AN: Well, I was going to wait until I was completely done writing this fic to start posting it, but I'm literally two scenes from the end so I'll probably be done by the time I post chapter two XD I'll be updating this weekly, so look forward to it!

The premise is one that kinda came to me while on the edge of sleep at five o'clock in the morning a few weeks ago and I just... couldn't ignore it 8'D Just a heads up, there will be smut by the end of this! I'll post a warning when the time comes, though.

This is quite possibly the most Alaskan thing I've ever written.

Please read the notes at the end for an important question!


Chapter One
The skeleton that came in from the cold

The clouds overhead are dark and heavy as you pull up to your little cabin and give your pickup truck's parking brake a solid stomp to force the aging gears to engage. You slide out from behind the steering wheel, dry fall leaves crackling under your boots with every step as you circle around to fetch your groceries from the back. Casting an experienced eye skyward, you determine that it won't be snowing today, but make a mental note to dig your snow shovel out of the shed regardless. It's just a few degrees shy of cold enough, and though it'll no doubt get colder once the sun sets behind the mountains that loom over your little home, you know snow clouds when you see them, and these aren't them.

You drop the tailgate of your truck and grab up an armful of groceries as an excited bark reaches your ears. By the time you turn and see the white and gray form bounding towards you through the leaves it's practically on top of you, barking happily.

"Down, Lucy! Down!" you command, laughing as you turn to one side so your over excited mutt of a dog won't knock the groceries from your arms. "You literally just saw me this morning," you complain half heartedly as you continue to the front door of your small cabin and juggle bags for a moment while you unlock it, then kick your way inside.

It's still warm within, even though you'd made a point to turn off the heat before leaving that morning to save on energy, for which you thank the cabin's well insulated architecture. It is simple in design, made up of one big room with the exception of the bathroom, which had been added some time after the original building had been constructed. You are particularly grateful for this addition, as while you don't mind living so far from town on your own with internet that was spotty on the best of days, and non-existent the other seventy percent of the time, modern bathroom facilities really are a must-have for you.

You moved in just over two years ago now and had put quite a lot of time into fixing the place up to your tastes. The cabin and the many acres around it have been in your family since your great-grandfather originally staked a claim on the land and actually homesteaded it back in the tail end of the days when that had still been possible. You and your family had visited here every summer up until around your sixteenth birthday when the trips began to lose their appeal in the face of greater temptations closer to home and your budding teenage social life.

High school was long behind you now, and you had been struggling to complete the sequel to your modestly popular adventure-romance novel when you decided that a little peace and quiet away from distracting city life was exactly what you needed to get your work done. It was your father that had suggested the cabin, and with his help, you'd managed to get it cleaned up and repaired before settling in full time. Of course, things to do around the place keep stacking up, and you find yourself putting more and more time and effort into not only maintaining it, but making it more comfortable as well. Without even planning to, you have settled in for the long haul, even after finishing your second book and beginning a third. It isn't quite the life you'd become accustomed to growing up in the city, but it is one you find yourself enjoying more and more as time goes on. You certainly aren't planning on going anywhere any time soon.

The lights flicker to life overhead as you flip the switch by the door and narrowly avoid tripping over your dog as she pushes in past you. "Off the couch, you filthy animal!" you command as Lucy dares to jump up onto the battered but comfortable piece of forest green furniture. "God knows what you've been rolling in while I was out," you mutter aloud as the dog slinks off the couch and tails you into the small kitchen area, then sits watching as you put away your purchases. The trip into town is an hour and a half drive on a good day, so you generally only make it in once a week, tops. You can go longer without, of course, but you like getting some time in around people each week so you don't feel like a total recluse.

That done, you pause for a moment, debating on whether or not to start dinner before ultimately deciding that chores have to come first. Winter isn't quite here yet, but there's a little less daylight with every dawn this time of year, which forces you to shift your normally lax schedule to accommodate.

"C'mon, let's go check on Merlin," you say to Lucy as you strip off the cute sneakers you wore for your drive to town and switch them out for the xtratuff boots you keep on a mat just inside the door. You detour briefly back to the kitchen and grab an apple before leaving once more.

Outside, the light is fading fast, and you're glad you decided to hold off on dinner, even if you are hungry. There's a paddock behind the cabin, and it's towards this that you walk now. You step onto the lower rung of the fence, then give your leg a practiced swing up and over, and you're inside with the handsome buckskin gelding you have dubbed 'Merlin'. He's as much of a mutt as your dog is, but smart as a whip and sturdy enough to haul heavy loads, which has proved useful on many occasions. It hadn't been your intention to acquire a horse when you first moved into the cabin. In fact, you had been considering tearing down the somewhat ramshackle old stable your great grandfather had built altogether when Merlin unexpectedly arrived in your life.

