homines non realis

Not that he wasn’t enamored with Cross at all times, but call him sentimental, there was something about having a monster like Cross underneath him — big, strong, beautiful and so, so utterly at his mercy. He ground down, their cocks grinding together so smoothly, like they were made for it.

He held Cross’ SOUL in his hand, the one that wasn’t busy running fingers across the magic that adorned his head. Each brush of a phalange through the purple stream had Cross’ eyesockets fluttering, his own hands tightening on Dream’s hips. Their bedsheets would be ruined after this; not that either cared.

“Stay still,” Dream said, leaning up to press a kiss to Cross’ teeth, a simple peck. And oh, was he good at following orders. Dream scooted further against him, to line himself up with his cock. Aside from the fingers digging indents into his ecto and the full-body shivers, Cross stayed still as a statue. And Dream wasn’t embarrassed to tell his lover how proud he was. “Good job,” he exhaled, entrance stretching around each inch of Cross’ length. “You are so good for me, Cross.”

Halfway, he had to let go of the pseudo-horn he’d taken to gripping in favor of leaning back, holding himself upright against Cross’ femurs. The further down he went, the more his ecto-body distended. A blur of purple could be seen through his stomach, almost magenta in its hue. Dream’s knees shook on either side of Cross’ hips.

“You did so good,” he praised, cradling his face with a palm. He wiped the trail of tears leaking from his right socket, only for them to be replaced a moment later. Cross gazed at him with undiluted love. Dream smiled at him, hoping he was mirroring the look in any capacity. “You can move now.”

It was like opening floodgates. It always was. Cross’ grip tightened even further and Dream was sure there’d be marks on his iliac crests later. He looked forward to it. Cross lifted him like he weighed nothing at all and before Dream could even feel empty, he was slammed back down. Cross’ cock hit the back of his passage, Dream’s head lolling back as pleasure raced up his spine.

“Love you,” Cross all but growled, voice husky. He still had to lean down to press kisses along the column of Dream’s neck. Dream always felt so small next to him — so safe, so protected. It was a heady feeling. He craned his head to the side to give him more space and was rewarded with a bite to his clavicle. Cross lapped up the marrow that seeped from the tiny intents of his teeth, each lick of his tongue sparking through Dream like firecrackers.

He got lost in the sensations for a moment, feeling almost boneless as he was bounced on Cross’ lap, cock dribbling down between them. A particularly hard thrust jolted him out of his little reverie and he remembered what he was going to do.

He was still holding Cross’ SOUL, the organ heavy in his hand. It was almost the size of Dream’s skull, overfilled with LV. He brought it to his own chest to hold with both hands. They barely encircled the whole thing.

Usually, the surface of a SOUL was thin, a shell to protect the magic within, but Dream discovered LV made the SOUL swell with its power, and the shell would continually break and remend to accommodate it. He ran a phalange across the crack-riddled surface, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he had been holding on the next thrust. Cross was watching him with curiosity sparkling in his eyelights.

Oh, that wouldn’t do.

“Stop moving,” Dream said, through the authoritative tone he’d gone for came out as a groan, almost.

Cross let out an honest-to-stars whine, high-pitched and desperate, but he stilled, almost as soon as the words left Dream’s mouth. His hips gave a tiny twitch, barely moving his length inside of Dream, but even that was enough to pull a groan from him.

“Good boy,” Dream mumbled in-between pants.

Cross’ SOUL was beating wildly in his hands, but unless one knew what to look for, they’d miss it. But not Dream, not when he was holding it so tightly.

“Dream…” Cross groaned out his name like something precious.

“Hush now. I want you to… watch this closely, okay?”

Cross nodded, the motions making some of his tears drip from his chin to add to the mess between them. It was obvious how much effort it was taking him to stay still. Dream was so, so proud, and he’d reward him handsomely.

His thumbs ran down the length of the SOUL. The thick shell made it hard to feel the touches, he noted. So, when he got to the lower half, he pressed.

Cross’ breath hitched, whole body going rigid before jolting, along with Dream. He didn’t have it in him to chastise the disrespect of orders. Instead, he himself started to move, feet digging into the mattress for leverage.

Without the help of his hands to steady himself, Dream couldn’t rise more than a couple inches each time, but he made up for it by squeezing down on Cross every time their pelvises met. It seemed to do the trick, if Cross’ panting and groans against his neck were to be trusted. With a steady rhythm going, he started pressing his thumbs against the SOUL again.

The shell was thick and he was almost surprised to find out just how much strength it took to even start to crack it. Little by little, it creaked in his hold, until it gave way and his fingers slid in, into the swirl of magic within.

Cross keened, then, back arching and arms coming to wrap around Dream, to clutch him close.

“Dream!” he cried, shaking all over as he looked down with wide sockets, eyelights barely fuzzy pinpricks in a sea of dark. He was breathless, each gasp punched out of him in a slew of moans.

Liquid, molten magic leaked from the twin holes in his SOUL as Dream all but fingered them, bones gliding through. The magic molded around his phalanges almost like ecto would. It was mesmerizing to watch; Dream didn’t know where to look, between it and the kaleidoscope of expressions crossing his partner’s face.

“You can move,” he said. The speed and force of Cross’ next thrust would’ve startled him, if he wasn’t expecting it.

Cross clung to him like a drowning man would to a piece of driftwood in a waterfall, Dream’s name falling from his tongue like a mantra, a litany, progressively more and more jumbled and slurred. Dream’s fingers kept teasing his SOUL, hold tightening when the organ kept trying to slip from his grasp from all the slick dripping out of it.

It took all of a dozen more thrusts, not that Dream counted, to have Cross coming. He threw his head back with a soundless scream, but Dream could see his mouth trying to shape itself into his name again. He was only slightly glad that Cross’ eyelights sputtered out, because his smile must’ve been way too dopey at that moment.

Cum filled his already stretched ecto-body, cock bobbing as it distended further with more purple. He was so, so close, he could feel the sparks in his joints. But Cross slumped against him, lax and oh-so-softly purring, and Dream couldn’t move anymore.

He mercifully pulled his fingers out of Cross’ SOUL, making him shudder once more, and gently rubbed along the edges of where he’d broken through the shell to soothe the cracks. They were already mending, magic solidifying to protect the sensitive core.

Cross came to himself after a few minutes and started peppering butterfly-soft kisses along Dream’s neck again. Dream let the SOUL float its way back into his ribcage.

“I love you,” Cross whispered against a bone, like he was telling a secret only worthy of Dream’s acoustic meatus. His voice was hoarse from all his moaning. His never-ending tears ran down Dream’s sternum.

“I love you too,” he whispered back, with a kiss to the side of Cross’ skull, the only place he could reach.

Cross nuzzled him, one hand rubbing along Dream’s vertebrae almost idly. Then he startled and pulled away. “You didn’t come,” he stated more than asked, a guilty expression where there had been content moments ago.

Dream shushed him with another kiss, this time to his nasal bridge. “It’s okay. I got what I wanted. You felt good.”

And then Cross’ face set itself into the determination that Dream loved so much. It also meant Cross was dead set on something. “Oh no,” he said, “You don’t get to make me feel that good without getting back what you gave.”

He felt silly about the idea at first, but he started on it anyways, and when it was already started, he might as well finish the job. Right?

He wound yellow halfway through, just to give it some more color, and he hoped BB would like it. Or at least wouldn’t hate it. The star markings along his cheekbones were yellow, so Error could always say it was to match those.

No need to explain how yellow reminded him of BB nowadays.

He stared at the finished sweater, turning it this way and that way to make sure not a stitch was out of place.

Nope. Everything was stitched perfectly, not even a seam visible as the blue turned to yellow and then back. No string left to dangle where he'd seen the pieces together, no hem left untied.

It was, for all intents and purposes, perfect. And that was factoring in Error's apparent perfectionism, which he just now discovered. He folded the sweater with more care than he'd ever done anything in his life, or would ever admit, and put it into his inventory.

BB was having a movie night with Papy. Error didn't want to interrupt — even if both brother's always told him he was welcome — and besides, he still wasn't sure about the gift. He'd never given a gift to someone before; was there a procedure?

Did he have to wait for the perfect moment? Did he just leave it somewhere for BB to find instead? Maybe with like, a card, or— 

"Hey!"

Error all but jumped out of his bones, twisting on a heel to find BB poking his head into the Anti-void through one of his glitchy portals.

"Me and Papy settled on a movie, but then I remembered I forgot it here," he explained, around a too-high chuckle.

He hopped in, ever full of energy, and started going through the bookcase that they had now. As soon as they got a TV, that was apparently the next logical thing. This part of the Anti-void was starting to look awfully like a living room and a kitchen all in one. The only thing that was missing were walls. BB reshuffled the whole level that housed their movies and pulled one out with a victorious, 'Mwaha!'

Error watched as he turned to go back and suddenly, the sweater was burning a hole through his inventory.

"Wait!" he called out, before he could think about it, or stop himself.

BB stopped in his tracks and turned back with a (cute) turn of his skull. "Hm? What's up? Don't tell me— Did you finally decide you wanna come? No one can resist Da Vinci's code!"

Putting BB's (adorable) love of riddles aside for the moment, Error swallowed around nothing. "Uh..." He was sure he'd never been flustered before. Maybe save that one time he'd been at Nightmare's and Killer spiked his hot chocolate because he thought getting Error drunk would be funny. He couldn't exactly remember much of that night, but he'd refused to step foot into the castle for months afterwards.

Oh, right, the sweater.

BB was looking at him expectantly.

Error pulled the article back out of his inventory, and it immediately started burning a hole through his hands, instead.

"I made this for you," he said, voice definitely not glitching out as he held the sweater out. "You said it was cold, so I thought—"  

"Oh my gosh!" BB exclaimed, bounding closer to take the proffered gift. His phalanges brushed against Errors in the process.

He spread the sweater and looked at it, his eyelights turning into stars as they were wont to when he got excited. He was saying something, quite excitedly too, but Error couldn't parse it. He was staring down at his now-empty hands, shells chocked.

"Error? Errooooooor?"

Error snapped out of it, looking up to find BB wearing the sweater — and looking absolutely fucking precious in it — and staring at him with an odd mixture of worry and elation. He must've been trying to get his attention for a while, then.

Error wanted to say he looked great, and that he was fine, so, obviously, what came out of his mouth was, "It didn't hurt."

BB looked confused, but it couldn't hold a candle to how Error was feeling. In a fit of excitement he hadn't felt in ages, Error grabbed one of BB's hands in both of his, and started laughing.

"When you touched me—! It didn't hurt! It doesn't hurt!" There was a manic edge to his laugh and he stared at their hands like the biggest miracle in the multiverse. BB caught on, if his almost-impossibly-wide grin was anything to go by. He squeezed one of Error's hands.

"Oh my gosh, that's amazing!" he exclaimed, all but throwing himself at Error and embracing him in a bear hug.

Error's elation was replaced with panic in the short amount of time it took him to let out a shout as glitches swarmed his body.

BB let go like he'd been scalded, stepping away as the error messages buzzed around, slowly dying out with the accompaniment of a dial-up sound. Error was left shaking, but at least he didn't crash. That was progress! Not as much as they'd both thought, but progress nonetheless!

"Mwaha, whoops! Looks like hugs are still off the table," BB laughed, nervously. He didn't want to break the trust they'd built, after all.

