Archive of Our Own ^beta

For a long and no doubt misguided portion of your life, you had stood adamant in your belief that no scope of questionable shit you could get up to in your lifetime would ever top the night you had decided to fuck a skeleton.

Granted, the statement sprung its first cracks when it turned out you were very into fucking a skeleton. A giant, foul-mouthed, infuriatingly charming skeleton with his booming voice and sharp teeth and stupidly thick magic glowstick dick. There, you can even say it without dying, and it’s only been what, five months? Taking ownership of your kinks is key to a healthy sex life!

You digress. That was then, at the tender time of twenty-something weeks ago, and your sweet summer child self couldn’t possibly have conceived of the wonders that awaited. You’re doing your best to absolve yourself of the sin of ignorance. Hindsight is always 20/20, you remind yourself, lamenting the folly of your past as you stand tall and proud with a dildo strapped to your crotch, about to fuck a skeleton in the ass you’re not fully sure even exists.

And in the moment, that isn’t even your main concern.


“Red, this thing is a monster.”

“yeah, thought ya had a thing fer us.”

“Red, it’s nearly the size of my forearm.”

“and? ‘s not goin’ up yers.”

“Red, there’s no way in hell that this is going to fit.”

Sans chortles. “oh, it fits. trust me.”


Your gaze falls back down to the bright cyan dong, and you’re this close to losing it.

You rub at your temples and spin on your heel with an inarticulate cry of fruitless frustration. “Of course you’re a fucking size queen on top of everything.” You gesture wildly at the generously ridged monstrosity strapped to your groin. “You could beat someone to death with this thing!”

There is a snort of amusement, and your gaze snaps towards its source, taking in the sight of Sans on your bedroom floor. He is divested of clothing as per your command, kneeling at your feet in nothing but his collar and the two column hemp tie cinching his wrists together.

You wouldn’t say no to a life-size pinup poster of this.

“ya could beat someone to death with any thing, if ya know how ta wield it.” He looks you up and down, as if sizing you up, and whatever he sees makes his eyelights soften. “an’ i’ve a feeling you’ll wield it just fine, doll.”

You kneel down next to him, and when he reaches in for a kiss, you return it smiling. “I’m not going to beat you to death with a dildo, Red.”

“that’s okay.” He gives you a quick nuzzle before you pull away and reach for the heap of clothes on the floor. “we can start out small.”

“You’re calling this small?” You thumb at the dildo, pleased at least that the material quality lives up to your standards. In the planning stages of this whole enterprise, it had struck you both as good etiquette and conducive to a successful scene that the penetree be the one to choose the tool of penetration. Truthfully, thrown as you were by the dimensions of Sans’s choice, your gripes didn’t go beyond your disappointment in yourself for not calling the whole size thing sooner. You thank the stars you can even fit it in your harness.

“are ya kinkshaming me?” You can hear the smirk in Sans’s voice, but there’s no missing the guarded gleam in his eye. You won’t have any of it.

“Like hell I am!” You pause from the ransacking of his clothes to jab an emphatic finger in his direction. “I am so here for you and your thirst for getting dicked down by huge cocks.”

The proximate pride that lights up his face is a much better look on him. “see, this is why we’re friends.”

“You know it.” You retrieve his pocket chain from the bottom of the pile and try your best to match his toothy grin as you haul yourself up on your feet. “Chin up, bone boy.”

Sans is quick to oblige, tipping his head back to allow you to clip the chain onto the front D-ring on his collar. His sockets flutter shut as your fingers brush his cheek, lightly cupping his chin in passing. Even on his knees, he reaches nearly to your shoulder. “Remember the occasion for tonight, bone boy?”

“punishment.” There is no hesitation in his voice, only the same anticipation you see shining in his eyelights.

You nod, taking a few languid steps to the side. “And what are you being punished for?”

“disobedience.” His eyelights dart in your direction, but he is right to keep his head down. “cumming without yer permission.”

You pause in your pacing, narrowing your eyes. “Is that all?”

“nah.”

“What else are you in for?”

“bein’ a brat. givin’ ya attitude.” Sans’s obeisant demeanor slips up as he cracks an impish grin. “multiple counts of toppin’ from the bottom.”

“Attempts at topping from the bottom,” you correct, rounding his kneeling form so you can rest your hands on his shoulders.

“multiple attempts at toppin’ from the bottom,” he concedes. You reach around to drape the chain back over his shoulder, and he can’t quite suppress a shiver at the drag of cool metal across his bones. You hush him softly as you wrap the makeshift leash around your fist, your free hand rubbing soothing circles into his scapula.

“Still wanna do this?” you ask, your breath ghosting over the side of his skull.

“hell yeah.”

Once again, the lack of hesitation in his answer brings a smile to your face. “Great.” You tug on the leash, and Sans’s head snaps upright. “Get up and get on the bed. On your knees, legs apart, hands behind your head.”

Sans nods his fervent assent, and you look him over one last time before releasing the chain. While he’s scampering off to do as he’s told, you busy yourself with the marginally more flattering task of getting down on all fours so you can shove your entire arm under the bed, preferably without punching a hole through to the downstairs neighbors with the monstrosity strapped to your crotch. Thankfully, it doesn’t take you long to locate the spreader bar you’d haphazardly shoved under the bed earlier, when Sans took the liberty of tearing a hole through time and space and straight into your bedroom before you’d gotten everything in order. He’s been compliant enough so far, but given it is Sans you’re dealing with, you suspect you’ll be requiring the spreader and its services sooner rather than later. Until then, you deposit it at the foot of the bed, subtly concealed by crumpled-up blankets, so you can guiltlessly devote your undivided attention to your absolute favorite toy.

Your smile widens at the sight of Sans kneeling on the bed, arms raised and clawed hands clasped over the back of his collar. He hums his acknowledgement when the mattress dips under your weight, but knows better than to move—even when you all but drape yourself over his back, wrapping your arms around his ribcage. “There’s my good boy.”

There’s a grunt of dissent quickly mellowed by the soft brush of fingers on his bones, his body tensing up beneath your touch. His position leaves him open to your whims, gives you unrestricted access to all the sensitive places on his body, and you waste no time in getting handsy. Your fingers are ruthless in their stride as they map out his weakest spots, skimming down his ribs and scraping up his sternum, drawing soft grunts and barely-there twitches from the monster trussed up at your mercy. The effort he puts into remaining still despite everything you're doing is the acme of it all, and you feel it in the hot trails of arousal it sends sparking down your spine.

“Fuck, you have no clue how much I love seeing you like this.” You press a soft kiss to his knuckles, and revel in the way it makes his fingers clench.

“wha, like naked?” Sans tries, but the waver in his voice casts a pall over his confidence.

