#reader insert.

It’s not even his, a thing built for those of stature, of grace and nobility, of worth and the ability to lead. Not for a broken, tired creature like him, with bones that creak under the stress of a decision he made far too quickly. But does that mean he regrets it? No, not most nights.

But it’s in those few nights between that he spends here, in a garden of flowers he tends to like a promise, that he hates it, just so. His back bows, his phalanges crack, his smile slack. This is not where he belongs, and he knows it, having left that decrepit crown he stole sit on the arm of that mighty seat, wanting nothing more than to let it rot.

Or for familiar hands, large and furred, to reach and take it, settling it between curling, ivory horns.

… Wishful thinking. It’ll get him nowhere.

He's been told it fits him, but he'd damn near beg to differ.

Sans does his best to focus on other things, instead.

The watering can in his hands is a thin metal that could bend so easily under his touch, a can the late king once held, and he more watches than waters, droplets shaking from petals to the ground below. Watching, waiting - getting lost in his thoughts.

The earth is soaked, the smell reminding him of a place far on the other end of this kingdom of his. It always surprises him, the way sunlight can stretch through the barrier like a tender touch, creeping through the long hall between him and the world outside.

There are few, precious hours in which these flowers get light. Sunrise to just past noon, where the sun reaches past the peak far above and makes the rest of its trip, leaving the throne room in shadow.

And yet, they grow beautifully all the same, reaching upwards, as if they care not for the temptation. Resilient blossoms, a look alike to the poisonous buttercups that grow in swathes elsewhere.

He hates it.

Sometimes he expects to see Asgore standing there tending to the flowers beside him, picking out the snails that threaten their care, to hear his voice chiding how the jokester is overwatering his plants, but never with malice. To be fair, he can hardly recall the amount of times he's been here, cup after cup of tea.

Rumbling laughter at his jokes, a guiding paw to his shoulder blades when they sag, a gentle word to his addled mind.

Sans falters.

Would Asgore have wanted this?

Would he have approved of the way Sans had done what he thought best? Or was he no better from the grieving king, misjudged and misguided, letting his fear and anger guide him?

Did he scream the way sans had, when he lost it all?

Did he find no solace in these flowers, despite how desperately he tried?

What would he do if he were here, and not dead by his own hand?

The sound of shrieking metal stops him.

Blinking, Sans finds the metal handle of the watering can bent and being ripped under his phalanges, his teeth baring into a frustrated smile. Then, a low sigh, and he eases his grip, standing straight.

Wishful thinking.

It breaks things, monsters and others alike.

It doesn't matter if Asgore could have seen this coming or not, a broken judge turned executioner in his place, jokes robbed and left with nothing but a kingdom at his back. He’s dead, and all that remains are the pieces he left behind to be picked up one by one.

He makes for the throne and sets the watering can at the foot of such an ornate thing, phalanges trailing, hesitating. It takes a moment, two, before he finally touches that cold crown, frozen upon his skull. He has no warmth, no fur, to keep it any other way.

The jewels glisten menacingly as he picks it up, light in his hands. Bendable, breakable, just like the watering can.

It fits, but sans hates it.

He's not sure he can sleep now, but he'll never get anything done with these bags under his eyes, deepening by the day. Someone will get him a new watering can, or they won't.

He hopes they won't.

 The next day is a harrowing affair.

He has far too many meetings he doesn't care for first thing in the morning, far too many disputes to settle, and more than enough urgent reports that turn out to be nothing more than the “kingdom crisis” equivalent of a stubbed toe.

He's really over this king thing.

It's after those slew of meetings he's offered something to eat, but more often than not he doesn't have the appetite nor focus to even keep sipping at a bottle of ketchup as he works over paper after paper just begging for his signature or approval.

And while sans is exhausted, and the once self-proclaimed lazybones everyone had once known, he does not skirt his work. Not this, not when one misread or skimmed paper drafted by his advisors would mean less food supply over power, or vice versa.

He has to be careful, and he weighs everything he's given as a judge should.

Fairly.

Most of his early afternoons are spent this way, but it's thankfully the evenings that belong more or less to himself. He's only recently gotten those pesky guards of his to stop following him, loyalists beyond all else. It’s fair to say with the death of Asgore the public had concerns, worries, and more than enough contentions to abide the matter. And while Sans is grateful for their worry of losing yet another, he’s more than capable, and yet it took a demonstration just to be sure he wouldn’t have to worry about a panic whenever he snuck off.

He can’t blame them. As far as the Underground knows, Asgore disappeared, and it’s more than widely accepted it was the human who killed him.

Sans has done nothing to help these rumors. And why should he?

It’s another day he finds himself disappearing the moment his detail’s back is turned, from one archway to the next, stepping through the world from place to place. Seamless, the transition from stone walls and stained glass lit by artificial sunlight, to a world of ice and snow.

It may not be New Home, but it’s his home.

His feet crunch through the snow, and while he feels the cold against his bare tarsals, it doesn’t upset him. Sans can feel the temperature, but isn’t miffed by it, making slow headway past a sentry station that’s been re-polished and now homes a gently snoozing Doggo. Normally, Sans would say something.

