Can I take you to Dinner? Mafi-fell!Sans x Reader. [COMPLETED]

Would a host turn on it's guests?

Sans thumbed the ring that was settled against his phalanges, staring down at the golden glimmer of the thin band.

He'd been trying to find a way- find a time when he could ask for your hand the right way- The way he felt you deserved. He sought after you everyday only to fumble, flush, retreat- pondering upon tactics as to how to approach this. Though as dear as you were to him, always on his train of thought- he had other things plaguing his mind. It was finally time for 'dinner'. And to put it honestly as he could... he was terrified. He'd been storing energy for the past few weeks for this occasion.

All of the royal guard would be there- with guns aimed at your head, especially now that you were one of them- not to mention his fiancé. He grumbled under his breath with an anxious huff that was unlike him, gripping the ring tightly. It was showtime. You would be fine. A knock on the door jolted him out of his bones, scrambling to shove the ring back in his breast pocket with a gruff yelp. You entered as he re-collected himself, offering him a small nervous smile. "Hey." You greeted timidly, closing the door behind you.

"H-Hey sweets-! Something you needed?" He queered with his tell-tale grin, hunching forwards in interest- a desperate attempt at looking casual. You turned towards him with a sigh. "No... just- I'm just a little nervous about tonight..." you admitted as you crossed over towards him, gently straddling him before burying your face into the crook of his vertebrae. He swallowed, he wanted to comfort you- assure you that you wouldn't both be killed tonight— but there was no guarantee of that. He knew that.

And as much as he wanted to believe this was a fantasy world in which you could both escape consequence— well, try telling that to the barrel of a loaded gun. He clutched you to his rib-cage tightly, the tips of his phalanges digging in lightly. He was- oh, to hell with descriptions! One thing was for sure- you weren't going to die tonight- not on his watch.

"You'll be fine Bub." He coaxed, a phalange running lazily through your hair, petting it tenderly. The ring was starting to burn a hole in his pocket. He tried to divert his attention elsewhere- you didn't need this right now- Not whilst there was a war to win! But if he didn't do it now— what other chance would he have? "First shootout is always the hardest, wifey. You'll get used to it." He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. The ring was metaphorically clawing to get out. Gritting, he pulled away from you, skull ablaze with flush.

You glanced down at him in confusion as to why his skull was scrunched in such a way. "Sans..." you began. 'Shit, she's onto me-!' "What's wrong?" Your hand cupped his cheekbone, a worried look claiming you for fear of his feverish appearance. "It's nothin' bub..." He states before you gave him a wary look. He sheepishly grinned. "Force of habit." He joked before exhaling. He plucked a cigar, lighting it and taking a long, long drag to calm his nerves, exhaling a streaming cloud. "It's fuckin' terrifying- this is yer first shootout- what if ya get cornered and I'm not there? Paps will try to take advantage of ya for sure that beady-skulled—!" You only clasped him again tightly. It calmed him more than the cigar- inhaling the scent of your hair as if it were to be his last time doing so.

He chuckled dryly, holding you to him. "You sure do have a way with actions kid." The ring burned— Sans cleared his throat, cheekbones quickly colouring a deep crimson. He began getting clammy as he directed his gaze to your lap. "B-Bub?" You withdrew from the comforting, boney
crook to peer up at him curiously. He swallowed, his socketed gaze refusing to meet your eyes. C'mon Sans... focus! "I-" A gentle, rapping knock interrupted him, the door creaking open to reveal Gaster glancing down at the two of you. Sans scowled in irritation. "It's time." Was all he said solemnly before departing, the door clicking shut.

You got up from Sans quickly, brushing down your pinstriped suit before grabbing your own fedora, twirling for him with a grin. "What do you think?" You beamed. He stared at you with a sadness you couldn't quite place, his thoughts silent yet racing. There were a million things he wanted to tell you, a million things to say- he fell short, his mouth clamping in a tight, sorrowful smile. "Just perfect." You smiled at him, gesturing for him to follow. "C'mon Sans, let's get going-!" You turned for the door— a phalange held you back by your wrist, afraid to let go. "Wait-" you gazed at him over your shoulder, confused as he tried to form words before he sighed, grip slackening. Another failed attempt.