Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Testingly, Sans shifted against his bindings for what felt like the millionth time, twisting his wrists in the metal loops keeping his arms pinned to the chair. The restraints grated painfully, carving shallow, bloody scratches across his wrists as he struggled. Whoever had trapped him had left them just loose enough for him to twist his arms, but tight enough that every movement scraped against his soft bones. 

Honestly, they probably didn’t even need to bother with the restraints; the small bead pulsing deep in his soul, keeping him from using magic, would be more effective at keeping him put than anything else they could do. Sans had strong magic, but he was completely helpless without it. A toddler would have more chance of escaping than him.

The creak of a door swinging open abruptly caught Sans’ attention. He snapped his head towards the sound, squinting at it through the thick cloth of the blindfold that was tied punishingly tight around his eyes. He couldn’t even see if the light changed, completely blinded. 

Sans could feel his anxiety spike as slow, heavy footsteps made their way over to him, struggling not to hyperventilate. He had no idea what was going on or where he was or who exactly was walking around the room he was being kept in. 

“Calm down, Sansy,” a deep, androgynous voice said. It might have been soothing, maybe, only Sans knew for a fact he’d never heard this person’s voice before and they sounded more amused than anything. They weren’t there to help him, that was for sure. How did they know his name?

Swallowing, Sans went to talk to the hopefully-nice stranger, but all he could make was a pathetic clicking sound. 

The person chuckled softly. “Take your time, sweetie. You’ve got plenty of it, after all.”

Wow, that sounded sinister. 

Coughing lightly, Sans tried to talk again. This time, his voice worked, though it sounded awfully thin. 

“h-hey, buddy. wouldja mind lettin’ me go? i’ve got some appointments i gotta keep and i’m feeling a lil tied up here.”

He wiggled his bound fingers for emphasis, though he wasn’t sure that the person was even looking at him. He’d never have thought being kidnapped would be this awkward. Maybe it would be better if he could actually see who he was talking to, but he kinda doubted it. Were kidnappings just inherently awkward?

His captor chuckled again, this time sounding more genuine. “Your puns are always amusing,” they told him, voice almost fond. 

Confused, Sans squinted into the darkness before him, trying to remember if they’d met before. “uh… did you attend one of my comedy skits or something? i don’t recognize your voice, so… er… sorry if we know each other?”

This time, their laugh sounded different, deeper and fuller, like he’d said something legitimately funny. Flattering, but this whole situation was really creeping Sans out. How did this person know him?

“No,” they said, voice thick with amusement and something else, something heavier. “We’ve never met.”

“uh… nice to meet you, i guess?” Sans offered, turning his head to try and locate where his captor was standing. “i’d shake your hand, but i’m a bit tied up.”

Dang it, he’d already used that one. Normally he was much better at coming up with puns than this, but he guessed he could give himself some slack. Being kidnapped wasn’t exactly an everyday situation for him by a long shot. 

“s-so, uh… as much as i appreciate your chair -ity, i’m feeling a bit in the dark here. mind shining a light on what i’m here for?” he asked, straining his nonexistent ears, and listening intently for any hint of movement, struggling to identify what his captor was doing. 

“One more minute, Sansy,” they said, sounding unfairly amused. “I’m just finishing up.”

Well, that sounded menacing. Still, Sans didn’t really have a choice other than to go quiet, waiting with dread for his kidnapper to turn their attention to him. 

It seemed to be far too long and yet far too soon before his captor turned their attention back to him, heavy footsteps making their way across the room and stopping in front of him. This close, he could hear them breathing, a little too fast and heavy. Were they scared? Worse, were they excited?

Sans went still, eyes widening as gloved hands settled on his cheeks, thumbs gently circling over the curved bone. The gloves were made of what was probably high-quality leather, thick enough that he couldn’t tell the species of the being wearing them. All he knew was that they were significantly larger than his own, the tips of their fingers almost touching behind his skull. 

He didn’t even dare to breathe as the hands crept higher, making their way around his skull to the knot tying the blindfold to his head. It almost felt like they were hugging him, arms and hands surrounding his head.

Slowly, they pulled at the knot, loosening it until the cloth fell away in their hand. “You ready, Sansy?” They asked amusedly. 

“yes!” he said quickly, tilting his skull up to give them better access. “please,” he belatedly added.

“Of course,” they said, pulling back and taking the blindfold with them.

The first thing Sans saw was red, to his confusion, startlingly bright. It took several blinks before he could even stand to keep his eyes open, squinting confusingly at the red walls. Why the fuck were the walls red? He’d never seen a place with red walls before- at least, not like these walls. He couldn’t tell where the light was coming from either, just that it was incredibly bright. 

A shift in the corner of his vision reminded him very suddenly that he wasn’t alone in the room, his head jerking to face the dark shadow.

His captor was several feet taller than him, but only a little broader, closer to a lithe human than a skeleton, with an androgynous build and dressed from head to toe in black leather. Over the leather was a long, dramatic black cloak with a hood, covering their face. He couldn’t see any of their body at all, not even a glimpse. The cloak must be enchanted. 

“Hello there, little one,” they said, voice thick with amusement.

“uh… hi?” Sans replied, trying hard not to tense as he looked around again. There were expensive-looking cameras in several places around the room, all facing towards him. Their lenses shone menacingly in the bright light, unnerving him enough that he looked away. 

“Have you figured out what’s going on yet?” they asked, taking a few steps closer to Sans. 

Sans turned his gaze back to them, struggling to not lean away. “uh… nope. sorry, buddy. ‘m not interested in whatever this is. could maybe introduce you to some folks who are into it, but-”

He was cut off by gentle laughter, his kidnapper walking around him and disappearing behind his chair briefly. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t work, Sansy,” they said from behind him.

Twisting as much as he could, Sans tried to look at what they were doing, but the shackles keeping him pinned to the chair kept him from turning enough to see anything. “why not?” he asked, knowing that he sounded sorta whiny. This would be embarrassing as fuck to look back on later.

Finally, they came back around, pulling a wheeled stand of some sort with a digital screen bolted to it. The screen was square, about two feet by two feet, and looked pretty securely attached to the stand. 

Squinting at it, he caught sight of something that may have been a plastic screen over it, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You know, sweetheart, for someone whose primary trait is patience, you really are quite impatient,” they said, sending a thrill of fear down his spine. 

“h-how do you know my trait, buddy?” he asked, cursing the small shake that made its way into his voice. Sure, someone would have had to touch his soul to put the bead inside, but it was difficult to tell someone’s trait just from looking at their soul, and he really, really didn’t want to think about them doing what they’d have had to do to be able to identify his trait.

“Never mind that, Sansy,” they said, finally seeming satisfied with the placement of the screen and making their way back over to him. Sans couldn’t help leaning back into his chair as they approached, soul thrumming with fear.

To his surprise, they stopped several feet away, looking him over. Sans shifted uncomfortably under their gaze, feeling incredibly exposed. His zipped-up jacket, the only article of clothing they’d left on him, didn’t feel like nearly enough, especially since the sleeves had been pushed up to make room for the cuffs on his wrists. 

“This is going to be perfect,” they said, looking him up and down one more time.

Sans’ eyes shrunk, a small, hastily smothered whimper escaping his dry throat. Oh fuck. Fuck. He’d wondered, briefly, when he’d woken up, if his state of undress meant that they were planning something inappropriate with him, but he’d almost entirely forgotten about it.

“you’re going to fucking rape me?!” he cried out before he could think, pressing his knees together as best he could.

“Well, that depends,” they said serenely. “I have a great variety of toys and tools and machines I could use on you, but only if the viewers ask.”

That really wasn’t much of a relief, Sans thought bitterly, before comprehending the rest of their sentence. 

“v-viewers?” he asked, hoping desperately he’d misheard.

They sighed, almost fondly, crossing their arms. “I suppose I’ll explain to you, though you’re absolutely adorable when you’re confused.”

Sans sputtered, feeling heat rush to his face. Why were they complimenting him?! He wasn’t adorable in the slightest!

At least they hadn’t gone for anything worse.

“So,” they said, drawing Sans’ attention back to them, “you are currently in a place called a ‘red room’. A red room, since you don’t know, is a place where we livestream the torture of an individual or several individuals, usually until their death.”

Sans’ eyes went so wide they hurt, mouth going dry. Torture?!  

“y-you can’t!” he cried in desperation, “i won’t make it!”

“Yes you will,” they said, voice so certain that he fell silent. “We know about your hope, Sansy. We know a lot about you- including exactly how much you can take. Trust me, you can handle a lot more than you think you can.”

The fuck did that mean? Had they been stalking him or something? Maybe they had been. Maybe they’d been watching him for weeks, months, even years. Had they been watching him since he’d come to the Surface? Before that?

Before he could spiral too far, they continued, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Red rooms are specifically designed to be interactable. Viewers join the livestream and give me actions to perform on you, though I do have the power to veto their requests.”

They stepped forward. They’d been close enough already that Sans couldn’t help but squeak, pulling in on himself as much as possible as they stopped a mere few inches from him. A gloved hand gently grabbed his chin, tilting his head up to look into the blank space inside their hood. 

“Normally,” they said, voice soft and affectionate in a way that would have made Sans’ skin crawl if he had any, “These tortures end in a long, brutal death.”

Sans’ breath hitched, but they weren’t done, continuing on. “You, however, we are all very, very fond of. You won’t need to worry about dying for a long, long time.”

Sans stared up at them, feeling hot tears well up in his eyes and blur his vision. “why?!” he cried weakly, “why me? why am i so special?!”

“Aw,” they cooed, bringing their free hand up to pet the dome of his skull. “It’s not anything you’ve done, not really,” they informed him gently, “it’s who you are. We’ve known you for a long, long time now, and we have seen you at your best and your worst.”

Eyes shrinking, Sans tried hard not to whimper. They’d been watching him for a long time? That sounded very, very frightening. That meant they might have been watching him since he was a teenager, or perhaps even a child . Maybe he was being too conservative, even. Maybe they’d been watching him since he was born. 

His captor’s hand slid down from the top of his head to his cheek, the other one shifting up to match it on his other cheek. “We all love you, Sans,” they said, their voice so genuine it burned, “and we love seeing you like this. There’s no way we’re letting you go.”

Blinking back the same useless tears from before, Sans dropped his gaze as best he could, staring down at his bare knees. Who the fuck were these people? If they’d really been watching him for most of his life, they should know what a useless, shitty, selfish person he was. Even without including the Resets, he’d made hundreds and hundreds of stupid, selfish decisions, mistake after mistake after mistake haunting him.

If they’d been watching him, how could they feel so positively about him?

Maybe they just loved to hurt him because he was a bad person. Maybe it was the satisfaction that came with seeing an evil person get their dues. That made more sense than them actually loving him for who he was.

The hands fell away from his face, his captor stepping back. He still couldn’t see their face, still couldn’t gauge what they were thinking, but their body language screamed of satisfaction. 

“We’ll start in about three minutes,” they informed him. Sans sat up straight in shock, casting wary glances at the multitude of cameras pointed at him. 

“i…i’m not ready,” he pleaded. “please don’t make me do this, i can’t do this, i don’t wanna…”

He trailed off weakly, feeling the tears finally spill over the edge of his sockets, carving warm tracks down his cheeks. “please don’t hurt me,” he begged pathetically, hearing his voice wobble. 

“Don’t worry, Sansy,” the cloaked figure said in a soothing voice, reaching out to pet the top of his head again. “Everything will be okay.”

No, it won’t, Sans thought, but carefully kept silent. He’d been compliant so far, knowing he had no chance of escaping. If he just kept quiet and played along and survived long enough, maybe he’d be given an opportunity. If he could somehow manage to rip that bead from his soul, he’d be able to teleport away, hopefully to safety.

Still, Sans could feel himself trembling, bones rattling quietly against his shackles as he waited for his time to run out. What kind of horrible tortures would he have to go through just in this one session? He assumed he’d be getting breaks to eat and sleep and the such, but what if he didn’t? What if the rest of his life was going to be spent here, chained to a harsh metal chair in a red-walled room, cameras pointed at him from all angles while unspeakable deeds were carried out on his small form?

He’d rather Fall.

“Thirty seconds, Sansy,” his kidnapper told him, moving to stand at his right. “Don’t worry, we won’t let you die.”

That was more horrifying than reassuring, Sans thought, focusing watery eyelights onto the digital screen and watching as the numbers ticked down. 

Twenty seconds. Ten. Five. Three… two… one.

“And we’re live!” his captor proclaimed, dramatically stepping forward with a swoosh of their cloak. They paused for a moment, likely judging their position, then continued speaking with an unfairly bright tone. Were they… happy to be doing this to him?

Sans couldn’t figure out if that would hurt more or less than them being entirely impartial. 

“Greetings, everyone. If you are here, then congratulations. I am sure it was quite a difficult task.”

They made a quarter turn, gesturing at Sans. “By your presence here, I would assume you know exactly who this is and what we are doing here. If you do not, then I would advise you to either leave or keep your mouths shut. There are some very, very dangerous people here who you would do well to avoid angering.”

Turning to face a seemingly random camera, they continued, “Now, for the rules. As you can see, you can submit requests for what I should do to our lovely skeleton. Anything that would kill him will immediately be discarded- we want him alive. I have the final say on what we do or do not do to him, with no exceptions. Beyond that, I will add rules as necessary.”

With a long, dramatic pause, they added, “Hopefully, that will not be needed. I will be greatly disappointed if I have to add more rules to our sessions.”

Despite not even being the one they were talking to, Sans felt shame curl in his soul, lying heavily next to the fear and anxiety that had been rising the longer he waited. That didn’t seem like enough rules. It really, really, didn’t seem like enough. 

“please,” he begged as his captor turned to the digital screen, watching in horror as the first requests started to appear. “please, have mercy.”

They chuckled, turning their head so the darkness beneath their hood stared directly at him, featureless and cold, before turning back to the screen.

“Alright, I think we have our first one,” they announced, gleeful delight barely hidden under their calm and collected demeanor.

Oh no. He wasn’t ready. He really, really wasn’t ready. 

“please, no,” he tried again. “i can’t-”

“You can,” they told him with confidence. “If you couldn’t, I wouldn’t let you. Now hush and let me read.”

Sans shuddered, dropping his gaze to his lap, and went quiet in defeat. There was nothing else he could say.

Chapter Text

“Alright,” Sans’ tormentor said, “here’s the first accepted request.”

Sans lifted his head, watching through teary eyes as they cleared their throat, beginning to read out loud. 

“Why don’t we start off with something mild? We can throw a preventative in there too; keep our Sansy from getting cold feet.”

Cold feet? They made it sound like he was nervous over an approaching wedding or something, not terrified about being tortured. His captor’s voice was so light, so amused as they read out the teasing message, sounding for all the world as if this was a perfectly ordinary situation, as if Sans wasn’t kidnapped and chained to a chair and awaiting the first of many, many horrors to come-

“I don’t know much about skeleton anatomy,” they continued, snapping Sans out of his mind, “but humans have something called an Achilles tendon. If there’s a skeletal counterpart, I want you to snap them both.”

Sans’ breath hitched. He had no idea what an Achilles tendon was, but the utter glee in his tormentor’s voice as they read out the last three words gave him the sinking suspicion that skeletons did have a counterpart of some sort. Whatever an Achilles tendon was, Sans did not in the slightest want to find out what would happen if it was snapped. 

“Wonderful idea!” They announced brightly. “Skeletons do not, in fact, have such things as tendons, but they do have a very, very important set of leylines that run through their entire bodies. If I partially sever them on both calcanei- which are the heel bones -it should have a very similar impact as snapping his Achilles tendons would have, if he had them.”

Unbidden, Sans felt his eyelights shrink, a strangled noise escaping his suddenly dry throat. He knew exactly which leylines his captor was talking about. How the fuck did they know about it? Did human skeletons have leylines too? 

“you can’t!” he blurted, wincing as his voice cracked with panic. He was really showing all his cards here, but he was too desperate to stop. He needed them to listen to him. “i need them! you can’t cut them, please, i’m begging you!”

