i know you, pt 2

You wipe your knife on your pant leg, standing barefoot on the grassy hill.
A collection of butter cups, chopped at the bottom of the stem, dangle from your clenched fist.
There's a warm breeze.

It's the fifth day on the surface. Since you promised Sans his week.

You watch him and Papyrus from a short distance.
They sit against a flourished, chocolate colored tree, facing the distant mountains, the afternoon peach of the sun.
They're holding each-other. Sans' fingers are hooked into Papyrus' crimson scarf, around the back of his battle body. He's buried his face into him. And Papyrus' long appendages envelop him. His long, ivory chin rests on top of Sans' skull. They are quiet.
This seems to be all they do nowadays.
And Sans always initiates it.

You drop the dead flowers onto the grass. Clench your toes.

You've never seen Papyrus so still. Sans so...
You don't know what that is.
The way he holds his brother is like he's afraid he'll never be able to again.

Sans shifts in Papyrus' arms, his face becoming visible. You hear him mutter into the open air, quietly,
"i love you so much, bro."

"I LOVE YOU TOO, SANS," Papyrus says, loudly. You see his arm rise and fall, rubbing Sans' back.

It makes you ill. Seeing Sans like this makes you want to wretch.

Since this all began, he's always met you, each reset, with a disdainful, forced grin.
As you play along with Papyrus, as you lie and say Junior Jumble is harder than crossword, his eyes are pits of hate.
And you reciprocate that hate.
In Snowdin, you hold Papyrus' warm, red hand, and look over your shoulder at Sans. He stands, feet away, large flakes collecting on his dark blue shoulders. Fists shoved into his coat pockets.
You give him an open mouthed smile, flashing your dark, empty irises. The kind of look you used to give Asriel.
His eyes are ice. Teal flames.

It's a GAME.

You wonder if he prepares new ways to hit you each reset. Something novel for the fight he'll always lose.
When he smashes a white hot bone into the side of your head, knocks an eye from its socket, a few teeth from your mouth, you swear his ever-present grin widens. Something akin to joy passes in his numb features.
He knows he won't win, but he's never, ever, stopped.

His hatred inspires you.

Now, he won't even look at you.
It's haunting. It's sickening.
You're angry that he's changed.
All you did was fuck him. And he's turned into this neutered little insect.

Sans pulls his head up from Papyrus. You see him lift his finger bones, touch the side of Papyrus' jaw. He looks at his brother with melancholic adoration. Papyrus says something you can't make out, pats Sans' shoulder.
Sans chuckles. His eyes soften.
For an instant, he looks like he did when you first met him.
The breeze causes the fur on his hood to tremble at his snowy cheek bones.

You bite your lip so hard a bead of blood pops from the skin.

Suddenly, Sans' white pupils flick to you.
He starts, blinking rapidly.

"Two days," you mouth.

"WHAT'S WRONG," Papyrus says, putting a mitten on Sans' head. "DID YOU SEE ANOTHER WOODLAND ANIMAL? THEY ARE SORT OF CUTE BUT ALSO OFF-PUTTING, IN MY OPINION."
You turn and descend the hillside.

- <> - <> -

It's evening. You sit on the couch beside Toriel as she brushes your hair.
"You really should let me cut it, Frisk," she says, a note of tease in her voice. Her paws gently caress behind your ears, smoothing down stray pieces.

You wish she and the others wouldn't call you Frisk. You're not Frisk. You stopped being them so long ago.

The fireplace crackles nearby. The whole room smells of cinnamon and butterscotch.

"I like how it is now, ma," you say, playfully.
You've truly perfected the pretend, saccharine behavioral patterns. Toriel tuts softly, smiles. You close your eyes as she brushes, humming to herself. You're patient.

Yes. You are patient. Patience leads to opportunity.
You listen to the wall clock tick.

"Oh, boys! Just in time. The pie is cooling on the kitchen counter."
Your eyes snap open. Papyrus waltzes in, beaming at you and Toriel. Sans follows, sullen, and closes the door. He looks up.
He freezes.

"OH MY GOD, YOUR HIGHNESS! FRISK! SANS AND I HAD TO COME BACK BECAUSE IT SUDDENLY GOT VERY COLD AGAIN! THE SURFACE IS VERY STRANGE. THE WEATHER CHANGES! AND IT KEEPS DOING IT. I IMAGINE IT WILL DO IT AGAIN TOMORROW. ALAS, IT SURPRISES ME EVERY TIME."
"Remember, you do not have to call me "your highness" anymore, Papyrus. I am no longer queen of anything."
"OH. YES, THAT'S RIGHT. SORRY, SHAVEN CLONE OF- I MEAN, TORIEL?"