Error shook off the prickles of pain racing across his bone and tried to smile, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it came across as more of a grimace.

"Seems so." His voice still sounded more static than words, but nothing unusual for him there.

BB's skull was dusted with a light yellow flush and — stars above — it matched with the sweater. "I… really like the sweater, by the way! Thank you!"

Not it was time for Error to blush. He could feel his skull heating up. He mumbled something that sounded almost like, 'no problem.'

BB held up the DVD case he'd been holding, sheepishly. "Are you sure you don't want to join for a movie? I guarantee you'll like it!"

With that thought in mind, he raised a hand and knocked at the door. It sounded quiet to him and, for a second, he doubted anyone would even hear it. But then the door opened with a heavy creak and he could spot Horror's eye in the dim light of the hallway.

He looked Daydream up and down, snorted, and leaned against the doorway. "What an eye-catcher," he laughed. "Well then, to what do we owe this… Uh… pleasure?"

"I… came to talk to Night," Daydream said eventually.

Horror's eye narrowed and it felt like he was under scrutiny. Horror, for having such low magic reserves, still possessed a great ability to make people uncomfortable with just a look. 

Either he came to some unknown conclusion, or he was satisfied with Daydream's nervousness, because he says, "Wait here," and shut the door on him.

The next seven minutes were like torture. Daydream debated leaving again, halfway convinced Horror was fucking with him. But, eventually, the door screeched its way open again and Horror held it open for him.

"This way," he says, turning on his heel. 

He didn't even turn once to check if Daydream was following him.

His tentacles writhed behind him. It would have been so easy to stab Horror with one, if he really wasn't paying attention, but Daydream didn't. He wasn't here to fight, wasn't here to weaken his brother.

"Shoes off," Horror told him as they reached a door that was apparently their destination.

There was a pile of sneakers and slippers next to it, haphazardly toed off and left. Horror was also barefoot, as Daydream just noticed. So he conceded and leaned down to unbuckle his shoes. He worried about them dripping his goop, so he set them a little away from the pile.

Horror nodded, almost to himself, and led the way into the room. Which turned out to be the living room, of all things. Nightfright sat on the sofa, surrounded by his boys. They all eyed him with varying degrees of hostility, but Nightfright’s expression was unreadable.

Dust clicked the remote and the TV they’d been watching turned off.

The tension in the room was thick as butter. Horror took his spot on the sofa, the last free one next to Killer.

“Hello,” Daydream said, eventually, when he couldn’t take the silence anymore. What a great start. He still couldn’t sense negative emotions, no matter how hard he tried, but each of them had a positive lining. And the only thing he could sense was protectiveness. “I… wanted to talk to you, brother.”

Nightfright raised a browbone and then a hand, to stop Killer from pulling out his knife. “Then talk.”

“I mean… This would be best alone.”

Dust chortled, springing up. “Like hell’re you being left alone, you—”

Cross pulled him back down by the arm and whispered something that Daydream couldn’t make out. Something that seemed to placate him, though his glare was still scathing.

“If you won’t say it in front of them,” Nightfright said, nodding to the left and right, “then I don’t want to hear it.”

Daydream sighed, socked feet shuffling on the carpet. Alright then. He could do this.

“I came to apologize.”

Of everything he expected Nightfright to do, staying silent with a shell-shocked look was not it. His phalanges clenched and unclenched with soft, squishy sounds that sounded much too loud.

“I…” He had practiced his speech, but not a minute of the hours could he recall. “I understand now. The importance of your job. Of negative emotions. And I… don’t expect to be forgiven, but I’m sorry for how I treated you.”

Nightfright watched him closely, too closely. He felt like he was being picked apart.

“So that’s why you’ve been gone, huh?” his brother asked, nodding towards the tentacles that twisted and turned behind Daydream. They squeezed close together when they were called out, and Daydream’s shoulders hunched.

“I wanted to understand,” he muttered.

Nightfright and his boys were having a full-blown conversation with nothing but their eyes. “I suppose you’re looking for some sort of a truce, then?”

Was it too soon to hope? Daydream didn’t know, but that’s what he’d always been the best at, so he did. “Yes. I don’t want to fight you anymore, brother. And maybe… we could be friends again?”

The look Killer leveled him with could’ve dusted a lesser monster. Nightfright, however, looked impassive. Daydream knew that look; it meant he was thinking.

“No promises.”

Daydream beamed at them.

red nods, but doesn’t move in any other way. “’m fine.”

he doesn’t sound fine.

“okay,” blue nods himself. “i’ll be right back.”

red’ eyelights eyes follow him as he leaves the room, and they’re the first thing he notices when he comes back, still trained on the door and now himself.

red’s shoulders may or may not have relaxed as soon as he came back. they did. he knows.

blue sits on the bed, foregoing the light and all, and hands the steaming mug he’d procured to red.

“right, so how could i help?” he asks, eyelights shining in what little light filters in through the window. red’s phalanges fiddle with the ceramic handle, gaze pointedly cast downwards.

“it’s a’ight, it’ll pass,” he says. the drink burns his mouth, but warms his soul passing down. he’s not sure what it is. he’s not sure he’d know what anything blue handed him was. “i’ll be fine in the mornin’, j’st go back ta bed, darlin’.”

“you know i can’t do that. want to help you get through it faster.” blue pulls the blankets red had let him hog throughout the night, and instead drapes them over his hunched shoulders, tucking them in with more care that red would like to accept.

if possible, red hunches even further into himself.

“’s annoying, i know. i want it ta be over already too. s’why i said y’should go back ta sleep.”

blue debates internally on wrapping an arm around him, but then he decides against it and seats himself in front of red instead, knees folded and that infuriatingly soft smile still on his teeth.

“that’s not it, idiot.” the words lack any heat at all, and so red doesn’t even cringe this time. “i want you to feel better as soon as possible because you don’t deserve any more pain than necessary.”

he seems to hit the right spot, for red makes a high pitched noise in the back of his not-throat. or maybe he just chokes and sobs at the same time.

there’s silence for long minutes, silence red doesn’t seem to like, but blue gives him the time to compose himself. a little clumsily, he puts the mug onto the bedside table and sits back, the small mountain of blankets that blue arranged behind him falling over to one side.

“c’n i…”

“yeah?” blue prods, when red trails off. he’s picking at the hem of his shirt now that he’s not holding the mug anymore.

“c’n i hug you?”

blue huffs out a laugh through his nasal aperture and shuffles forward to drag red’s pliant form into his lap. the other all but slumps against him, arms squeezing pathetically softly when blue does the same, enveloping him in warmth.

“you wanna stay like this?” blue asks, cheek pressing against the side of red’s skull.

there’s a nod against blue’s shoulder, and then red must think it went unnoticed because he utters a, “yeah,” into the cotton of blue’s pajama top. his hands squeeze handfuls of it at his back, here and there, like red’ not even aware of doing it.

“that’s okay. wanna lay down? you might get cold.”

red mulls the offer over and finally nods again, so blue maneuvers them down and pulls the blanket back over the both of them. red visibly relaxes when he wraps the arm around him once more.

“want to talk about it?”

“maybe,” red answers, after more silence. blue doesn’t mind waiting.

“do you know what happened?”

“i was thinkin’.”

“what about?”

“that i’m really not that good, y’know.”

blue hums, hugs him closer still. “and you started feeling bad?”

they lapse into another silence, their breathing the only sound in the room. then red curls up, even though he’s held, and—

“yeah.”

it’s absolutely stupid, he knows. he knows he shouldn’t be having a breakdown over something like this, especially not as often as he does, considering he hasn’t had an LV high in ages, he hadn’t dusted anyone for ages, but sins don’t just go away. you don’t just become a good person.

“thank you for telling me,” blue says. he’s using that voice, the one that’s reserved for this alone, and red kind of wants to start crying again. “i think you’re good.”

“do ya really, sweetheart?”

“yeah. you got me the new cereal i wanted today, the one from the napstatton’s ad.”

red can’t help but snort out. he holds onto blue’s back tighter, even though the arm that’s trapped beneath blue is starting to cramp a bit. “tha’s a dumb thing ta base one’s goodness on,” he says.

“it’s something concrete, y'know.” he knows blue would be shrugging were it not for their current position. “you do plenty nice stuff. that was just the most recent one, i think.”

“...yeah…”

“do you know why you feel you’re not good?”

“i don’t,” red confesses after a while, and it sounds small and blue hates that he’s making himself feel worse over feeling bad.

“that’s okay. i’ll fight the gremlin in your soul telling you that.”

he manages to pull another snort out of red, and counts it as a small victory. “please don’t, sweetheart, i need m’dumb soul.”

there’s a moment there that blue thinks red had managed to fall asleep, but he surprises him by piping up again.

“will ya, um…”

“yeah?”

“will ya be here in the mornin’?”

“i’m here every morning, i live here,” blue tells him. “i will be here every morning, no matter what.”

red squeezes him again, crushing his bare chest against blue’s more than anything else. “hey sweetheart?”

“yeah?”

“thank ya.”

“it’s okay, love. go to sleep, we can go over it more in the morning, if you want.”

more silence. blue wonders whether red listened to him and went to sleep already.

“yeah.”

Gold flushed even harder, if that was possible at this point. He'd never had a safe word in place before; he was a pretty vanilla dude, all in all, but not like much could be done in the rougher department with only one HP as the margin of error. But that was then, and now he had more than enough DEF. Nothing save a bullet to the cranium would really make him dust during sex now. Now, that was an unsexy thought. Away it went.

"Uh… how about 'stab'," he said eventually. It should be something he'd never say in the bedroom, right?

"Alright, brah." Fresh kissed him again, tongues prying their way into Gold's more-than-willing mouth.

They haven't even done anything yet and Gold's clothes were already feeling too hot for him. If he didn't know Fresh didn't mind in the slightest, he'd feel embarrassed at being so easy .

Fresh pulled away long enough to take his shades off, their yellow and blue lights fading away as he did so. Gold barely had a second to admire his brofriend's true body before the parasite was crawling out of his socket and towards one of Gold's.

His breath hitched and he fought against the instinct to close his eyes at the foreign feeling. Fresh settled in, a surprisingly comfortable weight in his skull, and his whole body immediately felt heavier, each and every movement requiring more effort now that the control was split between them.

Fresh's body slumped against him and he caught it, gingerly laying the color-fading Sans onto the edge of the bed. He settled against the headboard and made himself comfortable, much to Fresh's apparent amusement.

"What's so funny?" he huffed.

Fresh was the one who moved their fingers towards their shorts and unbuttoned them. "How soft ya are towards someone you ain't even know," he explained, pushing the shorts out of the way. Their hand ran over their pubic arch, the bone already heated as magic kept slowly pooling in the inlet.

"That's literally you," Gold said, not fighting it when their hips rose into the teasing touch. "I wouldn't… Oh, heck, do you always have to tease?"

There was a swell of affection deep within them, followed by a throaty chuckle. " Aight, aight, y'gonna make somethin' for me ta fill up?"

God knew just as well as Fresh did that their body didn't need any further coaxing. The swirl of rainbow magic coiling in their pelvis snapped into place the moment their hand was out of the way. Their cock stood straight and entrance dropped viscous, purple liquid all over their shorts.

