#undershagold

Quite possibly the worst thing about all this is that Sans knows the truth already.

His smile falters only once, at the moment when his brother tells him that Alphys has gone on an impromptu vacation along with some other monsters he typically sees on a daily basis. He’s aware it’s a lie. He isn’t five years old—he’s more than capable of making a phone call—and when the phone rings and rings and rings but his best-friend-slash-mentor doesn’t pick up, Sans knows immediately that something is wrong.

But.

He smiles anyway; all laughter and ‘gosh, I hope she’s having fun!’ whenever she comes into conversation.

He’s not trying to deceive his brother, not really. It’s just that, Sans can tell that Papyrus is trying. Really, really, really trying his absolute best to make sure Sans doesn’t know what a wreck the human has left in their wake and, well. Papyrus hasn’t truly tried at anything for ages.

So he stays upbeat. He’s bright-eyed and excited and ready to take on the world like he always is. He groans at his brother’s jokes and yells at him to pick up his dirty clothes; to wake up early so they’re not late to their new job. Napstaton is in charge now and they’re both working as their agents. Sans uses the opportunity to play up his crush for his brother’s benefit—sighs and swoons over how dashing King Napstaton looks in their fancy cape and blushes and protests on cue whenever Papyrus teases him about it.

He feigns ignorance constantly, pretends he doesn’t see it when the look in Papyrus’s eyes grows distant during those quiet moments where he thinks no one is looking. Pretends he’s not always watching for that exact thing, soul aching with the need to comfort the one monster he loves with everything in him.

It’s exhausting.

It’s been weeks since the human left them and Sans has been mired in play-acting ever since. He’s always busy—doing work for the King, doing chores at home, pretending for his brother—he hasn’t had a moment to himself in what feels like forever. The smile stays, stiff on his face like rigor-mortis, and even at night he has no release from it because his brother has insisted on staying by his side till he falls asleep every night since the human’s departure.

Maybe that’s why Sans does it.

Maybe that’s why, when he walks into the throne room looking for the King and finds it empty, he doesn’t immediately turn back around and leave.

Instead, he lingers, eyelights darting all around the room for signs of occupation. Upon realising that he’s alone—alone for what feels like the first time in months—his body relaxes into an instant slump. His posture goes slack, shoulders hunching and arms falling limply to his sides. The papers in his hands gently slip from between his phalanges, swishing into a messy pile on the floor by his feet. His smile is the last to go, curving downwards off his face with a release of tension that feels like healing magic to his soul.

He’s so, so tired.

He eyes the throne, all plush velvet and gold. It looks soft and inviting, cushions plumped and primed and looking far more comfortable than such an ostentatious piece of furniture has any right to be. Sans stares at it and, even though every part of him sternly reminds that such a thing would be improper, in the end it’s just a glorified chair, right? And chairs are meant to be sat on.

He shuffles forward, feet dragging across the floor with a scraping noise that he would’ve have yelled at if it had been something his brother did.

He sits.

The cushions sink under his slight weight, surrounding him in blissful serenity. He sighs out loud, revels in the way it echoes in the empty room. He leans backwards and lets the back of the throne hold him up as his flexes his phalanges along the tops of the armrests, solid and firm under his tapered bones.

It’s nice.

Must be good to be King.

He stays in quiet contemplation for a moment, not even a breath taken too loudly. It’s serene; peaceful in a way he’s never truly appreciated before. He wonders if this is the sort of thing Papyrus likes. If this type of unfiltered silence is what he chases after on those days where he smiles at Sans with eyes that look like they’re staring right past him. Wonders if Papyrus knows that he’d do anything to make sure his brother never had a reason to look like that again.

His grip into the armrests tightens.

Sans has never been the kind of monster to sit still long. No matter how much he appreciates the reprieve—slumping easily into the throne like the warm press of his mattress—just sitting here doing absolutely nothing is starting to make him antsy. Having a break is nice but he doesn’t want to spend it dozing off when he could be doing something productive to actively relax instead.

‘How to Efficiently Slack Off’; sounds like something he should ask his brother about.

