before cramming two phalanges into you out of the blue, to the knuckle, his other hand braced to your mound to keep you still. You bucked, and he pushed you back down, fucking you mercilessly with his fingers until you were shouting in what seemed like pain, though it was far from it. He withdrew, then crammed them back in, twisting them to and fro, curling them inside you until you felt a familiar pressure building in your abdomen, that worked its way to your groin. The ridges of his knuckles, with no flesh to pad them, pushed firmly into your wet cunt, every ridge tangible and excruciatingly stimulating. You focused on the sound of bone slapping against flesh as he looked into your eyes, glancing over every inch. You could see his cock, painfully erect, and watched the precum dribble down its length. His jaw hung open, and you noticed he was drooling, ever so slightly. He removed his fingers again with a slick noise, before he braced himself against you.
“ARE YOU READY TO BE PUNISHED?”
You nodded, shaky, before he cut you off.
“WAIT, WHY AM I ASKING? PEOPLE DON’T USUALLY SAY YES TO THAT ONE! OH WELL!”
He crammed himself in you to the hilt, laughing, and it cracked and gave way to a moan. Your knuckles were white against the sheets, and you could hear the faint mechanical whir of the camera as it recorded every movement, every moment, every twitch.
He began thrusting slowly, unevenly, as he always did, the suddenness of the sensation knocking him out of a rhythm before he could even begin. His hips slowly pressed into you, and with a judder left you empty, before slipping into your slit once again with a groan, his breathing stopping and starting in jumps. Like water, the feeling trickled down his spine to pool wetly in his groin, the weight of it forcing him to scrunch his face, clamping his eyes shut, puffing.
He breathed out your name, a husky noise that could barely be heard over his panting; his rasping, aroused breaths, so shaky that you could barely hear it.
He slipped into you again, and the feeling was blissful, the rocking of his hips stimulating your clit with every push, and every time he filled you it felt like you needed more, more, until you couldn’t stand it.
He groaned your name this time, loudly, highly, in a stuttering breath that was dripping with affection, with want, with something more than lust, more than the seedy fantasy you were both enjoying.
You prayed he did not cry out ‘TAKE MY SPAGHETTI SAUCE’ when he climaxed as originally intended, because if you did you would not be able to contain yourself and everything would come to a grinding halt.
The room was filled with the ruthless sound of flesh smacking against bone, and subtler, wetter ones that rang in your ears and reddened your face.
In and out, in and out, the same old song and dance, one you would never tire of. He plunged his hands to your hips to brace himself, before slamming into you, holding himself there. He tore in and out, and you hooked your legs around his pelvis, to spur him on, to encourage him to make you cum. He dragged his hand down, following your curves, to squeeze your ass.
He lifted his hand and smacked it, his bones acting like a paddle, hard and heavy and stinging.
“DO YOU--” He punctuated his statement with a particularly gruesome thrust, and God, you were going to cum around him, “--PROMISE TO BEHAVE IN THE FUTURE?”
You went to squeal a ‘yes’, but were cut off with another sharp smack. He continued rutting, his femurs straining, and he hunched his body over you to rest at your ears.
“I SAID--” He nipped at your neck, using his strength to pull you downwards towards him, “-- DO YOU PROMISE TO BEHAVE IN THE FUTURE?”
“Y-ye--”
“YOU LIKE THIS, DON’T YOU?”
You clamped your legs around him, every second leaving you feeling more filled, you were going to cum, you were going to cum, you could feel his cock twitch in you, you were going to cum--
“Yes, ye--”
“YOU LIKE BEING--”
He reared his head and cried out, close.
“Y-YOU LIKE BEING FUCKED?”
You nodded, warm, hellishly, hellishly hot, speech having totally escaped you.
“DO YOU PROMISE--”
His pumps were erratic, and furious.
“TO--”
He smacked your ass once more, and the skin was sore, bruising.
“BEHAVE?”
“I promise!”
He bit your neck, whipping his hand from your ass to your clit, his shuddering hand forcing you to climax; your legs to twitch, your eyes to roll as the feeling forced you to gasp. You rode it out on his palm, on his cock, every sensation heightened as it crashed through you, before all it once, it petered off, even if his ministrations did not. Your pulsing, sucking insides convulsed around him, and he threw his head backwards to look at the ceiling as the feeling blistered in him.