"Good job," Fresh purred, hand back and phalanges running up their length, so easily and smoothly thanks to all the wetness. They shuddered, and the little shit knew exactly what he was doing to Gold.

He loved it. Loved Fresh.

"Now for the main attraction, then."

Gold knew what was coming, knew exactly, verbatim, what he'd asked for, but the feeling of Fresh's tentacles unfurling inside his skull still caught him off guard. For a moment, his mind felt like it was filed with cotton. When he got used to the feeling, he found the fabric of their shorts even damper.

"Wow, broski," Fresh laughed, tentacles snaking down the length of their neck and into the chest cavity. It felt like being choked, without the uncomfortable pressure where their throat would've been if they had one. "Ain't even done anythin' with them get. How we feelin' about these clothes?"

Heir breath caught when one of he tendrils wound itself through their ribs and around the lowermost one almost like a snake. "Leave them on," Gold gasped out, swallowing around nothing as the pressure within their vertebrae mounted.

He knew Fresh didn't mind, and though there were no mirrors anywhere, the thought of seeing himself didn't sit with Gold right now. So the shorts stayed bunched around their femurs, shirt pushed up the barest amount by tentacles that ventured down, last their ribcage.

Gold refused to summon an ecto-body, opting instead to give Fresh as much space as he could. Looking down, he caught a glimpse of a black tentacle on its way towards their cock. The sight alone was enough to make it twitch, displacing another drop of half-transparent precome that beaded at the tip.

"Open wide," Fresh said, and Gold was so preoccupied with watching the tentacle that it took him a while to notice the one that now hovered in front of their face. He did as asked, meeting the appendage with his conjured tongue. Their entrance clutched around nothing as he imagined another slamming into them. Then another tentacle slipped into their mouth, from the inside , and he groaned as it pushed his tongue past his teeth. In that split second, he wanted to see how it looked, mostly because such a unique feeling must've made him look like a cool, with all the drool running down his chin.

'That feel good?' Fresh asked, teasing the tip of their tongue with the tip of the tentacle that came out along with it. His thoughts echoed, and Gold was struck with a thought that that shouldn't be possible with how full their skull was. He nodded, only to be rewarded with the tentacle that had been venturing down the length of their spine to plunge into their slick entrance.

Their cry was choked, cut off on the next thrust down their throat, and followed by the sound of tearing fabric as Gold gripped handfuls of the covers.

Fresh didn't say anything this time, but a pair of his tentacles snaked around their arms and pulled them behind their back. Their phalanges curled and uncurled, but there was no resistance to the restraint.

'Good boy,' Fresh praised, if only you hear another high keen come out of their filled throat.

He knew how to play Gold like a fiddle, and he couldn't even complain with their mouth this full. Then again, did he even want to?

'I love you,' he thought as he leaned further back, hips rising to meet each of Fresh's thrusts.

'Aw, love ya too, broski.' Fresh's voice was tinged with amusement in their head, as it usually was when Gold let himself get led. 'How ya doin' so far?'

Their sockets fluttered closed at a particularly hard thrust, the tentacle's tip bumping the far end of their summoned passage.

'Never been better,' Gold said, grinding down against the intrusion as best he could. 'Actually, could you—'

He didn't even get to finish his request before there was another tentacle wrapped around their cock, squeezing the weeping ecto in its coil. They keened, melting against the headboard. Their whole body was on fire, in the best of ways.

Somewhere along the way, more and more tentacles filled their ribcage, wound against each and every rib in a messy tangle. Gold debated, with what little mental power he still had, how it'd feel to summon his soul straight into that writhing mass.

'Not yet,' Fresh chided, and the mere idea that he had something planned with it shouldn't have been so hot, but it was . 'Ya're gettin' close, ain'tcha?'

All these questions were redundant, since Fresh could feel everything just the same as Gold, but maybe he was doing it because he knew just how much Gold loved hearing him as they fucked. All the same, Gold nodded a yes and swallowed down around the tentacles using their mouth.

'Hm… remember your safe word?' Fresh asked then, out of nowhere.

Gold made an inquisitive noise, which translated to a choppy moan in reality. 'Huh? S-stab.'

'Keep it in mind. I'm gonna kill ya up, like ya wanted me ta.'

Excitement raced through them, like liquid, molten lava. Two more tendrils squeezed into the entrance alongside the one still there. The ecto-flesh stretched to accommodate them as best it could and the stretch felt so good they would've cum right then and there, if it weren't for Fresh tightening his tentacle around the base of their cock.

Gold whined, high and long. He wiggled as much as he could, but it was useless against all the tentacles holding them still. Even the ones that were inside them refused to move.

'Why… ?' Gold asked, sounding desperate even to himself.

'Lookie,' was Fresh's reply, waiting for Gold to regain himself at least somewhat. It took a while but eventually the unoccupied socket opened and he looked down at themself. Their lap was a mess of tentacles and fluids, but what Fresh wanted him to see was the thin tentacle hovering by their twitching cock.

It was fortunate that they didn't need to breathe, because their breath caught at the sight of it rubbing the swollen head, smearing the precum more than anything.

Fresh was giving him time to back out, but that was the furthest thing from Gold's mind.

'Oh, funk, do it,' he begged, managing a tiny twitch of their hips.

That was apparently all the encouragement Fresh needed, but the tentacle was so slow, so gentle as it dove into the mess and down into the slit. It, too, did its best to accommodate the stretch, gently distending around the black length. Fresh was going slow so as not to hurt them, but all it did was make Gold feel every inch as it slid in, deeper and deeper

They were shaking enough for their bones to rattle when Fresh deemed it enough and asked, 'A'ight, bro?'

It took another while for Gold to realize they were crying (though it was more him than Fresh, really). It was almost too much, almost bordering on pain, but he, greedily, couldn't get enough.

'Move, please,' he begged instead of an answer. 'Please, please…'

'Shh, it's a'ight, broski. Lemme know if it's too much.'

All the tentacles sprung into action, coiling inside them, tugging at their ribs, thrusting in and out of their mouth. And then Fresh started moving the one in their cock, too. It was a slow pace, a complete contrast to the three in their passage, rubbing against their walls at the best possible angles.

Gold didn't know how Fresh kept such precise control over all of them; when two of them pulled out, the last one slammed on, only to be replaced by them on its way out. It was driving him insane. Their magic was hot, charged like an electric current, but with nowhere to go, they just kept climbing higher and higher.

They were caught in a cycle of pleasure, all their bones sensitive and magic strung like a bow. It might've gone on for minutes, or hours, Gold didn't know. He felt like he was floating, yielding to each and every tentacle as it did whatever it pleased. Giving up control was something he could only do with Fresh, because he knew no matter what, he would take care of him. He could almost hear him laugh at the train of thought, before he realized Fresh really was laughing.

'Gimme your soul, Gold.'

It snapped into being faster than Gold could've even processed the request, the inverted yellow organ dripping with slick. Fresh laughed harder.

'Up here,' he said, wrapping the soul in one tentacle to bring it up to their face. 'No eyelight, broski.'

Gold, obediently, dismissed his sight and let Fresh slip the soul into the socket instead. It was wrapped up in the tangle of tentacles there almost immediately, each little brush of them against the smooth, sensitive surface of it sent shivers racing up his spine. Its slick mingled with the free-falling tears rolling down their face and turning it into as much of a mess as their lap felt like.

Without sight, everything felt more intense; their whole body jolted with as loud of a keen as they could.

'Did'ya just cum?' Fresh asked, not ceasing any of his movements. He was right, but the only evidence of their climax was a fresh coat of slick soaking their shorts. Gold couldn't focus on anything other than wherever Fresh was touching — which was everywhere — bit he thought the whole mattress must've been soaked by now. 'Ya can take more, can'tcha?'

Any semblance of breath Gold might've regained was lost to a gasp as one of Fresh's tentacles traced the line up his soul, putting pressure against the thin surface. All their non-existent nerves were on fire from the overstimulation. They couldn't stay still, rocking into each thrust in both their passage and their cock, and then a tendril wrapped around it, squeezing the ecto-flesh around its intrusion.

Gold thought he must've blacked out, but had no idea for how long, because the next thing he was aware of was Fresh pulling the thin tentacle out of their cock. It was followed by a torrent of precum that rolled down the length in thick globs, only serving to make them shiver harder.

They were saying something, or at least trying to; all that left them was a stream of incoherent babbles muted by the tentacles still using their throat as their own.

'I can't believe ya took so much of me,' Fresh marveled and it wasn't fair how composed he still sounded when Gold was reduced to nothing other than pathetic little whines and shivers. 'Jus' a lil' more, can ya take a lil' more?'

Half-delirious, Gold nodded the best he could. He'd take anything Fresh decided to give him, and then ask for more.

'Ya're doin' so good, broski,' Fresh told him, putting more pressure onto his soul, until the surface layer broke with a soft crack and the tentacle slipped inside, gliding through the slimy insides gently as a caress.

The tentacles slipped out of their mouth to let Gold cry out, voice raw and cracking on his attempt at Fresh's name. Their whole body seized up, purple painting their shirt in long stripes as more slick drenched their already-ruined shorts.

Bonelessly, they slumped backwards as the tentacles slowly unwound themselves from their bones.

"Gold? Broski?" Fresh called, but it seemed his brofriend was out of it.

All their joints thrummed with pleasant exhaustion , the magic dissipating from their pelvis to leave only the mess behind.

"Gold?" Fresh tried again, but all he got in response was a soft mewl. He looked over at his body, still slumped exactly where Gold had left it. It looked it he'd have to do all the clean-up himself, but that was fine. It'd give him an opportunity to look at his handiwork more closely.

He wouldn't admit it, but he was (pleasantly) surprised. He'd expected Gold to back out along the way, but he'd just taken everything Fresh dished out, and loved every minute of it.

Yet another difference to what he’d known — the castle housed Nightmare (or Nightfright, as he was known here) and his gang, but also Dream, who went by Daydream instead and looked like a split image of his brother, with his undulating tentacles and black, runny goop.

Error wasn’t much for staying outside, but even he had to admit that Nightfright’s garden was beautiful, rows upon rows of flowers arranged around a tall, willowy tree. He’d taken to it as a quiet knitting spot, when BB urged him to get out of the Anti-void, if ‘only for a while’.

“Oh, Error.”

He looked up from his next stitch; speak of the devil. Nightfright was walking up to him, expertly stepping between the rows and patches of flowers so as to not harm any. There was almost no distinguishing him from the Nightmare Error knew, aside from the moon-engraved circlet sitting atop his skull.

He’d never pried, because the twins never seemed willing to share, but he’d known a little about Nightmare, about the apple incident, mostly from what he could incur from reading his code. Knowing something similar happened here was enough, and he could deduce his own reasons why Daydream looked the same.

“Night,” he said instead of a greeting. “I’ve been kicked out of the Anti-void. BB went to see his brother.”

Sure, the ‘being kicked out’ part was more of a ‘you shouldn’t stew here alone’ nudge, but Nightfright knew exactly what he meant, so why use more words when he didn’t have to? Every time he wound up here and got discovered by one of the residents, he felt the need to explain his presence, but no one actually seemed to mind.

Nightfright sat next to him on the metal bench, grasping its edge in his phalanges. “You should’ve come inside, you moron.”