But he only steps through the world again, and finds himself yards away, beyond a familiar, broken bridge.

It’s snowing as it always is. Gentle, lazy snowfall that never ceases to make him feel at ease, even if just so. It’s the place he grew up, had a family, a home. The once-prankster can’t even help the way his teeth curve, a smile on that skull of his.

It isn’t long until he sees the door.

The Delta Rune that’s become his life is stamped on the masonry, carved in as permanently as it’s stitched on his clothes. Idly, he wonders if she’ll answer. Sans also wonders if she’s dead, too, if her silence means anything.

Maybe she thinks he’s dead, for all his silence means anything.

And yet he can’t help himself. When he finds himself before those stone doors, he reaches out a hand, as he’s done, day by day, for weeks, months. But he doesn’t rap his knuckles, no. Instead the flat of his palm finds the stone, strangely warm in this cold, freezing world, and he sighs, a sound whittled between his smiling teeth.

Not today.

He’ll find himself laying with his back against the door soon enough, waiting. Listening.

Not a sound.

 Eventually, he’ll have to go back. Dinner, and then another restless night pacing the halls.

“You got this!” You said to yourself, lifting your spirits before you made your way downstairs and into the kitchen where Shiro was waiting for you. When his eyes met yours, you watched as his gaze went from your face to your clothes while you moved to sit across from him. “Thank you for the meal, Shiro.” You said with a smile before beginning to eat the eggs on your plate. Honestly, you were expecting him to freak out, start screaming and be overdramatic about the uniform which could only confirm his worst fears but when he was quiet, you felt butterflies swarm in your stomach. Shiro focused on his food, fork gently scraping against the plate as he picked up some of his eggs with it, cheek resting in the palm of his hand, head tilted ever so slightly. The silence, minus the sounds of silverware moving against plates, was a bit suffocating.

“So you got accepted to U.A., huh?” There it was… but he sounded so calm… that worried you a little. Swallowing the food in your mouth and gently patting your lips with the cloth provided on the table, you cleared your throat.

“Um, yes. Even though I’m a week late in entering, they accepted me. It wasn’t easy though, I had to take the entrance exam in private though which was hard…” You let out a small laugh but smiled. Shiro and your mother always told you to smile. Even if things are terrible and there may not be a light at the end of the tunnel, always smile. Once your mother had unfortunately passed away, Shiro made that his motto and always told you that on your bad days. Your eyes remained on your older brother as you spoke again. “I’ll be careful if that’s what you’re worried about! I won’t fail, I’ll study every night! I’ll pay super close attention in class, and I’ll—”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Shiro cut you off, sighing softly as he put his fork aside. He wouldn’t look at you, there’s something in his expression that you know too well. There’s guilt. “I know you’ll work hard, (name). You always have. But this isn’t like elementary school or even middle school. This is a competition, there will be other teenagers who want to be a hero just like you but some of them will do anything and if that means exploiting your weaknesses then they’ll do it.” At that, you fell silent, taking in his words. You weren’t dumb, you knew he meant your scar. The looks didn’t bother you, it was when they would say something about it. Though, that was back in middle school with dumb boys who thought they were funny… if you got through that, you can get through this!

Right…?

“This—” you pointed at your cheek, "—is not a weakness, Shiro.” He looked up, finally meeting your gaze, but it was only for a minute before his eyes went to where you were pointing. The guilt became more apparent. “Was it something awful that happened? Yes. I got bullied over it in middle school, I think I can handle some mean words from my peers!” Your smile only grew as your confidence blossomed.

“I’m not only talking about your appearance, (name).” His tone was strict, but there was a softness to it. And that was a hit to below the belt. Your smile was quick to fade as it was now your turn to look down at your food. “I’m saying these things because you’re my baby sister. It’s just us against the world now, and the world has not been kind to you. I want to see you thrive, I want to watch you succeed, but I worry that maybe being a hero may not be something you should get into.” Ouch… you knew he was only saying this with good intention and concern but you had to admit…. that stung a little. “You can’t even stand close to the fireplace without freezing up. Anything with heat scares you.” You flinched at his words, a confidence that was just starting to blossom slowly sunk. He wasn’t wrong. You got anxiety being near any source of excessive heat… but you’ve started using the oven again! That’s progress! Again, the confidence rose, but higher this time.

“That’s true, but I’ve been getting better with controlling it! I can use the oven again, can’t I?!” You exclaimed with a smile, almost challenging him to throw another roadblock your way. Obviously Shiro wasn’t expecting you to slap the bait back into his face. He expected you to just accept it, give up so easily. But seeing a flame ignite in your eyes with determination, he couldn’t help but smile a bit as you continued. “Even if the other kids find out about that and use it against me, that just means it’s another thing to beat! Another challenge to overcome! To prove why I deserve to be there!” You were grinning from ear to ear, fist-bumping the air in a self-celebratory cheer.

