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musketeers-brothersinarms · 1 year ago

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Chapter One: The Crack of Dawn

The first rays of morning light touched the cold gray streets of Paris as the world woke up to meet a new day. Groggy store owners trudged out of bed to open their doors and await the early traffic, the clopping of horse hooves echoed as wagons were pulled along the streets, and windows flew open to let the chilly light into dark homes across the city.

As the sun slowly made its way across the sky, its rays peeked into the countless shimmering windows of the royal palace, whose turrets and towers glowed a rosy color in the dawn. Nestled in the middle of the palace grounds was the mess hall, where a small form stood mopping between long wooden tables and benches.

If you had happened to approach him, you would have seen a vigor in his movements, a sort of determined drive that most don't possess at 5 in the morning. He pushed his wet mop around the glistening marble floors, whistling quietly with a smile on his face. If you had come closer and leaned down, (quite far down as he was a very small creature) and looked under the floppy, beat up felt hat that he wore, you would have seen his excited button eyes and his round ears quivering at every sound. And if you got the chance to ask him his name, he would have introduced himself as Mickey Mouse.

But for the moment he was alone, working vigorously to scrub the floor clean, searching with practiced eyes for stains and smudges and swiping over them with a swish of his mop. It was easy to tell he had been doing this for years. A scruffy, sun bleached pair of overalls that were too big hung off of his shoulders, the straps sliding down his arms and making it difficult to work. A small bead of sweat trickled onto his cheek, but he hardly noticed in his concentration.

As he worked, the little mouse’s mind wandered a million miles away, drifting aimlessly between different thoughts, and so it was a few minutes before he realized that someone had walked quietly into the room and was watching him.

“Whatcha doing?”

Mickey turned in surprise to see his oldest brother standing in the doorway. “Julius!” he said happily. “I didn’t see you.” He looked out the window, seeming to notice the sun rising for the first time. “Wow, it’s already dawn.”

Part of Julius was surprised to see Mickey up at such an hour. He had always been the earliest riser of the three, but even he didn’t usually get up before first light. “Couldn’t sleep, huh. Something on your mind?”

Mickey paused as he dipped his mop into a sudsy bucket of water. “Well… it’s not that important I guess but…” he trailed off and looked into his reflection in the pail.

“...But?” Julius prompted.

Mickey ran the mop over a soot stain. “I’m just worried about the royal family. Or what’s left of it, that is.”

Julius nodded knowingly, as if they’d had this conversation many times before. “You're thinking about the princess," he said knowingly.

Mickey smiled slightly, a sheepish look on his face. “It’s just… she seems so ill-prepared to take over. I don’t mean she won’t be a good ruler,” he said quickly, “I just think she should be allowed more time to mourn her parents. They’re shoving all that responsibility onto her so quickly, I mean, her crowning is only in a week.” He dipped his mop in the bucket again, his brow furrowed. "I feel sorry for her."

Julius smirked slightly, his tail swishing mischievously. “You seem to think about Princess Minnie an awful lot,” he teased.

Mickey stuck his tongue out at the cat, but his face was pink. “She’s our leader, of course I’m concerned about her.”

Julius shrugged, smiling wider. “Of course.”

Mickey yawned suddenly, and his grip loosened on the mop handle for a second. Then he shook it off and stood up straighter. “Well, I'd better get back to work.” He slapped the mop back down on the tiles and scrubbed harder. “A janitor’s work is never done.”

Juilus’s smile dropped slightly. “You shouldn’t be pushing yourself so hard, Mick. How about we take a break and eat breakfast?”

Mickey hesitated, but then shook his head. “Cap’n Pete wanted this hall to be clean, and I don’t want to let him down.”

“We have plenty of time to finish this later today,” Julius retorted. “Stop trying to do everything yourself.” He held out his hand. “C’mon, you won’t be any good to me and Oz if you’re half starved.”

