Drabble Dump(ster Fire): Summer 2019-Ongoing

by Vexatious

Summary:

A collection of drabbles requested from Tumblr and Ao3 comments. NSFW requests will have an addition to the title and a note at the beginning of the chapter for those who would prefer to avoid them. Content will be tagged by chapter.
My Tumblr: vex-bittys

Notes:

Requested: A Mamba (SF!Sans lamia) meets another Mamba who is being fostered by his caretaker.

Chapter 1: MINE!

You never regretted your decision to adopt your Mamba. You knew that very few adopters could handle the handsome lamias’ over the top attitudes, but you adored your Mamba’s confidence and unapologetic ego.Your obvious and genuine admiration of Mambas as a bitty species and your Mamba in particular led you to a risky decision though. You offered to foster a second Mamba for a friend who could no longer care for him.

Life can be full of expected twists and turns, and a recent divorce turned your friend’s comfortable, two income living situation into single income hardship. Your friend finally found a job that paid well, but it left them short on time to dote on their Mamba. The lack of attention showed too; the Mamba was flopped across a pillow listlessly when you arrived to pick him up, looking more like a Corny than a magnificent Mamba. Even his scales were dull, showing a clear lack of the usual Mamba preening.

Your friend wished their Mamba a tearful goodbye, thanking you profusely for helping to get him back to his former luster so that he could find a new, better owner who had the time to spoil him in the way that he deserved. You promised to keep them updated on the Mamba’s progress and not to adopt him out without their approval. The Mamba didn’t react to any of this, and his uncharacteristic behavior worried you.

You carefully rehearsed a speech to give to your Mamba while standing outside of your front door. You hoped he would be understanding of the situation, especially since he wouldn’t have to share any of his stuff. You’d purchased new items for the foster Mamba, items that weren’t cheap, but definitely of a lower quality than you usually purchased for your Mamba. Hopefully the difference in quality would appease him. It did not.

Once the outraged shrieking from your Mamba died down to an annoyed grumble, you attempted to show him the condition of the foster Mamba and explain why he needed to stay in your home. Your Mamba took one look at the interloper and whirled, slithering away to pout, thinking you had decided to replace him with some inferior Mamba. You sighed and helped the foster bitty settle into his temporary home. Your Mamba wouldn’t stay out of sight for long. Mambas never did.

You didn’t see your Mamba until the next day, and even then, you heard him shouting before you even caught a glimpse of a single shimmering purple scale. Rushing to the scene of the… well… scene, you discovered your Mamba waving his arms and shouting at the foster Mamba, who was curled up indifferently on his pillow. Your Mamba pointed at his own pillow, then the floor, and finally at you. 

“MINE!” he shouted right in the foster Mamba’s face. The foster Mamba didn’t react, and you hoped your Mamba wouldn’t explode from rage.

You separated the two lamias, trying (and probably failing) to explain once more that the foster Mamba was only living with you temporarily. You made sure to point out the quality difference between your Mamba’s expensive and therefore permanent nesting items and the foster Mamba’s less expensive and therefore non-permanent nesting items. He didn’t look entirely convinced, but he let the matter drop.

For about 2.5 seconds.

You barely had time to walk into the kitchen before your Mamba darted into the room, upturned the other Mamba’s plate before it even had any food on it, then grabbed the salmon that you were painstakingly shredding for the lamias and stuffed as much of it into his mouth as he could. The garbled sounds he made definitely sounded like shouts of “MINE!” which your Mamba confirmed by jabbing his tiny finger at his plate, the table, the food, and finally, you.

You hated to scold your lamia for letting his secret insecurities show, but you certainly weren’t going to let him bully a down on his luck lamia. You righted the foster Mamba’s not-as-nice-as-your-Mamba’s plate and carefully placed equal portions of salmon on each dish. With a stern warning to let the new Mamba eat in piece, you served each lamia his respective breakfast. Your warning ended up being unnecessary. The foster Mamba barely picked at his food, and you wondered if maybe a bath and some nice lotion would help him get back to his former glory and encourage him to make an effort. You were honestly beginning to worry about the little guy.

You filled the sink with warm water and drug store aromatherapy bubble bath, making sure not to use the special ceramic tub that belonged to your Mamba or the specialty bubble baths and lotions that went with it. You’d purchased a nice aromatherapy lotion at the same drug store, hoping that the soothing lavender scent would help the foster Mamba’s mood, but you’d barely settled the foster bitty into his bath when your Mamba raided the bathroom, knocking bottles of shampoo and lotion everywhere, gesturing at the entire bathroom in general and shouting (no surprise) “MINE!”

As you dried the foster Mamba on a plush (but not too plush) towel, you explained to your own Mamba once again that the situation was temporary. This Mamba was a visitor, just here to get some rest and relaxation before finding a new home. Your Mamba did not look convinced, but you stood your ground. Guests were not to be bullied in your house. When you mentioned this being your house, the Mamba glared and grumbled “Mine.” 

You sensed that it wasn’t over, and you were right. Two weeks of being carefully informed of the ownership of practically every item in your home later, you’d finally made enough progress with the foster lamia to start looking for a permanent home for him. The adoption couldn’t come soon enough in your opinion. The little foster lamia needed a place where he could point at various items and declare them as his.

In fact, you had arranged for a potential adopter to stop by that very day. When the friendly person showed up, you brought out the foster Mamba to introduce them. The would-be adopter had just crouched down to introduce themselves when your Mamba exploded on the scene. Your Mamba grabbed the foster Mamba, glared daggers at the hopeful (and bewildered) stranger and shouted “MINE!”

That’s when you noticed the two Mambas’ entwined tails. Oh.

You never regretted your decision to adopt your second Mamba, especially when the pair of them commandeered your closet for their clutch of eggs. You didn’t need your clothes, not as much as they needed a secure nesting place anyway. 

No, you never regretted your growing family of sassy, bossy, completely and utterly spoiled and adored Mambas.

Chapter 2: And They Were (room)Mates

Summary:

Requested: Well, nobody requested it, but I wrote it anyway. This story takes place about five years after the events of And There Was Only One (Extra) Bed, chapter 24 of Drabble Dump (Summer 2018).

“I guess we’re really doing this,” Blue, the Sans from the Swap-verse, sighed to himself as his brother, affectionately known as Stretch and his boyfriend, sometimes not-so-affectionately referred to as Edge, strolled through the living room in the most ostentatious Hawaiian shirts that Stretch could find. Acceptable Dog woofed his agreement.

Blue straightened his posture as they approached the makeshift front desk that he and Stretch had thrown together for just such an occasion and proceeded to hammer away very unnecessarily on the bell that had been placed there despite the fact that Blue was already looking right at him! Blue wanted to groan, but he never did anything halfway, even this ridiculous hotel farce.

“WELCOME, SIR!” Blue greeted his brother cheerfully. “MAY I HAVE THE NAME ON YOUR RESERVATION PLEASE?”

Stretch leaned casually on the counter, causing the hastily (and poorly) constructed apparatus to sway. “i believe it’s under Chris P. Bacon.”

Edge snorted, and Blue struggled to keep his socket from twitching. Honestly though, he expected a pun, and the one Stretch picked was fortunately quite mild compared to what Blue had imagined. Blue tapped away at his laptop as if he were checking a booking in a database when, in actuality, he was typing “I can’t believe this is happening” in a blank word processing document. He scrutinized what he’d typed for a moment before turning his attention back to his grinning brother.

“SIR,” Blue said, biting off the word as if he couldn’t stand to address his brother with any sort of honorific in this situation. “THERE HAS BEEN-” Blue paused dramatically. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right! “- A MIX-UP! THOUGH YOU BOOKED A ROOM WITH TWO BEDS, THE ONLY ROOM WE CURRENTLY HAVE AVAILABLE HAS. ONLY. ONE. BED.”

Edge gasped outlandishly. Stretch laid the back of his hand across his forehead, swooning. “oh no, there’s only one bed? whatever shall we do? we shall have… to share!” Stretch prattled dramatically. 

Blue could no longer keep up the charade. This whole scenario was complete nonsense! Who bought into such campy tropes anyway? “OF COURSE THERE’S ONLY ONE BED! IT’S YOUR BED! IN YOUR ROOM! THE ROOM YOU TWO HAVE SHARED SINCE YOU GOT MARRIED THREE YEARS AGO! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DO THIS EVERY NIGHT WHEN YOU COME HOME!”

Stretch patiently waited for Blue to finish his outburst, hand outstretched. Grumbling rebelliously, Blue handed him his fake room key. Stretch grabbed the key and pulled Edge up the stairs by the hand, ready for some relaxing husband time after Edge’s long, hard day at work.

“don’t forget our bags,” called Stretch from the top of the stairs. 

“SERIOUSLY?” Blue complained under his breath, peering around the desk. Sure enough, Stretch and Edge had brought a suitcase. Upon further investigation, it turned out to be packed to the brim with a surplus of the flamboyant Hawaiian shirts that the pair always wore on their “vacation.”

“YOU LIVE TOGETHER,” Blue said to his brother and brother-in-law, even though they weren’t in the room anymore. After a moment’s pause, he gasped softly in wonderment.

Oh stars, they were roommates!

Chapter 3: Netflix and Ill

Summary:

Requested: A Chain (SF!Papyrus lamia) is ill and his owner takes care of him.

You didn’t need a SOUL bond to know that something was amiss with your Chain. He lacked energy. His scales didn’t shine. He rarely left the house to patrol or hunt. The one thing the SOUL bond did tell you, however, was that your Chain wanted to hide whatever was wrong. Not one single symptom leaked into the bond you shared with him. He managed to retain the sweet and soothing signature that you always felt in his presence, and you trusted his judgement enough not to question it. You should have known better.

All of your well meaning thoughts of respecting your lamia’s privacy vanished the moment you found him sprawled out on the kitchen floor, completely catatonic with dangerously faded scales. The connection between your SOULs flickered weakly, and you worried that you should have insisted on helping him earlier. You remembered the instructions Vex gave you about lamia bitty illness. Lamias rarely became ill, but when they did, they needed help to restore their magic in the form of protein and warmth.

You rushed to the microwave to warm up some broth, and while you waited for the little magic box to do its duty, you threw your Chain’s favorite blanket into the dryer and cranked it up to high heat. The microwave chirped for your attention, and you dipped a finger into the liquid to check the temperature before carrying the container and a spoon over to the prone lamia.

You pulled the big skeleton snake into your lap, cradling his head in the crook of one elbow. He was cold to the touch, a sure sign of poor health in lamias. The muted colors and translucent appearance of his scales meant that his magic levels were dangerously low, and guilt squeezed your chest. You signed adoption forms for this lamia bitty, a promise on paper that you would take care of him. How had he gotten so sick?

The stabbing guilt roused the Chain, and he nuzzled your chest, trying to comfort you despite his own suffering. Swallowing back tears, you offered him a spoonful of the wispily steaming broth, which he sipped at gratefully. You spoonfed your lamia a mug of broth in record time, too worried about getting warm, nourishing food into him to make sure he got a chance to savor it. As soon as he emptied the mug, you dashed into the laundry room to grab the now pleasantly heated blanket to wrap him in while he digested it.

Once you had finally bundled your Chain to your satisfaction- fully burrito-wrapped with only his flushed face sticking out- you transformed from caretaker mode into full-on mother hen lecture mode. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” you asked him, using indignation to hide the fact that you might burst into tears at any moment.

The Chain managed to work one arm free of the dryer-warmed blanket to give you a comforting pat, but you pointedly pushed his exposed arm right back into the blanket cocoon. There would be no escaping limbs on your watch!

“didn’t want you to worry,” mumbled the blanket-swaddled lamia weakly. He shivered, though you could tell that he was trying to disguise the movement. You wondered how high the thermostat in your house went and if it would help your Chain if you turned it up to 90. 

“Well I’m worried now!” you said, exasperated. “How would you feel if you found me barely conscious on the kitchen floor because I didn’t want to tell you I was sick?” Your appeal to the Chain’s protective nature struck a chord; even though he didn’t say a word, you could feel his horror vibrating through the SOUL bond. “That’s how I felt,” you said, softly this time.

The Chain nodded thoughtfully. “would wrap you in warm blanket, sssspoon feed you ssssoup,” he grudgingly admitted before adding slyly: “maybe give ssssmooch on the head? watch Netflix?” He knew exactly how to cheer you up. You gave your Chain a smooch on the head and grabbed the TV remote, only queuing up a show you’d been meaning to watch together after he promised not to keep secrets from you anymore, especially when it involved needing extra care.

By the time you finished binge-watching two full seasons of the show, the Chain had fallen into a deep, healing slumber. The tip of his tail, which he somehow snuck out of the blanket without you noticing, was wrapped loosely around your ankle, and the color had already improved. You breathed a sigh of relief which turned into a yawn which evolved into you joining your Chain inside the blanket burrito for some much needed snuggles.