The last word came out as a sob, burning tears spilling from his sockets to drip down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut to try and hold them in before dropping his head again, unable to bring himself to look at the faceless figure of his tormentor.

“please,” he whispered, unable to make his voice any louder. “please.”

For a long, long moment, nothing happened. The room was silent apart from his labored breathing, so silent that he wondered if his captor was even breathing at all.

Then a gloved hand grabbed onto his chin, tilting it upwards. Sans reopened his eyes to stare into the darkness under their hood, allowing his tears to fall freely. What point was there to hold them back now? They’d already seen him cry. 

“Keep your pretty head up, darling,” they told him sweetly. “They want to see you.”

Sans whined softly in defeat, but obediently kept his head up as they retracted their hand. He was unable to keep himself from sending them a watery glare, but they luckily didn’t seem to notice- or maybe they just didn’t care. Either way, they said nothing, instead disappearing behind him.

Sans’ back prickled and he shifted uneasily, resisting the urge to look behind him. It wouldn’t help. He wouldn’t be able to see anything, anyway. 

The knowledge didn’t help any, and Sans found himself fighting back tears. It made him feel weak, childish almost; he’d been through much worse than this before, certainly, spent the majority of his life trapped in a time loop, been homeless and hurt and murdered, had to suffer through everyone he ever loved dying over and over and over again, had hardly ever felt safe and had never felt okay. Compared to that, this should be nothing.

And yet, he couldn’t keep his tears from welling up in his eyes, couldn’t keep his breath steady and even, couldn’t keep his legs from squeezing together in a futile attempt to protect himself. It was pathetic, absolutely pitiful. He knew that he should have better control over himself, knew that he’d been through worse, but somehow he couldn’t help it.

When he felt a touch on his back, Sans tensed, fighting the urge to lean away from it. The feeling of the chair he was secured to moving was only a little more welcome, his eyes going wide as he abruptly found himself in a standing position, still bound securely in place. He had to bite back a surprised sound, feeling his head swim from the sudden switch. 

Before he had a chance to reorient himself, Sans felt the cloaked being seize one of his ankles, grip surprisingly gentle, and apply something to the bottom of his foot. He didn’t even have time to squeak before his foot was pressed down against something hard, his captor not even pausing before moving to the next one. Experimentally, he tried to move his foot, but it was adhered firmly in place. 

As soon as the other foot was glued in place, Sans felt his tormentor stand up, not saying a word. He fidgeted, a bit, trying to figure out exactly what had been done to him- and needing a distraction from whatever they were doing behind him. 

He couldn’t move his feet or ankles in the slightest. His knees could bend, a bit, but doing so put pressure on his arms, aggravating the cuts he’d caused from his earlier struggling. From what he could tell, the framework of the chair was still around him, only it had been shifted, the parts coming apart and lengthening so he could be positioned how his captor wanted. He couldn’t help wondering how many configurations this odd chair had… and how many would be used on him.

Perhaps he could have tried to escape, but he didn’t even bother. His arms were still bound to the arms of the chair by metal loops, inescapable and painful, and now his feet were secured too. 

It was pitiful that that was all it took to restrain him, Sans thought bitterly. Heck, before, he’d only been tied by his arms! For pretty much anyone else, it would have been nothing to escape. Even a Whimsum would probably have a better chance of escaping than he did. 

Then again, he wasn’t even trying. Despite his legs having been free the entire time, he hadn’t kicked out at his kidnapper a single time. He hadn’t snapped or bit or even struggled, just passively stood there and cried and let the cloaked being do whatever they wanted to him. They were about to cut his fucking leylines, which were necessary for survival, and he wasn’t even trying to fight them.

He was so pathetic.

There were sounds of rattling from behind him, metal scraping against metal, then, ominously, the sound of electricity crackling. Sans tensed, fidgeting as best as he could. He hated not being able to see what was happening, but he didn’t know if being able to see would be worse. Then he’d have to watch as his leylines were cut into, have to watch himself being tortured. Would he be able to handle it? Would the pain be better than the suspense? Or would it be worse?

He didn’t know.

Sans couldn’t help flinching as he heard the cloaked being kneel behind him, clenching his hands into fists in preparation. A gloved hand landed on his back, patting gently in a twisted attempt at comfort.

“There, there, Sansy,” his torturer cooed, sounding almost mocking and almost amused, their tone not at all soothing. “Stay calm.” 

Were they actually trying to comfort him and just doing a bad job, or were they just mocking him? Which was worse?

“Thank you for your patience,” they said, presumably talking to the cameras again. Their hand stayed firmly on Sans’ back, sending skitters of fear and disgust down his spine along with a slight, twisted sense of comfort that horrified him even more than he already was. How could he take comfort from anything in this fucked up place, especially his torturer?!

Finally, they moved their hand from his back, which might have relieved Sans if they hadn’t immediately moved it to his leg, gripping onto him firmly but gently.

“As you can see, I am about to start the procedure. Though the process should be very short, leylines are very delicate and difficult to deal with, so I’m being especially careful here.”

There was the sound of metal sliding against metal, and Sans took in a deep, shaky breath, trying to relax. He was sure that he was about to be cut into, and it would only hurt worse if he were tense. 

“That’s it, Sansy,” his captor said encouragingly, shifting their grip a little. Sans could feel something hot, scarily close to his ankle, and had to fight to not tense up again. “Just relax. You’ll be fine.”

The hot thing, presumably some sort of blade, moved closer to Sans’ ankle. In the small part of his mind that wasn’t freaking the fuck out, he noted that it was probably heated in order to cauterize the wounds as they were made- likely so that he wouldn’t lose too much blood or magic. That was very, very risky, but he supposed that this was a torture room. They probably weren’t too concerned with things like safety or proper procedures or anything like that. 

“please don’t,” he pleaded one last time, but even he could hear how hopeless he sounded. 

“Shhh…” his tormentor soothed, pausing momentarily. “Stay calm, sweetie. This’ll be over soon.”

They paused for a moment, and Sans could hear the grin in their voice when they next spoke. “It’s okay if you scream.”

Before Sans had a chance to react to that, he felt the blade sink into his heel, tearing a pained screech from him. It felt like a scalpel, burning so hot that he wouldn’t be surprised if the blade was white. He gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t bite his tongue, squeezing his eyes shut and trying his best not to cry out. It hurt. It really, really hurt. He could feel the blade carving through every millimeter of bone, the process agonizingly slow and made even worse by the fact that he knew what they were aiming for.

He knew the instant they hit his leyline, a strangled scream tearing itself from his throat before he could hold it back. He could feel the blade sinking through it, severing it with ease and burning it shut. Tears started to stream down his face as he waited for them to cut the entire thing off, sealing his foot off from the rest of him and locking the magic out of it, rendering it useless and practically dead.

They were around halfway through when something shifted, causing Sans’ breath to stutter in his chest. Instead of continuing to cut through his leyline, the being smoothly pulled the scalpel out from his ankle, leaving his foot slightly numb but still connected to him. The surprise stunned him for a moment, the shock of them stopping rendering him inert. He didn’t move again until the scalpel sank into his other heel, ripping a choked sob from him. Now both ankles hurt, one throbbing and burning and kinda numb, the blade sinking deeply into the other and tearing through his bone with frightening ease. He didn’t even bother trying to hold the tears back anymore, letting them pour unheeded down his face as he fought to keep from sobbing- or worse, screaming, even as he felt them reach the leyline.

Fuck, it hurt. He’d thought that the genocide routes hurt, but apparently being slashed across the chest and being dealt so much damage that he dusted within a few moments didn’t even hold a candle to having two leylines partially severed and cauterized. 

And then, his torturer pulled the blade out, setting it down. Sans gasped weakly for breath, feeling both of his heels burning like they’d been set on fire, throbbing painfully. He had to grind his teeth against each other- hard -to keep from sobbing, chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. 

“And we’re all done!” The cloaked being said cheerfully, seemingly unbothered by the tears streaming down Sans’ face or his pained sounds. “For anyone who might be unaware of the… finer details of skeleton anatomy, I have partially severed both leylines, cauterizing them while I was at it. The cauterization kept him from losing any blood or magic, while also ensuring that the areas I cut would never heal properly. I would go more in-depth, but you all aren’t here to learn about anatomy; you’re here for the fun part!”

Sans could hear them stand up. He managed to raise his head, forcing back his tears so that he could pry his eyes open. They were still behind him, so he couldn’t see them, but he glared into the first camera he saw, trying to convey the utter hatred he felt for the people watching him at the moment. What kind of fucking sicko would even suggest this?!

There was a soft, mild laugh from behind him, then a gloved hand came and pet his head, very gently. “Aww, did we make you angry?” they teased softly, pulling carefully on Sans’ skull to force his head to tilt back a bit. “That’s okay. You’ll have plenty of time to get over it.”

They let go of him. Sans let his head slump forward a bit, though he didn’t let it drop entirely, leaning heavily on his arms to try and get some of the weight off his severed ankles. How was he supposed to be able to stand or walk now? His ankles felt so wrong, oddly thick at the back, connected at the wrong places, the cauterized wounds burning with agony and his feet slightly numb. Why would they even do this to him? Even if he discounted the cruelty, keeping him from even being able to stand had to be inconvenient- or at least would eliminate several methods they could have otherwise used to hurt him. 

More tears welled up in his eyes. He let them fall, too worn out to care. They had only just started; why was it all so hard? This was supposed to be a mild torture! If this was mild, he didn’t ever want to get to the extreme parts. Hell, he’d probably dust at medium!

After a minute, Sans felt hands on him again. He stiffened, but they just pet over his back soothingly before reaching for his feet again, stroking along the spots where they were glued to the floor.

“Does this hurt, Sansy?” his captor asked, running a finger over the fresh scars on his ankle.

“yes,” he said softly, hating how rough and wet his voice sounded. They had just started, for fuck’s sake! He should be able to handle this so much better than he was. Just another example of how worthless his weak, pathetic ass was.

“Good,” they said, letting go of him for the moment. He shivered pitifully, letting his head drop so he didn’t have to stare at the cameras pointed at him.

There was a long pause, where Sans could feel them staring at him, looking him over. He couldn’t tell what they were thinking, but he didn’t think it was good.

“The glue will wear off in a couple of minutes,” they told him, tone neutral. “You can take the time until then to get used to how your ankles are going to be from now on while I see what people want me to do to you next.”

Sans swallowed back a sob, nodding in defeat. He just had to wait, he reminded himself. If he could get the bead out of his soul, not being able to walk wouldn’t be much of an issue. Or, maybe, if he got really, really, really lucky, someone would come for him. 

“Good girl,” they praised, patting him on the head. Sans hadn’t noticed them standing up, but he definitely noticed the humiliated blush that spread over his cheeks, probably casting a purple light over himself.

“i’m not a girl,” he protested softly, hating how he could still hear tears in his voice.

“Of course not, sweetie,” his torturer said, their tone almost patronizing. Sans had to resist the urge to snap at them, knowing it wouldn’t get him anywhere. 

For the first time in a while, they rounded the chair Sans was bound to, coming back into sight. They looked exactly the same as before, nothing to indicate that they had just permanently disabled someone by fucking with their leylines, not even a speck of blood on their spotless leather clothes. 

Sans had to wonder how many other people they’d done this to before. He was sure that he wasn’t their first, but how many others had there been before him? Just a few? Or perhaps dozens? Hundreds, maybe even thousands? 

No, he was exaggerating, he reminded himself. They sounded relatively young, definitely too young to have tortured thousands of people (unless they did mass torture or something, which… he was going to try not to think about). 

Although… that did raise another point. How many other people were there? He presumed that it was an entire facility, though he supposed it could be like a particularly creepy basement or something. There was probably at least one other person there, right? Was his captor the only torturer they had, or were there several? 

Maybe he’d have multiple torturers, and they’d switch off so he never got a single moment of rest. Perhaps there was only the one, and they worked on multiple prisoners? 

Or maybe he was all wrong. Maybe he was just in someone’s basement, and he was the only one there, and the person who’d just cut into his leylines was the only torturer. 

It was all too much. 

They paused as they came into view, looking Sans over. He still couldn’t tell what they were feeling, but a cold shiver ran down his spine as he felt the weight of their gaze on him. He stayed silent, watching them back. Their viewers must be pretty bored, he thought savagely. Perhaps they’d all get so bored that they’d leave, and Sans would get a break- or maybe even a chance to escape.

After what felt like a minute, but was probably only a few seconds, the cloaked figure approached him, stroking his cheek gently with one gloved hand. “Hello, Sans,” they said softly, their tone unreasonably fond. Their thumb came up, wiping away some of his tears, the almost-transparent blue substance glimmering on their leather gloves. 

“You’re so beautiful when you cry,” they told him affectionately, the darkness where their face should be staring into his soul. “I could watch you for hours.”

Sans’ breath hitched, and he looked away, feeling cold. Well, that was a confirmation that he really, really didn’t need to know. If they found him attractive… it wouldn’t be too much of a leap to imagine that they could go further.

Stars, he was glad that they’d left him his hoodie, but he wished that they hadn’t undressed him at all! His shorts were missing, as were his socks and slippers. Worse, his shirt was missing too, so he’d have had to be stripped entirely naked. He had no idea why they’d given him back his hoodie, but he was grateful for the coverage, minimal as it was. 

Sure, they’d said that they’d only rape him if it was requested, but just the fact that it was something that they were willing to do was frightening. And what about when the cameras were off? Hell, maybe they wouldn’t care. Maybe their hands would… slip, or wander, or they’d just get a little too close to something, or, or, or…

Drawing in a deep breath, Sans met their eyes, or at least the spot where their eyes would be, glaring as hard as he could. He wouldn’t say anything, didn’t want to make it even harder on himself, but by the stars, he wanted this fucker to know that he hated them, hated them with all his soul.

All they did was chuckle softly, seeming amused. “You’re adorable, little one,” they said, finally pulling away from him. “I’m glad to see that you’re still just as fierce as ever.”

They didn’t expand on that, simply moving back over to the stand with the screen on it and tapping on it a few times.

“The glue should have dissolved by now,” they mentioned, not even looking over at him. “Can you move your feet?”

Sans hesitated, looking down at his feet. From this angle, they looked perfectly normal, like absolutely nothing was wrong. It felt wrong; with how damaged they were, with how much they hurt, with the knowledge of exactly what had been done to them, it felt like they should be visibly damaged. He knew that if he twisted them around, there would probably be fresh, nasty scars over his heels, but like this it seemed almost as if he’d imagined the whole thing.

Carefully, he shifted from side to side, lifting one leg a bit, then the other one. His feet easily lifted from the ground, like they’d never been glued at all. He couldn’t even feel any residue, and he spared a moment to wonder what the hell was in that glue they’d used on him. 

“yes,” he said, lifting his head. He eyed a camera warily, before looking back at his tormentor. They seemed unphased, and he felt a brief flicker of frustration that he couldn’t tell what they were feeling. Their tone of voice could only tell him so much, after all.

“That’s good,” they said. “Now, try standing on your toes, then rock back onto your heels.”

He hesitated longer this time, feeling the pain in his heels. Was it even possible for him to do that? The wounds had only just been made, after all. They were still fresh, the leylines half-severed and burnt. He didn’t even know if he’d be able to use them months or even years down the line- if he made it that long, of course. 

Still, he didn’t want to make things even worse for himself, so he very, very reluctantly braced himself, then rocked forward onto his toes.

Immediately, he almost collapsed, a strangled noise escaping him as his heels flared with pain, the stretch harsh and burning. If his arms hadn’t still been bound, he would have ended up in a crumpled heap on the floor, but as it was, he slumped forward, feeling the burnt cuts on his ankles scream in agony. It felt like his leylines were trying to tear themselves apart, the stretch far too much for them. He rocked back onto his heels as quickly as he could, barely managing to not cry out in pain, then brought his feet flat as quickly as he could. For a long, terrifying moment, he thought he’d torn his ankles open, but then the pain eased a bit.