Mickey paused and looked out at the slick wet floors, and his shoulders slumped tiredly. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right.” Reluctantly, he picked up his mop bucket, careful not to slosh any water. “I just… don’t want to do a bad job.”

Julius glanced at his brother. “Are you sure Princess Minnie is the only thing on your mind?”

Mickey looked away as they walked out of the hall and said nothing.

Julius took the mop and rested it on his shoulder like a fishing pole. “You know you don’t have anything to prove to Captain Pete. You’re the best janitor this palace has ever seen.”

Mickey looked at his older brother uncertainly. “Better than you?”

Julius squinted his eyes into a mock frown. “Weell, not quite. Almost.”

Mickey smiled slightly. “I’VE never managed to set a stack of tablecloths on fire before.”

Julius nudged the mouse with a laugh. “We don't talk about that."

The two walked off down the large columned hallway together, making small talk with each other as the sky turned from rosy pink to blue. The palace murmured to life, and servants began to appear, running errands to and fro. Reaching the back of the hallway, the brothers ducked down a dingy stairwell that most would overlook, and ended up in a small but cozy servants quarters.

Three beds lined the far wall, while the left was occupied by a small table filled with books, various rags and buckets, and a couple of sketches of the palace grounds. A pair of muddy boots lay at the end of the middle bed, which was occupied by a sleeping lump buried under a frayed quilt. A melted candle in the corner did a poor job of illuminating the room, so Julius opened the shutters on a small window over the table, filling the room with chill air.

Mickey walked up to the lump and tugged on one of the long black ears poking out of it. "Oswald, wake up," he said. "We have to eat and get to work."

The lump moaned and curled up tighter. "Goway."

Julius sighed, as though this was all routine. "You know Captain Pete will have our hides if we don't start on the capes and boots in the washroom," he said pointedly. "We're already on bad terms with him."

The lump, after a moment of silence, heaved a sigh and shifted, rolling over so a grumpy face with a round black nose poked out near the pillow. "I don't like it when you're right," he said, sitting up unhappily.

Mickey had already grabbed a bucket of polish and a brush, and was waiting by the door. "Coming, slowpokes?" he asked.

Julius snatched a bucket of rags from the corner and nudged the small black rabbit emerging from the bed. "Yeah, yeah," Oswald griped, throwing on a pair of patched blue pants and some boots. "I'm coming. But we ARE going by the kitchen first."

"Of course," Julius said. "I hate seeing you hangry." Oswald made a face at him.

Mickey bounced up and down impatiently, anxious to get started. Julius watched him with a slight frown. Mickey was always a people pleaser, but even more so recently. He seemed awfully set on making Captain Pete as happy as possible. Maybe it could be... he sighed quietly. He hoped Mickey wasn't thinking of it again.

But looking into the mouse's shining eyes, watching the way he fingered the frayed brim of his hat without thinking, Julius knew it was exactly that. The dream of his, the dream all three of them used to share, was resurfacing. And every time it took hold, every time Mickey talked of them becoming musketeers together and fighting villains just like they always dreamed of doing... it hurt every time.

Because Julius knew, even if Mickey denied it and Oswald shrugged it off. They couldn't be musketeers. No one but well trained soldiers, sons of the nobility, members of higher class, became musketeers. And what were they?

Nobodys. Janitors of the lowest class. Try as he might, Juilus just didn't have the hope that his brothers held onto. That somehow, some way, they could become musketeers. He felt a knot in his chest as he thought of Mickey's dreams getting crushed, once again. But it was useless to try and talk him out of it. Once Mickey's heart was set on something, it was hard to shake him.

As the three walked past the courtyard gates together, Julius tried to ignore the sounds of chanting, steel clashing, and tromping boots that came from the drill yard. Don't get your hopes up, he thought. You can't be one of them. Don't be let down again.

But Mickey and Oswald nudged each other, their eyes shining, as they strained their ears to drink in every sound. Even Julius, though he wouldn't admit it, couldn't help feeling an excited flutter in his chest every time the thrilling cry was raised:

"All for one, and one for all!"