Error shrugged noncommittally. He wouldn’t admit that didn’t even occur to him. He never came to Nightmare’s castle ‘just because’. Sometimes he got dragged there to help with whatever brilliant plan the guardian had concocted, or he’d barged his way into the office to demand something. But Nightfright was different.

Don’t get him wrong, he knew Nightfright was just as dangerous, could dust a monster with a flick of his tentacle just as easily, but Error wasn’t afraid of that. He’d seen Nightfright jump in to protect his boys, his brother too, but otherwise he was much more mellow than the negativity guardian he’d known.

Error pondered if it was because he got along with Daydream, and if Nightmare would’ve been the same had him and Dream not been constantly fighting. But it was pointless to think about. He’d long abandoned the multiverse that hated him.

Even if it was new, tentative and hesitant, he’d been treated better than ever before in this one. Without Fate’s constant screaming to destroy, destroy, destroy, and with someone (most often BB) always around, Error almost didn’t feel like a neurotic mess. Almost, because he could still hear voices in his head, and Daydream had oh-so-helpfully told him that was not normal.

His fingers idly fiddled with his knitting needles. “Wanted fresh air,” he lied.

“Well, I think I’ve had enough of it already, myself.” Nightfright looked at his bare wrist, where there most definitely wasn’t a watch, and declared, “It’s almost breakfast time. You are free to join, Horror always cooks too much for us to eat.”

He stood and started walking back towards the door, but Error would’ve been a fool not to understand the request that had been presented to him, thinly veiled as it was.

So he shoved his needles back into his inventory and followed in Nightfright’s footsteps. The castle was definitely more warm, more welcoming than Nightmare’s ever could be.

It brought up an interesting question, one that Error couldn't help but ask as BB cooked tacos on the oven that Error had stolen procured from Underfell. Old habits die hard, and the thought of asking Template to create one didn't even occur to him until the next day.

"You're an Underswap Sans, aren't you?"

BB looked up from stirring his meat mixture, cocking his head to the side. "Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering, cause you stay here an awful lot. Why don't you go back to your universe?"

BB turned back, so Error couldn't see his expression, but the tension in his shoulders was palpable. "I can't let Papy see me like this," he muttered, almost too quiet to hear, nothing but a breath. But this was the Anti-void and nothing could mask a sound here. "It's better he thinks I'm gone."

Error frowned. That didn't really sound like a swap's line of thought. What he knew of Underswap was mostly through Blue, when he kept the shortcake as a prisoner — until Fate grew sick of his incessant attempts to befriend her tool and forced him to get rid of him in favor of doing his job . Blue had been overjoyed to see his brother again.

"I dunno, I think he'd be pretty happy," he said. "You're still his brother."

BB's shoulders hunched up further. His voice sounded more like static and less like words. "You really think so?"

"If I had a brother..." He didn't, or if he did have one, he couldn't remember him. "I think it'd hurt to lose him. If he was alive, I'd want him to come back."

BB didn't say anything, just kept up his cooking, so Error, thinking the conversation was over, returned to his knitting. Time was arbitrary in here, but it was a while until BB came over, a plate of tacos in hand. He fidgeted by the hammock, looking from Error to the plate and back, over and over.

"Do you..." he mumbled, nothing more than a breath, and Error knew this was important to him, knew on some deep level, so the half-finished sweater was set aside haphazardly and the plate taken from BB's hand.

He stared up at the other glitch; Error didn't rush him. He wasn't good with this emotion crap, but he tried. BB had tried for him, so it was only fair he tried in return, right? That was how it worked, right?

When he reached out and placed his hand onto BB's shoulder, there was no pain, no stream of glitches enveloping his phalanges. BB stared at his hand, apparently just as surprised by this as Error was.

It took another long minute (or an hour) of silence for BB to speak up again. "Do you really think… he'd still like me?"

Error wasn't sure of many things, but this was one of those he was. "Yeah."

BB was trying, but it was obvious those were tears gathering in his sockets. "Would you come with me?"

"Right now?"

BB glanced at the tacos and then grinned. It looked nowhere near his usual smile, but Error decided not to comment on it. "I thought, maybe… he'd like a taco, too. To know… that it's me."

Error's hand, still on BB's shoulder, was starting to burn. He took it off and handed the plate back to hide it. "Sounds like a plan. Come on, shrimp."

As much as BB seemed on board, when Error opened a portal, eyelights rowing the lines of code to see if it was the right one, he froze up. Slow and steady, Error had to remind himself. He'd always done everything fast, rushed by circumstances, by his adversaries, by Fate. He never had the luxury of slowing down, not for himself, much less anyone else. But BB deserved it.

Finally, they stepped through the portal. It spat them in the living room — lights on, TV running, and Papy laid on the couch. Empty cigarette packs littered the coffee table, the floor, even the couch itself. It looked like he hadn't moved for a while, but the moment the portal fizzed out, he was upright and staring at them.

"Papy…?" BB breathed, nigh silent. He was gripping the plate in his hands like a lifeline.

Papy gaped like he was seeing a ghost. He looked BB up and down, took in the blackened bones, the starry markings, the clothes, the eyes, the glitches that surrounded him like an angry swarm of bees. "Sans…?"

For all his attempts not to cry so far, BB burst into tears immediately, the plate falling from his hands as he all but threw himself at his brother. Error barely caught the china in his strings, rationalizing that BB would be upset if the one thing that got him to come here got destroyed. Papy, meanwhile, caught BB and held him like one might a delicate doll, like his brother could and would disappear at any moment, any time he blinked.

"Oh, stars… it is you, isn't it? You're alive… you're safe ," Play blabbered, voice lingering on the thin line between a sob and a laugh. He crushed BB to his chest as he cried, voice warbled by static and glitched stuttering.

Error looked away, staring at the wall instead, because it felt wrong to watch this private moment. As unseemingly as possible, he placed the plate onto the table and made himself a portal back home. Funny, when did he start thinking of this Anti-void as a home? He didn't feel like delving into it.

BB and Papy had gotten past the tears stage by then and sat on the messy couch, Papy talking too fast about something that eluded Error. Just as he was stepping through, he caught BB giving him a teary-eyed, grateful look.

His soul gave a violent twitch within his ribcage, followed by almost glitching itself out of it, and Error had to stand still, waiting for it to pass. Was this what doing a good deed felt like, or was it just how happy BB had looked? That expression was going to haunt Error's thoughts forever now.

“What’s it this time?” he wondered idly, turning to look from what used to be a sky at his companion. 

Pale was… Nowadays, Error hesitated comparing him to either himself, or Ink. He acted like Ink when he’d run out of paints, not possessing emotions a lot of the time, but instead of carrying paint vials around like the infernal artist, he’d just go to an AU and bleed it dry for them. The result was always a black void, too unstable to keep its shape when left empty afterwards.

Pale turned towards him, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

“Melancholy,” he said, eventually.

Error nodded, slowly standing up since the asteroid he’d been using as a stargazing spot was long gone. This had been one of many AU copies made up by Template, its express and sole purpose to be used by Pale.

He marveled at how this multiverse functioned from the moment BB had explained it to him.

The balance held, because Pale only destroyed AUs to feel something again, and a copy of the original worked for him just the same. And Template, unlike fate-damned squid-dick, knew how to keep the creation of new AUs in check. This multiverse worked almost like a well-oiled machine, and Error would’ve been jealous of it, once upon a time.

As it was, the moment he’d been thrusted into Template’s Anti-void, the ever-screaming voice of Fate was gone from his skull, and the only voices left there were the quiet cacophony of pseudo-creators, eternally vying for his attention.

He felt no desire or drive to destroy a single AU in here. He just tagged along with Pale sometimes, to watch him at it. Not aimed at him, or anything else, for that matter, as an attack, the black ink was almost mesmerizing to watch.

Error opened a portal to the Anti-void, where BB was already sitting in a tangled web of blue strings that made up a hammock not unlike the one he’d had in his own Anti-void. He’d made it maybe a week ago, and BB took it for his own within an hour.

He stared at the shifting mess of code that surrounded the glitched edges of the portal, visible only to his eyes. Or maybe the other glitches could see it, too, though they never mentioned it. It took a while to re-acquaint himself with his own powers, to learn how these universes connected and what they were made of. Their code, just like the coordinates, were just off enough for Error’s instinctual ones to fail.

“Oh, hey!” BB called out as they slipped from endless black into the stretching white.

Error nodded his greeting and Pale raised a hand. “Hello, BB.”

BB pulled a notebook out of his glitching inventory, almost dropping it twice in the process. A blue pen — with a pom-pom on top, no less! — was next, and BB held both while regarding Pale with starry eyelights.

“Mweheh, ok. How was that one?” he asked, flipping to an empty page to write down the emotion that copy had elicited. They all made BB do it, because Template was too scatterbrained (another thing he shared with Ink, though with Template, it didn’t bug Error nearly as much) to not lose the notebook somewhere.

“A rare one,” Pale said, watching the hammock slowly swinging to a stop now that BB was no longer in it. His eyelights sparkled with something. “Melancholy.”

BB hummed, flipping through the pages until he stopped on a specific one, rowing over the neat, capitalized lines. “We already have one with melancholy,” he noted, voice stuttering over a glitch, and then scribbled ‘OUTERTALE #4’ next to ‘SWAPFELL #2’. “Though I think… pure…? melancholy… might be better than ‘melancholy and self-loathing’. Heh.”

Pale snorted, shaking his head. “At least marginally.”

“Mweheh! Alright! Just let someone know when it starts wearing off. I’ve got three more copies lined up for testing, but that can wait for another time if you just wanna feel something specific. Template should be in Fell number uhh… two!”

Pale stared off at nothing for a while more, but then he nodded in BB’s direction. “I’ll think it over. Thanks.”

And he was gone, presumably off to ‘Fell number uhh... two, with an exclamation mark,’ which just left Error and BB in the Anti-void.

“Hey, Error, wanna see what I knitted yesterday?” BB asked, not missing a beat.

Error regarded him with a surprised and, admittedly, curious look. They’d found a hobby they shared, though BB wasn’t that skilled in knitting just yet. Just another thing that set him apart from the Blue Error had known. Just another thing that made him like BB more than he ever could’ve Blue.

“Look!” BB exclaimed, exchanging the notebook and pen for a bundled mess of something blue, which promptly glitched as it exited his inventory and spilled on the ground. “Shoot!”

He scrambled to pick it up and held it out for Error to see. It was a long strip of blue, the stitching a little loose here and there, but it looked like what it was — a scarf. Probably. “A scarf?”

BB nodded vigorously. “For you,” he elaborated, explaining exactly nothing.

“For me?” Error echoed, staring at the scarf as it was being held out to him.

“Yep! Cause yours is singed and stuff. I thought you’d like a new one. Mweheh, but it’s okay if you don’t!” BB looked just a little sheepish, not meeting his gaze but instead staring off to the side. Immediately, Error snatched the scarf from him and pulled his own off.

“I would,” he said, too quick. “I do.” It felt comfortable sitting around his neck. He hoped it showed on his expression, because he didn’t know how to convey what he was feeling with words.

BB seemed to, thankfully, get it. His face lit up and he laughed. “Good!”

It was just them in the Anti-void now, as often. Even without his collection of puppets and souls, it didn’t feel lonely anymore. BB retreated back to the hammock, beckoning him along.

Though it took a couple moments, Gold raised his head eventually, just a bit. His face was stained by the dried remains of what must’ve been rivulets of tears, and his eyelights were hazy and unfocused.