Chapter 4: Lending a Hand (NSFW)

Summary:

Requested: SpicyHoney, sub!Edge, consensual fisting

Notes:

CONTAINS: explicit sexual content, language, oral sex, swallowing, vaginal sex, fisting (consensual), gaping, masturbation, creampie

The Great and Terrible Papyrus (alias Edge), Captain of the Royal Guard, commanded respect and demanded obedience from any monster who dared to cross his path. He enforced order and defended Underfell’s tyrant with swift brutality, but behind closed doors, he was an entirely different monster. When it came to sex, he preferred it rough, and he liked to be the submissive partner. Nobody in his universe could know his dirty little secret, so he’d found a lover elsewhere, a skeleton monster from a universe called Underswap- a Papyrus-type who called himself Stretch.

Edge’s usual style was submissive, sure, but under the influence of his heat cycle the imposing skeleton monster became downright needy… and utterly insatiable. As the dominant partner and a self-proclaimed lazybones, Stretch sometimes struggled to keep up with his desperate and demanding lover.

“MORE,” whimpered Edge, red tinged tears gathered in his sockets, “I NEED MORE.”

Stretch’s mid-afternoon couch nap- a necessity really- had been interrupted by Edge pawing at his pelvis and begging to suck him off. Edge’s eagerness and the flush across his cheekbones were all it took to convince Stretch’s magic to form a thick, throbbing erection. All the dedicated lazybones had to do was lay back and enjoy the feel of his lover’s mouth, which he did with a tired but satisfied groan. 

Edge ended up swallowing two hot, sticky loads from Stretch: one lovingly coaxed from his cock with Edge’s dextrous tongue and insistent sucking, the other pumped deep into his throat with Stretch’s phalanges digging into his skull to hold him steady. Finally fully awake and with the scent of Edge’s pheromones filling his nasal cavity, Stretch had pushed the battle-scarred skeleton onto his hands and knees on the floor. Edge was so slick with arousal that Stretch skipped foreplay and immediately buried himself in the silky heat of the tight crimson pussy.

Unfortunately, three intense orgasms left Stretch spent and Edge writhing in agonizing sexual frustration, his body burning with maddening unfulfilled need. Stretch wished he could do more; he hated to see Edge suffer like this during his heat. 

A thin strand of cum still connected Stretch’s semi-hard cock to Edge’s battered and gaping pussy. Stretch could see the angular skeleton’s fluttering hole, overflowing with honey-colored cum. His own cock wore a thick layer of his lover’s juices, and it twitched at the sight of Edge with his coccyx in the air and his face pressed into the carpet. Despite the tempting view, Stretch didn’t think he could manage another round of pounding that sweet little pussy.

“gimme a few minutes. i’m runnin’ on empty.” Stretch stroked his cock, tacky arousal sticking to his phalanges as he tried to resuscitate his erection to no avail.

“USE YOUR HAND,” mewled Edge, rubbing at his own clit in a futile quest for any sort of relief.

“babe, i don’t think fingering is gonna do it for you...”

“NOT YOUR FINGERS. YOUR HAND!”

For a comical moment, Stretch stared at his hand, not comprehending the distinction. What could Edge possibly mean? He clenched and unclenched his fist a few times before realization dawned on him.

“you... want me to... fist you?” A shiver traveled down Stretch’s spine; his cock responded to the mental image with another twitch. Fuck, the thought of fisting Edge turned him on.

“HURRY,” begged Edge, wiggling his coccyx enticingly. Even with his pussy gaping and dripping their mingled fluids, Stretch doubted his entire hand could fit, but Edge obviously wanted this badly. Stretch braced one hand on his lover’s hip, curled his phalanges into a fist and rubbed his knuckles experimentally against Edge’s greedy cunt, which somehow spread open even further to swallow him.

Slowly and carefully, Stretch pushed his fist into Edge’s pussy. He didn’t even need to ask if Edge was doing alright because the once proud skeleton panted and drooled with his angular features pressed into the carpet, occasionally managing a muffled scream for “MORE” or “HARDER” penetration. As Stretch’s wrist slid past his entrance, stretching his pussy walls to their limit and far past it, Edge’s words became a delirious babble.

Stretch could feel Edge’s pussy trying and failing to clench around him. The muscles couldn’t grip the girth of his fist and forearm. It felt amazing to feel Edge from the inside, to split him open so completely… and he hadn’t even started to move yet!

Breathing heavily, though from arousal rather than exertion, Stretch slowly pulled his arm backwards. Edge’s pussy dragged at him, reluctant to release such a delightful toy. Relenting, Stretch filled his lover’s hole with his fist and forearm once more. His cock twitched a third time, more powerfully than before, a response to the heady pleasure of sinking himself into his lover’s pussy.

Unwilling to put pleasure before safety, however, Stretch quickly checked on Edge.

“you alri-” he started to ask, but Edge’s demanding keening interrupted him.

“DON’T STOP!” Edge wailed, his clawed phalanges scrabbling for purchase on the carpet as Stretch shoved his fist as deep inside of him as it would go then immediately yanked it back and slammed it in again. Edge’s entire body rocked with the force of Stretch’s thrusts, and his tongue lolled from his open jaws as he panted and moaned, the rough fist-fucking finally satisfying his deep primal ache to be fucked into oblivion.

Stretch gripped one of Edge’s asscheeks to brace himself as he pumped his fist in and out of Edge, faster and faster until moans spilled from his own mouth. The rhythm, the sounds- moans, squelches, and breathless gasping, the sight of Edge’s juices, thick and sticky, staining his radius and ulna, and the feel of Edge’s ecto-flesh under his phalanges and around his fist brought his cock back to full throbbing life. Stretch could tell Edge was nearing his peak though. His own pleasure could wait.

Orgasm wracked Edge’s scarred body a moment later. His entire frame shuddered with the force of it. He didn’t squirt so much as he gushed fluid down his femurs and onto the floor, over and over again. Stretch didn’t stop thrusting until Edge’s cries and his cum finally subsided. Once he was sure that Edge’s heat had been well and thoroughly satisfied, Stretch pulled his arm free, grabbed his cock with cum-slicked fingers and began to jerk himself off.

The lanky skeleton kept his other hand resting on Edge’s round ass, staring at his gaping, glistening pussy and reliving every sweet second of filling his lover up over and over again and how good that tightness always felt squeezing his cock, milking out every single drop of cum he had to offer. It didn’t take long before Stretch came, shooting strands of hot, thick cum over Edge’s ass and into his fluttering cunt.

Exhausted, Stretch sat back and admired his hand -iwork. The lazybones chuckled to himself. Too bad this would be a very inappropriate time for a pun… not that Stretch ever let that stop him. Standing up and holding out his clean hand to Edge, he quipped: “need a hand ?”

The battle-hardened Royal Guard Captain couldn’t even form an indignant outcry. He sprawled on the floor, eyes clouded by waves of euphoria, drooling on himself with his coccyx in the air and their mingled cum running down his femurs.

Stretch sighed and pulled Edge into his arms, carrying him upstairs for a relaxing and very necessary bath. Usually, Stretch didn’t handle the cleanup, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave his proud lover such a literal and figurative mess. He only hoped his brother wouldn’t see him and get some ridiculous ideas about chores….

Chapter 5: A Holly Jolly Christmas (Party AU)

Summary:

Requested: SFW Sci x Fell

What type of multiverse Christmas Party kicked off without a single drop of liquor to spike the eggnog? This one apparently. Red stared glumly into his drink, watching as Sanses and Papyruses from different universes intermingled, talking, laughing, and generally having a great time being buddy chum pals. Red felt incredibly left out as he nursed his glass of not-spiked eggnog.

Red made the rounds for the third or fourth time, eavesdropping on conversations that bored him nearly to dust. His brother, Edge had already alienated one of their counterparts without even trying, and a group of Sanses led by Blueberry was plotting some type of Christmas Party-verse militant takeover, which Red thought was a joke but secretly hoped would breathe a spark of life into the alcohol-free party. 

Red moved through every room, passed every table of unappetizingly healthy snacks, and took note of every single Sans and Papyrus present at the party, and he finally reached a conclusion. One of the invited guests had not shown up yet! Red had met the Scientist Sans at last year’s party, and he (unfairly) blamed his boredom this year on the absent skeleton. He thought they’d gotten along great, but what if the Scientist skipped this year’s party entirely?

Not that I’d miss him, Red thought sourly, though he missed him already. Sci had one of those adorably shy personalities… until he talked about his passion for research, mainly research on SOUL traits, but also research on the diversity of monster anatomy and human biology. Red should know, he and Sci discussed and debated those very topics for hours last time they’d met.  It had been the highlight of his year…

Another skeleton bumped into him, spilling his drink, which didn’t bother him all that much, and interrupted his reminiscence, which bothered him a lot. He turned to give the Sans or Papyrus a piece of his mind only to find himself face to face with a very similar looking skeleton monster wearing a lab coat and glasses; Sci had arrived at last! 

Sci’s late arrival left him nervous and blushing, a look that suited him, in Red’s opinion. It also meant that he stood out like a sore thumb phalanx wearing his work attire instead of an ugly Christmas sweater like every other skeleton in the room. Fortunately, Red had a solution for that.

The gold-toothed skeleton waded into a sea of Sanses and returned a moment later with a festive headband that had mistletoe attached to it with wire. Red placed the headband on Sci’s skull. He admired his handiwork for a few seconds, then waggled his brows at Sci, whose blush deepened to a lovely royal blue. It reminded Red of the first time he saw the wide open expanse of the night sky.

“y’know what you’re supposed to do with mistletoe, don’tcha,” Red prodded with an exaggerated sexy grin and even more waggling of his brow bones.

“Actually,” said Sci, “this isn’t mistletoe. It’s holly, a mistake seen rather frequently this time of year. Most people don’t know that mistletoe has white berries while holly-”

The clack of Red’s skeleton kiss silenced Sci. Some Christmas parties needed spiked eggnog to create a festive atmosphere, but Red thought that perhaps this year he’d settle for a sprig of holly masquerading as mistletoe.

Chapter 6: The Mind of a Mamba

Summary:

Note: A Mamba is a Swapfell Sans lamia bitty.
Sometimes I think people forget that a Mamba’s sense of pride is his greatest weakness. It would never even occur to a Mamba that he was being deceived. Use this information wisely...

You remembered the day that you adopted your Mamba with clarity. Seeing the small but ferocious little divas striking supermodel poses and savagely pouncing on their catnip mice left an impression on you the minute you walked through the door of the bitty shop. The shopkeeper warned you that Mambas could be difficult and advised you that their egos were their weakness. You’d put that statement to the test and found it to be completely true.

The very first day of Mamba ownership, you decided that you didn’t really want to receive any insect or mouse “trophies,” so you took your regal little lamia bitty to the grocery store to pick out something that wasn’t still moving. Unfortunately, the Mamba had expensive tastes, tastes that your bank account would not be able to keep up with. You considered the problem and came up with a solution. 

His ego is his weakness.

You carried your Mamba over to the cheaper meats. Picking up a reasonably priced package, you showed it to your Mamba. He didn’t look impressed. Time to put your plan into action.

“I’ve heard of this,” you tell your Mamba. “Only those with the most refined palates can appreciate the nuances and experience the full flavor.” You waited, seeing if he’d take the bait.

The Mamba gave the meat a second, longer glance, then gestured for you to put the package of meat in the cart. No way would he admit to having an unrefined palate! Obviously he would love something so fancy! From that day forward, your Mamba ate the cheaper meat cut almost exclusively, always making sure that you saw him savoring it and never complaining.

Now you needed a new plan. Somehow you’d been elected by your closest friends to host a baby shower for your very pregnant bestie, and she deserved the uninterrupted spotlight at the party. Good luck telling your Mamba that though. He always demanded to be the center of attention, and you worried that he might go full-tilt angry toddler and lay claim to the gifts if you and the guests ignored him for too long.

How could you make your Mamba the star of the show and without actually involving him in the show at all?

His ego is his weakness.

---

“I thought you had one of those skeleton snake bitties… a lamia?” asked one of the party guests, sipping on the sparkling cider that you’d provided in lieu of alcohol.

“Yeah, a Mamba, right?” quipped another woman.

You smiled deviously into your own champagne flute of fizzy cider. “Oh, he’s outside in the yard. He probably won’t come in until later,” you tell them before going right back to cooing over tiny baby clothes and blurry ultrasound pictures.

That morning, after setting up tons of baby-themed decorations and rearranging your furniture into party mode, you’d taken your Mamba aside. “Can I ask you to do something for me?” you asked him. “Something very dangerous and very important?” Your Mamba puffed up at the words “dangerous” and “important.” That sounded like a task that only a regal Mamba could do! “It’s a task that only a regal Mamba can do…”

You Mamba stayed out in the yard long after the partygoers left. The sun began to set, and you finally coaxed the exhausted lamia back into the house. You comforted him, congratulating him on keeping the dreaded Gullible that you’d seen earlier away from the party. Gullibles may be wild and fierce, but they were obviously no match for your Mamba and must have fled in terror, you reassured him. He puffed and preened at being the obvious hero of a party that he missed out on, vowing to himself to hunt down any Gullible that dared to enter his territory in the future.