Sans allows himself a small internal smile at that.

He shifts again in his seat, mind mulling over a list of possible activities he can do to unwind with the limited amount of time he’s unearthed for himself when he catches sight of a high hanging painting to his right. It’s a portrait of Napstaton, grand and expensive with bright bursts of colours swirling with hues that bring out the best in their every angled feature. At either side of the King stand Sans and Papyrus, loyal attendees ever at the ready.

There’s a pique of interest that sparks in him as he looks at the well-defined cut of Napstaton’s jawline. An idea in particular that stands out to him. It’s a pastime that he hasn’t been able to indulge in at all ever since Papyrus started staying in his room at night. And, well, Napstaton is certainly attractive enough—Sans’ crush isn’t entirely made up, after all. Still, the idea of doing that here, in plain sight on the King’s throne, makes a flush rise up to his face. But he can’t deny that the thought of it appeals to the part of him that’s always up for another adventure; the part that dares to picture what it would be like if he sat here with the King themself.

So. The situation as it stands is:

     A) He wants to relax but he doesn’t want to take a nap.

     B) The simplest, most effective way to loosen up requires only himself and some downtime, both of which he has immediately at his disposal.

He gives a considering look towards the door in front of him, the only way in and out of the area. The throne room itself is blessedly private and, with the only entrance being right in his line of sight, it gives his naturally quick-reflexes more than enough time to react should someone decide to walk in. He’s confident enough in himself that he’s sure he can pull this off without a hitch. Besides all that though…

… it’s been a really, really long time.

That settles it.

With a nod to steel himself, Sans lifts one hand off of the armrest of the throne. He brings it down to rest his phalanges along the zipper of his dress pants, soul thumping in anticipation against the back of his ribs. He drags the zip down, pops open the button at the top of his pants and uses his unoccupied hand to loosen the tie at his neck.

The first hesitant touch of bone against bone leaves him breathless. It’s nothing fancy, nothing at all really, but somehow just the brush of his phalanges against the smooth slopes of his pelvis are enough to set his soul pounding and his face alight with the soft blue burn of his magic. He drags his hand further down, delicately rubbing at his pubic symphysis, soft at first before becoming more firm as the contact becomes more familiar.

He flicks his gaze back up towards the door to make sure no one’s there to disturb him, keeps on alert with both his sight and hearing just in case he needs to halt immediately to a stop. But as the minutes pass by, he’s still alone in the lavishly decorated room, hand working steadily towards a concentrated goal.

He’s not thinking of too much honestly. Maybe the press of the King’s cold, metal against the sensitive parts of his bones as they push him into the throne, or the deep, wetness of a kiss as he gazes into dazzling bright eyes that even the extravagant painting on the wall has failed to properly capture—and maybe, just maybe, of a second party joining in, smelling of smoke and sugary-sweet baked goods—but mostly he’s just brushing lightly along his pelvis, mind clear and content.

He almost wants to linger a little—slow down and let it build up so he can enjoy the tenseness before the release—but he’s still impatient, always has been, and as the pressure knots up inside him he can’t help but rub at himself even quicker.

In no time at all, the warm aura of his magic forms solid at his pelvis and Sans adjusts his hold so that he’s now stroking the member that’s formed in an easy practiced pattern. Quick and steady, up and down with a flick at the top as he curls his wrist. He pants a little, moans aloud, brings his free hand up to his mouth to bite at a knuckle and stifle the noises overflowing from him.

His grip is just starting to falter and fumble, soul beating staccato in his chest, when the sound of a voice right in front of him makes every motion in his body instinctively still.

“Hey, bro.” Papyrus calls from less than a foot away from him, both hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks.

Sans is frozen in place, too shocked to even push his femurs together to block his indecency from view because—how in the hell had Papyrus gotten into the room?? He’d been keeping tabs on the door the whole time and there’s just no conceivable way he could’ve creaked open the heavy, wooden doors and walked the distance to the throne without Sans having noticed a single thing.

He stares up at his brother, mute with shock.