When he finally raised his head again, he found his captor staring at him, the void under their hood pointed directly at him.

“Did it hurt?” they asked, voice sweet. 

“yes,” Sans replied through gritted teeth, feeling sweat drip down the side of his skull. Stars, this was terrible already, and they’d only just started. Since their idea of “mild” was apparently permanent disability via leyline damage, he was terrified of learning what they would do once they moved on from the “mild” tortures.

Maybe he’d get lucky and Frisk would Reset soon. He’d take going back to the time loop over this. At least there he could work on improving skills and he could spend time with his friends and family, and he wouldn’t have to be in this bright red room, being literally tortured. Murder was nothing compared to this.

“I’m glad,” they said. “We wouldn’t want to bore the viewers, after all.”

Sans involuntarily shot a glance at one of the cameras mounted on the wall. “i’d think they’d already be pretty bored,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “the only ‘fun’ thing you’ve done so far is make a couple of cuts. not exactly the most entertaining, is it?”

His tormentor laughed, gesturing to the screen. Sans couldn’t read anything on it, but he could see that it was flooded with text. “On the contrary, my dear. I think you’ll find that our viewers seem to be quite entertained.”

Sans stared at the screen, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine. Oh. That looked like a lot of people. He’d been assuming that there were maybe a couple dozen or something, but this looked like hundreds, maybe even thousands of people, all witnessing his torment.

“what do you even want from me!” he cried out, feeling distressed tears well up in his eyes. “i don’t understand what you’re getting from this! i’m literally nobody! you could probably pick up a rando from a grocery store and find someone better and more interesting than me! there is nothing entertaining about watching someone stand still and cry, so what the hell do you want?!”

Chest heaving, Sans dropped his head, unable to stare at their featureless visage anymore. “what do you want from me?” he asked, painfully soft. He could feel more tears streaming down his cheeks, and managed to spare a moment to hope that he’d be given water at some point.

Footsteps echoed through the room. Sans didn’t bother to lift his head, even when they stopped in front of him. A leather glove touched his cheek, gently stroking it, and he flinched away.

“Oh, Sansy,” his tormentor whispered, sounding soft. He couldn’t identify what they were feeling, but their tone sent prickles up his spine anyway. “You’re absolutely wonderful. I don’t think we could find someone to match you even if we looked for a thousand years. You might not think you’re all that special, or that you’re a ‘nobody’, as you put it, but trust me, we all know the truth.”

Sans darted his gaze up, then back down just as quickly once he caught sight of the expressionless void where their cloak covered their face. He shivered, regretting having lost his temper like that. If he just stayed calm, he’d be much more likely to find an opportunity to escape. He was a chill guy, usually. He should be able to manage this. It should be easy.

“And as for what we want from you…”

They trailed off, hand curling around Sans’ cheek, one finger making its way under his chin and lifting his head to force him to look into the darkness beneath their hood. “You don’t have to do anything, little one. All you have to do is exist. I’ll handle the rest.”

Sans couldn’t help scowling at them. “i don’t believe you,” he snapped. “am i really just supposed to believe that you’ve kidnapped me and are torturing me on a fucking livestream because my very existence is somehow enough to make me ‘special’?!”

“You may believe what you’d like,” they said serenely, squeezing his cheek just a little bit before letting go. “Either way, whether you’re actively being tortured or not, you are very entertaining for our guests to watch. There’s no need to worry about you boring them, darling.”

They straightened up, tilting their head as they looked down at him.

“Still, it is time for our next request. Past time, actually. I’ve been being very, very lenient with you so far, but I think it’s time to stop going so easy on you. You’ve more than proven your resilience, after all.”

Sans froze, hardly daring to breathe. “wait,” he said, much meeker. “wait, i’m sorry. i can behave, i promise. please, i swear i’ll be good, just… just don’t hurt me.”

Their head straightened. They looked down at him, and Sans had the awful feeling that they were smiling beneath their hood. “I’m sure you can be,” they said smoothly, “but that isn’t what we want from you. You just be yourself, love, and I’ll handle everything else.”

“please!” Sans cried out desperately, bracing himself on his arms so that he could lean forward without having to move his feet. “please, i can barely handle this! i can’t take anything more intense, i swear. i know you called this mild, but it’s absolute agony and-”

“Shh,” they hushed, putting a finger over his mouth. “You’re stronger than you think you are, Sansy. There’s no need to worry; I know exactly how much you can take. You won’t be dying here.”

He whined softly, dropping his head to stare at the ground. Stars, he was exhausted. He was sure he’d been here for hours already, every second stressful and tiring and painful. The torture had only barely begun, and he already couldn’t do it. The only condolence he had was that no one else was in his position. He’d take having his leylines cut a thousand times over before letting anyone else take his place. 

“Good girl, Sansy,” they told him, voice warm with affection as they turned back to the screen. “Now, the next request…”

Chapter Text

Sans waited, heart in his throat, as his kidnapper scrolled through what seemed to be hundreds of messages, occasionally humming softly or tapping on something. How many of those were requests? Were all of them requests?

Unbidden, he found himself wondering how his torturer decided on which request to do. Were they going to do all of them, and were just arbitrarily picking? Or were they deciding based on what they wanted to do the most? Or perhaps they were choosing according to something else, something he didn’t know about? How much they thought the viewers would enjoy, perhaps?

“Ah,” they said, sounding pleased. “This one should do. Are you ready to hear what it is, little one?”

“no,” Sans said, and even he could hear the wary exhaustion in his tone. “but i don’t think i can stop you.”

“That’s right!” they said cheerily. “Look at you, darling. You’re so smart.”

All Sans could do was look away, feeling his nonexistent gut churn in discomfort. He hated how this freak kept complimenting him. He’d much prefer to be tortured by someone who hated him than someone who was so creepily fond of him. 

“Anyway,” they said sweetly, “I’ll read out the request.”

They cleared their throat, beginning to read out the new request. “Well, since we’re apparently starting off with mild stuff… he’s been here a little bit by now, I’m sure. How about you give him a little snack? Monster dust should do.” 

They turned their head to face Sans. The darkness beneath their hood stared menacingly at him, and Sans stared back, feeling his eyelights quiver in fear. He was sure that he was pale, and he felt cold. They weren’t really going to feed him dust… were they? They might be torturing him, but that was a line, right? Besides, there’s no way they just had monster dust on hand.

“Oh, and they added a little winking face at the end,” his captor added, a smile in their voice. They straightened up a little, turning in Sans’ direction. “I’ll be right back. You’ll be good and entertain our guests for me, won’t you, Sans?”

Sans stayed silent, watching them with wide eyes. He shivered weakly as they started walking toward him, dread bubbling in his soul. Oh fuck. They were really going to go and get monster dust?! The mere thought made him feel sick. Why the fuck did they just have that lying around?!

They paused as they passed him, just for a moment, one gloved hand sliding over his thigh, perilously close to his pelvis. When Sans stiffened, they chuckled, giving him a soft pat before their hand slid off of him. He could hear them walking away, and shuddered as he heard the click-thunk of the door unlocking. Well, at least now he knew where the door was, though it wasn’t like he could do anything with the knowledge now that he had it.

The door opened, then shut. He could hear the door lock again, and then he was alone apart from the cameras staring down at him. Uncomfortable, he shifted, unsure of what to do. He’d beg for help, but seeing as how every single one of the people watching him was there for the sole purpose of watching him be tortured, he doubted it would do much. It would probably just make them want to hurt him worse. He’d try to escape, but seeing as how the only reason he was even standing at the moment was because he was tied to a disassembled chair, that would go poorly even if he somehow managed to escape the metal loops keeping him pinned to it. He was helpless.

Sans swallowed back tears again, shifting to try and ease the strain on his heels. The chair he was pinned to was actually helping a bit, shifting some of his weight to his arms and providing a bit of a frame to lean against, but the majority of his weight was squarely on his feet, and his severed ankles were burning. He had no choice but to keep standing, unable to do anything else, but if he wasn’t tied up he was sure he would have collapsed by now. Even moving to stand on his toes or heels wasn’t an option, his leylines burnt just short enough to make even the slightest stretch harsh and painful. The memory of that pain was more than enough to keep him from trying it again.

While he waited for his tormentor to return, Sans couldn’t help but look around, eyes lingering on every single camera he found. How many people were watching him right now? Perhaps only a few, like he’d originally thought, or maybe it was well into the thousands. He guessed that it was mostly humans… or maybe hoped. It would feel so much worse if it was monsters torturing him, the people he’d been around his entire life, the people known for their love and compassion. If even monsters hated him this much, he must truly be despicable.

His legs squeezed together without his permission, bringing a small flush to Sans’ face. He didn’t want to bring attention to that! Just because he was being watched by what could be thousands of people, was wearing nothing more than a zipped-up hoodie, had two of his leylines partially severed, and was chained up… none of that was an excuse for him to be acting so pathetic. Trying to hide would just draw more attention, he reminded himself. His torturer had said they wouldn’t rape him unless someone asked for it, but the chances of someone asking would almost definitely be increased if he kept drawing attention to how exposed he felt. 

The door unlocked. Sans drew in a deep breath, trying not to tense, and swallowed. His throat felt dry already, and he didn’t even want to think about how hard it would be to swallow down the dust he was sure was about to be forced into him. 

“I’m ba-ack!” His kidnapper sang out as the door swung open, their footsteps following the sound of wheels against stone. “You hungry, Sansy?”

“not really,” he said, fidgeting restlessly. “but if i was, i think i’d prefer grillby’s.”

They laughed, soft and rich, abandoning whatever they had brought to circle around Sans, stopping in front of him. “I’m sure you would,” they said, sounding amused, “but I’m afraid there won’t be any Grillby’s in your future… unless it’s requested, of course.”

Why the hell would anyone ‘request’ for Sans to be given his favorite food? Would it just be to torment him further? He couldn’t think of many ways for Grillby’s to be used against him, but he was sure that the sickos watching him through the cameras had all kinds of terrible, evil, nasty ideas for even the most innocent of things. 

“This dust will have to do,” they continued, pulling over what looked like a wheeled cart, filled with little transparent jars. Each of them were filled with monster dust and labeled with numbers, the amount of them more than a little frightening. Was each one a different monster? If so, then… 

“you…” he started, eyes darting from the jars to the cloaked being and back again, “did you… have you…”

He trailed off, unable to finish, staring at the rows and rows of little jars, all marked and numbered, nothing to tell whose dust it had once been. Was that to be his fate as well, someday? To be reduced to nothing more than dust in a jar, only a number, his only use torturing others? 

Even in death, he’d bring nothing but pain and misery to others.

“Aww,” they cooed, patting him on the top of his head. Sans couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be mocking or comforting, but a shiver of discomfort ran down his spine anyway. “Don’t worry, darling. Their fates are meaningless now. All that matters is what they’ll be used for.”

They reached out for one of the jars, taking it in hand. Sans could read the number on it, a bold, black, handwritten 88150. Had they killed that many monsters? Or was the number based on something else? 

He didn’t even think that many monsters were even alive at the moment. For them to have killed that many monsters, they’d have had to been doing this since long before monsters were sealed Underground. How long had this thing been up and running? Sans didn’t know anything about red rooms, but he was sure that the technology for this kind of thing hadn’t been around that long. 

Maybe it had shifted, changing with the times? Maybe once it had been live, but the logistics got in the way, or perhaps it had been private before someone came up with the idea to livestream it?

He couldn’t really focus on any of that at the moment, however, his eyes fixed on the jar as his tormentor unscrewed it and set the lid aside. There was a smear of fine, grainy powder on one of their gloves, and Sans shuddered in disgust, feeling nauseous. 

“Eight-eight-one-five-oh,” the being said, lifting the jar to better look at the number. “This one was a rabbit monster. Mid-thirties by human standards, I think, female. Her name was Daisy. Death from blood loss. She left behind three children and a husband, if I’m not mistaken.”

Sans shivered. He wanted to look away, but found himself unable to, eyes fixed on the grey smear on their gloves, stark and pale. Deathly. 

Somehow, knowing the details made it even worse. Eating dust was one thing- and that in and of itself was disgusting and horrifying -but knowing exactly who the dust came from, their names and loves and families…

“i’m gonna be sick,” he said faintly. 

“Aw,” his tormentor cooed, taking one hand from the dust jar to caress Sans’ cheek, slowly trailing it down to grip his chin, tilting his head up. “You’ll be fine, Sansy. And if not… well, I don’t mind a bit of vomit.”

They placed the jar back down, reaching into the cart again and pulling out a spoon. It was bigger than he preferred, made of shiny metal. It didn’t look sharp, which was a relief, but it was still uncomfortably large. 

“please, no,” he begged pitifully, unable to tear his eyes away as the being dipped the spoon into the jar. They didn’t bother to level it out, leaving the spoon heaped with fine grey dust. Some of it was threatening to spill over the sides, and Sans wasn’t sure whether he wanted it to spill so he wouldn’t have to swallow it or if he wanted it to stay right where it was. He couldn’t imagine just letting someone’s dust spill on the floor. 

“Open wide, sweetheart~” His tormentor sang, their grip tightening on his mandible. Their hands were steady, the dust-filled spoon hovering just in front of his mouth. 

Frozen, Sans couldn’t do more than stare at the dust. He could smell it, the soft, ashy, almost-sweet dusty scent, achingly familiar. It tickled at his nasal cavity, and he wondered if he’d have sneezed if he was a human. 

“Open up, Sansy,” they repeated, grip tightening further. “Or else I’ll have to get… persuasive.”

Very, very slowly, reluctantly, Sans pried his mouth open, feeling his tongue form into existence. It was heavy and wet in his mouth, though his throat felt dry as sandpaper. He imagined he could taste the dust already, and couldn’t help the thin, dry swallow.

“Good girl,” his kidnapper praised, and inserted the spoon into Sans’ open mouth.

Immediately, he coughed, sputtering. Some of it stuck to his tongue, thick and powdery, while some of it actually made it down into his throat when he swallowed, clogging the false esophagus his body instinctively made, while more came out his nose and even more escaped his mouth in a powdery cloud.

His captor tsked, releasing his chin. “Look, now you’ve wasted her. Daisy died to make that dust, you know. It’s quite rude to spit her out like that.”

Sans gagged, sputtering. He pressed his mouth together as best he could, trying to keep from coughing up any more dust, but it seemed to be of no use. His nasal cavity was full of it, ashy sweetness burning at his sensitive face as he choked. All he could do was swallow desperately, feeling grains of dust coat every inch of his mouth and throat, and hope it would be over soon.

After what felt like far too long, Sans managed one last swallow, rubbing his tongue against the roof and walls of his mouth to try and scrape off what he could of the dust. His breath was coming in short gasps, and his insides felt like they were full of sand. All he could taste was dust, the ashy, slightly-sweet grains coating his mouth and tongue and throat, a small dusting of it over his face and probably the top of his hoodie as well. 

The dust apparently did not count as monster food, despite being made of a monster’s body, forcing his body to create a stomach to contain it. For the moment, it was nothing more than a tiny sac, easily hidden and not yet a problem, but if it got too big he’d have to summon flesh to contain it, and that would be a problem. His stomach was coated in dust as well, the fine grains sticking to the sides, unwilling to be moved. 

How long would it take to get all that out? Sans was… fairly inexperienced, when it came to using ecto, including for the purposes of eating. Besides, if the dust was material enough for him to need to summon a stomach, then at some point he’d need to either digest it and push it out that way or regurgitate it all. Which would be worse?

By the time Sans managed to blink the tears out of his eyes and focus his vision enough to tell what was going on around him, the cloaked being was already loading up another spoonful, just as large as the last.

“no!” he cried out- or tried to, at least. All that came out of his mouth was a ragged cough, and it was pitifully easy for them to capture his head, holding his mouth open with a single well-placed finger in the hinge of his jaw. 