“THAT’S IT, HUMAN, THAT’S IT, TAKE MY--”
No.
No, good God, no.
You pulled him down, cut him off with a firm kiss, and he squealed into your mouth as he climaxed, his hips pumping unevenly, shakily, every instinct compelling him to push as firmly as he could into you, to fill you. His words turned into an indistinct slur in your mouth, the buzzing of his voice tickling you, and you felt his cum hit your insides. With a long, wet groan, he was spent.
“OH, WOW... PHEW... TAKE THAT, YOU... PASTA THIEF, I HOPE I TAUGHT YOU... A LESSON!”
He giggled, high on afterglow, everything feeling lighter and free, and altogether nicer. His shoulders slumped, until he was fully on top of you, close to sleep.
“YOU CAN RELAX NOW, IT’S DONE. BOY, THE LENS FLARE IS REALLY GOING TO PULL THIS ALL TOGETHER.”
You were still wheezing, body tingling. “... Lens flare?”
“WE NEED EFFECTS! THIS ISN’T...”
He pumped into you one last time for effect, then stayed there, the stimulation making his eyes water.
“... AMATEUR HOUR.”
He looked to the camera.
“... WELL, I MEAN IT SORT OF IS, BUT STILL.”
You rubbed at his cheek affectionately, feeling the sweat pool at your back, soaking into his racecar bed.
“... Can I give you some critique?”
“I’M AMAZED YOU CAN FIND ANY, BUT GO ON.”
“Stick to the script, or don’t have one at all.”
He clasped his chin, pondering, eyes clothes. Sweat dripped from his bones, from one to the other, his garb gone.
“... WE MAY NEED TO MAKE ANOTHER. AND THAT’S NOT AN EXCUSE FOR MORE SEX. REALLY! HONESTLY!”
He looked at you, smile cracking.
“... I SWEAR!”
“so.”
“So?”
“so.”
Sans was sat to your right, hands crammed in his pockets as always, his expression unreadable, always. You were reading a book. You thought to the sex tapes occasionally, watching them every now and then, but you couldn’t help but cringe at the acting. You were reading a book, and Sans was watching the television. Papyrus was in the shower, it was a humid day. Sans reclined, cracking his knuckles, more than willing to make idle conversation. It had been...
You thought for a moment.
... Around one month.
“i was goin’ through the tapes the other day, for, ya know, sentimental purposes--”
You felt your heart rise to your mouth. No, no, he couldn’t have.
“Really? You don’t strike me as sentimental.”
“well, i am. underneath my bones is a heart of gold, or somethin’, whatever... anyway could you do me a favor and make sure the baby vids don’t get mixed up with the sex tapes.”
Oh Christ, no.
You dropped the book, turning to him, and to your relief the expression on his face was not one of mocking; he looked just as rattled as you did.
“How did that even happen?”
“all the babybones videos are of pap, ‘cause i’d always film him, so he keeps them in a box labelled ‘papyrus looks great in these’. apparently he thought, uh, that the most recent video...”
He let it hang there, and he looked pained.
“How much of it... Did you see?”
He scratched at his skull awkwardly. “well, i turned it off as soon as i figured out what was goin’ on, so i only saw a couple seconds, but, uh, it started in the middle of you two...”
He mimed a thrusting into an ‘o’ in his hand, an act you presumed was to preserve your collective dignity, but it just made it seem far worse.
You both looked at each other, and the expression on your face keyed him into the fact that you were not the last person to watch it. Papyrus was of the ‘bust and leave’ school of thought when it came to to his viewing habits, it seemed.
“oh my god,” he mumbled, “this is the worst.”
“Agreed.”
The silence was as thick as tar, and if the earth split to swallow you whole you wouldn’t have minded.
“i just wanted to tell you, so, uh... you can hide it better. i was gonna show everyone the vids for his birthday, to embarrass him a little--”
You yelped.
“ -- so thank god i caught that, right?” He laughed, but in a way that showed he didn’t think it was all that funny.
You buried your face in your hands.
“... you wanna watch a couple? of the baby vids? it might... wash the taste of this outta your mouth.”
You nodded.
Sans creaked his body back to the television.
“... why a maid outfit?”
“Please stop.”