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The Hand that Feeds

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Papyrus sits at the edge of his bed, holding a DVD case in his hands. The old plastic case is cracked and battered, but the disc contained within escaped any damage. He tested it himself; it plays six episodes of a human science show. Papyrus knows Sans will enjoy it. His brother lights up when he discovers new gadgets at the Dump; he devours new science textbooks when the library gets them in stock. Papyrus just needs to go downstairs, where Sans is no doubt bored of the latest MTT special. Sans will love to watch this, he just knows it.

So why can’t he move?

Instead of joining his brother downstairs, he rubs his fingers nervously along the plastic, exasperating its tears. The pulse of his soul is elevated, and his skull is clammy with sweat.

Fed up with himself, he jumps up, and makes it to the door in three swift strides. But his courage whimpers as he grabs the doorknob. He just has to open the door, but his arms are like lead.

Papyrus lets his skull thunk against the door. Stupid, indecisive Papyrus. Is it any wonder Sans doesn’t like you?

Rallying himself, he manages at last to open the door. Near sick with dreadful anticipation, he steps down the stairs, the DVD case held firmly against his chest.

Sans doesn’t look over at him, not even when one of the stairs creaks. Papyrus stops about a foot from the couch. Sans is splayed out across the cushions, scrolling through his phone with one hand and working through a bag of chips with the other while the television blares. There are several crumpled beer cans scattered on the floor. Papyrus knows from experience that the amount is enough to make Sans tipsy, but nowhere near drunk.

“Um.” Papyrus’ voice is thready. “S-Sans, I found this copy of some, some human s-science show that I thought…” His prepared request dies in his chest as Sans finally looks over at him. His eye lights are cool, flat.

“You “thought” what?”

“I…I thought.” He clutches the DVD tighter. Like a feeble shield. “I thought we could watch it…together?”

Papyrus squirms under Sans’ withering gaze.

“Why would I ever want to watch something with you? It’s not like you’d understand it, anyway.”

“I-I don’t mind. Or maybe, you could explain…”

“You’re an adult. I shouldn’t have to lead you by the goddamn hand all the time.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Can’t cook for shit, too weird to land a job. I’m the one stuck paying all the bills, and now you want me to take time out of the few free hours I have to attempt to teach you?”

“N-Nevermind. It was stupid.” Stupid, stupid Papyrus.

Sans’ gaze flicks up and down Papyrus’ form.

“And for fuck’s sake, could you be wearing shorter shorts?” Sans sneers.

Embarrassment rises to Papyrus’ face. Skeletons don’t really feel the cold bite of the Snowdin air, so he hadn’t thought twice about purchasing MTT brand hotpants with his saved allowance.

But Sans is right. He must look ridiculous. Papyrus tugs uselessly at the hem of his shorts, willing them to cover his exposed femurs better.

“You’re right. I’ll change.”


He needs to make up for his blunder, so after Sans leaves for work the following morning, he heads out to Waterfall. Despite the humid heat, he wears a sweater and jeans. He’s outgrown the pants, so they look more like capris, exposing several inches of his fibula and tibia. Still, it’s much better than what he’d worn yesterday.

Papyrus passes only a few monsters on his trip, the occasional sentry, a few playing children. Most adults are at work.

It’s a little after midday when he reaches the Dump. He heads into the mountains of precariously stacked junk, craning his neck as he looks around. He’s not sure what he’s hoping to find. He just has the vague idea of looking for something that would appeal to his brother’s interests. This time, he won’t try to force Sans to spend time with him; he’ll leave the gift by Sans’ door, with an apologetic note.

It might work, if he could only find something worth giving. Papyrus picks through the garbage. Most of it really is just trash: dolls scribbled over with markers, old appliances, food waste.

Papyrus keeps looking. Surely there must be something worthwhile in this cavern. He doesn’t have enough money to buy monster-made wares in the capital. Maybe he could return the hotpants? He could use the refund money to buy something for Sans. Though they might not accept them back since he took off the tags—

Papyrus yelps as there’s a sudden prick of pain around his ankle. He springs back, looks down. Something small and brownish has latched on to his leg.

“Get off!” He cries. With one quick tug, he’s able to pull his leg free.

The brown thing sways on its feet. It barks.

Papyrus blinks. It’s a…dog?

