#And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree

[timeofjuly]

And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree

Chapter 1 - Smooth Operator

Summary: Rus takes you ice skating for the first time and despite some initial wobbliness, only one of you ends up on your ass.

Notes: The first chapter of And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree, my four-part holiday series focusing on festive-themed dates with Rus, Edge, Stretch, and Papyrus.

Tags: Reader/swapfell Papyrus, ice skating, fluff, established relationship.

Read it on AO3 or read it below the cut!

“lookin’ a little wobbly there, baby doll,” Rus teases, looking unfairly steady on his skates. Behind him, a vast expanse of glistening ice stretches out under the open sky, reflecting the soft glow of twinkling lights that adorn the perimeter of the skating rink. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of freshly fallen snow and the rhythmic sound of blades gliding over the smooth surface.

Your own skates slide perilously against the ice, your legs clenched tight to stop your knees from slipping out from underneath you.

“Nuh-uh,” you say, willing your fingers to loosen their grip on the barrier. “I’ve just got knives attached to my feet, what’s scary about that?  It’s not like ice is slippery or anything.”

Rus chuckles. “c’mon, don’t’cha trust me? if you’re that scared, it’s not too late for me to get you a penguin.”

As if summoned by the cruel forces of comedic timing, a small child breezes past the two of you pushing said skating aid. They seem entirely at ease and as you watch, they remove their hands from the penguin with an elated whoop.

“Look, no hands!” they call out, presumably to a parent.

Your resolve, which has previously been a gelatinous mass quivering at the pit of your belly, hardens. Like hell you’re being shown up by a kid. “Nope,” you say to Rus, “I’m good.”

You aren’t, though. You’re nervous. You probably shouldn’t have watched that video about the top ten career-ending ice hockey accidents last night. Ah, hindsight. At least you’re wearing a thick scarf; hopefully that’ll protect your neck from any errant skating blades.

“if you’re sure,” he says. In contrast to the pitiful display you’re putting on, Rus looks completely at home on the ice. More graceful than he is on solid ground, even, though that’s not necessarily that high of a bar. There’s a natural ease to him like this, a confidence that you’ve only caught snatches of before.

“i’m ready whenever you are,” he says. His thick woollen sweater reads FESTIVE GUY and is a particularly fetching shade of eggplant.  His cheeks are faintly lilac from the cold that nips through the air, his long, delicate hands encased in cosy mittens.

Those mittened hands are held out to you now. Anxiety flickers in your chest but then you look at him again, at how steady he is, how the long lines of his body are looser and more relaxed than you’ve ever seen them outside of the safety of privacy, and that gives you all the bravery you need.

You take his hands, the chill of the rink being chased away through your gloves. Your fingers curl between his phalanges in a grip that would surely be bruising if he had flesh. As you step further onto the ice, you wobble perilously, struggling to find your balance. Your ankles feel heavy and clumsy, your feet dead weight. How do people make this look so easy? You’ve never felt so unwieldy in your life.

“you’re okay,” he says, holding you steady. “that’s perfect.”

The standards for perfect must be low.

You’re too busy concentrating on not falling on your ass – no, hands and knees, the video you watched in preparation for this said that letting your arms absorb the impact is the safest way to fall – so you can’t articulate that thought into an appropriately clever remark, so you just settle on responding with a dubious look.

His grip tightens reassuringly – you feel like he’s holding all of your weight at this point - and he begins guiding you across the smooth surface. He’s making it look so easy, skating backwards with practiced, smooth motions. You feel like a newborn giraffe in comparison, if someone was to sneak into the zoo, strap knife-blades to its hooves, and set it out onto the ice.

"first lesson: find your centre of gravity," he says, his voice low and encouraging. "keep your knees slightly bent, and let the skates do the work."

“What does that even mean?” you say, a little panicked, but you quickly mimic his stance. It’s awkward at first – you’re ready to tip face-first into him at any moment, but with enough gradual, tiny adjustments, you start to feel a little steadier. The tempo of the music playing over the rink's speakers helps you keep your movements rhythmic, and you find yourself feeling more and more confident.

“there you go,” he says. Despite yourself, warmth floods your chest at the praise.

“I feel like you’re doing all the work, not me or the skates,” you say. “How the hell are you so good at this? I’ve seen you trip over your own bone constructs.”

He lets go of one of your hands to press a wounded hand to his chest and you flail in its absence, letting out a startled eep.

“hey, i am beauty and i am grace. ’specially compared to you right now.”

He snatches your hand back before you can really panic, but as you recover, you realise that you probably weren’t in any danger of falling anyway. One, you trust that Rus would catch you and two, you’re feeling a little steadier on your skates now. Maybe you’re getting the hang of this! The Zamboni isn’t going to run you over after all.

“Aw, you don’t think I’m pretty?” You affect an exaggerated pout.

He laughs, but his cheeks tinge purple. “’course i think you’re pretty. you’re my cute little baby squirrel, slippin’ around on the ice. like in ice age.”

“… thank you?”

“you’re welcome, scrat.”

Eh. You can live with that. Dude has tenacity you can appreciate.

Besides, all this teasing is distracting you from looking down at your own feet and throwing yourself off-balance. Rus continues to glide you around the rink and the sounds of the other skaters seem to fall away, leaving just the two of you and the sounds of your skates sliding against the ice. You gently lap around, each pass making you feel more and more comfortable.

“Still, there’s got to be a reason you’re so good at this,” you press. “There’s not some secret winter Olympics Underground I don’t know about, right?”

He snorts. “hah. nah, nothing like that. not much time for organised sports when everyone’s tryin’ to avoid being dusted. i just did a lot of skating on my own, back when i was in stripes,” he says, and though the tone is off handed, you get the sense that this is far more significant than his voice is letting on. “spent a lot of hours out on the ice. with enough practice, angel eyes, anyone’d pick it up. even you.”

He lets go of your hand again, this time to boop your nose. When he takes it again, his grip is far looser, and you find that you’re staying upright of your own volition. Part of you is tempted to let go completely and see what you can do on your own now that you’ve got the basics down, but fuck, the enjoyment you’re getting from holding his hand is overriding your competitive spirit.