You barely register Toriel's amused laughter, the way she absently pulls a tangle in your hair.
In one swift movement, you drop from the couch, close the space between Sans and yourself, and wrap your arms around him.

"WOW! FRISK MUST HAVE MISSED US MORE THAN I THOUGHT," Papyrus says, "I TOO REQUIRE A WELCOME HOME HUG. I WILL GIVE A BETTER ONE THAN SANS, AT LEAST! REALLY SANS, YOU'RE BARELY EVEN TRYING!"

Papyrus is right. Sans is rigid. He's holding his breath. You grin into his shoulder, giving his back a few rough rubs. It's like feeling up a wall of rocks.

You release him, shaking, and let Papyrus swing you up into a bear hug. With how tall you've gotten in just a year of resets, you're almost impressed Papyrus can do this.
You giggle, perfectly, and peck the side of his cheek.

"NYEH HEH!! I EVEN GOT A KISS, BROTHER! BEAT THAT!"

You eye Sans. His expression is inexplicable.

- <> - <> -

You need a glass of water.

This house is disgusting. You watch as a spider crawls across the rug in front of your socks, heads under Toriel's bedroom door.
This is the makeshift home they've decided to make. You lead them here. You figured it must be an abandoned cottage that was once owned by a fire-watch.
Who really cares? It's not important. It'll be gone soon.
Undyne and an at once reluctant, yet excited Alphys went out to "scout for civilization." Whatever the hell that means. You can see the skyscrapers in the distance. Idiots.
And you have no idea where Mettaton's gone. You think about his thighs and something swirls in your gut. He's as worthless as the rest but he's got gams.

As you enter the living room, you startle.
Sans is there, looking out the window near the television. He has a dark brown bottle of swaying liquid in his right hand, almost empty.
Is he...drinking?

"Boo," you say into the thick silence.
Sans jumps, spins around. A bit of liquid launches out of the bottle onto the floor. You can already see the splash setting into the carpet.

"Ma's gonna be upset, Sans. That's gotta stain," you say, smiling.
Sans does something he hasn't done since the day you fucked him.

"whatever. i-i-you- i don't care," he says, to you, directly. "stay 'way from me."

You absorb all this.
He's drunk. Jesus, how pathetic.

You eye the bottle in his hand. The lip continues to drop tiny globules of liquor onto the floor.

"Where'd you get that?" You narrow your eyes.
"found it," Sans says, bitterly. Almost nonchalant. "outside."
"That doesn't seem very sanitary. What if it's poison?"
"shut'tup." He withdraws into himself. "like you care, freak."
"Awww, that hurts my feelings."
"i hate you."

You step towards him and Sans flinches, stumbles back, in front of the television. Some liquor spills from the bottle onto the rug again. His eyes are furious, shocked, delirious in his inebriation. They empty of life, turning to dark pits.

"KEEP YOUR DISTANCE, S I C K O."

You laugh out loud. Move closer.
Sans' pupils reform, his eyes dart warningly towards your hands, looking for the knife.

"What are you gonna do? If I do touch you?" You set your face in stone.
You really are curious.
He knows that you'll reset everything early if he disobeys you, doesn't he?
You'll put them all back in the ground.

Sans fingers at the bottle in his hands. He says nothing for a moment, looks at the floor.

"please don't hurt me or my bro any- anymore," he says, low. His voice is laced with the liquor he's drank. With sadness. He doesn't realize how hopeless a request he's making. Poor wasted idiot.

"Awww. Listen, Papyrus is an imbecile, but I always make his death painless don't I? I don't have a vendetta with him," you say, fold your arms. This is just like old times. You can't even count how many resets Sans has asked you to leave Papyrus alone. How many times you've not listened.

"How can you have the gall to ask me not to hurt YOU?"
You growl the words. Sans flinches again, like he's been hit. One of his eyelids droops.

Suddenly, you realize, maybe you've been taking Sans' behavior the wrong way.
Sure he's drunk right now, but, does he...live IN FEAR of you?
Just because you fucked him senseless?
Okay...That's INTERESTING.

You get aroused beyond words.

You observe Sans' stature. Every part of him is on alert, though drunkenly. You can see his chest rising and falling rapidly, his pupils in a distressed tremor. He grips the neck of the bottle so hard you can hear it whine.