#disney au #disney musketeers #disney: bia #disney #mickey mouse #oswald the lucky rabbit #julius the cat #A/N: please don't look too long at any of the backgrounds in these illustrations they're laughably bad i'M SORRY

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itsladykit · 8 months ago

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Ship: Edge/Burgerpants (aka Edgepants)

Summary: BP isn't a sweet-piece. He's a janitor. Papyrus picks him anyway.

Explicit version linked above--please read the tags for kinks, etc. Clean version under the cut.

Relevant tags: crack taken seriously, sex work, power imbalance, bad boss MTT, dubcon themes but main pairing is consensual, anti-work BP.

Enjoy.

BP grumbled under his breath, scrubbing at a sticky black stain. “Did someone fuck a squid monster?” he groused, “They could have at least put down a towel—hrk!”

Mettaton swept into the room, stepping directly on BP’s back and forcing his face into the stain. Fur bristling and ears folded back, BP sat up to glare at his boss’ back. Mettaton didn’t even notice—he just clapped his hands together to get the gathered ‘pieces’ attention. “Are all my lovelies here? Yes? Marvelous! We have two very important guests on their way over, and I expect everyone to be especially solicitous.” He smirked, chin lifted. “It’s not every day the Captain visits, and this time, she’s bringing her Lieutenant with her. We’ll be sure to show them a good time, won’t we?”

The gathered sweet-pieces nodded. Technically, they weren’t open yet, but they’d make an exception for the Captain. BP ignored the announcement. He wasn’t a sweet-piece—he was just a janitor, and as soon as this stain was gone, he would be too.

A shadow eclipsed the black stain. He looked up to see Mettaton looming over him, hands on his hips and smile frozen. “And what, exactly, are you doing here?”

His tail curled closer to his thigh as he sat up, ears folded against his scalp. He gestured to the stain. “I’m cleaning. You want the place clean, don’t you?”

Mettaton’s head twitched slightly to the side, and he said through gritted denta, “Finish up. We have customers.”

BP’s fur bristled, and he gestured to the stain. “I’m trying! This is oil or something—it’s not coming out!”

“Then cover it up! I don’t want to see it—or you—in here when our guests arrive.”

With that, he spun around and returned his attention to the gathered ‘pieces, fluffing their hair, adjusting their clothes, or dabbing at their make-up. Not that they needed his fussing. Each and every one of them was coiffed and styled to perfection. Make-up and paint highlighted their best features. Chrome was polished, skin was painted, fur was brushed until it shone, and hair was elegantly styled. They dressed in soothing pastels, each like a perfect flower in Mettaton’s garden.

BP stood up and brushed at his dirty apron, trying not to feel self-conscious of his scruffy fur or his well-worn clothing. If they were the flowers, he was certainly a weed. He desperately wanted to go outside and take a smoke break, but Mettaton would throw a fit—and possibly BP himself—if he did that. So, he just grumbled under his breath as he swept out of the room, determined to find a rug or something to cover the stain.

Once he dug a spare rug out of the closet, he hauled it back to the main room, still grumbling and still itching for a smoke. The ‘pieces were busy arranging themselves for selection. They weren’t so crass as to line up; instead, they seated themselves on settees and couches, gathered as if they spent their days having tea and sharing gossip, rather than trying to quell and calm high-LV monsters. It was a pretty illusion they painted, and he couldn’t help but stop and stare.

He knew that life as a sweet-piece was not nearly as soft and sweet as they pretended—he’d seen terrible things in this line of work, seen their pretty faces smashed and broken, seen Mettaton sigh over a pile of dust and haggle with the killer about the price of replacement—but the fantasy was still compelling. After all, at his low LV he was little more than free EXP anyway, and no one would even bother to sigh over his dust or demand compensation when he died. What would it be like to be one of them? To be considered such a compelling beauty that even the most LV laden monster must hesitate to harm you? To be considered worthy of kindness?