You snort. “Well, that too. I was thinking more—” You slide your fingers up his arms, trailing over old scars, “—vulnerable. All tied up and compliant. All mine.” You rake your nails down his ribs, and he jolts with a startled gasp.

“Mine to fuck.” You smooth your fingers over his sternum and trail open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. “Mine to use.” You wedge a knee between his legs and grind up hard against his pelvis. “Mine to toy with as I please.”

“fuck!” Sans’s voice trails off on a hiss as he lurches forward, and you feel the unmistakable fizz of magic stirring to life against your knee. To Sans’s credit, he holds his position, and you place a cautionary palm over his clasped fingers, your free hand drifting lower as you waste no time in closing your fingers around his cock.

“This has to be some kind of record, bone boy.” You don’t even try to disguise the giddiness in your voice as you palm at his dick, relishing the faint thrum of magic beneath your fingers. Sans exhales sharply, and you make sure he chokes on his next breath by swiping your thumb across the slit. His knuckles crack, and you can tell it takes his every ounce of self-control to keep his hands where you had ordered.

“Look at you—” You squeeze your fingers just beneath the head, and Sans stutters out a groan. “—all well-behaved for me. Stars, you must really want this.” There’s no way for him to see you stroking your strap-cock in tandem with your movements on his. Much as you enjoy him like this, relish his little noises and barely-there twitches of his hips, he’s not the only one wound up with anticipation.

Grudgingly, you release his cock and push yourself back to the foot end of the bed. “Get on your back. Legs spread, hands on the headboard.”

While Sans busies himself on the bed, you scan the mess on the floor for the designated pillow. By the time you turn your attention back to Sans, he’s in position on your mattress, flat on his back with knees raised and bound hands resting against the metal frame. He spots the pillow and flashes you a knowing grin, and you counter with one of your own as you slip the cushion underneath his dutifully raised pelvis. “Comfy?”

Sans gives you a thumbs up without moving his hands off the frame. “never better.”

“Perfect.” You shoot him a single finger gun as you scoot up the mattress and reach for the loose tail of the rope you’d strategically left at the end of his wrist tie. Cinching a double column tie to a headboard is nothing out of the ordinary, and comes to you with practiced ease. What you aren’t used to is having to account for the range of motion of a huge dildo, and your lack of phallic prowess shows when you lean in to make a loop, only to inadvertently slap Sans across the face with your strapcock. “Shit, sorry!”

Sans barks a laugh, nuzzling into your apologetic touch. “no worries, doll, yer not the first.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, but don’t bother fighting your smile at the mental image of Sans with a cock in his mouth as you loop the working end of the rope around a bar in the headboard and lock it in place with a firm knot. You almost ask him, purely out of scientific curiosity, if he’s ever had someone stick their dick in his eye socket, but ultimately decide you’ve ruined the mood enough for a day.

“There, try pulling on it.”

Sans gives the rope a few hearty tugs and shoots you a grin coupled with an “OK” sign. Pleased with your efforts, you do your best to temper your enthusiasm not to look like an overeager puppy when you clamber back to resituate yourself between his spread legs.

“try pulling on it,” Sans suggests with a shit-eating sneer.

You are sorely tempted to get up and leave him strung up for the rest of the night with a vibe strapped to his cock, but it’d be a shame to let your meticulous planning go to waste on his behalf. As is, you make do with a glare as you let your fingers skim the hot length of his dick—before pointedly ignoring his suggestion and dipping down to close your lips around the fat head.

There’s an inescapable aspect of absurdity that comes in a package deal with sucking magic dick. You suspect at least a part of it owes to the dick in question being made of solid magic, and being closer in appearance to something you’d see in the window of a sex shop than a regular human cock. It doesn’t taste much like one, either—and normally, that alone would have cemented the comparison to a dildo in your mind. Catch is, you have yet to find a dildo that thrums with the magic of its wielder, and leaves a slight but distinct pop-rocks-like sensation in your mouth.

Besides, you doubt sucking on dildos would reward you with anything remotely close to the absolutely filthy moan you get from wrapping your lips around Sans’s dick.

Smiling may be a stretch with a cock in your mouth, but you still give yourself a mental pat on the back for managing to catch him off guard—usually, Sans is much more frugal with his noises. Even now, he’s quick to get a hold of himself, even as the stutter in his breathing cues you in on his appreciation for your efforts as you slowly lave your tongue over the head of his cock.

“ah fu—” He hiccups on the rest of his words when you dip your head down to take him in deep, willing your throat to relax as you flick your tongue along the ridges. An involuntary jerk of his hips almost has you choking, and you growl a wordless warning as you shove him back down by his pelvis, lightly scraping your nails along the sensitive sides of his ilia.

You pull back to flick the tip of your tongue over his slit, and his full-body shudder goes straight to your groin. You fidget in your place, eager to wheedle out some friction to tide yourself over while you suck him off. Wish as you might, you don’t quite match his level of nudity—your underwear is still in place, courtesy of forethought to cushion your crotch against the strap harness. Scrupulous as you were with your selection, you’re glumly aware that even the best fit is bound to chafe after a consecutive while of enthusiastic wear—and you're hoping to wear yours for a long time.

You hold that thought for incentive as you reluctantly pull yourself off Sans’s cock, giving the tip a sloppy kiss before replacing your mouth with your hand.

“You know, I could do this all day—” You savor every hitch in his breath as you stroke him with well-practiced flow, your eyes only leaving his cock to steal a glance at his expression. “—but much as I’d love to, I believe you had something else you wanted to show me.”

Sans’s huff of laughter is a personal affront to your ears. “real smooth, kitten.”

“Oh fuck you, how am I supposed to sexily ask you to make me a boinkable magic bunghole?” 

For the first time in the history of sexual euphemisms, Sans’s expression shifts into something remotely resembling a wince. “i’ll make ya one if ya promise ta never again make me hear that with my own two ears.”

You’re already drawing breath to break it to him that he doesn’t have ears, but your attention is promptly stolen by the familiar scorch of stirring magic beneath your hands, like static trickling down your skin to coalesce at the crest of Sans’s pelvis just beneath his cock. One of these days, your kneejerk reaction of shoving your hand into anything remotely resembling magic is bound to get you killed. Today, you are rewarded with a univocal answer to the metaphysical enigma of whether or not skeletons have assholes.

“Holy shit.” You couldn’t stave off the awe in your voice if you wanted to.

The ropes creak as Sans shifts in his bonds. “’s it okay? i can make a cunt if ya—”

“No!” He jolts at the near panic in your voice, and you make sure to dial it down before explaining, “I want you to use whatever you feel like using. This is about you right now.” The last part has him frowning, and you wave him off before he can open his mouth to object. “As in, you’re the one who’ll be getting it. You’re getting the strap, you get to choose where it goes.” 

