i know you, pt 3

You see fireworks in your vision, hear a sharp crack.
It's the sound of your skull slamming into the sink counter.
Blood spatters down the top of your forehead.

Sans throws his arm forward at your side and you fly out from the bathroom, smash into the hallway wall with so much force, you swear the house shakes.
You land face-first, bashing your broken nose against the wood floor. Your whole body burns with pain. Your head swims.
You are SO DAMN HARD right now.

You stagger to your feet, breathless, look at Sans.

He's QUAKING. You don't think you've ever seen him so angry in your life.

It's perfect.
It feels like it's been years.
Even though it's only been a week.

Your heart lurches to the right side of your rib cage, sending you flying into the living room, knocking into the back of the couch. It topples, you careen over it, right on your shoulder blades.

This is RIGHT, this is how it should be.

When you bring yourself onto your trembling elbows, Sans is running towards you, shorts back on. Priorities.
He skids to a halt, gives an angry cry, thrusts his hand up to the ceiling.
You almost vomit with the force of it. You smash into the ceiling, fall, land on your shoulder on the rug in front of the television.

Sans repeats this for a long while, slamming you into the walls, against furniture. You hear more than you see, the room passing your foggy eyes as a blur. Dust wafts from the ceiling, the walls, with each hit. The television is shattered on the floor, ash from the fireplace floats about.
You almost suffocate. The force of the air being knocked from your lungs is so violent, powerful, EXCELLENT.

And eventually, Sans stops.
You lay on the dirty floor, eyes leaking, blood pouring from your mouth and nose in different directions. Both of your arms, your legs, feel dislocated, useless, but not broken. Everything is hot, pulsing.

You stare at the carpet beside your head. The liquor did stain, like you'd thought.

Sans footsteps approach, slowly. He kicks you onto your back with his slipper, pushes his foot down on your sternum.
He looks down into your battered face. He's sweating. He looks...exhausted. It's such a familiar demeanor.
It's how he looks before you kill him.
You grin, force your eyes to focus. You feel more than one tooth missing and everything tastes and smells like iron.

"That was pretty good," you hiss. "Hottest thing we've done so far, anyways."

Sans' foot abruptly slams into your crotch and you gasp in pain, thrill.

"scum," he says.

You twist your chin into your chest, look at him.
He really does look like he wants to rip you apart, despite his eyelids fluttering.

Sans crouches, climbs on top of you. He sits on your waist, pinning you.
For a minute, he just sits there. His knees bent on either side of you, resting his head on the caps.
You figure he's giving himself a moment to regain his strength. His enmity.
He gazes at you, watchful, one eye lit with teal light. The fur of his hood hugs his snowy, ivory bones.

He's beautiful, you think to yourself.

Sans the skeleton. Your adversary, your lover, your victim.

You've seen that grin contort in so many different, WONDERFUL ways.

You see his eyelids close, open, close, snap open. You feel his breathing in your crotch.
He shuts his eyes, doesn't open them. You hear him give a faint snore.
Slowly, you raise a bruised arm, a hand, dare to touch his hip.

In an instant, Sans hands are at your throat.
You look into his eyes, try to keep your lopsided smile, but he's REALLY trying.
His left eye actually fumes smoke. Light blue wisps from his socket like incense.
His grin seems so full.
You feel tears drip from his cheeks onto yours.
You can't breathe. God.
You buck your hips up against his bottom, struggle.
Sans tightens his grip and you feel your face numb.

You grasp at his arms, the soft fabric of his jacket, gagging.
You convulse, and Sans actually falters for a moment, allowing you to jerk yourself onto your side.
He shoves his knees on the floor between your legs, under your thighs, pushes you onto your back, leans over you and JESUS CHRIST, his pelvic bone pushes up against your crotch-
Is he doing this on PURPOSE?
You get a shrill gulp of air, cheeks burning, then his hands are at your neck again, tight.

Is he going to kill you? Doesn't he know what that means?
Oh, fuck-

You push your groin against his, jerk your hips up, and Sans grips your neck so hard you can barely think.
You cross your legs against his large blueberry back, squeeze him against you. The heels of your boots jostle.
All you can see is black spots.
All you can feel is Sans. Sans, Sans, on your neck, your chest, your crotch.

