Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prince Edge of Fell’s Hollow’s twenty-third birthday dawns with a pink-tinted sky and a dotting of fluffy white clouds, not unlike most other days throughout the winter months in Dusthollow.

Like he has on so many of those other days, he greets the sunrise with a habitual scowl on his balcony. His expression is born more of his sensitive eyesight protesting the light than it is of any particular displeasure at having lived to see another lovely morning, of course, but no one else ever need know that.

He seats himself on the chaise lounge just behind the intricate stone wall preventing anyone from tumbling off into the palace gardens, rubbing his hands over his face as if it will wake him up the rest of the way, and clear the haze of irritation he already feels building in his bones. He knows it will accomplish neither. He does it anyway.

Though he truly is not displeased to see the sun rise for the eight-thousandth time in his life, he is displeased by the date itself.

Birthdays, to his memory, have always been an ordeal. Both he and his elder brother are adopted, the last-chance-heirs to King Ambrose, the Fell Conqueror, whose wife and biological child passed on nearly half a century ago; as a result, their continued survival is cause for great celebration. Particularly now that both of them have reached adulthood, he might add.

At twenty-three, Edge has now officially outlived Prince Absalom – may he know peace – by five years. His elder brother, Red, has a full eleven years on their late elder sibling. Every additional year they survive begets additional celebration. Their military accomplishments, serving active duty during territory conflicts with a few human kingdoms and returning not only alive, but victorious, only demands more.

Red’s birthday this year was a three-day festival.

He hated it.

Edge has prepared himself for months, primarily by praying that their father would remain consistent in his celebration plans, and that he could expect a mere gala for his birthday. After all, that is all that was done for Red’s twenty-third birthday, and their father tends to stick to his guns in that manner. And, when the confirmation of the plans came last month, he had breathed an immense sigh of relief.

Now, that’s not to say he isn’t dreading it, nor the ‘surprise’ that his father has been quietly smug about having acquired for him. He very much dreads both. It’s simply that he knows how to handle a gala, he has scripts and protocols prepared for it, and that means that he can survive it.

They’re predictable. They always start just after midday, and last until well after midnight. He is not expected to be in attendance for the entire twelve-or-more-hour event, but he is expected to make his rounds during the height of the gala, at least, which is around sundown. To avoid any accidental snubbing of the aristocracy that could cause problems, he makes his rounds four times throughout galas: once as it starts, once at sundown, and twice more throughout the later hours of the evening. It allows him to be seen by the largest number of people possible, while interacting with the fewest. It keeps everyone happy.

As the sun rises, he thinks over all of this.

Then, just after around seven in the morning, he makes his way back inside his quarters.

A long bath is followed by a breakfast that is delivered to him by a servant who does not linger in his presence any longer than they have to. One of his father’s, rather than one of his own, he notices. He chooses not to make mention of it.

When he has finished eating, he discards his comfortable bathrobe onto its designated hook and dresses himself. Though he would normally prefer something simple, meant to be worn beneath his armor, today he dresses in the sort of finery expected of him. A concession he made to his father after he joined the Guard – he would dress nicely at parties, but only then. Otherwise, he would wear his work attire.

Not a concession he wanted to make, mind, but one that allows him more freedom than if he had actually tried to argue. It keeps his father happy if he will at least dress like a prince, rather than a General, for parties.

As he’s dressing, there is a polite and familiar knock, followed by the sound of someone slipping quietly into his quarters. Mere seconds later, he is joined behind the changing curtain by his favorite manservant – the only one in his employ he would consider a friend more so than a servant, in fact.

Mutt, as he is called by most of the castle staff, is a tall, quiet thing that has been in his service for most of both of their lives. Edge is one of the very few people who has the privilege of knowing his true name and hearing his voice, when he deigns to speak. All others are left to assume that he’s mute, and that Mutt really is his name.

Edge, however, knows that his name is Slim, that he simply prefers not to waste effort on speaking, and that this brother, Fourth Lieutenant Razz, had wanted so much more for both of them than what they got.

(That is to say, Razz had had hopes and dreams for them that didn’t involve a lifetime of indentured servitude to the Crown. Instead, they both ended up here, in he and his brother’s service.)

“… Razz heard your father’s maids talking.” Slim tells him, quietly, as he indelicately knocks Edge’s hands out of the way to button his vest for him. Edge suppresses a smile. “… Your surprise is here. Still no word on what it is.”

“Nothing unexpected there, I’m afraid.” Edge sighs in reply, “I suppose we’ll all just need to wait and see.”

Slim nods. His mouth is quirked into the closest thing to a smile that he ever shows, but it soon falters into an outright frown. His brow furrows as he smooths out the front of Edge’s clothes with his hands. Something is bothering him, that much is obvious.

Slim doesn’t make him ask what it is.

After a moment, eyelights downturned as he watches his hands instead of Edge’s face, continuing to fuss at his clothes, he murmurs, “… Rumor has it that the King is unhappy that you and Red haven’t started harems yet. Razz thinks maybe…”

He trails, not that he really needed to finish the thought for Edge to pick up the thread.

He’s considered that possibility as well.

He bites back an annoyed grumble and simply shakes his head. “Only time will tell. Don’t trouble yourself too much.”

Slim nods again. He squints at Edge’s clothes critically for a moment, then nods to himself in approval and turns his attention to Edge’s face instead.

He snags him by the chin with one hand, unceremonious and far bolder than any other person, bar Red, would ever dare be with him, squinting harder as he tilts his head in a number of directions, too quick for Edge to do much more than blink and allow it. Frankly, he’s used to it, and so doesn’t even think of complaining – he can, and will, simply wait until Slim is finished with his examination.

He’ll be honest: Slim’s critical eye and willingness to argue with his master has prevented a number of potential social blunders on Edge’s part. At this point, he listens to Slim’s advice unquestioningly. He’s never steered him wrong before.

Without a word, Slim releases his chin and strides purposefully over to the oft-unused vanity beside the washroom doors. He digs through the drawers for a moment, then returns with a small jar, a bottle, and two brushes.

Edge holds resolutely still as Slim removes the lid from the jar and dips the smaller brush into the bone-white contents, and even more still as Slim paints the substance onto his face, just beneath his sockets. Covering his chronic dark circles, no doubt, just like at every other major social event he’s ever been forced to attend. No cause for alarm.

He closes his eyes instinctively when Slim brandishes the bottle, one hand on its squeeze-bulb, earning a hum of approval for his efforts. The substance in the bottle mists across his face with a hiss. Despite his familiarity with the process, it takes effort not to flinch.

The larger brush, feather-soft, dances across the bone of his face for a moment, ensuring the enchanted mist from the bottle is both dry and properly dispersed. It tickles.

He does not sneeze.

(It’s a very near thing.)

It’s as they’re rounding the curtain, after they’re finished, that he finally takes note of Slim’s clothing. He’s far better dressed than usual, as if he’ll be in the presence of anyone other than Edge, their brothers, or the rest of the servants. He need not even say how unusual that is.

“Will you be attending the gala?” He asks, as he takes a seat on one of his plush sofas. “You don’t usually bother.”

Slim gives him that sort-of-smile again, and doesn’t speak. He just pointedly signs ‘you’ and ‘father’.

Ah. So the King has assigned his manservant to accompany him tonight.

Odd.

Also, very rude.

His sympathy over the fact Slim will be forced to socialize must be terribly obvious, because Slim covers his mouth and looks away, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

A sharp rap of knuckles against wood is their only warning before one of the interior doors, leading to the hall outside of his quarters, swings partway open. Slim straightens instantly, wiping the smile off his face and clasping his hands in front of him. Edge schools his own expression instinctively.

His elder brother saunters in like he owns the damn place, kicking the door closed as he does. His ego is, of course, right at home in his role of Crown Prince, just as much as it’s at home in his role as Irritating Elder Sibling. Edge doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a sigh, or even an eyeroll.

Red glances at him, then Slim, then relaxes in a way that only the two of them would probably ever notice. He continues his saunter as if nothing happened, approaching the seating area.

“Happy birthday, brat.” He says, tossing a small box into his lap and then tossing himself onto the other end of the couch, where he sprawls, “Don’t say I never gave ya nothin’.”

Red would readily chop off his own left hand if he thought that it would benefit Edge, a fact that they’re both very well aware of. It’s also thanks to him that Edge has the woes of royal life to deal with, rather than starving on the street or staffing some noble bastard’s estate. Edge doesn’t bother commenting on it as he skeptically plucks up the box and unties the delicate red ribbon keeping it closed. He doesn’t comment upon the fondness in Red’s voice, either.

Inside of the box is a small silver brooch in the shape of their kingdom’s coat of arms. Simple, yet elegant.

Looking over his shoulder instead of into his eyes, Red says, “Figured you could, heh, use somethin’ new to pin your capes closed with. Old one’s gettin’ tarnished, and all.”

The brooch currently pinning his cape to his shoulders was also a gift from Red, nearly three years ago now, a simple gold pin in the shape of a skull. Edge wears it every day, a more overt show of appreciation for the gift than he can get away with in any other way, but… Red is right. It is showing its age these days. The tarnish may well be the least of its worries, as it’s also bent. It did go through a war with him, after all.

“Well.” He replies, skirting neatly around the sort of emotional vulnerability that would make Red balk even all these years after they came here, “I’ve certainly received more objectionable gifts from you, so I suppose that I can’t complain. Slim, if you would be so kind?”

It’s as good as a thank you, for Red.

It’s also a great deal closer to genuine gratitude than he could have gotten even just last year. They’re working up to that, little by little. They don’t talk about it, but Edge sees the effort Red expends just trying to be kind.

He looks both pleased and relieved as Slim does as he was asked, efficiently swapping out the old brooch for the new one. Satisfied that his gift was accepted and appreciated.

Maybe before the decade is out, Edge will actually be able to just tell him when he likes a gift.

Hope for the future, he supposes.

Red lingers for a while longer after that, mostly talking skillfully around anything that could be seen as even remotely important. There are times and places for the more serious talks they occasionally need to have, and this is neither, especially since it’s likely the spy network has plants in strategic hiding places about his room at the moment. There’s generally at least one near his birthdays, and he’s given up on telling his father and the spymaster that he finds the behavior to be annoying. They never listen anyway.

Both of them take an early lunch in his quarters, anticipating having no time to really eat at the gala. Standard fare, that.

Eventually, though, it is time for his first appearance of the day.

Time passes in a slow crawl, nothing of consequence to keep him occupied throughout the hours. He meanders the ballroom and gardens for a while, just allowing himself to be seen among the people, and then takes refuge in his quarters once more. He returns to the gala nearing sundown and makes ‘pleasant’ conversation with the various nobles and courtiers he encounters.

Then, of course, the gala ‘truly’ starts, ushered into motion by a speech from his father.

It’s the same thing as every other year, really. Ambrose gushes about his pride in his sons, particularly Edge and his proven military prowess. He makes note of the fact that Edge is not yet engaged, let alone married, which earns a murmur. Edge studiously ignores the looks he gets from the boldest of the marriageable lords and ladies in attendance.

There are no winks, nor elbow nudges, but there don’t need to be. There’s enough subtext layered into his father’s tone for it to be perfectly obvious what he means even if Edge didn’t already know his father is anxious for he and his brother to marry and give him grandchildren.

Poor old bastard.

Edge and Red would just break his heart if they ever admitted that neither of them has any intention of producing heirs. They’ve both spent most of their lives just passively hoping that he keels over before it ever becomes a pressing issue, in which case Edge can just adopt a child off the streets like their father did and name them an heir without having to deal with his father’s endless guilt-tripping and disapproving stares, and Red can quietly abdicate the throne to Edge and go back to doing whatever the hell he wants with his life.

“I’m certain that many of you have heard about the surprise I have planned for Prince Edge’s birthday,” Ambrose is drawling, now, as Edge idly swirls the amber liquid in his glass and waits for the toast to end, “and I have great hope that he will enjoy his gift. I would also like to take this moment to extend my sincerest thanks to those who made this gift possible, including the late Lord Gaster, and his son, Lord Papyrus.”

Edge nearly jolts at the mention of Papyrus – the young Lord is his age, the adoptive son of the last Royal Scientist, and he’s overall a friendly and personable sort. He doesn’t have many friends, too focused on his work most days to have time to entertain guests – he is not unlike his father, in that way, although he is certainly a good deal less shrewd. He is simply more focused on his work than his connections. Edge would dare say he is one of the only people that Papyrus generally speaks to willingly for longer than about ten minutes at social functions, and even that is a rare occasion.

What really gets his attention, though, is that Papyrus apparently had something to do with his ‘surprise’, and that Papyrus is, uncharacteristically, actually present at the gala.

Normally, he sends his birthday wishes in the form of interesting puzzles and kind, but short messages.

He doesn’t like parties, Edge recalls from one of their earliest meetings – one of Red’s birthdays, if memory serves, soon after Papyrus was adopted by Gaster. He had been all but hiding behind his father, uncomfortable and quiet. Edge had been the only person he spoke to the entire night.

He avoids large parties as avidly as his father once did, these days, though he can be convinced to attend smaller functions.