Of course he hadn’t admitted that he didn’t know what a Gullible was. Of course he didn’t want to be caught Googling the creature. As long as you didn’t see it, he must have frightened it off! No need to bring up his shortcomings!

His ego is his weakness.

Chapter 7: Inviting the Devil In (NSFW)

Summary:

Redtomatofan on Tumblr posted an amazing picture of Sugar as a nun with some sexy exposed panties, and I couldn't resist.
WARNING: some language, some sexual content, implied fontcest (Horrorcest), religion kink, panty kink, teasing

Vanity invites the Devil in, the Sisters of the convent warned.

Surely such a trivial item couldn’t be considered vanity. He’d only made a simple bracelet out of polished beads, nothing fancy, nothing ostentatious, just a little trinket to wear and worry at. Sugar knew that his vows forbade him from having it, but he couldn’t bring himself to give up this one last pretty memento from his aspirant days. How could it represent vanity?

Vanity invites the Devil in.

Whether or not the bracelet bore the blame, the Devil had been invited, and he had accepted that invitation with gusto. The skeleton demon loomed over Sugar, who promptly collapsed to the ground in fear. The fearsome creature was terrifying tall with broad shoulders, sweeping ram’s horns, bulging muscles… and an admittedly handsome visage. Sugar looked away only to find his eyelights resting on the single article of clothing that the demon wore… a loincloth that left little to the imagination. The little it left was enough though, and Sugar’s cheeks heated at his lustful curiosity.

The demon sniffed, lowering itself onto all fours to stalk closer to Sugar. Sugar trembled, his blush deepening as he realized that the demon might actually be able to smell his arousal. Sugar didn’t dare move as the demon closed in, not even to pull his habit down to cover his exposed panties. He didn’t want to draw the demon’s attention to them though the burning blood-red stare brought an alarming sensation of pleasure from that area.

“B-begone, Devil,” stammered Sugar weakly, but the demon just laughed in a deep rich tone.

“ya don’t smell like ya want me gone,” growled the demon in a voice that sent a delicious shiver down Sugar’s spine. The demon inhaled deeply again. By now the creature had crawled its way right up to Sugar and crouched over his legs. Sugar whimpered, but said nothing.

“ya don’t feel like ya want me gone.” The demon’s mouth pulled into a grin that showed off an awfully lot of alarmingly sharp teeth, teeth that might… graze one’s bones… in a lover’s embrace. The wicked skeleton ran one sharp phalange along the very center of Sugar’s panties, and Sugar knew that he could feel the dampness and the heat.

The convent only allowed monsters to summon female parts, and that one pointy finger teased at Sugar as it slid between the outline of his pussy lips, staying chastely outside of the panties if you could consider that chastity. Sugar tried and failed to hold back a moan. It felt so good. He should be trying to escape, calling for help, doing anything other than waiting and panting and wondering what would happen next.

“ya sure don’t sound like ya want me gone either. so which comes next? do i look or taste,” the demon teased, licking his mouth with a forked blood red ecto-tongue. Sugar barely breathed.

“Don’t,” he squeaked.

“don’t?” asked the demon, pausing with his face so close to those lovely pink panties that his breath stirred the moistened fabric right over Sugar’s entrance.

“Don’t stop,” cried Sugar. Lying would have invited the Devil in, according to the Sisters. Lust invited the Devil in too, but at this point Sugar really didn’t care. Covering his face, he spread his legs wide…

… and invited the Devil in.

Chapter 8: Master of Disaster

Summary:

Nobody requested this, but I wrote it anyway!

Sweat beaded on Blackberry’s skull; he hated the visible sign of nerves. Thankfully, he had the house to himself. His brother and their human roommate (a.k.a. you) would be out and about for another half an hour at least. He stared at the source of his agitation. The innocent looking locked journal that belonged to you, laying unattended on the kitchen counter. You must have dropped it, leaving an almost suspicious opportunity for Blackberry to snoop. So why did he hesitate?

Back in the dark days of living in the Underground, Blackberry boasted the coveted position of Her Majesty’s Master of Espionage, yet his power of perception failed him when it came to you and your flirtatious comments. He mulled over every interaction with you, trying to decide if you were simply a flirtatious person, if you were teasing him, or if you were showing genuine interest. Every time he thought he had you all figured out, doubt crept in. He had never doubted himself before, but when it came to you, every bit of confidence that he possessed fell by the wayside.

Now an opportunity presented itself for Blackberry to gather some intelligence and level the playing field. Surely the answers to all of his questions were contained within that slim book. Did he dare to look? Of course. A Master Spy never passed up such an unexpected boon. He needed to exercise caution though. Journals were forbidden ground, and reading someone’s journal violated a sacred trust. He would have to proceed carefully.

Before laying a single phalange on the journal, Blackberry inspected it, taking in every minute detail. A piece of pressed cardboard covered in a thin layer of synthetic leather covered the book. A thin strip of the faux leather slipped through a clasp with a simple lock on it. Blackberry prodded the clasp. It could be pried off, but the flimsy cover material would surely be damaged. Fortunately, Blackberry happened to have a lock picking set that would suffice.

Manipulating the locking mechanism was almost embarrassingly easy, and Blackberry now had complete access to your inner thoughts… except the pages were all blank! Blackberry flipped through page after page, checking for indentations in the paper or rough edges to indicate something had been written and removed.

Nothing.

No erasure marks, no telltale discoloration from disappearing ink, no sign at all that this journal had ever been used!

Blackberry almost discarded the journal in frustration, but he was nothing if not thorough. The journal had been opened; he might as well take his time and check every page. His persistence paid off when he found your handwriting on the very last lined page of the book. He stared at the words, unable to process them at first. Realization finally dawned on him.

He’d been set up!

I knew you couldn’t resist opening this, the entry read, and I want you to know that yes, I do like you. Unfortunately, you can’t do anything with this information without admitting that you read my private journal. Your move, Master of Espionage!

Blackberry didn’t know whether to give a celebratory shout for receiving your affection or seethe in outrage at having been so easily and obviously tricked. Still mulling over these thoughts, he shoved the faux leather strap back into the clasp with a bit too much vigor, and the clasp broke. The skeleton stood in front of the counter with the gold-painted plastic in one hand and the damaged journal in the other for a long moment, gathering his thoughts.

Now was not the time to panic. You said it yourself. He was a Master of Espionage, and a Master of Espionage kept his cool at all times to avoid being caught. He simply needed to reaffix the clasp to the journal. Surely the knickknack drawer held an adhesive that he could use for the task. Nothing to worry about.

Blackberry opened the catch all drawer in the kitchen. He rifled around, discarding various useless items and handfuls of faded receipts until he found a tube labeled Super Glue. Super glue would suffice, he decided though he’d never used the product before. He opened the small tube, intending to apply a small amount to the journal… and dropped it. Clear adhesive ran out of the small nozzle onto the journal cover. Blackberry cursed under his breath and attempted to wipe away the excess. 

The glue smeared across the cover of the journal, and if his skull hadn’t already been a glistening ivory, he would’ve gone pale. Once again, he fought down the rising panic. Quickly, he stuck the clasp to the rapidly drying glue. With the missing piece in place, he turned his attention to the glue bottle to read the instructions for removal. Apparently products for super glue removal existed, but he didn’t have time to shop for one.

Further down the label, Blackberry read that super glue could be loosened by applying heat. A smug sharp-toothed smile spread across the skeleton’s scarred face; his Queen had trained him in the use of fire magic. Heating the super glue to remove it would be no obstacle for a talented monster like himself.

Calling forth a small ball of flames, Blackberry guided the magic towards the smudges of glue… which caught fire almost immediately. Blackberry yelped in surprise. Throwing the journal into the sink, he turned on the faucet and drenched the entire journal in a deluge of cold water. Once he felt sure that the flames were extinguished, Blackberry picked up the sodden book. How did one dry a book? Certainly not with flames this time, Blackberry thought, carrying the book to the laundry room and placing it in the dryer.

Blackberry never did the laundry, but if his brother could use this machine, surely a clever Master of Espionage could figure it out too. Concerned about the possibility of more spontaneous combustion, Blackberry set the temperature to low, set the timer to 15 minutes, and pressed the start button. Too easy, he told himself, chalking up the strange thumping sounds to typical dryer noises. He would have time to clean up the mess in the kitchen and replace the journal on the counter before you got home and discovered his nefarious activities.

A cheerful ding alerted Blackberry that the dryer had finished its work. He opened the dryer door, feeling rather pleased with himself until he saw the journal. The rapid drying process had caused the cover and pages to wrinkle. The disfigured paper was the least of Blackberry’s worries though because most of the aforementioned pages were no longer attached to the journal. The combination of heat and tumbling that dryers used to dry clothing did not work well at all on flimsily bound books. Worse, Blackberry could hear your footsteps approaching the front door. 

With no time left to fix the journal properly, Blackberry scooped up the pages and found, to his dismay, that they were still damp! He crammed the disappointingly not-dry pages into the journal as neatly as he could in the dwindling seconds he had left before you caught him red-handed.

Dashing into the kitchen, he tossed the journal onto the counter just as you came through the door. Unfortunately, that meant that you arrived to find the skeleton standing in the middle of the kitchen like a deer caught in the headlights instead of lounging nonchalantly somewhere far away from the scene of the crime.

Your eyes slid from your skeleton roommate to the counter, where your waterlogged, scorched, and extremely disheveled journal sat. There was no way to avoid noticing it. The culprit was equally obvious, being the only other living thing in the room. Still, Blackberry tried to salvage a small victory by pretending not to see anything amiss.

You stared at the journal, then looked at Blackberry. Blackberry averted his eyelights to various other made-up points of interest in the kitchen. Neither of you said anything. You opened and closed your mouth several times, not even sure how to address the issue. Finally, you gestured at the journal.

Blackberry let out an overly theatrical cry of shock and offered no explanation. The two of you stood in the kitchen with the ruined journal between you. You waited. Blackberry waited. After a long silence, the skeleton finally spoke, but he didn’t admit to anything.

“SO… WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO OUT TO DINNER WITH ME TONIGHT?” he asked tentatively.

You resigned yourself to pretending that the destroyed journal did not exist. It had served its purpose after all, and you’d probably never know what exactly Blackberry had done to it… or why. “I’d love to go on a date with you, Master of Espionage,” you replied with some sass.

“I AM A MASTER OF ESPIONAGE, AREN’T I?” Blackberry murmured to himself, completely missing the sarcasm as he congratulated himself on a mission accomplished.

Chapter 9: The Unbroken Bond

Summary:

Requested: A Chain (SF!Papyrus lamia) has an adopter with a life-threatening illness. The adopter wants the Chain to transfer their unique SOUL bond to someone else.
Warning: Character illness, character death

The Chain sat through yet another visit from his adopter’s close friends with polite resignation. Their attempts to draw him into banal conversation did not fool him in the slightest. He knew what this was. His adopter and SOULbond expected him to interview these people and choose a new person to SOULbond with. They thought that he might be able to form this new bond just in time for them to die.

Oh, his adopter hadn’t said it outright. It pained them to talk about it, and they hated to see him upset, but he knew. A Chain didn’t need a SOUL bond to notice their sudden frequent doctor visits, the appearance of so many new prescription bottles housing medications with strange , unpronounceable names, their sickly pallor, the weight loss and lack of energy… and now this. Their intentions were written in the grim expression on their face every time they introduced him to someone else:

If they weren’t going to survive this illness, they wanted their Chain to continue living with a different SOULbond.

The Chain admired his adopter’s good intentions as they paraded a seemingly endless assortment of potential replacements- friends, family members, and acquaintances alike- before him, always asking him what he thought of the person. He would say something nice but noncommittal each time, not wanting to be rude but sticking to his own decision.

The Chain had no desire to form a new SOUL bond.

When his adopter’s SOUL had first called to him, the Chain had answered that call willingly, accepting the bond whether it lasted for a short, precious minute or a long and healthy lifetime. The SOUL bond existed without conditions. His love for his adopter endured without conditions as well. The thought of losing that bond for any reason, much less purposefully terminating it, was inconceivable to him. He would rather die. He would die, in fact, but he would pass without regret for the time he shared with them.

The Chain’s SOULbond finally approached him outright about the situation. The pair of them lounged together on the couch, enjoying a quiet evening of watching reruns of a favorite show. His adopter sighed, inhaled deeply, and spoke. “I… I… I’m....” They couldn’t seem to get the words out, and the Chain didn’t press them to continue. Instead, he leaned into them, comforting them with his warmth and weight and letting them know that he understood what they couldn’t bring themself to voice aloud. 

Once they gathered themself, his adopter made a second attempt at the speech, skipping over the reason for their request. “I want you to transfer the SOUL bond. I’ll feel better knowing that you’ll be ok when I’m… gone.”

“Pleasssse do not assssk me to do thissss,” begged the Chain. “I will not be ok. I do not want to be without you.” He watched them with gentle dark orange eyelights. If they insisted, he would do it, only because he would do anything for them, even shatter his own SOUL by destroying the one thing that meant everything to him. They nodded in acceptance though, refusing to force him into something that he did not want.