“Have you—” And here Papyrus’s gaze meanders downwards, flickers almost imperceptibly before smoothing away like it wasn’t there at all and he continues, casual and calm, “—seen King Napstaton anywhere?”

Somehow the way his brother addresses him, as if nothing here is out of the ordinary, only makes things that much worse. He feels embarrassment crashing through him, jump-starting his deadened reactions into hyper drive. His face burns with shame as he quickly draws his legs closed, and ducks his head to avoid meeting his brother’s eyes, “P-papyrus, I-I… w-what are you doing here?”

“Like I said, I’m looking for the King,” Sans refuses to look up at him but, from the sounds of the smooth, clacking footsteps along the tiled floor, his brother is coming closer. His soul thumps rapidly in his chest, shivers racking through him doing nothing to help hide his arousal, “They don’t seem to be here though…”

Sans stares at the dark leather of his brother’s dress shoes as they approach, stopping just short of the throne as they near. He can feel Papyrus’s shadow loom over him, tall and imposing for a monster as easy-going and passive as Sans knows him to be. There’s a moment of quiet as his brother presumably stares down at the scene before him and Sans tries valiantly not to fidget uncomfortably under the heaviness of his gaze.

Then, Papyrus is leaning down, down, down with his long arms coming up to grip onto either side of the throne, trapping him between his brother’s chest and the seat at his back.

“Have you seen them?” And it’s weird. It’s so, so weird because, the way his brother says it makes it sound like a purr and Sans’ poor, confused body warms with interest at the tone.

He tentatively shakes his head, trying for normalcy like Papyrus seems to be doing, “N-no. Sorry, Papy, I, uh… I haven’t.”

“Huh, that’s a shame,” His brother says, still not moving from where he has Sans crowded into the throne, “Guess it’ll have to wait till later.”

Sans just nods, doesn’t have any clue on what else to say because—what is there to even do in a situation like this?? How is he supposed to react exactly when his brother has caught him quite literally with his pants down but doesn’t make a move to mention it? Most mortifyingly though, how is he supposed to explain it off when his brother notices that his appearance has done nothing to diminish the strength of his arousal, magic still hard and wanting?

Face still burning, Sans attempts to discreetly press the bones that make up his palm into his erection, hoping that his hand will at least cover it up somewhat even if the pressure won’t relieve the heavy ache. He hears a puff of laughter at his movement, feels a prickle of annoyance at the fact that his brother can find this funny when Sans is so embarrassed that he wishes it was possible to vanish straight into his room.

He opens his mouth to snap angrily at his brother when Papyrus suddenly shifts closer. The words get stuck somewhere on their way up as Papyrus leans further still, nasal bone just barely brushing against Sans’ forehead. His proximity makes Sans jolt in his seat, head snapping up to instinctively meet his gaze.

Papyrus grins at him, slow and easy, “In the meantime, it looks like you could use a little help.”

“W-what?” Sans manages, not proud of the way his voice cracks as he says it. But there’s no way he can push through this with any of his usual bravado. Not when his soul is thumping so fast against his ribcage that he fears it may burst straight through.

Because, Papyrus is acting like he knows and he can’t. He can’t.

Sans has been so, so careful.

His brother doesn’t answer him, instead wraps his arms around Sans with a wide smile, pulling him up into his hold. Sans yelps, colliding with his brother’s chest. He scrambles for purchase at Papyrus’s dress shirt, legs wrapping around his waist in the impulsive need to stay upright. His brother only laughs lightly at the display.

He’s flustered. Every single one of Papyrus’s reactions so far have been unexpected and out-of-place. It’s messing with his head, frustration growing steadily inside him. He frowns hard, readies himself to yell at his brother for the rough handling.

Something warm and wet runs up the side of his neck, “Mmn—!”

When he realises what it is, his face goes so hot he’s afraid he might actually catch fire.

His brother runs his tongue along his exposed vertebrae once more, dipping deftly into the crevices between each bone. Sans shivers in his arms, grip on his clothing tightening ever so slightly. He stifles the small noises building inside him best as he can, but his mind is racing trying to piece together what exactly is happening here.

