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Ashes, Ashes

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There’s dust on your hands and in your hair, a fine coating that glitters in the streetlights of Snowdin. The toy knife in your hand feels familiar, yes, but only vaguely. A part of yourself—the part that was supposed to stay quiet this time; shut up you baby!—recoils from its cool warmth.

The moment that idiotic goat had called you “child” she had sealed her fate. You weren’t a child, dammit, and you certainly weren’t hers. Your whole life people had given you shit for looking younger than you were, you’re nineteen, not a child.

Her dust, you reflected with a sadistic grin, was particularly soft as it ran through your fingers.

Now you had to deal with these stupid skele-bros, fighting the urge to throw up at every pun the short one threw your way. You can be patient, however. You can remember from your other half’s memories that the tall one, Papyrus, would challenge you to a battle soon enough.

Sans, on the other hand…

You scowl. He’s only a bit taller than you; the perfect height to reach out and rip and claw and tear apart his ribs, but the look in his eye sockets bothers you more than you care to admit. Those pinpricks of light follow you everywhere, like he knows. Knows who you really are and what you’re doing. Knows exactly how you’d look sprawled out on the ground, blood seeping from every open wound…

You feel pretty fucked up admitting to yourself that the idea turns you on.

The puzzles are easy; the battles even more so. A bunch of snowflakes and ice creatures could never stand a chance against your LOVE. You haven’t slept in at least 24 hours, but you munch on some snowman sludge to quell the shaking in your hands. You can’t stop now. Papyrus is up ahead, you know, and the thought of his rough dust joining the layer on your shoes fills you with—

“Hey, kid.”

You grit your teeth and look to the tree line. It’s that damn smiley trash bag again, and hate contorts your insides to a strange, squirming mess. You take the orange bandana you just acquired and stuff it in your back pocket. A fight with Sans, this early in the run? How exciting. Warmth pools in your stomach as you walk over, smiling.

“Let’s get to the root of the problem, shall we?” he asks, his perma-grin vaguely threatening. “When you leaf for that path, I knoak you’re gonna do everything you can to elm my brother. I’m not one to pine about what people are doing, but…” He shrugs. “I’ve seen this too many times. I’m bone-tired of seeing my brother killed.”

You laugh, a high-pitched, manic sound. “So?”

“So,” he growls, and the stress lines around his eye sockets grow more pronounced, “Let’s make a deal.”

“I’m listening.” This ought to be good. What does he think he can offer that you can’t just take?

“You don’t touch Papyrus. In return…” He sighs, as if the next few words are physically painful. “I’m yours for the rest of this timeline. I’ll do anything you want—except hurt other monsters.”

Now that was unexpected. Your grin widens. “Well, how can I—ugh!” Your hand flies to your forehead, wincing at the sharp burst of pain that blossoms between your eyes—and you know exactly who to blame for it. “Ooooh, someone’s not happy,” you coo with a sing-song, taunting tone.

Sans’ bones seem to pale further. “F-Frisk?”

You respond in their voice, loosening the reigns just long enough to let them gasp out a soft “Sans!”

His response is immediate. “What have you done to them?”

“Didn’t they tell you?” You take back your voice and giggle. “They’re always here, for all the runs. Not just their own, of course; where would be the fun in that? We share more than just a face, pretty boy. They see me kill everyone, over and over and over…” You can’t help the smirk on your face. “Hoho, this is the most active they’ve been in a while, though. It seems they don’t… want… us… to… touch…” The last few words are sung, drawn out in a tease as you walk your fingers up his lower arm.

“Do we have a deal or not?” He growls, and you shiver. Delicious.

“We most certainly do.”

 In the end, you don’t touch Papyrus at all. Oh, he’s dead, of course, but the pretty boy should’ve worded his demands better. The devil’s in the details, after all, especially when one is making deals with demons. You SPARE him—albeit reluctantly—during your battle. However, on his way back home, it appears he tripped over a rouge vine and into the rocks in the river! Oops. You make yourself a mental reminder to thank Asriel before you kill him.

When Sans returns home, you’re sprawled out on the sofa, eating some frankly-disgusting spaghetti left in their fridge. The sacrifices you make for dramatic effect, honestly.

Upon seeing you, Sans growls lowly and lifts your SOUL out of your chest, turning it blue and lifting you to the ceiling. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t let you fall and break your worthless neck right now.”

You giggle, your senses amplified from the adrenaline rush. “You wouldn’t, Sansy,” you tease, stretching out and yawning like a cat. “It’s not what you’re programmed to do. Judging, being judged… That’s your shtick. But not quite yet, am I right? I didn’t break our deal,” you remind him, “check my LV. Your precious brother didn’t die by my hands. Oh, but I did get you something.” You pull a familiar red scarf out of your inventory and put it around your neck—not an easy feat, considering you’re still floating midair.

You feel the grip on your SOUL loosen and you float down to the ground. Several emotions pass behind Sans’ gaze—shock, anger, helplessness. You can practically taste them, the sweetest buffet you’ve ever known. He finally settles on a form of righteous fury, the kind that makes your head spin with possibility.

“Give it to me.”

You smirk. “Gonna have to take it, pretty boy.”

You leave the house in Snowdin smirking and pleased with yourself.

Later, seeing the red around his neck is almost worth the bones that impale you on all sides, sticking out of your stomach at strange angles. Blood gurgles out of your demented smile at the pain on his face, and, with DETERMINATION not entirely your own, you reach out a hand to press the giant floating button in front of you.