Maintaining a horse is a fairly large expense, but Merlin has proved so useful around the property that you can't see being without him. He isn't built for speed, but he is sure of foot on the more treacherous grounds further up the mountain, and strong to boot. He's more work to keep than a four wheeler, but more agile and infinitely better company.

"Hey, handsome," you coo to the horse as you approach. He flicks his ears forward and starts towards you at an easy pace, meeting you halfway across his pen to butt his head solidly against your shoulder and lip your shirt. You laugh and offer him the apple you brought, which he takes delicately in his teeth and proceeds to bite clean in half. You catch it, and rub one hand down along his tan neck as he finishes his mouthful before offering him the remainder.

You scratch Merlin's cheek and tell him, "Alright, now stay outta my way while I work, huh?" then head into the stable.

It's warm and smells of horse here, the sweetness of hay, and the grassy, earthiness of dung. You flip on the light and set about mucking out Merlin's stall. Halfway through, you hear barking and the sound of hooves on packed earth, so you glance back into the paddock to see your horse chasing Lucy around the pen. You roll your eyes and get back to work, unworried by the display. Merlin likes to act tough, but you know he won't lay teeth on your dog. More, you know Lucy can just slip under the fence if she is truly afraid. The pair work well together when you're out and about on the property, but they have their little games they like to play when they get bored at home.

When you finish, Lucy is sprawled in the leaf covered grass outside the paddock and Merlin is at his trough. You check to make sure he still has plenty of water, then give the horse a goodnight slap across the shoulder and head back to the cabin. It's almost full dark by this point, and you pause on your doorstep to glance up at the stars.

So far from town and its accompanying light pollution, the patches of night sky visible through the scattered clouds are a deep blue velvet vista of diamond bright stars and a fingernail slim crescent moon. You take a deep breath as you admire the sight, then exhale it in a cloudy plume, the drop in temperature finally registering as your body cools from the exertion of cleaning out the stable. You'd thought it'd drop below freezing once the sun went down; turns out you were right.

A few hours later, after making yourself dinner and hammering out a few more pages of your next novel, you crawl into bed with the self-satisfied feeling of a day well spent. Lucy has sprawled herself out on the floor to the side of your bed and you wish her goodnight out of habit, though she barely twitches an ear. Tired as you are, sleep takes you quickly, even by your standards. Your friends and family have always wondered at your ability to drop off to sleep at the drop of a hat, something more than one of them envies about you.

It does, however, seem to come at the cost of being an unusually deep sleeper. Worse, as quick as you are to drift off, you are equally slow to wake, sometimes able to carry on entire conversations without even remembering them later. The worst part, your friends and family tell you, is that you sound perfectly lucid during these conversations, so they have no idea that you're actually still asleep unless you happen to start rambling about something nonsensical, which happens on occasion.

This being your lot in life, it is perhaps not surprising that you don't hear someone enter your cabin in the middle of the night, door swinging open without resistance despite the fact that you definitely locked it before bed. You do, however, stir when someone gets into bed with you. Not even your sleep dulled senses can ignore that.

By the soft glow of the nightlight you keep next to the bathroom door to save you from tripping over the dog in the dark, you see a figure clad in a plush jacket and what appears to be a pair of track pants crawling up the length of your queen sized bed. You blink slowly as you watch the strange figure drop onto the mattress next to you and proceed to curl into a ball.

It is, you realize after a moment's tired observation, a skeleton.

Your sleep fogged brain considers this for a moment, then assesses its options.

Option one: Scream. Scream long and loud enough that people all the way back in town will hear, then make a break for the door and grab the shotgun you keep next to the shoe rack in case of emergencies because clearly the zombie apocalypse happened while you were out and no one bothered to let you know.

Option two: Don't scream, but slip out of bed quiet as you can manage and, again, make a bee-line for the shotgun.

Boy, you really need to keep that shotgun closer to the bed, apparently.

Option three: Go back to sleep because this is obviously a dream. There is no way there is a skeleton in bed with you right now. Even out here in the middle of the woods in a little cabin overlooking a lake in the shadow of some truly eldritch mountains, that sort of thing simply doesn't happen. You probably ate something you shouldn't have. Or maybe this is one of those dreams that was meant to tell you something about the state of your subconscious. Hadn't you read somewhere that dreaming about brushing your teeth meant you were feeling defensive about something? Falling dreams were all about insecurity… was that a blog post maybe? What did dreaming about skeletons say about your subconscious, you wondered.