“What are you doing here?” Mettaton squawked, “They’re going to be here any moment—and what is that?!”

Ears flat, BP looked down at the rug. “It’s—the stain won’t come out, so I got this to cover it.”

“Are you insane?” he demanded, arms raised, “It clashes!”

BP looked from the rug to the rest of the room. “It’s green, isn’t it? It figured it would match the wallpaper.”

“This is mint green! The wallpaper is clearly seafoam!” BP stared at him blankly, and Mettaton stared back, eyes wide and mouth stretched into a broad, manic grin. “Are you trying to ruin this? Is that what you want? To upset the Captain and thereby upset my patron? Is that what you’re doing?”

BP cringed away as he approached, eyes on Mettaton’s hands. “No! No, I thought—they’re the same, aren’t they? The colors? They look the same to—”

“Are you blind?!”

Sweat dampened his forehead as he looked from the rug to the wall. “I—maybe?”

Fury lit Mettaton’s eyes from within, LED bulbs lighting up one by one. Before he could take hold of BP, though, the little bell rang as the door opened. “—relax, gutter-rat!”

The fury turned to panic, and a metal arm clamped over his shoulders and hugged him to Mettaton’s side. In his ear, he hissed, “Say nothing and pretend you belong here.” Then he turned on his megawatt-smile and spun them both to face the door, steely arm still tight around BP’s shoulder. “Ah, hello! Captain Undyne, Lieutenant Papyrus—such a pleasure to have you both with us today!”

Undyne was a familiar sight, and her good eye swept the room appraisingly. Her grin was sharp as ever, but the twitch of her fingers and the dust on her hands made it plain the LV was riding her hard. Her companion was not nearly so familiar. He held himself preternaturally still beside her, eyelights burning. “Is it?” he asked. The caustic edge in his tone earned him a sharp elbow from his superior.

“Heya, Metts,” Undyne said, and BP felt the hand on his shoulder tighten upon hearing the nickname. “I need to blow off a little steam—” Given the way she drummed her fingers against her thigh, BP thought that might be an understatement. “—and I think my Lieutenant needs some help getting the stick out of his ass.” Her grin was sharkish as she clapped him on the back. “Preferences, gutter-rat?”

He glared, swatting her hand away. “I said I’d escort you here; I didn’t agree to anything else. I’ll wait for you outside.”

Her hand closed over the back of his neck, and BP’s fur raised in sympathy, noting how he stiffened in her hold, eyelights flaring. “You need this just as badly as I do,” she hissed, pulling him close. Her voice was a rough rasp, and his hand curled into a tight fist in response.

“Fuck you,” he snapped, still glaring, “I don’t—”

She shook him a little, holding him so she could look into his eyelights. “Pick someone or I’ll pick for you.”

“Fine!” He slapped her hand away and cast his eyelights around the room. Then he pointed—straight at BP. “Him.”

BP blinked. “I’m not—”

Mettaton’s hand clamped hard on his shoulder. “He’s not on shift.” He gave BP a brittle smile. “He’s not even dressed! Surely you’d prefer…” He cast his eyes on the gathered ‘pieces, who were watching with carefully concealed amusement. “Harriet, perhaps?”

The Lieutenant eyed the rabbit monster. “Harrie,” he said, and she offered a sardonic smile and a respectful nod. “How are your kits?”

“Just fine, Lieutenant. Your brother’s well?”

He scowled. “I believe you’d have more cause to know than I would.”

She giggled. “Send him my love.”

He huffed, arms crossed as he turned his attention back to Mettaton. “The cat will suit. Let him change, if it matters so much. Or—” He noticed that Undyne’s attention had shifted to one of the sweet-pieces, no longer focused on him. “—I can simply go. I have no need of—”

“Absolutely not! I wouldn’t dream of sending you away unsated, darling. Though...” He stepped forward, sweeping his gaze over the young Lieutenant and circling him slowly. “…if it’s a rougher touch you’re after, I’d be happy to provide. I know sweetness doesn’t suit all tastes.” He reached out, and the Lieutenant caught his servo at the wrist, glaring up at him.