In the following months, the Chain watched the illness take its toll on his SOULbond, despite their determination to maintain an upbeat facade and block their fear from the bond. He respected his adopter’s choice not to discuss the matter, and he never pried. Instead, he dedicated himself to their care. When their strength waned, he took over the household tasks that they could no longer handle without a mention or complaint.

As the time of his SOUL bond’s passing neared, the Chain increased his efforts to assure their comfort and happiness. When they became bedbound, he spent much of his time laying next to them, reliving old memories, talking for hours about nothing and everything, and simply enjoying each other’s companionship. He wished he could do more for their pain, but they reassured him that his constant presence was enough.

The Chain felt when their SOUL began to slip away. He called for an ambulance, as they had instructed him to do in an emergency, but he knew that neither medical science nor magic could stop this inevitability. He pressed himself close to his SOULbond, and they laid a hand on his scapula. The physical bond mirrored the bond of their SOULs, and as one SOUL left its corporeal home, so did the other. 

The EMTs entered the house to assist a patient who no longer needed their care. If humans could see SOULs the way that a Chain can, they would’ve seen an ethereal silvery mist rising from the human body, followed by a smaller wisp of the same shimmery light coming from the Chain. The SOUL lights intermingled, glowing brightly before dissipating into the ambient energy of the world like bright stars slowly fading into a peaceful dawn.

Chapter 10: Letting Go, Holding On

Summary:

Requested: A Chain (SF!Papyrus lamia) and a Cherry Coral (Cherry Bitty lamia) comfort each other after their owner passes away.
Warning: Major character death
This is a companion piece to the previous chapter

Things can change in an instant. Even an otherwise unremarkable event can change the lives it touches forever, and those outside of its influence go on without even noticing that anything is different. Someone slipped on a flight of steps, then an ambulance came and took them away, ending their story in the eyes of the bystanders. Nobody considered the outcome… nobody except for their lamias.

The Chain felt it the moment it happened: terror, pain, and then a hazy confusion. Their other lamia, a Cherry Coral, worried about leaving the house, but when offered the choice between staying behind alone and following the Chain, he opted to tag along. He trusted the Chain to find their adopter quicker than waiting for an emergency contact to think about finding their lamias and bringing them to the hospital.

The two lamias took turns teleporting to travel faster; the Chain swiveled his head back and forth before choosing a direction, like a compass returning to true north after being shaken. The pair teleported into the hospital emergency room without bothering with the front desk. They didn’t have time to answer questions or risk being turned away because they weren’t human. Their adopter needed them.

Massive double doors labeled “Operating Room” finally stopped the Chain and Cherry Coral’s forward charge. The pair didn’t dare risk startling a doctor who wielded sharp instruments so close to their adopter. Instead, they found a waiting area and put it to good use, waiting. The Cherry Coral kept glancing at the Chain, but the SOUL bound lamia wore a troubled expression that discouraged conversation.

At long last, the double doors opened, and nurses wheeled a hospital bed out of the operating room. Their adopter looked so small and fragile lying motionless on the enormous bed, a bevy of machines being wheeled along after them. One of the nurses spotted the two lamias and called out to the others to wait. He asked them if this was their owner as they slithered over, and the Chain nodded. Without another word, the nurse picked them up and placed them on the bed alongside their adopter, and all three were taken to a private room.

Their adopter stayed completely still, lost in peaceful unconsciousness.

A doctor stopped by later in the evening to check on the patient. When she discovered the lamias in the room with their adopter, she explained the severity of the injury, trying to be as gentle as possible but refusing to tell them comforting lies. Their adopter would likely never awaken from the induced coma they’d been placed in. Unsurprised by the news, the Chain simply maintained his bedside vigil, monitoring their condition through the SOUL bond.

The Cherry Coral wailed, and the Chain didn’t have the heart to stop him. He couldn’t escape the truth. It pulsed in his SOUL with every mechanically assisted breath that their adopter took. 

His SOULbond was not going to survive much longer. Their SOUL lingered because of the strength of the bond, but the Chain could feel it gradually slipping away. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that, or the frantic chorus of alarms from the various monitors that impassively tracked his adopter’s vital signs. The Cherry Coral’s panicked cries rang out above the cacophony, reminding the Chain of his promise.

It had seemed like such a small thing at the time. His adopter wanted him to take care of his Cherry Coral brother if something happened to them. The words of the promise were spoken without a thought, a promise for some vague, far away future that couldn’t possibly exist in the bright, joyous light of the here and now, but the here and now had arrived. Here. Now.

As much as he wanted to lay down, press himself against his SOULbond, and crumble to dust as his own SOUL followed theirs beyond the physical realm, he could not. It hurt, the moment when the bond, pulled taut as life and death separated their two SOULs, snapped. The backlash cracked his SOUL, but the determination within him to fulfill his promise held the pieces together.

Reaching out, he pulled the screeching Cherry Coral close, moving aside for the nurses and doctors who rushed into the room in an attempt to reverse their adopter’s fate, though their resuscitation efforts were all in vain. At first the Cherry Coral clawed at him, blinded by fear and sadness, but the Chain held tight until those wild emotions settled. The Cherry Coral clung to the larger lamia, sobbing, and the Chain gently rocked him as grief consumed them both.

Slowly, tentatively, tiny tendrils unfurled from the Cherry Coral’s SOUL. The tendrils drifted from the Cherry Coral to the Chain that comforted him. Those tendrils wrapped around the Chain’s broken SOUL, filling the cracks and holding the SOUL together. As the tears that the two lamias shed for their adopter mingled and fell to the spotless tiled floor, a thin strand, barely there at all, emerged from the Chain’s SOUL and entwined with the Cherry Coral’s.

They would survive this tragedy.

They would go on.

Together.

Chapter 11: A Place Called Home

Summary:

Requested: A King (UF!Papyrus lamia) and a Pygmy (US!Sans lamia) are stranded out in the cold when a helpful passerby finds them.

The dilapidated cardboard box didn’t qualify as a luxury accommodation by any stretch of the imagination, but a life-saving refuge for a pair of struggling travelers doesn’t need to be fancy. The homeless King and his Pygmy friend couldn’t withstand the frigid winds for much longer, so they sought shelter in the box with weary gratitude.

The location was less than ideal. The bottom of the box had soaked up enough melted slush to nearly disintegrate, and the King had to climb into a nearby dumpster to find enough discarded paper and rags to get them both off of the ground that siphoned the remaining heat from their bodies. The two lamias huddled together, sharing what little warmth they had, but as the sun set and night crept over the town, they couldn’t stop themselves from shivering.

Hurrying to get back to their own home, a human passerby spotted the box vibrating gently with two tails sticking out of it, one iridescent blue and one dark red. Curious, they peered inside to see the bedraggled skeleton lamias. The King, worried for his much smaller companion, hissed and flared his hood, hoping desperately that the human would go away. He didn’t really want to bite anyone, but he would defend himself and the Pygmy if necessary. The passerby lifted both of their hands in a gesture of surrender and stepped back, and the King slumped in relief.

The human couldn’t bring themself to just keep walking though. Taking off their scarf, they used one foot to push it towards the box from a safe distance. A skeletal hand reached out of the box and snatched the scarf, pulling into the makeshift shelter.. Digging in their pockets, the human also found a granola bar that they kept with them in case they got hungry. Laying the offering down near the box, they watched as the food disappeared from sight as quickly as the scarf had. The box stopped moving, its inhabitants still; satisfied, the kind human continued onward to their home.

A blizzard struck that night. Temperatures plummeted, and storm clouds dumped thick layers of snow and ice over the entire town. When the human awoke to the signs of a severe winter storm, their mind immediately went to the King and the Pygmy with nothing but a cardboard box to protect them from the elements. In a rush, they pulled on a coat and dashed out the door, feet slipping and sliding as they dashed down the street, hoping that they weren’t too late.

The King opened heavy sockets and sluggishly roused himself to check on the Pygmy. He’d bundled the smaller lamia in the scarf that the stranger had given them and made him eat most of the granola bar. He’d hoped that it would be enough, but when he touched the Pygmy, the other lamia was cold and unmoving. The King shook the Pygmy, trying to wake him, but he barely had the strength to do even that much.

Suddenly, a human face appeared at the opening of the cardboard box, a face he recognized. This time the King didn’t hiss. He gazed at the human with imploring eyelights and pointed at his friend. The human knelt in the snow, not caring about the muck and grime of the alleyway; they reached into the box and picked up the Pygmy, cradling him close to their body.

“I don’t know if I can get him warm enough like this,” the human said in a rush, watching tears fill the King’s sockets and his entire body sag in dejected acceptance. “Please, let me take you back to my place. It’s warm there. I won’t hurt you or force you to stay, but you can’t survive out here like this!”

The human extended a hand to the King, who struggled to slither onto it.

---

The King and the Pygmy looked at the massive frosted cake in front of them. The helpful stranger, now their owner, made them one every year to celebrate finding them and bringing them to their new home. This cake had a number five on it, and it would be the fifth of many that the trio would enjoy together in the warmth and safety of a place called home.

Chapter 12: No Strings Attached

Summary:

Requested: A Honey Bo (US!Papyrus lamia) learns to trust someone

Trust does not come automatically to a Honey Bo, least of all to a Honey Bo raised in the wild. The wild life isn’t easy though, and every bitty, whether he admits it or not, prefers to have an owner. With a great deal of caution and just a pinch of hope, the Honey Bo searched for a home that he could be comfortable in, somewhere that he could have a personal space of his own and develop trust and friendship in his own time.

The Honey Bo spent some time in a bittybones adoption center before striking out on his own again. The humans who came to the shop to adopt were just too physically affectionate for him. He didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but he needed space to approach a potential adopter on his terms. Maybe there just wasn’t anyone out there who wanted to spend so much time on a Honey Bo…

The lamia resumed his travels, mostly scavenging food from restaurant dumpsters instead of hunting. It involved less work, and the food tasted better. During one such dumpster raid, he heard a sound that made him pause halfway through stuffing his face- singing. The singer had a beautiful voice, and the Honey Bo followed the sound, searching for the source. A half-open doorway cast a square of light into the shadowy bushes, and the sweet music drifted out from inside.

The Honey Bo peered through the doorway and saw you there, cleaning up the kitchen after a busy night serving customers and preparing for a similar day tomorrow. The Honey Bo’s sockets slowly closed in bliss as your lovely voice surrounded him, washing over him in waves. The music trailed off, so naturally that he almost didn’t notice until you chuckled, a soft and friendly sound. His sockets shot open to see you observing him from across the room. He’d been caught eavesdropping!

“Do you like my singing that much?” you asked as he ducked back around the corner to hide behind the dumpster that had originally drawn him to this location. You stepped up to the open doorway but didn’t pursue him. You could see his glowing orange eyelights watching you from the shadows like a nervous alleycat. He didn’t answer.

“I’m going to leave some food out here for you if you’d like it. No strings attached,” you called to him. You disappeared back into the restaurant for a few minutes then came back out with some leftover fried chicken from the dinner service. You placed the food where the lamia could easily reach it, then backed away. When you checked again later, the chicken and the lamia were gone.

It became a nightly routine. After your closing shift, you would set out a warm meal for the Honey Bo and serenade him while he ate, always keeping your distance so that you didn’t scare him away. He never missed a single day, and you convinced your coworkers to leave food for him on days that you weren’t working. They reported that he never showed up unless you were there to sing for him; they had even tried playing a radio to coax him out of hiding with no luck. You wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but it made you feel special.

“Do you live out here? Outside, I mean,” you asked the Honey Bo one night while he crunched through a plate full of crispy french fries. He blinked as if startled by the question, then nodded. You’d guessed as much, but you wanted to confirm his living situation before you said anything about it. “If you want, I have a shed behind my house. I could put some blankets in it. That way I can feed you every day instead of just the days that I work here. No strings attached.”

The lamia tilted his head, considering the offer, then nodded again. You didn’t rush to hug him like you wanted to. You didn’t try to pick him up. You just instructed him to follow you and led him to your house. You showed him the shed and made a big production out of removing the lock from the shed doors. You didn’t want the lamia to feel trapped. By the time you brought out piles of clean soft blankets for him to build a nest with, he’d already gone inside to check out his new accommodations.

You often sat out on your back steps, singing softly to him under the light of the moon, or humming tunes while he sunbathed. You never came too close to him, but he gradually became more and more comfortable with your presence. He no longer spent his days hidden in the shed, and it warmed your heart to watch him splashing in the birdbath or staring up at the stars with wonder-filled eyelights.

The weather turned colder, and the leaves on the trees blazed with oranges, yellows, and reds. Meteorologists predicted the first frost of the season within a few days. You bundled up in warm clothing and walked out to the shed, knocking on the door then backing away to a respectful distance. The Honey Bo’s curious face emerged from behind the shed door.

“It’s getting colder,” you pointed out. “I’m worried about you staying outside in this weather. If you want, I can install a doggie door leading to the mudroom. You’ll be able to come inside and get warm whenever you’d like. No strings attached.”