Sans snorts, and you’re relieved to see some of the tension leave his shoulders. “an’ they say chivalry is dead.”

Any other day, you’re sure you would’ve thought of a snappy response, but a single suave finger gun is the best you can do with your thoughts racing a mile a minute. Bracing a hand on his knee, you can barely contain your excitement as you dip a finger inside his magic.

“Whoa.” The sound escapes you in a huff at the familiar thrum around your fingers. Beyond that, whatever he made feels close enough to a human asshole, though there’s definitely some self-lubrication going on that you can personally attest to human assholes not having. A deplorable flaw of design, really.

You choose to bemoan it some other time as you focus your efforts on the task at hand, pulling back before easing in deeper. Sans’s breath hitches in his throat, and you look up to make sure you didn’t hurt him. His hazy eyelights and cheeky grin vouch for the contrary, and you take the encouragement in a stride, pushing the pad of your finger against his opening before adding another. The breathy groan it earns you is even more gratifying than the way he clenches down around your fingers.

“ya know, this is where i’d normally crack a kanye west joke, but i jus’ can’t be arsed.”

You barely have it in you to sigh as you glance at him in jaded disappointment. “I really ought to revoke your cumming privileges for bringing up Kanye West during sex.”

Sans bares his teeth in a sneer. “are ya tellin’ me cumming was on the table? some ‘punishment’ yer dishin’ out, doll.”

You give him a wry smile, scissoring your fingers. “Let’s see if you'll stand by that by the time I’m done with you.”

Sans is already drawing a breath to retort, and it is with a visceral pleasure that you see it punched out of him in a wheeze, a hard curl of your fingers inside him coupled with a firm squeeze on his cock. His sockets drift shut as you add a third finger, his sigh trailing off to a moan as your fingertips rub at his walls and tease at his opening. “Feel good?”

“fuck yeah,” he hisses, thrusting into your hand. “curve yer fingers when yer deep—yeah, jus’ like that…“

He swears out loud when you close your lips around his cock, his head falling back against the pillows as you curl your fingers like he’d said. You focus your attentions on the motion, lapping leisurely at the head while your free hand strokes down what you can’t fit in your mouth without some choice dick-sucking dedication. There’s a time and place for everything, and here and now is for savoring the way Sans feels around your fingers; for the desperate thrum of heated magic on your skin, and the near-whimpers that slip through parted teeth as you let your rhythm get rougher.

“fuck me, why didn’t we do this earlier?” he groans out between gasps. His pseudo-muscles flutter around your fingers, and you can’t help but ask yourself the same thing.

“Because we were busy having other kinds of stupidly amazing sex,” you pitch between mouthfuls of cock. You carefully work in a fourth finger, and wince at the sound of sheets ripping as Sans’s toes curl into the mattress. “Besides, we haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

“fu—hah, be surprised if we ever do at the pace yer goin’.” You narrow your eyes, but he’s too busy rutting against your hand to heed the silent warning. “’m prepped enough, c’mon—”

You don’t have to fake your sigh of disappointment as you take your hand off his cock, silencing him with a hard brush of nails down his sensitive spine. Sans’s hips jerk up, and your fingers sink inside him to the knuckle. His barely-stifled whine is music to your ears. “Remember the last time I had you on your back, bone boy?”

Credit where credit is due, Sans looks you in the face when he answers. “ain’t forgettin’ that if i can help it.”

You nod, leaning in to wipe a bead of perspiration from his brow. “That’s right. That’s when you told me that you wanted me to peg you, and I said something in return. Do you remember what that was?”

“that you’d make me beg for it.” His voice is low, hoarse, but the words are spoken without hesitation.

You smile at the doped-up haze that dims his eyelights. “That’s right. And if you’d still like something thicker than my fingers—” You wedge your thumb under his collar and tug his chin up, “—now is the time to remember your place and beg.”

Sans lets out a sharp breath, bones rattling softly as you trail your fingers down his sternum. You can see the inner conflict in the sharp points of his eyelights, of desperation coming to blows with his deep-seated drive to be a bastard. Figuring he could use a nudge in the right direction, you lower your mouth to his chest, kissing and licking at the sweet spots where his ribs meet his sternum, without letting up the motions of your fingers inside him.

“ah fuck—!” Sans’s hips jerk upward, ropes creaking as he arches up, chasing your touch. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but whatever it is cuts off on a deliciously despairing moan when you nip at the tapered point of his xiphoid. Your free hand finds its way inside his ribcage so you can rake your nails down the backside of his sternum, and the big, bad monster fucking whimpers.

“Sansy, Sansy, Sansy,” you chide. “Always doing things the hard way. And you’re so close to getting what you want…” Your lips hover over the point of his sternum, and curl into a smile at the way he draws taut with anticipation, “…all you have to do is ask me nicely.”

“fuck, please.” He shudders, bucking into your palm, and the shameless, unchallenged compliance steals your breath away.

It’s not nearly enough to throw you out of gear.

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t know,” you croon, brow creased in feigned contemplation. “I really like the way you feel around my fingers—” You drive the point home by pressing up hard inside his magic, and greedily soak up the broken moan it nets you, “—all hot and tight and needy.”

You don’t know if the near-sob that leaves him is owed to your words or your touches. Be what it might, the result is sufficiently persuasive. You put on a show of appearing inconvenienced as you pull your hand free with an exaggerated sigh, giving in to the temptation and delivering one last firm jab with your fingers just to hear him whine. His feeble attempt to follow when you pull away is undeniably endearing.

You wipe your fingers on his femur, and sit up straight before wrapping a hand around your makeshift dick. “Want this?” you tease as you line up the thick tip with his entrance. You’d have to be out of your mind to make him take this beast without lube, but that doesn’t mean you can’t gloat while your vantage point is perfect.

A flicker of challenge crosses Sans’s face, a sneer taking the place of his subservience. “gee, do i? what do ya think?”

Your mind flicks wistfully to the multitude of gags stashed away in your closet, but you have to banish the thought. He’s damn lucky you need him verbal.

Doesn’t mean you’re short on ways to strike him speechless.

Sans splutters as you yank him forward by the chain on his collar, a surprised wheeze wrenching from his teeth as you dig your nails in just where his vertebrae meet his skull. The look of starstruck shock on his face, with eyelights blown-wide and teeth parted, is dangerously close to what he looks like when he comes, and the association alone is enough to send a surge of heat straight to your clit.

“Listen up, you little slut.” You hook a thumb into his jaw and tug, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I’m getting mixed signals here. You know you’re being punished for your attitude, but all you’ve done so far’s been racking up a debt by running your fucking mouth.”