You squint your eyes, arch your back, prepare to orgasm, prepare to suffocate.

But, abruptly, Sans' hands let up.

You take the most dramatic inhale of your life.
Your legs drop with a thud, your vision flashes.
Everything shudders back into place, as if being ripped out of a dream.
God, DAMN IT.

"I knew it," you eventually cough out. You feel saliva stream down the side of your cut lip. "Little bitch."

Sans eyes widen, you feel his grip loose more. He has your blood on his cheekbone, flecked from your spittle.
He looks like he's processing something.

You catch your breath. You feel pissed off, despite yourself.
You were so close. You feel your heartbeat in your pelvis. Can't Sans feel how hard you are?
And he's so perfectly placed against you. If he'd just kept choking you out for a moment-

You feel Sans' hand lower, rest against the waist of your pants.
You look up at the ceiling. Then you laugh, and it hurts to laugh.

"Oh, do it," you snarl, words trembling with mirth, desperation. "C'mon."

As you lay there, harder than you've been since YOU fucked him in that hallway, you realize:
You need Sans to fuck you, right now.
Then you'll truly be the same.
You'll be equal.
It'll be like nothing ever happened.
You can go back to the way things were.
He just has to fuck you, fuck you on this dirty, shitty rug until you bleed, until he's satisfied.

You wouldn't feel guilty anymore if he'd just do it.

And for a second you think Sans is going to.
But, looking up at him, he seems startled by you, by the implication, as if only now realizing the position he's in.

His hand drops and he sighs, sounding almost disappointed.

Sans gazes into your bloodshot eyes with something that looks like pity mixed with controlled hatred.

"no," he states. "i'm not like you. weirdo."


Your lips part, but no words come out.
You're not sure how to respond.

You must look dumbstruck because Sans lowers his eyelids. He looks placid.

Then you feel the thigh bone in your left leg snap in half.
You feel the sinew of the muscle, the blood vessels, veins, crush, tear.
Sans grin bursts across his face, his eye white with flame.
You feel the bone he's summoned dig, gash, until the leg tears away from the hip.
Your spine juts up and you writhe, finally shriek.

You feel him raise up off you, stand. You feel the blood, the blood, the blood.

Finally, you lay quiet, throat raw, trying to contain your pain, resolve what just happened.
You breathe ragged, try to push your mind from the lingering unconsciousness that's threatening you.

You realize.

Sans won.

He's done this to you before.
Blow away a limb.
You can't fight like this, fairly.
He knows that.
Sans knows you have to reset now.

He doesn't...care.
This is new.

He doesn't care.

This FUCKER, you think to yourself.
Sans knows how to play THE GAME.


Suddenly, almost comically, you jolt up into a sitting position, realize. Sans has to do something.

"You IDIOT," you shout, lips caked with blood.
Sans actually startles, looks taken aback. You feel hysteric.
Goddamn, this is funny to you.

"DO YOU WANT THE OTHERS TO COME HOME AND SEE THIS?" You're screeching, barely able to contain your laughter.

You eye Sans, blearily, shaking. Your head feels like a balloon. The lack of blood in you is really apparent.
You try to tilt your neck, cracking with dried gore, to get a better look at him.
Sans actually seems to be listening. You see him tense, dart his white pupils to the door, to you, to the mess of the living room. His turtleneck is speckled with red.

He looks at you, raises an eyebrow bone, steps back.
"you're not going to-"

"HURRY THE HELL UP!" You tremble with giggles. "I'm not gonna reset, Papyrus is-"
Sans has already knelt at your side. You feel your severed leg shoved against your chest.
He roughly scoops you up, maiden style.
Sans slams open the front door with his shoulder, runs.

And you hear him heaving his breath and see the world rush by like an illusion. Sans runs like he'll die.
You rest your head against the soft blue silk of his coat, hug the leg that used to be attached to your body.

What a game.

- <> - <> -

He almost trips, coming to a stop. You glance around, realize where you are.
Sans has taken you to the cliff, near the entrance to the Underground.
This is where you all stood together once, admiring the sun, making plans for the future.
The sun is still there, but it now seems like an accusatory spotlight instead of a warm, peeled fruit.