He’s also still towing you around and you have no idea how to actually make yourself go, but little details.

“There’s not much ice or snow from where I’m from, so I never learnt,” you say. “We’d get this gross, dirty sleet sometimes in the winter, but not much else. I used to be so jealous of kids who got to have white Christmases. Did Black teach you to do this?”

Fondness colours his features. “yeah, he did. he was good like that. not many of the other kids liked to go out onto the ice, so i think he thought that if i stayed out there, they wouldn’t pick on me. when i got older, it was a good way to get away from everything for a while.”

You imagine a younger Black taking an even younger Rus by the hands and leading him out onto the ice, guiding him in the way he’s guiding you now. You wonder what being picked on as a kid looked like in their universe, that cruel, brutal place. You doubt that it amounted to simple teasing.

Your chest aches at the thought, but you quash it down. Today is a day for good things; you’re not going to dwell on a past you have no way of changing.

“You must’ve learnt some pretty cool tricks, then,” you say, pushing levity into your tone.

The words chase away the hint of melancholy that had been lurking on his skull. He grins at you, lazy and languid and confident, and says, “oh, sugar plum, you have no idea.”

The two of you both glide to a stop on the side of the rink. You let go of his hands and grasp back onto the barrier. You feel safe now to stay standing without his assistance.

“Go on, then,” you say, angling your chin towards the ice. “Impress me.”

He takes the ice, his movements fluid and confident. The chilly air echoes with the scrape of blades against the smooth surface, and he shoots you a mischievous grin. With each stride, he gains momentum, twirling effortlessly with a grace that makes you dizzy. Your breath catches as he executes a flawless spin, his body a whirl of controlled motion. The ice seems to respond to his every command, and he carves intricate patterns with finesse.

With a final, daring leap, he lands with a flourish, a triumphant smile lighting up his face. The ice seems to shimmer in approval of his performance.

As he skates back to your side, there's a glint of anticipation in his eyes, silently asking if he managed to impress.

And in that moment, under the twinkling lights of the ice rink, you can't help but feel the warmth of his efforts.

Fuck, you’re getting mushy. You can’t find it in you to be upset about that, though.

“well?” he says.

Your applause is muffled by your gloves, but the intent is the same. “That was amazing! Do you reckon I could learn to go that fast today? Oh, or even backwards? Both at the same time seems a little ambitious.”

“maybe just a little,” he says, cheeks flushed from your praise. “we can work on it, though. just getting you to go under your own power today is a good goal. that you’re standin’ with no support now is impressive on its own.”

You look down at yourself and then at your arms and huh, would you look at that. Granted, you’re not moving yet, but you’re getting there!

You cast your eyes back out onto the ring to see the small child from earlier gliding around the ice, skating aid now discarded. You point a gloved finger towards them.

“Do you think I could at least go faster than that kid today?” you say.

Rus looks amused but doesn’t question your choice of a benchmark. “maybe, but don’t stress if you can’t. you’re doing really good for your first time on the ice,” he says. “i don’t want you fallin’ and cracking your head open because you bite off more than you can chew. don’t worry, we can come back for more practice. if you want. it’s okay if you, don’t, though, i -.”

“We are definitely coming back,” you say. You’re determined to at least learn one trick before the holidays are over. “You’re stuck with me now, coach.”

“does that mean you’ll get one of those leotards?”

“If you wear one too, sure,” you agree. “Maybe we can get matching ones.”

He takes your hands again and starts pulling you around the ice, slow and deliberate. You do your best to match his movements. The two of you make another slow lap and though you’re too focussed to be chatty, the silence doesn’t feel awkward. He gives you the occasional helpful, if teasing, pointer and your confidence continues to grow.

“well, how’s your first time on the ice shapin’ up so far?” he asks you after another lap. “everything you were hoping for?” The words are joking, but you can see his sincerity.

Your chest feels all warm and soft and suddenly, you don’t feel the chill of the ice at all. You steel yourself and use your handhold to pull yourself closer to him, slowing your pace, and then let go of his hands altogether, bringing one now free hand to cup the side of his skull. Your gloved fingers splay across his zygomatic arch.

He nuzzles into your palm, sockets drooping.

“Good,” you say. Your voice is soft. “Really, really good.”

“i – heh.” He ducks his head, but he can’t hide the colour that flushes his skull.

In an attempt to recover gracefully, he takes a misstep, his skates catching an edge. Before you both know it, he's tripping over his own feet, arms flailing in an attempt to regain balance.

To no avail. He crashes down into the ice, bony ass first. You narrowly avoid getting taken down with him.

“Oh my god,” you say, unable to stifle the laughter that bubbles up your throat. “Are you okay?”

Rus attempts to clamber to his feet, trying – and failing – to get his legs back underneath him. With each slip back onto the ice, the vivid mauve dusting his cheeks deepens further.

Eventually, he rights himself, skull blazing purple. “’m fine. that was exactly what i was going for. grand finale. ta-da.” The words are said with accompanying jazz-hands.

Still laughing, you pluck one of his hands from the air and pull yourself towards him.

“Real smooth,” you say. “Come on, you charmer. I want to have another go.”

[timeofjuly]

And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree

Chapter 2 - Violently, Vividly Vibrant

Summary: You decorate the Christmas tree with Edge and avoid being restrained by tinsel.

Notes: The second chapter of And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree, my four-part holiday series focusing on festive-themed dates with Rus, Edge, Stretch, and Papyrus.

Tags: Reader/underfell Papyrus, tree decorating, fluff, established relationship.

Read it on AO3 or read it below the cut!

“Are you actually going to contribute, or do you just intend on sitting there and watching me do all the work?” Edge asks you, hands on his hips.

“I tried to put one bauble on, and you threatened to restrain me,” you say. “Forgive me if I feel a little safer outside of tinselling range.”

He sniffs. “It’s not my fault that you’re blind to my aesthetic vision. What kind of philistine does the ornaments before the lights?”

