
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7648450.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Undertale_(Video_Game), Underfell_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Papyrus/Sans, W._D._Gaster/Sans, W._D._Gaster_&_Papyrus_&_Sans
  Character:
      W._D._Gaster, Papyrus_(Undertale), Sans_(Undertale)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Underfell, Underfell_Sans, Underfell_Papyrus, W._D.
      Gaster_Being_An_Asshole, Sibling_Incest, gaster_has_a_creepy_relationship
      with_papyrus, Jealous_Papyrus, Papyrus_Has_Issues, Bondage, Collars,
      Choking
  Series:
      Part 4 of goddamn,_we_missed_the_vein
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-01 Words: 1747
****** oh yeah, i'm a reaper man (every good thing, i kill it dead) ******
by cashtastrophe
Summary
     Papyrus is nothing like his father.
Notes
     so i just found out i've got to be moving in two weeks and logically,
     this is what i do instead of packing. hahahahahahahahahahahaha kill
     me
     this is just a gross, gross short one-shot i had to get out of my
     brain. this is a messed up family. please heed the warnings
     (additional warnings in the end notes)
See the end of the work for more notes
[now]


“Look at yourself,” his brother purrs into the side of his skull, slick as
steel and just as sharp. One big hand, so carefully folded to fit between
sans's bare ribs, wraps tight around the frantic rabbit-pulse of his soul.

sans lets out this strangled kind of wheeze, tries to pull away as claws scrape
along the swollen pull of its surface. A faint, uneven pink glow flickers to
life against the dusty curve of his spine.

“aw, fuck,” he huffs and earns himself a sharp tug on the leash for his
troubles. The leather snaps tight around the vertebrae. He grunts as it jerks
him sharp back against his brother's sternum. The claws curled around his soul
squeeze just enough to wring another wretched sound out of him.

He doesn't—he doesn't wantto look at himself in the cracked mirror hung on
Papyrus's bedroom door. He can picture it well enough—huddled in the v of
Papyrus's stupid-long legs, red-faced, shivering , still fully-dressed save for
the unzipped jacket and the shirt rucked up somewhere around his collarbones,
eyelights blown wide as he squirms in his brother's lap and makes this awful
little noise he'll conveniently delete from this memory later.

Wishes he could rid himself of the whole fuckin' thing, but hey. He settles for
screwing his eyes shut and twisting his face away instead, burying it best he
can in the filthy fur trim of his jacket hood. It smells like cheap beer and
cheaper weed, but it's soft and dark and so much better than having to meet his
brother's burning eyelights over his own shoulder.

“Look,” Papyrus hisses and pulls on the leash again. He holds it this time,
pulls it tight and punishing and it doesn't make sense—no lungs, right?—but
sans chokes on it anyways, scrabbles madly at his own throat until Papyrus
eases up just enough to allow him shallow, shuddering breath.

“thank you,” sans gasps.

He knows the script.

“Open your eyes, brother.”

The way he says that word used to gut sans, it really did. Back when he had
even a glimmer of hope that quiet and compliance would at all protect him, he'd
actually flinched at it.

He knew he wasn't what they'd been expecting, either of them, this fragile,
half-crippled thing that required as much protection as he offered. He knew
that Papyrus had been displeased, initially, to be presented with such a
substandard toy.

The moniker had stuck, though—it was even necessary, to explain away the sudden
appearance of an additional child, a half-brother Papyrus hadn't known about
until his mother's untimely passing. It served as a reminder that their
relationship was involuntary. That he would never have chosen sans, had he
actually been given a choice.

It's fair. He gets it.

Now, though, now that word thrills something low in his stomach, immediately
followed by a wash of shame, and twisting nausea. Which should dissipate that
heat entirely, right, should leave him cold and frightened and curled up into
himself, but it only makes it worse somehow. The way Papyrus spits his name
makes him positively sick, sluggish and stupid with arousal.

(You like it, Papyrus accuses him once, shakily, like he doesn't already know
the answer. sans doesn't even have to think about it, just breathes an emphatic
yeah into the smooth arc of his little brother's pubic crest. Follows it with
his tongue. Keens when Papyrus's shin nudges up against his own pelvis far too
hard to be accidental.

Good, Papyrus hisses.)

He'll get off now and he'll hatehimself later for it. This is routine by this
point, this is—this is fucking clockwork, because his brother has exactly zero
appreciation for spontaneity.

It's exactly the same, every single night. Papyrus drops off into sleep for his
few short hours. sans stares blank at the facing wall until his eye sockets
itch with exhaustion, his brain stuck in this smooth vinyl groove of he's your
brother he's your brother, he's your brotheron constant repeat.

He doesn't follow the order. He screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth
instead. In an attempt to distract himself, he mentally tallies his new
injuries, cataloging which ones might require first aid later.

He's barely gotten to twelve when Papyrus clocks that sans has no intention of
complying, and lets go of his soul. He pushes a rib aside dragging that big paw
out of sans's chest—not quite enough to crack the thing, but certainly enough
to wring a low, heated grunt from between sans's teeth. He can feelPapyrus
smile against the notches of his upper cervical spine. Sharp teeth graze the
vertebrae. He shivers.