Sans look behind him, then he puts you down.
He raises his glowing hand, jerks you up off the ground with your heart.
You feel tension, a tremble in the way he holds you up. He's nervous.
Sans lowers you, carefully, to the bottom of the cliff.

Isn't he clever.

You hear his hurried footsteps fade away. You turn your neck, look at the trees, the beautiful honey candy color of the sky reflecting on the leaves, the grass. You decide this little masquerade would look better if your leg wasn't right next to you.
You powerlessly throw it to the side, watch it linger, roll a bit in the foliage.

Suddenly, the delight, the audacity, the silliness of blood loss leaves you. You feel angry. At yourself.

Why haven't you reset yet?

The sun sets. It's so cold.

You watch a brown snake slither across your frozen, out stretched arm. It's tongue flits from its curved mouth.
"Bite me," you command it. It doesn't.
The snake wriggles away, its thin tail sifting in your splayed, matted hair.

- <> - <> -

You slip in and out of consciousness for what feels like days, but can't be. You'd be dead if that was true.

You can remember little snippets of things.
The shape of Papyrus, Toriel, staring down from the side of the cliff.
Sans arm outstretched, lifting you up to them. "Saving" you.
Toriel's face. Scared, frantic.
Next you see a blur of trees, hear panicky talking.

You dip away again. This time you're in a dream.

Sans is fucking you.
It's on the carpet, like you'd wanted.
You feel him thrust and thrust and his hand at your throat.
He grunts, angry. He's so large, stuffing you.
It hurts so bad, so perfectly.
The hem of your shirt bunches, giving you rug burn at the small of your back.
You watch your legs, the toes of your boots bounce at his shoulders.
The thrusts start to blur and all you can think is

Don't stop
Don't stop, don't stop don't stop don't stop
Oh god, oh god you're gonna cum
You're gonna cum
You're gonna cum, oh, GOD


"Oh, Frisk, darling," he says.
Your eyes snap open. You feel a white gloved hand against your cheek.

Is that...
"Mettaton?"

What the fuck?

Mettaton swipes a thumb under your leaky black eyelids, brushes your messy bangs away from them.
"Yes, it's me. Good to see you awake," he coos, dabbing his own eyes as if trying to avoid smudging mascara.

You look around, tired, frustrated, aching from the departure of the dream.
You're in your bed, back at the cottage. You hear rain.
You seethe silently, groin pulsating, try to imagine what could've happened while you were out.

Mettaton sits there with you for fifteen minutes or so. You listen to the robotic, airy hum of his body at work. Feel his cartoonish hands pet your head, now and then. You're trying to keep your anger but it's just...calming. And you're still so tired...
You're almost asleep again when Mettaton finally speaks, a hopeful tone in his shimmery, artificial voice.

"Human bodies are very special, aren't they," he says.
He relays this as if he knows from experience. You watch him fold one perfect, silky leg over the other, his mechanics whirring.
Mettaton's head is turned, looking out the window. Rain gently taps the glass, slides down in little trails.

"Humans...they have such a powerful, wonderful desire to live. To heal. You're the same, aren't you?"

He looks at you. You can tell that he's actually admiring you and it's awful.

"I know your leg won't grow back, but...you'll be good as new soon, sweetheart. That's a MTT promise."
He gives you a playful smile, a wink, takes your bandaged left hand between his dumb Mickey Mouse palms.

Your stomach feels like it has thorns twisting inside of it.

Mettaton massages your hand, hums softly. Against your will, you close your eyes again.

It feels like a second later you open them, and Mettaton's gone, replaced by Toriel. She sits beside you.
Toriel dozes, a faint, bleat like noise emanating from her now and then. An open book lays in her lap, the bookmark by her thigh.

You HATE this.

You...hate this, more than anything.

You hate when they all let you know how much they care about you.
You hate that you can't feel indifferent.
You've killed them all, you've lied to them, took their happiness away. But they don't know.

Unlike Sans. You haven't really seen him clearly since your little scheme, if you can call it that.

You look up at the ceiling through bleary eyes.

You realize.
You don't know what you want to do anymore.

At first, you wanted control.
And you had it. GOD, you had that power.
Everyone was your plaything.
And then there was Sans.
Then, you wanted to control HIM, and him alone.
And you did. You killed his brother, took his life away and gave it back, over and over.

And then, you wanted too much from him.