“Fresh,” he said back, echoing between the walls more than Fresh’s voice had. His features betrayed no emotion as he read over his status, a simple HEYA, but Fresh wasn’t deterred.

“Yep, that’s me.”

Gold stared at him, blinking slow and too regular for him not to be doing it consciously. He pushed himself off the pillar — or tried to, at least — and tried to stand up straight, but really just ended up leaning back against the marble, sans the whole digging-his-fingers-into-it thing this time.

“Why are you here?”

“I dunno, why are you here?”

Finally Gold’s impassive look broke, and his browbones scrunched together, just a bit. “This is… our domain. We are supposed to be here.”

Fresh exhaled through his nasal aperture in lieu of a scoff, and pushed his sleeves up above his elbows. “Actually, broski, it's not good for you. Not flyin’ at all. Now, I'm gonna touch you,” he said, raising both hands in front of himself to show they were empty.

Gold eyed him warily, eyelights fluttering from his face to his hands. Fresh let him have his moment of panicked memories, more than willing to wiggle his fingers a bit to drive his point home.

Gold didn’t say no.

So Fresh crossed the last three steps of space between them and wrapped him in his arms. Aside from a harsh jerk, Gold didn’t move, not closer, but not away, either.

“Tell me, Gold, how're you hangin'?”

“We…” Gold frowned further. “No one is hanging.”

Fresh rolled his eyelight behind his glasses and proceeded to lower them both onto the floor. “How’re y’feelin’, Gold,” he amended. For Gold, he’d give up a little bit of his lingo. 

“We are fine,” was the answer, a little too quick, a little too loud, a little too echo-y.

“No lyin’ now.”

Fresh broke off the hug, sat between Gold’s spread, curled legs. He stared into Gold’s sockets, watching his eternal heart-eyes flicker from dim to too-dim and right back.

He was stuck back in the past, back in another loop, and he was not looking forward to the next one

Fresh took a hold of his (shaking) hand, held it with both of his, and Gold blinked the memories away, gradually; the darkness of them bleeding away in favor of the sunshine casting soft shadows on Fresh’s clothes..

“Fresh?” he asked, looking at his brofriend, this time properly. “Heh, what’s up? Came to get judged? ‘Cause I don’t think I got the guts for it right now.”

Fresh’s glasses decided it was the perfect time for some sarcasm, and they swapped the status for an LMAO. “Yeah, sure. Dude, you realize you've been gone for days now, right? I got hella worried.”

“Days? Shoot, I didn’t realize…” Gold lowered his head again, hands fisting his hoodie. He looked just about ready to go into another spiral. Too bad that wasn't something Fresh was about to let happen.

“Oh, bro, it’s chill, you know it’s chill, right? It's aiite now. Everything’s chill.”

He coaxed Gold’s hands to uncurl, but they just latched onto him instead, Gold all but throwing himself onto his chest. Fresh held him as he shook, muttering reassurances all the while. Maybe he should’ve come to check the hall sooner, when Gold wasn’t opening his texts, much less replying to them.

His stupid, stupid lover, thinking he had to deal with everything on his own. They were brofriends for a reason, and Fresh would remind him. As many times as it took.

Despite the previous implication of being wiped, magic roiled and coiled around Gold’s form, flaring in his joints and through the holes of his jacket with nowhere else to go. If Gold needed an outlet, well, Fresh was as willing as ever.

His hand was steady on its way down his front, practiced motions of drumming against his ribs through the thin layer of his shirt. Gold, in his endless wisdom, pulled away from the crushing embrace to lean backwards, though he was still sprawled all over Fresh’s lap. His head rested against the pillar, and Fresh didn’t move him only because his hood was providing a buffer.

“That's it, just chill,” he crooned, dipping his phalanges under the hem of Gold’s shorts. Magic gathered there, sparking with intensity, but unformed. 

Gold’s hand wrapped around Fresh’s wrist and stopped it from trailing across the surface of it. “I’m fine,” he insisted. Fresh opted to ignore it, or at least appear to ignore it. His glasses, as betraying as ever, gave him away with a SRSLY? 

“So ya don't want it, then?”

He knew just as well as Gold himself did that he never passed up an offer like this. The hand on Fresh’s wrist fell away, only to grip onto the edge of his shorts when he traced the shapeless mass of magic, barely even touching it.

Gold made a soft sound, his head lolling back. Fresh knew his tells, and he most definitely knew this one, so he pulled his hand away, just in time for the magic to solidify, take the shape of Gold’s ecto-body. In line with his namesake, it looked like molten gold, almost yellow in the light, and shining with the barest movement.

Fresh’s grin widened, hand back to run across the malleable surface of his stomach, pushing down just enough to have Gold’s breath stuttering. “That's what I thought.”

The tension was slowly leaving Gold’s form, bit by bit, and his shifting legs around Fresh’s hips were a testament to what he thought of Fresh’s attempt at teasing. “See something you like?”

Gold’s smug look faltered just a bit when Fresh’s softened, and he said, “Yep, I do.”

It took so little to get Gold going; the fact that Fresh had pulled his shorts down earlier was a blessing now. Gold’s cock stood against his stomach, equally as dripping as his entrance. He glanced up at Fresh’s face and almost groaned, hand pushing against his cheek as if to push him away, though with no force.

“Stop taunting me,” he said, referring to the NICE proudly displayed across his brofriend’s glasses.

“I ain’t.”

Before Gold could come up another of his witty remarks, Fresh wrapped one hand around his shaft, and plunged two of his fingers into his entrance. The ecto spread for him, pliant and slick, and so, so warm.

That seemed to shut Gold up — word-wise, anyways. The moan he let out was almost melodic, especially echoing between the pillars. Fresh knew what Gold liked, but he wanted to make him wait for it. Just a little. Not like he had much patience himself, not when presented with such a delicious sight.

His hands moved in slow strokes and shallow thrusts, just enough to rile Gold up and not much else. He wondered how long Gold would be able to hold out, or if he would be the impatient one this time.

Gold bucked into his touches, writhing between the two sensations as he tried to get more. “Oh c’mon, you know I can take you.”

It would seem the answer had been about four whole seconds. Works for him.

“I dunno, can ya?” He crooked his fingers, causing Gold to outright jerk. If his legs weren’t wrapped around his waist, he probably would’ve gotten kicked.

“Funk!”

Grinning, Fresh deemed it enough, and pulled it fingers out and away, wiping the residue on his shirt. “That ain’t very fresh of ya.”

“The only fresh thing about me is gonna be your cock as it rams in me, now c’mon,” Gold demanded, fumbling with the zipper of Fresh’s shorts, only shoving them open enough to wrap his hand around Fresh’s stringing length. Fresh’s breath left him in a gasp, and Gold was looking at him with half-lidded sockets, only making it worse. “Please.”

“How can I say no to that?” Fresh laughed. He batted Gold’s hand away, taking the opportunity to thread their fingers together. He pushed them against the pillar, folding Gold almost in half, and took hold of himself with the other hand.

The tip of his length probed at the entrance, smearing Gold’s slick around more than anything. Gold wiggled, as much as he could in his current position, which wasn’t much. Fresh let him, for a moment, if only to watch the desperate look cross his face, flush high on his cheekbones.

“Please, c’mon, stop teasin’ me, c’mon c’mon, ple—ah!”

Fresh pushed in, Gold’s ecto spreading for him like it was made for it, wrapping around him just tight enough to make his spine tingle. “There ya go.”

Gold’s eyesockets had fallen shut, browbones scrunched up so cutely, and teeth parted just enough for Fresh to take the invitation, lean over, and press his own teeth against them. Fresh’s tongues slipped past Gold’s lips, meeting his own tongue to coax it into play. Gold squeezed his fingers, holding on tight as their hips slotted together. He felt so deliciously full, and Fresh was pressing down against him, trapping his cock between them.

“Yesss,” he drawled, muffled against the other’s tongues. His magic felt strung up already, and Fresh wasn’t even moving yet. Fresh pulled away from the kiss and moved down to his neck, licking along two vertebrae at a time, and every single touch against the exposed joint magic was sending shivers through Gold’s entire body.

Fresh’s free hand, the one not holding Gold’s in its vice, moved from Gold’s iliac crest to his shirt to push it up, above where the ecto stopped and ribs started, and he ran one of his tongues across his teeth.

“Gold,” he said, snapping his hips back and in again, to get Gold’s attention. Not that he didn’t have it already, but he needed his brofriend’s sight for this. “Look down here.”

Gold’s flickering eyelights followed his directions, down to his exposed stomach and… the purple length inside him, looking almost magenta through the sheen of his yellow. Gold’s own cock twitched as Fresh pulled out again, setting a slow pace. Every time he pulled out, an almost unnoticeable trail of purple pre was left inside him, dispersed every time Fresh pushed back in, distending the ecto with its size.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, stars!” Gold moaned, unable to look away. His toes curled, feet pulling Fresh as close as monsterly possible, and he came just like that, stripes of golden residue painting their shirts and drenching Fresh’s lap.

“Well, that was quick,” Fresh chuckled, tone much too soft for the intended teasing jab. He was soaking in every second of Gold’s blissed out expression, the way his half-open eyesockets lacked lights, the way his flush spilled down to his neck, the way he was shaking, all of it. “Y’still up for more?”

Gold, in lieu of an answer, pushed against Fresh’s next thrust.

“A’ight, lemme know when you’ve had enough,” Fresh said, back to holding onto Gold’s hip, the ecto squishing between his fingers.

He sped up, muffling his own little noises into Gold’s neck. His teeth teased the vertebrae, much to Gold’s very vocal delight. Gold met each of his thrusts, with varying degrees of accuracy, but a lot of them seemed to hit exactly where he wanted. His moans and gasps were a testament to that.

“Lookit you… so pretty all worked up,” Fresh whispered, breath still close enough to make Gold shiver.

“Shut up,” Gold slurred back, “Don’t stop, don’t— stars, more, please, please, please!”

His begging, his willingness, was absolutely breathtaking. He was like putty in Fresh’s hold, all his greatness and strength gone for the moment. Fresh could do anything he wanted.

And what he wanted right now was get a hand around Gold’s cock, which meant dragging both their hands down between them and, without unlinking them, wrapping them around the weeping, already-soiled length. Their thumbs circled the other side; he didn’t move them any further, just let Gold fuck himelf through their grip with each and every thrust.

Fresh’s pace stuttered because Gold kept tensing around him, but he kept it up; he was getting close himself, but he wanted to see Gold lose himself once more before he finished. He bit down on the side of Gold’s neck, leaving behind marks that would stay there for days if Gold wished them to.

“Shit, Fresh! Yes!”

That seemed to be Gold’s tipping point, and he spilled between them again, adding to the mess. Fresh bit back another remark about his stamina, but only because Gold’s walls fluttering around him were bringing him ever closer.

He slammed into Gold, their hips clacking together so loud he was surprised it didn’t echo. Once, twice, thrice, was all he managed. He came buried inside Gold as deep as he could, spilling himself into the ever-accomodating ecto-flesh.

He moaned his pleasure into Gold’s neck, and Gold echoed with his own moan. It took more than he was willing to admit to stay upright and not collapse on top of his brofriend.

“There, are you vibin’?”