Not a monster, but a genuine animal. Upon closer inspection, he sees that the dog isn’t brown, but actually white; its pelt is matted with clods of mud and dirt.

With each heave of its chest, Papyrus can see the outline of its ribs, the ridges of its spine. As cool as bones are, they shouldn’t be visible on anyone that’s not a skeleton monster.

“Um, I have something.” Papyrus rummages through his inventory, and brings out the sandwich he’d prepared for his lunch in case his search ran long. The dog’s ears prick up as he crouches down and extends the sandwich towards it. “Here. This should be tastier than my bones.”

The dog is eager, and scarfs down the meal in seconds. Its tail wags slowly, then faster, and it licks the crumbs from Papyrus’ phalanges.

“That’s all I have,” Papyrus apologizes.

There’s no one else around that Papyrus can see, no one calling out for a missing dog. Judging by the canine’s state, its poor health and lack of collar or tags, it has to be a stray.

Papyrus looks down at the small dog, conflicted. Sans won’t be happy if he brings a dog home, but…can he really just leave it?

The dog yips, springing up to slobber on Papyrus’ face. It tickles, and the dog draws out nyehing laughter from him. He pats at the dog’s head before urging it down again.

His smile fades, and he grows resolute. The dog can’t stay out here. It needs food, and a nice bath. Maybe, once it’s cleaned up and has a full belly, Papyrus can bring it to a vet or pet specialty store in the capital, and find the dog a home.

Mind made up, he scoops the dog up into his arms. It lies pliant, and feels far too light. Papyrus picks his way towards the Dump’s exit. The dog doesn’t fuss much in his arms as he makes his way home. It licks at his sweater a few times, but doesn’t seem to have the energy to wriggle free. The dog starts shivering almost as soon as he steps into Snowdin, so Papyrus picks up the pace until he’s inside his house.

He cranks up thermostat, and the barely-used heating system chugs to life. He carries the dog straight to the bathroom. Sans rarely uses the tub, but Papyrus likes feeling clean. He sets the dog down, and it sniffs around the tiles as Papyrus detaches the showerhead and gets it running lukewarm.

Papyrus sets the dog in the tub, and it immediately tries to leap out.

“Stay still!” Papyrus scolds. He squirts a generous dollop of bone body wash—not exactly soap but all he has—and lathers the dog up. When he turns on the showerhead the dog yips unhappily, sloshing bathwater everywhere as its nails scratch the side of the tub in its gambit for freedom. Papyrus grits his teeth. “Infernal canine! I’m trying to help!”

Papyrus summons a small, but sturdy bone attack. He dangles it near the dog, who grabs it eagerly. Content to nibble on the bone attack, the dog stops trying to escape the tub. Papyrus gets to work rinsing out its fur, and takes satisfaction in watching the dirt swirl down the drain. Some mud is too firmly stuck on to wash off; Papyrus retrieves a pair of scissors and snips off the fur connecting the clumps. It takes time, but his effort is rewarded; the dog is clearly white, now.

When Papyrus removes the dog from the bath it wastes no time in shaking out its fur, splattering Papyrus further with water. Papyrus grimaces, but he’ll allow the dog to get away with it this once.

“Would you like to eat something?” The dog understands him on some level, because it excitedly scratches at the bathroom door. Papyrus can’t help but smile at the dog’s antics.

He lets the dog free, and it follows him down the stairs, to the kitchen. He doesn’t have dog food on hand, obviously, so he makes do with leftover lasagna. He heats up the pasta, and once it’s cooked he places down both a bowl of the lasagna, and a bowl of tap water. The dog laps at the water sloppily before diving into the lasagna. Papyrus grimaces as sauce and cheese spatter onto the floor, and onto the dog’s clean coat. Maybe lasagna wasn’t the best option.

Papyrus washes the empty leftovers container while the dog eats. He’s fortunate that Snowdin is a town with a large dog population—the general store stocks several kibble brands. Once he cleans up the dog again, he should go grab some.

Papyrus stalls. Wait, no. His plan was to bring the dog to an adoption center. He can’t keep it.

The dog, finished wolfing down its meal, trots over to him. It jumps up, pushing its paws against him insistently, wanting attention. Papyrus bestows many pets upon it, and the dog basks in his affection.

The front door unlocks, and Sans tromps in, tracking in slush with his sneakers. Papyrus jerks up, startled, guilty.