“You know,” they said, almost conversationally, as they stuck the spoon back into Sans’ mouth, “Daisy was actually one of our more recent guests here. She wasn’t a part of the red room, of course; she wasn’t nearly important enough for that. Still, she was fun.”

Sans made a harsh, ragged sound in his throat, swallowing as hard and fast as he could. Another cloud of dust puffed out of his mouth, and he squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see it. He felt like he was drowning, like the lungs he didn’t have were full of dirt and sand. Dust.

“Nowhere near as fun as you,” they reassured him, though Sans would have preferred it if this creep didn’t like him so much. There were soft clinking sounds as they refilled the spoon again, and Sans let off a soft moan of despair that they ignored. “She was just one of those people you pick up to play with, for nothing more than fun. You, little one, are far more important than she ever could have been.”

They gave him another spoonful of dust. Sans choked on it, but swallowed down as much as he could. He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks now, hot and wet and grainy, and it almost felt like he was crying tears of dust. Everything was either dry or sticky, the dust sucking up every drop of moisture in his body. He could barely breathe through the dust clouding his nonexistent lungs, his head swimming, but his torturer didn’t let up, cheerily forcing scoop after scoop of dust down his throat. 

“But never mind that for now,” they said softly, sounding almost fond and almost dangerous. “I could talk about her, of course, get you all upset with details of how she was such a nice, kind, loving, nurturing person who was a wonderful parent and had lots of friends and did well in school, but there’s no real point. We’ve got dozens of others to go through today, after all, and no one wants to hear about some boring nobodies when we could be listening to you choke on their dust.”

They fed him another spoonful. Sans gagged, coughing weakly, but forced himself to swallow again. Logically, he knew that he hadn’t been given that much, but the dust felt heavy inside of him, a thick, sticky, grainy mess weighing him down. His tongue was coated in thick layers of dust, so thick that new dust wasn’t even sticking to it anymore, as were his throat and the rest of his mouth. The texture was nauseating, and he thought that if his insides weren’t full of dust then he’d be vomiting magic all over his captor. 

The next spoonful seemed… different, somehow. Like there was less dust in it. It was just a little easier to swallow, or maybe he was imagining it. 

When the next one didn’t come, Sans hesitantly cracked one eye open, then the next. His vision was blurry from tears, but he could still see the empty jar as his tormentor screwed the lid back on, the numbers smeared into a black blur.

Seeming to notice that he had his eyes open, they made a pleased hum, lifting the empty jar so that Sans could see it. “Look! One down already. You took that so beautifully, Sans, truly. I’m sure the rest will be even better.”

“no, please,” Sans pleaded, struggling weakly in his restraints. His heels were on fire from the prolonged standing, his insides stopped up and gritty, and he was covered in dust. “please, that’s… enough, please…”

It was difficult to speak, his mouth and throat so full of dust that it was a struggle to get air through, his tongue thick and heavy and hard to move. It felt like he was being choked, or perhaps suffocated, throat clogged with the dust of someone he’d never known and never would. If they kept up, would the dust eventually end up gagging him, keeping him silent and muted until they decided to allow him the dubious mercy of either cleaning it out or forcing it down…

“Aw, sorry sweetie,” they cooed mockingly, patting him on the top of the head with their dust-stained gloves, “but it was a request! We can’t disappoint our viewers now, can we?”

“b-but you already fulfilled it!” He pointed out desperately, squirming harder. “you already… already did what they asked!”

“Perhaps,” they allowed, “but we still aren’t done yet.” 

They pet his skull mockingly before withdrawing their hand so that they could unscrew another jar. By now, Sans’ vision had cleared enough that he could read the bold 6148 emblazoned on it, the number significantly lower than the last one.

“Six-one-four-eight,” they mused, turning it around in their hand. “This one was far before my time, I’m afraid. They were a bird monster, in their late teens. Their name was Ralph, but I’m fairly sure they preferred Al. Death by… plucking and disembowelment, I believe.”

Sans shivered, eyes locked onto the jar. It seemed to be about as full as the last one, the dust indistinguishable. If it wasn’t for the number on it, he’d think it was the same jar as the last. 

“Quite fascinating, from what I’ve heard,” they murmured, though Sans was sure it was loud enough for the cameras to pick up with no problems. They set the jar down on the tray, picking the spoon up in its place. “But none of that has to do with us. Open up, Sansy.”

Reluctantly, Sans pried his jaws apart. The first spoonful of dust went in smoothly, its passage eased by the layers of dust coating every inch of his insides. He could feel it settling heavily inside of him, mixing with the other dust, and felt a jolt of shame as he coughed, watching the dust poof out of his mouth and nose, unable to tell how much was Al and how much was Daisy. They were irrevocably mixed together, dust settling in his mouth and throat and stomach and the top of his hoodie, a grey, ashy mess. The slightly-sweet grains in his mouth burned at his taste buds, thick and dry and heavy, and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get the taste of ash out of his mouth. 

His tormentor fed him the next spoonful of dust, one thumb caressing the corner of his mouth. The area they touched felt hot, even though their glove was the same temperature as the air around them, and Sans shuddered. The dust was so thick in his throat that it felt swollen, the walls nearly touching. Even swallowing did little to change it, the inner layers stuck fast to the moisture that coated the inside. 

The next spoonful was just as bad, the ashy grains of dust rubbing harshly against his sensitive flesh. He could feel trails of dust glued to his face wherever he’d cried or drooled, the dry substance made moist and sticky. There was some in his eye sockets as well, distinctly uncomfortable, the fine substance feeling thick against the sensitive magic that gave him the ability to see. 

Somehow, even worse than the physical sensation, was the knowledge that it was dust. It wasn’t just some sand or ash in his eyes and his mouth, clogging up his throat and sitting heavy in his stomach and staining his hoodie and glued to his face, but people. It was the remains of people, monsters, literal death sitting in and around him, coating every bit of him both inside and out.

Sans choked on a sob as another spoonful was forced into his mouth, swallowing as best he could around the obtrusion in his throat. He just had to make it through this. There would be another torture, but hopefully it would be more tolerable than this. If nothing else, maybe he’d finally be allowed to sit down, his heels burning like they’d been set on fire. He had no idea if his leylines would ever stop hurting, if they were going to be agonizing forever or if the pain would ease with time, but for the moment he just wanted to sit down. Temporary relief, first, then he could worry about the long-term implications, like if he was ever going to be able to stand unassisted again or if his heels would get infected. 

“Almost done with this one, Sansy,” his torturer said cheerfully, giving him another spoonful of dust. “Then, oh… I don’t know, probably a few more jars. I don’t know when our viewers will be satisfied, after all!”

Sans couldn’t help the pleading whimper he gave off at that, nearly muted by the dust filling his mouth. The cloaked being didn’t seem to mind, happily spooning more dust into him.

“After this one, I can take a look at the screen and see if anyone’s got any more ideas, I suppose,” they allowed graciously as they fed him more dust. “Perhaps someone would prefer to see you fed in a different manner. More efficient, less efficient… who knows. The imagination truly is wonderful, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sans scowled at him, though he was aware it was weak, trails of dust-stained teardrops running down his face. He felt utterly pathetic, choking down another mouthful of dust as he struggled just to breathe through his clogged airways, trapped and suffocated and helpless. Whatever method these freaks were planning on switching to, he was sure it would only be worse. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be anything crazy like cutting his stomach open so they could just pour the dust inside or anything like that. Mild torture, right?

All he could do was hope, he thought grimly, swallowing down even more dust. He didn’t think he could ever get the taste out, every cell of his being seemingly full of dust, his insides coated in it, the grains stuck to every bit of his mouth, the taste thick and heavy on his tongue. Even if he escaped, he’d probably always taste the dust, the sensation trapped in his mind.

In a way, it was almost like he was carrying them with them. The knowledge that the dust he was being tormented with was the remains of people somehow felt both horrifying and comforting.

Daisy. Al. 

He repeated their names over and over in his head, determined not to forget them. If he was going to be their ithuna, he was going to do his best for them. 

(No matter how little it might matter now.)

Then, finally, his captor pauses. The steady flow of dust stops, and Sans makes a muffled noise past the dust, feeling his stomach cramp from how full it was. He was unused to eating physical food, having only done so a handful of times before. Monster food was significantly better anyway, in pretty much every way, so there was no point. The consequence was that his stomach was small, unable to hold much without hurting. 

It was kind of funny, actually, he thought in amusement, coughing to get some of the dust out of his throat. With how fat he was, he’d have assumed he’d have a big stomach too.

“Happy, Sansy?” his captor asked lightly, setting the jar down with a soft clink. Sans couldn’t help but flinch, which he immediately chastised himself for. There was no reason to flinch at such a benign noise- it was just showing weakness, and he was showing enough of that already without overreacting to small things. 

Weak. Sans was so, so weak.

“Alright,” his tormentor said, sounding almost indulgent. Sans glared at them, already knowing how ineffectual it would be. He couldn’t stop them. “Let me look over the requests.”

He couldn’t do anything.

Chapter Text

Waiting for his tormentor to pick a new way of feeding him was torture. Sans stared at the jar on the table, his dust-filled stomach churning uncomfortably. The number on the side was cut off, the jar rotated so Sans couldn’t see it.

The dust of Daisy and Al weighed heavy on him. Now that he wasn’t being force-fed, it was all he could focus on. Dust in his stomach, his throat, coating his mouth and weighing his tongue down. There was dust in his eyes, in his nose, all over the front of his hoodie from where he’d choked and coughed it up.

His stomach ached. He felt absolutely stuffed, even with just the two jars. Was his captor really going to keep doing this to him? Surely the audience was incredibly bored. It was just Sans, after all, gagging and choking on dust. There had to be better things to watch.

Sans felt like a mess. Not only that, he felt defiled. People’s remains, their dust, something important and sacred, had been poured into him. Their remains hadn’t been scattered on their favorite things, or released to the wind- they’d been used to torture someone.

The mere thought made him feel ill. Was that going to happen to him? Were they going to kill him, store his dust away in a tiny jar, and use him to hurt others?

He gagged at the mere thought. Nothing came up, the dust firmly caught in the soft lining of his throat, the moist insides of his mouth. He desperately needed a drink. It felt like he’d tried to eat the desert and failed miserably, only dust was finer than sand. 

Sans would prefer to have a mouth full of sand. 

“Alright, little one!” His captor trilled. “I’ve made my decision. It was pretty difficult, you know- they had a lot of good suggestions.”

They walked over to the cart of dust. Sans strained to see, only for his eyes to widen in horror at the sight of a funnel.

Would that be better or worse than the spoon? It would be faster, certainly, but it would let them stuff him even fuller.

His distended stomach groaned at the thought, and Sans swallowed a whine.

He’d never been in so much pain in his life.

Sans’ captor approaches him, funnel in hand. It’s made of metal, he notes, but otherwise looks like a normal funnel, like he’d see in a kitchen.

The thought made him feel sick, but he obediently opened his mouth for it. He couldn’t exactly stop them, and he didn’t feel like having his mouth torn open or his jaw broken because he tried to resist.

He just needed to hold on. Sooner or later, they would slip up, and Sans would escape. Sans was patient. He could wait.

The funnel pressed into his mouth, the tip entering his throat. Sans gagged. It was cold and tasted like metal, like blood. It almost hurt, teetering on the wrong side of uncomfortable, but it was tolerable.

The knowledge of what was about to go down that funnel was much less tolerable.

“One-four-nine-eight,” His captor mused, opening a new jar of dust. It looked identical to the others, apart from the label. “Not much to say about this one, I’m afraid. She was another bunny, like Daisy, but she didn’t do much with her life. She was quiet, stayed out of the way, and did what she was told. Unfortunately for her, she was infertile, and that made her worthless to her community. She was one of the earliest. Her name was… hmm. Dottie, I believe.”

Sans gurgled helplessly, but his mind was racing. He…

History class. Teenage Sans, bored out of his mind, in his last year of high school, several years younger than all his classmates. Reading the textbook for fun while the teacher droned on and on. Coming across a chapter on monster culture back before they were forced Underground. A mention that bunnies had once revered fertility, and their lives revolved around having as many children as possible.

Long, long ago.

Sans felt cold. How… how long had this place been operating? Since the Barrier broke? Had it formed while the monsters were Underground? Or had it been running for even longer, since before the Barrier was even formed?

Stars, he wished he could tell if the being torturing him was a human or a monster. Either option was horrifying, but…

The numbers. Reaching up to nearly ninety thousand. The mentions of a long-dead way of thought.

They couldn’t have kidnapped, tortured, and killed that many people. That’s over twice the number of monsters in the entire underground. Maybe they’d been running this place since before the Barrier was even created, and maybe they were operating the entire time. Maybe they were only on the Surface, or only Underground, or both. Maybe they took humans and monsters.

They still couldn't have killed ninety thousand people without anyone noticing. 

Sans wanted to sob with frustration. He hated this. He hated being stuck here, crippled and tortured. He wanted the answers. He wanted them to stop hurting him. He wanted to be able to see their face. 

He wanted, he wanted, he wanted…

Dust started pouring down the funnel. Sans choked, but tried his best to swallow anyway. It would be worse if he didn’t. His full stomach ached painfully, his throat raw, his insides dry. He couldn’t breathe properly, dust filling every bit of him.

He felt sick.

More dust. More and more and more, pouring steadily down his throat. His captor calmly explaining each and every person whose corpse Sans was being forced to consume. Their numbers, their names, small tidbits about their lives. Sans tried his best to remember them, but it was a struggle, the pain and exhaustion overwhelming him. 

9871, Jayne. 38646, Lillie. 78392, Calliope. 9283, Scherea. 14984, Azare. 8419, Blaize. 5673, Amiel. 4372, Teruk.

88150, Daisy. 6148, Al. 1498, Dottie.

“This can be the last one,” Sans’ captor said, after what felt like hours. Hours of Sans gagging and choking, his stomach obscenely bloated under his zipped-up hoodie, hours of swallowing corpses, trying to remember their names.

In reality, it was likely just a few minutes. A few short minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

“This one was special to me,” they said, and Sans perked up. He needed to learn everything he could about his tormentor, to increase his chances of escaping.

And because, he had to admit, he was curious.

“Eight-seven-eight-eight-six,” they informed him, picking up the jar with a care bordering on reverence. “Ijada.” 

They pause, turning the jar over in their hands. “She was my first,” they confessed, voice hushed. “One’s first kill always leaves an impact, and I was no exception. I was… saving her.”

They unscrewed the lid of the jar, the sight of the grey powder inside making Sans nauseous. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever find any way that was special enough for her, but you…”

Sans’ tormentor tilted Sans’ chin up, dislodging some of the dust in the funnel. Sans sputtered, but they didn’t seem to care. “You’re more than special enough, Sansy.”

They tilted the jar, starting to pour into the funnel. Sans did his best to relax, but it was difficult. His stomach cramped, overly full, and he couldn’t breathe past the grains of dust blocking his nose and mouth. 

This was the last one, he reminded himself. He just needed to get through this, and then they’d be done.

But what then? What new tortures would await?

Sans’ captor had said they were starting with mild tortures. Mild apparently included crippling him and forcing him to eat the dust of other monsters. What if, after this, they moved on from mild torments? What would moderate be like? Extreme?

What could he handle? How much could he take before his soul shattered?

More dust. His stomach was groaning under the weight, the sac now expanded to fill most of the empty space between his ribs and hips. He was very, very glad his jacket was zipped up so no one could see his vulnerability…

Though it wasn’t like the tears and dust covering his face were doing anything to hide it. Sans was probably more vulnerable than he’d ever been in his life, which was saying something, considering that he was stuck in a time loop with an immortal god-child for an unknown amount of time. It could have been years, for all he knew. 

Sans couldn’t breathe.

And then, it was over. The last of the dust trickled through the funnel, sickly sweet on Sans’ tongue, and his captor gave him a mocking little pet on the shoulder before removing the funnel. “Good girl, Sansy,” they told him. Sans felt sick. This was not the kind of shit he wanted to be praised for. He’d rather be praised for like… a funny joke, or someone thinking Papyrus’ outfit looked great. Not being forcefed corpses.