You release his jaw so you can sit back on your haunches. Sans watches you with bated breath, his eyelights sharp and shrunken, and alight with nothing short of awe. You let your features soften while you wait for them to get back to normal, stroking your hands down the crests of his ilia. When you speak again, your tone is gentler, if still laden with the threat of reprisal.

“Got a proposition for you, bone boy.” You pull away and rise up on your knees so he can comfortably see you palming at your strap-cock. “How’s about I get this nice and lubed up for you, and you decide if you want to spend the rest of the night humping thin air—” You thumb the head of his cock for emphasis, and delight in his little shudder, “—or double down like the bitch you are and beg me to fuck your sorry ass. Properly, this time.”

For a split second, you fear you've taken things too far, but your doubts are nipped in the bud by the look of sheer rapture on Sans’s face as he bucks into your hand. “stars, please—”

“Please what, bone boy?” Your finger speeds up on his cock, rubbing in circles, and his entire body trembles. “Use your words, Sansy. Tell me what you want.”

“i’m—ngh, fuck!” He jerks beneath you, eyes scrunching shut, and you relent so he stands a chance at speaking. “want— want you, wantcha ta fuck me, please…” His words are a babbling, breathless blur, and the desperation in his voice nearly floors you. “wantcha ta fill me up an’ use me, wreck me ‘til i can’t fuckin’ stand. please, please, sweetheart…”

Desire floods the pit of your stomach, your breath leaving you in a gratified growl. “Good boy.”  Your hands rake down the insides of his femurs, earning you another gasp, before you reach for the bottle on the nightstand. “Remember your safewords?”

“yellow for slow, ketchup for stop,” he pants, easing his legs further apart.

“And if you for some reason cannot speak?” You pop the cap on the lube bottle and pour a generous glob into your hand. Sans rolls his eyes, but has the foresight to keep his mouth shut, and that’s enough for you to let it slide.

“then i do this.” He snaps his fingers a few times, the sound of bone on bone crisp and clear. You nod your approval, pouring another handful of lube into your palm when you’re done slathering the first over your strap-cock. This one you use to coat your fingers, seeing no fault in being anal with your preparations as you slip back inside Sans’s self-slicked magic, sighing at the way he cants his hips to ease you deeper.

“Yeah, that’s it…” You crane your head to press a soft kiss to his knee. “So good for me, Sansy.”

A barely-audible whimper leaves him when you pull away, repositioning yourself with the liberally lubricated toy just barely breaching his magic. His shaky breath makes your own catch in your throat as you lean close, your hand on his collar guiding more than gripping as you pull him in for a kiss. His taste on your tongue is pure magic, tart and intoxicating. It leaves you tingling when you pull away, no farther than you must to meet his awestruck eyelights.

“What do I get to do to you, Sans?” you ask on the tail end of a snarl, and the shudder in his bones alone could be your answer.

“anything,” he breathes, “anything ya want.”

His words and the veneration suffusing them punch the air from your lungs; send a shock of pure heat arcing through your body. There’s no way he doesn’t notice your sudden break of breath, and it still has no bearing on the awe that burns in his eyelights when you pull away, bracing yourself on his knees and looking up for affirmation, one last time. He gives it by way of a lazy grin and another nod, and then you’re pushing in, watching intently for any tells of discomfort as you slowly inch your way forward.

What you get instead is the polar opposite, the easygoing grin not once leaving Sans’s face until the plump head of your makeshift cock sinks home inside him. His smile falters as he heaves a breathy sigh. You pause in your motions, giving him time to adjust. “Is this alright?”

“mhm, yeah.” His voice is low and pleased, almost a purr as he sighs and rolls his hips, urging you onwards. You readily oblige, leaning forward on his legs as you ease in deeper, a renewed surge of want racing down your spine at the way his sockets slit in pleasure.

You pull back until just the head remains inside, then slowly push in again, just a little deeper. Sans is quick to groan his gratitude, and you can’t help yourself: you have to kiss him.

You’re gentle as can be as you ease out again, and gentler still as you drape yourself over his chest, inching inside him with your hands planted on either side of his head. Sans’s socket opens just a crack, his grin widening as he takes in the sight of you above him, moments before you crush your mouth to his. Your kiss is slow and sloppy, tongues tangling in a lazy ebb and flow as your hips find a rhythm: shallow thrusts that barely breach the resistance in him before you’re easing back, and the way he sighs into your mouth is music to your ears.

“c’mon, quit stallin’.” The deep rumble of his voice sends a shiver of anticipation up your spine. “gon’ die of old age ‘fore ya fuck me.”

A noise of amusement escapes you before you can help it. You break the kiss with some reluctance, looking down at him with what you hope passes for a mildly chastising expression. “You can’t even die of old age.”

His grin is frustratingly steady. “’xactly. gon’ be a first. not how i want ta make headli—”

Sans trails off on a gasp as you thrust into him again, a little deeper than before and a great deal harder. His sockets shoot open, revealing hazed-out, fuzzy eyelights—before squeezing shut as you repeat the motion, your lips set in a firm line as you commit his expressions to memory. “Better?”

“oh fuck yes,” he groans, jaw falling slack as your next thrust steals his breath away. He’s too pretty a sight for you to deny him.

You make it your task to ensure he stays that way, using his knees for leverage as you roll with your newfound rhythm, making sure each thrust is just a little deeper than the last. Sans takes you in a stride, arching up against you and pulling on the ropes hard enough to make the cords creak, treating you to a medley of happy noises fringed with the occasional, heartfelt curse. In a flash of genius, you briefly entertain the idea of seeing if you can get off on his voice alone, but ultimately decide to save it for a time and place where you’re not out to wreck him six ways from Sunday.

Not that you wouldn't be hard pressed to tear your eyes away from his face. Five months have been plenty of time to fall in love with the way Sans looks in his pleasure, and yet there is something viscerally gratifying to seeing him on his back, trussed up and needy and yours beyond contest. The heat of his breath on your lips and his sloppy, slushed-up words of encouragement are more than enough incentive for you to ease the last inch of the monstrous strap-cock inside him, only to go still when the crease in his brow shifts into something more telltale of discomfort than of pleasure.

“Shh, I’ve got you.” You press a soft kiss to his cheekbone, thumb tracing the hard curve of his jaw. “Breathe. You’re taking me like a champ.”

Breathless as he is, Sans still finds it in him to manage a wry chuckle. “shuddup, ‘s not like yer takin’ my virginity,” he grumbles, but his eyelights are warm as he nuzzles into your hand.

