Kay, so, this is a story I already have partially written on AO3, so I'll be able to post fairly regularly until I reach what I've already written. This is a graphic story, set in Underfell, with violence, abuse, foul language, sexual content, non-con, and other just as terrible things. Can't handle that, hit that back button. Nothing nice here, not for a long while. I do not own Undertale, or the Underfell AU. Enjoy, if you decide to venture into the dark. It's a wild ride.
The chain rattling ominously, held taut between his clenched fist and the collar around her throat, was the only noise that could be heard in the small, cold, wooden shack, even her ragged breathing and the howling wind outside seeming to fall mute.
The threatening near silence, following Frisk's clearly foolish question, only grew heavier the longer she stared up and into the flaming red pinpricks of light in captor's otherwise vacant eye sockets, the caustic grin he had worn only seconds before sinking further into a sharp toothed, very angry grimace.
Another second passed, then two, nearly killing her with the weight of trepidation and Sans's matched, soul crushing stare, before he finally reacted; upon reflection, though, Frisk would have preferred that he hadn't, even to break the fell silence.
Seeming to draw from a deep reverie, the tiny spots of light in Sans's sockets shrank even further, nearly disappearing entirely in his ire, as he wound the thick chain in his grasp around his fingers twice; the already short restraint forced Frisk to take a staggering, reluctant step forward.
She managed to sway to a halt only inches from being forced against his furred, heavy black jacket, the foot he towered over her only growing more pronounced the closer to him she got (ideally, she liked to keep the breadth of a room between them, though he rarely accommodated that wish these days), and, gulping heavily, Frisk leaned away from him cautiously, wary and silently cursing her audacity.
He was so close that she could feel his hot, slow breath disturbing the hair on top of her head; she smelled cigarette smoke and cooked meat on his heavy exhalations.
Shuddering at the rustling contact, Frisk turned her head away in disgust, but caught sight of him moving in her peripheral vision, stilling and staring up from the corner of her eye as Sans leaned down over her attempted retreat; his golden canine glinted ominously in the wan light of the hooded lantern he had set outside the bars of her cage.
He stopped an inch away from the side of her face, glowering and locking gazes with her in silence for another moment, before he finally spoke, shattering the void of noise between them as he did; the storm outside the shack seemed to blow louder without the vacuum of discomfort.
"care to run that by me again, bitch?" he growled, speaking slowly, and his gravely, coarse voice sent quakes of fear through her entire body, emulating the gales shaking the walls of her prison.
That voice, so familiar but so different at once, had petrified her from the moment that she had first heard it, on her second descent into the Underground that she had thought she had saved, years ago.
It had been like a nightmare, finding herself belowground after nearly a decade of peace and completion and friendship and family.
Frisk had known what had happened the moment she found herself standing in the patch of long dead, more brown than gold buttercups, falling to her knees and slamming her fists onto the ground in frustration.
Eight years of progress, lost, gone, up in smoke.
She had cried as she lay in the midst of the dusty flowers, too; sobbed, even, because she had finally felt that she was done with this place.
Surely, she had thought, the wheels of fate and the echo of time in these cursed caverns had long had their way with her… yet had snatched her back without reason nor excuse.
Quickly realizing that lying in the dried up flowerbed would solve nothing, though (but why were the flowers dead? Toriel had always cared for them so well), she had set out to find out why she had been recalled, without reset nor interference from Asriel, setting off into the darkness with all the determination she could muster.
She had been immediately stopped by a mysteriously helpful, though ambivalent, Flowey, however, who, instead of trying to kill her, wanted to help her and protect her; he had remembered nothing of the time before, of the years that had passed since their first meeting, which had been odd and worrisome.
The same incongruity could not be said of the dust covered, eerily perverse Toriel that had appeared to "save her" from the animated flower, her robes torn and unkempt and her crimson eyes wild, almost savage.
She had tried to kill Frisk with a burst of blistering fire, smiling as sweetly as she could around bloodstained, too sharp fangs and calling for her to "reap her just rewards".
Frisk's much quicker journey through the Ruins, following fleeing from the ruthless incarnation of her beloved adoptive mother and accompanied by Flowey (who had been housed in an empty boot she had found), had been marked with horror and fear, piles of monster dust lying unattended and blood (from what, she didn't know) splashed on the tunnel walls.