The Honey Bo pondered your offer. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in quite a long time, but he brushed off his rusty speech skills, just for you. “Yessss, pleasssse,” he said in a lamia’s characteristic hiss. You jumped up and down, clapping in unbridled delight, and your joy made the lamia smile. Actually, everything about you brought a smile to his fanged face; it felt nice to be able to trust someone.

Nobody ever entered the mudroom when the Honey Bo occupied it. You insisted on giving the lamia his own space and plenty of privacy, something he greatly appreciated. For all of your generosity, though, something was missing. Sure the heating vents kept the mudroom at a comfortable temperature, but the Honey Bo sometimes felt a chill, something that had very little to do with the weather.

One night, he opened the door from the mudroom and slithered further into the house. He explored a few rooms, including the kitchen, then followed your scent to your bedroom where he discovered the door left open. Venturing inside, he saw that a set of steps meant for small dogs to climb onto tall furniture stood beside your bed. How long had you been expecting him?

The Honey Bo used the steps to climb onto the bed. As quietly as possible, trying not to disturb you, he wrapped himself in a corner of your blanket and pressed himself to your side. You hardly dared to breathe, fearful of ruining the moment, but your tension melted away when you heard the Honey Bo begin to hum.

The Honey Bo hummed his favorite song, one that you sang to him frequently, and the familiar tune lulled him to sleep, curled up alongside you, the very end of his tail draped over your legs. From that night on, the Honey Bo slept in your bed, humming his lullaby to both of you.

Chapter 13: The F Word

Summary:

Requested: A chubby Coral (UF!Sans lamia) who feels self conscious about his weight is comforted by his Chain (SF!Papyrus lamia) and Honey Bo (US!Papyrus lamia) bondmates.
Warning: implied eating disorder, negative self-image

There were abundant reasons not to adopt a Coral lamia bitty, and the Coral who lived at the Lamia Bittybones Adoption Center with his Chain and Honey Bo bondmates thought he’d heard them all:

“Corals aren’t safe because they’re venomous.”

“Don’t adopt a Coral; they’re rude and grumpy.”

“I don’t want a bitty that might steal my stuff.”

Those accusations didn’t bother him. Anyone who didn’t want a venomous, tsundere kleptomaniac for a bitty probably shouldn’t adopt a Coral, in his opinion, but a woman walked into the shop one day with a young child in tow and delivered an incredibly personal reason for not adopting him specifically:

“Oh no, honey. You don’t want that lamia. He’s fat.”

Surprised by the woman’s words, the Coral looked at his body. Yes, he was definitely a bit chubby, probably due to his love of snacking, but he never considered that someone would pass him up for adoption because of a bit of extra weight in his tail. The Cornies always joked about being “husky,” and nobody seemed to have a problem adopting them. Suddenly, he worried that something might be wrong with his weight, something that might cost him and his bondmates a potential home.

Maybe if he cut down on his food intake, people would find him more appealing. No more snacks, he swore to himself. No more snacks, and much smaller portions at mealtimes. When visitors brought treats to the shop, he reminded himself of his vow. When Vex served meals for the lamias, he only ate a few mouthfuls, repeating over and over to himself that he didn’t want to be fat. That tiny little word bounced around relentlessly in his skull until the three letters became his entire life.

The Coral’s bondmates watched his new eating habits with growing concern. Their bondmate loved treats of all kinds, and now he refused everything that was offered to him. He barely ate enough at meals to survive. The Chain and the Honey Bo decided that they needed to intervene before their beloved Coral made himself sick.

The Coral awoke to find his two bondmates staring at him from across their shared nest. The Chain slithered forward and placed a small package of Goldfish crackers in front of the Coral, one of his favorite foods. The Honey Bo slithered forward and presented his own food gift to his bondmate- a half dozen freshly-cooked meatballs with fragrant steam still rising from them.

“eat,” the pair encouraged him, but he shook his head. “why?” they asked in unison, worry written all over their faces.

The Coral turned away from them before speaking, embarrassed. “lady ssssaid not to adopt me becausssse i’m too fat. don’t want to be reasssson we don’t find home.” The Coral’s voice quivered; he hadn’t realized that the comment still hurt so much.

The Chain darted forward and swept the Coral into a tight hug. The Honey Bo looked like a Mamba about to strike something that enraged him. His words exploded from him with heat and venom despite the fact that he was a constrictor type of lamia.

“sssstupid lady. don’t want to live with sssssomeone like that anyway,” he hissed. His tail slashed the air in anger.

The Chain spoke more calmly, but just as firmly. “we find home that acceptssss ussss assss we are,” he said, nuzzling the Coral. The Honey Bo slithered close and added his own hug to the Chain’s, smothering the Coral in love, but the smaller lamia still didn’t look convinced.

“there issssn’t just one kind of passssta,” said the Honey Bo, sharing some wisdom he’d heard from a Papython once. “ssssome of ussss are sssspaghetti, ssssome are fettuccine, and you, bondmate, are a wide egg noodle, and we love you.”

The Coral couldn’t help laughing. He’d been fighting off his ravenous hunger, but now he thought that maybe his weight didn’t matter to anyone except for one rude woman. Maybe she was the one with the problem… and maybe… 

“if we are passsta, then we sssshould have meatballssss,” said the Coral, picking one up and taking a huge bite.

Chapter 14: Pool Noodles

Summary:

Requested: A Chain (SF!Papyrus lamia), Mamba (SF!Sans lamia), and King (UF!Papyrus lamia) join their adopter on a trip to a lake or pool.

When oppressive summer heat set in, you tried to find outdoor activities for your three active lamias (a Chain, a King and a Mamba) that didn’t involve copious amounts of sweat and the ever-present risk of heat exhaustion. Fortunately, you lived close enough to a small public lake to make a day trip out of it. The lake had a small beach and a grassy park with plenty of trees for shade adjacent to it- the perfect summer getaway.

As soon as you parked the car, the lamias tumbled out in a tangle of bony limbs and scaly tails, eager to explore a new area. Your Chain slithered to your side to help you unload the car, and your King and Mamba made short work of driving away some noisy gulls that had laid claim to a portion of the beach.

You and your Chain found a vacant section of sun-warmed sand to place your beach chair, umbrella, and towels on, then your three lamias inspected the narrow swathe of beach and its shoreline wavelets for any signs of danger. They slithered back a few minutes later, reporting back to you that they’d seen no signs of alligators, sharks, or prehistoric lake monsters. What a relief.

With your safety assured, your Chain slithered into the cool water. You slathered on some sunblock and joined him. The mixture of sun and wind sent glimmering ripples through the water, and you and your Chain splashed and laughed, trying to catch them. It took you a moment to realize that two of your lamias were still watching from the beach. You shouted for them to join you, and their response was less than enthusiastic.

The King slowly approached the water as if it might leap up and grab him. The Mamba did not budge, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling at the lake in general. Swimming close to you, the Chain whispered to you that your other two lamias didn’t know how to swim very well and were embarrassed by it. You wanted to encourage them to enjoy the lake without making them self-conscious.

You came ashore and ran to your beach supplies, pulling out some inflatable water toys. Your Chain followed behind you, and soon you and your three lamias had inflated a small armada of flotation devices. In the spirit of solidarity, you and your Chain donned some arm floaties and dragged some inner tubes into the lake. Under the pretense of being a mighty hunter, the King wrestled an inflatable alligator into the shallow water and climbed atop it to bask.

Your Mamba managed to wiggle into a rubber ducky inner tube, wearing it around his middle like a championship belt for bath toy hunting. He still remained on the shore though, glaring at the water suspiciously. A small wave broke on the sand in front of him, and he hissed and recoiled, not letting the water touch him. It took all of your willpower not to laugh at him. You thought that your Mamba would never be convinced to enter the lake.

Your Chain had other ideas.

“issss ok to sssstay on sssshore if you are sssscared of the water,” he shouted to the Mamba, who erupted in outrage and launched himself into the lake like an iridescent purple torpedo.

After the initial momentum of his wild charge wore off, however, the Mamba was stuck in the lake with no idea how to swim or balance properly on the inflatable duck. He flailed erratically, causing you and your other two lamias to back away to avoid his splashing. As if in slow motion, the rubber ducky inner tube overturned, dunking the Mamba into the lake. Only his lashing tail still disturbed the surface.

Your Chain- by far the best swimmer of the group- quickly dove under the water to help the Mamba right himself. The Chain held onto the rubber ducky until the Mamba felt steady enough for him to let go, and when he moved aside, you saw a fearless lake snail perched on top of your Mamba’s skull like a silly living crown. You, your Chain, and your King stared at the Mamba, carefully swallowing your laughter.

Seeing that he had your attention, the Mamba puffed up proudly atop his rubber ducky throne as if he hadn’t just floundered himself into needing a rescue. You and your Chain spent most of the afternoon swimming around the King and Mamba. You both used slow, simple movements to demonstrate the proper techniques for swimming and floating without embarrassing the two landlubber lamias about their lack of skill.

By the time the lake adventure was winding down, all three of your lamias were comfortable playing in the water. Unfortunately, the inflatable toys had become casualties of lamia lake hunting. An enthusiastic pounce by your Mamba deflated the alligator, and a playful swat from your Chain’s tail ended the poor rubber ducky. Everyone had fun, though, and that fact made the whole day worthwhile.

As your tired but happy lamias carried your belongings back to the car, you sneakily snatched the snail from atop your Mamba’s head and tossed the brave little gastropod back into the lake where he rightfully belonged.

Chapter 15: Blind Sided

Summary:

Requested: A King (UF!Papyrus lamia) meets a Blindberry (a Brassberry bitty that has been blinded to make it more docile)

The Kings did not refer to the feral cat colony living in the alley next to the shop as a cat problem, and they certainly disapproved when other people referred to it that way. The Kings made sure that the cats were fed and protected. They also organized a catch and release effort so that the cats in the alley could receive necessary medical care and spay/neuter procedures. The cats of the colony were better cared for than some indoor cats, and caused no problems except constantly melting the hearts of Kings living in the shop.

One warm summer morning after a thunderstorm, one of the Kings slithered outside to check on the felines. As soon as he passed through the door into the alley, he heard the sound of teeny tiny shouting. Cats make a wide variety of noises, but they aren’t (usually) capable of human speech. The words cut off into a deafening screech of terror and pain. Following the shrieks, the King found one of the feral cats with a strange bitty clutched in its jaws.

Darting forward, the King blocked the cat’s escape from the alley. Firmly but gently he grabbed hold of the bitty, petting the cat to calm it while he carefully extracted the bitty from the danger zone. Reaching into a pouch at his waist, the King offered the cat a few treats as a thank you for being patient and giving up its prey. The cat sneezed haughtily and walked away with its tail high in the air, making it very clear that both the King and the bitty he had rescued were not worth its attention.

The King lifted his hands, peering at the bitty who trembled in his grasp. At first, he mistook the small creature for a Brassberry bitty… until he noticed the cloth covering its eyes. He’d never met a Blindberry before, but he recognized the timid bitty from descriptions he’d heard. Since the bitty wouldn’t be able to tell on his own if the danger had passed, the King whispered reassurances to him as he carried him into the shop.

When the King tried to place the terrified bitty onto the examining table so the Nurse Papythons could check him for injuries, the Blindberry clung to his hands with a vice-like grip. No amount of comforting words could dislodge him, and the King’s SOUL warmed at the thought of being such a trusted protector. The Nurse Papythons treated the Blindberry for a few cuts and scrapes with their green magic, but thankfully, he had no serious injuries from his kitty encounter.

The Blindberry nudged the King’s hand as they left the Infirmary. When the King leaned his head down to listen, the Blindberry informed him that he was hungry, starving actually. Absently rubbing the Blindberry’s itsy bitsy back, the King slithered into the storage pantry to find a snack for his new tiny charge. When asked about his favorite foods, the Blindberry rattled off a short list of baked goods, candies, and meat- all items that Vex kept on hand in the shop.

The King selected a cupcake and a slice of ham, both of which were nearly as large as the Blindberry himself, and carried the smaller bitty to his nest to eat in safety and comfort. The Blindberry ate until the King worried that he might explode. After the meal, the Blindberry yawned hugely, and the King offered to get him some blankets and pillows to sleep on. The Blindberry shook his head emphatically.

 “I want to stay with you!” the Blindberry declared, and the King didn’t argue. He liked this bitty. The Blindberry reminded him of a cute little kitten.

In the days that followed, the Blindberry ran around exploring the shop with the helpful King slithering along behind him, warning him of any obstacles in his path. The King folded his scarf into a carrying pouch for the Blindberry whenever the bitty wore himself out. Each night, the King curled himself in a circle around the Blindberry to prevent him from wandering off and getting lost or injured.

The Blindberry had been living in the shop for over a week when the King overheard Vex mentioning a Blindberry over the phone. 

“-found a Blindberry in the alley. It might be the one you’re looking for,” Vex said to the caller. Spotting the King, she waved him over. The Blindberry kept one hand pressed to the King’s tail while Vex explained the situation to them. A bitty rescue center was calling other bitty shops in the area to help a distraught owner track down their lost Blindberry. Vex described the owner, and the Blindberry spoke up.