After careful consideration, your brain decides to go with option three, which is lucky for the skeleton, you suppose. You yawn a little and watch your peculiar guest through heavily lidded eyes, curious to see if he does anything of interest that you should try to remember come morning. Who knows, maybe it'll tell you a little something about yourself.

You're not sure what you were expecting, but shivering isn't it. Shivering is exactly what the skeleton begins to do, though; so much so that you can hear his bones rattle even from beneath the weight of his coat. Rather than frightening, you are beginning to find this dream stranger of yours rather sad, especially as he (you assume it's a he, anyways) curls into an even tighter ball and actually inches closer to you. You feel a surge of pity for the skeleton, spurring you to grope around blindly in the dark until you find one of the blankets that you kicked off at some point in the night as you warmed up, like you always do.

You pull it up and over onto your guest as best you can with a few fumbling tugs and smile a little to yourself when his bone rattling shiver finally lets up and he relaxes a little. Problem solved to the extent that your mostly sleeping brain feels necessary, you drift off to sleep once more.


You jolt awake shortly after nine when the alarm clock on the stand by your bed goes off for the third time and finally succeeds in dragging you from your deep slumber. Brow furrowed in confusion, you look around disoriented and half expecting someone to be in the room with you, though you're not sure why. You've only had visitors a few times since moving in, and none at all within the last few months.

When you're a little more awake and halfway through making yourself a bowl of oatmeal, the dregs of your peculiar dream rise to the surface of your mind. You smile some at the strangeness of it; imagine a skeleton climbing into bed with you in the middle of the night without warning! It has to be a dream, because there's no way you wouldn't have screamed your head off at that little development had you been awake. You haven't even shared a bed with a regular man in more years than you were comfortable admitting to; the idea of doing so with a skeleton man is downright laughable.

The dream is soon forgotten as you go about your week as usual; writing, riding, and prepping the cabin for winter. Your father had been there last year to help you, but this year you're on your own. You figure he must be testing you to make sure you can fend for yourself on the property, which you suppose is fair. You're getting to live there rent free, after all, the least you can do is take care of the place. The land is still in your father's name, but you've long since discussed the fact that you will inherit it upon his (hopefully distant) death, so if anything it's an investment for your own future.

You make your weekly trip into town for groceries and a few other odds and ends you've found yourself needing around the cabin, and again you note the rapidly declining temperature. It's colder than it was last week on the same day, though still there is no sign of snow. Also like last week, you dream of a skeleton climbing into bed with you, cold and shivering so hard his bones rattle.

This time, however, things play out a little differently.

The skeleton drops (gratefully, to your tired eyes) to the mattress beside you as you yawn and mumble, "Mr. Skeleton's back, what do ya know."

The skeleton in question goes immediately rigid at your words and snaps his head up to look at you. For the first time you realize that, unlike a normal human skull, the eye sockets of this one are illuminated by two pinpricks of light like twin stars that seem to operate similar to the pupils of a normal eye.

Your guest begins to back away slowly, as though afraid you might lash out (or maybe just scream, as had been your first inclination the last time) at him, but pauses when you unexpectedly say, "You have pretty eyes."

He blinks at you, a process that your tired brain is utterly fascinated by. Despite being made entirely of bone just like any normal (e.g. dead) skeleton, the features of his face seem to be flexible enough to allow not only for eyelids (also made of bone? You have so many questions and none of the mental wherewithal to ask them so late at night.), but lips as well. In fact, there's no gap between his jaw bone and the rest of his skull like their ought to be at all, which is strange.

Just what kind of skeleton have you dreamed up anyways?

"er," he says finally, still frozen in place on his hands and knees. "thanks."

You nod. That was the polite answer, of course. He starts to back away slowly again, and you ask, "Where you going?"

Again he pauses and you find yourself pinned by his curiously intense starlight stare. "away?" he suggested vaguely, seeming thrown by your casual acceptance of his presence in your home. Why should you be bothered, though? After all, it's just a dream, and how often do you get the chance to talk to a real, live (?) skeleton?

"Why?" you ask again, and then, around a yawn, add, "mi casa es su casa, skelefriend."

"huh?"

It occurs to you that maybe this skeleton doesn't know basic spanish, so you say, "Make yourself comfortable, I don't mind."

