Sans Canvas
by pumpkinpye

(AN: Hiya! Just so readers know, this is a tickle fic…sort of. A little plot and romance thrown in cuz I'm like that. Enjoy!)

"You sure about this?"

Sans finished shrugging out of his oversized hoodie and tossed it to the floor before tugging his t-shirt over his head. "Sure I'm sure, kid. Why wouldn't I be? Want you to get good grades at this art school, don't we? And, tibia honest, I kinda like the idea of becoming a bonefide work of art." He grinned. "I'm kinda surprised Pap didn't stick around to help you, though; figured he would've jumped at the chance to be a part of your decomposition."

"Well, he did offer," Frisk admitted with a chuckle, "but, um, there was a problem." She fiddled with the empty pallet in her hands, wishing she'd just mentioned it from the beginning. "He was, uh, too ticklish for the paintbrushes."

Sans froze in the process of kicking off his slippers. As his expression sobered Frisk felt all of the excitement she'd developed for her project drop into her toes; of all of the problems she'd envisioned, ticklish skeletons hadn't been one of them. How could bones be ticklish without any skin?

"Oh. Huh." Sans scratched briefly at his skullcap. "Well, you know, Pap's a lot more ticklish than I am. It'll probably be okay. Still wanna try?"

"I, uh, kind of don't have a choice. I already submitted the idea to my professor. I'm sorry, I guess I should've asked you guys first…"

"Nah, don't worry about it. It'll be fine. I'll probably just fall asleep anyway." He smiled encouragingly and sat back against the couch, gesturing at his bare ribcage. "Ready when you are, Picasso."

Frisk stared uncertainly at the slim, pale bones in front of her, tempted for an instant just to take a zero on the assignment and hope she passed the course anyway…

…then she sighed and uncapped her paints.

The first couple of strokes glided on without a problem. Frisk sat back with a smile and glanced into Sans' unruffled expression, noting with relief that his eyes were closed as if he truly did intend to sleep through as much of the process as possible. As she dipped the brush between his ribs, however, hoping to cover as much of the white as she could, he jerked with a muffled grunt, eyes flying open.

He met her gaze with a faintly strained smile. "Ah, sorry, kid. Caught me by surprise. I'm good now; promise."

Frisk lowered the brush with a sigh. "No, I'm sorry, Sans. Thanks for being willing, but I can't ask you to do this. I mean, I'm going to be at this for a while…"

"It's fine. I can hold still. Just take your time."

"Sans…"

"I insist. Keep going."

She bit her lip…and leaned in again.

True to his word Sans hardly moved at all after that, though it was obvious when a particular brushstroke bothered him. His bottom ribs were tricky; he tensed up as she worked, fingers digging desperately into the couch cushions, and he even broke into a fit of gasping chuckles as she carefully decorated his sternum. She was going to owe him a whole store full of ketchup and a good book of puns when she was done.

"There; finished," Frisk told him, giving her work a quick, critical glance. "At least for now. Now we have to wait for you to dry. How are you holding up?"

"Oh, you know, pretty good for a guy who's being slowly tickled to death." He wiped at his eyes and shivered faintly, as if able to still feel the brushstrokes. "Guess I'm a little more Sans-itive than I thought."

"You can still back out of this, you know."

"Nuh-uh. I'm not van Gogh-ing anywhere."

Frisk groaned and wondered if he would eventually deserve this for all of the painting puns he had in store for her.

When she checked on him a half hour later she was happy to find that her masterpiece had set perfectly; Sans had managed not to muss even the tiniest bit of it. With a grateful smile she ushered him up from the couch and motioned him into one of the kitchen chairs, though she had him straddle it backward so she could work on his spine. She pulled up another chair and, mixing another blob of paint, prepared to resume her assignment.

"Ready?" she asked, though she suspected the rest of the process would be easier now that his ribs were finished. It wasn't like she had to do the bottoms of his feet or under his arms. How many more places could he be ticklish?

"When you are, da Vinci," he replied over his shoulder.

Without another word she slid the brush over and around one of his vertebrae.