The local monsters had attacked her savagely, leaving scrapes and bruises all over her body, the traps that she remembered being simple and easily maneuverable, even for an eleven year old, had become a cruel amalgamation of rust, barbed tricks, and dead ends, and she had almost been eaten alive by the before friendly spider bake salers.
She didn't know what had happened here, but she had intended to find out.
Frisk had, at last, battled the embittered Toriel at the gates to the Underground, unable to look her in the face as she begged for the former queen's mercy and understanding, but held little hope for deliverance, convinced that she would be stuck in this horrid facsimile of the world she had saved, reset after reset.
Yet just before striking the killing blow, Toriel had faltered, staring at Frisk qualing at her feet in horror, and had fallen to her knees, hugging the prostrate and shocked human she had, to that point, been attempting to violently butcher.
She had let Frisk go with tears in her hard, scarlet eyes, warning her that she wouldn't survive long if she didn't fight back; the world was not what it once had been, and was no place for a young, pretty girl, protected only by a powerless flower.
Evil had consumed them all, she had muttered, and slammed the stone doors in Frisk's face.
Frisk, confused and shaken to her core, had stared at the cracked, weather-beaten entrance to the Ruins for a few moments, conferring quietly with the flower leaning on her shoulder, before turning to face the forest behind her, her heart sinking in her chest as she did.
The snow piled trees that lined the path before her were nearly all dead, burned or toppled or split by lightning (the ones that lived yet looked sickly, grey and bent by the wind); just looking at them gave her chills, like she was observing a battlefield covered in corpses.
Stepping out of the alcove that protected the door had led her to another realization, and one of far more immediate detriment: the weather was awful.
Where once the snow in these caverns had fallen peaceful and silent, decorating the serene landscape with delicate snowflakes and playful drifts, it now whipped at her face in stinging slices of freezing air and bruising hail, forcing her to cover her face with her luckily long sleeves.
The wind had howled in her ears, nearly drowning out all the other noises that might be around her, and she had only been able to see, at most, ten feet in any direction before the scenery whited out from the density of the storm.
Frisk had stumbled haphazardly down the path, mindfully aware of the cliff dangerously close to the edge, but had eventually made it to the small wooden bridge that crossed a gaping chasm in the path, a glimmer of hope lighting in her chest at the recognized landmark.
Sans would be there soon… he would be able to tell her what was going on here.
She had turned on the spot, squinting through the squall and searching desperately while Flowey moaned warnings in her ear, his leaves shaking her shoulder to get her attention, but she hadn't heeded him, scoffing at the idea that Sans, her funny, charming, loyal Sans, would hurt her.
Even in this barbarous world, he would remember her and their budding relationship, their closeness and longtime camaraderie… he always had.
She wished, now, that she had listened and hidden.
When Sans had appeared behind her, in a whorl of unfamiliar and chilling reds and pointed, devilish teeth and cruel laughter, he had torn Flowey apart with his bare hands when the flower attempted to shield Frisk from him, letting the ashen dust left behind sift through his fingers with a satisfied grin on his cracked skull.
He had turned to her with that same grin, fire and spite glowing in his eye sockets, and had held his dusted hand out to her in a mockery of their past, demanding she shake hands with him, "like a good little meatbag".
Frisk had run, her tears frosting over on her cheeks as she ducked between broken, shattered tree trunks and mounds of boulders and fought against the pressing darkness of the storm, desperate to escape what couldn't possibly be, but undoubtedly was, the skeleton that had once been her closest friend (and almost lover).
She had sobbed when she failed to reset again and again as she ran, hearing the snap of branches and seeing bright red eyes in the shadows all around her as the demon that Sans had become pursued her through the ruined forest, flashing his way closer and closer every moment, cackling in spite and cruel amusement.
She couldn't reset.
She was stuck here, and at the mercy of the one monster she had counted on to remember.
Sans had caught Frisk once he had tired of chasing her, appearing beside her and tripping her maliciously, then had picked her up by the neck, holding her up off the ground and squeezing, almost gleefully watching her choke for breath through her tears and whimpers of fear.
Letting her breathe only when she had started losing consciousness, the light from the luminescent moss on the cavern roof fading from her vision blurrily, Sans had demanded to know what a human was doing in their underworld, and what reason he had to not just snap her neck and take her soul, right there.