Shiro watched you and the guilt on him slowly disappeared (not forever though) as he got up from his chair and came over to you, leaning down and wrapping his arms around your shoulders, resting his head against the top of yours. Whenever you did this, it reminded him of your mother. He missed her so much, and you acted so much like her. “Fine. I’ll cheer you on from the sidelines but the second something bad happens, I won’t allow this to continue, am I clear?” He spoke quietly, but it wasn’t harsh. You rolled your eyes as you gently pushed him off of you.

“You sound more like a dad than a big brother, Shiro. Plus, the ‘bad something’ has to actually be something like… really, really awful. You can’t just pull me out if I stub my toe or if a kid bullies me!” You whine as you stand up to grab your bag. Shiro let out an exhausted sigh, over dramatically.

“I’m just being a good brother! If a kid bullies you, I’ll find the bastard myself and—” You laughed at him. His threats were all but serious. Mainly theatrical because he knew it would make you laugh.

“All right, I’m going to school now. Be safe when you go to work!” You shout over your shoulder, putting your shoes on and opening the door.

“I will, and kiddo?” You paused on your way out, glancing back at your brother as he had his hands in his pockets, smiling softly at you. “I love you.”

You grinned back at him. “I love you too! See you later!” And with that, you were out the door and on your way to school.

—————————

As you stood in front of the gates at U.A. you could feel the start of your anxiety rising. The string of questions flooded in. Will you get along with everybody? Will they judge your face? Will they pretend to be your friend? “Gah! It’s too much!” You cried out quietly, bringing your hands on top of your head, frowning. Your heart was beating so fast…! No, stop, pull yourself together, (name)! Deep breaths… you inhaled slowly and exhaled shortly after. Okay, yeah… that kinda helped… With a nod to yourself, you lowered your hands and made your way to your classroom.

Your eyes were locked on the closed door in front of you, hearing muffled voices of students and your teacher, Mr. Aizawa, on the other side. Your nerves were all riled up and you could feel your own quirk starting to act up. Quickly, you squeezed your hand, calming yourself before you opened the door.

Everything was quiet.

Slowly, you made your way into the room, shutting the door behind you, your eyes skimmed over your classmates, too fast, too nervous before you grabbed a piece of chalk and began writing your name.

HANAI, (NAME). ❀

Then you turned around, your eyes finally focusing on the multiple faces in front of you, all their eyes were on you. God, this was too much… Swallowing a lump you had in your throat, you bowed. “Good morning, my name is (name). It’s very nice to meet you all!” When you could see your class again, there were multiple people who stuck out, there’s was a girl who was all pink, a boy with glasses who looked a bit too serious, another boy with red hair, then your eyes landed on a boy with green curly hair and for a minute… you couldn’t believe your eyes.

“Izuku..?” The name slipped from your lips in a whisper, but some students seemed to notice as they turned to the boy then back to you. And then that’s when you see him. The ash-blond hair, the crimson-colored eyes, the scowl on his face. Memories flash before you of when he grabbed you. He was staring right back at you and you could now feel your heart beating against your chest. Oh god, did it hurt. What were you supposed to do now!?

“All right, Hanai.” Mr. Aizawa announced, obviously unamused. “There’s a seat by Todoroki.” He pointed to the far left and in the back was a hand raised by a boy with heterochromia set of eyes, his hair mismatched in color. He had a burn mark over his left eye… you suddenly felt less anxious… now that you looked around in the class, everyone had something different about them… When you were in middle school there were kids with quirks that altered their appearance, sure, but they weren’t bullied for it because it was quirk related. But standing here, in the classroom, you felt just a tiny bit less insecure. “Hanai,” Aizawa called your last name again, a frown on his face—or was it always there?

“Ri...right, sorry, sir.” You lowered your gaze and quickly made your way to the back, finding the empty desk and sitting down. Todoroki said nothing as you got comfortable, which you expected. You were the new kid… You pulled out your notebook and wrote the date, all the while you got an uneasy feeling to your left. Despite your better judgment, you glanced in the direction meeting crimson orbs staring right back at you. You froze, unsure how to react with his sudden spotlight on you. You felt so small under his stare… Katsuki scoffed at you before turning away, leaving you to stare at the back of his head. Something in your chest felt so…. deflated. It didn’t matter. Not now, anyway. You brought your attention back to your notebook to write notes down for class.

“Lunch break,” Aizawa announced as he left the room shortly after. With a soft sigh, you stood up from your desk, only to bump into someone. Quickly you turned around to apologize only to see a familiar face again.

“Oh! (name)! I’m so sorry—I was just—uh; I wanted to ask you something, and I didn’t mean to bump into you! I’m so sorry!” Izuku bowed so many times you lost count. He beat you to the apology… Looking at him now, he may look older but he’s still like that kid you befriended so long ago… Oh man, it’s been a while since you’ve thought about him…! That made you feel a little guilty…

“Oh, no, don’t apologize! I should be the one doing that! I should have looked before getting up.” You smiled softly at the boy with a small tilt of your head. “What’s up?” Izuku seemed taken back by your question, almost confused before his cheeks became a rosy pink!