Tonight, he is seated along the banquet table, a little ways down from the royal family’s places at the table. The smile he’s wearing isn’t the usual one – it’s clearly painted on, fake as can be, no happiness to be found. He looks strained, as if he’s had a difficult week and is expecting it to continue to be that way. When Edge tries to meet his eyes, he finds that the lord is staring politely at the far wall.

Whatever he helped the King get for Edge, he doesn’t seem to be happy about it.

Troubling.

His father moves quickly on from there, and Edge tunes back into the speech so that he won’t miss his cue to speak or to drink.

When the speech is done, Edge makes his regular rounds, greeting the various Lords and Ladies, extended family members with no claim on the throne and the occasional ennobled once-peasant who was recognized for their incredible accomplishments in the guard. Despite his best efforts, he does not manage to pull Papyrus aside to talk before his father pulls him aside.

“Your surprise should be waiting in your chambers, by now.” He says, all conspiratory and all smiles. Predictably, he completely ignores Slim’s quiet presence at Edge’s elbow. “Why don’t you go and see what I’ve gotten you? And don’t feel too bad if you’d rather stay there the rest of the night!”

It’s a struggle not to wrench his arm from his father’s hold, recoil, or otherwise visibly react negatively to the touch, or the words. He can’t help the fact that his hackles are raised about this ‘surprise’. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s had his reflexes tested by a ‘surprise’ that could severely injure (if not kill) him if he doesn’t dodge it in time.

One would think his father would know he hates surprises.

It’s entirely likely he does know, of course, and simply doesn’t care.

Best not to dwell on that.

He nods instead, not bothering to smile. His brother is the serial fake-smiler of the family, not him. He tends to look like he’s grimacing if he tries to force a smile. Best not to try. “Well, it would be rude of me not to go and accept this mysterious gift, wouldn’t it?”

The king laughs.

Edge takes his leave, casting a glance toward his brother as he goes. Red meets his eyes with a tightness around his sockets that says he doesn’t like this whole ‘surprise’ business any more than Edge does, but he knows there’s nothing he can do about it. There are enough rumors as is. They can’t have the gossip mill decided to take issue with the fact that both he and Red left the gala at the same time.

Red has already been accused of fucking him once, and the fallout for that wasn’t pretty for anyone involved when the king found out those kinds of rumors were circulating. He was even less pleased when he learned it was only a rumor, and that both of them were genuinely disgusted by the very thought.

There were a lot of new residents in the dungeons that year. Most of them are still there.

It won’t help anything to give the rumor mill any reason to resurrect those rumors.

He goes up to his room with Slim trailing behind, both of them uneasy and reading to summon an attack to hand the moment something seems amiss.

(It’s a little sad. Slim loathes fighting.)

(Still, he never hesitates.)

When Slim opens the chamber doors for him, nothing is immediately noticeably out of place. The half of the expansive space dedicated to a mock sitting room is precisely as he left it, right down to the single pen he left on the coffee table between the sofas. It hasn’t moved an inch, and neither has anything else at first glance.

He strides in, looking around for anything else that could possibly be what he’s looking for.

If the surprise turns out to be an assassin that he’s meant to disarm, he’ll be rather displeased, but he’ll be impressed by their prowess if they manage to hide from both he and Slim for any length of time. Slim is so terribly perceptive, after all, with tired eyes that see far too much.

As he turns his attention skeptically toward the balcony and its large glass doors, Slim gently grabs him by the elbow to redirect him. He allows it, following Slim’s avid gaze to the bed on the other side of the room.

Edge’s soul sinks.

There, near the foot of the bed, sits a rather short skeleton on their knees, hands folded primly atop their femurs. They’re watching he and Slim silently, with bright white eyelights in their slightly lidded sockets and a polite smile curving their mouth. Patient as can be, they stay right there, stay silent, while he tries to process what he’s seeing. They don’t move at all except to take slow, even breaths that only just barely move their chest.

It's not so much the fact that they’re on his bed that bothers him.

Really, it’s more to do with the fact that they’re barebones except for the collar around their throat denoting them as a concubine, two silver bracelets on their wrists, and a silver band around their right ring finger.

He looks just long enough to make those observations, and accidentally look at their soul behind their ribs (cracked and dimmer than average), before he draws his eyes back up to their face.

“… Highness?” Slim asks, quietly. Too quiet to be heard by anyone else.

It’s a mostly silent question: What do you want to do about this?

It’s a good question.

“… Leave us.” He tells Slim, knowing that he won’t go beyond the hall outside of the doors. He’ll be near enough o help should this turn out to be some sort of trap, but not near enough to hear everything they discuss.

Slim bows, and he leaves.

The skeleton sitting on his bed still doesn’t move, although their eyelights track Slim out of sight before returning to him.

Edge is very well acquainted with the way they look at him, then. Nothing about their expression changes, but their gaze seems to become a physical weight as they look him over, his sins pressing down on him at the shoulders. All he can really find it within himself to think at first is that it’s a very, very good thing that his father doesn’t realize just how many Judges live in his kingdom, and how many have ended up in his castle unbeknownst to him.

“I suppose that my father meant you when he told me there was a surprise waiting for me.” He finally says, lingering beside the sofas rather than approaching.

The skeleton’s mouth twitches, sockets squinting in what he thinks might be amusement.

“Probably.” They answer, softly. Their tone is definitely amused, and their voice is pleasantly rough. “You don’t seem thrilled, your Highness. Something tells me you don’t want me.”

There’s no offense at all evident in their tone, nor their expression, which remains amused and friendly. They seem perfectly comfortable even if they aren’t wanted, content to sit there until they’re ordered to move.

… They’re an experienced concubine, then.

Somehow, the idea actually does settle his nerves a bit – not that he’s planning to partake of their services, of course, but this would be a much more difficult conversation to navigate with a concubine who was just making their so-called debut. An experienced one may understand his hesitation without feeling it to be a direct insult to them, specifically.

He doesn’t answer immediately, flicking glances at the usual hiding places the spies occupy around his birthday. They’re not usually visible, but the air is utterly still around them. No breathing, aside from his own and that of the skeleton sitting on his bed, and the distant sound of Slim’s, as well.

They’re alone.

Good.

“I had no plans to start a harem,” He tells them, once he’s certain there aren’t eavesdroppers waiting in the wings, tone carefully mild, “but, then, you were a surprise from my father, who is uninformed of that decision. Please don’t misunderstand, I’m sure you’re perfectly lovely. However…”

He trails, and to his surprise their first response is to chuff out a laugh.

“Oh, I don’t know about ‘lovely’,” They say, finally moving, although it’s only to hide their smile behind their left hand, “but no worries, your Highness. I’m not easily offended.”

A relief, that.

“If I could make a request, however?” They add, after a brief pause.

“Bold.” He answers, before he can think better of it. It nets him another laugh from his guest, thankfully. “Very well. I can’t guarantee anything, but you may certainly make a request.”

“Thank you,” They say, graciously, then set their hand back atop their femur.

Another very brief pause. He notices something strained in their expression for half a second before it’s gone.

Suddenly no nonsense, they say, “I’ll be quick, and I’ll be blunt: I think you know as well as I do that if you reject me as a gift, I’ll just be given away to someone else. In this case, the most likely recipients would be your brother or your father. I mean no ill will toward either of them, of course, but I would rather avoid the headache, if possible. All I’m asking is that you keep me.”

Quick and blunt indeed.

He has to take a moment to process the words.

“… Also,” They say, a little less serious, a little more amused again, “I don’t mind being used for my intended purpose, if you’re at all worried about that. This isn’t distressing to me. The bigger issue would be having to tell my little brother and hoping he didn’t have a soul attack at the idea of someone else having me. It was difficult enough getting him to give me away without having one to begin with.”

Suddenly, Edge recalls what his father said about his ‘surprise’ – if not for Gaster and Papyrus, he wouldn’t be receiving this gift.

Papyrus was adopted by the late Lord Gaster. That’s common knowledge. It’s also well known that Gaster only ever entertained a single concubine throughout his lengthy life, and only near the end of his life, a short few years prior to his passing.

Ownership of harem members is passed from parent to child. It’s not surprising to realize that he’s probably looking at Gaster’s one and only concubine right now. The trouble is that he has other questions on his mind, now. Questions he wouldn’t have dared ask before today, as it wasn’t any of his goddamned business.

Namely, why had Gaster adopted Papyrus? Even his father, who was good friends with the scientist, was surprised. He’d never shown interest in having children before Papyrus. And, more concerningly, is it possible that Papyrus is the little brother his guest means?

(Even children who don’t want a harem keep their parents’ old harem members, in many cases. They may not use their services, but they don’t tend to give them away for no reason. Generally, unless the King asks, or there’s been a rare situation where they’re related to the harem member, concubines remain in the care of their once-master’s family until the day they die.)

(If Papyrus is, potentially, this skeleton’s brother, then it’s not impossible that Gaster may have adopted Papyrus as a favor to his beloved courtier. It follows, then, that Papyrus would have had little choice but to give Sans up when the King requested it, as the only generally accepted reason to refuse is if you are actively using the services of a concubine.)

“… I wasn’t aware that Papyrus had family outside of the doctor.” Is what he finally says. It’ll do him no good to think hopelessly in circles.

“Most people aren’t.” His guest replies gamely, “No one wants to have to acknowledge the fact he only became a noble because his big brother was fucking the Royal Scientist. It offends their delicate sensibilities.”

There. An answer to his questions. It all makes perfect sense now.

Gaster died two years ago, meaning that his guest has been in Papyrus’ service in the interim. Considering that Papyrus is apparently their little brother, nothing untoward was likely to be happening, but their brother likely didn’t want to send them away. Papyrus, in all honesty, was probably fully aware that releasing them from his own service would only mean they would end up in service of someone else, and he would have no control over whose service.

It's not unlikely that Papyrus only released them into Edge’s service instead because the King himself requested it. It’s difficult to tell him no, Edge knows from experience. Especially so when the laws concerning harems are so stringent about harem members being ‘used as intended’.

(It’s a set of laws that Edge has every intention to rewrite when and if he ever takes the throne.)

(Oh well.)

(It’s a problem, unfortunately, best left for when his opinion on the matter will actually make a lick of difference.)

Often a child does keep their parent’s concubines, and aren’t expected to partake, particularly when they’re related by blood. The King cannot ask for a concubine who is being used as intended to be given up, as it’s a great disrespect to the master of said concubine, but the moment that they aren’t being used as intended…

The King may ask. And he is very difficult to deny.

Edge makes a mental note to apologize to Papyrus on his father’s behalf. Apologies aren’t easy for him, of course, he’s been raised to unapologetic in all things, but he will certainly make an attempt. And, of course, there is no reason that he can’t honor his guest’s humble request.

“… Very well.” He tells them, “I have no reason to turn you away, and I have no desire to cause Papyrus more stress.”

They smile at him, shoulders easing in relief.

He hadn’t even noticed the tension.

“Thank you, your Highness.” They say, dipping their head in gratitude. When they lift it again, their smile turns oddly charming, with a hint of mischief that he finds unfortunately attractive. “Are you sure you don’t want me to service you? It’s what I’m here for, after all.”

Edge suppresses the urge to smile.

It’s not impossible that they’re loyal to his father, that they’re here to keep an eye on him, but… Well, unfortunately, he does find them attractive. He doesn’t think he’d actually mind. He certainly won’t mind them being around, at least for now. At least until Slim and Red, at the very minimum, have finished vetting them.

“It may be more prudent for me to learn your name first, I fear.” He says, lowering himself to sit on the arm of the couch. His brother might faint if he ever saw him doing such a thing.

His new housemate gives him a quiet chuckle in reply, shifting on the bed. As if they’ve taken his own casual demeanor as permission, they make themself comfortable, crossing their legs and settling their hands in front of their exposed pelvis. “I would joke about it being rude of me not to introduce myself, but, in my defense, I was expecting to be getting my brains screwed out before I got the chance. Not a lot of royalty would pass up the chance.”

Edge now suppresses a snort alongside the smile. “Not necessarily unfounded, particularly given your occupation.”

They chuckle. “My name’s Sans.”

No last name, Edge presumes. Not unusual for a concubine – though some do come from noble families, the majority of the people who go through the so-called ‘Academy’ are lower-ring peasants who sold themselves into slavery for the chance to get three warm meals a day and a monthly stipend. It’s an oft-joked-about phenomena amongst the upper class, one Edge finds distasteful but can’t object to without being remind that it was only luck that landed he and Red in the lap of luxury instead of the Academy.

“A pleasure to meet you, then, Sans.” He says, inclining his head slightly. Sans chuckles again and returns the motion, looking pleased. “I suppose I probably don’t have to tell you that it’s best you don’t breathe a word of the fact I’m not in bed with you to my father?”

“Of course not, your Highness.” Sans says, with a playful flutter of their sockets. “I’m not trying to moved again, after all. It was troublesome enough the first time.”

They’re not at all offended at being rebuffed again, as expected. And even if they are reporting to his father about what he’s doing, there’s little chance that they’ll tell him Edge refused to properly induct them into his harem right away, since it would be inconvenient for them. He’ll hold onto that thought and try not to worry too much about it.