Sans’ gaze is caught by the dog.

“I want to keep it.” Papyrus blurts.

The dog needs a home. And taking care of the animal, even just for these brief hours, has made him feel so warm and light.

“You won’t have to do anything,” Papyrus continues, when Sans says nothing. “I’ll walk it and feed it and pick up after it. You won’t even know it’s here.”

Sans is silent, and for a long horrible moment Papyrus prepares for the worst.

But Sans shrugs, seemingly indifferent. “Whatever. Just know I’m not payin’ 1G for it. Better find a job.”

And that’s all Sans has to say about it, before he heads up to his room.

Papyrus looks down at the dog— his dog. Stunned. His brother’s mood can be mercurial—indifferent one moment, angry the next—and Papyrus was fortunate enough to catch him in a more agreeable state.

“I suppose I should fetch those supplies after all.”

The dog yips.


A bell jingles as Papyrus steps inside the Snowdin General Store. Usagi, the owner, gives him a quick wave.

“Got it rung up already for you, hun.” She pats the bag of dog food she’s set by the register.

“Thank you.”

Papyrus hands over 3G. Since Sans forbid him from using any part of his allowance on the dog, necessity demanded that Papyrus find something else to support his new canine companion. He scraped together the courage to ask around town, and gratefully accepted a series of odd jobs—dusting the shelves of the library, babysitting Usagi’s nieces and nephews, and even taking over the occasional sentry shift. Dogamy and Dogaressa, once sniffing out his new pet, even donated several toys.

“Wait there just a second. Got a few cinnamon bunnies in the back.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t need—”

“Nonsense, hun. It’s my treat.” She reaches across the counter to nudge his arm. “You need it. You’re all bones!”

She laughs at her own joke, and Papyrus cracks a polite smile.

When she disappears into the back of the store, Papyrus hefts the bag of dog food in his arms. She returns shortly with a brown paper bag.

“Have a good day now. And tell your brother I say hello!”

Papyrus’ smile falters for a moment, before returning. “Of course. Thank you, Miss Usagi.”

She waves as he leaves the store.

The dog food is starting to weigh him down already, so takes the shortest path home. He slows as he passes Grillby’s. It’s only midafternoon, but the bartender tends to let the regulars in while he sets up for the evening rush. Sans might be in there. He could drop off the cinnamon bunnies for him.

But Sans can be a nasty drunk. He’s sent Papyrus running from the bar before, humiliated and hurt.

Papyrus stands before the bar entrance, paralyzed by indecision.

He’s startled as Doggo brushes past him. He flicks the butt of a dog treat away before opening the bar door. He looks to Papyrus, inclining his head inside.

“N-No, it’s okay.” Papyrus stammers. “I should be getting home.”

Doggo shrugs and enters alone. Papyrus doesn’t want to be caught standing and staring like a weirdo, so he hurries the rest of the way home.

He fumbles to get the keys in his pocket out while juggling the dog food and the cinnamon bunnies. There’s an excited barking at the door. The dog must’ve seen him walk by through the window.

Once he lets himself in, the dog immediately tries to pounce on him, sniffing at the paper bag.

“No no, that’s not for you,” Despite his scolding tone, he’s smiling. “Give me a minute to get your lunch ready, okay?”

The dog zips around the living room as Papyrus puts everything away. The dog’s improvement has been amazing in such a short period of time. With a steady diet, its white coat has become thick and shiny, and a healthy fat pads its body. If Papyrus thought the dog had energy when they met, that was like comparing a candle to the CORE. The dog constantly bolts around the house, always eager to play. Papyrus does his best to wear the dog out before Sans comes home.

Papyrus fills the dog’s bowl with fresh kibble, and the dog trots over, tail wagging furiously. Papyrus kneels down, giving the dog a few scritches on the head. The dog licks his hand before diving back into its meal.

Papyrus had tried to come up with a name for the dog—Cambria, Snowball, Toby, to name a few—but the dog never responded to any of them, only perking up to iterations of “dog” and “you” and “infernal beast!!!”. And so the dog remains nameless, in a cool, enigmatic way.

“You must keep yourself entertained today, dog. I must get to cleaning!”

Leaving the dog to the rest of its meal, Papyrus rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. He systematically cleans the house room by room. He likes cleaning; he’s done it so many times that he’s become a pro at removing even the toughest of stains. Sans has tolerated the dog so far because Papyrus has made sure there’s nothing to complain about; there’s not a trace of dog hair, no lingering smell.