You and Edge are in the living room, surrounded by boxes of ornaments and the scent of pine. You sit on the couch, legs crossed beneath you as you watch him fuss with a string of lights. The Christmas tree, a lush evergreen, is in the middle of its festive transformation.

And what a regimented transformation it is. You should’ve known this process would be akin to a military operation the moment Edge brought the tree in. He meticulously adjusted the tree stand at least six times, making sure it was perfectly centred and level. It had taken you retrieving your spirit level from your toolbox to convince him that it was actually straight and even now, you’ve caught him nudging it with his foot a few times.

Actually, no, you should’ve known how seriously he was going to take this well before that, when you’d picked out the tree with him. He insisted on manually inspecting every single tree on the farm and grading them on overall shape, density of branches, size, and needle quality. Your joking suggestion to add another category, strength of pine-y smell, had been received with great enthusiasm.

You’re now the lucky owner of the largest, most conically shaped, most fragrant, and densest tree the farm had to offer. Unfortunately, you had needed to compromise on needle quality to satisfy the other requirements.

“No, I see the vision,” you say, eyeing the tree critically. “It’s definitely very… matchy-matchy.”

Edge’s browbone twitches. The fearsome affect is lost on you, though, as an errant piece of tinsel is clinging to a crack just above his socket. “Matchy-matchy? It is not matchy-matchy! I intentionally picked different ornaments in the same colour palette to avoid that. It is festive and timeless.”

Your gaze flickers to the tree. The tree, laden in red tinsel and red lights and redder ornaments, stares back at you. You’ve never seen so many shades of scarlet in one place, which is saying something considering that you’ve seen the inside of Edge’s closet.

The boughs are heavy with precisely spaced baubles and perfectly fluffed tinsel, each branch artfully uniform. It wouldn’t be out of place on the front page of a magazine.

You’ve always just thrown lights and tinsel at the tree and put ornaments wherever you thought they looked good. You’ve never had anything like a theme, or even a colour scheme. It’s not the holidays, in your opinion, if it doesn’t look like someone’s vomited rainbow everywhere.

“I just think it might be nice to get some more colour in there,” you try.

He looks unconvinced. You swing your legs down and jostle the nearest box of ornaments with your foot, the baubles inside giving a great rattle of plastic. “I bought these ones from home ‘cause I wasn’t sure what you already had. Do you want to have a look?”

Edge throws his arms up with a sigh. “If they ruin the aesthetic, I am removing them immediately.”

You grin, undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. “Yay!” You rip the plastic tape from the cardboard box and tear it open, angling it towards him. The ornaments all tumble over each other, narrowly avoiding spilling over the sides. “This is just what wouldn’t fit on my tree at home, so it’s a bit of a mix.”

His long, slender phalanges dip into the box. His claws return cradling a misshapen clay angel, its lumpy surface covered in patchy pink paint and garish glitter glue.

“I made that,” you say.

His browbone twitches again and with admirable restraint, he says, “… recently?”

“No! As a kid,” you laugh. You pluck it from his fingers and hold it up to the light. “Don’t you think it’s cute?”

It’s cute in the same way that ancient, decrepit small dogs are cute, but whatever. You turn it around and show him the back, where your name is scrawled in huge, clumsy handwriting. “I made it in preschool.”

He considers the angel, eyelights narrowed. “I consulted several different sources on optimal Christmas tree decorating and none of them used ornaments that looked like that,” he says.

“Sources? What kind of – oh.”

The only sources you can imagine exist for tree decorating are beige mommy bloggers with their soulless, Pinterest-perfect décor. No wonder the tree looks like something straight out of a holiday display catalogue and to be fair, he has done an excellent job of mimicking that look.

That’s the problem. It looks everything like someone else’s style and nothing like his. The theme, though undoubtedly festive, contributes to the sensation that the tree is more of a stylish display than a reflection of the nature of the holidays.

“Yes, sources,” he says, taking the angel from your hands. He rubs a thumb over it, the bone coming away flecked in transferred glitter. “The first step in successfully completing a new task is to do extensive and comprehensive research. I couldn’t find a manual, unfortunately, so I had to resort to the internet.”

That… makes sense. You know that there was a tree for Gyftmas Underground – in this universe, at least – but you have no idea if it was decorated or, if it was, doing so was a communal activity. And even if it was here, you very much doubt that that would’ve been the case in his universe. No wonder he hasn’t done this before.

Well. That just means you get to make those memories with him.

“That’s true,” you say. “Oh, hang on -.” You dive your hand back into the box and unearth another ornament. This one is a small, festively framed picture, with a loop at the top threaded through with red silk ribbon. “Here’s a primary source for you; this is another preschool craft project. We made the frames from popsicle sticks and bought in photos from home to put inside. This is my tree from that year.”

You show him the picture of your parents standing in your childhood living room, your decorated tree between them. Your four-year-old self smiles toothily at the camera, very pleased at the explosion of colour behind them.

“It’s very colourful,” he says. “Aggressively colourful. A visual assault on the senses.”

You hold your breath.

“I like it,” he continues, and you exhale. “I want my tree to be even more violently vivid. I want it to be so vibrant, so bright, that it’ll leave a burnt impression in the human retina if you stare at it for too long.” He looks at you thoughtfully. “We may need to get you sunglasses.”

You hold the box up to him and shake it enticingly. “I think there’s a highlighter yellow snowman in here somewhere. That’ll be a good start.”

“A start,” he agrees, taking the box from your hands.

The two of you start adding your ornaments to the tree; you still eye the tinsel warily, but he seems more open to your input now that you’re not sticking to the original theme.

He’s delighted by the more ridiculous ornaments; some of them are childhood mementos, but most of them are just silly things you’d stumbled across in holiday markets or online. A handmade ornament shaped like a grinning cat wearing a Santa hat, more childhood crafts, the promised eye-watering yellow snowman. The tree slowly becomes more and more garish, a splash of hues breaking up the wall of red.

"We need to fix this section. It's too concentrated," he says, gesturing towards the bottom left side of the tree.

You tilt your head at it and squint. You suppose that there are a few extra pieces in that area, but it’s towards the back!