Almost lazily, Papyrus drops his free hand down to the warm cotton of sans's
sweatpants. He slides a heavy palm over the ridge of sans's pubis, giving a
near-affectionate yank to the leash when sans bucks up into the pressure with a
strangled “aw, shit, Pap, hey—”

“None of that,” Papyrus rumbles, cool as a goddamn cucumber, and thumbs at the
sensitive spot in the center of the bone. sans can already feel his stuttering
magic pooling there, warmwet, like its trying to accommodate the ragged way his
soul is beating against the inside of his ribs, the way he's twisting up to
meet his brother's touch even while it's prickling imagined bile at the back of
his throat.

His body understands what's happening here. He only wishes his stupid mind
would do him the same favor.

“Come on. What's my name?” It's thick and slurred and very nearly sweet, a
cruel counterpoint to the way he's slowly strangling sans, the way his claws
curl around and bite into the bone, too hard to be anything but painful.

And yet.

This is the worst thing about sans. This is the absolute pinnacle of everything
shitty and wrong and wretched about his entire existence, the way he whimpers,
low and pained, like a fuckin' animal but still he hitches up into those
bruising fingers. Still, he hisses through his teeth “please,” and shudders
when heavy fangs graze across the ridge of his scapula.

He can't blame Papyrus when he literally begs for it, right? That's completely
unfair. He's the older brother, after all, he's meant to be responsible and
still, he lets this happen. He indulges this black part of his brother's
personality out of nothing more than his own disgusting self-interest.

Papyrus doesn't deserve this.

When he finally opens his eyes. the spiderweb-cracked surface of the mirror on
the door fractures him into Picasso jigsaw pieces—wicked teeth nudge up against
the bruise ringing his left orbital bone, the trickle of blood trailing from
his nasal cavity cut in two by the reddened line of his flushed cheekbones.

It makes him nauseous to look at. He squeezes his sockets closed again and
grits out “Papyrus.”

“No,” Papyrus corrects softly. He sounds very nearly amused. “Try again.”

Papyrus isn't hard. He rarely is, when they do this, and that's...shit, that's
somehow so much worse, isn't it, because at least that would make some kind of
sense. At least that, he could understand. Those nights that he won't even let
sans touch him though, those nights he spends close to an hour weaving
complicated bindings of black silk through the spaces between his grimy
armbones for no apparent reason other than the fact that he seems to enjoy sans
squirming in what they both know is futile effort to free himself...

Sans doesn't get It.

They don't fuck, really. Not—well, okay, maybe that awful, fumbling first time,
and three subsequent rounds in the following week, because Papyrus was sixteen
and eager was probably too mild a word to describe him. But it's been what,
nearly eight years now? He can still count on his fingerbones the amount of
times it had happened since.

He mostly gets Papyrus off and Papyrus gets him off sometimes, when he's in a
particularly cruel mood. It's entirely seperate, except for the way it all
bleeds into one hot, hazy memory in his brain, the way it all curdles his
stomach, makes his joints ache.

“I'm not him,” Papyrus snarls the single time he works up the courage to
stammer out something along the lines of why don't you—?through a thick
mouthful of his own blood. “I'm—oh fuck you, I'm not— “

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he does slam sans's skull into the
headboard.

Sans yelps. Papyrus sneers at him and snaps his clavicle neatly in two,
eyelights blown wide and nearly white with rage. “I'm nothing like him,” he
seethes and sans can barely see past the bright flickers of pain across his
entire field of vision, but he nods frantically anyways.

It's the very first time be locks sans in the shed overnight. The clavicle
heals wrong, always canting just a few degrees too north.

sans doesnt ask again.





*



[before]


“Watch,” Gaster said.

sans howled, pulled desperate at the thick leather cuffs because no, no, fuck
him, this wasn't fair!

He promised, if you're good he'd said and he never needs to know he'd said.
sans had been good, he had been so good, but Gaster lied, he fucking lied—

Papyrus hadn't even blinked when he'd pushed the basement door open and found
his pseudo-brother collared, half-undressed and strapped down to the cruel
steel operating table. He hadn't protested, hadn't asked why, hadn't seemed
fazed in the goddamn slightest.

He'd only cocked his head and taken a tentative few steps closer, like he
wasn't quite sure he was allowed to approach.

Papyrus's eyelights were barely pinpricks in their sockets as he watched
Gaster's hollow hands undo the knotted drawstring of sans's sweatpants and ease
them down over his pelvis. He didn't say a word. He didn't move. Didn't even
breathe, it looked like.

Please don'tdied on sans's tongue before the words even made it past his teeth.
Gaster wouldn't listen to it—sans may as well have been speaking French, for
all his not-father appeared to understand the concept of stop.

sans wondered dimly, as those cold, cracked fingers nudged his knees apart, if
Papyrus would be any different.

A small hand—dull claws, he hadn't had to file them down yet, he was
practically still in stripes sowhat the fuck was he doing here—wrapped around
his ankle. Squeezed just too hard to be comforting.

Apple doesn't fall far, right?












End Notes
     papyrus is absolutely like his father, papyrus does impressive mental
     gymnastics to absolve himself of wrongdoing, noncon/dubcon, violence,
     broken bones, bondage, choking, vague references to Gaster getting p
     inappropriate with sans in full view of underage pap (although
     nothing really happens to pap),
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