Papyrus cleans the house from tip to toe, with the exception of Sans’ room. He returns to the living room to check on the dog, to find it has something in its mouth.

“What have you got there?” Papyrus’ soul drops in sudden shock. “That’s Sans’ sock!”

Not a generic, easily replaceable one. This sock has tiny UFOS stitched on to it, a gift from one of his many friends. Sans would notice its absence. Oh no oh no oh no.

Papyrus grabs one end of the sock. The dog’s eyes sparkle, and it starts tugging back.

“No, this is not playtime! You can’t touch Sans’ things. Bad dog!”

The dog’s ears flatten, and it releases the sock. Papyrus inspects it, and slumps with relief. There’s a little dog drool, but it doesn’t look like the canine’s teeth ripped holes into it.

The dog whimpers, looking at him with big, sad eyes. Papyrus can’t leave his pet looking miserable, so he gives it a few pets to perk it up.

“I’m sorry. But you know touching Sans’ things is bad.”

Papyrus goes upstairs to return the sock, and to make sure the dog didn’t disturb anything else in Sans’ room.

When he opens the door, he is assaulted by all manner of foul stenches. Sans’ room stinks of sweat, sour beer, and old hamburgers. The floor is littered with papers, wrappers, and stray articles of clothing. There’s a mountain of beer cans in one corner of the room.

Papyrus knows he should just put the sock in with the rest of the mess, and leave. But his need for cleanliness roils at the state of Sans’ room. And besides—maybe this is why Sans prefers to spend most of his time at Grillby’s. Papyrus certainly wouldn’t want to live in such squalor.

And so, Papyrus gets to work. He ends up extracting five—five!!!—full bags of trash, and two of recycling. Papyrus isn’t sure which notes are important and which aren’t, so he collects them all and places them in a neat stack on Sans’ desk.

Now that the floor is walkable, he turns his attention to the bed. All of Sans’ sheets, greasy, sweat-stained, are wadded up at one end of the bed. He retrieves a hamper and picks up the disgusting ball.

Once he’s set the sheets of filth in the hamper, he notices that something had been shoved under them.

He picks them up. They’re…photographs?

There’s two photos from when they were babybones—arm in arm, smiling, before they’d grown apart—but the others are more recent. A photo of him sleeping on the couch, the dog on his chest, his shirt riding up. Another of him from behind, the day he wore his new hotpants. Another of him in his bed, mouth parted in sleep. This picture has a splatter of blue residue on it, with a musky odor.

A chill shoots down his spine, and Papyrus lets the photos drop, scattering onto the mattress.


Sans stumbles home at three in the morning. Papyrus is waiting for him, perched on the couch next to his sleeping dog. The photographs are in a ziplocked bag on his lap.

Sans ignores him, weaving his way towards the stairs.

Papyrus rises. “Brother, we need to talk.”

Sans snorts, one hand on the bannister.

Papyrus holds up the bag as he approaches. “I found these in your room.”

There’s a slow, dawning realization. Sans’ face goes through a cornucopia of emotion—surprise, guilt, fear—before settling on rage.

“Ya were in my room?” Sans growls.

Papyrus tries to stay on point, shaking the bag for emphasis. “These—these pictures—”

“How many times have I told you to not go in my fuckin’ room!” Sans yells. “Are you too thick to understand basic instructions?”

The dog, alerted by Sans’ volume, runs up to them and starts barking.

“You shut that damn dog up!”

“Why are you taking pictures of me? This is—this is wrong , brother, you need help—”

Sans lunges forward and grabs Papyrus’ wrist, hard enough to bruise. The dog keeps barking.

Sans’ eyes are empty pits. “Give them to me.”

“N-No. Sans, please. I just want to help you—!”

“Give them to me!” Sans snarls. His rough grip draws a gasp of pain from Papyrus.

Sans cries out, and stumbles back as the dog bites his leg, jaws closing hard enough to draw marrow.

“Get off, you stupid—” Sans shakes his leg, but the dog holds firm, a fierce growl in its chest.

“Don’t hurt him!”

“The fuck off me!” Sans kicks the dog. Once, twice—the dog yelps sharply as it lets go of his leg, and rolls to a stop on the carpet.