You thought that it'd be something new, exciting, but it just isn't. It's not.

You just want to go back to the beginning.
For Sans to forget you used him that way.
Have him back to just hating you, fighting you in that golden hallway, beating the ever-loving shit out of you for eternity.

Have him back to when he still trusted you. Before you even killed a single monster.

But, somehow, he always knows what you've done.

He won't forget.
He's the only one who can't.

You blink out hot, horrified tears.
Jesus Christ.

You start to sob.

Toriel wakes up and you curse yourself, hiccuping and trying to stop.
You cringe, struggle, as she wraps her arms around you, holds you close to her chest.
She strokes your back.

"Shh, it is alright, my child," she whispers. "I know it hurts. Do you need some aspirin?"

You pant tearful breaths into her soft, purple tunic. Your muscles, rigid, begin to soften.
Toriel rubs a circle into your spine. You feel the breath from her large nostrils blow against the top of your head.

"Mama, I'm sorry I fell off the cliff," you say, filling the air with something. You half-hope she'll tell you everything Sans told her.

Toriel looks down at you. She looks shocked.

"Frisk, it was not your fault! It was an accident. There is no need for you to feel badly about something you did not intend to do," she says, both admonishing you and attempting to comfort you all at once. She seems incredulous that you'd even say that.

You're unsure what else to ask. You don't even know if Sans involved himself in the lie of what happened to you.
You venture: "Is Sans okay?"

Toriel stiffens for just a second.

"No," she says, sadly.

You tense as well. You have no idea what she's about to say next.

"Sans won't talk to any of us. Even to his brother, Papyrus. I am afraid that he must blame himself for what happened to you. I do not know what to say to make him feel better." Toriel puts a furry, large hand on top of your head.
"That is not your fault, either, Frisk, you must understand that. Sans loves you, that is why he feels that way."

You'd laugh if you could.

- <> - <> -

You don't know how long you're out for.
When you wake up, you realize your head is propped against Papyrus' chest. He's fast asleep, his head tilted down towards you. Papyrus gurgles, a bit of drool lingers on the edge of his teeth.

How many more of them will try and comfort you?
You feel numb. You can't even be angry anymore.

Physically, you're alright.
Your face doesn't hurt so bad. Toriel realigned your nose, bandaged it. It feels heavy on your face, but normal otherwise.
Your leg is still gone, but now there's just a hollow feeling. It's not as big of a deal as the others think it is.
The worst is how tired you are, from blood loss. Your arm, resting on Papyrus' leg, is pale as flour.

You don't know why you haven't reset yet.

Outside, it's dark, night time. Rain continues to fall.

"Papyrus," you say.
He wakes surprisingly fast, turning his head this way and that.

"WHAT, YES, I AM THE ROYAL GUARD," he barks, then tilts his head back.
Papyrus gives a great, rattling yawn and turns his skull to look down at you. He wipes at his exposed teeth, smiles sleepily.

"HELLO, FRISK, YOU'RE AWAKE," he says, motioning to yawn again.
"Hey. Have you seen Sans?"

Papyrus blinks, then his expression becomes somber. He turns his head forward. So rarely does he look this way.

"NO," he says, quietly. "I'M WORRIED. MY BROTHER SEEMS VERY UPSET."
He eyes you. "I DON'T KNOW IF YOU HAVE NOTICED, BUT HE HAS BEEN PRETTY UPSET IN GENERAL, AS OF LATE."

You say nothing.

"IT'S LIKE SOMETHING HAPPENED...BUT, HE WON'T TELL ME WHAT IT IS. I DON'T LIKE IT."
He pauses.
"B-BECAUSE, I CARE SO VERY MUCH FOR HIM. HE CAN TELL ME ANYTHING! I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY HE...WON'T TELL ME."

Papyrus bare hand bones fold together in front of him. He looks so lost, like he feels dumb. It's uncanny.

You don't know why, perhaps it's rehearsed, but you say:
"I'm sure he knows that. Sans always tells me how awesome he thinks you are."

Papyrus grins at you, then looks down at his lap.

"YES, WELL, I AM VERY 'AWESOME.' BUT..." His smile fades. "SANS IS VERY AWESOME, TOO."

"Yeah," you say.