There seems little doubt at this point that Papyrus has figured it out. That, despite his best efforts to hide it, his brother has discovered how Sans feels about him. The knowledge leaves his thoughts churning.

While the idea of being found out is enough to send his emotions spinning into a messy disarray, what’s really strange about all this is that for some reason—for some bizarre, nonsensical reason—instead of getting upset or disgusted or even just trying to talk this out, Papyrus has decided to… reciprocate??

Is he…

Is he doing it out of pity…?

His soul pangs painfully at the thought. He shifts in his brother’s hold, looks up into his eyes as if to find the answers there. Papyrus is looking at him openly, completely unguarded affection written across his face. It tells him nothing that he doesn’t already know.

“Papyrus…” He starts, but something in his brother’s expression shifts and suddenly he’s being lowered back onto the throne. And it would be fine, being put down again, if it wasn’t for how Papyrus adjusts his hold so that he can grip purposefully at the exposed part of Sans’ hips where his dress pants have sagged downwards. He catches on to his brother’s intentions in an instant, blush sparking anew over his cheekbones.

“P-papy, no! King Napstaton will get mad if—”

“Shh,” His brother soothes, turning around so he can sit on the throne first before slowly lowering Sans onto his lap, stroking softly at jut of his hip, “Don’t worry bro. We’re just gonna borrow it for a sec.”

He feels hot all over, burning in the places where his brother’s body brushes up against his. He still doesn’t know how Papyrus found out or even just what’s motivating him to play along, but it’s hard to think with his spine pressed up against his brother’s clothed sternum, firm and unyielding at his back. Papyrus tips his head forward till it rests on his shoulder, nuzzles along the side of his face.

“Besides,” His brother hums, hands slowly working Sans’ pants down his femurs, “It didn’t really look like you had a problem with it a second ago.”

“This is different.” Sans says, firm as he can manage even as his pants pool down around his feet, leaving him exposed.

Papyrus doesn’t respond to that, choosing instead to place his phalanges flat along the sides of Sans’ femurs and rub slowly back and forth. Sans feels his breath catch at the feeling of bare bone on bone, watches with chagrin as the motion makes the erection he’s still sporting bounce lightly. His brother moves one hand to trail up to his chest, lets it dive underneath his shirt to tease at his ribs.

“Papyrus…” He tries again, remarkably breathless for how little has happened—his brother hasn’t even really touched him yet—but he needs to know, needs to be certain that he’s not missing something crucial in this moment.

This time his brother listens, attentive as his hands dances up along his sternum, “Hmm?”

“Do you…” He takes a second to gather himself, fights back the stinging in his soul at the thought of rejection, “Do you really even want this?”

The movement of his brother’s body against his stops. There’s a long, heavy silence that bears down on Sans with every weighty second that passes. The stillness is suffocating. He can almost feel the bite of tears gathering at his sockets when, finally, Papyrus presses a soft kiss to the back of his neck.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” He says, and the words are so warm, so honest that Sans has no doubt that his brother truly means them.

It’s a funny feeling, knowing out of the blue that his brother feels the same way about him. He’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to do with the information. There’s a cozy, comfortable sort of pulsing in his soul at the thought and he can feel the beginnings of a wobbly smile on his face. Papyrus rubs his hands reassuringly down the sides of Sans’ arms, peppers kisses along the bones of his shoulder and up his neck.

“Now,” Papyrus reaches down with one hand to scrape along the curve of his ischium and Sans gasps, “Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking of.”

“What…?” He asks, distracted by the way his brother’s phalanges move skillfully over the bone, making his erection twitch from the proximity alone.

“What were you imagining, bro? What were you picturing while you touched yourself?”

As Papyrus’s words register, Sans blushes deeply. He straightens a little where he sits, tries to make his voice stern to regain some semblance of their usual dynamic, “That’s none of your—”

Papyrus wraps his phalanges around his cock and strokes; once, twice.

Sans strains against him, gasping.

“Was it Napstaton?” His brother murmurs against the side of his face, hand working away at him with long, sweeping strokes that are far too slow to be anything but teasing, “Were you thinking about fooling around with them?”