“Haha, right! Um, I… I was going to ask if you wanted to eat lunch together? Y… You don’t have to… so, please… don’t feel you have to say yes!” He strutted out, flustered and you couldn’t help the small giggle the escaped you causing him to look up at you almost scared he may have said the wrong thing.

“I would love to. Thank you.” You grabbed your bag, putting the straps over your shoulder before following Izuku out the door.

Katsuki watched as you two left, a frown on his face. He never thought he’d see you again after what happened. He remembered how his mom was so upset with him, how they had to go to your house to apologize in person. Your mother was quite upset but when she looked at him, he remembered how her gaze softened and her tone became less angry… There was another boy there, your brother. Katsuki can remember the glare your brother gave him, how he was shouting at him only to have your mother stop him.

The memory slowly faded away, and Katsuki turned his head out the window, already seeing you and Izuku outside, walking and talking. The way you looked at him when you saw him… like you were terrified… Katsuki didn’t like it, especially now more than ever with that scar on your face… The one he caused…

“Hey, Bakugo, want to go get some food?” Eijiro asked with a grin only to watch as his friend stood up from his seat, hands in his pockets. “Bakugo?”

“Not today, shitty hair.” He spat out as he walked past Eijiro and out the door. Why did you have to come back?

You couldn’t help but laugh, almost spitting out your water at the joke Izuku made. You were nervous to talk with the boy again, but honestly? It almost seemed like you never left, your friendship was still strong as ever! Man, it felt good to talk to Izuku again. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much as a relaxed sigh escaped from your lips. Despite how cheerful the conversation just was, you could feel tension lying underneath the sunshine and rainbows.

“How’s your brother doing?” He asked after a few minutes of silence. “And your mom? I always remember how she baked our class cupcakes, and she had painted our faces on the cupcakes!” Izuku grinned, and you couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Those were fantastic cupcakes… Your mom was quite the artist… you missed waking up in the mornings, walking into the living room to see her painting what she saw outside the sliding doors… how when she would notice you, she’d let you sit on her lap as she painted, watching the bristles of the brush glide along with the canvas… how your mom would even let you paint on her masterpieces despite knowing that you would bombard it with colors that didn’t fit the theme…

You missed all of it.

“My mother got sick one day and unfortunately after months of treatments, doctors, and testings… she didn’t make it.” Your voice never wavers, your mother never wanted you to cry thinking about her, you promised you wouldn’t. You promised a lot of things…

“O-Oh… I’m sorry, (name)! I didn’t mean to—” You raised a hand up to him with a big smile. Izuku hasn’t changed… You liked that.

“You didn’t know, plus… I want to talk about her whenever I get the chance. Whenever I think about her or even speak about her, I feel like she’s watching me and cheering for me. So I want to make sure everyone knows about her! She’s my biggest fan, even from up in the clouds.” You let out a soft giggle. “Shiro is doing good, though he acts more like a dad than my big brother. He’s super protective and honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was disguised as one of those bushes, checking up on me.” The giggle soon turned into a laugh. Shiro was very overdramatic but you don’t blame him.

Izuku always admired that about you, even when you were kids… You always smiled through the bullying, the hits, the name callings… and all the bad times. You never stopped smiling… Honestly, he was a little jealous. Izuku had his own insecurities and there were days where he just wanted to give up, hell, he tried to give up on his dream when everyone told him it wasn’t possible for a quirkless boy to become a superhero! Well, look at him now! He got into U.A. and he inherited All Might’s quirk! Oh… wait, that reminded him…

“Hey, (name.)…?” He questioned after another moment of silence came and went. When you responded with a gentle ‘mhm?’ Izuku glanced to his hands in his lap, debating on the question in his head before facing you once more. “Can I ask what your quirk is?” He watched your facial expression, just in case it changed or if he asked the wrong question, but you continued to smile.

His question caught you off guard for a second. Didn’t he know? Well… probably not considering you left suddenly and before your quirk even came to light… But you still didn’t have control over it… nor did you really know what exactly it did yourself, minus a few things! With a simple nod, you turned so your body was completely facing Izuku, and you raised your hand, palm facing up and with a deep breath, you slowly exhaled. A faint pink mist escaped past your lips, moving towards your hand where the bud of a blossom sprouted in the center of your palm. It didn’t take long for the flower to bloom. Izuku stared wide-eyed at the flower before he reached out. But you were quick with your free hand to make him halt in his action.

“No!” There was a small bit of panic, smile gone from your face but you quickly regained your composure. “I’m not exactly sure what it does, but I know once you touch it, it’ll relax your muscles. I know, it sounds great, but it’s like sleep paralysis. You can’t move and it’ll create this feeling of something heavy over your chest. It’s great for calming down panic attacks, but not so good if you’re fighting against it. It only sets off if you come in physical contact with it… I accidentally got Shiro with it one time and… long story short, I’ve felt sorry ever since…” You sighed not really wanting to dive into that memory again, gently plucking the flower off your hand, you held it between your thumb and index finger, the pink mist gone. You then let the flower drop to the ground, you pressed your foot over it and rubbed the cherry blossom into the dirt.