“The cat, then. If you insist.” He released his wrist, and Mettaton stood frozen for a moment, unused to rejection.

He turned his head to glance back at BP, and he tried not to cower; Mettaton could not express his aggravation on a customer, but he could certainly vent it on his beleaguered janitor. “Oh, I do. We’ll get him prepared, and I assure you—he’ll be more than satisfactory.” BP’s ears drooped, and he glanced at the guardsmen, only to find himself locking gazes with him. His eyelights burned in his skull like embers in a void.

BP swallowed hard, wishing he’d called in sick today.

While their guests were shown to their rooms, a strong hand clamped over the nape of BP’s neck, and he was force-marched to the staff showers. Before he could protest or even think to respond, he was shoved—still clothed—under the spray of cold water, face pressed to the tile.

The hand tightened, and he couldn’t hold back a whimper. “Listen here,” Mettaton hissed, “you are going to do whatever he asks of you, and you are going to do it with a smile—and without any of your back talk, do you understand?”

“I wouldn’t—”

He was shoved more forcibly into the tile. “Do. You. Understand,” Mettaton bit out. He nodded frantically, not daring to speak. “Good,” he purred, and the hand loosened. “Get cleaned up. I don’t need you servicing a customer smelling like that.”

BP nearly asked what he meant by that, but feared Mettaton would take that as license to strip and scrub him down himself. So, he just nodded, Mettaton turned away, still frowning, but BP had to ask, “Uh, what am I supposed to wear?” His now wet coveralls and utility apron didn’t seem suitable. Unless the Lieutenant was into a very specific sort of role-play.

“I’ll find something for you,” Mettaton said dismissively. “Though where I can’t imagine—orange clashes with everything.”

On that note, he left, and BP looked down at the striped orange fur on his arm. “It doesn’t clash with everything,” he mumbled. He began his desultory scrubbing, ears drooping and the tip of his tail twitching. He barely managed to rinse the soap out of his fur before he was being rushed out of the shower and into the dressing room.

He flushed under Mettaton’s scrutiny, yelping when one of the older ‘pieces pulled the towel out of his hands and started vigorously drying him off. “Hey—!”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” they said, looking up at him with disinterest. Their features were heavily scarred—they’d been retired from work in the front of house after an incident a few years back. They still had a stable of loyal clients willing to overlook their scars, though, so Mettaton kept them sweet. “The Lieutenant picked you?”

BP glanced at Mettaton, not sure if he was going to be yelled at for talking back, but he was busy picking out a robe. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

The older ‘piece nodded to themself. “Hmm.” They glanced at BP again, and the fur along his spine lifted when he detected a hint of pity in their gaze. “Mind yourself with that one. He’s going to be a difficult client. His LV’s riding him, and he didn’t come here willingly. Worse, he’s got a reputation for being uptight. Monsters like him….” They shook their head. “They don’t relax; they snap. Don’t provoke him. Do what he says. And remember—” They glanced at Mettaton, then lowered their voice. “—no one is looking out for you but you.”

BP stared at him. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

They tossed the towel over his head and ran it over his scalp and cheeks. “And for stars’ sake, keep your tongue in your head.”

Mettaton made a pleased exclamation and rushed over at that moment, dove-grey robe in hand. Blue, yellow, and black flowers and accents swirled over its surface. “Perfect!” he said, rushing BP into it.

At the end of their fussing, BP caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. If he’d hoped, for a moment, that he’d look different—better, sweeter—after their makeover, then he was doomed to disappointment. He looked the same as ever, just less comfortable and maybe a little cleaner.