"Come on, it gives the tree character! Plus, the more, the merrier, right?" you say.

Edge’s answering looks makes it clear that he doesn’t share that sentiment. “Not when it makes my tree look lopsided, no. The more the miserabler, in this case.”

Well, he’s compromised on the ornaments, so you can give a little too. “Argh, fine, I’ll shift a few around.”

So you do. Soon, the tree is complete, covered in a mixture of the red ornaments and the older ones you brought from home. Countless multi-coloured lights twinkle from amidst the foliage, casting a festive glow that dances across the room. Strands of tinsel cascade down the branches, catching the light and shimmering with every movement. Hand-painted globes, paper snowflakes, and beaded garlands intermingle with the polished red ornaments, other pops of colour emerging as pastel popsicle stick reindeer and glitter-covered pinecones.

It’s still a lot more cohesive than what you’d normally do, but you find that you actually quite like the effect. A little bit of control amongst the chaos.

Edge stands back from the tree and scans it discerningly. “Violently, vividly vibrant, excellent bough-to-bauble ratio, and -,” he holds his hand straight up between his eyelights and then closes one, “- the weight of the decorations hasn’t compromised the tree’s structural integrity.”

“Don’t need me to get the spirit level out again to make sure?” you tease.

“No need. My symmetrical sensitivity is unparalleled,” he says, affect entirely serious. If you weren't so used to his brand of scathing sarcasm, you would've missed it completely. 

You snort and then look back at the tree. There’s only one thing left to do.

“Can I put on the topper?” This isn’t technically your tree, after all, but the disgustingly sentimental part of you wants to have your little Hallmark moment.

You spot the topper in one of the boxes. It’s not one of yours; it’s a star, bright and glittery, though it’s not red like the rest of the decorations he purchased. It’s a vivid yellowy gold and when you pick it up, little bits of light refract around the room.

“If you’d like,” he says.

“Awesome, I’ll get a stool,” you say. The top of the tree is far too high for you to reach, even on your toes.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, and then you’re flying through the air.

You squawk in shock, which makes sense, considering that you feel rather bird-like. You manage to avoid flailing; a good thing, since your windmilling arms would’ve ruined all of your hard work.

His hands are firm around your waist, phalanges pressing into your sides. He’s gentle; you can tell that he’s being careful to avoid poking holes in your clothes with the sharp points of his claws and he’s slow as he brings you to the top of the tree.

Even still, it takes you a second to get your bearings. How’s this for a romcom moment, huh?

“Is this what life’s like for you tall people?” you say, scanning the room from your new vantage point. “The view’s not bad.”

“Should I add shoe lifts to your gift this year?” he asks, managing to sound completely serious. “Or perhaps some stilts?”

You snort. “No thanks, I’ll leave the top shelves to you.”

You nestle the star at the top carefully, mindful of the delicate needles. Despite your best efforts, it’s lopsided, standing at a jaunty angle.

You fuss with it a little longer, but the fucker just doesn’t want to cooperate. You get it a bit straighter, but it’s never going to pass for level. You look down at Edge, craning your head back. “Sorry, I don’t think I can get it much straighter than that.”

You’re lowered back down, your slippered feet gently touching the ground. Edge doesn’t take his hands from your waist; he wraps them around you a little tighter and sets his skull atop your head. You both look at the tree – it doesn’t look any straighter from down here.

“You can fix it if you want. I won’t be upset,” you offer.

“No,” he says. “I think it’s perfect as it is.”

[timeofjuly]

And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree

Chapter 3 - Been An Angel All Year

Summary: Stretch is a mall Santa and you get your photo taken with him.

Notes: The third chapter of And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree, my four-part holiday series focusing on festive-themed dates with Rus, Edge, Stretch, and Papyrus.

Tags: Reader/underswap Papyrus, kinda crack-y, fluff, established relationship.

Read it on AO3 or read it below the cut!

"a playstation and a puppy, got it. i won't make any promises, kid, but if you don't give your parents a hard time, your chances are looking good."

The monster child, wearing a very festive green-and-red striped shirt, nods solemnly. "I'll behave, I promise!"

Stretch taps a white-gloved finger to his skull, just beneath the socket. "i'll hold you to that. now look over there and give the nice person behind the camera a big smile."

From your place in line, you beam like an idiot, then conceal said smile with your hand. You already look like a weirdo - no need to make it worse by grinning like a crazy person at someone's kid.

But this whole situation is in that perfect sweet spot between absurd and endearing and no matter how hard you try, you can't fight the smile off your face. You rock back and forth on the balls of your feet excitedly, fighting the urge to fidget with your sweater.

You don’t rock far, though, because you’re crammed between two families with small children and want to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes.

It’s been like this ever since you got to the mall. It’s crowded, buzzing with activity. You'd driven around for a good ten minutes for a parking spot and had narrowly escaped with your life and front bumper intact after almost stealing a spot from a harried-looking woman in a minivan.

Now that you're inside, it's no better. The stores themselves are full-to-bursting with people doing their gift shopping and where you’re standing, lining up outside the roped-off area that serves as Santa’s Workshop, it’s even busier.

It’s cute, though. You’ll give them that. An elaborate set is constructed in the centre of the large open atrium, complete with fake snow, a red velvet throne, and a towering Christmas tree. Employees dressed as elves usher excited children and weary parents - and you, all by your lonesome - into line, while Stretch, clad in an impressive mall Santa get-up complete with a white beard and hat waits on his throne.

Mariah Carey blares from the speakers, just on this side of too loud. Not loud enough, though, to cover up the din of excited children chattering fills the air, punctuated by the occasional shriek or whine when someone gets stepped on or pushed.

You shuffle forward in line, dodging stray elbows and trying not to trip over any small children. The giant Christmas tree glitters with delicate glass ornaments, and the throne looks plush and luxurious.

As you get close to the front, the bored attendant waves you forward.

“Just you getting photos today?” they ask, raising their brow.

"Yep. That's my boyfriend," you say to them, feeling the urge to explain why you're a whole ass adult getting a solo photo taken with a mall Santa. It’s not weird if you’re dating said mall Santa, right?