You let your face melt into a sympathetic frown.

"You've hurt me, Sans." You pout your lip out.

Sans shakes his head, realizing your intention. Your crotch is ACHING. You step closer.

"Don't fight it," you whisper. Such a cheesy phrase, but you mean it. If he does, you'll kill Papyrus in front of him.
You'll rape Papyrus in front of him.
You'll rip Papyrus' ribs out, one by one, anything to show Sans you're in control.

You reach a hand towards Sans' arm. He inhales sharply.

"no," he says, voice quavering.
"Yeah," you say in a disappointed voice. "Unfortunately, yes."

You shove your knee between his legs, feel him up as he shambles back, shivers with revulsion. You trail a tongue against his neck bone.

You force him back onto the couch.
He sits, looking up at you with terrified, disoriented, pinpricks of white light.
You remember when he wouldn't let you touch him without grounding you into paste. He's really shit the bed in your relationship.

You kneel and grab the waist of his shorts. You pull them down to his ankles, exposing his pelvic bone.
You hear him give a drunk sniffle, resigned perhaps?

"You might even like this," you say, looking up at him.
The alcohol bottle rolls from his grip and lays between two cushions to his side, emptying the last dregs in between. Tears roll from his eyes. Sans leans his neck back into the cushion and stares at the ceiling. God, he looks so deliciously hopeless.

An idea hits you.

"Hey," you say, conversationally, "how about if I give you another week? If you cum."

You love how he tenses up, as if the mere idea sobers him.
He doesn't respond but you can tell he wants that. God, he does.
He stares into the distance, to the left of the television, at nothing.

Just as you're about to slap him to remove him from his hushed state, Sans materializes the same, corporeal blue vagina you filled a few days ago.
He looks away, wiping his wet eyes-sockets with the crook of his arm.
You lower your face toward the entrance. Sans did a good job. There's a clitoris and everything.

You've never done what you're about to do with anyone. You want to see what it'll do to Sans.

You rest your hands on his thigh bones and plant the flat of your tongue against it all.

Sans inhales sharply.
You giggle, open mouthed. Then, you lathe your tongue, slowly, all the way up the conjured thing.

You feel a quake run through Sans' entire legs. You glance at his face.
Sans looks so confused, startled, more than he is already from the alcohol. You revel in that he had no idea you were going to do THIS.
You wonder, amused, if he even knows WHAT you're doing.

You get to work. Fucking him with your tongue.
You explore each part of him, swirling your tongue against the clit, between the labia folds. Lick the base of his urethra.
As you said, you've never done this before, it's as much of experience for you.
Despite that, Sans' breath starts to hitch. He uncomfortably twitches his legs on either side of you.
You pull your tongue back and slide your hand up under the snowy cotton of his turtleneck, rubbing his wide rib cage.
He's got his eyes closed, eyebrow bone knit together. You must be doing something right, then.

"Feels good, huh? You can admit it, you piece of shit."
He says nothing.

You get back to it. Eating him out, licking at the wet that builds consistently.
Sans grunts and you hear the silk of his coat sleeve squeak as he raises his arm over his perfect, piano key teeth.
He huffs and the sound is angry, shamed.

You push your tongue against the clit, hard, twisting your tongue onto it. His thighs jerk, twitch.
You keep going for a silent handful of minutes, no noise but the wet sound of your tongue lapping, Sans' muffled panting.

You venture and insert your entire tongue inside of him, push it against his walls.
Sans makes a sharp noise, grabs your shoulder, shoving at you.
You laugh, muffled against his entrance, tighten your hold at his waist, hook fingers under his ribs. You force your tongue to stay inside.
Pushing it in and out, in and out. On the top, on the bottom. Your upper lip rubs against his clit strategically.

Sans lets you go, grabs the cushions on either side of him, starts to pant unevenly, fast.
He fidgets on the couch, making it creak. His white thigh bones raise on either side of your head.
You hear bones audibly rattle, groan against each other.

The bottle beside him falls to the ground, making a dull thump on the carpet to your right.

Then, it happens. His back arches.

The inside of him convulses. Sans cums hard on your tongue.
He raises his waist off the couch, gasps so loud you're afraid that someone might wake up.

Ecstatic, almost psychotic, you crawl up onto Sans, force his legs together, straddle his lap.
You take his throat with a death grip. He gags.
You yank his face towards yours. He shuts his eyes, shuddering breaths, coming down from the orgasm.

You've never seen someone look so upset at having came, but here it is.