"you don't… mind," he repeats, words heavy with disbelief, but you're already starting to drift off again.

"Nah," you mumble with a vague sort of wave of the hand from under your pile of blankets. "Want some blanket?" you offer amiably.

"please," he replies with such emphasis that you actually crack one eye open again and give him a lopsided smile. A faintly glowing dusting of blue blooms across his cheeks and your smile widens a little when you realize that this must be your dream skeleton's way of blushing.

It's pretty cute.

You pull one of your fallen blankets over him again and he accepts it gratefully, dragging it up and over him until he's cocooned almost as thoroughly as you are. "Thanks," he says a little gruffly as he settles in and you just nod. As you drift off again, it occurs to you that this skeleton of yours has a very pleasant voice for someone that technically doesn't have vocal chords. It's low, and just a little raspy in a way that's easy on the ears. It also has an unusual resonance to it that you've never heard on a human before, but you suppose that's alright seeing as he's a skeleton. Maybe that's what happens when all the meat and organs of a body aren't there to get in the way of your voice projecting…

Come morning you're sitting on the sofa with a fresh cup of coffee as you mull over this now recurring dream. Curious and not quite willing to get off the couch and start your day yet, you pull up your phone's web browser and pray to the fickle wifi god of the mountain for a little signal. You luck out and are actually able to spend a few minutes googling dream meanings.

"To see a skeleton in your dream represents something that is not fully developed. You may still in be the planning stages of some situation or project. Alternatively, a skeleton symbolizes death, transformation, or changes. You need to get to the bottom of some matter. The skeleton may also be a metaphor for "skeletons in your closet." Do you have something to hide?"

You take a sip of coffee and give your phone a skeptical look. None of that seems to particularly apply to you, no matter which way you turn it. You are well into the middle of working on your book; everything is planned, you just have to finish writing the damn thing. Maybe that could be the thing you need to 'get to the bottom of'? You don't have any particularly heinous metaphorical skeletons in your closet either, just the literal one that keeps showing up in your dreams. Sure, you've had a few bad relationships, but who hasn't?

You've always been the straightforward sort, so you really don't have much to hide, either.

At the bottom of the paragraph was an additional line that read: "To see someone depicted as a skeleton signifies that your relationship with them is long dead."

Your brow furrows in thought as you mull this over. Do you know the skeleton from your dream? You are quite certain you couldn't pick your own family out of a line-up if they were suddenly skeletons, so it's hard to say. On the other hand, if you are operating on dream logic, you would probably just know who the skeleton was supposed to be if that were the case. What's the point otherwise?

Dissatisfied but not entirely surprised, you close the page and push yourself to your feet with a sigh that makes Lucy glance up at you from her bed. "C'mon, dog," you say and lift your hands over your head for a stretch. "Let's get to work, shall we?"


Four days later and you're dreaming again. This time the dream starts with the skeleton kicking his shoes off at the door, which you think is very polite of him. Your eyes close again and you nearly drift off when you feel the mattress shift a little, bringing you back.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," you muse without opening your eyes.

You feel him pause as he often does, then ask, "do we?"

You crack open an eye and see him regarding you seriously, making you realize he mistook your meaning and thinks you want him to leave. The thought of not having any more of your rather fascinating (if strange) skeleton dreams makes your heart drop. "Of course not," you answer quickly. "Just trying to be funny is all," you add with a sleepy smile.

The line of tension in his back relaxes and a lazy smile creeps across his features as he says, "yeah? better luck next time, kiddo."

You scoff, but before you can reply you feel him shudder beside you, prompting you to reach for the blanket like you always do. This time, though, you pause, and after a moment's thought, lift your arm and invite him under the blankets proper where it's warmest. "Might as well come under here," you say. Under normal circumstances you would have been embarrassed out of your mind at your straightforwardness in inviting someone of the opposite sex to share such an intimate space with you. Here in dreamland with your favorite skeleton, though, it seems perfectly natural.

Your guest stares at you for so long that you actually wave the blanket at him in an attempt to snap him out of it. He hesitates noticeably to accept, but the motion of your arm sends a gush of delicious heat rolling out and breaks his resolve. "yeah, alright, what the hell," he says and wriggles his way under the blankets, making you grin triumphantly.

"Coat off," you direct him before he can settle in properly when you realize he's still wearing it. He rolls his eyes in response, a curious thing to witness considering the nature of said eyes. It's a bit like watching twin stars orbiting two black holes. He does as he's told though, and strips off his jacket then balls it up and tosses it towards the door where he left his shoes before laying back and dragging the blankets up to his nose.