“That’s my owner!”

Vex passed the information to the caller, and the King’s large body drooped a bit. The Blindberry had an owner who was looking for him. He was going to leave, to go home. The King felt happy that the two would be reunited, but he would miss the Blindberry’s company. The Blindberry patted the King’s scaly tail until the much larger bitty picked him up. The Blindberry curled up and fell asleep nuzzling his temporary caretaker’s hands.

The owner burst into the shop a few hours later like a cyclone, tension subsiding into relief when they saw the King standing at the front desk with their missing Blindberry in his cupped hands. 

“Oh stars, thank you for finding him! A branch fell and broke one of our windows during the thunderstorm, and my poor little guy got disoriented and wandered outside. I’m just so glad he’s alright,” the owner babbled breathlessly, reaching for their Blindberry.

The Blindberry awoke with a massive yawn, stretching like one of the cats who’d almost dusted him. He recognized his owner’s voice immediately and leapt to his little feet. When they touched him to let him know that they were close, he purred softly, then latched onto the King’s long phalanges. Though his owner tugged him gently, the Blindberry refused to relinquish his hold.

With an exasperated sigh, the owner looked the King up and down.

“I don’t suppose you’re interested in coming home with us? I’d actually appreciate having someone around to help keep an eye on him, especially when I’m not home,” they offered, and the King would’ve jumped for joy if it wasn't so undignified. The Blindberry had no such reservations involving dignity, and shouted loudly with joy, dancing around in the King’s hands. 

The happy reunion became a happy adoption and an even happier homecoming.

Chapter 16: Get Rekt(um) (NSFW)

Summary:

Requested: Swapfellcest with anal sex, virgin Blackberry
Warning: explicit content (18+), anal sex, anal fingering, oral sex (anal), orgasm denial (minor), begging (minor), gaping, creampie

It was a rare and treasured occasion when Blackberry asked his brother, Slim, to try something new in the bedroom, and even rarer and more precious when that request presented itself in the form of his brother bent over in front of him, sharp phalanges spreading his ass cheeks open to reveal a tight little hole and begging for that hole to be utterly destroyed. Blackberry even wore a cock ring at the base of his shaft to prevent himself from succumbing to sexual exhaustion before his brother finished- a veritable rarity and preciousness bonanza that Slim couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into.

So he did.

Pushing his brother’s hands aside, Slim used his own to spread Blackberry open even wider, making him moan with anticipation. Licking his teeth eagerly, he knelt down and gently nipped first one smooth, round cheek then the other. The tiny jolts of teeth against ecto-flesh had Blackberry rock-hard and trembling, and Slim hadn’t even gotten to the main course yet. Blackberry was a virgin when it came to anal, and Slim would never risk his brother with insufficient foreplay. Plus, Black had offered him a feast.

It would be insulting not to eat it.

Slim circled Black’s entrance with the tip of his tongue, dampening it with his saliva and sending shivers up his brother’s spine. Blackberry cried out when his brother’s tongue pressed against his hole, gently opening him up and slipping inside. Black’s asshole was so tight that Slim moaned softly at the thought of being the first to fuck it, to pound it savagely, to turn his brother into a mewling wreck on the floor. Black wouldn’t be able to walk right for days.

Slim’s tongue slid deeper into Blackberry’s asshole, gently and painlessly stretching him. Soon, Slim had his face buried between his brother’s ass cheeks, plunging his tongue deeply into his brother and curling it to taste Blackberry’s sweet, hot magic. Blackberry moaned so loudly that Slim thanked the stars for the cock ring that prevented him from cumming. He wanted to savor the moment the way he was savoring his brother’s tight little asshole.

Increasing the tempo, Slim twisted and curled his saliva-slick tongue, exploring his brother’s insides while lubricating him for the next step in foreplay. Releasing one of Black’s ass cheeks, Slim pulled his face away from the purple ecto-magic and prodded the needy entrance with one phalanx tip. Blackberry’s body went rigid with pleasure as, slowly, Slim’s finger entered him. Lowering his face again, Slim added his tongue to his thrusting finger.

The two appendages barely fit, but the more Slim worked his tongue and finger in and out of Black’s eager ass, the more the opening stretched until Slim managed to slide a second finger in with the first. Black screamed in pleasure, and his cock bobbed, aching to spill cum onto the carpet.

“oh fuck,” moaned Slim, his own cock thick, throbbing and straining against the fabric of his pants. He couldn’t wait. He slammed his face into his brother’s ass, forcing Black into a downward facing dog position as he tried to brace himself from the force of the darting tongue and scissoring fingers. 

The fingers and tongue moved in rhythm, sinking deeper and deeper with each forceful motion.

“oh fuck, oh fuck,” Slim repeated, clawing at his pants to shove them down over his hips without pulling his tongue from his brother’s asshole. 

“PUT YOUR COCK IN,” Blackberry begged. “PUT YOUR COCK IN MY ASS AND FUCK ME!”

Slim didn’t need any encouragement. His brother’s squirming ass and plaintive screams whipped him into a frenzy of desire. Frustrated with his fumbling attempts, Slim tore the button from his pants, letting the destroyed clothing fall to the floor. He withdrew his tongue and allowed some of the saliva gathered on the tip to drip down onto his shaft where it mingled with the precum that bubbled from his cock. Stroking his length to spread the sticky fluids, Slim hoped that the foreplay had been enough. He couldn’t wait any longer.

Laying a hand on each of Black’s hips, Slim slammed into him. His cock caught slightly on the rim of Black’s asshole before plowing forward, stretching his ass wide in one swift movement. Blackberry’s knees buckled, and his brother had to hold onto him tightly to keep him from falling. The muscles inside of Black’s ass contracted, squeezing Slim’s thick cock deliciously, and he bucked his hips with gusto, pounding into his brother with his sockets closed and his tongue lolling.

“IT’S… IT’S TOO.. BIG…” Black cried, but unless he uttered the safeword, Slim wasn’t about to stop.

“so… fucking… tight…” Slim jerked his hips forward with each word, but each time he tried to pull back for another thrust, Black’s ass tightened around him, refusing to give up that overfull sensation. Slim loved it. He pounded harder and harder into his brother, filling him so deeply that Slim expected to see the outline of his huge cock in Black’s stomach.

“I NEED TO CUM. LET ME CUM,” wailed Black as his brother hilted himself over and over again in his tight virgin asshole. It felt like Slim’s cock was turning him inside out, and he loved it, but the pressure of his unreleased orgasm was beginning to overwhelm him. Slim ignored him again, letting the burning need continue for a bit longer.

Instead of helping his brother, Slim began to rock backwards, pulling himself almost entirely out of Black’s ass, catching the head of his cock on the rim of his hole, then thrusting back in as hard and deep as he could go, increasing the speed and intensity of the fucking with every powerful buck of his hips. Black’s hot smooth insides stroked and squeezed his cock so well that his carefully trained control began to slip.

“PLEASE LET ME CUM!” Black screamed, his eyelights rolling back into his skull from the unbearable pent-up pleasure. Slim reached around and drew one sharp fingertip up the underside of his brother’s cock, then snatched the cock ring off of it. The shorter skeleton came immediately, thick strands of cum spilling from his cock onto the carpet.

“so close… so close,” moaned Slim, watching his brother cum more with each thrust. Digging his phalanges into the supple ecto-flesh of his brother’s ass, Slim buried himself inside the clenching heat one final time. “fuck, oh fuck,” he uttered as cum poured out of him to fill Black’s asshole, the sticky orange fluid leaking out around his cock and dripping down his brother’s legs.

Slim milked his brother’s dick until he couldn’t cum another drop while his pulsing shaft continued to fill Black’s bruised and aching hole. Drained and exhausted, Blackberry collapsed to the floor the moment his brother pulled out. His asshole gaped, cum gushing out of it as it fluttered, unable to close after being so thoroughly fucked.

Slim recovered his phone from his pants pocket and took a picture to preserve the memory.

“DON’T BE AN ASS,” snapped Blackberry.

“you are what you eat,” replied Slim sweetly, picking his brother up and carrying him to the bathroom for cleanup.

Chapter 17: Eat, Cling, Love

Summary:

Requested: A needy, clingy Brassberry bitty is returned to a bitty shop where he finds a new owner who loves his clinginess.

One of the perks of running a bittybones rescue center is seeing a fully recovered bitty thriving in their new environment. One of the drawbacks is the gut-wrenching feeling when you see a cardboard box sitting forlornly outside of your building and know that it contains one of three things: an abandoned bitty, an injured or abused bitty in need of treatment, or a small pile of dust and a mountain of unanswered questions and regrets.

The haunting wails coming from the box that Vex found in front of her bitty shop ruled out the last option, thankfully. Vex quickly brought the box inside of the shop to check on the status of the bitty inside. As soon as the flaps at the top of the box parted, the wails became the same word, cried out endlessly by a blubbering Brassberry bitty.

“Mama! Mama!”

The overhead lights from the shop shone into the newly opened box, and the Brassberry leapt for it, sensing his chance to escape the stuffy cardboard prison. The box toppled over, and the Brassberry ran out of it and further into the shop, shouting loudly for his Mama and thwarting Vex’s attempts to corral him. He was a Brassberry on a mission, and he would not be deterred!

The lamia bittybones residing in the shop gathered around to discover the source of the commotion. Soon, they had the Brassberry surrounded. The abandoned bitty whirled, trying to find an opening in the ranks of miniature and full-sized lamias to scurry through, but Vex scooped him up before he could accidentally run outside or injure himself. The Brassberry struggled and growled, beseeching his missing Mama to help him against what he saw as a bitty-napper.

Vex carried the Brassberry back to the front desk to check the box for a note or some other indication of how he had come to be in her care. The box did contain a note, but someone had chewed it up. With only one possible suspect, it wasn’t much of a mystery to solve. The Brassberry left nothing behind except a few crumpled scraps, the ink smeared from his tears and completely illegible.

Sighing, Vex lifted the thrashing Brassberry up towards her face to ask him for details about his former life, but to her surprise he managed to wiggle free of her grip and tumble onto her apron. He clutched one of the frilly apron straps, looking around in a panic before spotting a pocket just below him. With preternatural speed, the Brassberry burrowed down into the pocket, only the very top of his skull and his suspicious little eyelights showing up over the lip of the fabric. Vex decided to leave him to his improvised cave for the moment, though he still occasionally shouted for the Mama he’d once had.

Eventually his antics wore him out, and the pocket of Vex’s apron began to snore.

The Brassberry steadfastly refused to leave Vex’s pocket despite her many attempts to introduce him to potential adopters and even other friendly bitties. He would cling to the inside of the pocket and cry, shouting “Not Mama!” at anyone who dared to look at him. Vex worried that he might imprint on her as a source of food and a soothing heartbeat, but he merely tolerated her, wolfing down any food she gave him and shoving her hand aside if she tried to relocate him.

Vex’s concern intensified when the Brassberry gave up on calling out to his former Mama. The bitty went quiet in her apron pocket, and when she peered in at him, she found him curled up and pointedly ignoring her. As the days wore on, the Brassberry stopped eating. He must have realized that his Mama would not be returning for him. This was always a dangerous time for abandoned Brassberries. They suffered devastating heartbreak when a beloved owner abandoned them.

Sometimes they even dusted.

Vex wasn’t about to let the Brassberry bitty dust without a fight. She fawned over him, giving him attention, pets, and scritches. She offered him delectable treats. She allowed him to remain in her apron pocket, hoping that her heartbeat would give him some comfort. He didn’t respond to any of it. Time passed, and the Brassberry soon hung limply from the apron pocket, arms dangling. Vex feared that he might literally fall down and injure himself.

A nervous visitor entered the shop while Vex struggled to find a way to reinforce the pocket so that the lackluster bitty didn’t fall out. The visitor carried a box wrapped in colorful paper and tied with a ribbon; when they spotted Vex, they shuffled over the desk looking anxious but determined.

“Hello,” the person greeted shyly once Vex glanced over and smiled at them. “Sorry if I’m bothering you. I’m, uh, looking for a Brassberry bitty. They can be so hard to find, and I wanted to get one from a quality shop. It’s ok if you don’t have any. I totally understand. I even brought this box of cheesecake bites that I made because I know Brassies love them so much. I just have so much love and attention to give…” They ended their single-breath ramble with a high-pitched laugh, then blushed, embarrassed.

The Brassberry sat up as soon as he heard the word cheesecake. It was the most alert he’d been in days. His floppy arms suddenly returned to their full strength, and he made grabby hands towards the box, drawing the adopter’s notice. They stepped forward, leaning in slightly to get a better look at the revitalized bitty.

“Is he yours or-” the potential adopter didn’t get a chance to finish their question because the Brassberry propelled himself from Vex’s apron pocket to latch onto the visitor’s shirt with both tiny fists. Unfortunately his grip on the fabric wasn’t strong enough to support his weight, and he began to slide. They quickly cupped a hand underneath him to keep him from falling. With the other hand they flipped open the lid to the box of treats.