“That’s cool, though! I—” Izuku began but was cut off.

“Hey, dumbass!” An approaching voice shouted, jumping the two of you. You both knew that voice. Your head snapped to where it was coming from, and there you saw the blond making his way over, unamused. His gaze went from you to Izuku. “Get lost.” Upon his order, you both stood up, and you went to gather your things, but Katsuki spoke again. “Not you, dumbass. Only Deku.” That caused your heart rate to spike in anxiety. Izuku looked like he was about to say something against the other, but you were quick to place a hand on his shoulder. That didn’t go unnoticed by Katsuki. “It’s okay. I’ll come find you.” You breathed with a small smile. It felt forced, but Izuku only nodded, walking back into the building. Leaving you alone with Katsuki. “Bakugo…” You greeted with a nervous smile… your anxiety only increased when he remained quiet, his gaze now on anything that’s not you. It felt like minutes were just passing by with how awkward this was, especially with the painful silence. “Did you—” “Listen, I—” You both spoke, cutting the other off. “Ah..!” A soft gasp left your lips, cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I’m sorry…! You go first…” You bowed slightly before looking at him again.

For a split moment, you remember the knife and it's glinting edge, but it's better you left it behind. You’re no fool.

The glitch doesn't even pass you a glance, but you know he knows your there. The static presses thicker with his attention, his interest. At least you have that - his interest, as much as he may deny it.

You curl like you usually do, chin tucked to your knees, doll held on your thighs, close. You look through the tear, to another reality, and blink.

Was that… Spanish? It had to be.

“... What is this?”

“shut up.” Error snaps, reflexive. “i’m trying to watch.”

You stare blankly at him, and huff at his attitude. Instead of responding, you pick at the scabs on your knuckles, gritting your teeth, but do it anyways. Murmured against your skin, “Was just a question.”

Mismatched lights stand attention. “what was that?”

You should really leave it. Ignore him, lie, say anything other than look back at him, scab-lined nails still against your knuckles, chest bathed in the natural warmth of the doll shielded by your body.

“I only asked a question.”

Error’s hand within the bag of treats bag stops, the crinkle of its plastic as he slowly pulls out deafening. The static is suffocating, and you clear your throat, and look away as soon as you close your mouth.

“... then don't.” Even the universe Error had been watching is nothing more than background noise now, taking a backseat to the lull of his voice and the white-noise that outlines it. “ you're a guest here, pest. and you'll behave with the manners of one, or else.”

A guest. What a kind word.

“look at me if you understand.”

It’s a command. You don't want to, but you do, looking through your lashes and the eclipse of your skin to his electric, terrible gaze.

“... be grateful you aren't dead. and until i find some kind of use for you, shut. up.”

You don't say another word for hours.

He doesn’t either.

It’s just you, him, and his damned show.

You’ve been picking at your skin for who knows how long. Nearly each of your knuckles is in some way raw, skin peeled and the ground covered in drops of blood. Your hands and thighs don’t fare much better. Another small strip of skin peels away -

“stop that.”

… How long has he been watching you?

Error doesn’t look concerned. No, how could he be? He’s Error, and from the first moment you were terrorized by this creature, he has never once been concerned. Cocky, confident, lazy, agitated, rude, arrogant - he was full of nothing but confidence and enough self-importance to fuel the paradox he was, only on a multiversal scale.

So with his sockets scrunched, his brow taut, and the line of his teeth narrow, you know it’s not concern, but disgust - disgust and… you aren’t sure.

As always, Error is unreadable.

You rub your finger against your nail, and the skin falls to the floor. “Why?”

Dispassionate. This place has made you hollow, an empty ache curled within you, and the world you live in seems unreal. As if it’s a dream, disconnected from you, and at any moment you might wake up.

“because i said so. so, stop it.”

Your thumb rests on the knuckle of your pointer, and you grit your teeth at the sting. Looking to the blood, it’s then that you feel something. A jolt of fear, terror, worry -

But when you lower your knees, looking to the doll laying in the crux between your thighs, staring up at you, you sigh. He’s fine, untouched by the self-inflicted carnage of your dissociation.

And yet the glitch just doesn’t shut up.

“... i know you have it. you aren’t seriously trying to hide it from me, are you?”

“No.”

It isn’t a lie. You know despite your limited ( yet seemingly infinite ) time here, that you couldn’t hide from Error. Not anything, not truly. So when you hold this ragged doll so close, you aren’t sure it’s for your sake.

Looking to your captor reveals his gaze is stuck firmly on you. Worming against your skin, the static screeches, and through those hollowing tones you can almost hear… Nothing.

You. Hear. Nothing.

“What?” You snap, and curl back again, doll safe ( as can be ) once more.