"Ahh, god!" Frisk watched in surprise as he crumpled unexpectedly against the rungs of the chair, gasping for breath. "O-okay, yeah, um…th-that sorta tickles…"

Frisk licked her lips. "Should I…?"

"No; no, it's fine. Just, uh…" He took a breath. "…maybe we could take a few breaks this time?"

"Oh. Of course." She paused for a moment before leaning forward again. "So, um…ready?"

"Just…just give me a second." He grabbed two of the rungs tightly in his hands and wrapped his bony legs around the legs of the chair, anchoring himself in place. "All right, kiddo. Fire away."

Once more he did his best to stay still but it was obvious the feel of the bristles on his spine was almost unbearable; within moments he was twitching and laughing, though it was a muffled, agonized sound as he clung to the rungs for dear life. He sagged against the chair as she briefly lifted the brush away. "Please, please tell me you're almost done," he wheezed weakly.

"Um…I've done four?"

He groaned but straightened up, resolutely wrapping his limbs around the rungs again. "Well, might as well keep going, then. No pointillism stopping now."

"You sure? We can still…"

"Frisk, I'm sure. Stop. Asking."

She stopped asking.

By the time she reached the waistband of his shorts he was a trembling, teary-eyed mess. She leaned back and gave him a minute to gather himself before swiping the brush gently over his shoulder blades and the backs of his ribs, a process that had him giggling and jerking in spite of his best efforts. She figured his poor nerve-endings were massively over-sensitized by now; she probably could've been painting the chair and he still would've been laughing. As she set the brush down he glanced over his shoulder and she gave him a rueful, apologetic smile.

"Done again, for now," she told him. "I hope that's the worst of it."

"M-me too," he sighed, standing from the chair with a creaking groan and settling on it the right way around. Then he spent a moment examining his colourful torso. "At least I look good," he observed. "I should wear pink more often."

Frisk chuckled and allowed herself a few seconds to appraise her own work. It did look good: the colours swirling and fading into each other across his ribcage, his spine a green shoot holding him together, branching briefly across his back and shoulder blades. Shoulders, arms and hands would be next, she decided critically, then legs and the tops of his feet, then his skull…

If she didn't get at least an A for this she was going to put in a formal complaint against the professor.

"So, what gave you this idea, if you don't mind me asking?" Sans wondered as he stood and sauntered into the kitchen.

Frisk raised her eyes from following the lithe, graceful lines of his body, usually hidden under baggy clothing and never quite so impossible to ignore, and cleared a suddenly dry throat. "What? Oh, well, the assignment asked us to find something we saw every day, something we've grown desensitized to over time, and make it look totally different to see if, well, if seeing it in a different light helped us to appreciate it again."

Sans huffed out a laugh as he pulled a soda out of the fridge. "And you chose me and Papyrus?"

She shrugged. "It was just an idea. I remember how strange everything in the underground seemed the first time I saw it. Now it seems completely normal. I just wondered if seeing you or Papyrus in a new light—a more colourful light—would make me appreciate things about you I overlook through familiarity."

Like how nice you look with your shirt off.

"Like how ticklish we both are?"

She laughed faintly. "Something like that."

He took a sip of his drink and sat again. "Anything else?"

"Huh?"

"Do my colourful clavicals make you appreciate anything else about me?"

She chuckled to cover a cough. "Um…" She glanced over him again and felt a blush start to rise up toward her cheeks. "Not yet…b-but I'm not finished. You know, you're probably dry enough; I think we can continue."

"Whatever you say, Monet."

His neck bones ended up being the most difficult; he couldn't stop trying to shrug the ticklish bristles away and more than once he ruined a stroke with a sudden helpless shudder of laughter. Eventually, however, she decided she'd gotten as good as she was going to get and moved on to his shoulders and arms. These weren't nearly as bad as other places, though he squirmed once or twice, and his hands were extremely easy though the swirling brush made his palms itch. Then she knelt in front of him to start on his legs.

"Um, just a second, Frisk. You're not going to have to do my knees, are you?"

She frowned faintly, considering. "Stand up for a second."

He stood. His shorts fell to cover most of his knees. But not all. She chewed a lip. "How ticklish are they?"