Mettaton picked an orange strand of fur off the front of his robe with a loud sigh. “This will need cleaning after. But it will work! He’s clearly nearsighted in any case, if he thought you were a sweet-piece.”

The scarred ‘piece gently pushed a tray into BP’s hands. “Good luck,” they said, steering him toward the stairwell. “First door on the left.”

“And don’t forget, darling,” Mettaton said. “If he seems at all dissatisfied, then I’ll fashion a robe from your skin. Am I clear?”

BP nodded numbly. The delicate cups rattled against their saucers as he climbed up the steps. He fumbled at the door, trying not to spill the tea as he opened it. He nearly tripped over himself as he entered the room, fur lifting when the Lieutenant looked up at him. He froze and forced an awkward smile, tail curling close to his thigh.

How did the real sweet-pieces manage to do this silently? Gracefully, even.

He cleared his throat and set the tray on the table, causing more rattling. The guardsman ignored him, looking back to the book he’d been reading.

Who brings a book to a sweet-piece parlor?

BP stood awkwardly in front of the table, tugging at the front of his robe. The guardsman ignored him, still lounging on the chaise and…reading. “Um.” His fingers twitched over the robe’s edge. Stars, he wanted a cigarette. “So….”

The Lieutenant sighed, sticking a thumb in his book to mark his place. He looked up at BP, leaning back in the chaise and surveying him. His brow-bone lifted, and he snorted softly. “I’m impressed. In only fifteen minutes, Mettaton managed to turn a janitor into…something that looks almost like a sweet-piece. He should incorporate that into one of his gameshows.” He turned back to his book. “I hope you have some way to entertain yourself for however long we’re stuck here.”

BP stared. “You…you knew?”

The brow-bone crept higher. “Of course I knew. I’m not blind.” He looked back to his book. “If I wanted a sweet-piece, I’d have asked for a sweet-piece. I picked you so Undyne and the android would leave me alone.”

The insult was too much. “So you dragged me into this because you were—what? Annoyed? You’re having a bad day, so I have to be stripped naked, insulted, humiliated, and-and threatened? Is that what’s happening here? Do I have that right?” His breathing was unsteady after the tirade, and for a few blissful moments, he had the satisfaction of glaring down at the guardsman, who stared back with wide sockets.

Then, like a rubberband snapping back after being stretched too far, his righteous indignation crumbled into panic. The Lieutenant’s shock was quickly hidden behind an indifferent mask, and he closed the book, setting it aside. BP’s heart started to race and his mouth went dry. Oh, stars. “Wait,” he said, forcing a smile even as his tail bristled, “I didn’t mean….” His voice was tight. It sounded like he’d breathed in a lungful of helium.

The Lieutenant stood, stepping around the table to stand in front of BP. Stars he was tall. BP swallowed, looking up at him. “Just-just a joke,” he tried, voice still strained, “Haha? Just…” He swallowed, glancing back at the door. If he ran, how long would he have before Mettaton went searching for him? And how long would he have to hide before he lost interest in finding him?

“My apologies.”

BP blinked, sure he’d misheard. “I’m—what?”

“I chose you because I didn’t want a sweet-piece,” he reiterated. There seemed to be a weight in his words, as if there was more behind them, but he didn’t elaborate. Instead, he huffed and looked away. “I didn’t mean to insult you, only to reassure you that I don’t expect anything from you.” He gestured to the door. “You can go. Tell your boss I changed my mind—”

“No!” BP’s eyes went wide, and his fur puffed. He glanced back at the door, sure Mettaton was going to come through it and skin him on the spot. Then he saw the Lieutenant’s brow-bone lift again, and he forced a smile, trying to smooth down his fur. “I mean….” He swallowed. “Do you want tea? They had me bring tea.”

The guard stared at him for a long moment, then he cocked his head slightly. He gave a subtle nod and gestured to the tray. “Tea would be fine.”

“Great!” He sat in front of the table, on the cushion provided. For a moment, the Lieutenant just watched him, looming at his back. BP’s fingers shook as he poured the tea, causing the cups to rattle in their saucers once more.