Haltingly, Frisk had done her best to tell him, about the resets and the world they had once had and their own adventure through it, and he had immediately called her a liar, not remembering as he always had before, but had hesitated from killing her, looking doubtful of his own conviction.
Unable to decide and apparently wary of Papyrus finding her (had he been twisted by this strange world as well? Would he actually try to capture her?), Sans had turned on the spot and taken a "shortcut" straight into his shed, throwing her onto the dirty floor of the sturdy iron cage within and growling at her to stay there and be quiet, if she knew what was good for her.
His brother would be more than happy to rip her soul out of her chest, if he were to find out she was there; Frisk had recoiled in fear and confusion, hardly able to believe that the gentle, friendly skeleton she had known before would so callously kill her.
Sans had paused, then, just long enough to watch her curl in on herself and weep for her lost friend, along with the loss of all she knew, before calling her pathetic and then disappearing, not coming back until deep into the night.
Frisk had been there ever since, what felt like weeks passing by in the monotony.
The only changes in her scenery were the frequent visits from Sans, and she could hardly call those pleasant.
He had become a sadist in this strange, backwards hellscape, temperamental and violent, and was hungry to have control over those he considered less than him (which was, essentially, her).
Sans enjoyed causing her pain, demanded her absolute respect and deference, and punished what he considered slights to himself or any of his preconceived notions harshly; he had beaten her nearly to death on several occasions, teaching her through pain to mind her manners if she wanted to survive.
Sometimes, though, she grew tired of his cruel, patronizing rhetoric, and forgot to hold her tongue, deceived by his familiar face and voice and drawn to sarcasm and attitude that he did not appreciate.
She seemed to have stumbled into one such gaffe tonight, daring to speak out in the middle of one of his many interrogations about the future she had been ripped from, and could probably now look forward to, at the very least, a few kicks in the stomach.
Frisk, swallowing heavily, clenched her fists at her sides, hoping it would stop their trembling as she hesitantly held the monster beside her's expectant gaze.
There was a lump in her throat that refused to dislodge, and swallowing didn't seem to be helping; she desperately wanted it to, so that she could take advantage of what he seemed to be offering her… an out.
She could say something, anything, else, pretend to be ignorant and pretty and emptyheaded… she didn't have to begin the night with extra bruises.
Frisk knew she couldn't though.
Her empty stomach cramped and growled at the thought that she might have been considering not assuaging its pain in order to save herself some, reminding her of why she was risking upsetting Sans's delicate male constitution in the first place (she was starving, what felt like to death), and this, along with a deep seated streak of disobedience rearing its head, firmed her resolve.
He might not have to eat every day, but she did, and couldn't survive in the cold long, getting food only when he remembered to bring it.
Frisk swallowed again (and again not making the lump dissipate), doing her best to be determined, and straightened her posture, turning her head to face Sans head on.
"I said that I was hungry, and asked if I could have some food," she exclaimed proudly, voice coming out a little loudly due to her gut wrenching dread, but immediately shrank in on herself cautiously when Sans narrowed his eye sockets dangerously, rising back to his full height and practically bristling with anger.
With a sharp, quick movement and a glare of unconcealed venom, he raised his right hand across his body, tensing and leaning towards her as though to backhand her.
Recognizing the familiar motion (it was one of his favorites, demeaning and effective; he had used it on her often enough for her to know), Frisk panicked, raising her dirt caked, cracked hands in self-defense and flinching away as far as the tight collar around her throat would allow her, squeezing her eyes shut and bracing for pain.
It didn't come though; after a few seconds of seeing her standing there at his mercy, cowering and deferential, the demented skeleton started chuckling, hard, throwing his head back in his mirth.
The chain shook in his hand as he chortled with relish, jostling Frisk from her reticence, and she peeked up at Sans through her fingers in confusion, just in time to watch him wipe a pseudo tear from a once again brightly lit eye socket before looking back at her, grinning widely.
There was something… off about the smile though.
It was too hard, too sharp, to look like his usual relaxed (if a little insane) smirk; there was malice and pent up fury in it, and looking at it for too long made Frisk feel like he was apt to use his bared teeth to rip her throat out.
Sans laughed again as he met her apprehensive eyes, low and deep in his hollow chest (she could almost feel it reverberating through the air between them), before slowly raising the hand he held her chain in, tightening it and pulling her forward insistently.