“... nothing.” And he turns away, a sip of his shake, and turns back to the ripped seam of reality. You look with him, and watch with ease how the image changes, flicking like channels on a tv, all at little motion or effort on Error’s behalf.

If he were not a creature desolate for destruction alone, you would be awed.

From a world swept in a winter wonderland, full of pine birches and yet pitch as night, to a landscape draped in fire, magma gurgling through the veins of the earth, lighting a warped path. You aren’t sure what to make of it, one image to the next, some with humans, some with monsters, most with nothing at all.

“What are you looking for?”

“for someone i told you shut up not t-too long ago, you sure are talkative, aren’t you?”

This time, you don’t relent. Not as harshly.

A sunrise flashes by. The ocean. Stars pinwheeling overhead. A desk, with a sleeping skeleton. Fog, thick as thick. Your heart quickens in your chest, a hummingbird in a cage of bones, begging to be set free.

“... Let me go.” Just as before. Soft, pleading, empty and yet full of desperation for the sights he flicks through like pages on a book. “You don’t need me. I don’t care where, just - please, let me go.”

The images stop, and through it, nothing. Like a black streak against the white canvas of this strange reality.

“i can’t do that.” Simple as can be, and yet you feel as if Error is being candid. Your nails dig into your skin, and you want nothing more than to reach for that empty hole in the world. “to drop you anywhere would cause a disruption of that universe’s mainframe. to try and accommodate something that never should have belonged? you’d be worse than a glitch.”

His nasal ridge scrunches up.

“you’d be a menace.”

A pest.

If you felt like speaking, you’d at least beg Error to let you keep clawing at yourself. But you don’t feel up to much; don’t feel the strength to react to him; don’t feel like giving him the satisfaction.

A moment, two, and the tear in reality disappears, stitched back together by a trembling hand. The empty space seems blinding now, but it’s eye-catching, soul-stopping at the next flare of magic, the very structure of reality itself bending open once more. ( You can hardly comprehend it, let alone imagine it )

The familiar low strum of his strings striking, going taut - through a much smaller hole now, closer to Error’s side, between the two of you. When they pull out, it’s a white plastic box, tossed to your side.

A First Aid kit.

“fix it. or else.” A snap of his fingers - and the blood on the ground beneath you is gone. A part of you. Pieces of you, as they had once been, disappeared in the blink of an eye.

You could cry. But you can’t.

Error watches as you work.

It’s strange - he’s never stayed this long, never given you something like this. Food and other necessities aren’t needed here so much as wanted, and while you would kill for a shower or ham sandwich, you knew both were far and few between in his whims and wants.

So instead, gifted with something to do, you open the kit, and reach for whatever looks close enough to antibiotic cream. While you doubt you could catch an infection or virus in a place like this, it’d help you heal faster, wouldn’t it? Besides, you weren’t looking forward to the scabbing, nor the marks that would surely be left behind.

Still leant on a pile of trash and treasures, Error is silent, those mismatched lights watching you work with an intensity bordering the one once upon his ‘show’. Keeping quiet, you’ll say nothing in turn, looking to your hands, ignoring how difficult it is to bandage when both are bleeding.

You hesitate between the gauze and bandages before deciding, pleasantly surprised the band aids within are themed - you aren’t sure what the hell that green looking guy is, but it’s colorful and amusing.

The worst of your knuckles under wraps, you clean up your mess, leaving the trash to the side.

Then before you know it, before you even have a moment, reality tears open ( through it, the trash falls to a sudden yet gruff, indignant shout ) and you jump - scrambling away. Just as quickly is it gone, but the damage is done. You’re on your ass a few feet away, wide-eyed and chest heaving. It had felt so, so close, and you could almost feel - it tasted like - it sounded like -

Nothing.

Error’s laughing, a broken, clipped, repetitive sound through the duotone of a child’s and his own voice.

“Don’t fucking do that!”

“i’m sorry - heheh - what’d you just say?”

Your teeth click shut. In one hand, the doll, held far too tightly.

You won’t dignify him with an answer. No, you won’t - you can’t. So instead, you stand, you find your feet, as shaky as they are, and walk away.

“Let me go home.”

“no.”

You have no home. Not anymore, not after what he did to it. And yet you still ask, time and time again.

“...”

You have nothing to say, curled into yourself against the empty space that fills this place. No floors, no walls, no sky, nothing but the white. A canvas, filled like a magpie’s nest, if you knew where to look.

You hardly cared, fingers pressing white into your calves, chin tucked against your knees. You watched him work.

“... ugh.” He gets agitated so easily, static bleeding at his edges. His hands can barely stay together anyways, so you don’t get the point. It’s going to tangle, one way or another.

“I hate you.” It slips past your teeth again. You bite your lip, and look from his hands to his gaze. It’s on you now, those mismatched sockets full of… well, you aren’t sure. He’s unreadable.

“i’m regretting letting you live. do you know that?”

You look away, tucking in your chin once more.

It’s suffocating. Reality is nothing more than a piece of clay for him to mold, shape, and break. You are nothing, another piece of the mold, and you can feel when he looks back to his hands, fiddling once more.

