Skeleton Ghost

The Endless Lööps

((A.N. Ran out of prewritten chapters for Andlátkyn and still burnt out, but I had this self-indulgent fic sitting around for a while, still a WIP, but I decided it's time it saw the light of day while we all wait for my muse on Andlátkyn and in general to reanimate. Also! In this world the sun rises in the west and sets in the east because why not! Have fun!))

An old, familiar white-hot and chill touch of the glowing blade sliced its way through his ribs, tearing his jacket and ripping open his shirt.
The age-old feeling of air seeping out through the wound with a feeling similar to acid overtook him.

Again, he choked on his breath.
Again, he stumbled as the world twisted dizzyingly.
He sighed faintly, sockets watering as the breath wheezed out of his ribs, speckling motes of red on the inside of his shirt and precious jacket.
"So." He managed to keep his voice level, more from practice than anything else at this point.
"Guess that's it, huh?"

He regarded the look on the human's face with both resignation and a cold, bitter nausea. He was sick of this game. Sick of this constant loop. He was reaching the end of his rope, and by God, he had no idea how much further the rope went. He was sick of being pushed and pushed and pushed.
He was going to snap soon.
His next statement was spoken a little more coldly, a little bit too bitter than usual.
"Just don't say I didn't warn ya."

He knew the different tone was a mistake when he saw the gleam in those burning eyes. Nevertheless, he could only hope that next time he could convince the demon it was only a minor change in one timeline.
...He still had probably guaranteed himself another Genocide next round with that slip-up.

"Welp. I'm going to Grilby's." He muttered, dragging his feet to the side, blood dripping onto the golden tile. He was losing air. It wouldn't stay, it just breezed out of every rib with each rattling breath.
Again, like the script in a sick play, the words barely fell out like a twisted mockery of his precious brother and close friends.
"Papyrus, do you want anything?"

He collapsed against the pillar, gasping weakly as his own instincts fought for a life that was already done. Dying.
Part of him desperately wished he could stay dead. To just let it end. Let him die. Let them all just die in peace.
End the cycle of torment.

But of course, it would never be so, one could think as his phalanges began to fall apart in front of him, all feeling in them gone.
The human then did something unexpected.

They strode over and poked the waterfall of dust. He couldn't help but glare in hate, all breath gone, unable to muster any more words. Nor did he need to, for the demon didn't seem interested in what he had to say.
"I wonder how long it will be before you finally break the script, little Sansy."

No.
No.
No.
Don't ever call me that.

He wanted to scream. Shout something. Anything.
But…
Sansy was a name only his mother called him.
So he did the last thing he could.

He spat blood at them, spraying the red fluid over their face, their hair, that damn sweater, all speckled in red like those glowing eyes.

There was a slight satisfaction in seeing the little shit stumble back, coughing and gagging as they struggled to wipe it off, cursing under their breath.

He leaned back against the pillar, even as his own spine began to dust, resigning himself to copying those actions should this situation arise again- most likely it would.

Sans must have been staying alive too long, because it seemed he was beginning to hallucinate in his final moments.
His gaze drifted to one side, seeing a ghost phasing through the wall to peer at him.
Who.. who was that? He couldn't tell.