“Well, sure, but that doesn’t mean I have to tear you a new one.” When you lean in to kiss him, it’s with a smile on your lips at the way he rolls his eyelights. “Let me know when I can move.”

“all green, kitten,” he sighs into your mouth, “jus’ go back to what ya were doin’. don’t leave me high an’ dry.”

You raise an eyebrow at the turn of phrase, pointedly raising a hand to waggle your lube-slick fingers, but ultimately hold him to his word and pull out almost all the way before hilting again in one smooth motion. You recall his earlier pointer about curling your fingers, and do your best to replicate the motion with the toy, tilting his hips up to aid your angle. If the way Sans’s eyes fling open is anything to go by, your venture's struck gold.

“harder,” he gasps, straining against the rope, “c’mon, give it ta me, i can take it—”

Your free hand finds his cock and gives him a squeeze just shy of the head, cutting him off. “I don’t like your attitude, brat.” You lean forward, pumping him in time with a hard thrust, and watch his eyelights roll back in his skull. “You have no say in how I use my fucktoy.”

He shudders, and you can feel him twitch in your hand. His lack of objection to your derision stokes the crueler parts of you, and you glory in the spark of heat that carries to your clit when you take Sans’s pleas to heart—driving into him harder and making his head fall to the pillows with a tortured groan.

“oh shit,” he whispers, voice verging on a whimper as he chokes out your name. He is close, you can tell: from each twitch of his hips to each hitch in his breath with the noises he’s trying so hard to keep from you. His obstinate efforts fuel your cruel streak, make you want to go harder just to make him scream—but you hold yourself back, reminding yourself of how much more rewarding that will prove after you’ve made him fall apart.

“That’s it, Sansy.” You brace one hand on the mattress next to his head, continuing to work the other along his cock. “There’s my good boy.”

Sans whimpers at the praise, hips jerking against your hand as he tries and fails to hide his burning blush in the pillows. You tut softly as you cup his cheek and force him back to meet your gaze, moaning at the magnitude of need in his blown-wide, frantic eyelights. “Come for me, baby.”

You can tell that your permit is superfluous: trying to edge him at this point would stand all the chances of a screen door in an avalanche. Sans’s eye flares as he comes with a strangled cry, legs trembling and back bowing as he spills all over your hand.

You wait patiently while he shakes and shudders underneath you, keeping steady in your rhythm until his fingers go slack and he slumps back against the pillows with a gratified groan. It takes a heartbeat or two for his eyelights to re-focus, and only then do you release his cock and look down at your soiled fingers in mock contempt.

“Tsh, look at you. Made a fucking mess of my hand.” Sans’s grunt of assent cuts off on a profuse string of curses when your hips resume in their motions, peaking on a drawn-out moan when you sink back inside him to the hilt. “Is my good boy up for more?”

“stars, yes,” he groans, sockets slipping shut as you languidly fuck him, “please—”

A swipe of your thumb at his sensitive slit makes him jolt up against you as he chokes on his words. You smile sweetly as you drape yourself over him again, lifting his legs over your shoulders as you bend to nuzzle into his neck. “Good, ‘cause I’m just getting started.” Your hips snap flush to his, seating you as deep as you can go, and the pathetic whine that escapes him echoes in a pulse of longing through your painfully neglected cunt.

“I’ve been frustrated since last time, you know.” Your fingers sneak underneath the rim of his collar, and you relish the way he tenses at your touch. “I had so many things I wanted to do to you. So many more ways to make you mine.” His breathing speeds up, catching in his throat like your fingers catch on vertebrae. Your touch is a portent, tethering him on the edge of a sensation that never comes.

“But now that I’ve got the time—” Your free hand drops to where you're spreading him open, “—I’m going to fucking break you.”

You pull away in the nick of time to see his eyelights shrink to pinpricks before he screams as you slam inside him and sink your nails into his vertebrae in the same breath. The sound is sweet music to your ears, but sweeter still is the way he cants his hips into your thrusts, and the feeling of his heels digging into your back as he clings to you in the only way you’ve left him. Your own voice breaks on a snarl as you strive to make good on your promise, your hand on his collar a silent reminder of how much you own him all the while you give him exactly what he’d asked for.

“Mine.”  The word is snarled against his bone, followed up with tongue and teeth as you fully stake your claim.

“yers,” Sans gasps, “all yers, dollface— fuck, please…” The rest of his words trail off to incoherence, lost in raucous groans and the obscene, squelching sounds of your joining. You keep to your grueling pace, heedless of your body’s warning of the toll tomorrow-you will have to pay in bruises. Present-you couldn’t give a tinker’s damn, especially not with the way Sans all but arches off the bed as he comes, a second load splattering his ribs as his entire body locks with a soundless cry.

You grit your teeth against your own arousal as you watch him fall against the sheets depleted, sockets shut as he shudders through his aftershocks. They shoot open again when you show no sign of stopping, your pace gentling by a fraction lest you actually break him. His limbs jerk uselessly as he thrashes in your grip, a hoarse cry tearing from his throat as he tries in vain to squirm away from the relentless stimulation.

“Aw, what’s the matter?” You wrap a fist around his weeping cock. “I thought you liked to cum.”

Sans chokes out a broken groan, eyelights guttering out as his entire body rattles. Even in your gloating you’re sure to keep a weather eye on his hands; watch closely for any semblance of a stopping gesture.

What you get instead is the inchoate hint at a snarl that could, at a stretch, pass for defiant—before he thrusts his hips at you with a full-scale whore moan.

Surprise clashes with your bounding arousal, and leaves you in a peal of laughter. Sans’s sockets are scrunched shut and he ducks his head to the side, as if to hide the blush that lights up the room like a goddamn lightshow.

“Look at me.” Your hand isn’t there to force him, not this time. It doesn’t need to be: Sans’s head snaps up the instant the command leaves your lips, and one look at the fierce, unbridled adoration in his eyelights is all you need to know that your words bind him tighter than any rope ever could.

“Fucking greedy.” Your voice is a cruel lilt, tight with your own arousal. “Such a desperate little whore. Just can’t get enough, can you?”

You’re damn well aware he’s not in any state to answer. He’s a rattling, drooling mess beneath you, his grunts and groans giving way to pathetic little whines with every ruthless shove inside his magic. You’re thinking he might have screamed himself hoarse. The first brush of your nails against his tailbone proves you wrong.

You let the hand on his cock sidle in with the rhythm of your hips, stroking in slow, measured motions, and Sans straight up sobs. The sound sears through your body like wildfire; echoes in a throb of need in your neglected clit.

Sans whimpers when you lift his legs higher, gritting your teeth against the burning in your thighs as you zero in on the spot that made him sing so sweetly. You know you’ve found it when his jaw drops in a keening cry, and the way he jerks underneath you defers from the shapes you thought you’d glimpsed in his eyelights.