Frisk tried to resist by leaning back and locking her knees, already too close to him for comfort, but his strength exceeded her own exponentially (especially considering how weak and malnourished she had become); with a jerk of his wrist, Sans broke her posture and sent her stumbling forward and into his chest clumsily, forced to grab onto the furred lapels of his coat to keep herself from falling.
Once her balance was regained, Frisk released him and tried to pull back, balking at the close contact (she could feel his ribs through his clothes; the feeling reminded her too much of who he wasn't anymore), but Sans had other ideas, his free hand rising and resting on her upper back lightly, almost like he was checking to see if she was steady.
Frisk's experiences had taught her otherwise, however, attuned to receiving only torture and mind games and pain from him, and she stilled at his touch, cold that had nothing to do with the howling of the ever present winter storm outside creeping into her veins.
He was not the (mostly) gentle monster he had once been, no kindness or magnanimity left in him… this was bad.
She was proved right a moment later when the skeletal hand resting between her shoulders traced its way up her spine (eliciting a shiver of unwanted stimulation from her), to tangle in her filthy, snarled hair; the contact felt uncomfortably intimate until he pulled back on his hand, hard.
Letting out a surprised cry of pain at the sudden movement, Frisk was forced to look up at him again to ease the stinging in her scalp, meeting his hard, scarlet gaze apprehensively.
The wrong, twisted smile he wore didn't reach his eye sockets; the malevolence she found in his stare filled her with trepidation and dread.
Finally having her where he wanted her, Sans spoke at last, mirth still coating his voice into an almost recognizable timbre; the hint of danger that shadowed his humor, however, accompanied by the spluttering flash of blood red magic in his left eye socket, confirmed that he was still different, still not her Sans, and Frisk winced, wishing she could go back and just see him one more time, to not be here with him.
She was though, her omniscience removed from her and escape a faraway dream; all she had was this Sans, with his sharp teeth and his cold scrutiny and his hard, painful hand in her hair, twisting as he spoke.
"hungry, huh? coulda fooled me… seems like the only thing you're hungry for is punishment. you're practically beggin' for it, talkin' to me like that… tellin' me what to fuckin' do," he intoned bitingly, none of his former mirth making its way into his hard tone, before shaking his head, sighing, as if in pity, and rattling the chain in his grasp deliberately, drawing Frisk's attention to its dull coils wrapped around his hand.
"i think you need ta be reminded of somethin'."
Teeth still bared in a sharp, nasty grin, Sans then yanked on Frisk's hair so hard that she let out an involuntary yelp of agony, neck popping uncomfortably and tears flooding into her wide eyes, blurring her world into a kaleidoscope of black and red and white.
His smile widened at her display of pain, his left eye flashing red again briefly before dissipating, and leaned down to Frisk's eye level again, clearly enjoying the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"ya seem to've forgotten who's in charge here, who's keepin' your ass from gettin' dragged in front of my butcher of a brother; i'd have thought you'd be more grateful. but all i get from you are complaints and lies and fuckin' backtalk," he rasped harshly, punctuating his last word with a sharp tug of the chain in his hand, making Frisk choke on a drawn breath as her collar tightened.
"you only fuckin' receive, bitch, when i think you deserve it, and don't you forget that."
Frisk, eyes squeezed shut against the pain in her throat and scalp, whimpered haltingly, cracking one eye open to look up her antagonist beseechingly.
It ground against her pride, and she wanted nothing more than to give him even more "backtalk", but she could see he was in a mood tonight; she would have to be subservient if she wanted to eat.
"What do you want me to… to do? To deserve it," she stuttered hoarsely, acerbic but nevertheless dreading the reason behind why he hadn't hit her and was instead pressing her against his body, and Sans's smirk cranked up another notch, something predatory and sinister in its cant.
The magic that had been spluttering sporadically in his eye socket finally sparked to life, painting the small room a bright red, and from behind his jagged fangs, parted in a mocking facsimile of a laugh, what Frisk hesitated to call a tongue coiled around one of his incisors, red tinted, luminescent saliva dripping from it hideously.
"i think y'can earn what you want…" he practically purred, his tentacle like, neon red tongue darting out to lick at one of the still wet tear trails on Frisk's cheek.
