A/N: a series of snips from a personal fic I'm writing. I won't be publishing it anywhere like ever, buuuut I'll post my favorite snips here (without context, aside from the fact that "Swap" is a copy of the OG UnderSwap Sans)

"So," Nightmare adjusted the glasses on his nose bridge to keep them from sinking into the goop of his bones, tapping his clipboard with his pen," what makes you sad? Genocide? Murder? Vehicular manslaughter?" 

Swap leaned back on the conjured long seat, arms folded on his chest and gazing listlessly up at the ceiling. He glanced over at Nightmare. "Something in me tells me that you're not that good of a therapist."

A tentacle creeped out from Nightmare's back, whip-thin and long, and flicked Swap on the forehead. "Don't insult your therapist," he admonished, and waved at a corner of the void. "I'm a licensed professional!" 

Diplomas were hung on the walls, slowly sinking into the shadows and sliding down. One of them was flipped upside down. If Swap squinted, he could vaguely read the name "Toriel Dreemurr" scratched out and replaced with "NIGHTMARE" in all caps. 

Swap felt like he was in a shady, underground clinic, except instead of surgical malpractice a sadistic maniac was trying to get a psychological profile on him.

"I don't trust you," Swap said, rather bluntly, and winced. "Sorry!"

"Awww, well that just breaks my heart… not! Tell me what's on your mind, Swapy," Nightmare cooed, his already oily and deep voice turning up the dial from 10 to a hundred on a scale of creepiness.

Swap sighed, hugging himself and looking back up at the endless void above him. Might as well. It's not like he could do anything with a LV 80 God-like goop monster forcing him to stay in limbo, and he had a long enough vacation that he could stay here for the rest of the week with no one to check up on him. 

He laced his fingers together and shyly looked away. "... my friends," he said, carefully. "I have the week off, so I'm wondering if I should hang out with them, but I don't want to intrude."

"Don't be a pussy. Ask them to go out with you," Nightmare snorted as he scribbled something down on the clipboard. Probably something crude, given his wicked grin. 

Swap sighed. "It's- it's not really that simple," he admitted," they're friends with me out of pity more than anything. I can be easily replaced. I know Ink can replace me with any other Swap Sans, and Geno has a lot of friends anyways…"

The corrupted skeleton looked up from his clipboard, eyeing Swap intently. He stepped his fingers under his chin and leaned in ever so slightly. "How did you become… urgh… friends with these two numbskulls in the first place?" 

...

"you barely talked to anyone here," he pointed out, elbowing Swap slightly. 

Which was true. Swap didn't really, uh… to say he didn't care for the people there would be harsh, but he definitely wouldn't find any joy in talking to them. There was this slight anxiety that arose in him whenever he so much as made eye contact with any Sans in the building, nevermind an "Original" Sans. Ink was… probably the only exception, but he knew he wouldn't be talking to him after the party's over. 

"Untrue. At approximately three and a half minutes into the party I said "Hi" to Science."

"and then ran away."

"... it wasn't running, per se," Swap's cheeks flushed at Geno's low chuckles. "You're not exactly a socialite either."

...

"... even if you're besties now, i'm still calling him a tool."

"I'd be concerned if you didn't."

...

Nightmare's brows narrowed. "I'm not wrong about anything, but do tell."

...

So Nightmare held true to his promise. Not even a minute after Swap pulled his shoes on he was sucked into a vortex of dark slime, and thrown out the other side like trash. 

Meeting his, err, "crew" was exceedingly… awkward, to say the least. They were a contrasting bunch, each personality different from each other, but held a few things in common. 

Namely that they were suspicious of anyone that wasn't them. It made sense, Swap guessed, but it was pretty sad. They were sort of like the rejects of the greater Sans society, with no one to ground them and no one to really enforce healthy habits on them. They were kind of like Swap, except he was… not like them. 

Swap had met Killer first. Apparently the taller skeleton was insistent on being the first of the crew to meet him, teeth bared in a predatory show rather than a smile as he prowled around Swap in close circles, squinting at his modest clothes and tugging at his blue scarf. 

He then stepped back and gave Nightmare an unimpressed look. "You brought a Swap Sans here? What's he going to do, cook tacos and cry about friendship?" 

"He's not like that," Nightmare said, simply. "I've verified and vetted him. You will have to acquiesce with letting him show you that."

Killer huffed, giving Swap the stink eye before marching back indoors. Having someone actively dislike him wasn't a new experience, but it was novel when it concerned a stranger… that was a clone of him… that he wasn't going to handcuff and put in a cell.

Nightmare led him inside, down a long hall, and to the living room, and immediately Swap felt uncomfortable by the amount of eye sockets staring at him, unblinking. Three other skeletons were sprawled across various surfaces, legs swinging over armrests and feet resting on coffee tables. 

Killer's arms were crossed as he leaned against the back of the couch, glaring at Swap. Or maybe he was looking elsewhere. Hard to tell without eyelights. 

"This is…" Nightmare paused, and looked at him. 

His shoulders slouched slightly, mimicking his insecure posture from his teenage days, and his eye sockets slightly widened and looked askance. He waved a hesitant hand, as if he was shy, and nailed a natural stutter. "Swap. Just Swap. Hiya." 