The clicking of bones. Static, rising and falling. Agitated huffs.

Staring into the blinding white, it stares back. Silent.

He stills.

“... whatever.” You look up as he stands and scramble to rise with him, panic lacing your chest. Bored. He looks bored, muttering as the strings seem to uncoil, before moving across his bones like living things, winding back to once they came. Your captor doesn’t watch, hands falling to his sides, and begins to walk.

You follow.

“W-wait, where are you going?” You shouldn’t sound so desperate, feet bare against… nothing.

A snort, “what do you care?”

But you do.

Fuck, you do. You just can’t - you can’t be left alone, not again. Not here, not where nothing seems real, where  time isn’t real, where you aren’t real. One can only walk amongst the treasures left scattered about so many times before the mind wastes away, the swaying lights far above coiled in blue like an indigo night sky, once terrifying - now a stamp of this hell's making.

You’re going mad here, and you know it.

“Error -”

His name, and the static crescendos. You had thought this place silent ( would like to think it silent ) but it’s not. It’s never silent, never quiet. Not quite. The skeleton stops, slippers still, but he does not turn.

“- Don’t leave me. Please.”

You should know better than to beg.

But what else can you do?

“oh, pest.” It almost sounds kind. Almost, but you know it can’t be. It’s saccharine, toying, mad, and your chest constricts. “i’m not leaving you.”

Are you sick for feeling hope at those words?

He steps forward, but turns on the heel of his next step, and faces you. A smile curls around the edge of his teeth, and the static bubbles. A arm raises to his side, and with it, a tear in the world. Hope. Hope, it’s going to kill you, seeing the open sky beyond it, bleeding yellow and orange like a cracked egg.

“after all, i’ll be back.” That smile turns downright sunny, boyish. “behave, and i’ll even get you a gift!”

You watch him go, and through the static, you can almost hear - NO.

… No.

It may be nothing beneath you, but against your bruised knuckles, it feels like pavement. It breaks skin all the same.

To say this place is like a magpie’s nest is an understatement.

Decorated in treasures and trophies alike, precious things, things you can’t even comprehend, things of fire and ice and steel and crystal and you don’t even know - they all find home here, some wound in the careful cradle of strings, others laid about to be found and re-discovered time and time again.

If you’re lucky, sometimes you find something familiar. Sometimes, you discover a new facet to something once thought fully explored. And even rarer so, sometimes you find something new, tucked here or there, or left like an offering.

But Error would never do that.

You know, because you’ve seen the way he handles his things. In his hands one moment and gone the next, tossed between reality without care, left on the ground like a toy to be forgotten. No, the things out in the open are those he’s grown bored with, left to turn to dust. To die.

The things left in crevices, as if smuggled, hidden? You aren’t sure why Error would do such a thing, but at least they’re interesting.

You’ve found weapons, of course. Things that might be weapons, could be weapons, if handled right.

But you’re not an idiot.

And you aren’t ready to let go. Not yet. Not quite. He can’t make you. That’d be just like handing over your soul, letting him win.

So when you find a knife wedged between the cushion of an armchair ( how did this even get here ), you drop it to the ground after a curious once over of it’s glinting edges in the non-existent light, moving on. No, you’re more interested in the chair itself, and go to steal from it with scabbed knuckles, wanting the cushion -

You drop it in shock.

Then, lift it again, slowly.

Underneath, as if left by a child’s careless hand, lays a doll.

Your lip curls, your nerves tense, and the hair on your arms raise. Goosebumps. But you set the cushion aside anyways, hesitate, and reach in. You flinch when you feel the cloth of it's knitted jacket, warm against your fingers, but pull it out anyways. Carefully knitted, the texture reminds you of a sock monkey, stuffed plumply and staring back with those blank button eyes.

Red jacket, red sweater, shorts. A golden tooth and sneered grin.

You don’t know what it is, beyond the fact you’ve seen others like this - dolls, precious things Error usually keeps so close, kept in beds of twine far above your head. But not this one. No, it peers back at you, and it feels alive, and you can almost feel the frustration that clouds your mind, not your own.

But similar.

“... Hi.”

You stop, clutching the thing lowly. You’re speaking to a doll.

A doll Error probably made, a thing that probably has more horror to it than your toenail. And yet, as you almost drop it in your disgust, something stops you.

… It had been abandoned, left here. No, not abandoned. Worse. Shoved away, aggressively left to be forgotten. Just like you. Left amongst these kleptomaniac’s collectives, another thing to rot to dust.

You hold the doll just this shy tighter.

“I won’t leave you.”

The world shudders and gives way for him, as it tends to do, as it should. Cracking wide, beyond lying a place filled with so much it blends to nothing, screams to him in a chorus of welcome home. He’d scream back, but hums a merry tune instead, rattling within his skull.

The can feel the way the universe behind him sighs into the anti-void, whatever information it gives scattered. That world stands for now, but he got what he want, no destruction required.

He's happy, for all an abomination can be.