“I’m vibin’ so hard, Fresh,” Gold muttered, still out of it. That was fine, though, because Gold’s grin was soft and satisfied, and he was looking down at himself. Through his ecto-stomach, they could both see Fresh’s cum, lighter than the purple that dripped out of his entrance. He untangled their hands and reached up to cup Fresh’s skull and pull him into another kiss, a small clink of teeth that was much too tender for what they’d just done.

“Well, how about vibin’ harder back at the crib, huh?”

“Stars, that’d be great.” 

Fresh pulled away, righted his shorts and then pulled Gold’s back up and his shirt back down. There were splatters of yellow all over it, but nothing that wouldn’t dissipate within an hour. Gold tried to stand up, but Fresh had to catch him by the arms when he wobbled.

“You uh, straight?” Gold sent him a deadpan look, and it would’ve been effective, were his eyelights not flickering in and out of focus. “Right. Want me to carry you?”

“Hmm…” Gold drawled, pretending to think, but only so he could lean in and surprise Fresh with another small peck. His glasses betrayed his surprise, proudly showcasing ?!?!, but so did the flush re-appearing on his cheekbones. “Go ahead, bro.”

Fresh grinned and scooped his brofriend up in his arms with surprising lack of effort. See, that had been Gold’s fatal mistake. He was now forced to stay in kissing range, all the way home. 

“You’re so freakin’ beautiful.”

Fresh would’ve blushed, were his cheekbones not lit up like a Gyftmas tree already. Or, their cheekbones. He wasn’t completely used to the feeling of being in control, but not being the only one in control.

“Don’t look away.”

He couldn’t look away even if he tried, since Gold was keeping their gaze locked onto the reflection of them in the giant mirror. Fresh might not have been used to possessing someone he couldn’t control fully, but it wasn’t their first time.

He could remember the first time, and how nonchalantly Gold offered himself for Fresh to feast upon. Such thoughts didn’t seem fitting for this situation, so he tried to… push them away.

“I’m looking,” he said, “Promise I’m lookin’.”

“Good,” Gold replied, and it was so surreal to watch their mouth move without him saying anything, to see his (for all intents and purposes right now) body move without being the one doing the moving. “You’re so… so pretty. Look…”

The grip on their cock tightened, Gold’s rhythm stuttering as a moan left him, or maybe it was Fresh, who knew, who cared—! Not him, not when it felt so darn amazing. He couldn’t see their eyes through the blindfold, and it was both a blessing — he couldn’t see himself, thank the stars — but it was also a curse, because he couldn’t see Gold’s eyelights wavering in their eternal heart shape, flickering in and out as they were wont to.

There were hearts displayed on the blindfold, though, and that maybe made up for it, just a little. Their soul skipped a beat in their chest; Fresh’s fault. Seeing his brofriend so into this was getting to him, and fast.

Gold grinned at him, lopsided and so, so freaking cute. Gold, stupid, sweet, adorable, radically dumb, easy-too-good-for-him Gold, who accepted him for what he was, who saw through him and through anyone and everyone, who picked him over anyone else even though he could’ve had anyone, anyone in the entire multiverse, and he was grinning at him, and there were tears hidden behind that blindfold, and Fresh refused to accept they were his.

Gold laughed, short and punctuated with a small groan, “Heh, a lil’ too much? Sorry, bro.”

Their brows scrunched up, but for some reason, Fresh couldn’t wipe that grin off their face (not that he really wanted to). “No! Don't apologize. Never freaking apologize, broski.”

Another chuffed laugh, “Alright…” and Gold returned to the task at hand. “So pretty. So colorful…”

Gold’s mumbles were half nonsense, but from the sweat beading down their cheek, the flush high on their cheekbones, the little bit of exposed collarbones under — his — shirt, down to their hipbones and… their ecto-cock, the hue of their magic spanned the entire rainbow, and he had to admit that it was pretty.

Mostly because half of it was Gold.

Their hand glided up and down their length easily, too easily, aided by the fluorescent purple precum that was beading at the tip no matter how much the movement spread it around. With their combined soul beating so hard it felt like it was pounding in their skull (and maybe it was, somehow. Fresh was up there, wasn’t he?), he could barely hear himself thinking.

“Ya’re the pretty one, Gold,” he somehow forced out. The glow of their blush brightened, somehow, even though Fresh had thought it couldn’t. Gold always surprised him.

“Gonna be prettier,” he said, thumb swiping across the tip on the next upstroke. Their whole body shuddered, bones rattling as their eyes fell shut behind the blindfold. “Once I’m… Once I’m covered in purple.”

“H-Heck, Gold…”

“Yeah— Heck, indeed.”

Gold kept it up, slow on the downstroke and fast on the way back, thumb circling their slit every single time. Fresh’s fault for showing how good that felt. Their other hand gripped the edge of their seat, so tight if they had skin it’d be turning white.

They lapsed into silence; though silence was a loose term, with their labored breaths and moans. It was almost painfully obvious which were whose — Fresh’s tended to be quieter, and Gold shared exactly zero of his reservations, loud and unchecked. It drove Fresh wild. Maybe he was doing it precisely for that reason.

Their magic sparked bright when Gold’s hold tightened just right — how was he so good at this? 

“Wanna make y’feel good,” Gold muttered, their voice echoing the faintest bit, the only sign Gold was just as far gone as him, and Fresh almost lost it right there.

Their head lolled back, into the fluff of their hood, and their hand sped up. Too much — it was too much, too good, too fast, too much everything. Too much Go— So much Gold. Fresh didn’t think he could ever get enough of him.

Their magic swirled under their shorts, winding tighter and tighter, hot and alive.

“Come on,” Gold said, looking squarely where their eyesockets would be, if the darned blindfold wasn’t in the way. “Cover me. Come on… I want— I—” Gold broke off into a moan, their toes curling inside their slippers, and Fresh cursed the blindfold now.

He wanted to see Gold, wanted to see exactly what kind of an expression they’d make, if their eyelights would fizzle out, or they’d just waver in their shape, or… 

“Please… please, Fresh…”

The magic, wound so tightly in their pelvis, snapped. They folded almost in half, their hand stopping mid-stroke as they let out a loud cry, guttural and deep. Purple coated them, just like Gold had wanted, splatters all over their shirt and shorts, and so, so much on their hand.

Their sight went poof, and it took a long while, filled with nothing but labored panting, for it to return. Magic surged through their bones, lazy and satisfying. They felt like they were floating.

“W—” They had to swallow a couple of times for their voice to become usable again. The glow of their blindfold was dimmer now, more homey. “Wow… y’actually listened to me…”

Gold was the one who brought their soiled hand up to their face, let Fresh see exactly how thick and viscous the magic residue was, dripping down and in between their phanages.

Fresh was going to reply, he was — as soon as he figured out what to say—! But Gold didn’t give him a chance, and instead stuck two of their fingers between their teeth, and licked all of the residue off.

Their cheeks were a kaleidoscope of colors, and the blindfold changed itself to say ‘oh man.’ Fresh dreaded what would come out of their mouth next. Not because he was scared, but because he wasn’t.

“Thank you.”

They made a sound, somewhere between a dying animal and a whine. Gold always had a way of persuading Fresh into things, even without the use of any dirty tricks. And sometimes with the use of dirty tricks.

Fresh was surprisingly okay with this.

He raised their other hand and ripped the blindfold off. Their face was a mess, but he didn’t give himself the time to take it in, because he didn’t think he’d be able to handle it. Gold caught onto his plan and placed him onto his body when he ripped himself out of their eyesocket.

Color faded from Gold’s body while it almost erupted back into Fresh’s body, and when he came to himself, Gold still had a hand up by his mouth, and his tongue — now back to its vibrant yellow — was still licking up the purple remains of the ecto spillage. Even his blush was now back to its original color, no longer looking like a rainbow had spilled on his skull.

“Huh, so you just leave me to clean up by myself?”

Fresh’s whole being shuddered and maybe shut down for a second or two while Gold just went on, licking all-too-innocently at his phalanges.

“W-well…” he started, so very eloquently. “Ya uh… ya need help? With that? Broski?”

Gold grinned at him, that little smile that was always, always higher on one side, the one that Fresh swore made him feel things he shouldn’t be able to feel. “If you’d be so kind.”

And oh, Fresh was.

The air was filled with faint, static-y sounds, like an annoying buzz of an insect. BB cocked his head to the side, straining his ear canals for the direction where they were coming from. Once pinpointed, he started his journey of shotcutting through the white space, using the sounds as a guide.

Nothing came up for long minutes, just more white. The sounds were, however, getting louder and, admittedly, more annoying. Clearer, too. They started to resemble something he’d expect of a dial-up router trying its best to crawl its way back from the brink of a technological meltdown.

And then he was standing by a figure crumpled on the ground.

“Template?” he called out. His only response was a garbled, high-pitched noise, but his guess wasn’t surprising. The figure on the ground, from what he could see, was black! There was a blue scarf spilled on the ground, but the rest was obscured by a sea of glitches.

“Buddy, what’s wrong?” He dropped down into a squat and rolled the figure over.

Where he’d expected Template’s glasses covering his eyes was instead half a dozen of blue magic lines, the black hoodie not tied around the waist but instead worn properly. The sleeves seemed stitched on (more than once, from the frayed edges) and, honestly? It looked more like a coat than a hoodie.

“You’re not Template, are you?” he asked, knowing well that he wouldn’t get a response. The skeleton was glitching badly, sockets wide and unseeing. There was a puddle of half-dried blue marrow underneath them, and when touched, it flashed with white, glitched error messages. There was also a bar above the skeleton’s head, slowly climbing its way to the right, proudly displaying the message, ‘Rebooting: 84% complete.’

BB sat back and waited. The sounds coming from the other ranged in intensity as he did, at one point dying down to almost nothing only to come back, more warped than before. Idly, he wondered if he ever sounded like that. Template did, sometimes, but only when he was badly hurt.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but he didn’t really want to leave the other alone. He’d never seen anyone like this, so maybe they were new? The Anti-void could be scary if you didn’t know where you were, or couldn’t get out on your own.

The progress bar climbed its way to 100% and faded away, along with the worst of the dial-up noises. The skeleton stirred, raising a head to their head, which was still glitching. A couple error messages refused to leave their body.

BB sat up straight, eyelights sparkling. “Hi! I don’t think we’ve ever met before?”

“Ugh,” the skeleton groaned, blinking a couple times before their head turned to BB and they squinted at him. “What the fuck happened…? Blue?”

“Oh, you’ve heard of me? That’s great! Where are you from? What AU? I haven’t seen a new glitch in so long!”

“...huh?” The glitched surrounding the other became a swarm of angry bees for a second, and then the other squinted even harder, looking BB up and down. The red sockets went wide. “What the—”

The skeleton jumped up to their feet, backing away from BB like they’d been scorched. 

“Blue?! What the fuck happened to you?! I— no, that’s impossible! I haven’t left you in the Anti-void that long! How—?”

“Oh! Um…” BB stood up as well, watching with no small amount of concern as the other started pacing back and forth, muttering to themself. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about? I’m Blueberror! But you can call me BB… haha, everyone does.”

The other skeleton’s eyelights — so similar to BB’s own, wow! — snapped to him, switching between squinting at him and widening in disbelief, like they couldn’t believe what they were looking at. Sure, BB knew he was nothing to write home about, but he’d gotten used to his new form! It wasn’t that bad!