“Come for me, Sansy,” you urge him, “One more time. Let me see you break.”

You’re dizzy, lost in your lust and too far gone to pin down just what does it, but what you do catch is every coveted second as what’s left of Sans’s composure crumbles before your eyes. He fights it, true to form, grin twisted in a rictus of defiance that comes crashing down in abysmal defeat; Sans wails as his body goes rigid, a weak spurt trickling from his weeping cock as he thrashes and trembles underneath you.

You ride him through it all, ensconced in sight and sound, until his legs go limp around you and the garbled noises spilling from his teeth take on a semblance of coherence. “ah, shit— yellow!”

The word stops you in your tracks. Immediately your hands are out of his pelvis and trailing up his still-shaking arms, inching towards the bindings on his wrists. “Should I get you out of these?”

“don’t!” You jump at the near panic in his voice. “don’t. ‘m good, jus’ need a sec.”

You hum in acknowledgement, squinting a little as you meet his fuzzy, fucked-out eyelights. His best shot at a grin is shaky, but genuine, and you can’t help but return it as you lightly bump your forehead against his. “Gonna pull out, alright?”

He nods, and you steal a parting kiss before easing out of him, gentle as can be, and plopping down on the damp sheets at his side. The relief that floods into your overused legs when you finally lie down is indescribable, and has you groaning softly as you curl into Sans’s side, fingers stroking idly down his sternum while the both of you fight to catch your breaths.

“How are you feeling?” you ask softly.

One of Sans’s sockets slips open just a crack. His voice is still hoarse when he speaks, but his eyelights have regained some of their clarity. “ya sure know how ta put on a show, kitten.”

You beam and prop yourself up on an elbow, readily reciprocating when Sans tilts his head in for a kiss. “I do so like a captive audience.”

He snorts into the kiss. “well, remind me ta keep snagging the front seats. an’ speakin’ of seats…” His grin turns lecherous as he pulls away, just far enough that you see his tongue dart across ridges of sharp teeth. “…yers still isn’t taken.”

A flutter of arousal goes through you when you cotton on to his allusion. “Are you up for it?”

In lieu of an answer, Sans gives you his sultriest bedroom eyes, grin firmly back in its home range of obnoxious. “my treat, sweetheart.”

You don’t have in you to even grace that with an answer. Other things take precedence as you tug him closer, his sharp intake of air bringing your flagged arousal back in tenfolds as you claim his mouth in a searing kiss.

“I’m gonna crack your skull like an overripe cantaloupe,” you snarl against his teeth before pulling away, yanking open the buckle on your harness.

Sans lets out a moan you honestly can’t tell if it’s genuine or not. “talk dirty ta me, sweetheart.”

You manage to wrestle yourself free of the strap, and breathe a sigh of relief as the bruising weight of the upsized dong falls away from your pelvis. You barely have the presence of mind to peel off your underwear before straddling his chest. The cool air hitting your bare cunt makes you shiver, lends itself a reminder of just how pent-up you are from before. Sans’s eyelights don’t leave you for a second as you inch your way up his body until you’re hovering just over his face. They dart up to meet yours, seeking permission, and a timely show of tongue is all the teasing you can take before your resolve crumbles like a francium core.

You all but sob in relief when Sans’s cool tongue laves over your folds, the thrill of his tangible magic as wondrous and unworldly as the first time you’d felt it. Once upon a night, the prospect of bringing your junk anywhere near that knife-toothed death trap of a mouth would’ve had you running for the hills. Tonight, you can only stifle a whimper as that grin presses flush to your cunt, and the cold press of his golden fang is as coveted as the way he groans like he’d tasted the ambrosia of gods.

“Oh fuck.” You hiss his name and brace your hands against the headboard. Your legs are shaking with exertion before the first touch of his tongue on your clit, and the yield of all the bumping you’d done in your humping makes itself known in the electrifying thrill of nigh-painful pleasure that lights up your body like a closed circuit. Your hips grind down of their own accord as you lurch forward with a half-cry, white-knuckling the wood, and when your eyes meet Sans’s, there’s no mistaking the heart shapes in his sockets.

A giggle rolls off your lips before you can stop it, promptly cut off on a moan when that impossible tongue strokes at your inner walls with masterful purpose. His magic swathes your cunt with vibrant warmth, makes you feel him in a way you never had a human partner. You know he gets his own thrills from it; you’ve seen the ravenous gleam in his eye whenever he eats you out, felt it in his rough grip pulling you down and the reminder of red welts left on your skin for days. There is none of that now—and what picks you apart in its stead is the world of worship in his eyes, and the way his muffled moans rise in volume when your hand comes down on the back of his skull and you start fucking his face the way you’d never realized you’d needed, your body winding tighter and tighter until all of that tension comes to a head in a wordless wail, your muscles locking and thighs clamping down on Sans’s skull as you gush into his mouth. Sans works you through it all, his attentions brooking no quarter as he groans deeply against your cunt, almost as if he were the one getting off on your pleasure. The vibrations of his voice are wondrous torture, wringing every last drop of ecstasy from your body until the slightest touch becomes too much and you shove him away, your knees giving out underneath you and leaving you to collapse against the headboard, gasping for breath. In your post-orgasmic haze, you can’t for the life of you comprehend why Sans is staring at you like he just won the lottery, and you are his ticket.

“earth ta kitten, yer good ta come down.”

It takes a few seconds for your addled brain to break down what he’s saying. Even when it does, a shaky exhale is the best you can offer as you clamber off him with the approximate grace of a commode, your arms wobbling precariously as you settle yourself against his side, glancing up with what must be a thoroughly dopey expression. “Hi there.”

If Sans’s smirk is any indicator, you look every bit the mess that you feel. “heya, stranger. have a good ride?”

“Hell to the yes.” Good lord, your knees are still shaking. “Had a damn handy driver.”

Sans clicks his teeth in mock thoughtfulness. “dunno ‘bout ‘handy’. seemed more of a tongue-in-cheek kinda guy ta me.”

You mask your unauthorized smile with a yawn. “Hey, let’s not get a-head of ourselves here.”

You’re willing to bet your bottom dollar you see the lights in his sockets change shape again, in the split moment before he shuts them. You breathe a happy sigh as you roll over onto your stomach, your body warm and pliant from its surge of happy hormones.

A conspicuous glow in the corner of your vision draws your attention, and you reluctantly tear your eyes from Sans’s face, only for your smile to return in tenfold at the familiar sight standing proud at his pelvis. “Well, someone looks ready for the road.”

Sans barks a raucous laugh, looking you dead in the eye as he rolls his hips with an exaggerated wink. “right back up an’ runnin’, kitten.”