“Well, I think that’s it for the dust,” his tormentor announced cheerfully. Sans hated them, at that moment, wanted to claw that stupid outfit open and rip out their soul so he could crush it with his bare hands. “We wouldn’t want our audience to get bored, after all~!”

The singsong tone was grating. How could someone be this cheerful after literally torturing someone?! Sans was disabled and filled with dust, and yet they were happy as could be.

Sans hated them.

“Onto the next request, then,” his captor said, pushing the cart full of dust over to somewhere behind Sans, well out of sight. Sans felt a bit like screaming, but it wouldn’t do any good. Fighting right now would just make it worse. He had to bide his time, wait for the right opportunity. Maybe even wait for his severed leylines to heal up a bit.

He wasn’t very strong, but he could wait. He was patient.

He had to be. 

Chapter Text

Sans’ captor scrolled through the requests, seemingly without care, leaving Sans to fidget in his bonds. Every part of him burned and ached. He was so, so full, his damaged ankles on fire, covered in dust, and it was hard to breathe.

They’d just started. Sans wasn’t sure how long it had been, but he guessed it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. Less than that, probably. It had felt like forever. 

“Wonderful,” his tormentor said, their tone deeply satisfied. “This one will be excellent.”

Then, to Sans’ surprise, they turned their attention to the cameras. “My apologies in advance if I get your request wrong. I don’t speak Portuguese, and I’m afraid our translator isn’t the best. That said, let’s get to it!”

Usually, they’d read out the request in its entirety, allowing Sans to know what was about to happen to him. This time, however, they scrutinized it for a bit.

“Here is an English translation of the first part of the request,” they finally said after a long, long moment. “Crucify him.”

Sans might be imagining it, but they sounded like they were smiling beneath the mask. 

“Of course, the full request is much longer,” they said, “but I think it’ll be better to show, not tell, for this one. That way, you won’t get spoiled on the details.”

Spoiled. Like this was a game or a movie or something, some anime, not Sans’ life. 

Somehow, it was worse not knowing what was coming. Before, he’d been told of the leyline severing, in detail. He’d been told about the dust, and though he hadn’t been told about the funnel, he’d at least had a bit to prepare. This? This was totally unknown.

Sans didn’t even know what the word meant. Crucify. It was a human word, for sure, and a harsh one. Even without the meaning, the way his captor said it made it clear it wasn’t anything good. It sounded cruel. And soon, Sans would get to experience it firsthand.

“I will go fetch everything we need,” Sans’ tormentor said, their tone almost loving. “Make sure to be a good girl and entertain our lovely guests while I’m gone, hmm?”

They gave Sans a pat on the head before he could even think to try and bite them, and then they were gone, leaving Sans alone with the pain and the cameras and the looming dread. 

He stared up at the cameras. There were so many cameras, capturing his torment from all sides, making sure all the watchers had the perfect angle to watch him no matter what.

“sick freaks,” he spat. His captor had said to be entertaining, right? Might as well try and get the people watching to feel at least a little guilty. Maybe they’d go easy on him, or even quit watching all together. Every person he scared off was one less to hurt him. “what, you get off watching people be hurt? i bet your parents are real proud of you. you’re all a bunch of cowards, hiding behind screens, letting someone else enact your sick fantasies.”

Sans stopped to breathe. The lack of response was unsettling- it was like Sans was talking to himself, only thousands of eyes were on him. “don’t you feel guilty?” he asked, and his tone came out sharper than he meant. “you are torturing someone right now. your requests are all sick. depraved. i didn’t even know people like you existed outside of fiction. you’re all monsters. every last one of you freaks.”

He had more to say. He probably could have carried on for a while, actually, telling the cruel, twisted people on the other side of the cameras exactly what he thought of them. They were torturing him. Even if they weren’t the ones holding the knife, they were allowing this to happen, encouraging it, giving their own suggestions.

But there was the sound of a door behind him, followed by a sickening scraping, and Sans went quiet. He didn’t think appealing to his captor’s sense of mercy or making them feel guilty would work. They’d already proven what a twisted soul they had.

“I’m back, little one,” his tormentor announced, sounding far too happy. “Were you a good girl for our viewers?”

Sans wanted to scream. He wasn’t a girl. Skeletons were fairly genderless, but Sans had always been firmly on the masculine side of the spectrum. He was cool with skirts and dresses and stuff, but he wouldn’t wear them on a regular basis. 

There was nothing wrong with being a girl. But Sans wasn’t one, and being repeatedly called one was frustrating and sickening. 

Were they judging him based off his pelvis or something? If so, that was really weird and creepy and gross. These people had supposedly been spying on him for potentially years- they should damn well know by now that Sans wasn’t a girl. 

At least it wasn’t quite as gross as when his torturer called him “little one”. That was just sickening.

“Oh my,” they said, abruptly drawing Sans’ attention. At some point, they’d moved over to the screen and were reading the comments.

A cold shiver of dread ran down Sans’ spine. What if the viewers told them about his little outburst? He’d just been trying to get them to feel bad about what they were doing to him, but maybe that was enough to warrant punishment.

What were they saying about him?

“You did wonderfully, little one,” his captor praised, and Sans felt his eyes widen in shock, his body tensing. “The viewers are absolutely delighted.”

Delighted? What the actual fuck?! He had cursed at them, called them depraved, sick freaks, and they were delighted?!

Stars, what was wrong with these people? Sans wanted to lash out, to scream and shout, to insult their mothers and tear out their souls, to just make all of this stop.

By sheer force of will, he held back a sob. They’d already seen him cry, but that didn’t mean he could just cry whenever he felt like it. He had to be stronger than that.

He had to keep alert, had to keep his wits about him. If he could just get the bead in his soul out…

“But we must not keep them waiting,” his captor said cheerfully. “They have asked for a crucifixion, and a crucifixion they will get!” 

“um,” Sans said, suddenly feeling small and stupid. “what’s a crucifixion?”

His captor paused, turning to look at him. “Ah. I had forgotten you wouldn’t know. Don’t worry about it, darling- you’ll find out what it entails soon. I can give a history lesson, if you’d like, but I fear it might bore our lovely viewers.”

Uh-oh. Up until now, Sans had at least understood what was going to be done to him, even if it was horrifying to know. He’d been told in advance that his leylines were going to be severed, that he’d be forcefed monster dust, that his torture would be livestreamed. But now, all he had was a word, an awful, frightening word, with no idea what was about to be done to him, and that was so much worse.

“please,” he begged meekly, a purposeful show of weakness. Maybe if he pretended to be broken, they wouldn’t try to break him further. “i don’t… i want to know what you’re going to do to me.”

“Sorry, Sansy,” his tormentor cooed. “But we’ve wasted enough time already.”

They walked around behind Sans, and Sans couldn’t help but tense as they disappeared from his line of sight. There was another awful scraping as whatever they brought in was dragged into position, sending shivers down Sans’ spine.

He’d make a joke about this being “bone-chilling”, or something, but he really wasn’t feeling up to it right now. 

Then, there was a click. Sans’ eyes widened as the manacles on the chair unlocked, and gripped tightly to the arms of the chair to avoid falling, heels burning in protest. He was free… technically. 

Sans might not be tied down, but the bead in his soul throbbed, reminding him that he was no less trapped than he had been a minute ago. 

Hands came down on him, and Sans tensed as he was grabbed by the hips and bodily lifted out of the reassembled chair, valiantly trying not to squirm. It might have eased the pressure on his ankles, but it was still scary and embarrassing to just be picked up like that!

Especially since he still didn’t have pants. That was a pretty big reason why he didn’t want to be grabbed by the hips and lifted into the air.

But of course, Sans’ captor didn’t seem to care about his comfort, setting him down a few feet away from where he had been before. Embarrassingly, Sans had to cling to them like a child, unable to keep his balance. His ankles burned like hell, the severed leylines throbbing, and it almost felt like his heels had been shortened, keeping him from standing properly.

Would he ever be able to stand properly again, even once he healed?

Luckily, they didn’t say anything about his humiliating inability to stay upright, letting Sans support himself on them as they finished up with whatever they were doing.

“Okay, honey,” they cooed, and Sans had to stop himself from grimacing in disgust at the pet name. “Let’s get you in position, hmm?”

They turned Sans around, gently positioning him with his back to something wooden. When Sans tilted his head up, out of curiosity, he was met with a horrifying sight- a splintering wooden cross loomed over him, its aged surface studded with bloody shards of broken glass. Instinctively, he tried to push away from the thing, but as soon as he put his weight onto his feet he collapsed, hitting the floor hard. 

Unwanted tears welled up, blurring his vision, but he blinked them back, staring down at the eerily smooth flooring. 

Okay. One step at a time. Sans got his legs underneath him, then, using his arms for support, managed to get himself onto his hands and knees, though he was trembling embarrassingly hard. His hoodie had ridden up a bit, but Sans couldn’t tell if he’d actually been exposed, and it wasn’t like there was anything to show, anyways. Just bone. 

“Oh, did you fall over, Sansy?” a teasing voice came from above, followed by gloved hands. Sans’ tormentor gently helped him to his feet, but instead of leaning him against the strange wooden cross, they kept a hold of him, supporting him even as he trembled from the strain. At least he was covered again now.

This whole thing was so humiliating. Hundreds, if not thousands of people had just watched him get spooked by a piece of wood, fall over, and then get picked up, and they might have also gotten a look at Sans’ bare pelvis while he was flailing around on the floor like a dumbass. 

If he could just die now that would be great, thanks. 

“what is that thing?” Sans asked, twisting to stare up at the cross again, hands fisted humiliatingly in his captor’s thick leather clothes to keep him upright. Now that he was looking, there were strange bloodstains around the top and arms of the cross, in very specific spots, along with the blood on the glass shards and the body of the cross. It looked utterly horrifying. 

What were they planning to do to him? Try as he might, Sans couldn’t understand what the purpose of this strange device might be. Were they going to throw him at it? Tie him to it somehow? Ask him to climb it?

“That is a cross,” his captor informed, sounding amused. “I’d call it a crucifix, but it isn’t one yet.”

“i don’t know what a crucifix is, ” Sans said petulantly. He was aware that he was being childish, and also that it was a very, very stupid decision, but he was tired. It felt like he didn’t know anything, and stuff was being kept from him on purpose just to make him suffer more. 

He was going to be tortured either way, anyway.

“You’ll find out in a minute,” his captor said, completely calm and unruffled. It only served to make Sans feel even more stupid, and he scowled at the ground. Really, he didn’t need to act quite so emotional. “Now, we’ve delayed more than enough.”

To Sans’ shock, his captor proceeded to pick him up again. He scrambled a bit, but he had to be careful to not accidentally lift the hem of his hoodie, and it was easy for them to press his back against the glass-studded surface of the cross.

“Normally,” they explained, calmly binding Sans to the cross, “the cross would begin in a horizontal position, to make it easier to affix you to. I have found, however, that I prefer doing it like this.”

Soon, Sans found himself securely bound, arms to the side. The bindings were strangely loose, however, and it was just rope, no chains.

He had a sinking feeling they weren’t done yet. 

Sure enough, his captor pulled on another set of gloves over the gloves they were already wearing, before picking up a set of blacksmith’s tongs. Sans squirmed, suddenly about three times more uncomfortable, only to go completely still as his tormentor proceeded to use said tongs to pick up a glowing red nail.

Sans might not be the smartest guy, but he knew that if metal was glowing red, that meant it was hot.  

“h-hey buddy,” he squeaked, watching them approach. “i dunno what you’re plannin’ on doin’ with those nails, but i’d really prefer if you didn’t-!”

They straightened out one of his legs, pressing his foot down lie flat against the wood, uncaring for the way it made Sans have to bite back a cry of pain. 

“please don’t,” he begged, tears already welling up in his eyes. His severed heel was screaming in pain, but he didn’t dare pull away. “please-!”

Sans cut himself off with a pained scream as his captor drove the hot nail into the delicate metatarsals of his foot, hammering it in deep.

It was agony. At least two of his bones felt like they’d been partially severed, but his entire foot radiated a hot, burning pain. The position was hell on his heel, as well, but they’d done a good job- the nail was in so deep that Sans couldn’t move his foot.

Distantly, he became aware that he was weeping, wailing wordlessly from the pain. More distantly, his tormentor was approaching again with another hot nail, the red glow smeared across Sans’ vision by his tears.

He started begging as they approached, trying to pull away, but either his ears weren’t working right or he was completely incoherent. Either way, they seemed not to care, simply pulling his second foot down to match the first. Sans cried out again, and as he did so, they drove the nail in and begun to hammer, each hit sending vibrations through each and every one of his bones.

It was the sort of sensation that might have been ticklish, in another situation. Sans screamed and sobbed, but quickly ran out of energy, quieting down to broken weeping.

Of course, then he saw them approaching again. “no, please,” he begged, somehow managing to sound somewhat coherent, shaking his head while tears streamed down his cheeks. “please, please stop, i- i’ll be good, i’ll do anything, anything, just please, please just stop-!”

They took his hand, turning it so it was flat against the arm of the cross, palm facing out, and pressed the nail into his metacarpals. Sans screamed again, louder this time, and immediately dissolved into broken sobs as that nail was hammered in too.

This time, he knew to expect the second one, and did his best to keep his hand away, but it was no use. His captor was clearly much stronger than him, and Sans was bound and hurt. It felt like it took no effort at all for them to move him into position, even as he begged and wept and tried his hardest to not let them do it.

The nail drove in, piercing his hand, followed by the hellish vibrations of the hammer. Sans sobbed incoherently, silently praying that was the last one. 

But his futile prayers weren’t answered, and Sans wailed as his tail was grabbed, his delicate, sensitive tail, and held against the wood of the cross as a final nail was prepared. 

“no!” he cried, straining against the nails pinning him to the cross as his thrashing tail was pinned. “no, no, please! not my tail, please-!”

His pleas were cut off by a scream as the red-hot nail sunk into his tail. Heedless of the damage it might do, Sans thrashed, wailing in agony. It burned, the pain all the worse for being in such a sensitive area.

The pain didn’t subside, but the vibrations did, allowing Sans to dissolve into broken sobs. It hurt. It really, really hurt. 

He’d never been in so much pain before. He took everything back- apparently permanent disability via leyline damage really was mild. 

Vaguely, Sans could hear his tormentor talking, but their voice was far away, distorted. A gloved hand caressed his cheek, then coaxed his mouth open. Between sobs, Sans allowed himself to be manhandled, feeling something warm dripping from his mouth. 

The burning sensation and taste of copper quickly alerted him that he’d bit his tongue, and he choked on another sob at the thought. How pathetic. Was he really that stupid? After the close call earlier, he should have remembered to desummon his tongue before he accidentally bit it, since he apparently didn’t have the self-control to keep from screaming and sobbing like a babybones. 

His tormentor cooed something, their tone sweet, and their thumb gently swept across Sans’ face, smearing blood across his zygomatic arch. Sans swallowed, tasting blood, and desummoned his tongue, feeling ashamed. 

“Are you back with us, Sansy?” they asked, cupping his head with both their hands. 

“...if i say no, do i get a break?” Sans quipped hoarsely. It was probably a bad idea, but he wasn’t really running on all cylinders right now. 

Fortunately, his captor seemed amused, letting out a light chuckle. “I fear not, my dear,” they said softly. “I’m already being quite generous, you know.”

Their hands dropped from Sans’ face, leaving Sans feeling oddly cold, and they took a few steps back. “Now, sweetheart, I’m afraid our request is incomplete,” they informed. Their voice was gentle, but it hit Sans like a truck. “Crucifying you was merely the first part of the request.”

Sans froze, swallowing hard. His mouth was dry and sticky with blood, which only made him feel worse. He’d… well, he’d kinda assumed he’d just be left to hang here for a bit before the next torture. 