You pull your pants down to your knees and jerk off. Sans tries to turn his face away as you lean your forehead against his lifting chest, mutter his name and dirty words, breath hitches, yes, oh fuck, finally finish onto his soft sweater with a choked gasp. Again, lights flash in your eyes. You stifle a moan.

The two of you sit there for a bit. You clench and unclench your fingers at Sans' neckbones repeatedly, hand enveloped under the collar of his turtleneck.
It's comforting. It feels like when you first knew Sans.


When you first got to the surface, he held you in this same cabin.
On this same couch.
He made you popcorn, you kissed his cheek and he smiled wider than normal.
You watched anime with him, Papyrus, Alphys, Undyne.
Toriel, too.
Asgore! Asgore was also there.
And Mettaton. He stayed for a week before he left with Napstablook, Shyren. Burgerpants.

All squeezed together on this old, crappy couch.


You breathe deeply. You listen to Sans' heartbeat. It has no right to exist within a skeleton, but you hear it all the same.
Sans has his arms as far away from you as possible. His chest seems to physically repulse you away.

Eventually you catch your breath. You stand, pull your pants up.

Sans' hands cover his eyes. He sits still. You can see white beads of sweat on his skull.

You stand there watching him for a few moments.
He just...does nothing.

Eventually you leave him on the couch, pour yourself a cup of water, return to your room, lay onto the bed.

You encourage yourself: This is something new.
Maybe it's okay for Sans to not fight, if Sans won't look at you anymore.
Maybe.
If he lets you do this.

You wipe at your eyes.

- <> - <> -

The next day, you have Sans bent over the bathroom counter.
It's about noon. Looks like it might rain outside.

Everyone went out to explore, collect wood for the fire.
Papyrus was a little confused why Sans wanted to stay, he was usually so eager to go.
You told Sans this was happening before they left, told him he couldn't. He barely reacted.

You're having trouble getting off.

You look at Sans' face in the mirror in front of the both of you, how it's contorted, tense. Sweat streams down his skull.
He grasps the faucet, finger bones twitching.
You tighten your grip on his hip bones, scratch your nails into the ivory.
Come on. Come ON.

You're almost not sure how to feel.
You thought this was what you wanted.
After making him cum last night, you wanted to hurt him again.
To repeat that time in the hall, almost a week ago. But, it's not...

...
Do you...miss HIM hurting you?

You don't even know, to be honest.

You thrust harder, desperate to feel something, and Sans' elbows buckle, his chest collapses down.
His pelvic bone clacks between your hips and the stone of the front of the counter.

After a moment, you take his arms behind him, hoist Sans' torso up off the surface of the sink. Sans gasps in pain.

"fuck you," he chokes out. "fuck, you, fuck, fuck you-"

It feels like hours pass. Why is this so HARD?

Then you get something and you cling to it.
You feel yourself get closer, Sans get tighter.
You push into him fast, faster.
You exhale, he inhales.
You cum.

That's it.
It's gone, a flash in the pan.

Is this how it's always going to be?

You drop his trembling arms, lean over him, breathing, plant a tired kiss on the back of his skull.





The next thing you know, the back of your head dashes against the wall behind you.
The world blurs. Your ears explode with a tight, shrill ring.
You stare at the floor, the tiles spinning. Clamber to your hands and knees, tilt your face upwards.

Sans stands over you with his hand clasped over his mouth. His chest heaves. One of his eyes glows with teal flame.

Your face feels like it's on fire.
You touch your nose.
It's hot, bursting with pain, crooked, broken.
It's bleeding.

You open your lips in shock.
Sans HIT you.

Knocked you right in the middle of your face with his elbow. You can see the blood on him there.

Something swims on your tongue. You spit a tooth out onto the floor.
It dances, spins on the tile, lands with a trail of red behind it against the side of the tub.

You wipe your mouth, prepare to say something. You stop.

Sans looks like Papyrus just died.
And you realize, of course, he doesn't look like that because he hurt you.
He looks that way because he hurt YOU.

It takes a few moments for you to reflect on your own emotions.
You're not angry.
And you don't want to reset.
You grin. Blood trickles down your lips.

You feel so ALIVE.

"Come on," you groan, shakily standing.
You yank your pants up, laughing.
"No mercy," you yell.

You see blood fleck from your mouth onto the blue of Sans' coat.

And he looks astonished.

Then, he narrows his eyes, raises his glowing hand.
You feel something grab your heart through your chest.
Your feet leave the floor.

Yes-