"Good for you," the attendant says. They pick at their nails, painted a festive, glittery green.

"Yeah," you say softly, unable to stop your fond smile as you watch Stretch grin lazily at the camera, teeth almost hidden behind the fake beard. The lights flash and the next family are sent on their way. "Good for me."

The attendant makes a gagging noise under their breath, the bell at the top of their elf hat jingling.

You can't find it in yourself to be offended. You've worked customer service during the holidays; you get it. You'd be nauseated by you too.

As the family before you finishes up, the attendant turns to you. "Well, you're up. Three minutes with Santa and then you exit through the left - no clogging up the workshop. I don’t care if he’s your boyfriend, we're running on a tight schedule."

You give the attendant a thumbs-up and enter the little pen the throne, tree, and cameraperson are contained in, giving Stretch a little wave. He looks surprised to see you, browbone twitching under the brim of his hat.

“So,” you say, “how many Jack Skellington references have you heard today?” You’re fighting the urge to make one yourself.

“a few,” Stretch replies, sprawled across Santa’s chair like he owns not only the chair itself, but the entire mall. “tickled my funny bone the first fifty times, but they’re kinda losing their kick. what’re you doing here?”

You grin. “I've gotta get my Christmas wishlist straight to the top and I don't trust the postal service. You should get on that, actually - surely you could do some modernising. Email? FAX?"

"the big guy's more of a pen and paper traditionalist. i, heh, like your sweater."

You pluck said sweater; a woolen blue number, hideously lumpy, embossed with the words 'PUT YOUR BALLS ON ME'. It's patterned with lighter blue circles, but that's the only thing on it that vaguely alludes to anything festive. "You get it, right? Cause it's a --"

"stretch?"

"Yes!" You're so glad - you got some really weird looks in line and would've been heartbroken if it hadn't paid off. "I dug it out of a Goodwill bargain bin especially for you."

“aw, honey, you shouldn’t’ve.”

"Two minutes of holiday cheer left!" the attendant calls, tapping their pointy little elf-shoe covered foot.

You give them another thumbs-up, then turn back to Stretch. "Some operation, huh? I can't believe you're doing this - I know you lost that bet, but I fully thought you'd weasel your way out of it. Not like you to not leave yourself a loophole." He’s had some pretty weird odd-jobs, but mall Santa is out there, even for him.

“what do you mean? i'm having a great time. this is the perfect job for me; i get to sit on my ass all day eating candy canes. no loophole needed. ‘sides, who’s better to qualified than me to tell kids whether they’re naughty or nice?” he says.

“… that’s definitely one way to put it.” If that’s how he wants to use the judge, that's none of your business. It's hard to think of a child actually being deemed naughty by his standards, but then you think of what little you've been told about the resets and the judgement hall and swiftly shove that line of thought right out of your brain and into the not today bin.

By your count, you've got a minute and forty-five seconds left and you're not wasting any of it. Time to get this show on the road.

You plop down onto Stretch's lap, eliciting an "oof" from him as you make yourself comfortable. His hands come up to rest lightly on your waist. The cheap velvet of the Santa suit is scratchy against your legs, but you pay it no mind, focused entirely on your boyfriend's face.

The spirit gum holding on his fake beard is even more noticeable, little flecks of white dried adhesive visible along his jawline. The sheer ridiculousness of it forces a laugh out of you.

“hey, this is serious business. these photos are thirty-five bucks for the complete pack. extra ten if you want them sent to your email too.”

You whistle lowly. “That’s robbery. Highway robbery. What happened to having a generous, giving spirit?”

“what’s christmas if not a capitalist nightmare?” he says.

You cover your snort with your hand. “I hope you’re not telling the kids that.” 

He shrugs. “someone’s gotta. it’s a rough world out there.”

“And they’re smiling for the picture after that?”

“a few jokes and they perk right back up. usually save the best one right when the photo’s about to be snapped. speaking of, what do you call Santa when he's wearing earmuffs?” He covers the sides of his head with his hands, gloved phalanges pressed over his acoustic meatus.

“What?” you ask, fighting a smile. 

“what?” he echoes.

“What do you call him?” you say, a little louder.

He tilts his skull to the side, looking confused. “sorry, what?”

“I said wha- oh, fuck you,” you say, rolling your eyes. You’ve heard about a hundred different plays on that exact joke and have fallen for it about a hundred times. “I get it, hah hah, he can’t hear you. Very funny.”

You can see his shit-eating grin even through the beard. “i know, i’m hilarious. okay, what about this; what does gyftrot have hanging on their antlers?”

“…what?” you say, a little wary.

“horn-aments.”

That punches an uncouth snort out of you. “Poor Gyftrot.” You hope their antlers are free of decorations.

“poor gyftrot,” he agrees. 

“Photo time, guys,” the camera person says. Though wearing the same elf costume, they seem marginally more friendly than the attendant. Good for them. They jingle a bell right above the lens of their camera to draw your attention, the way you might wave a rattle at a baby, or a toy bone at an overly excited dog.

You turn to face the camera, angling your body to show off your sweater. It’s a little awkward, balancing on his boney, felt-covered lap, but you make do with minimal flailing. Stretch shifts too, straightening a little. You wipe an errant bit of spirit gum from his jaw.

“don’t worry, you can use my employee discount for the pictures,” he says. “in the spirit of holiday giving and all.”

“Yeah?” you ask, amused. “And what’s that?”

“one hundred percent off, ‘cause i’ll swipe the sd card at the end of my shift.”

That sounds about right. “Can you get me one of those novelty magnet frames too? I wanna put the picture on the fridge.”

“consider your holiday wish granted.”

“That’s perfect,” the cameraperson says. “On three, I want you to give me a nice big smile.”

You give a camera-ready smile and, as the cameraperson jingles their bell again, drawing your attention, you say to Stretch through your teeth, “Do I get your best joke now?”

“nah,” he whispers in your ear, “but you can jingle my bell anytime you want.”

Your practiced smile blooms into a genuine grin, mouth open around a laugh, and the camera clicks. 