Did that mean they were going to let him down, or were they going to keep hurting him while he was like this? 

Sans shot a wary glance at the nails keeping him pinned. If he struggled, it might cause additional damage. He couldn’t see the damage from this angle, but he was sure it was bad. The radiating pain made it hard to tell, but he knew the one in his tail had pierced straight through the bone, while the ones in his hands had hopefully gone between his metacarpals. 

If his hands broke… well. He’d already lost partial use of his feet, between the nails piercing his bones and his severed heels. Escape would be a lot harder without his hands.

At least he’d be able to hide the disfigurement, Sans thought grimly. His habit of wearing mittens was more for convenience than anything, but it was going to come in handy.

Hopefully, the rest of the injuries he got here would be just as easy to hide. Sans might have to use a cane for the rest of his life, or else just teleport everywhere, but he could still live with this. 

“what… what are you going to do to me?” Sans asked, keeping his voice steady. He couldn’t help the small waver to it, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. 

His tormentor shifted, tapping something on the screen. “Hmm. Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you. Our dear viewer has made four requests in total. The first, of course, was to crucify you. The second… well, I’m having trouble deciding what to do next.”

Sans felt a cold shiver run down his spine. That didn’t sound good. 

“We’re going to be saving the second request, for the moment,” his captor continued brightly. “We have an entire segment dedicated to that, which we can start after we are done with the crucifixion.”

“But until then…” they tapped a couple more times on the screen. “I’ll be doing both of these, of course, but I’m unsure of which to do first.”

They tilted their head, and Sans could hear the smile in their voice as they asked the cameras, “So, do you all think we should start by piercing his femur with a screwdriver, or pulling out his fingertips?”

Chapter Text

Sans’ eyes widened. He didn’t like either option. 

Unwillingly, he glanced over at his hands. What did they mean by pulling out his fingertips? Sans was a skeleton- he didn’t have any nails to remove, which was the easy option. The only other options he could think of were somehow splitting the bone to remove some shards- or, worse, just cutting off his distal phalanges.

He really, really didn’t want them to do that. Sans needed his hands! How was he going to escape without them?

Not only that, but life afterwards would be significantly more difficult if he was missing a third of his phalanges. Not impossible, no, but inconvenient, for sure. Sans could teleport to get around, but he didn’t have magic hands or anything. 

(The thought sparked something in him, but he pushed it down.)

“And the viewers have spoken!” His captor said brightly. The cheer in their voice grated on Sans’ nerves, making him scowl at their shrouded figure. 

He really didn’t understand how someone could be so bright and cheerful while torturing another. It just solidified his guess that this must be a human- no monster could ever take pleasure in hurting another. Ever. 

“It looks like the screwdriver’s going first,” they continued, their tone still infuriatingly bright. “This one should be quick, so we can move right on to removing his fingertips afterwards!”

Sans shuddered. At least he wasn’t human, he thought grimly. Being stabbed in the femur would hurt like a bitch, but it wouldn’t be life-threatening, like it could be for humans. 

He watched silently as his tormentor rummaged through a box he somehow hadn’t noticed earlier. Had that been dragged in recently, or had it always been there, and he’d just somehow overlooked it?

He didn’t know, and that scared him, just a little. 

Finally, they pulled out a screwdriver. Sans scrutinized it closely, but it didn’t seem rusty, and he didn’t see any dust or anything. It looked like a perfectly ordinary, well-maintained screwdriver.

Somehow, that was more unnerving than if it was rusty. Weren’t they trying to hurt him as much as possible? He was expecting there to be, like, shards of broken glass glued onto it or something, or for it to be covered in dust, but it was just a normal, ordinary screwdriver, like any other. 

There was probably one just like it in the home Sans shared with his brother.

Sans pushed the thought away as fast as he could, drawing in a deep breath as his tormentor approached him, screwdriver in hand. The screwdriver was one of the ones with a cross-shaped head. How ironic, considering his current position. 

Despite his attempt to stay calm, an icy shock of fear ran through him at the sight. 

He expected his tormentor to just stab him, but to his surprise, the screwdriver was very gently set against his femur, then adjusted. Sans glanced up at the cameras- was the adjustment for better visibility, or just to make it hurt more?

Before he had any real time to ponder, they pressed, twisting the screwdriver like they were trying to screw in a particularly stubborn screw. Sans gritted his teeth, watching little flakes of bone dust chip off and fall to the ground. 

It was better than being stabbed. Probably. That didn’t keep it from hurting, though, the screwdriver being slowly driven into his bones, grinding into him.

His captor must be pretty strong. It couldn’t be easy to pierce through solid bone with nothing but a screwdriver, even though Sans was pretty delicate. Brittle bone was still bone, after all, and the femur was the strongest bone in the body.

And yet, they showed no sign of strain, methodically screwing deeper and deeper. The screwdriver was only a few centimeters in by now- in fact, part of the head was still visible. Still, that was something in his bone, and Sans looked away, feeling mildly queasy. 

Then- a soft cracking noise, accompanied by a jolt of pain. Sans flinched, wincing as the movement pulled at the nails embedded in his palms, and stared down at his femur, his heart racing with a silent, horrified terror. 

Little cracks were starting to form around the hole, spreading wider as the screwdriver dug deeper. 

“wait wait wait!” he cried, squirming in his restraints as he tried to get away from the screwdriver. “wait, stop, you’re going to- stop!”

Sans almost didn’t hear the crack over his own cries. This one was louder, and he twisted in his restraints, heedless of the damage he was probably doing to himself, just desperately trying to get his leg free before the bone split apart. “stop!”

He wasn’t expecting his tormentor to listen, but they did, pulling the screwdriver away. Sans gasped helplessly for breath, staring down at his leg. There was a small hole, about the size of the head of the screwdriver or maybe a little bigger, a few centimeters deep, blood bubbling out of it. Small cracks spiderwebbed out from it- as well as a long, ugly crack running down the grain, splitting his femur down to the marrow… which he knew, because he could see it.

For a moment, he thought he was going to faint. He could see inside his bone. His tormentor had fucking split his starsdamned leg apart. It was probably sheer luck he still had a leg- if Sans wasn’t a living being with blood vessels and stuff, his brittle bones might have shattered from the stress.

Then, the feeling passed, and all the pain hit at once. Sans sagged in his bindings, registering the tears dripping down his cheeks and blurring his vision, the blinding pain in his palms, tail, ankles, and heels, the stuffed ache of his overfull gut, and the agonizing split in his femur all at the same time. 

He gasped out a harsh sob before he managed to regain control of himself, breathing ragged as he forced himself to remain still.

“t-thank you,” he rasped. It grated on him, to thank his captor for hurting him, but honestly… they hadn’t had to stop. They could have kept going until his entire femur broke and became useless. It was already clear they had no problem with disabling him- that had been the first thing they’d done, after all.

“Oh, you’re so polite, Sansy,” his captor cooed. They sounded pleased, almost satisfied, and Sans had to repress a shudder of disgust.

Wanting to distract himself, he looked over to the side, at his hands. The angle made it kinda hard to see, but the holes in his palms looked bigger and more ragged, steadily oozing blood. Oof. That… kinda sucked. Sans had bigger issues right now, though.

He swallowed back the bile-like magic in his throat. If he puked right now, he’d just end up covered in dust and magic. It would just make things worse.

“Anyway, that’s that part of the request done,” his captor said brightly. “Now, we’ll move on to the next part of the request, with the final part being saved for later.”

Sans’ eyes focused on their hands. He didn’t know when it had happened, but they had switched out the bloodied screwdriver for a sharp knife. Just like the screwdriver had been, it was clean and neat, a shiny silver. Honestly, it looked brand new.

He had to wonder if they bought new tools just for him.

“Since skeletons don’t have fingernails, as was aptly pointed out,” his captor continued, “I had to make a decision. So, we will be removing his distal phalanges instead. I considered splitting the top portions off, instead, which would be a milder option, but decided the risk of further splitting would be too great.”

They approached Sans, gently spreading the fingers on his right hand. Sans let them, his breathing quickening, knowing there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t clench his fists, or he’d risk tearing his palms open, and his captor would still be able to reach him.

“please don’t,” he begged, feeling his fingers twitch at the thought. “i… please, i-i can’t, i can’t take it anymore, please… please don’t cut my- hmmm-!”

His captor didn’t even wait for him to finish pleading. They took his hand, pressing it flat against the cross, and raised the blade.

It was sharp enough that, at first, Sans didn’t even feel the cut. Just a strange, dead feeling, the sudden lack of sensation in the tip of his finger.

Then the pain hit. Sans clenched his jaw tight, biting back a shriek at the sudden, sharp pain radiating from his severed finger. It burned, hot and throbbing, and he strained to look but his vision was blurred with tears.

His vision wasn’t too blurred to keep him from seeing the knife come down again, though, and he flinched, fingers instinctively curling up. 

The blade sunk through his bone like butter… and the bone under that. This time, Sans couldn’t hold back his cry, and his captor pulled back.

Sans gasped weakly for breath, feeling hot tears slide down his cheeks. Fuck, he was so stupid. Why did he flinch? He should have known better- should have realized his finger wasn’t being held down tightly enough, that their captor’s grip had loosened when they’d swung, should have had the self-control to just stay still for five starsdamned seconds. 

“Well. That was unexpected,” his tormentor said, spreading Sans’ hand out so they could inspect the damage. “To anyone who couldn’t see, our darling Sans flinched, and I accidentally cut a bit too much off. Not to worry, though- it will mostly be cosmetic, in the end.”

Cosmetic? They said that like the fact that it wouldn’t scar as pretty meant anything. Sans couldn’t care less about what he looked like right now- they were chopping off parts of his hands! 

If they kept going like this, there’d be nothing left of him. 

Sans repressed a sob as the next finger was stretched and pinned, his captor being noticeably more careful this time.

The blade came down again. Sans’ breath hitched, and he gave into the impulse to squeeze his eyes shut, breath coming harsh and ragged.

Three fingers down. Only seven more to go. Sans could take this- he had to. He wasn't going to scream, or cry, or faint. 

With his eyes now shut, Sans felt even more sensitive, overly aware of how close his tormentor was standing, the air brushing over his severed bones, the way he could feel drops of liquid dripping down his hands, the burning, throbbing pain from all the places he’d been hurt, the dust coating his mouth. 

Once more, the blade came down, and Sans clenched his teeth so hard his mandible hurt, a sharp hiss of breath escaping him. Four down. He could do this.

Again. Halfway there, now, and hot tears were dripping down his face, even as he squeezed his eyes shut to try and stop it. 

There was a brief pause, his captor’s footprints heavy against the floor as they walked around him to take hold of his other hand.

“Hmm. You’re left-handed,” they said idly as they pinned his first finger down. It wasn’t a question. No surprise there- if they’d really been watching Sans, it would be easy to tell. “This one will be harder for you, then.”

With that, they cut down. This side hurt more, and Sans hazily wondered why that was. 

Once more, and Sans fucked up again- the pain was sharper than he expected, and he stupidly, foolishly, arched his back in sheer dumb instinct.

He’d forgotten about the broken glass embedded into the cross. As he arched, his shoulders and hips pressed back, and he felt a sudden, sickening pop, sharp pain radiating from his freshly-punctured stomach.

Sans gasped frantically for breath as dust started trickling out of him, eyes snapping open. His hoodie must have ridden up- either that or the glass had been long enough to pierce through it.

His captor tutted, but sounded more amused than anything. “Oh dear,” they cooed. “How careless.”

They grabbed Sans by the hips and pulled. The glass slid out of him, allowing more dust to flow from the hole. Sans could feel himself deflating, and the sensation was honestly nauseating. 

“What a pity,” his captor mused, letting him go. The places they’d touched burned. “I had hoped to keep you full a while longer. You do look good like this, though, so I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

Forgive him? Forgive him?! Sans hadn’t done it on purpose! 

“what,” he snarled, rage temporarily overtaking the pain, “only you can hurt me?”

“Not at all, darling,” his captor cooed. “Hurt yourself as much as you’d like.”

They stepped back, knife in hand. There was dust on their fingers, and Sans’ eyes drifted to the ground but he didn’t spot any loose fingertips. Was that a good thing? It meant this freak couldn’t collect his bones to store in jars like some sort of demented trophies, but on the other hand, Sans wouldn’t put it past this guy to feed Sans his own remains. 

“But we do still have three fingers left,” they continued cruelly. “I’m afraid you hurting yourself doesn’t change that.”

Sans’ tormentor approached him again, pinning down his hand. Sans didn’t even fight them this time, wary of causing even more damage to himself. Twice now he’d flinched, and twice now he’d ended up hurt from it.

Just three left. Just three. Sans could handle this.

Heh. Handle. Because his hands were being mangled.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that funny. 

Sans let his finger be pinned down, focusing on anything but his far-too-close captor. He didn’t tense. Didn’t thrash. Just breathed, as calm and even as he could, ignoring the shakiness. 

Searing pain shot through Sans’ hand as another fingertip was severed. Sans drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling hot blood trail down his right wrist.

He didn’t know why his tormentor hadn’t used a heated knife this time. Maybe because they didn’t care to seal up the wounds, or because leylines weren’t involved, or maybe they just wanted to see Sans bleed.

If it was the last one, they were probably disappointed. They’d cut between the bones, so no blood vessels had been affected apart from the one finger where Sans had flinched. Even then, the blood was minimal, a few drops at most.

The blood from his pierced palms was more substantial. The heated nails had cauterized the initial injuries, but Sans’ flinching and thrashing had torn the bone open, hot blood leaking down his wrists. Not enough to be dangerous, but enough to be distracting. 

Another sharp pain. Another finger lost. Sans only had one fingertip left now, and he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved it was almost over or terrified of what may happen next. Shameful tears were still leaking down his face, as hot as the blood spilling from his bones. 

This was absolutely humiliating. Sans hadn’t cried in months, if not years, and he’d only been here for a few hours at max and he’d cried several times already, unable to stop it. 

At least they were mostly reflexive tears.

The knife came down one last time. Sans tolerated the sharp, searing pain, drawing in a hitching breath.

It was over. But what was next?

Sans didn’t want to know.

His captor pulled back. Sans’ eyes fixed on the sharp knife in their hand, blade stained with grainy blood.

Grainy from dust. Sans’ dust.

Sans shuddered at the thought, then shuddered again as they began talking. “All done, sweetheart. You were such a good girl for me,” they cooed.

The knife in their hand tapped against the padding of their gloves in a movement that seemed idle but was as calculated as everything else. “Do you want down?”

Chapter Text

Sans froze. He felt his eyes widen in surprise, but couldn’t muster up the energy to hide his reaction. “what?” he croaked. His voice was a little hoarse, rough around the edges, and he could still taste the sickly-sweet taste of dust. 

“I figured I might as well offer you a choice,” Sans’ tormentor said sweetly. “Since you’ve had so few lately. Do you want me to let you off the cross?”

Sans hesitated. He knew this was a trap. It had to be. But at the same time… Sans was in agony. He was pinned and helpless and dripping blood and dust everywhere, and he desperately wanted to be able to move again. 

It was a trap. But…

“yes,” Sans said, voice barely louder than a whisper.

He couldn’t see his captor’s face, but he could hear the smile in their voice as they praised him, using that hated nickname again.

If Sans ever got the chance, he was biting this creep hard enough to crack their bones.

For the moment, however, Sans was still helpless, so he just watched in silence as his tormentor reached over to their box of tools to select a pair of pliers. Just like everything else they’d used on him, the tool looked brand new, untouched and shiny.

They approached him without much fanfare, and Sans spared a glance for the cameras positioned everywhere. After all the drama of the introduction, Sans had assumed there’d be a lot of theatrics, but apart from some comments and explanations, their captor had been practically ignoring all their oh-so-important viewers. 

If Sans hadn’t seen all those comments, he would have thought this was all made up as an excuse to torment him.

Then again, the comments could be fake, but…

Sans’ instincts didn’t often lead him astray, and everything in him was insisting this was real. Far, far too real. 

Dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands of people all watching him be humiliated and tortured.

Sans’ captor gently took hold of the nail in Sans’ tail, catching his attention, and Sans belatedly realized what letting him go meant before they yanked, and his vision whited out as a blinding pain shot through him.

When Sans came back to himself, he was gasping for breath, the shock fading to a dull, painful throb in his tail. It must have only been a few seconds, because his captor was only just moving to grasp one of the nails in Sans’ feet. 

He barely had time to brace himself before the next nail was tugged out. His head cracked against the wood of the cross behind him, but Sans was a bit too busy being in pain to care. Skeletons couldn’t get concussions, anyway. 

The next nail was pulled out without warning, and Sans’ breath hissed out of him. With his lower half free, he gratefully moved his feet to an easier position, the strain on his mutilated heels easing even as his full weight hung from his bloodied palms.

To his horror, he had to fight off the urge to thank his captor as the pliers were brought to his hand. Two nails left, and then Sans would be free. 

Well. Free from this damned cross, anyway. Or would it be a crucifix now? Sans was a bit foggy on the details, seeing as he was being tortured and all. 

The pliers set against his hand and pulled. Sans gasps in a mixture of pain and shock as he dropped, his entire body suddenly hanging from one nail driven through his palm.

Against his will, he yelped, feet skittering as he tried to ease some of the weight on his hand. A soft, amused chuckle came from above him, and the last nail was pulled out.

His captor stepped back, allowing Sans to crumple to the ground in a bloodied heap of bone. He spat out some dust, having forgotten about his punctured stomach, and weakly pushed himself up onto his elbows, staring dazedly up at his tormentor.

“What do you say, Sansy?” they teased. It took Sans a moment to figure out what they were asking for, and he swallowed hard, tipping his head back to look at the dark void covering their face.

“thank you,” he murmured hoarsely. The dust grains scraped uncomfortably against his numerous wounds, but he tried his best not to let on to his discomfort.

“Good girl,” they praised. Sans’ insides twisted with disgust, and he dropped his gaze from their hidden face. “Now, I have to go fetch something for the next request. You stay here and behave, alright?”

Sans’ eyes darted up to look at his captor again, but their cloaked form revealed nothing. Was this a trap? Why was he being left alone? Were they that confident that he couldn’t run away?

“a-alright,” he agreed, repressing the urge to cough. The dust inside him sat heavily, though it was thankfully much better.

He just wished it wasn’t because his stomach had been punctured by broken glass. Broken glass that had been bled on, no less. 

Very carefully, he listened as his torturer walked away, hardly daring to breathe. As soon as he heard the door close, he twisted, staring at it. It was securely closed, but he hadn’t heard it lock.

Sans hunched over himself, listening as his captor’s heavy bootprints got quieter and quieter, then, when he had to strain to hear, summoned his soul.

He hated doing this here, in front of what could very well be thousands of strangers, but if he wanted to get out of here, he didn’t have a choice. He had to suck it up.

Carefully, he pulled the dim, pulsing thing closer. The bead in the middle was tiny, pure white, and if Sans had a normal soul it would have been nearly impossible to spot. 

As it was, he found it easily, and clumsily used the bloody stumps of what was left of his phalanges to spread open the bells, cringing at the sickening feeling of blood on his soul. At least phalanges didn’t bleed much, but the blood from his palms was getting everywhere.

Really, this was a ridiculous amount of blood. There wasn’t even a ton of it, but it was getting everywhere, smears of red oozing onto his cracked soul as he fumbled with it, spreading it open.

Sans drew in a deep, steadying breath, trying to ignore how shaky it was, and plunged two fingers into his soul. 

It hurt. Sans had always been sensitive, sometimes distressingly so, and he wasn't bothering to be careful. His soul throbbed in protest of the harsh treatment, but he pressed on. His fingers were shorter than he was used to, and he had to press them deep, fumbling around inside his frantically fluttering soul for the bead. 

He was smearing blood all over his insides, and the sight made him feel sick. Still, he pressed on, driven by the frantic need to escape.

The bead kept slipping out of his reach, his newly-shortened phalanges not meant for grabbing things and also blood-slicked and overly sensitive. 

Tears blurred up in Sans’ eyes, but he roughly blinked them back. He couldn’t afford to cry right now. After he got out of here, he could cry all he wanted, but right now, he had a job to do, and he wasn’t going to waste time feeling sorry for himself and crying like a child. 

Finally, he managed to pinch the bead between his phalanges. Holding it tight enough to hurt, he pulled his fingers back, the path slicked with blood.

It came out with a sickening little pop, and he discarded it in the dust at the bottom of the cross he’d been tied to, taking a deep breath. He didn’t feel much different, but he still felt eased, the persistent feeling of wrongness he’d barely even noticed fading away as he dismissed his soul.

Sure, Sans was weak, tired, hungry, bleeding, and disabled, but at least he had his magic back.

As if it had never been taken away, Sans summoned a bone. Long, thick, the perfect size for him to support himself on. He could feel the drain on his magic, which was already low from the mistreatment, but he didn’t care. He needed out.

Slowly, painfully, Sans dragged himself to his feet… and immediately collapsed, gasping for breath. Pained tears welled up in his eyes, and Sans couldn’t resist the broken sob that tore out of him. Fuck. 

That hurt. And it wasn’t just his ankles, or the bloody holes in his metatarsals, but his leg.

Somehow, in all the pain and chaos of the last few minutes, he’d forgotten about his fucking leg. Sans glared down at it… then immediately looked away, swallowing down bile. He’d forgotten just how bad it looked, the bone cracked and split apart down to the marrow, steadily weeping blood. 

And apparently, it was completely unable to take weight. That was… a problem. Sans normally had an excellent sense of balance, but right now he could barely move, let alone balance on one foot, especially with his heel severed and a hole in his metatarsals. 

Maybe he could crawl? But no, that would still hurt, and even if he laid flat and just used his arms, his hands were mutilated too. And he’d have to drag his legs.

Okay. Standing it was. It was alright- he’d already made a crutch, and he could just use that. He’d make more bones to support himself, but he was almost out of magic and needed a reserve so he could defend himself. 

Once more, slower this time, Sans dragged himself to his feet, wrapping his mutilated fingers around the knob of bone. Then, very belatedly, realized he could make a second one. It was a bit of a strain, his magic protesting, but he managed it. Somehow.

He tucked one bone under each shoulder, creating a pair of makeshift crutches. It still hurt, of course it did, but this way he didn’t have to hold on as tightly, and he could put less weight on his mutilated limbs. 

Hesitantly, he planted both bones on the ground, bloodied phalanges wrapped tight around them, and took a step. He kept his left leg tucked up, and very carefully did not point his toes, taking another step immediately so his feet were on the ground and taking his weight as little as possible.

Okay. He could do this. Sans wasn’t a child- he could handle a bit of pain. It wasn’t that bad, anyway, he was just being whiny. 

(Just missing ten bones and with his leylines partially severed, dripping blood from broken bones and his femur split down to the marrow, stuffed with corpse dust)

Sans swallowed hard, pushing away the thoughts, and set out for the door. It wasn’t far, but exhaustion made it seem further, as did the cameras. It felt like thousands of eyes were on him, silent and judgemental, watching his every move to report back to his captor.

The thought made him shudder, and he limped faster, desperate to get out of here before they returned to hurt him further. He didn’t doubt he’d be severely punished for trying to escape.

It was probably mere seconds before he reached the door, which was a bright, bloody red to match the walls, the knob standing out. It was a surprisingly normal doorknob, round and unadorned, shiny enough that he could see his own face reflected back at him.

For a moment, he didn’t recognize himself, his eyes wide and wild, the darkness beneath them deep and shocking, blood and dust smeared around his mouth. He’d never seen himself look quite so desperate before, and the frantic tilt to his expression made him feel almost ill, off-kilter.

Ignoring it, along with everything else, Sans let go of one of the bones holding him up, reaching for the knob with his right hand. The angle was awkward; he was used to using his left hand for things, but that one was busy holding him up, so he’d just have to deal with it.

The first time, his hand slipped right off, leaving bright smears of blood behind. Sans stared at it, his reflection marred and distorted, and shuddered, trying again. This time, he managed to maneuver the stumps of his fingers to actually grab onto the knob, bracing and turning.

He hadn’t been expecting it to actually work. Even if the door wasn’t locked, he’d figured it would be blocked in some way, or it was actually locked and just didn’t click, but the knob turned easily.

Of course, the damn door opened inwards, so Sans had to hop backwards to avoid being smacked by it, internally cursing. He’d have cursed externally as well, but he was still very aware of all the cameras on him, and he was weak enough as it was. No need to let all the evil fucking stalkers watching him know just how badly this was affecting him.

Somehow, he managed to actually keep his balance and not fall on his ass- which was great, not just because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get back up, and because he still didn’t have anything other than a hoodie.

Really, modesty should be the last thing to be concerned about while trying to escape a torture facility, but Sans was an idiot, apparently. Especially since he was sure that, between all the cameras, everyone had probably gotten an excellent look at his bare pelvis. There was no reason to care about it, but he still felt sick at the thought, shame bubbling up inside him. 

Swallowing hard, Sans pushed the thoughts away, adjusting his grip on the bones he was using for crutches. They were slick, though he wasn’t sure if it was from sweat or blood, and he held on tighter, knowing he couldn’t afford to drop them. He was quickly getting more and more tired, and if he fell…

Refusing to think any more on that, Sans limped out into the hallway. Holding his leg up was quickly getting tiring, but being tired was better than writhing on the floor in pain.

The hallway was simple, dark stone, surprisingly wide and brightly-lit. Empty, too. There was no one but Sans, no carts of torture instruments, nothing but doors. 

Lots and lots of doors. Sans found himself staring at the door across from the one he’d just gone through, wondering if there was someone else in there, being tortured, or if it was full of more things for him to be tortured with.

His soul ached, but he turned away. He couldn’t help anyone in the state he was in; all he could do was get out of here and tell the guard where this place was. Or the police. Or both. Just anyone who could shut this hellhole down.

Sans walked. And walked. And walked. Was he even getting anywhere? This hallway never seemed to end, and he was getting more tired with each step, shaking so hard he could barely hold onto his makeshift crutches. His vision was blurring with tears, and the blood on his hands was drying, flaking off to leave an obvious trail behind him. 

He was sure he was being followed, but whenever he looked back, the halls were empty. Sometimes, he thought he could see the shine of cameras by the ceiling, but whenever his head snapped around, there was never anything there.

Maybe he was just paranoid, but he swore he could feel eyes on him. 

But if they were watching him, surely someone would have stopped him by now. Sans was in no state to fight- it would be fairly easy for someone to find and apprehend him.

He kept pushing on. Step by step, even as he got slower and slower, as the hope drained from him. The hallway never turned, but it felt like he was going in endless circles, no escape in sight. Had he even got anywhere? Maybe he’d only made it a few doors down. There was no way of knowing which door he’d came from.

Maybe the exit had been through one of the doors he’d ignored.

Sans took another step, and the bones he was using to support himself dissolved. He hit the ground with a sickening thump, and barely held back a scream as his split femur started bleeding again.

Dumbstruck, he stared at the ground, at the fresh red spreading, at his mutilated hands, the sight blurred by tears. Without thought, he tried to rise, but his knees buckled, at their limit, and he collapsed once more. The harsh stone of the flooring scraped against his bones, and it was that tiny, little pain that broke him.

Sans curled up, tight, protective, right where he was, not even bothering to try any of the doors or even scooch over to the wall, and started crying. Hot, humiliating tears poured down his face as he silently shook, trying his best to hold back the pained whimpers emanating from his chest. 

He was so tired. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours at most, but it felt like he’d been here for days, going from torture to torture without pause, being teased and tormented by a nameless, faceless stranger while thousands of people watched and made suggestions for what to do to him next. 

Stars, he hoped no one was getting off to his pain. That was so messed up on so many levels he didn’t even want to think about it. 

Repressing the urge to gag, Sans wrenched his thoughts away, curling up tighter. His repressed sobs were starting to hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to cry any louder than he was, his soul fluttering with either pain or panic.

He couldn’t tell. He just wanted to be done. Whether it was by death or escape, he didn’t care, he just wanted out. Sans was stressed, exhausted, and in more pain than he’d ever been in, and he just wanted a fucking break-

Distant footsteps sounded through the hallway, and Sans tensed up but didn’t move, soul pounding harder. He was too tired to run any more. For fuck’s sake, he couldn’t even stop crying, hiccuping sobs wracking his trembling form.

“Oh, sweetheart,” his tormentor cooed, the footsteps slowing as they got closer. “Did you get lost, Sansy?”

Sans nodded, feeling very small and childish. Lost. Sure. That was one way to put it. It wasn’t like Sans had dug the bead out of his soul and dragged himself all the way here on bloody crutches.

His captor knelt beside him, and before Sans knew it, they scooped him up into their arms. They were a lot bigger than him, or maybe it just felt like they were, the leather bulking them out. 

They were definitely strong, though, able to easily hold Sans without even a hint of strain. 

And warm. Shamefully, Sans found himself almost cuddling into their arms, seeking comfort just as much as warmth. He was still shaking, trembling like a scared animal, a pathetic mess of blood and tears. 

He shouldn’t be letting this happen. Should be fighting, screaming, yelling, running, should have hid when he heard them or at least tried a fucking door or something, anything other than lying still and pliant in his kidnapper’s arms as they carried him through the halls.

“c’n i have a break?” Sans asked tearily, hating the wobble in his voice despite the fact that it was likely just helping his cause. The more pathetic he looked, the more likely they’d be to take pity on him, right? “please?”

His captor chuckled quietly. “You need a break, little one?” they teased, surprisingly soft. Their grip was gentle as they cradled Sans, keeping him secure and comforting him in equal measures.

Sans felt a bit trapped, but he didn’t want to fight back right now. Mercy. He wanted mercy. 

“yeah,” he rasped out in a whisper, trying to ignore the disgusted twist in his gut at the diminutive nickname. If this asshole tried to make him act like a child or something, Sans was going to puke all over their fancy boots. 

“Alright,” they agreed, voice fond and soft. Entirely against his will, Sans twisted in their arms, but the black void covering their face was as unreadable as ever, giving him nothing to work with.

He didn’t even dare question it, though he wanted to. Knowing this twisted place, a “break” would involve being locked in a small box and crushed, or the room flooding, or being bound in some horrible position and left there, or something equally cruel. 

Sans was completely and utterly certain that a place like this would never give him a break. 

That didn’t stop him from asking for one, though, like an utterly pathetic weakling. He knew any breaks would just be an excuse to torment him further, and yet he still begged for one, and now he was letting his torturer carry him around like a child. A worthless, useless child.

“t-thank you,” he murmured anyway, voice still quivering. Sans hadn’t even screamed that much- his throat had no reason to feel so terrible. Just more signs of how weak he was.

Maybe that’s why they took Sans- not because they loved him, like they said, but because he was weak. Even with his magic, he couldn’t fight back, couldn’t escape. They’d easily disabled him, and even if they hadn’t, Sans would probably have failed anyway.

More hot tears welled up in his eyes, and he halfheartedly tried to blink them back before giving up and just burying his face in his captor’s shoulder. The leather was cool, surprisingly thick and smooth.

Sans couldn’t tell at all who or what might be beneath. If his captor was monster or human, warm or cold. Just the thick, enchanted armor, blocking off everything. He could hear them breathing, though, calm and steady, not strained in the slightest. 

He strained to hear their heartbeat, but the armor was too thick. There was nothing.

Okay. Sans’ hearing wasn’t the best, anyway- it’d be pretty unlikely for him to be able to figure out who kidnapped him based on their breathing patterns and heartbeat. If he heard their voice elsewhere, he’d immediately know, but that was only if they weren’t doing anything to change their voice.

Stars, why was he even doing this? Sans wasn’t getting out of here- there was no fucking point in gathering clues to identify his kidnapper later! He was observant, sure, but he wasn’t a detective or anything. 