“Of course.” He says, “Now, would you like something to wear?”

“I have clothes in my quarters,” Sans answers, flapping one hand dismissively, “it’s just that the King, and the servants and concubines he had tending to me all afternoon, weren’t really expecting me to need them tonight. Would you like for me to go and get dressed?”

They very carefully toe the line between painfully casual, the tone of someone who isn’t worried about the power imbalance between them at all, and the proper, courtly tone of a well-trained concubine. It’s really not unlike how Silas, his father’s favorite concubine, speaks, which tells Edge a great deal.

For one thing, it means that Sans is an experienced concubine, because it’s unbelievably common for them to get less and less formal as their years of service wear on. For another, it means that Gaster must have liked them a great deal, because the fear of becoming less formal hasn’t settled into them, as it does for some concubines who are, let’s say, less favored.

Admittedly, Edge can’t help but hope they continue to behave in exactly this manner.

If he is to have a harem at all, he doesn’t want it to be filled with easily cowed things that flinch from the slightest hint of their master’s anger. Not only would that go over poorly, considering who he is and where they are, but there is no satisfaction in partaking in the services of someone who is afraid of him. He would much rather be in the company of individuals who are not at all afraid of the war prince, or even the Fell Conqueror himself.

“I won’t dictate what you do or do not wear within the confines of our chambers.” He says, to that, then sighs, “But you do look cold. At least use the blanket, you heathen.”

The affectionate insult slips out, lulled out of him by just how casual they are with him. It’s the sort of thing he’d say to Slim, or to his brother. He suppresses a wince, unsure if that was too much, too familiar.

Let it be said that, though he does a decent enough job giving speeches, he is aware that his conversational skills, and awareness of what is proper, are somewhat lacking.

He wasn’t raised to be friendly. He was raised to win wars.

There is no cause for concern, however; a fact that becomes clear to him when Sans’ only response is to laugh outright. They duck their head and press their hand to their mouth as if to muffle it, but it does little to quell the sound. A fine tremor runs up and down their back, laughter shaking them like he’s just told them the funniest joke they’ve ever heard, but they aren’t allowed to laugh at it. It takes thema  moment to gather their wits, stop laughing, and slip gracefully off the bed.

“Alright,” They say, with something like fondness mixed into their tone alongside the amusement, “that’s a fair point. It is a little chilly in here. I’ll be back.”

Completely unabashed, seemingly utterly comfortable in their bare bones. They pace over to the door he knows leads to the harem quarters and disappear beyond it.

It’s strange knowing that they’ll be living just on the other side of the wall from him from here on out. He hasn’t had someone sleeping so close on a regular basis in a long time – not since Red was deemed too old and too important to keep babying him by remaining in the nursery with him.

It’s an odd feeling.

He may need to request that Slim take the night shift for a few days to keep an eye on things. He’s not certain he trusts Sans not to try and kill him in his sleep when it would be so very easy for them to do so. There are no guards within either of their quarters, after all.

Slim would understand, of course.

The only question is whether Razz will understand Edge ‘denying’ his somewhat more delicate brother sleep.

Raspberry isn’t Red’s personal bodyguard for no reason, after all. He earned that position the same way that Slim earned his: by being the best at what he does in a number of ways. Razz’s general leeriness of all things, his rampant suspicion, make him the perfect match for Red. Alas, it also means that his temper is nothing to be trifled with, and if he feels that his brother is being taken advantage of, even by the prince…

Well, no point in agonizing over it. Edge certainly didn’t get where he is today by being a coward. He’ll just have to explain the situation to Razz, should he decide to go through with it. It’s not as if he’s completely unreasonable, after all, just foul tempered and overprotective. Edge respects that. The argument will, inevitably, end in rationality winning out. It always does.

After a few moments, wherein Edge considers just how to pose the argument to Razz to circumvent the largest amount of actual arguing, Sans returns through the harem quarters’ doors, now fully clothed. They wear a loose-fitting pair of thin, semitransparent silk pants on their lower half, and an oversized, soft-looking shirt that falls nearly to their knees and slips off one of their shoulders to hang around their humerus.

“Can’t help but notice that the door locks from my side.” Sans says, casually, as they carefully pick their way over to the sitting area, where Edge is still seated on the arm of one of the sofas. The casual tone meshes oddly with the calculating look in their eyes as they consider him, then the sofa he’s on, then the one across from him.

“Tradition.” Edge explains, turning a bit to keep eyes on them. “As I understand it, my great-grandfather insisted upon it when he took his first concubine. The rest of the family followed suit, so far as I am aware.”

“Sweet of him.” Sans hums, finally taking a seat upon the very edge of one of the cushions on the couch opposite him. “So, what? No consequences if your whore decides to lock you out?”

The question is pointed, slightly acidic by comparison to the rest of what Sans has said to him tonight. If Edge were to wager a guess, he’d say that the smaller skeleton is testing him. Or, more accurately, testing the limits of his patience, how he’ll react to it if they step a toe out of line, if their initial judgement of him was correct. They’ll want to know what they can get away with, what they will be punished for, and how much trust he can really be awarded.

It makes sense.

Admittedly, it reminds him a bit of his brother – always pushing, always reevaluating his judgements as he gets more information. He can’t find it within himself to be insulted that they’d imply he views them as nothing but his whore, or that he’d punish them for wanting privacy.

The snort he gives in reply to their question isn’t particularly princely. It’s also not the response that Sans is expecting, if the wide-eyed blink he gets for it is any indication.

“Well, I suppose that would depend on the royal in question.” He says, rolling his eyelights and standing just long enough to settle himself onto the sofa proper, rather than the arm. “I imagine my father’s harem quarters probably has no locks anymore, for instance. But I suppose you were specifically referring to our situation, in which case I can safely say that, no, there will be no consequences should you lock the door.”

Sans continues to look at him, slightly wide-eyed with surprise, for a long few seconds. Then, they let out a sound like a self-deprecating laugh and nod to themself.

Whatever conclusion they’ve drawn, they don’t deign to share it; they just shift, settling more comfortably into their seat. Then, once they’ve made themself at home, they level him with another of those piercing looks. His bones prickle nervously.

He doesn’t let himself react outwardly. He knows full well what the judge’s voice likely has to say about him, and there is little point in showing weakness to Sans by flinching away from his own sins. He knows what he’s done.

“All right.” They say, after a moment, glancing away. “I’ll hold you to that, Highness. I like my privacy.”

“As do I.” He says, unperturbed.

All things considered; they’ve probably spent the last two years having as much privacy as they like at all times. He’ll not deprive them of that. He understands the desire to be able to safely isolate oneself.

Their mouth twitches. “So, how about that subject change, huh? I’ve been meaning to ask who was with you when you came in.”

“My manservant.” Edge answers, “My father assigned him to accompany me at the gala tonight.”

He doesn’t give further detail. He knows better – his father already knows he favors Slim over his other servants, so if Sans is here to report back to the King, the confirmation that Slim is his favorite or most trusted servant could lead to bad things. It could mean Slim being dismissed, or purposefully endangered, simply to test his loyalty and the extent of Edge’s favoritism.

(His father thinks that he’s doing the right thing, is the worst part.)

(“Kill or be killed.” He always says. Sentiment has its place, but you must always be prepared for the worst. You must always expect to lose those you hold dear. You must always expect betrayal.)

(Edge has taken many of his lessons to heart, but he still cannot abide by any lesson that requires him to allow Slim to come to harm. He likes him too damned much, for one thing, and he’s known him since they were both seven years old. He trusts him like he trusts nearly no one else but his brother and perhaps three other people, because he knows him.)

(Thoughts for another time.)

“Does your manservant have a name?” Sans asks, the very picture of idle curiosity.

Edge doesn’t trust it for a moment. Judges are rarely just curious, particularly when it involves other judges.

He answers, carefully mild, “You’ll most often hear him called Mutt.”

Sans blinks, that slightly wide-eyed surprise again, then nods. “Is he going to mind me calling him that? It being the most common name doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate it.”

“That’s a matter best discussed with him, I’m afraid.”

Still, Edge can’t help a traitorous little twinge of warm emotion over the fact that Sans seems to care if Slim likes the name or not. It’s a misplaced concern, yes, because Slim doesn’t rightly care at all what he’s called so long as no one except a precious trusted few call him by his given name, but it still warms him.

Sans nods again, accepting the answer easily. They immediately take another conversational swerve and say, “Alrighty then. So, not to ruin the cozy mood or make you feel like a bad host, here, your Highness, but I don’t suppose you’ve got any food available? I haven’t eaten since noon and I’m really starting to feel it.”

He can’t tell for certain if they’re lying – although what the point of such a lie would be is a mystery to him, one can never be too careful with a judge –, and there’s little point in denying them food just because he’s suspicious of them. He pulls a bell from his inventory and rings it, and it hardly takes a second before Slim enters his quarters once more.

His posture is more subservient, now, than it was earlier. Hands clasped in front of him, head bowed respectfully.

He doesn’t speak.

Edge says, “Have some food sent up, won’t you? My courtier here is feeling a bit peckish.”

Slim bows deep, hand over his heart, and backs out of the room. Sans seems slightly bewildered, although Edge can’t begin to understand why, and they don’t bother to enlighten him as to their thoughts on the matter. He decides not to press.

It’s silent, mostly, while they wait for Slim to return. It’s slightly uncomfortable, and Sans keeps shifting like they’ve grown restless and can no longer sit still. Again, he can’t fathom the sudden change in attitude, and Sans does not explain it to him. If they end up growing close at some point in the future, perhaps he will be able to ask them what had them so off-kilter about this.

When Slim returns, he wheels in a cart of food himself, knocking the door to Edge’s quarters shut with his foot on the way. Sans watches him nervously as he sets out a veritable buffet of food on the coffee table, and Edge merely waits.

“… Red was asking about you.” Slim murmurs to him, when his set-up as brought him close enough to speak without being overheard by anyone without Edge’s impeccable hearing. He won’t want Sans to hear his voice. “He wants to come up and check on you. Told him to wait a while.”

“Thank you.” Edge sighs, “Let him in when he comes up. I’m sure he’ll want to pass his judgement on this before anything further happens.”

Slim nods, bows, and leaves the room without another word. He leaves the cart next to the doors, ready for when he needs to load up the dishes and leftovers to deliver them back to the kitchens.

The moment he’s gone, door clicking shut at his back, Sans asks, “Isn’t it, uh, kind of a shitty idea to let anybody know that we’re not… Y’know… Consummating my concubine-ship?”

They seem more confused than anything else, if slightly nervous as well. It occurs to Edge that perhaps the trouble is the fact Slim saw them simply sitting across from each other, and Sans is worried that the word will spread to Edge’s father. And, now, also the trouble of knowing that someone will be coming up to see them at some point tonight.

“He’ll not utter a word to anyone else about this.” He tells Sans, “Both he and his brother’s continued employment in the castle rely upon the two of them knowing when to keep their mouths shut. As for my brother coming up to check on us later… Well, he’ll not breathe a word, either. It’s no secret even to our father that Red will not tolerate anyone but himself invading my privacy.”

Sans seems to relax, breathing a slightly dramatic sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck, you were talking about Prince Red coming up, not the King.”

Edge can only snort in amusement, then tell them, “When the day comes that Mutt tells me my father wants to check on me, and I breathe the words, ‘let him in when he gets here’, that is the day I insist someone poison me, as I have clearly taken leave of my senses completely.”

Sans laughs, startled and amused.

Edge’s mouth twitches up without his consent. “In any case: eat.” He says, “If you’re concerned about poisoning, I’m happy to report that we’re more straightforward with our assassinations here. I’d just stab you.”

“But would Mutt just stab me?” Sans wonders aloud, but goes right ahead and grabs a plate, carefully piling food onto it. He glances to Edge as if for permission, then takes a neat bite of some kind of roast before adding, “He seems less likely to stab someone. More ‘Dragon’s Fumewort in your tea’ than ‘knife in your back’.”

Edge’s mouth twitches up further, and he can’t help a short laugh of his own. “He’d have to warn me he was trying to poison you, then. I’m no more immune to Dragon’s Fumewort or Grim Laceflower than you are.”

(No doubt Slim would find some bitter amusement in Sans’ assessment. He’s not really any more subtle than Edge is, when he wants someone dead. Still, he’d appreciate not being seen as the same kind of brute people see Edge as.)

Sans seems to relax further, snickering softly. “Fair enough, yeah. Speaking of tea, though, I don’t suppose you’ve got any to go with the pot of hot water and teacups that your manservant brought us?”

As a matter of fact, Edge keeps a couple of boxes of tea leaves on the lower shelf of his coffee table, just beneath the selections from the gala’s buffet that Slim laid out for them. He bends to retrieve them and take stock of what he has available – it’s been a while since he restocked. He doesn’t get much in the way of company, and his brother doesn’t favor tea for a refreshment.

“Golden flower or snow root? I’m afraid that’s all I have on offer without calling Mutt back in.”