[timeofjuly]

And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree

Chapter 4 - Theatrical, Dramatic, Flairful

Summary: You and Papyrus compete in a MTT-broadcasted gingerbread house making competition. You avoid being singed by fireworks.

Notes: The fourth chapter of And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree, my four-part holiday series focusing on festive-themed dates with Rus, Edge, Stretch, and Papyrus.

Tags: Reader/Papyrus, fluff, established relationship.

Read it on AO3 or read it below the cut!

"For someone who insists that they’re not anxious, you’re doing an uncanny impression of a highly-strung human,” Papyrus says to you. “Do I need to unstring you? Or is this just a well-thought strategy to bamboozle our competition? It’s very impressive if you are. You should tell me; we’re teammates, after all. For maximum effectiveness, I should be part of your strategy.”

“I’m okay, This isn’t televised live, right?” you murmur back, your fingernails drumming on the countertop. You’re making a very concentrated effort to appear nonchalant, but you’ve landed closer to nervous.

The finger-tapping probably isn’t helping. Cool, calm, and collected cooks don’t jitter and you’ve seen enough episodes of the Great British Bake-off to know what happens to the twitchy contestants. Shaky hands cause disaster; the last thing you need is to end up with a pile of broken gingerbread on the floor. Especially if this is being televised live and considering the array of cameras and bustling workers around the studio, you are leaning towards yes.

“Fear not, my fellow gingerbread constructionist extraordinaire,” Papyrus replies, volume far louder than yours, “not only is this competition being broadcasted to countless households and being witnessed by a live studio audience, it’s also being recorded! This episode will be played for many years to come and available to stream on four different streaming services! Our efforts today will not be forgotten!”

Welp, that’s your fears confirmed. No pressure or anything.

Of course Papyrus isn’t nervous – as the monster mascot, he does things like this all of the time. You, on the other hand? This is your first time in a TV studio, much less being in front of the camera itself. It’s also your first time attempting to make a gingerbread house which seems… ill advised.

“You’ve done this before, right?” you ask your boyfriend, voice still low.

“This is a competition for amateur bakers?” he says, voice still loud. “So of course not? Where’s the fun in beating opponents you outclass? That would defeat the spirit of the contest!”

You look around the studio at the other competitors. There’s an even mix of monsters and humans making up six competing couples in total, including you and Papyrus. Looking at them, you get the feeling that they all seem far more prepared and confident than you.

Lucky you've got Papyrus with you; he's got enough confidence for the both of you.

You take a deep breath to steady your nerves. Papyrus is right - this is supposed to be fun. And you have an advantage that none of the other contestants have: you're here with your enthusiastic, supportive boyfriend who always manages to lift your spirits.

You're also handy with a rolling pin and aren't above bludgeoning your way to victory.

You turn your attention to the ingredients and tools laid out before you on the studio kitchen countertop. There are sheets of gingerbread, jars of colourful candy, tubes of icing in every shade imaginable, and an assortment of tools, including a hopefully unnecessary but promisingly hefty rolling pin.

The studio itself is a riot of colours, decked out with twinkling lights and festive decorations, with an equal amount of MTT branding. There’s a huge leaderboard, currently blank, that sits above all of your worktables, along with an unmoving timer sitting at one hour. The lights are so bright that you can barely make out the audience in front of you, but you know that they’re there. It's dazzling.

You and the other contestants have borrowed some of the glamour. You’ve all been primped and preened within an inch of your lives; you’ve been beautified by a very talented make-up artist and Papyrus’ bones gleam white under the beam of the studio lights. You’re wearing nice new clothes too in a festive green shade, whilst he looks dashing in a red ensemble.

It’s fun being Papyrus’ plus-one. Which you are, even though he’s assured you a dozen times that you’re as important of a contestant as him, but you know that you’re just here because of him. Everyone has been treating him – and by proxy, you – like a freaking movie star, offering you snacks and drinks, touching up your make-up. Several audience members and two of your fellow contestants even asked for his autograph, and he’d insisted on you scribbling your name down too.

You forget, sometimes, that you’re dating a bona fide celebrity, but it’s really, really nice to be reminded. It makes the primal, caveman part of your brain do funny things. Some monkey combination of pride and possessiveness, maybe? It thinks yep, you’re right, he is the best, and he’s with me.

You’re pulled from your unhinged thoughts by an assistant, a harried looking monster clutching a clipboard, bustling up to the middle of the studio. "Places everyone!" she calls out, pulling the attention of everyone else in the studio. You straighten up and watch as the other employees take their places behind cameras and microphones. "We're going live in 5...4...3..."

You take a deep breath and shake out your hands, willing away the last of your nerves. Showtime.

The assistant finishes the countdown and you hear the MTT theme song start playing. The studio lights dim and a single spotlight shines down on Mettaton, a burst of energy in a bedazzled suit, as he emerges from a hidden lift in the middle of the stage. Several fireworks go off with an ear-splitting boom and the assistant ducks to avoid getting her eyelashes singed off.

You make mental note to avoid standing too close to the centre of the studio.

The audience erupts into applause. You clap along with them, very impressed with the theatrics of it all. You’ve seen Mettaton plenty of times on TV and had met him once, very briefly at Papyrus’ last birthday (more than enough to make an impression, though) but there’s something different about seeing him like this. You can see how people get swept up in celebrities.

His voice, animated and confident, reverberates through the studio as he addresses the camera and the live studio audience. "Darlings and gentledarlings, ginger enthusiasts, and bread aficionados, welcome to the most dramatic gingerbread house-making competition of the season!"

The applause continues for a good five minute; several times it starts to lapse, and the assistant has to whip the enthusiasm back up. Your hands hurt by the end of it.

Once Mettaton seems satisfied, the studio quiets and he explains the rules of the competition - each couple has one hour to construct the most creative, structurally sound gingerbread house using the ingredients provided.

You know all of this already, of course, have had to sign half a dozen forms and waivers and know the rules and hidden regulations like the back of your hand. Mettaton is all about safety nowadays, which, going by the stories you’ve heard about bloodshed and real lasers underground, hasn’t always been the case. You feel mostly confident that you’re going to emerge from this with all of your limbs still attached.