You eye his ropes with some incredulity. “Well, you aren’t running anywhere anytime soon,” you tell him as you shift down to wrap your fingers around his shaft. “What do you reckon we should do in the meantime?”

Sans sighs, leaning into your stroking fingers. “howzabout ya pick up where ya left off, sweetheart?”

Your heart flutters excitedly at the answer you may or may not have hoped for.

“I would love to.” You bend to place a kiss to the tip of his cock. “Let me get buckled and I’ll take care of you.”

Sans returns your smile, a familiar haze creeping over his sockets. “aye aye, maestro.”

“Keep that up and I’ll make you call me that in bed.” You gesture with the dildo for emphasis.

Sans narrows his eyes. “how do ya know that’s not my kink?”

You don’t bother gracing that with an answer. Strapping yourself in is much smoother the second time around, and it isn’t long before you’re back between Sans’s legs, squeezing another helping of lube on your excessive endowment. Sans’s compliance takes you by pleasant surprise, a triad of orgasms seemingly sufficient in tempering his obstreperous streak. He waits obediently, knees spread wide while he watches you work, not a word of bitching even when you wipe off the excess lube on his cock.

“Ready?” you ask as you loom over him, tip of your strapcock just barely brushing his entrance. Sans looks well along in his return journey to a mess, eyelights suffused with a wondrous mix of devout desperation.

“fuck yeah,” he rasps. “please, fuck me,” and how can you deny him when he asks so nicely?

Sans’s breath hitches when you ease inside, easier now as his body relaxes around the familiar sensation.

“That’s it,” you hiss, “Such a good boy for me, Sansy.”

Your words earn a shudder, and you reward it with a gentle thrust. You’re calmer this time around, more level-headed with your own needs appeased for the time being—and you take full advantage of that clarity, roving your eyes over all of Sans while you find your rhythm: from his flushed bones, to his bobbing cock and to where his magic grips you, translucent red stretched tight around your girth. You wish you could feel him around your makeshift dick. As is, the shifts in his expression are their own reward: the nigh-desperation in his eyelights when he feels you withdraw, and the way the tension in his body melts away when you’re hilted inside him. It is the latter that you zero in on in pursuit of his pleasure, keeping your thrusts steady as can be as you bottom out in him again and again; always lingering when your hips are flush, always drinking in the look on his face that is both intoxicated and intoxicating.

“faster,” he groans. “c’mon— i said ‘pick up where ya left off’, not ‘reinvent the whee—‘”

He cuts off on a cry as you ram inside him, and you find yourself wishing shutting him up day-to-day was half as easy.

“Wrong tone, bone boy.” You’re through playing nice, and you make sure Sans feels it as you pick up a punishing pace. “Do I have to fuck you senseless just to shut you up?”

“yes,” he moans, eyelights glazing over. You don’t know whether to take it as an answer, or assent to what you’re doing. You wind up settling for the latter, hefting one leg over your shoulder as you chance for the angle from before. From how quickly Sans goes from moans to fractured curses, your stock pans out.

“How long have you been thinking about this, Sans?” You slip your free hand around his weeping cock, pumping in time with your thrusts. “Have you been touching yourself, imagining how it’d feel to have me use you like this?”

“fuck, if i have,” he groans through gritted teeth. “ask the damn store where i get my batteries.”

The ease of his admission hits your body with a full-on shudder, the remanence of your climax kindling in your clit. “Of course you did. Needy little whore.” You feel his dick twitch at the name, and make a mental note for posterity. “Tell me more, Sansy. Tell me all about your fantasies.”

“nuh-hnn, it’s— shit, fuck—” Sans’s breath stutters, and you ease down on his cock to give him a chance at speaking. His whole skull is aglow with vibrant red, sweat rolling off him in rivulets. His eyelights are anywhere but on you when he answers. “’s where ya have me on my front, takin’ me from behind— got my hands bound behind me, shovin’ my face into the bed… ah, fuck..!” A flicker of red in his socket is your only warning before he arches up with a silent cry, a weak jet of cum coating your hand for the umpteenth time tonight. You have the good sense to let go of his cock while he shakes through his climax, keeping to your rhythm until he slumps back against the sheets with a piteous little whimper.

“There’s my good boy,” you groan, turning to press a kiss to his knee. “Color?”

“green,” he chokes out, hips twitching as if to spirit yours to motion. Your eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

“Fucking insatiable.” Your lips curl up in a smile. ”Can’t believe I’ve got myself such a sweet little toy.”

Sans makes a noise of assent, grunting softly as you inch your way up his body, careful not to jostle the toy still seated inside him. You kiss his face and wipe his brow, and he immediately nuzzles into your hand, sockets slipping shut as he melts into your touch.

“How about we play with that fantasy of yours?” you ask softly. “You feel up for that?”

Sans nods fervently. His sockets slip open when you hold out for a verbal cue. His eyelights are dimmed-down and bleary, fuzzed in a way you’ve never seen before.

“please.”

Fucking hell, his voice will be the end of you.

You smile as you kiss him again, placing one hand on his collar while the other loosens the rope trussing him to the headboard. “You’re so good for me, Sansy. Come, sit up for me.”

You pull out of him gently before helping him up on his knees. You rub at his arms as you guide them down, and Sans gets the memo, rolling his shoulders and flexing his wrists while you set to macgyvering how on earth you want to go about this.

You’re reaching under the bed for an extra length of rope when your eyes fall on the spreader bar, and it is like the stars themselves have aligned in some sort of tacky plot device.

“Hey, Red—” You freeze with your mouth open, your train of thought winking out of existence when you emerge to the sight of Sans kneeling on the bed, chin down and hands clasped behind his head in an echo of your first order for the night. His eyes meet yours before flicking to the spreader, and the devious grin that splits his face tells you he knows exactly where things are headed.

“fuckin’ called it.”

“Shut up.” You wedge a knee between his to urge them wider. “I should’ve punished you for what I’m pretty sure qualifies as breaking and entering.”

“ain’t no rule sayin’ ‘s too late,” he says with a pointed wag of his brow, and you have to admit you like his way of thinking. What you like even more is the lack of backtalk as you manhandle his body into position, his demeanor wonderfully obliging as you set to trussing him up the way you want to. You’re still not entirely over the novelty—let alone the potential—of tying someone made of bone. One of these days, you’d like to see Sans in a proper harness. Today, you settle for tying his wrists to the cuffs around his ankles, leaving his arms immobilized by the ends of the bar forcing his legs wide apart.

By the time you pull away to take in your handiwork, your skin is flushed with more than just exertion.

“You know, you were right.” You smoothe your hands over the backsides of his splayed thighs. “This is a really, really good view.”