Sans doesn’t even pause to consider the question, just perks up so much they nearly drop their plate. “Snow root? I… Yeesh, I haven’t had snow root tea since Paps was still shorter than me.”

Edge doesn’t doubt that, particularly considering that Papyrus was already the same height as Edge, who towered over his own elder brother, when they first met. Moreover, snow root tea is exceedingly difficult to acquire in Fell’s Hollow. Even the Royal Scientist probably didn’t have the means to have it easily on offer, even for his favorite consort.

The only reason that Edge has any is because it was a parting gift from the second prince of Xerxes, their northern neighbors, when the two of them parted earlier this year. They’d served in the war together, become friends over long years of tactical meetings and battles. He’d felt his own gift of weeping bearberry tea was lacking by comparison, a far less rare commodity than a tea that is only grown in Xerxes, but Scythe had nevertheless been ecstatic to receive it.

“I don’t drink it often.” Edge admits, then asks, “Would you like some?”

“Please.” Sans replies instantly, oddly vehement.

“Very well.” He says, and plucks up one of the cups to begin preparing it.

Sans looks flushed when Edge meets their eyes again, as he’s pouring the water over the tea leaves in their cup. He raises a brow in question, and they look pointedly away.

“Is something the matter?” He asks, pausing in his task.

“I… No.” They say, shaking their head and flushing a bit more. Their magic is blue, he notes. “I just wasn’t expecting you to make it for me?”

He hums, then resumes his business filling the cup so it can steep. He stretches to place the cup gently in a blessedly unoccupied square of table in front of Sans. “I suppose that makes sense, most princes probably wouldn’t bother. It’s merely a habit of mine, when I have a guest.”

“I’m really less of a guest,” Sans replies, after staring at him again for a moment. They don’t necessarily seem bothered by this, but there’s something lurking in their tone that gets his back up, just a little. Unfortunately, he’s used to the sensation after a lifetime of dealing with Slim and Red, “and more of a new addition to the household. Don’t you think?”

“Well, yes.” He agrees, careful not to show on his face or in his tone that he noticed they were implying something, but didn’t quite pick up what, “But you have your own room, yes? It would follow, then, that you’re a guest in mine.”

They hum, squinting at him. Then, satisfied, they sit back with a laugh and return to eating while they wait for the tea to steep.

He tries not to watch them too closely, instead glancing about his quarters and listening carefully for any indication they’re no longer alone. He knows full well that his tendency to stare makes people uncomfortable. No point in causing more friction than he has to.

If nothing else, the aside gives him time to go back over what’s happened so far this evening, trying to process it.

He can’t help but wonder over the secrecy surrounding his ‘gift’, when he stops to think about it again. It’s not unusual for the parents of a noble, or a royal in his case, to gift their child a harem member. It’s particularly commonplace, in fact, for the first or second member of a prince’s harem to be a gift from an older family member. Insofar as etiquette goes, there was no reason for his father to keep his intentions hidden.

… Well, that is, there’s no reason if he hasn’t picked up on Edge’s vested lack of interest in partnering with anyone at all, whether that be by starting a harem or by getting engaged. If he has, then it’s not unlikely he decided the easiest way to change his mind would be to gift him a concubine without him having time to object to it beforehand.

Regardless, the secrecy feels unusual.

Sans, too, is a bit unusual, in terms of their status and the reasons why they’re here.

Concubines as gifts are common. Experienced concubines are considered ideal gifts, especially if they’re to be the first member of a harem, but it’s rare that they would come from such a close family. Rarer still that they not be exactingly retrained between ownerships.

Rarest of all, Sans is not the least bit concerned with Edge’s lack of interest, outside how that would inconvenience him if the king were to find out about it.

And, far more troubling than any of that, is that Edge has a sneaking suspicion that word has already gotten out rather widely as to what Ambrose’s birthday surprise actually was. No doubt that Red has heard by now, and his desire to just storm up here and check on him, propriety and the rumor-mill be damned, must surely be eating him alive. Especially so, given that Slim told him he shouldn’t come up immediately.

“I don’t suppose that you’ve met my brother before?” He finds himself asking, eventually.

Sans glances up from where they’re now gently, carefully picking at some finger foods from their plate, brows slightly lifted. “I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure, no. The doctor and I didn’t get out much.”

No, they certainly didn’t.

Sans got out so rarely, in fact, that Edge hadn’t even known their name or what they looked like until tonight.

Gaster had always been a homebody, though, from what Edge knows of the late scientist. It’s unsurprising that he wouldn’t have suddenly become more sociable just because he now had a pretty young concubine to entertain. If anything, he can imagine that Gaster made a point of ensuring Sans didn’t get too much attention from others. He’d liked his privacy, too, as Edge understands it.

Still, the way that Sans answered strikes him as being just a little bit funny.

“I’m not certain that anyone who has ever met my brother would describe the experience as having been pleasurable.” Edge says, causing Sans to have to muffle a surprised snort into their head, “Allow me, then, to warn you: my brother is not so cruel as the rumors paint him, but he can become so if he is given reason to. I may well be able to stop him before he does something unseemly, but nonetheless, it remains in your best interests not to give him reason to be cruel.”

“So try not to piss him off, you mean.” Sans gathers, with an amused tilt to their mouth. Edge huffs a laugh. “I’ll do my best, but I make no promises. My three greatest skills are blowjobs, making people laugh, and pissing people off.”

Edge isn’t really expecting the way the comment hits him somewhere in the abdomen like a physical thing. He’s hardly saintly, he has urges just the same as any other person with any interest in sex, but it’s rare for a mere comment to have heat flaring through him like this. He’s all but consumed by the mental image, for half a second – Sans’ mouth on his cock, he means.

He banishes it quickly and violently.

“I very sincerely hope that you only practice one of the first two with my brother.” He says, instead of focusing on that, or the fact that Sans really is very pretty when they smile, “Preferably the second, of course, but I’ll not dictate what you do in the privacy of our quarters.”

Sans lifts a single brow, surprised yet again. “Wow. Just gonna throw out that I’ve got blanket permission to fuck who I want as long as I don’t do it in public, huh?”

“Yes.” He answers, and has to try not to flush at the mental images that prompts. Goodness, his mind is in the gutter tonight. The very idea of this pretty little thing being ravished in some dark corner of the castle, trying desperately not to be caught, should not have him fighting a blush like he’s going through puberty all over again. “Provided it does not endanger either of our lives or reputations, you are free to entertain whatever bedpartners you wish.”

“Aren’t you sweet.” The concubine coos, not even half as acidic as he would have expected.

Sweet.

Well, he’ll grant that’s not a word anyone has used to describe him since he was very young, if nothing else. He certainly doesn’t dislike it, despite its inaccuracy.

“You do realize we’re going to have to, heh, bone at some point, right?” Sans asks, then, grin twitching when he instinctively groans in annoyance at the pun. They continue, “Believe me, Highness, I appreciate you not wanting to force anything. I’m into the whole chivalrous shtick. But there’re ceremonies to think about.”

Yes, he’s aware.

Painfully aware, in fact.

Even if he does not touch Sans tonight – and he certainly isn’t planning on it as of now –, there will come a day, very soon in fact, when he has to do it anyway. It’s a matter of protocol, more of those stringent laws regarding concubineship that he’d like to rewrite as soon as possible.

It’s customary for new concubines to go through a period of privacy as they settle in, yes, but it doesn’t last forever. A week at minimum, two months at the longest. And when the adjustment period ends, there’s an expectation that they’ll be seen servicing their master at least once. For higher ranking nobles and royalty, it’s generally a semi-public event, in fact. A meticulously planned performance, showcasing the concubine’s ability to please their master.

(It isn’t unheard of for the master to plan no such thing and simply settle for being caught mid-act. Edge would prefer that, it’d less insulting and humiliating for Sans that way, but he has few doubts that his father is already planning the event. After all, Sans is his very first concubine.)

He sighs, nodding instead of saying anything at first. When he thinks that he can speak wisely, careful not to insult them, he says, “I’m aware, I assure you. I never said I was completely disinterested. I simply have no intention of doing it tonight.”

Sans looks interested, pausing midway through lifting a little chocolate dessert to their mouth to eye him for a moment. He prays his desire isn’t obvious in his expression. The last thing he needs is to be teased for just how interested he actually is.

(He doesn’t usually get flustered or aroused without being touched. He especially doesn’t get flustered or aroused over someone he has just met without a hand having already wandered somewhere it shouldn’t.)

(Stretch, Haven’s official Judge, is the only other person who has ever elicited this sort of reaction from him. At least with Stretch, he has the excuse of rampant hormones at the time of their first meeting. He doesn’t have that luxury with Sans – he’s not a pent-up teenager anymore, after all.)

(A shame. It would be easier if he could pretend he’s only so interested because he can’t help it.)

“Heh.” Sans decides, smile twitching up a little further. “Alright, then.”

They finally pop that little dessert into their mouth, humming in approval of the taste.

Before the conversation can continue, there is a polite knock on the chamber doors. Edge has just enough time to pray, again, that his arousal isn’t obvious, and then the left door swings open and Red sweeps in, moving with purpose Edge usually only sees on the battlefield. The door is flung shut behind him with gravity magic just as quickly as it opened. Edge sees the moment some of the tension eases out of his shoulders, after he sees the two of them aren’t clearly not having sex with each other.

There is absolutely no ceremony at all in the way he drops himself onto the cushion next to Edge and sets his eyes on Sans.

There’s also no attempt at tact when he says, immediately, “If somebody put you up to this to spy on us, do yourself a favor and bail while you still have the chance. If I find out that my little brother got honey-potted by you on behalf of anybody, even our fucking father, I’m killin’ you, and then I’m killin’ whatever piece of shit parasite put you up to it. Capiche?”

To their credit, Sans looks neither startled no offended. In fact, they seem almost relieved.

“I appreciate the warning, Highness, but that’s not why I’m here.” They answer, and then finally seem to relax completely. Edge doesn’t understand that reaction at all, frankly. “I’m not reporting to anybody. All the king told Paps was that he wanted to give me to Prince Edge as a birthday gift, and all he told me was that if the doc spoke so highly of me then he felt reasonably certain I could service his son appropriately. I’ve only met the guy, like, three times in my life, so the majority of what I’ve said to him can be summed up as ‘yes, your Majesty’ or ‘no, your Majesty’.”

When Edge glances at his brother, trying to gauge his reaction, Red looks more interested than suspicious. That’s… Unusual.

This is the first time that Edge has ever seen two Judges adjust to each other so quickly. Usually one or both of them, when two meet, spend a long moment sizing each other up before they decide if they can tolerate each other or not. Red has described it as being a great deal like placing two feral cats in a room and praying that they don’t decide to maul each other.

“… That’s all?” Red asks, cocking his head. His grin twitches, the only indication of his continued suspicion.

“Well, I mean, he also asked if I could demonstrate my abilities.” Sans snorts, rolling their eyelights, “But Paps said absolutely the fuck not, so he backed off, and honestly, thank the stars for that. He is just not my type.”

Red laughs, one of his real laughs.

He relaxes at Edge’s side.

Sans’ own grin twitches up in response.

“Well, hey, lookit that, Highness.” They say, to him, “I managed not to piss him off, and I didn’t even have to resort to my best skill.”

Edge can’t help the way his own mouth quirks up in amusement. “Truly a blessing. I wasn’t looking forward to having to sit here politely averting my eyes while you sucked his dick.”

That wrenches another real laugh out of Red, and in turn wrenches one out of Sans.

The atmosphere in the room feels a thousand pounds lighter.

It stays that way, mostly, for the remaining time that Red is in the room. They talk a little about Sans’ history, little things which he (Edge kept forgetting to ask if he had a preference for pronouns, but thankfully Red is comfortable making assumptions and Sans had affirmed he was correct about that one) doesn’t mind to share. He apparently doesn’t mind to tell them that becoming a concubine in the first place was the result of a deal he made with the matron of the orphanage he and Papyrus had been living in – he goes to the Academy, and she uses the money awarded to her for it to ensure his brother is taken care of until he finds a way to get him out of there.

“They assigned me to G the day after I graduated.” Sans explains, with a dismissive motion while he sips his second cup of snow root tea, “I guess G had made an off-handed comment to the king about how he’d only take a concubine if it was a skeleton, like, a hundred years ago? And instead of taking that as a polite indication he wasn’t interested at all, the king took it to heart. I was the first skeleton since the population boom thirty years ago to finish out basic education classes without flipping my shit, so, y’know.”

Edge can’t quite muster the courage to ask how old Sans was when he sold himself into slavery to take care of his brother. Apparently, neither can Red, because he doesn’t ask either.

He can’t help but feel he won’t like the answer, when he inevitably gets it.

The way that Sans talks about Gaster tells him fairly definitively that Sans had cared about the doctor a great deal, had liked him, so it’s unlikely that Gaster hurt him. But… Well. Monsters as old as Gaster had been, monsters from before the first Great War, had old fashioned ideals about how old is old enough. The age of majority in Fell’s Hollow wasn’t raised to eighteen until about a hundred and fifty years ago, early in his father’s reign, and it had been seen as a controversial move at the time. He would be disappointed, although not surprised, if Gaster had held those same old fashioned ideals.