What he notices first, hand outstretched and a soul cradled within, is the blood on the ground.

Once vivid ruby marks, impacts of dried marron, now. It's not a splatter or spray, but a small puddle in a line, and for a moment, he thinks it's pretty. Bringing some color here - and just as quickly, it's erased.

The blood is gone, and nothing remains.

A low sigh, and he considers his options - before the strings of his hands ensnaring his new gift wind tight, before rising to join far, far above. A snap, and they disconnect, leaving a new trophy in his constellation of souls.

“i'll be back for you, #76.” A warm farewell, isn't it?

Then off he walks, looking for that pest of his, knowing he should at least be sure if they're dead or not, voice all encompassing and a murmur all at the same time.

“... no, no. that wouldn't do it any justice.”

“well, it has been some time.”

“...what?! no?? that's disgusting.”

“i am to please, heheh.”

They talk to him; and he talks back.

Why wouldn't he?

He's explaining the properties of a good cross-stitch to himself or to thousands by the time he finds them. Error took his time, their soul was stationary, and there was nowhere they could go he wouldn't feel that hum.

The Destroyer stops. They're asleep.

Curled atop an armchair he doesn't remember getting ( how did he even drag that here ), their chest rises and falls evenly, knees tucked and hands pressed to themselves. Peering closer, he sees what that familiar hum is.

In between bloody fingers and swollen knuckles, sits abomination #21.

“... lovely. this is where you've been hiding, and with a human no less.” Error suppresses a sigh, clucking his teeth. “tsk tsk, and what would your brother say?”

The doll only gleams back, black button eyes revealing nothing.

The human stirs, but does not wake. Error stills, but his magic does not.

Strings curl, winding along his arms, living coils of magic, extensions of his very soul, wanting back their prize. But the monster hesitates, and grits his teeth, agitated.

The doll isn't theirs. It's his, and there's to take back. They're both his, and it isn't worth it, not for two stupid glitches within his own world, two meaningless things who will come back to him sooner or later, grovelling. Begging.

And he will laugh, he knows it, when that moment comes - the thought even bringing back his grin, a curled edge to yellowed teeth.

“fine.” Error relents. “enjoy the pest, pest.”

The doll says nothing.

Error walks away, static in his eyes, and calls back down abomination #76, nearly cooing at the poor white spade. Blue strings work to completely encase it - a cocoon of his design.

He can feel it's agony.

Broken bloody and spitting out teeth, naturally yellowed claws curl around the static magic of a fading spear. The Captain’s voice is desperate, no longer the determined command it once was. She’s already lost this battle, and she knows it.

Dark sockets adorn a rictus grin, the smiling jester that had once been her friend now nothing more than a terrifying sight. He hasn’t taken a single blow this entire time, not since she started throwing punches, not since the king fell, not since papyrus died. Not since he started this, and certainly not since he decided to finish this.

“… there’s plenty more i could do, undyne.” Dry. The skeleton’s tone is starkly dry in comparison to the humored one he usually holds, kneeled before the ex-captain. An elbow on his knee to prop his skull, the other rests lazily at his side, looking down upon her prostrate form. The hall is riddled with bones and spears, crumbling into near nothing. Dust and blood paint the walls, thicken the very air they breathe, soaked into Sans’ clothes and bones.

She can barely stand, barely prop herself up on a mangled arm, no longer baring her teeth or having the strength to keep the spear in hand from fading out of existence. “Please,” It hurts to breathe, legs twisted, a single, golden eye winking up at him. “don’t do this, Sans.”

As ever immovable – chin held in hand, blazing azure magic peers down, that façade of a smile he’d once worn like armor replaced, fortified, made into steel. Undyne couldn’t read him, she barely ever could as is, and if anything terrifies her most, it’s that.

A moment, two – the only sound her labored breaths, claws digging into the gorgeous, ruined, golden tile beneath them both.

Slowly, he speaks, hand stretching out.

“… i’ll need a captain.”

A monster has no heart, and yet her SOUL pounds as if she does, thrumming in her ears, echoing loud and heavy in her chest. Asgore is dead. Papyrus is dead. So many – so many, are dead. From all angles, it’s not hard to see the fault, the blame – the justice, that must be done in turn. He doesn’t need a Captain. The Underground does.

But those dark sockets, filled with dancing cobalt flames; those bones of pale ivory, grainy to the touch from dust and slick from blood; that iconic jacket, a faded blue -- torn, dyed red and ripped at every edge; that scarf, tucked under a matted hood of faux fur, a brilliant crimson mark – all of it, every last detail, shows that this isn’t Sans. This hasn’t been Sans since the very start.

… But she’s terrified. Undyne the Undying, Captain of the Royal Guard, second to none but King Asgore, is terrified.

Painfully, she takes his hand. It’s hard to get a good grip, but he holds on, just so.

Then, Sans smiles, and for just a moment, he looks happy, genuinely so, teeth pulled into that handsome grin, both boyish and comforting. The one he wears right before the punchline. “… thank you, undyne.”

His grip becomes painful.