Sans grumbles something incoherent into the mattress, but all that prickliness is quick to lose its cutting edge when the first touch of your fingers is enough to bring him to a moan, ropes creaking softly as he squirms against the bed. His bones rattle the entire time you’re kissing up his back, heedless of almost splitting your lip on the sharp spines. His breaths are growing quicker by the second, hitching when your cock prods at his entrance.

“I’ve got you, baby.” You trail kisses up his nape. “So good for me, so gorgeous.”

Sans keens at your praise, mattress dipping as he shifts his hips to grant you better access. One of your hands stays firm on his collar while you brace yourself with the other, and you both moan in tandem as you slip back inside the slick welcome of his magic.

“oh shit, oh fuck— please, don’ tease me, don’— oh..!“  Sans’s senseless babbling cuts off on a high-pitched whine as you waste no time in catching up to your previous rhythm. He’s hot putty beneath your hands, bones aglow with sweat and magic that settles over your skin in scattered sparks. The fusion of the feeling and the sound and sight of him like this—of the big, bad monster pliant underneath you, all spread-out and submissive—makes a switch go off in your mind.

You snarl as you steel your grip and curl your fingers, snapping your hips forward with all the force your new leverage lends you. Your nails find their mark with your momentum, digging into the chinks between the bones that never fail to net you the most wondrous sounds—and Sans is quick to deliver, a garbled cry smothered in the mattress and choked down to a whine with the next, bruising thrust inside his magic.

“Fucking look at you,” you growl, your own words coming in tight huffs. “Big bruiser Red, panting like a goddamn bitch in heat. Is this what you’ve been thirsting for all this time, Sansy? Having a nice, hard cock inside of you?”

He’s in no state to answer, his wordless cries jumbled beyond coherence—but you’ve learned his tells well enough to recognize the shudder that passes through his bones, and the way his hips jerk back against you that much harder. Your own body responds in kind, wired to his pleasure, and you find yourself moaning as you push his skull against the mattress just the way he asked you to, using his body as leverage for your thrusts.

“Feels good for me too, you know,” you rasp, slowing just enough that he can hear you. “Making you my bitch. Putting you in your place. Treating you like you deserve.” You punctuate each statement with a measured thrust. His breath hitches on a sob, and you’ve done this song and dance before enough times to recognize the momentary twitch in his movements; to glean the short, sharp intakes of air and the distinct rip of yet another ruined bedsheet. It is the final push you need to barrel through the burning in your muscles, tune out the bruising force of your hips meeting bone as you mindlessly zero in on Sans’s limit.

And when he reaches that limit, it is like every climax of the night hits him in a violent deluge. In the short span of your acquaintance, you’d seen Sans come countless times—but never before have you seen him break, and when he does, he breaks beautifully; all pride thrown to the wind as he trembles and thrashes and screams in his completion, magic-tinted tears trailing down his cheeks in red-hot harrows.

You hold him close through his climax, and closer still while he trembles through the aftershocks—until the last of the tension melts away into a shuddering sigh and he collapses to the bed in a boneless heap. Even then, you are loath to let go: you croon softly while you rub circles into his shoulder, your free hand working the straps on his cuffs until you can chuck the spreader off the bed. Your arms are back around Sans before it’s hit the floor, and he immediately curls into your embrace. His body is slick from sweat and a pentad of messy orgasms, and you couldn’t care less about it as you huggle him close, nestling his head under your chin while you pepper his skull with kisses.

“bitchin’ stars, yer fuckin’ perfect.” The sleepy drawl of his voice brings a smile to your lips.

“Shut up, I’m the one who should be praising you.” You tilt his head in for a kiss, and he reciprocates, albeit with minimal effort. “I couldn’t have asked for a better sub.”

Sans snorts into the kiss. “ya must be used to some shitty-ass subs, then.”

You gasp in mock offense and flick his forehead. “Nonsense. I have excellent taste in people.”

“yeah, and i cuck king asgore on fridays.”

“Hey, if that's what you're all into, I don’t judge.”

You feel the curve of Sans’s grin against your lips, and haven’t the time to think any more of it before he captures your mouth in a sloppy kiss, this one ostensibly less chaste. His hand palming your ass is unexpected but not unwelcome, and the lazy curl of his tongue against yours jibes with your cravings to hold him close. “Well, someone seems happy.”

Sans’s chuckle is warm against your lips. “can ya blame me? jus’ got the railing of my starsdamned life.”

You’d fist-bump him to that, if you weren’t so damn tired. As is, you settle for resting your forehead against his, and that feels pretty fine, too.

“Didn’t push it too far, did I?” you ask softly. “With the name-calling and all?”

Sans shakes his head with a snort. “sweetheart, i got exactly what i wanted. besides, yer fuckin’ hot when yer pissed.”

You roll your eyes, but don’t bother fighting back your grin. “You’re an absolute menace.”

Sans makes a vaguely affirmative noise. At some point, he managed to slip down your body to nestle his face in your boobs, and you’ve known him too well for too long to be chalking it up to coincidence. His hand finds yours and you entwine your fingers, breathing a sigh of contentment as you settle into the warmth of afterglow.

All is sweetness and light until there’s a snicker against your chest, and you’ve heard that tone too many times to be harboring any illusions. “What is it, Red?”

“bet i take dick better than you.”

You blink slowly, barely scraping up the effort to fix him with a deadpan stare. “You wanna go, mate?”

The eyelights peeking up over the swell of your chest are the eyelights of an irredeemable goblin. “yeah, sure. give me ten minutes tops.”

“No dice, bone boy. My thigh muscles have passed on and ascended to a higher plane of existence.”

Sans’s sockets crinkle in amusement. “tell ‘em to say hi to my ass.”

Rather than gracing that with an answer, you push him back down into your chest.



“So, pizza night?” you ask after a while, after your quick assessment of assets suggests neither of you are in a state to be doing any cooking.

“hell yeah.” You tap Sans’s skull when he makes no move to get up.

“Move your ass, bone boy. Gotta get to my phone.”

“i told ya, my ass is out of commission.”

“Your ass will have to cope without pizza if you don’t move.”

There’s grumbling and some choice curses, but eventually the arms around you slacken enough for you to reach your phone.

“You’re coming along to pick it up, by the way.” Much as you’d like to let him rest, you don’t want to risk him dropping while you’re out.

The contentment in Sans’s voice gives lie to his grump as thick arms pull you to his chest. “yer the most heartless dom i’ve ever fucked with.”

You squeeze his hand. “Keep up the attitude and I’ll take you for a jog, too.” 



When you do head out for pizza, it is with a sense of guilty pride that you take note of the tremble in his knees.