"if ya get on your fuckin' knees."
Frisk, too shocked by his demand, took a too long moment to digest what he had really said, still and horrified.
He couldn't mean what she thought he did… could he?
She could feel the implication almost tangibly, however, hanging in the air and burning her through the weight of his hungry gaze and pressing, uncomfortably and sickeningly, against her stomach through his rough shorts.
Frisk had felt this moment coming closer for weeks; the longer that she had spent trapped in this frigid shed, each night being questioned and beaten and harassed by the fiendish monster, the more he had started to look at her differently.
When Sans had first come to her in the night, he had had questions about her presence in the underground, comparing his knowledge of spacetime with the unlikelihood of her testament; he wanted to know why, if the Underground had been saved, she had been reset, and why everything was so different from how she claimed it had been.
He had grown increasingly frustrated by the lack of answers she had, however (she knew no more than he did, after all, an unwilling participant in all of this), certain that she was willfully withholding vital information, and had become frequently more violent and tempestuous, striking out at her when she didn't understand something or got annoyed and stepped out of line or even if he didn't like how she was looking at him.
There had been nothing sexual about their interactions, for which she was grateful; if he had remembered that part of their past interactions, she didn't think she could've lived…
Until one night the week before this, when she had thrown one of his own foul mouthed diatribes back in his face, tired of getting pushed around.
He had thrown her to the floor and straddled her stomach, hands around her throat while he snarled at her about keeping "her bitch mouth fucking shut" if she wanted to keep her teeth, but had paused in his rage, seeming to suddenly notice their position and the way her dress pulled tight against her breasts.
He had stared for an astoundingly long time, hands twitching as though wanting to do something with them besides strangle her (for once), but had eventually removed himself from her and had spent the last hour of his visit across the cage from her, though his gaze never left her body again that evening.
Sans had gotten more and more bold in his interest as time dragged on, before content to only approach her when she had offended him but now, and increasingly each time he appeared in the shed, lingering within feet of her at all times.
His observations of her body had grown more heated, he touched her for longer when he felt that he had been wronged enough to justify beating her, and as the days grew longer, each passing hour dreaded more than the last (given Sans's sudden and unwelcome attentions), he became more audacious.
A week ago he had decided she needed the collar she wore now, saying he didn't trust her word that she couldn't reset to escape; she had fought against it, humiliated and irritated by his constant demands, and in the struggle that had ensued, he had somehow managed to rip the front of her dress open, a long tear in the knitted fabric reaching down far past the cleavage of her breasts.
He had stared for a long time then, too.
He had lingered too long, four days before, when pushing her up against the wall after she had argued against something he had said (what the subject had been and what was said, she couldn't recall), his breath getting heavier the longer he pressed his body against her back.
He had smelled her hair two days ago, leaning over her and inhaling deeply in the nape of her neck when she had turned away from him in moderated anger (she had gotten enough bruises on her face the day before to want to talk back, even if she had a pretty good comeback).
Yesterday, he had outright groped her, sharp finger bones digging into her ass as he brushed past her to refill her water dish (which was, humiliatingly, a small dog bowl), and what she had thought at the time to be an accident she now recognized for the advance that it had been.
And now, with his eye flaming in its socket and his erection pushing against her body (more pliable than his bones but still hard and large and god…), he had demanded, in as many words, that she give him a blowjob if she wanted to be allowed to eat.
The unspoken inference numbed her, almost as efficiently as the saliva lingering on her cheek; they both stung, humiliated, and disgusted her equally…
Just as they both made an alien warmth in her abdomen grow.
Frisk, unwilling to consider what that meant (she wasn't into this kind of thing, she couldn't be), grimaced and turned back to the situation at hand, raising a shaky hand to wipe her cheek with its back and lowering her eyes meekly away from Sans's smug face.
She hated that she was being forced into intimacy with the shade of a monster that she had once wanted this from, who she had dreamed of giving pleasure to; the beast that had taken his place didn't deserve it.
But… but.
She was going to have to do it; she didn't think she'd make it another two or three days without sustenance, not to mention the danger that would come from snubbing him.
The first time she had disobeyed Sans, refusing to talk to him and give him information he wanted, he had beaten her so severely she hadn't been able to move for five days; he had almost killed her, and he hadn't been this angry then.