Shoulders relaxed, the tense lines of their bodies wavered, and they seemed to accept him for what he presented himself as. He was mostly  dismissed as a threat.

"Yes. Swap. A very original name," Nightmare threw shade lightly, and continued," I've brought him over to hang out for the day and babysit you lot while I'm busy."

"What? Nooo," one of them piped up- Cross, Swap thought- tilting his head back with a groan. "We're adults, we don't need to be babysat! What makes him so mature?" 

"Swap, do you microwave macaroni with or without water?" Nightmare asked, suddenly. 

Swap looked at him bewilderedly. "With… with water, why would I not use water?"

Nightmare didn't answer him, and crossed his arms. "See? He won't burn the house down, unlike you idiots."

"That was one time!" Cross threw his hands in the air. "What about that time Dust put tinfoil in the microwave?"

"Fuck you, I was making lasagna," Dust sniped back. 

"In the fucking microwave?" 

"You two… are not… allowed in the kitchen anymore," Horror rumbled out in his deep, gravelly voice, turning over a half-eaten green apple in his hands. 

"Can I-" 

"No. No one."

Swap raised a hand in the tense silence that followed. "As someone who's pursuing a, uh, a culinary degree… could I?" 

Horror narrowed his eye sockets at him, arms crossed. He looked awfully intimidating in a completely different way than his imposing and creepy disposition would imply- more "sandal swinging mother" rather than "bone chewing villain". 

"I'll supervise," Horror said, and then bared his teeth in a spine chilling grin. "If you screw up… I'll have you."

"Have me f-for… what?" 

"Bone broth."

Nightmare snickered as Swap blanched. He took it back. The creepiness was still all there. 

...

Cross laid on the floor and looked at Swap upside down. "You're all… what's the word…"

"Cowardly?" Killer suggested. 

"Quiet?" Dust bit out. 

"Edible?" Horror asked. 

Cross snapped his fingers. "Shy! What's up with that?" 

"It's not weird to have your own personality," Swap mumbled, slightly bitter, before hesitating. "A-and I'm- well, I'm just… reserved." 

"Reserved? You have the presence of a brick wall," Killer said, idly playing with a knife. What was up with these guys and knives? Swap could understand people who liked sharp objects all well and good, but kitchen knives just weren't as good as tactical ones were. "Probably don't have a lot of friends, huh?" 

...

"You guys sure like knives," more like they had a fetish for them," which kind's your go-to?" 

"Kitchen?" Killer asked more than said, holding up his knife. "A knife's a knife."

...

"Wow, so that's your original recipe, then?" Swap looked at the handwritten cookbook that Horror held in awe, spatula in one hand and uncooked lasagna filled tray in the other. 

Horror looked at him with a lazy eye. He really was intimidating- most Sanses were short and stout, but he was big. Tall, almost 6 feet, and very, very big boned. He reminded Swap of a bear. Wasn't there a term for these kinds of guys that sounded a lot like "bear"...? Boro…? Bora…? Beara…? Ah, whatever. 

"Yes," and suddenly the book was presented in front of him as Horror bent to his level, and Swap looked at the well worn pages with interest. It was clearly cared for, with old stains gently dabbed away with a careful hand, rips taped together and mended, most pages laminated. Horror looked down at him. "It has almost… 100 pages… in it."

"Wow," Swap breathed out once more, leaning forward to squint at the text. "That's amazing! I can't imagine the sort of dedication that took, mweheheh," probably because you're going to die anyways and there's no point. "That's really cool, Horror."

Horror let out a huff of a laugh from above him. Swap glanced upwards and the taller Sans looked away. It may have been a trick of the light, but a faint dusting of red covered his cheekbones.

"Put 'em in," he nodded his head towards the oven. "Already… preheated it. Will prepare… the next batch."

"Whatever you say," Swap obediently complied, a grin pulling at his mouth as he slipped the tray inside. 

There was quiet from Horror's side of the room, little thudding noises from where the knife hit the chopping board. It stopped, suddenly, and Swap glanced towards him. 

Horror looked at him from the corner of his eye, before ducking his head away almost shyly. "Do you really… think so highly… of that thing?" 

"Well it's pretty cool. I can admire good cooks. Having a passion is…" Swap hesitated. It's not like he did have a passion, per se, but his passion was so far from normal that it felt almost alien talking about something as mundane as cooking. "Wonderful. I think the fact that you care enough about something to go to that length is amazing."

Horror looked at him, and shook his head. "So mundane. You're easily impressed… aren't you?" 

Swap chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "What can I say?" Was all he replied with as he closed the oven door. 

The rest of their preparation went in peace, and Swap felt like he accomplished something big. 

...

Killer stared at the concoction with visible suspicion. Cross was eagerly digging into the food with almost an uncomfortable amount of visceral pleasure, and Dust pushed around the food with his fork, but Killer was outright glaring at the lasagna as if it would kill him the minute it made contact with his mouth. 

"Are you sure he didn't poison this?" Killer asked Horror for the fifth time that night, voice filled with urgency. 

"Yes. Eat your food… or starve," Horror's perpetual smile twitched downwards in a way that made everyone at the table flinch. There were just some things nobody should have to see, and Swap had a feeling that Horror with a frown was one of them.