“Bl— BB,” the skeleton stated, like they were trying how the name rolled off their metaphorical tongue. Their panic seemed to be gone, and their face set into a tense frown.

BB watched, confused, as they reached up to their face and… ripped the blue magic off their skull? He didn’t have the time to react before it turned into long, thin strings between the other’s fingers, and then he was wrapped up in them, arms pinned to his sides and his ankles bound together, which sent him to the ground in a messy tangle.

“Oof,” he exhaled, doing his best to wiggle out of the restraints. “What’re you doing?”

“Who are you?” the stranger asked, circling their fingers so the strings tying BB tightened to the point of being painful. Their voice was deep and filled with so much static they sounded like Template that one time BB had caught him unaware in a hug and got an earful that taught him nothing because he did not have ears.

“I told you! I’m Blueberror!”

“That’s impossible!” The strings tightened again and BB’s body glitched, flickering in and out for a moment, but that was enough for him to phase through them and catch his breath. 

“Oh gosh,” he muttered, rubbing at where the string had dug into his humerus. “That wasn’t very nice of you.”

“Tell me the fucking truth, shrimp! How did you glitch out?! There’s no way— we were just fighting! You couldn’t’ve been here that long!”

“Fighting? Haha, I haven’t even met you until now! I’m not sure what… maybe you’re confused?”

And that was exactly the time Template decided to make his appearance, stumbling through a glitched-out portal, trailing black ink. He was covered almost head to toe. BB took one look at him and burst out laughing.

Template shot him a look that would’ve been a deadpan, if he wasn’t pouting. “It was a tie! I swear!” he cried, but then he seemed to realize BB wasn’t the only one around to see him.

The new skeleton was standing deathly still, staring at Template as if he’d grown not one, but two extra heads, and then decided to shop them off.

“Who’s your new friend, BB? I’ve never seen them, are they from a new AU? Ooh, hiya, I’m Template, the mighty protector of all AUs and the whole multiverse!” He struck a pose, jabbing his pen into the ground in a way that had BB stifling a laugh again.

The new skeleton didn’t say a word. The buzzing intensified again, though nowhere near as loud as it had been when they were… rebooting, maybe? That was what the message said.

“Uh…” Template’s arms dropped to his sides when he didn’t receive any reaction to his introduction. “Who are you...?” They looked eerily similar to him; it was like looking into a mirror, except the mirror came from a mirror house at a carnival.

The skeleton seemed to share the sentiment. “Error,” he said finally. “I’m Error.”

“Great to meet you! Oh, just wait until Pale finds out we have one more of us!”

Template bounded forward and wrapped Error into a hug, his pen squishing into their sides. Error let out a cut-off cry, pushing against him before the glitches all around him flared up, coating his whole body.

The dial-up noises were back, and he fell limp against Template. Who, graciously looking a little sheepish, lowered him onto the ground.

The progress bar was back above Error’s head, but this time it seemed to be going significantly faster, already at 23%.

“Haha, oops?” Template chuckled, looking at BB. BB just shook his head.

Blue marrow seeped from him, dripping to the dusty ground of the AU. The error and warning messages within it were flashing way too fast for anyone to make them out.

Ink’s focus was purely on him, despite Nightmare and the rest of the gang being nearby and engaged in their own fight against Dream and Blue. His eyelights kept flickering between symbols and colors, though red seemed much too prominent today. Might have something to do with the half-full red vial on the artist’s sash.

The ground rumbled and Error almost lost his footing for a second, gritting his teeth as pain flared from his (also probably broken) leg. The code of the AU was breaking down, and what a great time for it, too. Absolutely spectacular. Error cursed Fate, inside his mind and then out loud.

“‘Mare!” he yelled out, “It’s breaking! We need to get out, now!”

Stupid Ink and his stupid fucking periods of inspiration! Error had been working overtime for weeks now, trying to keep the Multiverse from imploding in on itself, and just like that, in the span of a couple hours, all his hard work was rendered completely moot.

“We’re leaving!” Nightmare called back, as much to Error as to the others.

Cross and Horror fell back immediately, followed closely by Killer, but Dust couldn’t help one last swipe at Blue, who was just in time to block the knife with his hammer. One of Nightmare’s tentacles, even as charred and thin as it looked, winding around him was enough for him to give it up, however. Nightmare had a portal waiting for them.

Error’s next plan of action consisted of; 1) opening a portal and 2) getting the hell out of there before Ink could come into range again. There were a couple problems to this plan from the get-go, though. Mainly the fact that in the time it took Error to ascertain that the whole gang was (relatively) safe, Ink had somehow manifested in his personal space, and was swiping his brush downwards at him.

It was with a stuttering gasp that he jumped back, abandoning his injury to pull more strings from one of his sockets.

“No you don’t!” Ink growled. He wasn’t much better off than Error, but all the injuries seemed almost nonexistent to him, in his rage. It had been a long time since Error had seen Ink this angry. “I’m sick of my creations dying to you!”

Ink’s brush missed him by a thread, and he would’ve laughed at the pun, in any other situation. No, instead Ink’s brush splattered paint all over the snow, and he reached out with his free hand and grabbed Error by his jacket.

“Let go, squid!” Error hissed, glitches swarming the point of contact. "Fucking let go!"

“Oh, I will!”

And, true to his word, Ink did. But not before yanking him down and shoving him into the puddle of black. The relief of not being touched anymore didn’t even have the time to set in; he panicked as the paint swallowed him up, and his glitches came back ten folds.

He fell through the paint, and came out the other side as if through a portal.

“Shit!” He landed with a painful crack, and if he hadn’t had multiple broken ribs before, he sure as hell did now. His whole chest burned with the pain, and it took a while for the glitches to clear out of his vision, not that that helped much.

All around him was white, an expanse of nothingness spilling as far as the eye could see. He could laugh. And he did laugh.

Oh, this was hilarious!

Ink had sent him to the Anti-void, of all places!

Granted, it was a corner of it with nothing inside; none of his strings, none of his souls or dolls, but it was undoubtedly the Anti-void. The feeling of it was familiar, and he was sure as long as he followed it, he’d eventually find his spot. He’d curl up in one of the hammocks, sleep off the injuries, and check up on Nightmare and his gang. Then he’d get his revenge.

So, once again holding his chest — and yep, there was unmistakably multiple broken ribs there, yep! ouch! — he picked a direction and started walking. His feet made no sound on the ground, and the white passed him by without passing him by.

He walked, and walked, and sometimes he stopped to scream curses at the blank surroundings, but then he walked again.

Time never made sense in the Anti-void, but it felt like he’d walked for hours, with nothing in sight, and his wounds leaving a trail of flickering blue behind him as the only thing to indicate he’d already been there.

Eventually, his patience ran thin, and he cursed himself (and also nothing, because what else was there to even curse at around right now?) and decided to open a portal. He’d pop out at Nightmare’s castle, steal whatever-the-hell-dish was on tonight’s menu, and pop back in, in his place.

He waved a hand, breathing in a stuttering gasp as the pressure on his ribs lifted and a new wave of neon-blue marrow oozed out, and tried to force the code to bend to his will. Emphasis on tried, because it refused to open a portal for him.

Panic seized his whole being. His hand shook. He tried to open another portal, and another, and another — to Underfell, to the original timeline, he even tried Underswap as one point.

And none of them opened.

He looked around himself again. Nothing but white, uninterrupted and unending. And his sad, pathetic little trail of marrow, dwarfed by the nothing all around. His glitches surged, and covered up the sight bit by bit, until he couldn’t see it. He didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse at this point.

the skeleton graces them with a strange look, his brow bones moving into an approximation of a scowl. frisk still wonders how that works. shouldn't bones be... you know... they suppose it doesn't matter. it certainly makes it easier to understand when sans is making a joke and grins at it himself.

this, however, doesn't sound like a joke.

"heya," he says, looking not at them, but almost through them. "you've been busy, huh?"

they tilt their head to the side, confused. they came straight here from the core.

silence stretches between them.

"so, i've got a question for ya. do you think even the worst person can change...? that everybody can be a good person, if they just try?"

frisk pushes away the urge to say that had been two questions, not one. instead, they just nod.

sans' frown deepens, somehow. "alright. well, here's a better question. do you wanna have a bad time? 'cause if you take another step forward... you are really not going to like what happens next."

frisk is confused.

this seems important, important like when sans took them to the restaurant (nevermind that they basically took him, with the way their gold just vanished, but still).

for a second they clutch their stick tighter, before shoving it unceremoniously into their pants' pocket. "i don't understand," they sign, "i need to get to king asgore."

they take a tentative step forward, eyeing sans carefully.

"welp. sorry, old lady," he mutters. frisk is yet more confused. does he mean toriel? what does toriel have to do with this? "this is why i never make promises."

and just like that, frisk's soul is yanked out of their body and laid bare for all to see.

their hands find the stick again and hold it to their chest, almost like a lifeline, like a dead piece of a tree is going to save them from a fight. like they've done the entire time they'd been stuck in the underground. sans seems to ignore them for a moment, basking in the warm light streaming through the windows himself, eye...sockets closed.

"it's a beautiful day outside. birds are singing, flowers are blooming... on days like these, kids like you..."

something happens.

frisk doesn't know what. sans opens his eye sockets, but there is no light behind them.

"should be burning in hell."

suddenly they're on the ground, their soul a sickly blue.

the tiles under them rumble.

they crack.

frisk is no more.

------------------------------------------

frisk steps through the threshold, eyes only skimming over the beautiful hallway before they settle on sans, standing between two pillars like he hadn't moved an inch.

their steps are tentative now, fingers worrying over the half-smooth bark of their stick. still, they sign a "hello, sans." their brows are drawn together, shoulders hunched.

they don't understand.

sans pretends to think, looking them over before grinning. "heya. you look frustrated about something. guess i'm pretty good at my job, huh?"

frisk tries to sign again, but their soul is yanked out again and they instinctively flinch, rendering whatever they were going to say moot.

sans' words cut deep. maybe even deeper than the first time, now that they're not as shell-shocked.

they still don't understand.

they fall to the floor, feel the tiles rumble. this time, they pick themselves up and narrowly jump over the bones coming from the floor.

and immediately get speared by a slew of bones coming at them from the side.

------------------------------------------ 

this time, frisk hesitates in the doorway.

they're not scared of fights. maybe a little. they're not scared of dying. maybe a little. maybe a little more than little.

they wish they knew why sans had attacked them.

they peek around one of the pillars to see him standing exactly where he'd been the last time, eye sockets closed as he enjoys the sun.

"hmm. that expression... that's the expression of someone who's died twice in a row," he says, without opening his sockets. "suffice to say, you look really... unsatisfied. all right. how about we make it a third?"

they realize, rather belatedly, that they hadn't said hello to him.

they only realize he's counting their deaths when they come face to face with a giant skull. it's too late.

the world turns white.

------------------------------------------ 

frisk steps from foot to foot.

their stick almost creaks under their grip as they hold it up to their chest. with a deep breath, they put it away and step into the hallway, steps echoing between the walls.

they sign a "hello."

again, sans regards them, though this time he does actually look at them. the fact that he's doing something different every time makes frisk's skin crawl with a chill. no one else had noticed that when they died the world rewound to bring them back yet. sans obviously does.

