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?”