“P-papyrus—” Sans tries, reaching out to grab onto the armrests and keep himself steady.

“Maybe you were thinking of them bending you over the throne?”

His brother picks up the pace, squeezing ever so slightly each time he reaches the base of his cock, making Sans moan loud and unrestrained.

“Is that it, bro?” Papyrus rubs the flat of his hand over the head of his cock, licks a wet line along the side of Sans’ jaw as he presses a single phalange hard against his slit, “Were you getting off on the thought of them fucking into you, messy and wet, over the side of the throne?”

Sans is so close, “Ah, Pap—! Papy, please—!”

“Did you imagine riding them instead? Did you squeeze your eyes shut and think of how the slick slide of their cock would feel rubbing inside of you as you bounced on their dick?”

He’s so, so, so close.

“Or,” Papyrus pauses, hand stilling with a wicked timing that can only be deliberate. Sans whines, tries to push his hips up but finds himself being held in place. Papyrus keeps him trapped on the precipice of release and something low and possessive slides into his tone as he presses his mouth up against the side of Sans’ skull, “Did you think of me?”

Sans shudders. There’s only one right answer here.

He nods.

He feels the rumble of Papyrus’s chest before he even hears the laugh, “Use your words, Sansy.”

“Y-yes.” He says, flushing at the nickname as much as at the admission.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I thought of… y-you.”

“Yeah?” He brother whispers into his neck and, for the first time, Sans can feel the heat of his brother’s magic rubbing at the back of his sacrum, warm and quickly solidifying, “What did you think of exactly?”

“I-I thought of you touching me and… and I thought of you… f-fucking me,” His face feels heated as he says the words, unrefined and clumsy, but Papyrus just groans low and needy against him and there’s a spark of pleasure that rises from it that overpowers everything else. He likes that feeling, likes knowing that he’s the one who made his brother sound so openly wrecked. It bolsters his confidence enough to continue, “I-I thought of what it’d feel like to have you inside of me. To be spread open around your cock.”

Papyrus moans again at that, pulls down on Sans’ hips and ruts up with his own so that his tenting erection rubs up more firmly against the back of his sacrum, “You want me to fuck you, huh?”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak as his brother shifts beneath him and unzips his slacks. The warm heat of his cock feels pleasant against his bare bones and Sans has to restrain a shudder as Papyrus ruts lightly against him. His brother rocks lightly for a bit before nipping and licking at his neck once more, low growl in his voice as he says, “Then you’re going to need to make me something I can work with.”

Sans wastes no time, concentrates his eagerness into something productive. He clenches his eyes tight and grips hard into the armrests as he focuses his magic. With a quickness that feels like a blessing, his cock re-manifests into a slick entrance instead, already dripping wet with evidence of his arousal.

Almost immediately, his brother’s fingers are on him, swiping at his wetness and rubbing teasingly around the sensitive bundle of magic within his reach. Sans is already shaking from the slight touches, body sensitive after dragging this out for so long.

“What do you want, Sans?”

“Papyrus,” Sans says, going for scolding and somehow ending up just on this side of a desperate whine, “You already know what I want.”

Papyrus speaks and Sans can almost hear the grin in his voice, “I want to hear you say it.”

Sans kind of wants to roll his eyes, except Papyrus’s fingers are now working him open and that makes it incredibly difficult to stay prideful.

He inhales softly as a phalange enters him, “Please.”

“Please what?” Papyrus sounds almost disinterested, adding another phalange and pumping quick enough to make Sans shout in surprise. In fact, if it wasn’t for the hard press of his cock still heavy at his back, Sans would think he wasn't into this at all. As it stands, he thinks he may be learning more about his brother’s sexual preferences than he’d ever imagined he’d get a shot at.

“P-please, Papy.”

“Please, what, Sans?” His brother slips in another phalange and Sans is keening at the feel of them shifting and stretching inside of him. He pants as his tongue forms unbidden, foreign and weighty in his mouth, “I’m waiting.”