Without resets, she needed to be careful with how many risks she took, especially when it came to monsters that had undeniable power over her life.
Wishing suddenly that she had something in her stomach to throw up, Frisk, shuddering and gagging at the thought of what she was about to do, let out a shaky breath and collapsed her coltishly locked knees, slowly sinking down towards the floor.
Sans, ivory lids lowered in an expression of cruel victory, released her hair and uncoiled the chain wrapped around his fist enough to allow her to kneel at his feet, then slipped his free hand into his coat pocket idly, his glowing iris riveted to every move the girl made.
At the moment, having finally settled to her knees on the rough, dirty floorboards (the grain clung to her torn leggings, irritating the skin beneath), Frisk was fidgeting nervously, looking anywhere but at the softly glowing bulge in her captor's shorts, only inches from her nose.
Bitter bile was climbing her throat, the reality of her situation too real and unfair (she sounded like a little girl again, complaining about having to do her homework, though the comparison was a little… skewed), and in her lap, her fists clenched, her resolve wavering.
She couldn't do this… it wasn't right, this wasn't him, not anymore…
Her disgust and indecision must have shown on her face, because above her, Sans let out a dark chuckle, his tongue hanging from between his teeth viscously.
"you look so good on your knees, sweetheart… i might just keep ya there," he crooned mockingly, spreading his stance deliberately and making his hips sway towards her (and grinning wider when she flinched backwards at his advance), obvious pleasure in his flickering gaze.
Frisk, cringing at the sound of his disdainful voice and wanting nothing more than to disappear (she had never been this degraded, and she didn't like how that was making her knees weak and her abdomen clench), swallowed for what felt like the umpteenth time before finally, haltingly, raising her hands towards the buckle of her adversary's barely visible belt, fingers shaking and tears stinging her eyes.
Sans watched her measured approach in silence, savage pleasure glowing in his iris and glinting on his bared teeth, before letting out a gruff chortle, removing his hand from his pocket to knock her hands away.
Startled and quailing (had she done something wrong? Was he going to hit her?), Frisk looked cautiously up at the openly laughing skeleton, his shark-like smile truly amused as he shook his head slowly, tsk-ing his tongue.
"what do you think you're doin', human?" he sneered, his free hand crudely adjusting himself in the confines of his shorts, and Frisk, thoroughly confused, stared at him uncomprehendingly, frantically searching for meaning in this situation.
Had she done it wrong? How could that be? She hadn't even started.
"I… I was going to… you know…" she stammered perplexedly, a flush of mortification and shame creeping up to stain her cheeks as her decisiveness and determination left her in the idleness of the moment, and, from above her, Sans's sadistic leer sharpened.
"you were goin' to… what?" he prompted callously, dragging the tip of his tongue along his top row of teeth salaciously, and Frisk, suddenly realizing that he had orchestrated this misunderstanding to debase her, ducked her head, scowling at her once again clenched fists with growing ire.
Bastard…
"I thought that… you wanted me to… suck you," she forced out between clenched teeth, hating him and her cell and the floor that she was kneeling on and this whole god forsaken world that had sucked her in without offering an escape, and Sans, noticing her pique and reveling in it, cackled condescendingly.
"heh… i told ya to get on your knees, sugar, not to blow me. it is interestin' how quick ya jumped to that conclusion, though… like ya couldn't wait for the chance to wrap those pretty lips around my cock," he alluded, his voice heavy with false admonishment and taunting, and Frisk flushed redder, wanting to hit him so badly it hurt, almost as much as the floor she was kneeling on was starting to.
Sans wasn't done yet, though, yanking the chain in his grip hard enough to make her head snap up and meet his gaze; he smirked perversely at her, once her eyes were back on him.
"why did ya think i wanted you to "suck me", hmm?" he pressed antagonistically, thrusting his hips forward to unnecessarily emphasize his question and making Frisk lean her head backwards again to avoid making contact with him.
His grin was wide and hungry and so sharp that looking at it was painful, a trail of drool dripping from his fangs.
"did you really want me ta stuff my dick down your throat that bad? because i can quench your thirst… if ya ask nicely."
She should have been shocked by his crudeness, though she had heard far worse from him in the way of innuendo and harsh words.
She should have been horrified that he was just as aggressive and cruel when it came to his sexual appetites.