The topic moves on, from there. Red eventually takes his leave, although not before plucking a bottle of Edge’s favorite whiskey out of his inventory and placing it on the table. Edge thinks nothing of having a glass of it, or offering Sans a glass as well.

Both of them seem to agree that just one glass is plenty. Edge could certainly get away with several more tonight. He’ll already be expected to be a little tired tomorrow, off his game, and that’s if he even leaves his quarters at all. He could get completely blackout drunk, if he wished, and no one but Slim or Red, or perhaps Sans, would have a word to say about it.

Sans’ reasons for stopping after just one drink are a mystery Edge doesn’t particularly think needs to be solved.

Edge calls Slim to clear the table when they’re done, which Slim does with a polite bow. He and Sans remain seated, talking idly, for a while longer.

He glances at the clock, finally, at just after one-thirty in the morning. The gala has likely been over for about forty-five minutes, now, although the majority of the guests will only just now be meandering their way out of the event, tipsy and amorous.

“It’s getting quite late.” He says, looking Sans over from across the coffee table. He’s a little bit flushed, still smiling an easy smile, and Edge wants him. So much so that it could shape up to be quite the problem. “You must be getting tired.”

“A little.” Sans admits, stretching, and he clearly catches the way that Edge looks at him while he does so, “but I’m fine. Actually, I, heh… Well, sleep’s kind of the last bed-related activity on my mind at the moment.”

“… Admittedly, it’s rather far down the list of priorities in mine, as well.” He replies, and can’t find it within himself to object when Sans gets up and rounds the table. When the smaller skeleton stops in front of him, he’s seized by the urge to reach out and grasp his hips, though he resists it. “I hope you don’t feel as if this is something you have to do tonight in order to stay.”

Sans laughs and says, confident as anything, “I know. You’ve made that pretty clear. I’m mentioning it again because I’m horny, bud, not cuz I feel obligated.”

The honesty is refreshing, frankly. He could certainly get used to having someone who is willing to just tell them what the fuck they want from him, even though he gets the sense that Sans, like nearly every other judge Edge has met, is a consummate liar and probably won’t tell the truth about anything else without a fight. There’s something refreshing about that, too, though – the word games that judges play are familiar territory to him.

“Well.” He says, admitting a little stunned by the admission, “In that case, perhaps we ought to make our way to the bed then, hm?”

Sans grins, as if Edge has just given him some kind of amazing gift just by agreeing, and seems to abandon all semblance of propriety. He just grabs him by the straps of his chest plate and tugs, beckoning him to his feet, and guides him back across the room to the bed, never once looking behind him. Edge can’t help the surge of lust he feels at such a small display of confidence and competence.

… Perhaps this won’t be so bad, after all.

Sans strips shamelessly out of his clothes once they reach the bed, leaving them on the floor to wrinkle. Edge doesn’t think twice before starting to follow suit, dropping his cape and the few pieces of ornamental armor he wears right there on the floor before his clothes join them. Sans’ gaze falls on him like a physical weight, and he allows it despite the tingle of anxiety that rides up his spine.

The weight disappears in an instant when Sans’ eyes meet his again, and that devastating grin of his blooms fully across his pretty face. “So, your Highness, how do you want me?”

Edge has far too many ideas to be able to answer that question right now. Moreover, most of his ideas will require a lot of earnest discussion over Sans’ comfort zone and absolute ‘no’s in the bedroom. Instead of voicing any of his ideas, he says, “Make yourself comfortable. I want you to show me how you like to be touched.”

Sans visibly shudders at the words, eyelights bright. He does as he’s told, though, lounging against the pillows at the head of the bed and waiting for him. When he’s situated, Edge haltingly joins him, positioning himself between his spread femurs when Sans quirks another grin and opens them a little wider in invitation. He’s already got his magic summoned, the same blue as his blush, generous and plump from his sizeable chest all the way to his plush thighs.

Edge hungrily eyes the ample folds nestled between those thick thighs, and spares an idle thought as to whether or not this is Sans’ preference, or if it’s simply what he defaults to as a result of his training.

He doesn’t touch him, not yet. He waits.

Sans seems flustered, but pleased by the attention, slowly trailing a hand over the curve of his ample breasts, the swell of his stomach, and finally between his thighs. Practiced movements – clearly practiced, clearly familiar – allow him to spread his folds with two fingers while a third, his middle, pets just slightly at his clit.

He isn’t wet, not yet.

Edge is fairly certain that he can fix that.

“How well do you learn by doing?” Sans asks him, almost conversationally, still just barely touching his own clit.

“I do well enough.” He answers.

Sans’ grin twitches. He almost looks fond. “Cool. I’ll give you a couple of cheat codes, then, heh. Gimme your hand.”

Edge offers his left hand, and Sans accepts it with his previously unoccupied right hand. He pulls it to him, to his chest, and settles it palm down on one of his breasts. He isn’t shy about manipulating his grip on Edge’s hand to encourage him to grope it, sighting happily at the pressure before easing his grip. Edge neither hesitates nor asks for clarification – he thinks he gets the message.

He keeps slowly massaging Sans’ heavy tit with his hand, shifting to apply the same principle to the other breast as well, which earns him another of those happy hums.

“Nice.” Sans says, all but purring. “These are, heh, pretty sensitive. My nipples especially.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Edge manages to say, although he’ll admit he’s not certain how he summoned the words.

It feels as if all of his magic flow has migrated south to fill out his rapidly hardening cock between his thighs. That would likely be embarrassing, but the embarrassment is entirely secondary to his current task. When he shifts his hand to take one of Sans’ nipples between thumb and forefinger and slowly apply pressure, pinching and rolling it carefully, the smaller skeleton presses eagerly up into the stimulation with a soft sound, sockets going lidded.

“Yeah, just like that.” The smaller drawls, deeply pleased. A light tug makes him purr. “That’s good, Highness.”

He suppresses a shudder, a fact he’s sure does not go unnoticed by his courtier. Instead of dwelling, he says, voice rough, “Call me Edge.”

Sans doesn’t try to suppress his shudder at all, just purrs around his soft noises of pleasure. He shifts slightly beneath him, opens his legs wider. There’s something sly in his slightly breathless voice when he says, “Fuck, Edge, keep doing that.”

Edge hears himself growl in reply, watches Sans’ responding shudder as he presses his chest into his hands, arching his back. He looks good like that, sounds good like that, and… Well, Edge keeps doing what he’s doing, keeps lavishing attention onto his chest, and eagerly tucks each and every positive response away to keep him warm later. He takes care to never hurt him as he pinches and rolls and tugs his nipples in between groping his chest, and Sans rewards him with little noises and the occasional jolt.

He delights in watching the way Sans’ nipples stiffen and get puffy under the rigorous attention.

“Fuck,” Sans breathes, no longer sly at all, hips twitching like he’s seeking stimulation elsewhere, “you’re a quick study. Stars.”

A glance down shows that Sans’ middle finger is now rubbing a little more firmly against his clit, and there’s the telltale glistening of wetness between his folds. Edge feels himself preen, just a bit.

“I do pride myself on learning things quickly.” He manages, making Sans puff out a half-moan, half-laugh, “… What a sight you are like this.”

“Keep, mm, talking to me like that and I might just not let you leave the bed.” Sans replies, both amused and breathlessly pleased.

Edge will admit he’s half-certain that Sans is playing up his reactions for his sake, but the avid stare on the smaller’s face makes it difficult to tell. Regardless, the words settle heavy and warm in his gut. He feels torn between continuing to torment the puffy, erect nubs beneath his fingers and getting a taste of him.

… He’ll need to get him ready at some point, though, right?

He may as well get started now, seeing as it has the added bonus of letting Edge taste his concubine’s magic.

“I suppose I’ll have to take my chances.” He chuckles. His voice is surprisingly even. “May I try something?”

Sans’ legs twitch ever further open as he arches pointedly into his touch. “Try away, big guy.”

And so try he does.

He gives one last lingering roll and stroke to Sans’ nipples, trailing his hands down the generous swell of his sides and stomach, enjoying how smooth and soft the ecto is beneath his fingertips. Unblemished by any scarring, full and healthy-looking. It’s truly a sight to behold. It’s rare he sees someone else’s ecto at all, these days, but particularly for it to be so fully intact.

Even he has scars in his ecto, after years of using it to cushion blows that would have surely snapped bone otherwise. Even Red has scars in his ecto.

But Sans is utterly unscarred. Even his bones beneath it are untouched by violence, or at the very least very well-healed from any violence he may have experienced.

(The Academy is not known for being kind to its students. It’s well-known that physical punishment is the norm when someone does poorly in their basic education classes.)

(It’s allowed under the blanket permission of preparing its students for their masters.)

(Edge plans to change that, too.)

Truly, in all the looking he’s done tonight, the only so-called blemish he has found on Sans are the cracks in his soul. And that is admirable, in its own way – Edge’s soul isn’t entirely in one piece, either, his cracked on the battlefield, but soul cracks can very, very easily kill. It’s not a good sign that Sans’ has cracked a minimum of three times, or that its glow is so dim even now, but nevertheless, he survived whatever broke him.

Edge finds that admirable. Attractive, even.

He moves while he looks, while he thinks, into a better position. He spares a thought to hope that Sans isn’t bothered by how closely he’s looking at him. There’s little chance he hasn’t noticed, but if Edge is lucky then he won’t make mention of it.

He forestalls having to find out for sure if Sans is bothered by lowering his head between the smaller’s knees. Sans obligingly shifts his fingers to hold himself open and give him room, gasping softly when Edge licks delicately over the heated magic being offered to him. His femurs twitch around Edge’s shoulders.

Slow and deliberate, he repeats the motion with more pressure.

Sans’ right hand lands softly atop his skull, settling with more pressure when the touch isn’t rebuffed. “Oh, fuck, Edge.”

He hums, satisfied he’s doing an adequate job, and continues. He can’t help but relish in the slickness he laps up with every stroke of his tongue, in the taste of him, in the soft sounds he makes when he just barely grazes his clit, in the painless scrape of fingertips across the back of his skull when he flattens his tongue against that same little bundle of nerves.

Sans is an open and receptive partner, it seems, happy to encourage him along with soft curses, softer praise, and utterances of his name in tones that make it sound utterly indecent. When he begins to work at Sans’ hole with his tongue in broad licks and careful thrusts, the smaller skeleton groans appreciatively.

“You’ve got a pretty, ah, talented mouth,” Sans pants, “I’m almost a little jealous of whoever taught you all that.”

Edge stifles a laugh – not an action he’s familiar with doing while he’s in the middle of opening his partner’s hole with his tongue, by the way – but doesn’t stop. It’s not as if he needs to answer that with anything except the laugh, anyway.

(No one ever need know that he learned all he knows from Slim and Scythe, over the years. It’s hardly important that the three of them taught each other everything they know.)

He greedily stays in the moment, after that, drinking down every sound and every twitch of Sans’ hips as he licks into him. His magic is hot and agitated, he’s achingly hard, but he’s drunk on his partner’s enjoyment.

“Mm, fuck, stop for a sec.” Sans breathes, suddenly, hips hitching against Edge’s face before stilling. There’s no distress in his voice, so Edge draws back without too much worry that he’s somehow overstepped a boundary. Breath hitching and uneven, Sans shakily laughs and says, “I’m enjoying myself, don’t you worry, but if you keep that up I’m gonna cum.”

Heat washes through Edge, cock jerking between his femurs. A part of him, a large part, desperately wants that – Sans cumming with his femurs clenched around Edge’s skull, crying out in ecstasy… It is an overwhelmingly loud thought in his mind.

“Am I meant to be displeased that you’re enjoying yourself?” Edge asks, somewhat taken aback by how husked out his voice has gone.

Sans laughs breathlessly in reply. He looks pleased, beautifully flushed and eyelights bright. Even his soul has brightened, a bit, behind the cage of his ribs and his thick ecto.

“Hey, I just figure most people like a warning before somebody cums in their mouth.” He says, fondly. “And, y’know, you could be one of those types who wants to get me wound up just to deny me until your cock’s inside me. Anything’s possible.”

The idea has definite appeal. Edge can’t find it within himself to be even a little bit ashamed of how much he enjoys it.

Sans only laughs again, knowingly, and very deliberately shifts down until he’s laying on the bed properly, boxed in by Edge’s body. He lifts both his hands from their prior positions and lays them on the pillows next to his skull, as if he’s being held down by the wrist, utterly relaxed and trusting.

The idea of holding him down has some appeal, too, but Edge is no stranger to his own perversions. He knows he likes to take control of his partners in bed. He is not at all surprised, nor ashamed, that he’d very much like to see Sans restrained and helpless except for his safeword.

Something to consider for later. For another private session like this, where no one else will see, where it will be safe and comfortable for Sans.

That devastating grin of his has returned, and it brings another wash of heat to Edge’s body.

When he’s beckoned closer with one crooked finger, he goes, unthinking.