The skeleton rolls over to face you in bed, accidentally fetching his socked feet up against your bare ones. Even through the layer of fabric they feel like ice, making you hiss in complaint and snatch your own away.

"Jesus you're cold!"

"name's sans, actually. ice to meet you, kid." he says within a grin.

You manage to open both eyes in response and blink at him before a smile of your own takes over your face. "Punning at me in my own bed? That's cold, man," you joke, then introduce yourself in turn.

He chuckles low in his chest, delighted by your reply, but is interrupted by the shiver that rocks his boney frame. Feeling bad for your outburst, you reach out with your feet and use them to grab his, making Sans start. You chafe them a little, clumsy but effective, and slowly they begin to warm.

"thanks," he says, and though your eyes are already closed once more, you smile.

"No problem," you mumble into your pillow.


The dreams keep coming. Never more than twice a week, but always at least once, Sans visits your dreams, leaving you with only vague memories of what you spoke. It's a little strange, you think, kind of like having an imaginary friend. You wonder if the solitude is starting to get to you out here in the woods despite your weekly trips into town. Are you so lonely that you feel compelled to dream up someone worth talking to that isn't your dog or horse?

You don't think you are. You've always been the solitary type, after all, and you have plenty of friends online that you keep in touch with, spotty wifi or no.

Thinking hard on the matter, you know you've told him about your books, and one night when he comes to visit he tells you that he read the first one and enjoyed it, which you find flattering. This thought just makes you wonder if maybe you didn't dream Sans up for a little ego stroking, but quickly discard the idea. If anything, you're becoming concerned that maybe you dreamed the skeleton up for an entirely different kind of stroking, a fact (new kink?) you're not entirely sure what to make of.

By the light of day you're not certain if you feel a physical attraction to the skeleton, but you have to admit that there's certainly an emotional one. Your dream skeleton is wickedly funny with a sense of humor that ranges from subtly cutting to outright cheesy, always keeping you on your toes. He's smart and insightful while also being an excellent listener.

In fact, he might be a little too good of a listener, you come to realize. He always manages to get you talking while volunteering very little about himself before you inevitably drift off again. In an effort to better remember your dreams, you begin to document them in a journal each morning after you have the dream for a third time. You want to remember more of what he says, but it's a struggle that always leaves you frowning at the page of your journal while chewing on the end of your pen.

Over the next month and a half it snows a few times, but it never sticks more than a day, a frustrating false start to winter every time it happens. You wish the weather would just make up it's mind and get it over with already…

Up until it does, at which point your entire life gets turned upside down.


"How are you always so cold?!" you complain as Sans climbs onto the bed and slips immediately under the covers as has become his habit since you first invited him to do so weeks before.

"it's snowing outside," he says, which certainly explains why the hem of his track pants are wet and cold when your feet brush his under the covers. You're never certain if he's wearing the exact same clothes as last time, thanks to the room always being lit by only your bathroom nightlight, but if they're not, they certainly run on a theme. Always dark track pants with a white t-shirt and a soft gray hoodie, as well as his familiar blue jacket that now gets left by the door every time he enters. You always find it interesting how these dreams seem to have a continuity to them. "plus," he continues, "there's not a lot of meat on these old bones to keep the heat in."

You chuckle and meet his feet with yours, despite the dampness of his pants, unable to even crack a joke at what was probably quite true. "Well, give me your hands too, then," you say and reach out towards him, eyes heavily lidded as you watch him along the length of your pillow.

His head resting on the spare cushion you normally wrap your arms around, Sans hesitates for the first time in a while, then mimics the gesture. Your hands meet beneath the blankets, and his long fingers are just as cold as his feet when you intertwine your own around them.

One thing you've come to notice over the course of these unusual dreams is the fact that Sans' hands and feet aren't quite like a normal skeleton's, which you find fascinating. Rather than having the metacarpals and metatarsals of his feet and hands exposed, his palms are made up of peculiar plates that fold and slide smoothly along one another. This being your first time actually holding them, you take the opportunity to explore them a little while using your efforts at warming them as an excuse to prolong contact.

When your curiosity is assuaged somewhat, you take his hands and pull them towards you, not noticing the way his eye sockets widen a little, then place them on either side of your sleep warmed face. "My face always gets crazy warm when I sleep," you explain with a somewhat shy smile when you realize how silly you must look to him.

To your surprise, Sans sweeps one of his thumbs along your cheek before saying, "yeah, it does."