Then, you tremble with pain, force your arms to wrap around Papyrus. It's for yourself, not for him.
Papyrus hugs you back, lifting you from the bed a bit, carelessly pressing a bruise in your side.
He holds you like he needs this, so very much.
When he speaks, it sounds cracked, not like Papyrus.

"THANK YOU, FRISK, FOR TRYING TO HANG OUT WITH MY BROTHER. I AM SO SORRY YOU FELL AND LOST YOUR LEG. SANS IS SORRY, TOO. I THINK THAT'S WHY I CAN'T FIND HIM."

You release him and tilt your head.
"What do you mean?"

Papyrus wipes at his tall, slit eyes. He touches his protruding cheek bone. It looks stained, salty.
"GOD, I CAN'T FIND HIM ANYWHERE. SANS HASN'T COME HOME AND THE SKY TURNED OFF SO IT'S HARD TO SEE. WHAT IF HE IS HURT? MY BROTHER HAS VERY POOR HEALTH. I..." He trails off, sets his jaw.
"AT THE SAME TIME, IT OCCURS TO ME HE MIGHT WANT TO BE ALONE. I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO."

You think of Sans lingering in the rainy dark.
What would he say if he could see his brother confiding in you?

You watch Papyrus. The way he rubs his nose bone with the back of his wrist. The way his ribs lift and fall underneath the red sweater he found that's much too big for his slim frame. His tombstone teeth set together. Dark rings seem to encircle his eyes. He looks exhausted, which is beyond unusual considering how little Papyrus seems to need sleep.

You feel as if you must be disassociating.

Why do you care about Papyrus? But, you do. Despite everything, you do.
You take his clicking, skeletal fingers. Feel them close around your marred, tiny hand.
The two of you listen to the rain song outside the window for a time, leaning against each-other. Papyrus occasionally sniffles.

"DOES IT HURT?"

Yes. Everything hurts. Like hell.

You know what he means. Your leg.

"Oh, no. It's just gone. All it feels like is, um, weird," you reply, trying to articulate, poorly.
"OH. THAT'S GOOD. I MEAN, IT'S NOT 'GOOD,' BUT, I'M GLAD THAT YOU ARE NOT IN TERRIBLE AGONY, FRISK."
"Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks."

You reflexively look down at the concave in the sheets at the bottom of your left hip. Papyrus eyes follow. You're not entirely sure what the gesture means, but he puts his long hand on the missing space. It's as if he's trying to reclaim it.

"I WISH I COULD FIX IT," he says, lost in thought. Then, his face spreads into a hopeful, tired grin. "MAYBE, DR. ALPHYS CAN?"
"Maybe." And she probably could. But you aren't going to wait and see.

You and Papyrus make small talk for a while, and it's genuinely, hopelessly nice. He laughs, recounts cooking excursions with Undyne, his attempts to get into the royal guard, things you've heard many times before. You tell him stories about when you fought that wacko spider girl scout, when you ate sequin covered burgers with Mettaton to get his show ratings up, all things that have happened too often to matter to you. The latter story excites Papyrus enough for him to go on a rant about his favorite episodes of the robot's show.

The rain stops as you talk. You can see the moon out the window, waning gibbous.

You have to stop being here, with Papyrus. You have something you have to do.
You tell him you need some time to rest by yourself. He agrees that it would be the best decision for your health.

Before he shuts your door Papyrus turns, beams, says:

"I KNOW WE'LL FIND SANS TOGETHER, TOMORROW! OR MAYBE, HE'LL COME BACK BEFORE THE SKY TURNS BLUE! THAT'S...MORNING, RIGHT?"
"Yeah," you say, smile.
"OH, CAN I GET YOU ANYTHING? PERHAPS A GLASS OF WATER, OR SNAIL SLIME?"
"Nah, thanks, though."
"RIGHT. WELL, THE GREAT PAPYRUS WISHES YOU A PLEASANT SLEEP! I LOVE YOU, FRISK."

It's the most wretched thing you've ever heard. You want to tell him that you hate him. That you violated his brother in the most horrible way possible. That you're the reason Sans is sad. He wouldn't love you if he knew what you did.
If he knew Frisk wasn't your name.

But, instead, you say:

"I love you, too."

And you're unsettled by the revulsion you feel towards yourself.