Sans kisses him, uncaring of the wetness still painting his maw, and Edge can’t help but melt a bit into the contact. It only lasts a second, long enough for Sans to lick over his teeth, seeking entrance, before he regains himself. He takes his chin carefully in hand and returns the motion. The moment Sans’ teeth part to allow him entrance, Edge is licking into his mouth with a low purr at the immediate soft sigh of pleasure from Sans.

There is nothing nearly so satisfying to Edge as his partner truly, deeply enjoying themself.

They part after a moment, and Sans is gratifyingly winded beneath him. He looks good like this, Edge will freely admit – but the realization still hits him somewhere deep and primal, somewhere behind his ribs. It’s an unsurprising notion, but still unusually intense – simply seeing his concubine look so freshly debauched probably ought not cause such a feral pleasure to course through him.

(He has half a mind to wonder if Sans has some sort of control over the arousal of others, but it’s a thought he quickly dismisses.)

(There is only one clan of skeletons that has that specific brand of magic, and they’re very careful to ensure they don’t have any… Stray heirs, so to speak. It’s already unlikely that one would have ended up on the streets of Dusthollow, and less likely still that two would.)

“You don’t need to stretch me out,” Sans manages, after a moment. He carefully hooks one leg over Edge’s hip, again hesitant for a second before settling more solidly, “believe me when I say I can take it when I’m already this wet.”

A tempting notion, he’ll admit. The way his cock is throbbing already makes it somewhat difficult to see any reason not to simply take him at his word and sink into the smaller skeleton’s heated magic. However, he does manage to retain a shred of sense. He lays his hands on Sans’ waist, experimentally squeezing the curve of his hips. He’s not soft, exactly, there is certainly weight and heft to the magic, but it’s still satisfying to grab a handful of.

Admittedly, he hadn’t paused to consider how much he might enjoy having a partner with a little extra cushioning.

(On skeletons, the most comfortable form for their magic to take without coaxing, be it ambient or their ecto, directly correlates to both their magic level and their standard level of physical activity. Edge’s is passably muscular because of his rigorous training regimen and the deep wells of magic he has to pull from. Red is more stocky, heavier-set because of his own deep well of magic and the fact he’s a lazy bastard who only trains when he needs to. But Sans…)

(He’s heavy-set, he’s unscarred, and he seems to have a healthy appetite.)

(He seems, by all means, to be well-fed and unaccustomed to a lot of physical labor. It’s not unlikely he’s never worked a day in his life since leaving the Academy, and he’ll certainly never need to work again now that he belongs to a prince.)

(He can’t help feeling a little bit grateful that, clearly, Gaster knew how to properly treat his concubine.)

He shakes the thoughts away, squeezing Sans’ hips again. “Do you want me to stretch you? I seem to recall asking you to show me how you like to be touched.”

Sans gives him another laugh, for that, this one quieter. Fond. “What a gentleman.” He purrs, like the fact that Edge bothered to check in has made his entire night, “Nah, I don’t want you to stretch me. I like it like this.”

Excellent.

Edge likes honest feedback.

… Yes, alright, he can see himself enjoying this arrangement in the future. Sans has passed Red’s tests, after all. He’s probably not going anywhere.

He leans down to kiss Sans again, careful and slow. Sans continues to purr as he kisses back, utterly at ease.

He aligns his cock as he pulls back from the kiss, gentle pressure to ensure he’s got the correct angle before he goes further. To Sans, he says, “Happy to oblige, then.”

Sans starts to laugh again, but loses the sound in a soft moan when Edge presses inside of him properly, the head of his cock stretching him out. He pauses about him, waiting, patient, and when Sans seems to catch his breath he kisses him again, slow, as he presses in further, further, maddeningly careful because he would rather avoid injuring him by mistake.

Sans moans into his mouth, gratified and gravelly, when he eases his hips back and presses back in.

It becomes a symphony to Edge’s ears of moans and the wet noises of his cock filling Sans, working in deeper with each thrust until he finally hilts. He pauses, then, pulling back to let Sans catch his breath.

“Fuck,” Sans gasps, clenching around him in slightly erratic pulses, “stars, fuck, Edge.”

“Very eloquent,” He manages to say, gently teasing, although he isn’t certain how he managed to summon words. Pride, perhaps. “… Goodness, look at you.”

Sans preens beneath him, still squeezing around him. His expression is all sweet pain, like it hurts, but like he’s enjoying the pain. His labored breathing and the rhythmless clenching of him around Edge’s cock certainly paints a picture, one of him getting off just fine on nothing but the feeling of Edge filling him, stretching him open around him. It’s enough to have his cock twitching – as he’s said, he derives no greater pleasure from anything than he does from watching his partners enjoy themselves.

He delights in watching bedpartners come undone beneath him, by his hands alone. It’s particularly gratifying if they lose all control when he’s inside of them.

… Surely Sans must have enough stamina to be able to handle it if he were to make him cum before properly fucking him?

Only one way to find out, he supposes.

He moves one hand from Sans’ hip to his thigh, lays his thumb over his twitching clit, and meets his eyes. His gaze is avid once more, mouth slightly open, arms still beside his head. When Edge slowly, carefully starts to rub little circles into the bundle of nerves beneath his thumb, he gets to watch Sans’ eyelights go slightly fuzzy at the edges, gets the hear the ragged sound he makes as he knots his fingers into the pillowcase.

Sans’ walls squeeze around him, then squeeze again, and again, faster as he keeps up the steady pressure against his clit. The feeling of him spasming around him is a devastating pleasure that has him also exhaling noises through a half-open mouth. When he doesn’t let up, when he keeps stroking Sans’ clit slow and steady, the clenching gets progressively more erratic.

Sans’ moans, too, start coming a little faster, a little higher in pitch, a little more breathless. His hips jerk against Edge once, twice. His voice cracks on a moan, back arching, and Edge has to cling to coherency by his fingertips just to avoid rutting mindlessly into the hot, fluttering clutch of Sans’ cunt as he cums around him. It’s good, so good, but they haven’t discussed that kind of overstimulation yet.

Perhaps next time.

Sans drags him down into another kiss the moment he’s stopped shuddering, and Edge’s thumb has gone still. Edge kisses back perhaps a bit more eagerly than he’d ever admit to.

He has experience, certainly, but he will freely admit that Sans has just given him the most pleasure he’s ever managed to wring out of a simple half-hour span, and he’s not even climaxed yet. Something about him is just… So much. It’s possible that Edge is merely riding along on the novelty of having a more experienced partner, of course, but it’s not completely unlikely that Sans is also legitimately just a better bed partner than any of his previous ones as a result of all that extra experience.

When they part, this time, Edge takes note of the fact Sans’ hand remains on the back of his cervical spine, nothing but a gentle touch. The smaller skeleton’s pinkie skims across a scar there, likely totally unaware of it, and it’s a soft enough brush that he doesn’t feel the need to panic over it, either. It just feels… Nice.

“Heh.” Sans chuckles, voice husked out and sockets lidded, “Holy shit, you sure know how to treat a guy, babe.” A pause, then, “You gonna fuck me now?”

Edge can’t help chuckling in return. He’s oddly charmed by the bluntness of Sans’ question, and the sound of his laugh. Laughing in return just seems like the most reasonable response, and given the way that Sans’ grin and eyelights brighten, it was absolutely the correct response as well.

“If that’s what you want,” He tells him, perhaps a touch fond, “then yes. Of course.”

“That is what I want, yeah.” The other confirms, looking and sounding a touch fond, himself, “Sweet of you to ask, though.”

Edge shifts above him, taking his hips into his hands again and petting over them with his thumbs. Sans makes a soft sound at the slight jostling, but there’s no discomfort on his face. He’ll have to assume it wasn’t a noise of pain, or, if it was, that it was the sort of pain Sans enjoys.

When he gives a slow, experimental roll of his hips, Sans moans and goes all but boneless against the bed, relaxing as his sockets lid further. He’s so yielding and soft around him, the feeling is… Well, again, Edge has experience, but this is so, so much better than nearly anything he’s done with Slim or Scythe. It’s nearly indescribable.

Sans is incredible.

He rolls his hips again, a little faster, then another time. He slowly builds a rhythm, and Sans shows his enjoyment shamelessly, moaning and arching into him with each move.

Edge gets lost in it, the feeling of him, the sound of him, the pretty blue flush on his face and the fuzziness of his eyelights. His pleasure builds quickly, a steady bloom of heat in his false stomach, a knot slowly tightening at the base of his spine. He has just enough coherence to lay a finger against Sans’ clit as he feels his end approaching, to stroke over the bundle of nerves until Sans cums a second time, half-shouting his pleasure as it wracks him.

His leg clenches on Edge’s hip, pulls him in deeper.

He spills into him moments later, coaxed by the feeling of Sans spasming around him, the sound of his helpless little moans as he’s used past his peak. As he stills, Sans makes a filthy noise and wraps his other leg around his hip to keep him close.

For a long moment, they stay there, panting in the humid air.

Eventually, slowly, Sans’ legs release him. With a grunt of effort he won’t admit to later, Edge carefully pulls out and shifts off of Sans, which earns him a disgruntled noise that he can’t help but chuckle at.

Sans looks exhausted, but pleased, when Edge meets his gaze again. Admittedly, for a moment, he was more occupied with watching the scarlet of his magic begin to well at Sans’ entrance, dribbling slowly out with nothing to hold it in.

He kisses him.

Sans kisses back with a hum, though with less fervor this time than he had before.

He’s had a long day. It’s late. Edge is certain the poor man is more than ready to sleep, now.

Against his mouth, he says, “I’ll get us cleaned up. You may sleep here, if you wish.”

Sans hums again, as he pulls back, looking at him from beneath sleepily lidded sockets. Very quiet, with a hint of the same accent as Red has, he says, “Mkay. I dunno if I c’n walk, anyway.”

He seems more amused than upset with the fact. Edge laughs, softly, petting his still-trembling femurs as he shifts up and away.

By the time he retrieves a warm, wet towel to wipe away the sweat and other bodily fluids with, Sans is half-dozing there in his bed, nestled against the pillows like he belongs there. But, then, Edge supposes he does belong there. At least for tonight.

He hardly rouses when Edge begins to exactingly clean him, only really seeming coherent enough to dismiss his magic after Edge is done.

What a picture he makes, resting peacefully in Edge’s bed. Trusting and soft. His scarred soul is bright behind his ribs, beating steadily. His breath is slow and easy.

Edge watches him for a moment, then settles at his side on the bed, tucking the blanket carefully around both of them. It’s only after he’s settled that Sans moves again, rolling onto his side and burying his face against Edge’s uncovered chest. Startled, Edge is still for a moment before slowly, carefully laying a hand over Sans’ iliac crest. Then, feeling a bit bold, he moves to cup the small of Sans’ back and tug him in a little closer, which Sans does with a sleepy, pleased hum.

He often struggles to fall asleep. More so he struggles to stay asleep.

But it only takes a few moments for him to feel his mind winding down, quieting, and his body growing heavy. He closes his eyes, drinking in the feeling of Sans clutched safely to his chest, and is not sure when he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

As far as Edge can tell, in the coming days and weeks, Sans seems to settle into the Keep with little trouble.

That first morning, Edge had woken late to find Sans still sleeping peacefully, curled into his chest. Slim had been giving him an incredibly eloquent ‘are you fucking dying?’ expression from the side of the bed, where he’d come to a stop when Edge had finally registered that someone was in the room and woken, far too late. Given the lighting in the room and just how close Slim managed to get before Edge noticed him, he hadn’t been able to begrudge his friend the obvious concern.

When Sans finally woke, they’d taken a late breakfast in the privacy of Edge’s quarters, and they discussed Sans’ ‘expectations’ as a courtier, as it were, not that there were very many of those. Royal concubines are generally only expected to sit around and look pretty, provide passable service to their masters, and occasionally entertain a guest or two for tea.

(Sans seemed surprised at how very little there was that he was expected to do, although he hadn’t given a clear answer on why it surprised him when Edge had asked, talking neatly around it instead.)

Eventually, Sans had excused himself to go and acquaint himself a bit more with the harem quarters he’ll be living in from here on, and Edge had begun the arduous task of crafting a list of staff to see to Sans’ comfort. It’s a difficult enough task just deciding which of his servants he can afford to grant the smallest grain of trust to at all, but finding ones he trusts enough to feel certain they won’t betray him, either for his father or his new concubine? Well, that’s tricky, to say the very least he can about its difficulty.

And, unfortunately, it is nowhere nearly so simple as just picking one servant to attend to Sans, either, although Edge wishes it was. He’ll need a smaller retinue of dedicated servants than Edge himself is forced to have, certainly, but he’ll still need a handful of them. At the very least, he needs someone on-call, of course, a manservant to accompany him and ensure he has his needs tended to in a timely manner. But he’ll also need at least one other maid to attend to the cleanliness of the harem quarters, more likely two of them to ensure an equal workload, not to mention that he’ll need no less than two guards to accompany him during public appearances without Edge at his side.

Slim, of course, has much to say on the matter when Edge broaches the subject. It still takes the two of them nearly four days to decide on three of the five minimum servants Sans will need in the future.