She should have been shaken, bowed her head despite his abuse and disdain, maybe apologized for clearly misunderstanding.
Frisk was none of those things.
Frisk was angry.
Frisk was sick and tired of taking his shit.
And what she did instead of bending to his whim was grit her teeth, glare up at him venomously, and spit on his coat.
"I thought that because you meant for me to, you sadistic sack of garbage," she snarled, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she looked the stock still monster over critically. "I am not a toy for you to mess around with. I don't want you, in any way; I only want him. You are nothing like him, and you never will be!"
It should have sunk in that Sans had been quiet for a long time while she hissed at him; it should have given her pause that his grin had transformed into a flat line of clenched teeth and that, in his tightened fist, the chain was shaking.
None of it registered with her until it was already too late.
Faster than Frisk could react, his foot connected with her left shoulder, sending her crashing to the floor on her side.
Her head bounced once on the ground, her cheek scraping on an exposed nail, before she was jerked back by the chain; her eyes clouded over from the pain of her landing and the echoing resounding in her throbbing head.
Blinking to clear her vision and struggling to rise from her fall, the second kick to her already abused shoulder came as a surprise, rolling her onto her back so fast and roughly that her breath left her.
The shoe that came down on her sternum, putting steadily increasing pressure on her straining lungs, didn't help the situation.
Frisk wheezed, scrabbling her cracked fingernails against the sneaker placed in the center of her chest and recovering from her blurry sight just in time to see Sans lean over her prostrate body menacingly, placing an elbow on his raised knee and increasing the weight on her lungs.
She had never seen him look more terrifying.
His glowing iris was sparking insanely in his eye socket, throwing magical fire past the confines of his skull and putting his hateful glare and pointed fangs into sharp, disturbing relief; she would have said he wore a grin if it hadn't had the distinct impression of murder burned into it.
Magic ran in sizzling currents of blood red light along the cracks in his bones, fizzling hotly in the cool air, and a sound she could only relate to animalistic growling was coming from somewhere deep in his chest.
Maybe it was the bursting pressure on her lungs making her head fuzzy, but Frisk could have sworn she saw an aura exuding from him, red and malicious; skeletal canine heads cavorted in that light, their demonic eyes piercing straight to her soul.
They were gone before she could look again though; she forgot them immediately, as she was more preoccupied with gasping for air while she felt, in her chest, her ribs begin to creak in protest to the weight being pushed on them.
She was going to die, she realized, and shut her eyes, bracing for the pain of feeling her own bones puncturing her lungs.
It was then that the pressure lifted marginally, and air rushed into her collapsing chest, leaving her head spinning as she gulped at it desperately, interspersing her deep, thankful breaths with shuddering coughs.
She had perhaps five second to revel in her not-death before she was interrupted by a rough yank to the chain still attached to her neck and a hard, deep, guttural voice cutting through the frigid air.
"look at me, whore."
Frisk froze, her bruised chest shooting shockwaves of pain up her torso in return for her sudden labored breathing, and hesitantly cracked her eyes open, looking up at the glowering skeleton above her.
Sans seemed to have calmed down marginally, his magic still bright but more subdued in his eye socket; he looked no less displeased, however, and showed it when he sneered at her, voice rumbling like a far off storm and breath leaving him in steaming, billowing clouds.
"next time you fuckin' talk to me like that, hussy, i'll put my foot through your chest and out the other side," he warned mordantly, digging the toe of his shoe in for emphasis and grinning humorlessly at her grunt of discomfort.
"whether you want my cock in your mouth or not will be the least of your worries then."
Frisk, trembling at the awful reality of his promise (she didn't want to find out the hard way if she really could reset or not) and from the pain she was in, nodded her understanding shortly, becoming numbly aware that her hands were still wrapped around his shoe and removing them.
Sans, unimpressed, remained leaning over her, glaring down at her with wrath still plain on his face.
"and as for your backtalk… you'll be payin' for that, too. you'll clean up the mess you made, you'll apologize…" he demanded softly, though there was nothing soft in the way his hand pulled at her chain or in the hardness of his grimace.
"and then you'll find out just how bad you fucked up, my little toy."
Aight, thanks for reading, folks, hope you enjoyed it. Leave me a comment, if you feel like it, and visit me on my Tumblr, thebananafrappe, for more content, fanart, and skeleton shenanigans. Til next time!