“Motherfucker,” Sans hisses, holding his bleeding ankle.

Papyrus crouches down, reaching for him. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. Let me heal it, please.”

Sans backhands him. His head rings, and his hands drop to his sides. His brother has never hit him before.

Sans limps over and snatches up the bag of photos where it fell, and stuffs it in his inventory. He jabs a finger at Papyrus.

“You breathe a word of this to anyone and you’re dust. Got it?”

There’s a sharp crack of magic and Sans is gone; moments later Papyrus hears his brother’s door lock click.

A low whimper draws Papyrus back to himself. The dog has picked itself up, and shuffled over to him, but it holds one front paw tucked to its chest.

“I’m sorry.” Papyrus’ voice cracks. He bows his head. He runs his hands through the dog’s mussed fur. “I’m so sorry.”

The dog whines, and licks at Papyrus’ tears.


The dog lays down later that night, and is in too much pain to get up again. The next morning Papyrus holds its water bowl to its mouth so it can drink, and feeds it kibble by hand.

Papyrus doesn’t know what to do. The dog hasn’t moved its paw, and its ribs don’t feel…right. This is beyond him—the dog needs to go to a vet. The dog needs x-rays, a cast, maybe even surgery and medications.

Having a pet is considered a luxury Underground, because of how few in number the animals are. The cost of the procedures would be an unfathomable amount to Papyrus. He has about 50G to his name. To save his dog will cost hundreds, maybe more.

After making the dog comfortable in a nest of blankets on his bed (and making sure to shut the door to keep the dog put) Papyrus heads downstairs. He finds Sans sipping water and swallowing pills for his hangover.

“Sans.” Papyrus starts, quietly. “I need your help. The dog is sick.”

“Told you before I wasn’t paying nothing for it.”

If Sans was indifferent to the dog before, he hates it now.

But that doesn’t matter. Papyrus can’t let his dog, his one true friend, die. Not when he can still do something to prevent it.

“Sans, please. I’ll do anything. Whatever you want me to do, just say it and I’ll do it.”

Sans considers him.

“Anything, huh?”

Papyrus nods fervently.

“Wait for me in my bedroom. And put on those shorts of yours.”


The springs creak as Papyrus sits on the edge of the mattress. His knees are closed, drawn tight to his chest. He rubs at his bare legs, feeling cold.

Sans enters, and locks the door. He draws the shades for his window, and flicks on the light. The single bulb is dim and flickering.

Sans kicks errant laundry out of the way, so he can stand before Papyrus unobstructed.

“On your knees.” Sans murmurs.

Papyrus obediently adjusts, kneeling on the hardwood, the tips of his toes brushing the edge of the mattress.

Sans runs a hand down his cheek, the same one he struck the night before. His touch is surprisingly tender. Papyrus shivers.

“Open your mouth.”

Sans slips his thumb against the floor of Papyrus’ mouth, and his tongue forms, wet and glistening. Sans takes his time exploring. He massages Papyrus’ tongue, pinches it between his thumb and forefinger. He swipes Papyrus’ saliva over his teeth.

“I think you know what’s next.” Sans says, withdrawing his spit-slick hand.

Papyrus is eye level with Sans’ shorts. Even through the black fabric he can see a faint glow.

Papyrus swallows. He’s not naïve. He knew what he’d been offering when he begged for Sans’ help, but…

He’s only touched himself maybe twice. He’s never so much as held hands with another monster.

“What’s the matter? Pussying out?” Sans shrugs. “I mean, you can leave, if you want.”

But he needs to stay if he wants that money.

Papyrus reaches for the waistband of Sans’ shorts. He tugs them downwards, and they drop around his ankles. Papyrus balks. Sans’ cock is—it’s huge . Thick. A bead of electric blue precum already at the tip.

Sans steps out of his shorts, and kicks them away. His cock bobs with the motion.

“What’re you waiting for? Stroke it.”

Papyrus can barely fit his hand around it. He jerks up and down in an uneven rhythm, feeling it grow firmer still in his hand.

“Now suck it,” Sans says, a bit breathless.

“It w-won’t fit.” Papyrus croaks.

“It will.” Sans grabs his cock and presses the head to Papyrus’ teeth. The odor is thick, cloying. Papyrus wants nothing more than to turn his face away. But instead he opens his mouth in invitation.

