Frisk is holding a ball, Frisk is holding a knife. Frisk is playing with a doll or they're bashing someone's head in with a heavy empty pistol. Frisk is falling down the precipice of Ebott again to come back to them, even after they couldn't break the barrier and Asgore's blood is (not really but popularly believed) to be on their hands. Frisk has driven a knife through his brother before he even stops talking about how much he wants to help them.
All in the pasts. All different. This isn't Frisk's hair he's tangled his knuckles in. Not frisk with their sweater sloppily shoved up, scratches and bruises and clawmarks down their stomach and ribs and chest.
Not-Frisk whimpers. Not-Frisk tries to get a grip on the wall, steady themselves, but slips. Sans stops thrusting for a moment. Not-Frisk hiccups.
Frisk had tripped once running coming up to his and Papyrus's house and scraped their knees bad, Sans shushed them gently and as he applied the bandages they hiccupped, just like that.
That was then, this was now. That Frisk was a fighter, this one went down easily, tripped over his attacks, lifted up with ease. Lighter? Skinnier, ganglier. "Do you think they're eating enough, Sans, I worry, I worry" Toriel says in some past timeline. Sans slams them against the wall until he's sure they won't move. Frisk moves, twitches, tries to stand up. Frisk doesn't. Frisk falls, again. There's something in their eyes that seems... Different, less empty. More fear. (did whatever he caught leave him, he wonders, but he doesn't care, the vessel's as guilty as whatever was piloting it)
Defile the grave, salt the earth, make it undesirable. Make it untouchable. Frisk coughs, coughs HARD, blood drips down their mouth. Sans grabs them by their hair, turns them over. Their cheek shoved against the cold wall. He almost wants it against the window, as if to say look, look, here's what you've done, heres your goddamn empty cities and frightened populace hiding in far reaches, but he doesn't have the energy to drag them over. Instead his hand creeps up the kid's sweater, and there's this pause as Sans starts to tremble, before Frisk starts HOWLING, screaming like some trapped animal and Sans just SLAMS their goddamn HEAD into the WALL once twice three times and Frisk goes limp, not dead but limp, small drop of blood dripping to the floor.
Sans feels like he's done some of this before. He probably has. He's circled around to beginning of their duel so many times he can't even count them. But his hands under the fabric of Frisk's clothes make him feel... Something familiar.
Not real, not true, just... intrusive. Not worth wasting brain power on. In the meantime, this timeline, Frisk is shaking in small bursts. Sans draws a hand up, up, against their thin chest, presses his fingers in and scratches the whole way down, over a bruise, a probable broken rib, over a barely-healed scar. Frisk screams with their mouth closed. "stings, huh?" Sans says, voice shuddering like boards in a storm, ready to break and scream at any second. But he's gotta build up to that, gotta pace himself at least a bit. If he just goes ahead and breaks them now, they'll just come back as if nothing ever happened, a little sicker but a lot more, ugh, determined.
Sans hooks a finger through a belt loop on the kid's pants and yanks them down to around their knees. The kid doesn't start screeching again, just gasps and tenses up. He wish they would say something that he could understand, just one word, but this Frisk isn't much for conversation, he guesses. He'll have to do the talking. "not much fight in you, huh. good." They clench their fist, squirm just enough to give him and excuse to yank their head back by the hair. "my rules now."
He drags his free hand down Frisk's back, deep scratches that already spout trickles of red. He reaches Frisk's thighs, grips them hard, digs more into soft skin, wants to dig harder and harder and rip a chunk of flesh out but not yet, nothing that brutal yet, he wants to prolong this as long as he can.
He presses himself against the kid, no, ahem, extra equipment yet, but the sensation is enough to send another shudder down Frisk's spine. Their hips try to pull away, but theres no place to move. Sans just gets closer, whispers into Frisk's ear, "whats wrong, kid? what are you scared of?" The kid's hands tighten to fists. Sans wraps an arm around their stomach, hand trailing down their navel. Rubbing against their sex. They try hard not too react, but there's a whimper. "haven't done this before, you little freak?"
Frisk slowly, barely turns their head in Sans's grip, looking at him. Glaring. Sans can't help but falter, looses his grip on their hair a pinch. He doesn't like the kid's face. The look in their eyes.
Sans grimaces and grabs their hair again, tighter than before, turning them away. "who told you i wanted to see your ugly face?" He can barely look at the back of his head, but it's not like he could just rip it off their shoulders. Well, he could, but he doesn't want to do that just yet.
He presses a finger inside of them, deep rough and painful. Frisk yelps like a kicked dog and tries to struggle again, trying to twist from his grip and push against the wall, but Sans is much too---
Frisk suddenly whirls around and manages to shove him back a few feet, tries to gather himself and bail but Sans is nothing if not quick on the draw, summons up a blaster and doesn't vaporize the brat but instead commands to... slow them down. In a flash it's over him, striking and biting down deep in his shoulder (the noise of clothes ripping and some sickening crunch, Sans has the very comical thought of "flesh is pretty gross, huh") and Frisk shrieks, goes down to their knees and holds their bloody shoulder. Not enough to kill. But the kid isn't gonna be wriggling around anymore.
