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sillyguy99 · 4 months

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Pray that you will not fall into temptation (Mafiafell | Sans x Reader)

Chapter 1: Night Visit

Notice:

(The reader has a nun name, meaning: a holy name given to be used by others in place of a real name, such as “Sister Magdalene” instead of just “(Y/N)”, in this specific case.)

~ • ~ • ~ • ~

Blood drips from the remnants of the bottle.

It stains the carpet, as does your robe when you kneel and reach out for the victim.

He lies on the ground, what he'd worn to hide his appearance now gone from his face. What confirms him to be the same man you'd helped recently is the medicine vial he's clutching, and which he saves in his pocket as he groans and rubs at where you've hit him. His jaw is clenched, and there's the faint scent of smoke emanating from his body.

“I'm so, so sorry,” you whisper, crouching before him and leaning in.

You've never seen a skeleton bleed before.

In fact, before last week – when this same monster man had shown up at your door begging for human medicine – you had not seen a living, breathing skeleton at all.

Your hand presses on his trembling shoulder, and you try not to recoil when you feel a faint warmth emanate from his body.

“I didn't think you would-”

You're cut off by laughter, and you look back to his skull to see he's opened his eye sockets.

He places a palm on his injury as he pushes you aside and stands up.

“my fault, i'll admit,” he says, grinning. “i’ve seen ya pour that sparkling wine before like it's been sent to you by god himself. the last thing i expected was you goin' for my head like you're a professional baseball player aimin’ for the world record.”

He laughs louder, so you have to stand up, rush back to him, and press a palm against his teeth.

And – wasting no opportunity – he immediately licks it, though you don't recoil.

“I've had snot smeared on my robe, vomit spilled on my chest and lap, and grubby hands cup my face just to say something to me,” you state, pressing harder. “I can assure you a little saliva won't-”

A hand grabs your rear, and the other holds the wrist of the hand you'd intended to smack him away with.

You still don't set his mouth free, and that seems to flash amusement into his gaze.

“Stoop that low, and I won't hesitate to shove my crucifix into your eye socket.”

His hand removes itself from your rear.

At that, you set his mouth free and step back.

“i came to say thank you,” he says, again reaching for his injury as he walks to your bed and sits in the middle. “frisk's been alright, no – more than alright, since they took that medicine you gave them.”

“They're the Monster Ambassador, are they not?” you comment, arriving at your dresser, where you fetch a first aid kit. “I assume hospitals want little to do with them, if they are the reason for people's anger toward… your kind’s integration into our world.”

You take it, sit next to the monster, and retrieve some salve, alcohol, and cotton balls.

“If you ever need more, you can gladly visit, but…" You douse the cotton with alcohol and wipe it across the injury. “But not like this. It is late in the night, and you've sneaked into my room… as if you're a teenage boy looking for some action in a highschool flick.”

Next comes the salve and a gauze with two strips of tape.

“And then, to make matters worse, you show up in a disguise.”

You remove the coat over his shoulders and fold it, placing it on the bedside table when you're finished.

“I can hardly see you as is with the dim candlelight. What do you think was going to happen – You showing up at my bed like we are roommates with scarce living accommodations? I was not going to say: ‘Welcome home, darling!’, nor was I going to softly embrace you.”

When you look up to make eye contact again, you see he's grinning from ear to ear.

“Tell me what's so funny,” you ask, placing your palm over his chest. “My veil… Is it crooked?”

Instead of answering, a hand holds your chin, and his thumb traces over your upper lip.

“all this time,” he replies, trailing off with a fit of chuckles. “you've…”

Horror cascades onto your body when you see he wipes something white off your face and licks it clean.

“you've been talkin’ to me with a milk moustache.”

It's your duty to cover his mouth once more, his laughter further booming – giving you no time to shrivel up with embarrassment in a corner of your room.

“Why didn't you say so sooner?”

He shrugs, then licks your palm again.

“And please, stop that. If you want me to find it gross or arousing, it is neither.”

Be that as it may, the word ‘arousing’ flickers prominent brightness into his irises.

And now, you've come to the conclusion you've taken a terribly wrong step.

His hands reach for your hips, pulling you forward and onto his lap.

It's there that he faces an obstacle: the length of your skirt impeding him from parting your legs. He grabs a handful of the fabric and lifts it to your knees, then brings you close until you're straddling him. Your refusal to let his mouth free for the second time declares it more difficult to do anything against him, and yet you'd rather endure this than risk having him be loud and your Sisters finding someone unknown in your room.

He kisses your palm.

And after, his hands move toward your veil, slipping under it and stopping on the back of your neck.

“What do I need to do for you to stop that?”

You pull your hand back, though you keep it close – just in case.

“i wanna spend time with you.”

Before you can shut him up again, he grabs your wrists and tugs you closer, until you're nearly pressed against his chest.

“...Why?”

“i think i like you.”

He lets go, then places his hands back on your hips.

“i’m curious about you, and i wanna get to know you better.”

“Is that all? It doesn't sound like you genuinely mean what you say.”

Knock-knock.

For the third time, you press your palm against his mouth.

And he does the same, muting both the words you planned to respond to the person behind the door with and the gasp his actions draw out from you.

“shut up,” he whispers, after brushing your hand off. “don't say a thing, and they won't find out.”

Another set of knocks is heard, and footsteps fade when receiving no answer.

He pulls his hand back and removes your veil.

“if anyone asks, tell them ya don't know nothin’, and-”

Footsteps sound once more – quicker now.

“-and fake you've been sleepin’.”

The doorknob rattles.

He lifts you off his lap, straightens out your skirt, and the rest happens too quickly for you to take it all in.

His hands roaming your body as he puts you to sleep, and the whoosh of the wind as he's gone with the blink of an eye, messes caused by his abrupt presence and your reaction towards it cleaned right as the doorknob ceases rattling. A dresser once littered with a variety of items you’d set aside while searching for first aid is tidier than how you'd left it. The few items scattered on the bed have been put away, as well. Similarly, the wrinkled carpet has been fixed, and the glass shards from the broken wine bottle have all been picked up. Everything’s in its rightful place, and the only objects out are the empty mug of milk on the bedside table and your veil folded next to it. Evidence of there being anyone else before would be complicated to find for someone as skilled as a detective.

When it rattles again, an unknown force pushes you back to bed and closes your eyes.

“Sister!” a familiar tone calls out, accompanied by the sound of the door slamming against the wall. Are you alright? We all heard a man's voice, and Sister Gabriel said that she…”

Her footsteps come closer.

“She…”

Try as you might, you can't move an inch.

Something impedes from acting upon your thoughts.

“Sister Magdalene?”

There's the sound of her walking closer, along with the fabric of her robe shuffling.

Soon after, she rests her palm against your forehead.

“Oh, dear,” she exclaims, removing her hand and placing it on your cheek. “You're burning up!”

You can't move.

You can't speak.

You can barely open your eyes.

“Sister Gabriel, come- come quickly!”

There's the sound of more footsteps – incredibly rushed and clearly panicked as the one called bumps against the door, clattering whatever she carried into the room and sending it all to the floor.

“Forgive me, b- but we saw a shadow outside, and I… I can't seem to control my shaking.”

“Nevermind that. We need to take care of all this first!”

There's the sound of the two Sisters picking up the mess of broken shards while you drift off, fatigue forcing your slumber.

“What is this strange-looking garment?” is the last thing you hear as you lose the remainder of your consciousness.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~

(Testing posts on Tumblr by publishing the 1st chapter of PTYWNFIT!)