“Don’t even think about biting,” Sans warns, before shoving in.

Papyrus gags. It’s too much, too fast. He can’t think, can’t breathe past Sans’ stale, bitter musk.

He pulls off, coughing, gasping.

“Hey now.” Sans rubs his cock right under Papyrus’ eye socket, precum mixing with the tears on Papyrus’ face. “We have a deal, don’t we? Now suck.”

Papyrus takes a labored, rattling breath. He wraps both hands around the base of Sans’ dick, and lowers his mouth back down.

“Use your tongue.”

Papyrus licks around Sans’ shaft. At first it’s revolting, but he acclimates quickly to Sans’ taste.

“That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” Sans grunts, thrusting up as Papyrus sucks and bobs. “Such a good cocksucker, baby bro. ‘s like you were meant for it.” Sans laughs. “No wonder you weren’t ever good at anything! You just— uhn —hadn’t found your true calling yet!”

That’s not true, Papyrus wants to protest. He can only faintly gargle around the mouthful of cock.

“Shh shh shh,” Sans pats his face. “I know you’re loving it. Feels nice to be useful for once, doesn’t it?”

Sans’ cock is stiff, twitching. He has to be close. Sans’ thumbs hook in the corners of Papyrus’ eyes. It stings—his sockets water instinctively—but Sans’ grip only tightens as he pounds into Papyrus’ mouth.

Sans growls like an animal as cum spurts down Papyrus’ throat. Papyrus swallows what he can, but starts to choke.

Sans slips out of his mouth and jerks out the rest of his cum with firm strokes, painting ropes of ectoplasm across Papyrus’ face.

Papyrus hunches over, trying not to heave. Cum drips down his chin.

Sans’ magic flares, and Papyrus flinches as his soul feels like it’s being doused with ice. Sans pushes him down, his back against the mattress.


“Ya didn’t think we were done, did you? Have you even looked at yerself?”

Papyrus labors against the blue attack to look up as Sans lifts his hips, putting his legs around his shoulders. Sans buries his face against Papyrus’ crotch.


“Yer cunt smells awful sweet.” Sans licks along the zipper of his shorts.

Papyrus’ head is swimming. He doesn’t want this. But he needs to do this, and oh, it does feel good. He needs to do this—he needs it.

Sans works off his hotpants. The panties beneath, light blue with lace hems, are damp, glued to the curves of his arousal.

Sans rubs his fingers against the thin fabric, making Papyrus moan.

“You wore these just for me?”

Papyrus shakes his head. He’d changed his underwear when he’d gotten redressed, but it wasn’t intentional. He didn’t mean anything. He wants this to stop.

Sans pulls down his panties. “You’re soaked. Sopping wet from sucking your brother’s cock. You disgusting freak.”

Sans drops Papyrus’ legs, and crawls on top of him. He forces Papyrus’ legs wide apart and thrusts two fingers deep inside.

Papyrus screams.

Sans pumps his fingers in and out. Papyrus’ pelvis twitches, unable to keep up with the stimulation.

Pressure eases off his chest as Sans lets the blue attack ebb. He can move, but only drags his fingers against the mattress.

“Say you like it.” Sans grunts. “Say you love feeling your big brother stir up your cunt!”

“I—” His chest heaves, his eye lights rolling to the back of his sockets. He shrieks with mingled pain and ecstasy as Sans drives a third finger inside him. “S-Something is buh, building—”

“You wish it was my cock inside you right now, don’t you?”

“Yes!” Papyrus sobs.

“Say it!”

“I want big brother’s cock!” Papyrus howls, hips snapping up as he squeezes around his brother’s fingers. His fluids squirt out in the narrow gaps between Sans’ fingers.

Sans removes his fingers, leaving Papyrus a panting, trembling wreck.

Sans wipes his hand off on his jacket, and slips his shorts back on.

He pulls a wad of bills from his inventory—the capital switched to paper over gold for larger amounts—and counts fifteen off.

He flings the bills in Papyrus’ direction. The money drifts down, some bills landing around him while others stick to his body.

Sans runs a hungry eye over Papyrus, before pulling out his phone and snapping a picture.

“From now on, you’ll be paying rent.”

Sans leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

Papyrus can’t move, shaking as fluids slip down his mouth, his femurs.

From the adjoining room, Papyrus can hear the faint sound of barking.