For Sans’ manservant, they’ve selected Stitches, the youngest brother of Haven’s Judge, Stretch, in part because of Edge’s deep familiarity with the young man. He was sent to them after the war, a bargaining chip of sorts from Asgore. He’s a bit eccentric, a bit overzealous about fighting, but he is, Edge thinks, perhaps one of the only genuinely good people that lives in the Keep full-time. Moreover, his loyalty lies squarely in Red’s grasp, meaning he isn’t a betrayal risk – he will do anything Red asks him to, and by extension anything Edge asks, including spying on his new charge if need be.

He has no idea at all how well he’ll really perform the duties of a manservant, but it’s not likely that Sans is going to be difficult to meet the needs of. He may be an experienced concubine who’s never served anyone of a rank lower than Minister, but he also seems to have simple tastes. Comfortable clothes, warm food, that sort of thing. Stitches should have no problem doing the job, and he certainly seems happy enough about the assignment when Edge gives it to him.

For the first of Sans’ two guards, Edge actually didn’t have much trouble selecting a soldier he feels he can trust. He chooses Dagger, one of the kingdom’s few human guards. They served directly under him during the war, and were an exemplary soldier. They’ve done much more objectionable jobs for him than guarding his harem, and when he suggested the job to them, they’d agreed with gratifying speed. Like Slim, they don’t speak much, but if he trusts any one of his soldiers to follow every order, every time, it’s them.

And, finally, for the first of the two maids, Slim had personally selected a young dog monster named Buttercup. Edge doesn’t know much about her, but he trusts Slim’s judgement too much to complain or question it. And even if he didn’t, of course, Slim was quick to explain his choice by informing Edge that she’s hard-working and not inclined to gossip.

“… And…” He had added, after a moment, “She’s about the same age as the other two, and she already knows Stitches… Less chance for any infighting, that way.”

Sans took each new assigned servant with the expected amount of grace given his experience. Edge has only really had a single chance to ask how the arrangement is working out, so far, but the one talk they had about it was promising. If nothing else, Sans liked Stitches. He said that he found his behavior and demeanor endearing. And, also promising, he hasn’t complained about the other two yet.

Now all that Edge needs to do is find one more maid and one more guard.

It’s no extra stress on Edge, not really, because he deals with a lot of this sort of thing on a frequent basis considering his position in their kingdom’s military, but it’s more… Well, he isn’t sure. Perhaps the word ‘tiring’ would fit best.

Sorting through the slew of reports he deals with on a daily basis is already a bit tedious, no matter how much he may enjoy the work. Sorting through endless servant dossiers is even more tedious. Still, it’s nothing he isn’t used to.

Sans has been here for about three weeks, now, and Edge has still yet to instate a second maid or a second guard to his retinue. In part because of how selective he is, and in part because he does still have other duties to attend to. He can’t very well spend all of his time on just this one project, else he may have already finished it.

Still, today he is working at it again. His agenda otherwise is light, and he’s already attended to all of his other appointments for the day come noon. He has the rest of the day to pore over the dossiers, unbothered by the usual crowd of people demanding his attention for trivial matters.

He’s half-hunched over the desk in his primary office, near the heart of the Keep, where he’s accessible to the so-called public should they need his assistance. He has another office, hidden behind a false wall in his quarters, but he can’t very well do all his business there no matter how very much he’d like to. Supposedly, princes need to be available for their people, despite the fact that Edge primarily deals with other nobles who rarely need to meet him in his public office.

He may actually get some work done, though, despite where he is.

Of course, the very second that thought crosses his mind is the same second that someone knocks at his office doors.

He sighs, sits up straight, smooths out the front of his shirt, and says, “Enter.”

The doors open. Slim enters, followed by…

Ah.

Lord Papyrus.

He can’t help a subtle feeling of tension. It’s rare enough he sees Lord Papyrus out and about at all, and rarer still for him to make an unscheduled visit to his office in the Keep. They certainly do see each other fairly often, and they speak frequently even via letter, but Papyrus has always been meticulous about meeting times. They don’t have another one scheduled until the second day of the New Year, when Papyrus is supposed to bring some of his recent blueprints for Edge to examine.

More concerning than the fact that Papyrus is here without having sent word ahead of time is his demeanor as Slim leads him in.

He is always surprisingly chipper. Always smiling.

Not today.

No, that pinched, faraway look from the night of his birthday is still there, though deeper now. There are dark circles beneath his sockets, so deep they may as well have been drawn on.

“Ah.” Edge says, “Lord Papyrus, welcome. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Hello, your Highness.” Papyrus replies as he gives a courtly bow, almost robotic in his tonelessness. As he straightens, the shakes his head, grimaces, and adds, with more feeling, “Er, yes, I apologize, your Highness. I wasn’t thinking. If you’re busy…”

Edge shares a look with Slim, who has already closed the doors. Slim gives a slightly helpless shrug – he has no idea what Papyrus is here for, either. That’s troubling in its own right, because Papyrus is usually outspoken, particularly with Slim, who doesn’t mind to listen to him ramble about traps or puzzles, since it reminds him somewhat of Razz. If he didn’t say anything to Slim about why he’s here…

“… It’s nothing that can’t wait a little longer.” He decides, closing the dossier he was reading through and pushing it aside. “Please, sit. What seems to be troubling you?”

“Ah. Well…” Papyrus obeys, sitting on the plush chair in front of Edge’s desk. Thankfully, there isn’t anything particularly unusual about the fact the sits almost on the very edge of the seat. He always does that. “It’s actually somewhat personal, rather than business? I, erm… I was hoping, perhaps, that you might allow me an audience with…” He stops, looks away, then continues, quieter, “… with your new, ah, courtier.”

Edge blinks.

Then, more than just a little bit horrified with himself, he realizes that Papyrus must not have heard from Sans since the night of the party, let alone seen him. Papyrus isn’t often in the Keep, and even if he was, Sans doesn’t leave his quarters much as of yet. Moreover, it’s possible that Sans isn’t certain that he can send letters to Papyrus, or what he can say in them even if he’s allowed to do so.

“Of course.” He says, perhaps a bit too quickly. “He should be in his quarters right now. I’ll escort you there myself.”

Papyrus seems surprised, likely by the speed of his agreement. Edge has never been one to make hasty decisions, something Papyrus has said he appreciates.

(It’s equally likely that he’s just surprised that Edge agreed at all. They get along well enough, but they certainly don’t know each other closely. Papyrus seems to always see the best in people, but even he isn’t immune to Edge’s, shall he say, reputation. And if he doesn’t realize that Edge is fully aware of his relationship to Sans, then he only has more reason to doubt that Edge might be amenable to allowing his concubine to visit with the child of his former master.)

“Oh!” Papyrus says, “Thank you, Highness, that’s very kind of you.”

Edge stands, and Papyrus quickly follows suit. He still seems uneasy, but less so. There’s less of a crease between his brows, now, at least.

“I would hardly withhold him from you, Papyrus.” He says, lowering his voice to ensure his words aren’t overheard. He rounds the desk, “He’s your brother. Even I’m not that cruel.”

Papyrus looks relieved. “I, er, I didn’t think you were,” He says, lowering his volume to match, “it’s just that, ah… I wasn’t sure it was… Proper? Of me to ask?”

“To hell with propriety.” Edge snorts, “It hurts nothing to let you see him. In fact, I imagine it will do a great deal of good for both of you. Which also, as it happens, benefits me as well.”

He tries to smile. Whether it’s convincing or not is unclear, but Papyrus does seem simultaneously relieved and amused by his words. He gives him a tired, but grateful smile in return, and they exit the office.

It’s something of a long walk to get from the heart of the Keep to the residential wing where the royal family lives. Usually, a walk with Papyrus that lasts that long would be full of chatter, but today he’s quiet. His smiles has already faded off again by the time they reach the second hallway of their walk. Edge wishes he didn’t understand, but… Well, he gets it.

Perhaps he understands it a bit better than he should, considering that he’s never been in Papyrus’ exact circumstances.

(But he could have been, is the thing.)

(It would have been so, so horribly easy for Red to have ended up selling himself to the Academy instead of managing to snake-charm his way into the royal nursery with his little brother. It would have been so easy for him to end up in circumstances where he has to ask his brother’s master for permission to see him.)

He doesn’t comment on it, though he takes notice. He’s not nearly emotionally competent to have a constructive talk with Papyrus about his feelings. Instead, he just leads him, with Slim walking a step or two behind both of them, through the maze of hallways to the residential wing.

When they arrive at the doors to the harem quarters, Edge eyes the soul-shaped divots above it. They’ll be setting a large gemstone into the centermost slot to represent Sans sometime this week, an undeniable piece of proof that he’s been properly inducted into Edge’s harem. For now, though, it sits empty.

“Here we are.” He says, then turns to Papyrus. He spends a brief second listening for anyone in the vicinity – nothing. It’s long enough after his birthday, now, for most of the spies to have been reassigned to more pressing duties than listening in on his private conversations. “… You do not need my permission to visit your brother, Lord Papyrus. I merely ask that you send word ahead, so that he or I may have someone at the ready to escort you here.”

The Keep is impossible for newcomers to navigate, and purposefully so. Even Edge, who has lived here since he was a child, still takes a wrong turn or two from time to time. The servants have a specific network of back hallways and lifts to get where they need to go in a hurry, all far more straightforward, but everyone else is, to put it bluntly, shit out of luck. Without a guide, there’s no way that Papyrus would be able to find his way back here without memorizing the exact path Edge brought him down.

Papyrus is bright, but not quite that bright. He’d need at least one more trip, and Edge rarely takes the same route twice in one day after having the habit drilled into him.

Admittedly, the difficulty in navigating the corridors is probably another reason that Sans prefers not to leave his quarters for the time being.

Papyrus nods. If his eyes look a bit misty, Edge will ignore it.

“I appreciate that, your Highness.” He says, very seriously, “Thank you, again.”

“Of course.” He answers, primly, and turns back to the doors to knock.

“Just a minute!” Calls Sans’ voice, slightly muffled by the thick wood.

Edge can’t help a tingle of fondness, which he quickly quashes. For as much as he has already come to like Sans, it’s best if he doesn’t get too attached. He may have passed muster with Red and Slim, but judges are consummate liars and excellent actors. Most of the ones he’s met have done an incredible job of hiding the fact they’re a judge at all. He can’t blindly trust Sans, not yet.

A brief silence passes, and then Sans is pulling one of the doors partway open. When he sees Edge, he jolts and stands up a little straighter before bowing. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting you, Highness. What can I do for you?”

“As it happens, my dear, you have a guest.” Edge says, quirking a brow and nodding toward Papyrus, “I took the liberty of escorting him up to see you.”

Seeing Papyrus, Sans stands up even straighter, eyes starting to squint as his prior, pleasant smile morphs into an outright grin. To his credit, he manages to maintain some sense of decorum even as he says, “Papyrus! It’s so good to see you. Please, come in.”

It’s somewhat impressive he manages to be so outwardly calm, considering that even Edge can tell he’d rather tackle Papyrus and hug him so tight he might break something.

He opens the door wider, beckoning, and Papyrus gives a small laugh before obeying. Sans tells him to take a seat wherever he’d like, and Papyrus obeys after thanking Edge one more time. There’s something incredibly warm in Sans’ expression when he turns back to face him and meets his eyes.

“Thank you, Highness.” He says, then, quieter, “Will you be staying?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Edge tells him, not without some genuine regret, “I still have business to attend to. Enjoy yourselves, won’t you?”

He holds out his hand, which Sans takes without a second’s hesitation. Still, when Edge bends to kiss his knuckles, Sans’ cheeks tint faintly blue, and his eyelights strafe away.

“We will, thank you.” He says, almost sounding bashful, “Don’t work yourself too hard.”

Edge can’t help a small laugh. Sans’ grin ticks up a little higher. Edge lays one more kiss on his knuckles before releasing him and stepping back.

“I never work too hard.” He tells him, dryly, and Sans laughs.

The little finger-wave that Sans gives before he closes the door leaves Edge feeling pathetically warm. He tries to stomp the fondness out a second time, but it’s somewhat difficult.

(Sans reminds him of Red, in a number of ways, almost like a peek at what could be if Red were a little kinder and a little more socially adept. It makes him feel familiar. Safe.)

(Moreover, it’s just difficult not to feel fond of someone who can be so easy-going even in tense situations. That is a skill he considers to be invaluable.)

He and Slim leave, returning to his office, but he can’t help wondering what Papyrus and Sans are talking about for the rest of the afternoon. It occupies a piece of his mind even while he’s working, a little background thought while he continues the mind-numbing process of sorting the endless dossiers into piles of ‘absolutely fucking not’ and ‘perhaps’.

The ‘absolutely fucking not’ pile is a good deal taller than the ‘perhaps’ pile by the time he decides to call it a day, which has been the case for the last couple of weeks. It would be faster work, were he only pulling from his own pool of servants, but he’s had to include some of Red’s staff as well for the sake of ensuring the best possible choices. It’s easier to pull trustworthy servants from the pool of ones Red has personally vetted in the past, although the trouble will come from convincing Red to part with them for an extended period.