Beside you, Papyrus is practically vibrating with energy, skeletal hands fluttering over the ingredients as he waits for the signal to start. His enthusiasm buoys you, making you smile despite yourself. Who cares if you make a mess of things on live TV? You're here to have fun with your boyfriend, not win prizes.

… okay, you do kinda care, just a little. You want to win! You've always liked working with your hands and making things - hopefully some of that creative spirit will carry you through.

"Now, let the gingerbread extravaganza begin!” Mettaton says. “May the most creative couple win, but remember, it's not just about the gingerbread – it's about the theatrics, the flair, and the sugar-fuelled drama!"

With that, the studio erupts in applause, and the competition officially kicks off. The studio lights come back on and an upbeat holiday song begins playing. Adrenaline smacks into you with the force of a rolling pin to the back of the head.

You clap your hands together, needing to diffuse the energy somehow, and turn to Papyrus. Out of the corner of your eye you can see a camera trained on the two of you. Game face on!

He beams at you, but you can see the glint in his sockets. “There are two key things to take into account when building a structurally sound gingerbread building. The first is a level, sturdy foundation, and the second is the adhesive qualities of the icing. Fortunately, there is also two of us, which is the perfect amount of person to divide between the tasks.”

“I’ll do the icing,” you say, pulling a bowl towards you. You grab a whisk and begin beating the pre-made icing in the bowl, determined to get it to the perfect smooth, sticky consistency for piecing together pieces of gingerbread.

You whisk the icing vigorously, glancing up at Papyrus as he carefully lays out pieces of gingerbread in an organized pattern, ready to be assembled. He looks so focussed and you kinda – okay, really want to kiss him, but you don’t quite have the hand-eye coordination to whisk and kiss simultaneously.

"Looking good so far!" you say as you lift the whisk from the thick, glossy icing. You’re tempted to dip your finger in to taste it, but you’re not being graded on flavour.

The two of you start using your icing to piece the house together. You and Papyrus work together seamlessly, assembling the walls and foundation of the structure with efficient teamwork. As you pipe icing along the edges of each new piece and Papyrus precisely positions it, the basic structure begins to take shape before your eyes.

Once you’re done, the foundations of the house look solid. There’s a reason why you chose to do the icing; Papyrus has a head for this sort of stuff and the evidence of his skill sits on the bench in front of you. The walls are neatly assembled, each piece fitting seamlessly with its counterparts. The royal icing, now dry and firm, acts as glue, creating strong bonds between the gingerbread panels.

The basic shape of it is familiar. You’ve seen photos of his and Sans’ house in Snowdin and, as your eyes trace the shape of the two-storey house, the shed, the two letterboxes – it clicks.

“Should we put icing on the top to look like snow?” you ask, voice heavy around the fondness that’s welled up in your chest.

He agrees and the two of you begin decorating. The cameras make their rounds around the room and you’re happy to let him handle the interviews, only offering commentary when you think you have something sufficiently quippy to say. You hope you get a good edit; you’d like to be the sassy wise cracker but you’ll settle for thoughtful girlfriend.

As you decorate, you occasionally glance up at the other competitors. Most seem focused on constructing the basic structure, walls steadily going up around gingerbread foundations. But one couple in particular catches your eye – they’re working in sync, movements fluid and practiced as they assemble what looks to be a fucking gingerbread church, complete with soaring spires and stained sugar glass windows.

No way those two are amateur decorators. You’re indignant; Papyrus is right, it’s less fun when someone sullies the integrity of the contest. At least when you’re not the one cheating.

"We need an edge," you mutter, nudging him with your elbow. Your hands are all sticky and candy-covered, fingertips stained rainbow with food dye. "Look at that one over there! We need - what did Mettaton say? Theatrics? Flair? Drama?”

"Excellent idea," he says. "And you know what the most theatrical, dramatic and... flairful? Flair-iffic?”

“I like flairful,” you offer.

“Theatrical, dramatic, flairful. There’s only one thing that can satisfy all three of those categories.”

“… we can steal one of the fireworks? Shove it down the chimney? I guess having a real smoke effect would be cool, but we'd actually have to make a chimney first.”

“No! Puzzles! Traps! Clever, confounding conundrums!”

“Oh!” You feel a little better about that. “Okay then, how’re we going to add puzzles in?”

"How about a candy cane ladder that leads to nowhere, or a gumdrop bridge that collapses when you step on it? We'll make our gingerbread house an adventure!"

The traps become a collaborative effort. Papyrus designs a liquorice door that swings open when you touch a specific sequence of gumdrops, revealing a surprise candy stash on one side and sharp spikes on the other. There’s a peppermint slide that leads to a marshmallow pit – again, with spikes beneath the fluffy outer layer -, and a candy cane swing that may or may not launch you into a whipped cream cloud.

“Ten minutes left, darling contestants!” Mettaton says. A gong sounds and you jump, heart suddenly in your throat.

You scramble to finish the rest of the decorations and by the time that nine minutes and forty seconds pass, you’re happy enough to stand back and survey your combined work. Papyrus does the same and you grasp hold of his hand, bringing them both to rest on the countertop.

The resemblance to the house in Snowdin is uncanny, even though it’s made entirely of gingerbread, icing, and candy. There’s even an icing snow-Papyrus, a snow-lump that you’re pretty sure is Sans, and a snow-you.

It’s a masterpiece. You don’t even bother looking at the creations of the other competitors. It doesn’t matter.

Instead, you watch the seconds tick down to zero and hold his hand tight.