The guard walked around the table, sitting on the chaise again. He didn’t pick up his book. “What would you have done,” he asked, leaning forward, “if I really thought you were a sweet-piece?”

BP froze, looking down at the murky green liquid swirling in his cup. “Uh. You know. Sweet-piece stuff.”

Again, he lifted a brow. “I imagine you’re relieved that I don’t expect that of you.”

BP shrugged. “Sure.”

The guard tilted his head. “’Sure’?” he echoed.

“Well—I mean. You’re not exactly hard to look at,” he said, “and sweet-pieces….” He stopped.

“What about them?”

He shrugged. “People’re usually nice to ‘em. That’s all. It’s the point, isn’t it? They’re so sweet, you gotta be sweet back. I mean—I know that’s not how it always works out. Believe me, I’ve seen some shit.” The guardsman nodded, and BP had to imagine he’d seen just as bad, if not worse. “But…the Captain wouldn’t bring you here, if you were like that.”

BP rubbed the back of his neck, realizing he’d said too much. “So, yeah. Wouldn’t have minded being your sweet-piece for a day.” He laughed, wishing again for a cigarette. “Beats trying to get oil stains outta the carpet!”

“Baking soda.”

BP blinked. “Uh…huh?”

“Baking soda. Use a toothbrush to work it into the carpet, let it sit for fifteen minutes, then vacuum it up. So long as the stain hasn’t set, it should help.” BP stared at him for a beat, unsure how to react to that. “Maybe you should be a sweet-piece; janitorial work doesn’t seem to be your forte.”

BP snorted. “It’s a good gig, if you can get it. Too bad I don’t qualify anymore.” Any amount of LV was too much for a sweet-piece, even his low level.

The guardsman leaned forward, hands cupped around his tea. “I never really considered that some monsters would seek out this line of work,” he said softly, eyelights down. “I’ve mostly seen the less savory side of the trade. Not everyone comes to it willingly.”

BP understood all at once why he’d been so resistant before. “Hey, uh, I got my problems with the boss, but everyone here came here willingly. I mean—as willing as anyone can be. Cleaning the floors isn’t exactly how I’d choose to spend my free time, you know?” He laughed, but the Lieutenant looked away, brow-bones furrowed. His job entailed a good deal worse than cleaning floors, and he probably didn’t need the reminder.

BP cleared his throat, searching for a change of subject. “So. What would you have wanted from me, if I were a sweet-piece?”

The Lieutenant choked on his tea. “I—” He shook his head and cleared his throat. “Nothing. I don’t use—I have no need of a sweet-piece and no desire for one either.”

“So you’re going to read and I’m just going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs until the Captain’s done getting her rocks off?”

A faint flush of red magic touched his cheekbones as he glared. “If you don’t think you can carry a conversation, then yes. And I don’t pretend to know what Undyne is doing—nor do I wish to.”

BP shrugged. “Okay, okay. You just seem a little tense—”

“I am not tense!”

BP couldn’t hold back a snort, though when the guard’s expression darkened, he swallowed and reminded himself it was unwise to mock a high LV monster. “Right! Of course not.”

On cue, the teacup shattered in the Lieutenant’s grip. Before BP could react, he swore and stood, bits of porcelain cupped in his dripping phalanges. He dumped them in the trash can, glaring at his hands as if they’d betrayed him. “You, uh, you want a towel or something?” In answer, he held out his hand, open and expectant. BP grabbed a cloth napkin off the tray and scrambled to stand. “Here.”

He wiped the tea from his fingers, watching BP out of the corner of his socket as he did. When he was finished, he held the napkin out for BP—but instead of releasing it when he took it in hand, the Lieutenant used it as leverage to pull him closer and catch his eye.