Your heart rate quickens unexpectedly at the small, strangely intimate gesture and it suddenly occurs to you that while you've never been quite sure if you're physically attracted to Sans come each morning, right now in that soft, warm darkness with just the two of you huddled beneath the blankets, you're absolutely convinced you are.

To your mixed relief and disappointment, Sans withdraws his hands a moment later, though lets you keep his feet, which is probably for the best considering how cold they are. You tuck them between the calves of your legs without thinking as he asks, "so, how was your day, kiddo?"

"Pretty good," you say, wishing the heat in your face would go away. It's unrelenting under Sans' steady, attentive gaze, though, so you push on regardless. "Finally figured out what to do with that plot hole I've been wrestling."

"oh?" he replies, brow arching curiously. "what'd you decide?"

You smile. "Spoilers."

He rolls his eyes but chuckles and comments, "you spoil me just by warming me up when i visit. might as well keep up the trend."

You laugh and push him lightly under the blankets. "No wonder you're so rotten." He grins and you relent, unable to resist Sans in the least when he looks at you like that.


The next morning you make your usual notes in your dream journal over coffee and a few pancakes. You hesitate as you recall your reaction to the simple feeling of Sans' thumb across your cheek as you held his hands to your face, and the memory makes your stomach tighten uncomfortably.

You're beginning to think you might be falling for a skeleton that exists only in your imagination.

Not sure what to do with this realization, you shut your journal with a snap and sigh as you get dressed for the day. Maybe you should try online dating if you're dreaming up strange men like this. You might have plenty of friends to talk to, but you haven't been in a romantic relationship for over three years now, and you wonder if that might not be the root of all these strange dreams.

Just like your dream predicted, it had snowed last night (had you woken at some point and noticed, which then influenced your dream?), so you pull your snow boots off the shoe rack by the door and drag them on. Once they're laced, you don the rest of your winter gear and open the front door, pausing to admire to view.

There's a good six inches of snow on the ground, and you can tell by the bite to the air that, this time, all that white powder isn't going anywhere. You take a nice, deep breath, then exhale slowly, grinning at the plume of white that escapes your mouth before glancing down to make sure you're not about to slip and break your neck on your own front step.

What you see there, however, brings you up short, one foot lifted in preparation for that first step into winter. Behind you, Lucy whines, impatient to be outside so she can frolic in the fresh snowfall, but you ignore her.

There, in the otherwise untouched snow on your front porch, are footprints. Footprints that lead directly into, and then out of, your house. The ones leading away are noticeably fresher than those leading in, and you know just by looking at them that their owner did, in fact, enter your home. The way only a quarter of one is visible is a tell-tale sign; the other three-quarters presumably having landed on the door jamb, which would be impossible without the door being open…

Your eyes follow the footsteps back away from your house and notice how they originate somewhere past your driveway, then lead away north from your house. Without thinking, you plunge out the door, slamming it behind you, and track the footsteps leading away from your cabin and into the woods that surround your home. Lucy barks and gallavants along behind you, but again you have no attention to spare her, your conscious mind too shocked by the revelation it is trying very, very hard not to recognize as possible.

You follow the footprints for half a mile, only to skid to a stop when you lose the trail. It shouldn't be possible. You're in the center of an open clearing full of untouched virgin snow, but halfway across, the footprints just… stop. You look around wildly, as though expecting to find someone overhead in the trees laughing at you, but there's no one there except you and Lucy, who has given up on bounding about excitedly and is now seated at your heel, whining in concern.

You want to ask yourself who was in your house; want to scream it to the sky. Your hands are shaking though, and you know the answer, however impossible it may seem.

It was Sans.

Sans was real.

A skeleton has been breaking into your house, and sneaking into your bed.

You've been sleeping with a real, live (?!) skeleton for weeks.

"What the FUCK!?"


AN: Thanks for reading! Make sure to leave a review to let me know if you liked it and why! I absolutely LIVE for that!

Now, for the important question:

What sort of bonus scene would you guys like to see from the perspective of someone besides Reader? This first one I think is pretty straight forward, and I'll probably be writing a little something from Sans' pov on how he first wound up sneaking int Reader's house, but I'm open to suggestions! The best way to make a suggestion is to leave an ask on my undertale tumblr, jolie-in-the-underground, so please do so! I'd love to know what you guys are most interested in finding out about! I'll be keeping up this trend every chapter and then posting the result on said tumblr, so make sure to follow it! I'll probably amass them all in one big final chapter posting, or maybe as a side fic once all is said and done.