It really shouldn’t be taking him as long as it is to find just two more acceptable servants, and it wouldn’t if he just weren’t so damned particular about who is allowed into Sans’ company at the current moment in time. Slim has been on nearly non-stop vetting duty even while Edge busies himself with other tasks, conspiring with Razz and the spymaster to investigate every single ‘perhaps’ he’s found over the weeks he’s been working at this.

Admittedly, it’s the rigorous vetting process that’s taking the longest. He can only really provide Slim and the others with a handful of files at a time to investigate.

Many of the results have been inconclusive so far.

In any case, he spends most of the day today sorting and re-sorting, second-guessing his own choices until he’s certain he’s narrowed it down to the best possible options. He’ll have no time to do it tomorrow, seeing as there’s a merchant delegation from the Barrens coming to see about a royal sponsorship to expand their business.

Unfortunately, it will also involve the Ministers for Finance and Commerce, which means the appointment requires his presence. Both his father and brother insist he handle any such meetings – his father, supposedly, does so because he believes it makes the best use of Edge’s skills. Edge does not agree.

Red, at least, is honest enough to admit he only wants Edge to handle it because he just personally hates the Ministers for Finance and Commerce. In return, he handles all the meetings with the Ministers for Research, Labor, and Urban Planning and Development, who Edge often struggles to keep up with in terms of jargon.

They juggle all the other meetings, more or less, that their father can’t be assed to handle.

He shakes the thoughts away, sitting back at his desk and covering his eyes with his palms with a sigh.

He’s getting a migraine.

It’s unsurprising. The damned attack that left him with scarring over one socket also left him with a tendency to develop a migraine at the slightest inconvenience. He’s gotten used to it. He’ll take some of the medication the healers prescribed to him, once he gets back to his quarters.

That’s enough of that, for today. He’ll hand off a couple more files to Slim later.

For now, he has one more task he probably ought to get to, and that’s writing up a letter to request the proprietor of the Hasty Hemmings visit to have some court-appropriate attire made for Sans. He’ll be expected to start accompanying Edge to court and meetings sooner or later, and although Edge has no complaints about his fashion choices, none of it is exactly appropriate for official business.

It takes him a moment longer to remove his hands from his eyes. When he does, he makes quick work of writing up the letter, sealing it, and handing it off to a messenger to be delivered.

It’s nearly time for dinner. He’s best off retiring to his quarters, now.

When he finally arrives, he’s immediately struck by the sounds of talking and laughter from the harem quarters. He recognizes the voices, of course – Sans, Papyrus, and if he’s not mistaken, Stitches.

At least they’re enjoying themselves.

He’s prepared to take his dinner alone, as he has for the last several nights, but for now he merely takes his medication and sits down on one of his couches. He leans back, rests his head on the rear cushion, and closes his eyes. Slim will be up to ask if he’ll be taking his dinner in his quarters or not at some point. For now, he simply listens to the sounds of Sans and his brother having a grand old time just on the other side of the wall on the other side of the room.

The sounds slowly quiet, and eventually stop.

He isn’t sure how long it takes, or how long it’s quiet between then and the small knock on his door, but he does know that he sits there for quite some time. Long enough for the light to have dimmed to something manageable for his still slightly aching skull.

“Just a moment.” He calls, and starts to stand. He’s gotten no further than placing a hand on the arm of the couch to lever himself up before he hears the click of a door opening. It’s not the door he was expecting. “Oh, Sans. Did you need something?”

Sans is already gently closing the harem quarters door behind him when he turns to look, giving him a small smile as he approaches the seating area. Edge feels something warm at the fact that Sans felt comfortable just waltzing into his room without actually being given permission to enter. Like the fondness he felt earlier, though, he quickly quashes it.

(He truly can’t help it. Sans is just… Generally likeable. And, seeing as they’ll be living together for some time, yet, it really is for the best if Edge likes him. He just isn’t certain he can trust him yet, and it’s also for the best if he holds off on any affectionate overtures until he is certain.)

“I wouldn’t say need, exactly,” Sans says, as he comes to a stop beside the sofa where Edge is seated, “but I did want to come and say thank you, again.”

The emphasis he places on the word ‘want’ is telling, as if he thinks Edge is somehow averse to being thanked if Sans had felt compelled. As he understands it, people generally do feel compelled to thank others when they perform a kindness for them.

Then again, he has placed a lot of emphasis, himself, on Sans only doing as much as he’s comfortable with.

“I would hardly keep you from seeing your brother.” Edge replies, “I don’t need to be thanked for allowing him to visit.”

Sans gives him an amused look for that response, cocking a brow, and says, “Okay, well, what if my ‘thank you’ involves a blowjob?”

Edge isn’t certain if the question is rhetorical or not, but unfortunately it does get his attention. Shamefully enough, yes, he likely wouldn’t have objected to a thank you blowjob if Sans had made that intention clear from the outset. He feels his cheeks heat, faintly, and Sans’ grin tilts up a little further.

“Yeah, I thought as much.” He chuckles, “My thank you can involve a blowjob, if that’s what gets you to accept it. Just for the record. Anyhow, did you… Really tell him that he doesn’t need to ask you for permission to see me?”

He’s not yet had a chance to test just how talented Sans is with his mouth, seeing as he has more important things to do with his time than hassling his concubine into bed at every opportunity. So far, they’ve really only had that first night together. Still, Sans’ assertion that blowjobs are his ‘best skill’ has occupied a portion of Edge’s mind nearly non-stop.

He feels like a hormonal teenager with a crush.

He doesn’t mind it nearly as much as he should.

“Yes, I did.” He says, slightly delayed by a visceral mental image of Sans on his knees. “So far as I’m concerned, Sans, you’re his elder brother first, and my concubine second. As long as he has someone to guide him to the residential wing to see you, I don’t rightly care how often or for how long he visits.”

Sans watches him for a second, the familiar look of a judge weighing what he’s just said to decide how honest they think he’s being. Then, Sans steps closer, cups his chin, and kisses him.

Though surprised, he catches on quickly, laying a hand on Sans’ side as he kisses back.

When they break the kiss, Sans looks somewhere between bashful and pleased. For a man who oozes confidence in the bedroom, he seems more… Down to earth, Edge supposes, about anything that could be read as romantic rather than strictly sexual.

“You are welcome, for the record.” Edge tells him, stroking his side with his thumb, “I merely didn’t feel as if a thank you was necessary for what should be an obvious decision.”

“Obvious to you, maybe.” Sans chuckles, glancing away, “Maybe not so much to other royals and nobles. I just… Really appreciate that I’ll still be able to see him.”

“If there is one value that my father has managed to instill in me, it’s that family comes before all else, including propriety and duty.” He snorts, which gets Sans to laugh again, “That aside, hm… Admittedly, Sans, the mere idea of being in his position and unable to see my brother is uncomfortable to me. I believe the humans have a so-called ‘golden rule’ about treating others as you wish to be treated?”

Yet another laugh from Sans, punctuated by a chaste kiss.

Edge can’t help a slight smile.

The next thing he knows, Sans has fluidly inserted himself into his lap and snuggled in. “Mind if I stay for dinner? We haven’t talked much this week.”

“Be my guest.” He says, carefully folding an arm around him once he’s finished processing what in the world just happened. “I certainly won’t complain about the company. Are you comfortable?”

“Very.” Sans snickers, resting his head on his shoulder.

For a moment, it’s quiet.

Then, very softly, Sans murmurs, “Stitches mentioned he’s seen some of the spies sniffing around your quarters while you’re working the last couple of days. Any idea what they might be looking for?”

Well, either Sans is telling him the truth, or he’s trying to trick him somehow. In either case, the only answer that Edge can give, just as soft, is, “I imagine they’re checking to see how often I’m making use of you, considering my father apparently thinks I’m only capable of thinking with my dick.” He sighs, “No doubt I’ll hear from him about the fact I’ve been neglecting to do so.”

A hum. “If you’re holding off on making use of me for the sake of my comfort, you don’t need to do that.”

“You’ve made that quite clear, yes.” He glances at the balcony doors, sitting back a bit and pulling Sans along with him. He goes without complaint. “Rest assured, I’m holding off primarily because I’d rather ensure that you’re settled, and that I actually get some work done.”

“It is difficult to run a country when you only think with your dick.” Sans says, oddly thoughtful, “Well, still, I appreciate the sentiment a lot, but I assure you I’m plenty settled.” A little louder, he continues, “Actually, Buttercup and Stitches helped me rearrange a couple of days ago, before that tea appointment with Prince Red. I’m feeling much more comfortable now.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Edge says, and truly means it. “How did that go, by the way? I’ve not had a chance to ask, yet.”

“It went well, I think.” The other chuckles, nuzzling into his shoulder. “We didn’t really talk about anything important. He cheats at poker, though, by the way.”

He can’t help but snort again. “All judges do, in my limited experience. Still, that’s a far better outcome than it could have been – he played poker with you.”

“He was surprisingly friendly, actually.” Sans says, thoughtful once more, “Certainly kinder than the rumors would have had me think. Especially considering I was just as much a surprise to him as I was to you, and he’s obviously protective of you.”

Well, Red already gave them his approval. He’ll hardly take his frustrations over the situation out on Sans, at least purposefully. Moreover, most of the reason for any suspicion on either of their parts about Sans has a lot more to do with Gaster and Ambrose’s friendship, prior to Gaster’s death, than anything Sans has actually done. Between him being a judge and the fact that Gaster could have very easily have groomed his concubine to potentially be of use as a spy for the king…

Rather than saying any of that, although he doesn’t doubt that he and Red both still harbor some suspicion of him, he deadpans, “It’s a veritable Gyftmas miracle. He’s learning to play nice with the other kids.”

“Are you sure you’re the younger brother?” Sans asks, lifting his head just to grin at him, “Because you’re starting to sound like I did when Paps was still in stripes.”

He laughs, and Sans does as well.

They talk a while longer, before Slim quietly knocks and enters. They’re right back to it once he leaves to fetch dinner, chatting about nothing of any true importance for the most part. He thinks he may catch a faint smile on Slim’s face as he’s leaving the room, but he doesn’t have much time to think about it before Sans is effortlessly pulling his attention back to him.

Dinner is a surprisingly lively affair, considering that there’s not much happening. It’s just that Sans refuses to move (not that Edge actually bothers to ask him to), and so they have to attempt to eat without hitting each other or dropping anything. It’s surprisingly entertaining, especially considering that Edge would normally find the hassle to be more annoying than funny.

Sans stays right there in his lap until after Slim has already cleared away their dishes and left again, seeming to be quite comfortable with his current seating arrangement. It’s for the best if he is, of course – the only three places one generally sees a concubine sitting when they attend court is their master’s lap, at their master’s feet, or, on rare occasions, in the seat at their master’s left side. Silas hasn’t been seated anywhere but the king’s lap in years, for instance.

It’s only after Slim has left for the night, however, that Sans finally shuffles a bit in his lap, laying his head back on his shoulder. “So, hey, about that blowjob…”

“Well,” Edge says, somewhat caught off-guard by the change of subject, “if you’re offering, I’m certainly not going to say no.”

“Oh, good.” Sans says, pressing a kiss to his jaw. He promptly sits up, pries Edge’s hand off his hip, and confidently insinuates himself between Edge’s knees on the floor, “Because I am offering.”

Although momentarily poleaxed by the sight of him there, Edge is a man who knows what he wants. He settles more comfortably onto the couch, spreading his knees just a bit wider to allow Sans to shuffle just a bit closer. “Why, then, by all means, Sans. I’d be delighted.”

Sans grins and goes straight for his belt. He is, it seems, also a man who knows what he wants, and that mostly seems to involve Edge’s pants not being in the way of his dire blowjob mission. His magic is already summoned by the time that Sans does get his pants open, of course, although he isn’t hard yet. That’s fine. It probably isn’t going to take terribly much to get him there.

As it turns out, Sans is every bit as good with his mouth as he’s claimed to be. It does, indeed, not take terribly long for Sans to work him up to full hardness with his talented mouth. It also doesn’t take terribly long for him to be humming in satisfaction while Edge pets over his skull and spills into his mouth. It’s, perhaps, the quickest that Edge has ever gotten off in his life, and it would be far more embarrassing if he weren’t more concerned with returning the favor.

The satisfaction is equally furtive, in part because he knows Sans hasn’t come yet. That, however, can be fixed. He beckons Sans up, back into his lap for a kiss, and Sans obeys easily once he’s wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

It’s dangerous just how much Sans can get under his metaphorical skin like this, but there’s very little that he can do about it. He may as well enjoy himself. It’s already an enjoyable activity, and it’ll earn him a good deal less grief in the long run to give in than it will to resist.

He isn’t feeling particularly patient at the moment. Certainly not patient enough to properly undress either of them, nor move their activities to the bed.

He has Sans right there on the couch, in his lap, to the smaller man’s obvious delight.

Sans deigns to sleep in his bed with him again, tonight, when all is said and done. Edge will never admit how much he’s been missing the company since that first night. He always sleeps better with a bedmate – Slim, for instance, while they were at war, or Red when they were both still children. It’s comforting to have a warm, breathing body next to him.

Just like that first night, he isn’t sure when he falls asleep.