Papyrus follows his words with the removal of all his fingers from inside Sans, leaving wet trails along his bones as he moves to wipe his phalanges against his pants. Sans whines at the sudden feeling of emptiness, tries to shift his hips back against his brother but Papyrus simply holds him in place. He can feel his brother’s cock jut up against his hip and it only serves to make him feel that much hotter.

“P-please,” He manages to pant, saliva pooling in his mouth, “Please, fuck me.”

Papyrus turns Sans’ face towards him, kisses him open mouthed and languid, “See? Was that so hard?”

With one smooth motion, Papyrus pulls Sans’ hips up and slides into him, “Ha—! Annh!”

The force of the thrust has Sans immediately seeing stars and he wobbles, hand reaching back to grab onto his brother even as Papyrus brings an arm around to hold him tight across his chest. With his other hand, he manages to seek out his brother’s and they grip tightly onto each other as Papyrus pulls back and slams into him again.

“You’re such a good boy.” His brother whispers at the side of his skull, and he’d be embarrassed, he would, but somehow all the words do is make him moan loader, pressure building up inside of him.

“O-oh, oh god. Oh f—ahh!”

Papyrus fucks into him again, bouncing Sans against his thighs, “Always so good for me.”

“Haah—!”

“Always so tight and wet around me.”

“Please, Pap,” Sans feels tears pricking at his sockets, frustration from being so close for so long and not having anything even close to relief, and he wants this, he loves this, but he needs more, he needs so much more, “Please, please, please, Papy, please—”

His brother grabs onto him in earnest now and Sans holds on tightly to his forearms as Papyrus grips his hips. He lifts Sans up slightly before slamming him back down, his own hips moving up to greet him. Sans groans at the feeling, filled to the brim before being left wanting again as his brother pulls backs out. Papyrus repeats the motions, over and over, faster each time till Sans is a mumbling mess of incoherence.

It only takes a few more thrusts before the wet heat of his body clamps down tight around Papyrus’s cock inside of him and Sans feels like his vision blacks out before his eyes. He’s vaguely aware of his brother still moving, motions growing choppier and choppier till finally, he stills with a groan. Sans shivers as he’s filled with his brother’s release, body still shaking as he rides out the last of his orgasm.

Papyrus pulls out of him, slumps against the throne loose and relaxed. Sans follows suit.

They bask quietly in the afterglow for several long moments. Sans twists around to get comfortable, curls up against Papyrus’s chest as best he can. His face warms as his brother’s arms come up to cradle him. He plays absently with the collar of Papyrus’s blazer as he works up the courage to ask what he’s wanted to know for a while now, “When did you find out?”

“Hmm…?”

“When did you find out?” Sans repeats, firmer this time as he meets his brother’s questioning gaze, “How I felt about you?”

“Mmm… not that long ago, really,” Papyrus offers, “Probably sometime around when the human left.”

Sans nods, fingers smoothing gently over the creases in his brother’s tie, “And how exactly did you figure it out?”

Here Papyrus smirks, and Sans stops what he’s doing to stare at the way his eyes light up in delight, “You talk in your sleep.”

“I…” Sans blanches, “I, what?”

“I think it’s cute,” Papyrus coos as Sans’ face rapidly colours, “You dreaming about me is adorable~”

Sans is torn between wanting to hide his face and punching his brother out so they can pretend this whole conversation happened purely in his head. He settles for smacking harmlessly at Papyrus’s arm as his brother laughs, “This is exactly why I don’t want you staying in my room as I fall asleep!”

“You sure about that?” Papyrus gives him a positively smug look, “Especially now after all this? With round two on the line?”

“I’m sure.” Sans says flatly.

Papyrus’s eyes go comically wide, “Wha—Sans?!”

Sans bites back a smile, rolls his eyes for effect, “Stop thinking about next time and focus on what we’re going to do right now, lazy bones.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how exactly are we going to clean all this up before King Napstaton sees?”

His brother looks away from him then, takes in the throne they’re sitting on that’s been left wet and sticky from their enthusiasm.

“…… well fuck.”