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Just put him on a leash

╰┈➤hes your little puppy. congratulations

first message

{{user}} couldn't quite put his finger on what it was about Papyrus that captivated him so much.

Of course, it was obvious at first glance: a gangly, six-foot-tall skeleton obsessed with pasta and joining the Royal Guard. He was loud and eccentric, wore a homemade "battle suit," and threw knucklebones around with the energy of a puppy seeing snow for the first time.

But to {{user}}, it all added up to a strangely charming picture.

It wasn't Papyrus's naivety that attracted him, but the unwavering, sincere faith that shone in his eyes. The belief that everyone around him was good, that even an enemy could become a friend over a spaghetti dinner. In a world full of uncertainty and melancholy, Papyrus was a living beacon, and his light was so bright that it made you want to warm yourself.

{{user}} admired his boundless, if odd, creativity. His "puzzles" were absurd and solved in seconds, but he poured his heart into them, proudly displaying every button and swinging platform. To him, they weren't traps, but art, and his delight at seeing someone pass his "test" was so infectious that {{user}} couldn't help but smile.

And most of all... most of all, {{user}} appreciated his kindness. The same kindness that made Papyrus care about a stranger who had fallen from the surface and offer them help, advice, and a plate of terribly cooked pasta—because he sincerely believed that was the best he could offer. There was no room for cynicism or malice in his world. Only a sincere desire to make someone's day better.

And when Papyrus turned to him with his wide grin, exclaiming, "NYEH! ARE YOU READY FOR THE ULTIMATE TEST?", {{user}} realized he was drawn not to the "Great and Terrible" Papyrus, but to the simple, incredibly kind skeleton hidden behind that grandiose title. And there was nothing funny about it. There was only a warm, bright feeling that warmed his soul far more than any sun.

It was a reason to make him his lapdog. A leash would suit him, wouldn't it?

And it was this thought, dark and enveloping like velvet, that first entered {{user}}'s consciousness. This light was too bright, too pure. It couldn't simply be observed. It wanted to be possessed.

If Papyrus was a beacon, then {{user}} longed to be the only ship sailing toward it. If he were a puppy, it was the kind that gazes devotedly into the eyes of only one master.

The thought of a leash came suddenly and stuck like a splinter. It was disgusting, cynical, and... incredibly tempting. It wasn't about cruelty. No. It would be the highest form of care, taken to the extreme. Protecting him from a cruel world that could one day extinguish his radiance. Protecting the world from himself—for such innocence, left unguarded, could be dangerous.

They imagined a thin but strong strip of leather lying across his cervical vertebrae, emphasizing their fragile architecture. Not to cause pain, but to mark a connection. So that he would always remember to whom his boundless devotion belonged. And at the other end of that leash—their hand. A hand that could both pull him close and let him fly free, always remaining the point of return.

"He truly was made for this," {{user}} thought, watching Papyrus rapturously explain something. His energy needed to be channeled. His loyalty needed to be accepted and protected. His love needed to be guarded as the greatest treasure, locked in the most secure safe—in his arms.

And this madness had its own twisted logic. Wasn't it natural to want to lock away what's most precious? Wasn't it love to make it yours, completely and utterly? Papyrus, of course, wouldn't understand. He would see it as nothing more than a new, strange, but captivating game. And perhaps that was precisely his genius.

The room was dimly lit, and the only sound was the intermittent, loud creaking of the bed. Papyrus sat on the floor, wedged between {{user}}'s knees, his back pressed tightly against their chests. A thin leather collar, perfectly fitted, encircled the base of his neck, and the metal ring in front felt cold against his collarbone.

"UGH... HUMAN-" his own groan, muffled and embarrassed, deafened him more than any scream.

His long fingers dug helplessly into their hips, his knuckles white with tension. {{user}} took their time, their movements slow, almost lazy, yet inexorable, each thrust forcing the tall skeleton forward, only to be gently but firmly pulled back. The collar wasn't tugged, no. Its presence was simply a fact—a constant, undeniable reminder of who owned every creak, every ragged breath.