"I once kicked Papyrus' jaw clean off."

She raised her eyebrows. "Um, we'll leave them. No one will notice."

"Good call."

His tibias and fibulas were easy; she almost wished she'd had something more elaborate planned for them than different shades of brown. The tops of his feet weren't too difficult, either, even though he practically fell out of his chair a couple of times as she painted between his toes. Then she stood and prepared for the most important part of her masterpiece, the one that would take the most time and precision: his skull.

He sat quite still as she swept the brush along his cheekbones, across his nasal bone, over his forehead and then the rest of his cranium. When she finally got down to the details of her creation—flower petals around one eye socket, leaves and small buds trailing down his temples, ivy curling along his jaw—she noticed that he'd gone very quiet. She smiled, wondering if he'd fallen asleep sitting up. "Sans?" she called softly.

"Mmh?" he puffed quietly.

"You doing okay?"

"Uhh, yeah. Yeah, I'm…fine." He tipped his head slightly as the brush curled under the hinge of his jaw. "I, uh…don't mind this part of it…"

"Not ticklish here?" she murmured, switching back to a smaller brush as she touched up one of the tiny vines.

"Guess not."

"So you don't need a break?"

"Nah. I'm good. I, uh…" His eye sockets fluttered shut for a split-second as she trailed the brush along his jawline, darkening the line of ivy she'd painted. "I could do this all day."

His mouth hung open a fraction, air puffing out in soft, shallow breaths. Frisk slowly retraced the ivy; his jaw trembled. The brush slipped in her fingers to slide along the bottom edge of the bone. He gasped faintly and then just as suddenly clenched his jaw and his eyes shut. "Um, you know what?" he huffed breathily, "Maybe I do actually need a…"

She leaned forward and kissed him.

He jumped in his seat and withdrew, eyes huge and staring at her. She swallowed, feeling her cheeks begin to burn. "Uh, sorry," she mumbled, dropping her eyes to the paintbrush in her hand. "That's not…I mean, I didn't mean…I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just…"

"Frisk."

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before raising them to meet his gaze.

"Please don't be sorry. I'm not. Because if, uh…if that wasn't just an accident, and I, uh, wasn't worried about wrecking your project, I would definitely be…"

Suddenly the front door slammed open. "SANS, I'M HOME! IS THE HUMAN STILL HERE? I'VE GOT THE INGREDIENTS FOR MY WORLD-FAMOUS SPAGHETTI!"

Frisk lowered her chin with a soft chuckle. Maybe it was a good thing she'd gotten distracted from painting or Sans might've had a vine up the middle of his face. "Well," she whispered, giving her artwork one more, quick glance before returning the skeleton's rueful smile, "I think I'm basically done. Thanks for, you know, everything. I'll go grab my camera in case we need to touch it up in the morning."

"You do that, kid."

She stood and hastened into the livingroom, keeping her blushing face averted as Papyrus entered the kitchen.

"OH MY GOODNESS IS THAT YOU, BROTHER?" she heard the taller skeleton exclaim as he dumped the groceries on the counter. "YOU LOOK LIKE A BEAUTIFUL LIVING SCULPTURE!"

"Don't you mean skull-ture, Pap? Heheh…"

"SANS…"

That evening as she slipped into her coat Papyrus met her at the door with a container of leftovers from supper. Then, once she'd finished stepping into her boots, he cleared his throat. "Excuse me, human?"

"Frisk, Pap. Call me Frisk."

"Right; sorry. I…I just wanted to apologize again for not being a part of your project. If I'd known how much you needed one of us to participate I would have made more of an effort to help you. I can only imagine the difficulties both of you had to overcome to create such a glorious masterpiece. After all," he opened the door, "Sans is the more ticklish brother by far. Do you know he once kicked my jaw clean off?"

Frisk stared at Papyrus for a moment before distractedly bidding him goodnight and making her way to her car. Sans…was the more ticklish brother? But…but he'd said…

She buried her face in her hands.

Then she drove to Grillby's and paid off his entire tab. Hopefully it was enough to call them even.