[timeofjuly]

Twenty Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you so much for the tag @floofanflurr <3 I am always happy to yap about my fics! I'll pop this below the cut 'cause it's kinda long.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Eight under the timeofjuly account, and a few others scattered around other usernames and the anonymous collection.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 124,470 words, which is kinda crazy to look back on since I only started in August of last year.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Just Undertale at the moment, but I've written for a few other fandoms in the past.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Resisting the Current

Trick or Heat

Wishbone

Parallel Circuits

And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! Always, though it sometimes takes me a little to get around to it. My favourite thing about writing fanfic is the sense of community that you build, so I love getting to chat about the fic in the comments. I always have a million and one thoughts that didn't make it to the page that I'm desperate to share. I also like to say thank you when people go out of their way to comment, because I really appreciate it. As a reader, I know I get super excited when an author replies to my comments.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I'm going to go with a few of the RtC 'verse oneshots for this. I think Resolutions from Parallel Circuits ends on a pretty angsty note, particularly compared to the seemingly upbeat start. From Silver String, there will be no answer is pretty bleak and so is on my way home. I'm quite proud of how they both end, actually - I think they're my two strongest endings in the lot.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Any of the smut, probably? They're all set in happy established relationships and end on a cutesy note.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not for a very long time, no! I remember, many many years ago, posting my very first fic on fanfic.net lol and getting a very nasty review about how the reader didn't know the main pairing in the fic was m/m (slash back then, what a blast from the past) even though it was very clearly indicated in the summary and the AN at the start. It goes to show people have been bad at curating their own reading experiences by minding the tags and summaries since forever.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yep! Mostly established relationship stuff under this username so far.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I'm not super into cross-universe crossovers, but, same as @floofanflurr, I really like playing around with cross fic crossovers. I'm (slowly) writing a crack dialogue-only oneshot where the reader inserts of Wishbone and RtC are stuck together in a broken elevator lol. It's been a fun challenge! It's very very hard to put two characters who are normally referred to in the second person in the same scene, lemme tell you, which is why I ended up choosing to go dialogue only.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't think so.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have not, but I'd be open to it!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nothing that I've posted! @marty-parties and I have been messing around with an underfell papyrus/reader fic, though! I also used to rp all the time, which I'd count as cowriting. I miss it very much, even though I used to get super easily overwhelmed by it.

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

This is such a tough question. I'll pretty much read anything if I vibe with the ship dynamics (pining and unrequited love my beloved, I will read you anywhere no matter the ship or fandom), but I went through my bookmarks to actually get the stats on this. I used to be super into the mcu (I completely lost interest after endgame) so tony/steve and tony/steve/bucky were the most common ships. I have no clue what my favourite ship would be now, though.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Never say never, but I really want to write this horrortale isekai fic I've had bouncing around in my brain. I've fully plotted it out and it's set to only be five chapters, but I'm really struggling to actually write the thing. I have started it, though, so we'll see.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Characterisation, I think. And even though I mostly gravitate towards writing angsty stuff, I think humour and comedic timing is a strength of mine too.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Physical description and settings, 100%. I don't really picture anything in my head when I write, which means all that physical description doesn't make its way onto the page, and when it does, I'm just going off vibes. Particularly with setting - I have zero idea what the locations in any of my fics look like lol. Like, the house in RtC? No clue. Zero.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Really cool! I love it when people do this and I get to translate it, it's like a nice surprise.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter, I think? It's all scrubbed from the internet now though.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Wishbone. I am so attached to the Second Mage and Sans and Rus, you have no idea. Particularly Flint, I just adore them. Don't get me wrong, I love the electrician and Quinn and all of my ocs, but I have a special place in my heart for reader inserts who are nasty and hurting and lash out and aren't always the kind, considerate, emotionally stable person in the relationship, forever supporting others. I read something years ago that said to consider how your character is inclined to react to things, both good and bad, and how for lots of people, it's not in our nature to instinctively respond to things with kindness and openness. In fiction, we often expect our POV characters to deal with situations with emotional maturity that we ourselves, along with the majority of irl people, don't have. I think this rings true even more for reader inserts. It's fun to flip this on its head in Wishbone - what if instead of acting with an uncommon kindness, you do the opposite? You get to be flawed. You get to have the murky motives. You get to hurt and in turn you hurt others, and that hurting has real consequences on you and the people around you. This is also a great way to create angst lol - in the non-fell version of Wishbone, where everyone is generally just less of an asshole and therefore makes kinder choices, a lot of the events in the fic just wouldn't happen.

No pressure tag to @covfefeships and anyone else who'd like to do this!

[timeofjuly]

July's Masterlist

Wishbone You are the Second Mage, subordinate only to the First. You want one thing: justice for the death of your twin at the hands of a dust-mad monster. When a soulmate bond snaps into place between you and Captain Sans Serif's brother, Papyrus, your goal becomes harder to pursue. An unfulfilled bond between you and the Captain only complicates things further.

A swapfell Sans/reader swapfell Papyrus/reader reluctant soulmate AU.

Find it on AO3.

Resisting the Current Another anti-harem fic, but in this one, the girlfriend is into you too.

Find it on AO3.

In-depth RTC discussion and meta can be found under the tag July talks RTC.

Silver String A series of Quinn and reader fics, covering the time from when they met to the start of Resisting the Current.

soft, as it began - How Quinn and the reader became friends.

there will be no answer - Post breakup Quinn is moving out of the apartment she shared with the reader and finds the reader's leather jacket.

on my way home - Quinn gets a late-night text to pick the reader up from a friend's apartment. Set shortly after they moved out together.

Licence - The reader bumps into some old friends. Set shortly after they moved to New Ebott.

Parallel Circuits Alternate POVs, what-ifs, and outtakes from Resisting the Current.

truths that bleed through the universes - A chapter 3 AU from Quinn's POV, where the reader is already in a relationship.

Resolutions: The reader's POV of the New Year's Eve party Red recalls in chapter five.

And Four Papyri in a Pear Tree It's your first festive season with your skeletal boyfriends. Four dates, four Papyri, and four ways to celebrate the holidays.

Add all that together and you get pure, tooth-rotting fluff (or the number twelve, depending who you ask).

Smooth Operator - Ice skating lessons with Rus.

Violently, Vividly Vibrant - Decorating the tree with Edge.

Been An Angel All Year - Taking a photo with mall Santa Stretch.

Theatrical, Dramatic, Flairful - A MTT-broadcasted gingerbread house making competition with Papyrus.

For smut, you can find July after-dark at @nighttimeofjuly.