Inside, cheesecake bites of every imaginable flavor were arranged in artful groups. The adopter picked one up and held it to the Brassberry bitty’s mouth for him to eat. The Brassberry clasped both sides of their human-sized hand with his teeny tiny ones, chomping away happily with crumbs sticking to his face or dropping onto their shirt- not that they seemed to mind. After gobbling up three cheesecake bites in quick succession, each one handfed to him by the doting visitor, the Brassberry tilted his head back, looked up into their eyes, and said one single word:

“Mama!”

Chapter 18: Kisses for Brutus

Summary:

This is an alternate version of the previous chapter!

Vex did not like the looks of the person entering the shop at all. It may have had something to do with the fact that he carried a box that made a very distinct crying sound or possibly the way he dropped the box onto the counter as if its contents weren’t a fragile living creature. Glaring icy daggers at the visitor, Vex asked if she could help him. Help him pull his inconsiderate head out of his ass, she thought.

Vex didn’t always judge people harshly when they returned bittybones to a shop. Sometimes situations changed or a bitty’s personality just didn’t work out, but this person’s next few sentences confirmed Vex’s bitty-protecting instincts.

“Can I leave this Brassberry with you? I just wanted to toss him out, but my girlfriend insisted that I take him to a shop instead,” the man explained as if the bitty were a used tissue, and his girlfriend had asked him to use a trash bin instead of littering.

“Of course I’ll take him,” said Vex through gritted teeth, hoping that he would remove his hands from the box and his entire person from the shop as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the unpleasant man just kept right on talking.

“I got a Brassberry because I wanted a tough bitty, but Brutus here is always clinging onto me or crying or asking for kisses. He always wants attention, but if I wanted that kind of responsibility, I’d have a kid, right?” the unsavory character joked.

“Dear God, I hope not,” replied Vex, unable to hold back the comment. With a disgusted sneer, the man, clearly finally realizing that he was not at all welcome in the shop, stalked away and out the door.

Vex exhaled in relief. She didn’t know how much more of that flippant attitude towards living creatures she could take without exploding in a string of very creative curses. Turning to the box, Vex opened it to find a bitty inside with no blankets, toys, or food. The little Brassberry- Brutus, his former owner had called him- trembled in a corner of the box. His sobs had subsided into hiccups and sniffles. Vex noticed that his clothing and the bandage on his head had not been recently, if ever, cleaned.

“Come on out, Brutus. Let’s get you a bath,” Vex cooed to the Brassberry.

“You’re not gonna throw me in the garbage, are you?” whimpered the Brassberry. Vex nearly chased the previous owner down to give him a piece of her mind for bullying the tiny bitty.

“Of course not. Around here, cuties like you get nice bubble baths and warm fluffy towels and lots of snuggles!”

Brutus wiped his eyes and then held his hands above his head in the universal gesture to be picked up. Vex lifted him out of the box and nuzzled him despite the smell wafting from his clothes. I’m going to pretend that he doesn’t smell like lighter fluid for my own sanity, she told herself.

After a thorough bath with lots of suds and bathtub toys, Brutus was fresh, clean, and wearing soft pajamas with smiling clouds on them. Vex offered him a variety of snacks, including some cheesecake with caramel and chocolate on it. Brutus ate like he’d never seen food in his entire life, and Vex sighed. Proper bitty care wasn’t complicated: feed him, love him, provide him with a safe place to sleep. As the Brassberry rearranged the blankets in the basket that Vex brought for him to use as a bed, tears began to stream down his tiny face again.

“I miss Mama,” he wailed suddenly.

Vex picked him up again, holding him close to her chest so that he could hear her heartbeat. He blubbered into her shirt, definitely not the picture of a tough bitty at all. No matter how terrible their owners were, Brassberries loved them unconditionally. Vex made soft shushing sounds and rubbed the Brassberry’s back to comfort him.

“Your owner wasn’t very nice to you. I promise I’ll find you a place where you can be loved. How does that sound?” Vex did not expect little Brutus to shake his head vehemently.

“Not my owner. Mama. Mama loved me n’ she always gave me hugs and kisses and tucked me in at night.” Brutus went on extolling the virtues of his Mama until Vex finally understood. Mama was the girlfriend who had stopped the owner from throwing Brutus away- or worse. Brutus allowed Vex to tuck him into his little nest, but when she leaned down to offer a kiss, he shoved her away firmly. “Not Mama kisses,” he pouted. Poor Brutus.

Vex hoped that a strict regimen of Papython cuddles would do the Brassberry bitty some good. She carried Brutus, basket and all, into the Infirmary with instructions to the Papythons that he should receive as much affection and cuddles as he allowed until further notice. The Nurse Papythons filled the prescription immediately by crowding around the basket and showering the Brassberry bitty in their love and positive energy.

Brutus responded with tired indifference, but the Papythons refused to give up. When Vex closed the door to the Infirmary, they’d curled up around Brutus’ nest, but she heard the Brassberry murmur forlornly: “Not Mama…” Poor Brutus.

In the days that followed, Brutus ate meals and treats listlessly, begrudgingly accepted his baths and bandage changes, and sighed his way through cuddle sessions. Any time he was offered an affectionate kiss, he would turn away stoically, declaring the kiss to be “not Mama kisses.” More time passed, and Brutus’ condition declined. Soon he couldn’t even be coaxed to accept snuggles or sweet treats.

Vex began to worry that poor Brutus might never recover from his abandonment.

Vex’s mind stayed with Brutus in the Infirmary as she went about her daily business in her bittybones shop. Adopters came and went, some of them with joyful lamias in tow. A customer came in and walked up to the front desk, and Vex asked if she could help her. The customer, a young woman, burst into tears.

In between sobs and sniffles, the woman told her story. She wanted to adopt a bitty because she felt lonely after a bad break-up. Vex nodded; it happened quite frequently. The woman went on to explain that she’d dumped her boyfriend after he’d been cruel to his own bitty, a sweet Brassberry that she’d loved dearly. Afraid that he’d done something unspeakable to the bitty, she kicked him out that very night, not believing his stories about dropping poor Brutus off at a bitty shelter.

“Wait, did you say ‘poor Brutus’?” Vex asked, cutting off the woman’s story. The woman nodded, wiping tears from her eyes and cheeks. “Hold on,” Vex told her.

Vex hurried to the Infirmary. Brutus lay face down on the floor, the Nurse Papythons watching him with concern. Vex scooped him up, and he flopped lifelessly in her hands. Not dust though, Vex reassured herself. Not now and hopefully not ever if I’m right.

Bitty in hand, Vex rushed back to the woman, whose eyes widened with recognition immediately.

“There’s someone here to give you kisses,” Vex whispered to the Brassberry bitty, holding him out to the woman. Brutus didn’t look up or move. 

“Not Mama kisses,” he grumbled.

“Oh Brutus,” the woman, Brutus’ beloved Mama, cried. “It’s you!”

Brutus sprang to his feet, and his Mama barely caught him before he plummeted to the floor in his mad scramble to reach her. His Mama held him up to her face and nuzzled him. Brutus giggled and wiggled, repeating the word “Mama” over and over again, and when she planted a smooch on top of his little skull, he closed his eyes in utter bliss.

“Mama kisses!”

Chapter 19: Tit for Tat

Summary:

Requested (by my brain): A Mamba defends his owner from an uncomfortable bra.

NOTE: While it does not contain any sexuality, this story does involve a reader with breasts.

Since the dawn of time, those of us whose chests have been crowned with breasts have faced a common and unrelenting enemy: gravity. Through our long and storied history, mankind has waged an unending battle against this foul nemesis of breasts, but we succeed only in awakening a slumbering beast and exchanging one adversary for another. 

Bearing the shield, sword, and armor of underwires, padding, and lace we press forward only to find that our age-old enemy has been joined by a merciless ally: hellish discomfort. In seeking the perfect mixture of ideal fit and adequate lift for our breasts, we can only choose which wicked villain deals the final, murderous blow: lack of proper support or lack of even a modicum of comfort.

All is not lost, claims an unasked-for advertisement that you scroll past the first ten or eleven times without a second glance. Finally, the message sinks in. There is a new brassiere design, one that promises that all-important breast support and may very well be (according to the company that sells it) the most comfortable article of clothing you’ve ever worn in your life. You can’t add it to the cart fast enough, sparing a regretful glance for your trusty old bra which has by now become a decrepit shadow of what it once was.

Good-bye, Old Faithful. Hello, new Wonderbra.

When the package arrived, you couldn’t wait to experience the long-anticipated bliss of the perfect bra. By the end of the day though, regret had finished burying bliss’s cold, dead body in the box your “perfect” bra had come in. In an attempt to be both comfortable and supportive, the brassiere in question had failed miserably at both. 

“This stupid thing is killing me,” you grumbled, fumbling with a ridiculous clasp system, too preoccupied with escaping the titty torture device to give your miniature Mamba his after-work scritches. You couldn’t get the damn thing off fast enough, rubbing red spots on your shoulders and chest as you donned your softest pajamas. When you finally turned your attention to your lamia bitty, it took you a few moments to find him.

Two small pinpricks of purple light glowed from underneath your bed. Your Mamba’s eyelights were locked on the offending piece of clothing laying discarded in the middle of the floor. He must have heard your complaint and taken the words seriously (unsurprisingly… he is a Mamba, after all). Suddenly, a shimmering purple streak burst from cover with a mighty (but also adorably tiny) roar. The Mamba pounced onto the bra, tussling with the undergarment until he’d wrestled it into submission. Growling and chomping at one cup of the bra, he lashed his little tail until he felt satisfied that the bra was well and truly dead and your near-fatal discomfort appropriately avenged.

The mighty hunter and defender of your honor dragged his vanquished enemy over to you, puffing his chest out while you thanked him for saving the day. At least the fang-holes in the bra would keep the retailer from putting it back on the shelf, you reasoned. Lifting the mighty Mamba onto the computer desk so that he could revel in your attention and praise, you submitted a return ticket full of choice words to describe the bra.

After clicking submit, you couldn’t help scanning the internet for a better bra. Unfortunately, high quality bras demanded high prices. You found a website with custom sizing and options, and against your better judgment, you went through the process of selecting a bra that would be perfect for your specific body type. You added it to the website’s cart to check the price and groaned. You hated the thought of spending so much money on yourself. It looked like you would be making amends with Old Faithful after all.

Before you had a chance to close the browser window in favor of a scroll through social media, your Mamba lifted himself up to press himself against the computer screen, getting good and close to check out the image of the bra you’d selected. “Good,” he finally declared, tapping the screen.

“Yeah, it’s good, but I don’t want to spend that much money,” you told him, showing him the hefty price tag. To your surprise, he huffed indignantly.

Pointing to his luxurious nest with its pile of soft cushions and canopy of tulle and fairy lights, he said: “Nice for me.” His tiny skeletal finger swung around to point at his wardrobe trunk next, spilling over with designer bitty outfits and accessories. “Nice for me,” he repeated. Rearing up to his full 3 inch height, the bitty jabbed his little finger at the computer screen then propped both hands on his hips and turned his itty bitty baleful glare on you. “Why no nice for you?” he demanded.

The miniscule lamia had a point. He punctuated that point by attempting to buy the item, though in reality he was just pressing the spacebar and mumbling “Buy, buy, buy” under his breath. You let him continue on like that for a moment before doing the clicking, shipment, and payment yourself.

Your Mamba gave a satisfied nod when the “Order success” message popped up.

When you and your Mamba curled up in respective beds that night, you both reflected on a good day’s work completed. You’d splurged on yourself, something you really needed to do more often, and your Mamba had bravely and nobly defended your life and honor from yet another inanimate object.

Chapter 20: Putting Theory Into Practice

Summary:

Not requested at all: A Coral (UF!Sans lamia) thinks he knows why you're having a low spoons day.

Today is definitely a low spoons day, the first you've had in a long time. In fact, it's the first time you've had fatigue this severe since you adopted your sweet little Coral bitty, the same sweet little Coral bitty who is currently papping your face with his tiny skeleton hands to see if you're alright. He's not used to seeing you camped out under a blanket on the couch, and it obviously worries him.

You explain spoon theory to him in an attempt to ease his mind. Energy is like spoons, you tell him. If you have a lot of spoons, you can use those spoons for whatever you want, but if you are low on spoons, you have to pick and choose how you're going to use them. Today is a low spoons day, so you won't be doing much. You ask him if he understands, and he nods very slowly, though his brows are scrunched in adorable thought.

You make a space for the lamia in your blanket burrito so he can snuggle against you, then you find some video clip shows on TV to play as background noise. The shows don't require much attention, so you're free to doze while your bitty is happily entertained by people falling off of things that they had no business being on in the first place. You're too drowsy to notice that he isn't laughing at the videos. You totally miss his pensiveness. You've fallen quite deeply asleep.