Another Frisk in front of him on the couch as he dabs some alchohol on his scrapes, "y'know if you keep fussing like that i'm gonna have to hold you down" he says, Frisk smiles a bit but looks away.
This Frisk is crying. Scratch that, sobbing, trying to press on the bite but flinching away from it. It's pathetic, and it's pissing Sans off. The kid's so good at faking being so fragile and innocent, and he feels himself almost falling for it again. Sans walks over and sighs and pushes the kid onto the floor with an unsurprising amount of ease. "you don't wanna try that again. it'll be your neck next." Frisk is suddenly silent.
Sans makes a sorta low "tsk" noise and presses the kid in the side with a foot. Frisk is silent. "you're gonna play like this now, huh." Frisk is silent. "not gonna give me the satisfaction." Frisk is silent. "we'll see, we'll see." Sans takes his foot and presses it against the bite marks, almost gently at first. Frisk finally makes a noise, a whine, that slowly builds up to another full on SHRIEK as Sans presses more and more, harder and harder, impressed he's not shattering the bone.
"what, does it hurt?" He lets up just enough to give the kid room to answer. Nothing. Slam down again. "did undyne hurt, you think? did she die knowing no one could stop this? think of all the people you killed. you rotten little whelp." He manages to look at Frisk's face, just a glance. It's not enough. They don't hurt enough. They still look like the old Frisk. "papyrus believed in you, you little horror. he still believed in you, even when you killed him." He lets up again, hears a shuddering breath from Frisk and stomps. "do you think i don't remember? or is this the real you?" He can almost feel the bone give under his foot, but he's hesitating again. "sure fooled us, didn't you." He lets up for good now, slowly stops the pressure and just slides his foot off, scraping the blood off against the kid's sweater. Frisk's noises are barely human anymore, barely even monster-like. It's low and light and wheezy. He tries to curl up, but the pain is too much and they flinch and give up and lie limp.
Frisk looks at him again. Sans has to look away. It's unnerving, seeing Frisk's pained face on this empty body, tear streaked and sniffling.
Sans wants to stop. Sans wants to pick them up and carry them all the way back to Snowdin, fix them right up. Sans wants to drag them back to waterfall and drown them. Sans wants to hold them tight and say its ok, kiss them and love them so much more than they understand, trust them and believe them. He wants to make good on his offer and just end it now, summon something up that'll go right for the neck.
"let's get this over with." He says, pushing away all the irrelevant memories. Anything where he still imagines Frisk's eyes with some supposed humanity doesn't apply here. He just wants them to hurt now. He drags the kid's shorts off again.
The flesh Sans manages to summon up isn't an exact replica of whatever humans have, but it's enough. The instance it brushes against the inside of their thigh, the kid gasps a bit. "not gonna back out now, are you?" Frisk mumbles something weakly as Sans grinds against him again, hands tight on their hips, the fake flesh just a bit too cold on the kid's skin.
Frisk, despite all odds, still has some fight in him. They start to squirm against Sans' grip, try to claw themselves away, but Sans can see how much their shoulder is paining them. "c'mon, gotta try harder than that."
Frisk takes that as a challenge.
Kid tries to push himself up by the arms but just barely gets elbow high before he falters and slips back, face first, to the tiles again. Sans can't help but enjoy it, he could've spent thousands of years in this battle against them, but this is the first time he's really savored the results. Couldn't even hold up the stupid knife, let alone himself. All this distracts Sans from realizing that Frisk's legs are just fine, and he earns a fairly strong kick to the knee for it.
Frisk is flailing now, wildly trying to crawl away again. Doesn't care how fast Sans is, they just want to get away. He barely has to move his hand before the kid's surrounded by blue, torso lifted up, unceremoniously smashed back down. He hears tiles crack underneath them this time, hears Frisk cough even worse than before, pressing their hand against their chest and then wretching up blood onto the floor. Sans couldn't grin wider if he tried. "heart's feeling pretty heavy, huh?" Frisk doesn't even have the energy to glare at him. Good. No more mistakes, no more stalling. Sans grabs the kids hips and yanks them back onto his member, thrusting all the way to the hilt at once.
Something like a shriek tries to come out of Frisk's throat, but it's muffled and choked. Sans tries to bite back a moan, but the kid's almost painfully tight, and if he didn't want to feel good, why do this? He could've just kept stomping on the kid's shoulder until his collarbone snapped like a twig, but no. It's something more than just petty revenge, deeper than the word "personal" can describe. He wants to break the kid. He wants to finally get the taste of a lifetime without them. And if they come back again? Fine with him. They'll shiver anytime he gets too close. Flinch away from touch. Sans might not remember, but he's positive he'll feel it as a victory. "does this hurt worse, kid?" he growls, trying to get a good rythm. But man, it's hard enough when they were squirming, now they're just playing dead. Only way Sans knows they're not REALLY dead is from the weird sound Frisk makes with each thrust, something deep from their chest. Small, strangled, almost mewling.