Besides, anything he might gather would be useless. Voice, height, general build, breathing pattern- all useless. They might be using a voice changer. They might have lifts in their boots to make them taller. They might be using enchantments or magic to hide their shape. They could be a shapeshifter. Hell, they might even be a shapeless monster squashed into humanoid armor. And he was pretty sure no one in all of history had ever been identified by the way they breathed alone.

More useless tears sprung to Sans’ eyes, and he pressed himself harder against his captor, smushing his face into their armor. At least they hadn’t broken his skull yet, he thought, almost hysterically. By the time they were done with him, there’d probably be nothing left.

He was already down ten bones, after all. Sans was a skeleton- he didn’t exactly have a lot of bones to spare. If he lost ten bones a day… he’d be dead in less than a month.

The thought made him shudder, and he hoped his tormentor would think he was still crying.

They wouldn’t be wrong- hot, humiliating tears were still leaking down his dusty cheeks, his body shaking with silent sobs. 

“We’re almost there, darling,” they cooed, voice as soft and indulgent as ever. Sans hated that, hated them, hated that they used the exact same tone to comfort him and torment him. “You’re being such a good girl for me.”

Sans pressed his face deeper into their shoulder and pretended he didn’t want to vomit. Were they trying to feminize him or infantilize him? He didn’t like either option! 

If they were doing either, though, he really hoped for the former. 

…he’d prefer neither. He’d really, really prefer neither. 

“Here we are, love,” his tormentor cooed, and Sans heard the sound of a door opening. Against his will, he shuddered, curling the bloody stumps of what was left of his fingers around their armor as he was carried back into the red room.

To his surprise, he wasn’t locked back up or put in some torturous device, his captor simply setting him on the ground. They were even thoughtful enough to put him in a position where he wasn’t putting pressure on any of his injuries.

It didn’t stop them from hurting, of course, but when Sans looked, he’d mostly stopped bleeding, though there were still sickening smears of drying blood all over his dust-covered bones. 

He felt sick. More than anything, right now, he wanted a bath, or a shower, anything to get the corpses off of him. 

“Alright, Sansy,” his captor said. “I have to go fetch an item for the next request. You stay here and be a good girl for me, okay?”

“okay,” Sans agreed, quiet and despondent. What else could he do? He was trapped. 

His soul throbbed, quietly reminding him that, if nothing else, he still had his magic. And better yet, his torturer hadn’t seen him use it. 

Maybe, just maybe, he had a chance.

Chapter Text

Sans waited a few minutes after the sound of his tormentor’s footsteps faded away to lift his head, looking around the room. The cross was gone, whisked away as if it had never been there, the holes in Sans’ palms and feet the only testament to its existence. 

The floor was clean, surprisingly so, and Sans let his gaze drift across the floor, searching for the tiny white bead he’d removed from his soul.

He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not when he couldn’t find it- it could mean that it was swept up and thrown away with the trash… or that it was currently in his captor’s pocket, ready to be used at any time. 

Idly, he rubbed at his chest, grimacing at the pain. He hated referring to people’s dust as trash, but to these people, that’s all it was. Not the sacred remnants of living beings, but garbage to be swept up and thrown away.

Sans looked away before he made himself sick, scanning the rest of the room. The cameras were still present, the cart of tools pushed to one side, and the monitor turned away from him. Other than that, it was empty… apart from the chair. It had been rearranged back into its original configuration, the manacles glinting ominously in the red light. 

He swallowed hard. Was he going to be put back there? It was better than that damned cross, but he still hated it. Hated everything about it.

It was probably better than if they got creative about it- Sans could think of a lot of truly disturbing ways to make him stay still. He’d rather have the manacles.

For now, he stayed on the ground where he’d been put, not going for the door, not even trying to turn the monitor around, trying his best to look meek and broken. The hole in his cracked femur was still sluggishly bleeding and he was violently trembling, which probably helped.

Roughly, he wiped away the last of his tears and sat up as he heard his captor’s footsteps returning, putting on a performance that felt much, much more real than he wanted it to be. 

He just needed time. The bead was gone, but Sans’ magic was dangerously low- low enough that he couldn’t even summon a bone. Teleporting blindly was dangerous- he didn’t know how big this place was, and the chance of clipping through a wall or getting stuck somewhere were much, much higher than he’d like. 

But he could teleport down the hall, at least a little bit, as far as he’d gotten before. If he waited long enough, restored enough magic, he could just keep teleporting as far as he could see. It would be faster, and safer, and he wouldn’t have to walk on his screaming, bloody heels. 

…well, okay, there wasn’t much blood. What blood there was had already dried, and there hadn’t been a huge amount in the first place. It had felt like a lot when it was dripping over him, though, when it was leaking hotly down his bones and leaving a trail of rust behind him.

He couldn’t help bleeding. But tears were magic. If he could just keep himself from crying, he’d regain magic faster. And if he got rid of the stupid sac of ecto hanging inside him, still oozing dust from the puncture wound, that would help a lot.

Sans swallowed heavily. He didn’t want the cameras to see, so he subtly snuck a hand up his hoodie, feeling for the wound. It burned when he touched it, throbbing with pain, and he blinked back the reflexive tears that came to his eyes. He probably only had a few seconds before his captor came back in, not long enough to empty out all the dust inside him. And if they came in to see him trying to empty himself out… 

He wasn’t sure what they’d do to him. Stuff him full of concrete or something equally fucked up, probably. 

Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand, and carefully fussed with his position for the cameras’ sake, making it look like he didn’t know where to put his hands to get them to hurt less. 

Stars, he didn’t even know if any of this was necessary. If the cameras were reporting back to his tormentor or not, or if he was putting on a performance for no reason. 

Maybe he was just a fool.

The door slid open, wood scraping across stone, and Sans’ head whipped around fast enough to hurt. Ow. Okay, he probably should have done that slower. He really didn’t need to be putting this much effort into pretending.

It was just… he really, really wanted out of here. More than anything else, right now.

His captor walked in, and Sans’ eyes immediately zeroed in on the familiar bag in his hands. It was hard to smell anything past the sweet, metallic scent of blood, but when he inhaled, he could practically taste the grease.

Grillby’s. Why. How. What the fuck. 

Sans’ eyes darted to his kidnapper’s face, but the enchantments hid it as well as ever. Were they going to eat in front of him, to torment him?

His insides rumbled at the thought, reminding him that he’d had nothing to drink since he’d been taken, and the only thing he’d had to eat was dust. Despite being so full, he was starving.

But he didn’t need food. Not really. Monsters were resilient like that- they could survive for truly frightening lengths of time with nothing, no food or water or additional magic. Sans was hungry, but it wouldn’t kill him. 

Still, he swallowed hard, eyes following his captor as they closed the door behind them. He was very glad that he’d gotten rid of his tongue earlier and that his mouth was still coated with dust, otherwise he might have started drooling. That would have been embarrassing. 

It might not even be Grillby’s. They might have just gotten a bag from there and put something else inside. 

“is that… for the next request?” Sans asked. His voice was still hoarser than he’d like, and he had to stop to cough up dust, but he didn’t stutter this time so he was counting it as a win.

“It is,” his tormentor said, and he could hear the smile in their voice. They set the bag down in front of him. “Multiple people requested that you be given this.”

Sans warily eyed the bag. “is this gonna stab me if i reach in?” he asked. It looked perfectly normal, innocently lying on the ground, the tempting smell of grease and the lighter, fainter scent of burning wood and soot wafting through the air. 

“No,” they said, voice tinged with amusement. “It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”

Well, Sans didn’t trust them in the slightest. So instead of reaching in, he hesitantly reached out, and, after some shuffling to grip it in a way that didn’t put pressure on his fingers or palms, dumped it out on the ground, as far away from him as he could. 

To his surprise, an actual burger and fries fell out, thick golden wedges scattering across the freshly-cleaned floor. He stared in surprise, swallowing hard as his eyes traced over the curve of the bun, which glistened enticingly under the light.

His insides rumbled again, and Sans involuntarily summoned his tongue, the magic sitting thick and heavy in his dry, dusty mouth. Without thinking, he licked at the dust in his mouth, trying to ease the rough, grainy feeling. 

He was hungry.

Against his will, he glanced up at his captor, but they remained impassive and unreadable, a silent, dark figure looming over him, far enough away to not crowd him but very clearly between him and the door.

Hah. They clearly had no idea Sans had removed the bead- he could teleport past them with ease.

As soon as he had more magic.

He eyed the burger again. Monster food dissolved into pure energy when consumed, unlike human food… or dust. But it also meant that if it was poisoned, Sans would have no chance of escaping it- a single bite would be enough.

And if it contained aphrodisiacs or something, Sans was sure to have a truly awful time.

Still, he needed magic, and eating would help him get out faster.

Short-term pain versus long-term freedom…

With a trembling hand, Sans reached for a fry, moving slowly so his tormentor would have time to smack him away. He wasn’t going to get his hopes up, but he needed magic. 

They didn’t stop him, remaining still and silent as Sans grabbed a fry and hesitantly brought it up to his mouth.

The first bite brought tears to his eyes, which he quickly blinked back so he wouldn’t lose any magic. It tasted just like home, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was back in Grillby’s, making shitty jokes, and maybe sad and tired and hurting but not tortured and crippled and-

He reached for another fry. The first one hadn’t been poisoned. Maybe one of them would be, but Sans was desperate enough to risk it. 

Slowly, one by one, he worked his way through the scattered fries on the ground. They were perfect, crispy in all the right places and soft in others, the salt burning on his tongue like tears.

Far too soon, all the fries were gone, the burger sitting innocently on the ground before him, glistening with grease. Sans stared at it, still achingly hungry. He could tell, even under the strange red lighting, that it was cooked exactly how he preferred, with all the right toppings, ketchup oozing down the sides.

Licking the last traces of spice from around his mouth, Sans glanced up at his captor, who hadn't moved or said a thing, silently watching him eat. He thought they were breathing a little harder, though, and shuddered, returning his attention to the burger. 

It felt more dangerous, somehow. The fries hadn't been poisoned, but the burger was bigger- more area, more room for poison. And in all the layers, Sans wouldn't be able to tell if there was something wrong.

He thought back to the cross, from earlier, the way the shards of broken glass had punctured his stomach, the sickening feeling of slowly deflating as dust trickled from inside him. 

What if there was more glass in the burger? He wouldn't put it past them; get his guard down with the fries being safe, let the taste and smell of home and the simple comfort of being fed ease him into biting without checking first. 

Sans shuddered at the thought of biting into glass, imagining the awful crunching sound, the shock, shards of glass splintering and getting stuck in his mouth while he cried and screamed and blood oozed down his chin, his tormentor laughing in the distance while the comments went nuts with praise…

Suddenly, he was a lot less hungry. 

But magic was magic, and while the fries had helped, Sans was still desperately in need of more magic. 

It probably wasn't worth the risk, but Sans had already eaten the fries, despite knowing any of them could have been poisoned. 

Slowly, he reached out for the burger, pulling it closer. With one more glance up at his motionless, expressionless captor, he started disassembling it. Layer after layer, he took it apart, brushing mangled phalanges through in search of glass, of objects, anything that wasn’t meant to be there, trying not to cringe as flakes of dried blood came off his hands, speckling the burger with dark patches.

But no matter how hard he looked, he found nothing. No shards of broken glass embedded themselves in the sore, sensitive wounds on his hands, nothing poked or stabbed him, he couldn’t even find anything hard. It seemed like a perfectly ordinary burger.

Every few minutes, he couldn’t help but look up at his torturer, waiting for them to get impatient, or mad, or anything, but they never moved or said a thing, no matter how long he took.

Eventually, Sans had to admit defeat. If there was something in the burger, it was far beyond his skills to detect. No matter how long he sat here and poked through it, he wasn’t going to find anything.

Picking up the burger, Sans looked it over. The ketchup had gotten smeared everywhere and the toppings were all messy, but it was still perfectly warm, like Grillby had just handed it to him.

…still warm. Something about that seemed strange- Grillby had excellent control over his magic, but it was hard to keep food at a consistent temperature for any real length of time without additional magic. Infused bags and the like existed, but it had come in a regular one.

(His captor hadn’t been gone for more than a few minutes. The food was still hot.)

Sans very carefully did not look at his tormentor this time, raising the burger to his mouth and taking a bite. Flavor burst across his tongue, achingly familiar, and he almost cried right then and there, blinking back tears for what felt like the thousandth time. Stars, he was pitiful. 

He just couldn’t help it. 

Sans ate slowly, pausing before every swallow to see if he could taste anything strange or unusual. At first, it was fine- more than fine, actually, like the best burger he’d ever had, absolutely packed with flavor and amazingly juicy, making him feel warm and full, the moisture washing away the dust in his mouth and easing the painful dryness of his tight, aching throat.

Then, just as he was starting to relax a bit, he tasted something that definitely wasn’t supposed to be there, salty-sweet and metallic, and choked. Without thinking, he spat it out, coughing and sputtering, but when he forced open tear-blurred eyes, all he saw was a small flake of red, brighter and redder than the matching one on his hands but still unmistakably dried blood.

Oh. Sans was such a fucking idiot. He looked down at his hands, at the tips of his phalanges, which were mostly blood-free by now. Of course. He’d bled all over the burger, and by now, he knew bitterly well just how strong the taste of blood was. How had he managed to forget that?

Knowing that he couldn’t afford to get caught up in self-recrimination right now, Sans grabbed the chunk he’d spat out and popped it back into his mouth, with the bloody side up, and swallowed before he could taste the blood again, trying not to gag. Suddenly, it didn’t taste quite as good. 

But he still needed the magic, the energy, and, if Sans was being honest… he wanted it. Wanted the reminder of home, the comfort, the only bit of pleasure he’d been allowed in this stars-forsaken place. 

He kept eating. Bite by bite, slowly, checking for poison or anything else that wasn’t supposed to be there, trying to ignore the harsh tang of blood whenever it bloomed on his tongue. 

Far too soon, the last bite of burger disappeared, and Sans sat there on the ground, knees aching, slowly realizing that he felt much, much better. The physical wounds were still there, but his HP was back up, and he had actual magic thrumming through him now. Not much, but maybe enough. 

Sans would keep his eye out for an opportunity to escape, and just play along until then. 

Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, pretending not to notice just how much it fucking hurt, Sans straightened up a bit, turning his attention to his kidnapper. “i’m done,” he said, voice quiet but steadier than he felt, only a little shaky. 

“Good girl,” his captor praised, reaching out and taking the bag from Sans. Sans let them take it, not even trying to resist, but he couldn’t help the little shudder that ran through him at being touched.

Stars, he was tired. And now that he’d had a break and some food, the pain had started up anew, sharp and throbbing. His feet were slightly numb and tingly, making it hard to resist the urge to rub them. With his leylines partially severed, they probably weren’t getting enough magic…

He swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away. He could dwell about how he’d been permanently disabled later. Much later, hopefully. If he thought too hard about it, Sans was going to start screaming or something equally embarrassing and dramatic

“I’ll dispose of this,” his tormentor said, voice somewhere between gentle and anticipatory. “Then, I think, it’s time to continue. We wouldn’t want the viewers to get bored, after all.”

Sans could hear the smile in their voice when they tilted their head. “Would we, darling?”

Gritting his teeth, Sans averted his gaze. “no,” he forced out, the word bitter on his tongue. Agreeing with his torturer grated on him, but what else could he do? Snapping and snarling and cursing had done nothing but please the viewers, apparently, and Sans needed to save his energy to get another chance at escape. 

“Good,” his captor praised again. They really seemed to like that word. If it was coming from anyone else, Sans might have even liked it. He’d always been a bit of a sucker for praise. “One moment.”

Sans watched through narrowed eyes as they left the room. He didn’t even try to move or escape- the way they spoke, they’d be back in seconds. Not long enough for Sans to get away, and he didn’t want to reveal that he had his magic back yet.

He could be patient. 

He had to be.