Staring into his sockets immediately made BP’s hackles rise. He swallowed but held his ground. He didn’t back away, even when a skeletal hand lifted slowly to hover beside his face. He had plenty of time to pull away but held still as a bony thumb stroked over his jawline. His heart beat hard, and he wondered if the guard could hear it. “You know my name?” the Lieutenant asked.

“Papyrus.”

“So you know who I am. What I’ve done.”

He swallowed and nodded. “I—yeah. I know.” Everyone had heard the stories. Papyrus was not as infamous as Undyne, but as he’d risen through the ranks, people started to whisper. And when he successfully took control of the infamously uncontrollable denizens of Snowdin, those whispers grew louder.

“And still you offer yourself to me?”

Fuck. Something in the way he phrased that—his words archaic and weighty—sent a bolt through BP, making his knees feel loose and his breathing go thready. In that moment, it was impossible to separate fear from desire. “I—yes?”

The Lieutenant snorted, drawing his hand away and leaving BP holding the napkin. He returned to the chaise, his back to BP. “Most people would rather not attract my attention. But you….” He glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head again before taking his seat. He swept his gaze up and down BP’s body, and BP stood rigid, breath held. Finally, his gaze rested on BP’s face. “Alright, kitten. It’s your choice. Either sit and pour the tea, keep quiet while I read, or come here and be my sweet-piece for the day.”

BP stood frozen for a few moments. Some part of him was silently screaming at him to sit quietly and just enjoy the break, but the Lieutenant made an arresting sight. He lounged against the chaise, feet planted firmly on the ground. His features were set and stony, his eyelights hard. There was nothing welcoming in his pose. Rather, it looked like he was daring BP to approach, confident he didn’t have the nerve.

Something in him stirred at the perceived challenge.

With a subtle smirk—as if he’d won, somehow—the Lieutenant turned to pick up his book and resume reading. No longer speared by his gaze, BP was free to move. It made sense to just sit down and pour the tea, but nothing about this day was normal or sensible, and BP’s feet carried him past the table, until he stood between the Lieutenant’s spread thighs.

The guardsman looked up from his book, cocking his brow-bone again. Never taking his eyelights off BP, he shut it once more and set it aside. He brought his hand to BP’s waist, just above the hip, and BP’s heart started beating faster.

After, when they’d been drawn from the room and the Captain and her Lieutenant were taking their leave—and BP was curling in on himself as he grew conscious of Mettaton’s eyes on him, of the cruel smile forming on his glossa—Papyrus paused to pass him a few pieces of gold. BP looked up at him. “Um.” He looked to Mettaton, but his smile had frozen and he was staring at the Lieutenant.

“For your service,” he said, closing BP’s hand over the G. “I believe a tip is appropriate?” He glanced at Mettaton. His expression was mild, even as it dared Mettaton to contradict him.

“I…” He didn’t look at his boss. Instead, he kept his eyes on Papyrus. “Yeah. If you think…think I earned it.”

“I do,” he said calmly. Then pulling away, he looked to Mettaton to say, “I trust he’ll he available next time we visit.”

Mettaton’s frozen smile shifted into his megawatt grin, though BP could see the strain around his eyes. “Of course, darling! Anytime! Though if you would prefer someone more experienced—”

“No. Thank you. I rather like his inexperience,” he said, “It’s…refreshing. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He offered them both a nod and departed.

BP tensed as soon as the door closed, but Mettaton just sighed. “It’s a shame,” he said, “You’d think such an attractive monster would have better taste.” He eyed BP, then shook his head in disgust. “Whatever. You’re on call from now on,” he said, “So keep your phone on you when you’re off duty.” He gestured to the carpet. “Now get rid of that.”

He left and BP stood frozen for a moment. It felt, somehow, as if everything and nothing had changed. Then he turned and went to fetch the baking soda and a toothbrush.

It was probably too late to do any good, but it was worth a try.

#burgerpants/papyrus #fell papyrus #fell burgerpants #edgepants #my work #smut in the link #but this version is clean

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