Sans' gets some feeling of morbid pleasure crawling across his chest. Makes him want to make this last. He raises his own hips a bit, looming over the kid, moving the grip down their thighs. Short deep thrusts that make them go a bit louder. "no, I get it, you really like this, huh? you love it." Frisk barely, just barely shakes their head. Sans chokes out a laugh. "you've done this enough times. did you think i'd be fine with it? that I wouldn't" Grabs the kid's hair again, "just" pulls it back, Sans' mouth too close to the kid's ear, "snap?"
The next moan from the kid is actually pretty loud, and they immediately slap their hands over their mouth with a cringe. Sans sighs, lets go, lets the kid flop over face first again. "oh, gonna deny me that again?" He thrusts in deep again, too deep, feels the kid's entire body recoil in pain around him, some other inhuman yelp escape Frisk. "then it'll hurt. it better goddamn hurt." Frisk whines again with each too-deep movement, each time Sans drags his fingers down their back again, each time he adds another set of hand-shaped to their thighs.
Frisk pushes themselves up again, trying to keep the pressure off their ruined shoulder. They press a hand against the wall next to them, try to keep steady, but they slip. Sans takes a second to stop thrusting. Frisk hiccups.
Scraped knees, smell of rubbing alchohol, bandages. The same exact noise. Same body, same face, different eyes. Were they always that empty? There's digusting, shameful pleasure building up in his body, some horrible semi-realization that he's getting off on torturing this kid that he used to love. And he doesn't want to stop.
His full weight presses on them now and he can hear Frisk's breathing struggle a bit in between tiny moans and whimpers. Sans likes it, despite everything else. Sans likes how small and helpless they feel, likes how he could end everything for them at every moment. Likes the way Frisk still yelps if he goes too rough, too deep. Thoughts starting to get incoherant, just wanting more more more out of them, wanting to make them beg and cry and say his name, god, why wouldn't they at least say it again like they used to?
He can feel himself getting rougher, thrusts more erratic and whatever horrible things he's trying to say coming out jumbled. He grabs the kid's hair again and presses their face down, practically grinding it into the busted tiles, wanting them to feel low, feel ashamed, feel and hurt worse and worse and worse until finally, pleasure rattles through every bit of him, blurring his mind and choking out anything else in the world. Blessed few moments of residual pleasure pulsing through, slipping away, slowly but surely replaced with disgust. Nothing's changed. Frisk is still under him, small and whimpering, still the same Frisk from last time. Sans still lost, somehow.
Sans feels to exhausted to move and lets himself collapse on top of the kid. They don't even seem to mind. "did you ever like any of us?" sans says. "did you ever even like me?" No reply but the noise of Frisk trying even out their breathing. Sans lets his eyes rest, impossibly tired. Something wriggling in his ribs that it's all still familiar...
He feels... Something brush his fingers, jolts and nearly smashes the kid's head in right then and there, but he hesitates, opens his eyes. The kid reaches out to Sans' hand, touches it, tries to worm under it. Sans lets him. Frisk laces his fingers in his, and clenches them. He clenches back. He holds their hand tight. He feels incredibly ill. "sorry" is all he can manage to whisper out, and Frisk nods a bit.
No point in trying to disconnect any longer.
He pulls away and turns the kid over easily. He can feel himself ache staring at Frisk, hole torn in their sweater, dried blood and spit under their lip, bruises marring the skin. Blank eyes staring up, past him, past the ceiling, to nothing. He tries to remember if there was anything ever in the kid's eyes. He can't.
It was just a few days ago they were on the surface and happy, wasn't it? A few weeks, months, years, lifetimes? Part of Sans is still there. Can he feel himself splitting, timelines melting together? He hopes not. He hopes his happier self can't feel the dark empty pit of guilt trying to engulf him. He glances over at the kid and feels it nearly swallow him up, now. He's seen Frisk make that face before. Sans above him, Frisk dead in the eyes. Hadn't he? This setup had happened before, right?
Sans stands up, fixes his clothes and prods the kid with his foot again. No noise. "just answer me this." Frisk closes their eyes for a long few moments before opening them, slowly bring their gaze to Sans. There's something... peaceful about it. He doesn't like it. What else could they be up to?
"what did any of them ever do to you?" There's nothing, and Sans can practically hear the buzzer go off, someone saying Wrong Question! Sans sighs, knowing he won't like the answer. "hell, what did i do to you?" Frisk smiles. Sans suddenly feels like he's falling down, soul being physically ripped from his body. Things get dark, darker and darker, his memories fading again.
In one timeline, Sans and Frisk have a very long, upsetting talk about what exactly Sans is capable of doing to Frisk. This new Sans will never get to hear it, unfortunately. He's already back at the start.
Sans taps his fingers impatiently on his sentry booth. He keeps leaning out to check down the path to the ruins, but there's nothing. The silence of this place is especially getting to him today, though he has no clue why. He's walked back and fourth from the entrance to the ruins all the way to town, but there's nothing. Even popped into Waterfall and Hotlands just to make sure. Even knocked on the door. Not even suspicious silence, just his mystery woman happily responding, wondering about the apprehension she can sense in his voice.
"nothing," he says, though he know it's something. A something that is really important. "just... feels like something should be happening today."
It doesn't, not today, not ever. Things stay untouched here.