The Coral bitty shifts against you, checking to see if his movements awaken you. You don't stir in the slightest, so he wiggles his way free of the blanket nest and climbs down to the floor. Skull swinging left and right with suspicious glares, he slithers over to the closet where you set up his private nest. Satisfied that he isn't being observed, he slips into the closet to pay a visit to his hoard.

Surely no other Coral in the world is lucky enough to have such a wide array of cubbies to store his pilfered treasures, but the very best items are stashed in the back, in the gap between the cubbies and the wall. These are the oh-so-special shinies that he's searching for. One by one, he drags them from their hiding spot, hauling them across the floor to a new destination.

---

Your bleary eyes crack open, and the white noise of the television you left on slowly comes into focus. The moment before you shift, you know that you’ll regret sleeping somewhere not meant to be slept on, but you’re entirely unprepared to hear, instead of popping joints, a loud clattering sound. You also hear the pelting of objects hitting the floor. What could have made such a racket?

You toss your blanket aside, and see them scattered everywhere.

Spoons.

Spoons large and small, metal and plastic, elegant and plain litter the couch and floor, creating a very definite trail to your Coral’s closet nest. You even spot a spoon with a bent handle that you are sure you’d put in the trash months ago, and there, in the midst of spoon-mageddon, lays your poor exhausted Coral bitty, face-down, a tiny silver spoon clutched to his chest, a treasure that you recall purchasing for him when he’d fallen in love with it at an antique shop mere days after you adopted him.

You scoop up your little striped lamia and his most treasured possession and carry them to the couch, shaking the rest of the spoons out of the blanket before setting him down on it. He blinks up at you, then holds out the spoon as an offering, tears welling in his sockets. 

“ssssorry i took all the sssspoonssss,” he hisses with the most adorable sad sniffle you have ever heard. “i give them back sssso you feel better!” He lifts his beloved spoon higher, waggling it enticingly, and your heart melts.

You rush to reassure him. “Low spoons is just a saying, sweet pea! You don’t have to give up all of your treasures for me, though I appreciate the thought. I just need a rest day, that’s all.” Using your thumb, you brush away his tears. He flops against your hand, too tired to even stay upright, though he manages a small affectionate nuzzle.

You gather the spoons into a pile to put away later, leaving the little antique spoon wrapped securely in your Coral’s arms. You carry the bitty to your bedroom and tuck him into bed beside you for a much needed nap.

When you wake up, you’ll have enough spoons to deal with your over-abundance… of spoons.

Chapter 21: Nightmare and the Gang

Summary:

Warning: suggestive language and swearing
This is small series of "incorrect Undertale quotes" type blurbs featuring Nightmare and his Bad Sanses (with a guest appearance by the Star Sanses).

Nightmare, drinking a cup of coffee from his #1 Boss mug and looking directly at the camera: It’s not gay to kiss your homies goodnight.

The camera pans out and the audience sees that Nightmare is wearing a shirt with the same words on it. The camera pans out further, showing the Bad Sans gang all wearing identical “I’m the Homie” shirts.

Horror: Ride or die homies are out. Kiss and care homies are the new hotness.

Cross: Why die when you can smooch?

Killer: Why ride when you can 69?

Dust: It’s not gay to fuck your homies either.

Cross: It’s only gay if balls touch.

Killer: If balls touch, you just say “No homo” and then it’s not gay

Horror: What if you don’t say “No homo”?

Cross: Homies to Lovers

---

Nightmare has captured the Star Sanses. He has them tied up in the antechamber of his castle. He decides to play a little game with Cross to test where his loyalties lie. Cross enters the antechamber.

Nightmare: We’re going to play a little game. You get to choose the fate of the Star Sanses and deliver it by your own hands.

Cross: ‘K

Nightmare: The game is called Fuck-

Cross: Dream. I choose Dream.

Nightmare, exasperated already: You didn’t let me finish. It’s called Fuck, Marry-

Cross: Dream! Still Dream!

Dream blushes. Nightmare facepalms with his tentacles.

Nightmare: The game is Fuck, Marry, Kill.

Cross: Oh, Ink then, but do I have to marry him too?

Ink: Hey!

Nightmare, losing what little patience he has: You fuck one, marry one, and kill one!

Cross, nodding: Oh, easy. Dream, Dream again, Ink!

Ink and Blue: Hey!

Blue: I’m fuckable!

---

Nightmare: Killer, you wound me.

Killer: Emotionally?

Nightmare: No. Physically.

Nightmare: With your knife.

Nightmare: The one you stabbed into my tentacle.

Killer (sheepishly): Sorry, boss. You know my love language is stabbies.

Chapter 22: Nightmare and the Gang (Part 2)

Nightmare follows the sounds of a commotion to one of the rooms in his castle. He opens the door to find that the cabinet for the expensive liquor collection has been tipped over.

Cross is swinging from a chandelier, drinking booze from the bottle then using said bottle as a microphone while he sings “Chandelier” in a slurred falsetto.

Killer is swinging bone attacks at him like he’s a drunken pinata.

Dust is scurrying across across the floor with his hands and feet stuck in Nightmare’s expensive vases.

Horror is filming it.

Nightmare: This. This is why we can’t have things.

Dust: Nice things?

Nightmare: No. Any things.

Killer: But we have things! [summons a glowing red knife made of magic] Look, I have a knife!

Nightmare slaps the knife out of Killer’s hand with one of his tentacles. It falls to the floor and shatters.

Nightmare: NO THINGS!

Killer, on his knees sobbing: Knifey, noooooooo!

---

Nightmare’s gang has discovered Spotify Wrapped and decided to make a meme. They are in Nightmare’s study while Nightmare is trying to ignore them.

Killer, sitting at the computer: So we’re picking the songs that best describe us from the Boss’s top 5. I’m “Kill Everyone” by Hollywood Undead!

Dust, peering over Killer’s shoulder: I’m “I Don’t Wanna Die” by Hollywood Undead.

Killer: Cross is always sad, so he plays “Despacito.”

Cross shrugs, and Nightmare looks up.

Nightmare, becoming suspicious: Despacito? I’ve never even heard of that song!

Horror: I’m “Milkshake” by Kelis.

Nightmare: Milksha- [he goes to the computer and and sees his Spotify Wrapped] Stop using my Spotify account!

Killer, grinning: That only leaves one choice for the Boss.

The Bad Sanses, in unison: The Nannerpuss song!

Nightmare: I’m going to kill all of you.

Notes:

The link is for the Nannerpuss song on YouTube.

Chapter 23: Nightmare and the Gang (part 3)

Summary:

WARNING: suggestive

Notes:

Enjoy my random thoughts.

The Bad Sans Gang is hanging out at the castle, celebrating a recent victory over the Star Sanses.

Killer, gloating to Cross: You should ask Dream how his ass is doing after we kicked it so badly in our last battle.

Cross, thoughtful: It tasted fine last night.

Killer: What?

Cross: What?

Nightmare, from his library: What?!

---

The scene opens with a close-up of Blue’s face. He is speaking directly into the camera about a recent battle between Nightmare’s Gang and the Star Sanses.

Blue: I told Killer that he couldn’t solve his problems with stabbing.

The scene shifts to a close-up of Dream, who also speaks into the camera.

Dream: But it turns out he could.

The scene pans out to show the Star Sanses being bandaged up by Underswap Papyrus.

Ink: And he did!

---

Nightmare strolls into the antechamber. He’s holding Horror, who is ridiculously large, on his hip.

Nightmare, to Killer, Dust, and Cross: I’ve only had this Bad Sans for a century and a half, but if anything ever happened to him, I’d kill everyone in this room.

[Awkward pause.]

Killer, prompting: And then yourself?

Nightmare: What? No. I’d kill you all and get some competent minions!

---

After filming Underverse episode 0.6, Cross returns to Nightmare’s castle wearing his new torn clothes and carrying his new weapons.

Killer, showing Dust his fake broken arm: What’s with the outfit?

Cross, accepting a snack offered by Horror, who is wearing a pink apron: It represents a turning point in the story and my personal growth as a character. It’s a metaphor.

Nightmare, rearranging his goop over his damaged socket: You don’t have any other clothes, do you?

Cross: I do not.

Killer: Nice boob window.

---

The Bad Sanses enter a McDonalds and step up to the counter to order. Nightmare stands a pace behind them, waiting to pay for their meals.

Dust: I’d like a McRib with extra Szechuan sauce

Employee: We don’t have those items currently.

Dust scowls, and Cross steps up to the counter. A woman gets in line behind Nightmare with her toddler who is beginning to tantrum.

Cross: I’d like a Happy Meal.

Employee: Aren’t you a little old for a Happy Meal?

Cross, trying not to cry: I just… want… to be… happy!

Killer steps up to the counter. The toddler tantrum is getting a bit louder. The woman folds her arms over her chest and huffs impatiently.

Killer: Whopper please.

Employee: Sir, this is McDonalds. 

Killer: So? [Killer starts to pulls a knife out of his hoodie, but Horror shoves him aside to make his own order.]

Horror: Can I get one… no, two… of everything?

The toddler is now stomping and screaming for a cookie. As Nightmare steps up to the counter to pay he hears the mother promise the child a cookie. Looking at the cookie display, he sees there is only one cookie left.

Nightmare: I’ll take that cookie too.

The employee quickly bags the cookie and hands it to Nightmare, who turns to the woman and her toddler. The woman is glaring at him for buying the last cookie.

Nightmare, to the toddler: [holds out the cookie] Is this what you wanted?

The toddler nods, and the woman begins to thank Nightmare.

Nightmare: Get used to disappointment, brat.

Nightmare eats the cookie, bag and all, laughing.

---

Killer, Dust, and Horror are in the kitchen enjoying breakfast when Nightmare comes in. Nightmare pours himself some coffee and puts some bread in the toaster.

Killer: hey, boss, that’s a new toaster. it’s voice activated. you put your bread in and say “toaster activate” and it’ll start your toast.

Dust and Horror look suspicious but say nothing.

Nightmare: Toaster Activate… (Nothing happens.) Toaster Activate!

Killer, trying not to laugh: it must not recognize your voice yet. you’ll have to do it the old fashioned way then.

A Few Days Later…

The Bad Sans gang are receiving instructions for their next mission when Nightmare’s phone alerts him to an email. He checks it quickly, then addresses his minions.

Nightmare: It appears that hot women in my area are eager to meet me. You are all dismissed.

As the group heads back to their bedrooms, Killer begins to laugh. Dust and Horror exchange looks.

A Few Days Later (again)…

Dust and Killer are sitting on a couch playing video games when Nightmare strolls into the room looking proud of himself.

Nightmare: I’ve won a substantial sum from an international lottery. Once I’ve submitted my bank information, the money will be deposited, and I’ll provide each of you with a small bonus.

Nightmare leaves the room, and Killer snorts.

Killer: well, i’ll be getting a bonus anyway.

Dust: you know he’s going to figure out you’re behind all of this eventually, right?

Killer: i dunno about that

Nightmare, from the kitchen: Toaster Activate!

Chapter 24: The Gavle Goat (Lamia Bittybones Edition)

Summary:

I let my followers on Tumblr vote for what happened to the goat. This is the result.

The concept of a Yule Goat, like so many other human holiday traditions, was lost on the lamia bittybones. The snake-skeleton hybrids gladly honored annual feasting days (be it candy or turkey), skeleton themed celebrations (sugar skulls!), and gift giving holidays (who doesn’t love gifts?) This year, however, they have discovered the human holiday tradition of arson, just in time for Valentine’s Day!

The Pygmies, being law-abiding citizens, elected to build the Valentine’s Goat. The Mambas, who thrive on destruction, took charge of annihilating it. Using their expert building skills, a pony-sized goat was lovingly woven in a place of honor the center of the bitty shop to await its possible demise.

Loyal Honey Bos and Chains joined their brothers’ teams. Corals actually showed interest in tearing something apart, and the Kings couldn’t pass up an opportunity to show their hunting prowess. Even the FireRings opted to commit the arson since the materials used to build the goat were organic and flammable.

Pacifist Kraits and gentle Papythons joined the Goat Guard to protect the Valentine’s Goat from harm. Cornies proclaimed the goat (sculpture) to be the GOAT (Greatest of All Time), and named it G. G.

One would think that a straw goat wouldn’t last long in a shop full of magic-wielding bitties bent on its destruction, but every time a King or Mamba got within striking distance of G. G. they found that it wasn’t where it appeared to be. Corals and Chains attempted to teleport onto the sculpture, but always found themselves landing a few inches short. Fireballs lobbed at the goat deflected harmlessly into the Krait play pools.

No matter how hard they tried, Team Mamba could not overcome the Void-fueled time-space paradox created around G. G. Edgar had slightly more luck when he let Team Mamba Jr. pummel the goat with tiny ineffective fists before they were bravely “fought off” by Team Pygmy Jr. leaving the goat uninjured.

After three harrowing days, the lamias in the bitty shop awakened to find that G. G. had vanished during the night. A trail of straw led to the Commander den where Belle, Lieutenant Cherry, and the Commander gang reside. Those who dare to peek inside might even spot G. G. adorned in fairy lights and living her best life with a retinue of fierce guardians.