"hmm," he hums, pretending to think again. or at least frisk thinks he's pretending. if he knows what comes after, and before, he wouldn't have to think. "that's the expression of someone who's died thrice in a row."

silence falls, and frisk's heart isn't yanked out. yet. they take the moment to raise their hands.

"hey, what comes after 'thrice,' anyway?"

they shake their head before he can yank their soul out. "sans. why are you fighting me?"

the skeleton cocks his head to the side. "really, kid? i'd have thought you'd know all about exp and love. want a refresher before you help me find out?"

as if guarding their soul, frisk clutches at their chest. like that would stop sans from ripping it out if he wanted to. when he wanted to.

they nod.

"they're acronyms. exp stands for 'execution points'. a way of quantifying the pain you have inflicted on others." sans rattles off a lengthy explanation, but it clears up absolutely nothing. frisk hadn't hurt anyone.

...

maybe save for greater dog, when he tried to jump on their lap and they got a little too scared and pushed him off. then again, they made up for it in pets. they had hoped.

after his explanation, sans yanks their soul out and they're too slow to dodge one of the lasers from his skulls.

the world fades into white again.

------------------------------------------

they don't bother hesitating in the hallway this time. 'stay determined,' they remind themselves in their head, a mantra of sorts. if another voice joins their own to chant along, they try not to think about it. maybe sans will explain if they proceed further? it's with those thought that they stand their ground, shoulders hunched and stick by their side.

"hmm. that expression... that's the expression of someone who's died quice in a row. quice? frice? welp, won't have to use it again anyways."

it's still morbid that sans is counting their deaths.

this time they focus on the bones, eyes flicking back and forth. one grazes their upper arm, and it hurts.

when sans summons his skull-lasers, frisk barely manages to duck out of the way.

they pant with exertion, chest heaving. their stick is heavy in their hand. they can't bring themselves to raise it against sans. they don't know if sans knows this. not anymore.

"huh. always wondered why people never use their strongest attack first."

sans awaits their move, just like every other monster they've fought. for frisk, there is no choice.

they spare him.

next thing they know, bones rain down from above, and they don't see where to dodge.

------------------------------------------ 

"that's the expression of someone who's died five times in a row. convenient, huh? that's one for each finger. but soon... you'll need a cool mutant hand to count all of your deaths."

at this point, frisk thinks they shouldn't pay attention to the counting jokes sans keeps making. if they think about it too hard, they are forced to remember each attempt, and the phantom pain lingering from each one. but it's hard to, when it's what sans 'greets' them with each time.

"sans, please," they sign, to no avail. sans simply ignores them.

"it's a beautiful day outside. birds are singing-"

and then they're on the ground.

they'd like to pretend the bones don't surprise them, but that would be lying.

------------------------------------------ 

"that's the expression of someone who's died seven times in a row." please stop. "hey, that's good. seven's supposed to be a lucky number. who knows, maybe you'll hit the jackpot..." please, no. "and that number will multiply tenfold."

frisk's eyes sting as they try their best to dodge out of the way of incoming bones. the tips of their hair don't survive a laser blast, but otherwise they're in one piece.

maybe sans taunting them before he even throws the first bone is getting to them. they don't know. they don't know anything.

one slip of their foot on the tiles is enough for a barrage of bones to lodge themselves into their back.

------------------------------------------

they'd like to lose track of how many times it had been, but sans stubbornly makes that impossible. "hey, congrats! the big one-oh! let's invite all your friends over for a big shindig. we can have pie, and hot dogs, and... hmmm... wait. something's not right. you don't have any friends."

a chill runs down their spine. that hurts more than the bone that comes from below and pierces their leg. tears roll down their cheeks as they try to pretend sans is lying.

has sans ever lied? would he lie to them?

they have friends!

they do!

a hit from one of the lasers kills them again, now that they're unable to run.

------------------------------------------

they stand outside the hallway, fingers shaking as they fiddle with their phone. their first instinct is to call toriel, but just like every time, nobody picks up. their breathing is so loud it echoes now.

the phone almost falls from their grasp as they try to dial papyrus instead, the ringing tone almost taunting.

no one picks up.

this time they're crying before they even talk to sans. they still sign a 'hello,' to him, knowing it makes little difference.

"hmm. that expression... that's the expression of someone who's died eleven times in a row. well, give or take. there's nuance to this stuff. don't think i'll be able to count very well from here. count for me, ok? we'll start from 12."

frisk loses track as soon as they're caught by a stray bone while jumping over others.

------------------------------------------

they take to calling papyrus' number every time they reload. the call is never picked up, however.

true to his own word, sans had stopped counting their deaths, instead opting to just say 'let's just get to the point,' as if there was a point.

if there was, they can't see it.

they tell themselves to stay determined, but it's hard. each time they learn on of sans' attacks, or one of his tells, he gets them with something else. sometimes new, sometimes... not.

every single spare is met with more bones, more obstacles, more lasers. it's a test of endurance, and frisk is failing terribly.

they don't know if they even really mind the next time their soul is shattered in a flash of white.

------------------------------------------ 'help'

'please'

their tears hit the display of their tiny phone. it's a small wonder they'd even managed to write the texts. they can't get sans' remark about not having friends out of their mind.

would he chase them if they ran back to see? probably not, but on the small off-chance that he would, they don't want to get anyone else caught in their own problem.

though isn't that what they're doing, texting papyrus? how hypocritical.

they dodge two new attacks from sans before their next demise.

------------------------------------------

they wake up, they call toriel. they call papyrus. they send him two texts. they hold their stick in their left hand.

the bark on it is worn off to the point of being smooth under their palm.

they step into the corridor. they greet sans. they listen to him talk.

they die.

------------------------------------------

over, and over.

------------------------------------------ frisk wonders what would happen if they lost their determination. would they die and not come back?

why does that sound so good all of a sudden?

------------------------------------------ "hello," they sign at sans. "how are you?"

it seems to catch him off guard, but not for long. his eyes regard them as they swap their stick from hand to hand. "i'm great, kiddo," he says, grinning.

for a split second, they think they might be able to talk.

"i'll be even better when you're dead again."

they aren't.

------------------------------------------ "it's a beautiful day," they sign, "birds are singing, flowers are blooming... on days like this, kids like me, should burn in hell."

it should hurt. it hurts a little less when they're the one saying the words, if only marginally.

sans keeps frowning whenever they deviate from the 'script'. they did too, at the start, so it's only fair, right?

they're barely holding on, and they're forced to eat the slice of pie toriel baked them. they'd been trying to save it, to enjoy when they felt bad. it tastes delicious.

they start to cry again.

it makes them miss one of the bone walls and consequently get skewered, but... at least they'll get to enjoy their pie again.

------------------------------------------ they're slowly getting better at dodging sans' attacks. very, very slowly. and not counting all the times they die nigh immediately because they start crying.

every time they do, sans gives them this look. they don't know what it is.

they're still so confused.

------------------------------------------ they don't know why they keep sending those texts to papyrus. maybe they keep a little kindling of hope that he will show up, talk some sense into sans. or maybe undyne.

they'd welcome anyone at this point.

they're tired.

one try they don't do anything but sit in the doorway, hugging into their knees to their chest and crying into them. they're speared by a bone.

------------------------------------------ 'stay determined,' the voice in their head repeats. 'you can't give up!'

so frisk goes through the door, looks at their friend, gets their soul yanked out, and dies.

they might be close to their hundredth time. they're better at dodging by now. it doesn't mean much when one small misstep means their death, but on the other hand, sans isn't going anywhere, and they have infinite tries. or, at least that's what they think.

sometimes fatigue weighs so heavy on them they can't even raise their hands and greet sans. sometimes they try to strike up a conversation instead of just listening to sans say the same things. it never works, or, more accurately, it doesn't work for long.

they eat toriel's pie.

it's as delicious every time as it had been the first.

------------------------------------------ they spare sans every time they're allowed to do something. they don't want to fight. sometimes sans keeps attacking, sometimes he yells "get dunked on!"

this isn't one of those. he motions with one hand, the other still snug in his hoodie's pocket, and their body is flung up and down, side to side.

they're barely managing to dodge all the bones, and still freeze up for just a moment when they see his skull cannons.

they try their best not to cry when they eat toriel's pie.

they try not to cry when sans keeps on taunting them. "sounds strange, but before all this i was secretly hoping we could be friends," he says.

they flinch back so hard they get hit by one of the bones. their fingers grip their stick; their knuckles turn white.

they really thought they had been friends.

"i thought we were friends," they echo the thought, fingers shaking as soon as they're not wrapped around the stick's smooth surface.

sans chuckles.

frisk uses their turn to catch their breath, and force down the next wave of tears that threaten to spill from their eyes. when they're ready (when they wipe them with the sleeve of their sweater), they spare sans and try to prepare themselves for another barrage of bones. it's so hard to get the jumps right, bones graze them left and right, and their poison, or whatever they do to him when they hit home, makes frisk nauseous, but they push through. the next barrage they prepare to jump over, but...

"HUMAN! I HAVE SEEN YOUR MESSAGES! WHAT IS IT YOU NEED SAVING FROM?"

frisk whips their head around so fast they almost lose balance and topple over. sans' bones grind to a half in midair as he follows frisk's gaze. in the doorway stands papyrus, with undyne right on his heels.

"what's going on here! sans?" she asks, looking between him, his poised-to-strike bones and frisk.

"SANS, WHAT'RE YOU DOING HERE? THE HUMAN MESSAGED ME THEY NEED HELP! ARE YOU HERE TO HELP TOO?"

sans gasps. "papyrus...? you're..." he mumbles. the 'alive' is on the tip of his (metaphorical) tongue, but it never makes it out.

frisk clutches their stick to their chest, protecting their soul as they run towards papyrus. they had tried to not cry. it didn't work.

"pap, no! get away from-"

frisk throws their short arms around papyrus' midriff, the fingers not busy gripping their favorite piece of broken wood tugging on papyrus' chestpiece. to say the skeleton is startled is an understatement. "HUMAN, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS? I KNOW I AM THE ALL POWERFUL, ALL POPULAR PAPYRUS, BUT THIS IS UNLIKE EVEN YOU! HAVE YOU, BY ANY CHANCE, NOT GOTTEN OVER YOUR FEELINGS YET?"

frisk sniffles and shakes their head, but it has no effect when they've practically buried their face into papyrus' ribcage. instead, papyrus turns to sans.

"SANS, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"

"yeah, i'd like to know too," undyne says, arms folded on her chest. "were you two... fighting?"

sans' outstretched hand falls to his side, and so, too, do his bones fade from midair. "i-- you... you're supposed to be dead."

undyne narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. papyrus scoffs. "WHY WOULD WE BE DEAD, SANS?"

sans balls his hand into a fist at his side. "because chara... killed you all."

undyne marches her way towards him and grabs onto the front of his shirt. "who's chara? why were you attacking my bestie?! only i can attack my bestie!" she bellows.

sans looks over where the kid is still hugging papyrus like their life depended on it. his brother is trying (and failing) to console them, with a hand on their head and ruffling their hair.

what... is going on?

their soul is still exposed. they're still in a fight. he checks them.

LV 1, frisk.

undyne lets him go in favor of calling alphys. papyrus is not good at consoling kids. they're trying to sign something to him, too fast and too jittery to make any sense.

sans is confused.

he feels his sin crawl on his back.

over

and over