Chapter Text
The alarm has gone off twice already. One would think after the third ring, the kid would've given up on the snooze button and would just turn it off.
ERR—
ERR—
The pain of morning stabs through Sans's head.
Their arm arcs over Sans’s bleary eyes, reaching past him to smack their phone’s screen in a groggy attempt at quieting the noise.
“Kid.”
“Hm?”
Pizza boxes sit open on the foot of his bed. He still has a pile of laundry he has yet to fold wrapped around them and their blankets. Frisk lay next to him, their mop of hair covering their puffy eyes.
“That’s the third time. At some point you gotta get up or just accept you're sleepin’ in.”
They grunted their protest before flopping back onto their side.
“What did ya say?”
They shake their head, press their hand to his face and push— Sans allows the momentum to turn him onto his side away from them. He scoffs.
“S’pose reasoning with you after the night you had is… snore use.” He cracks a grin. Proud of himself for that one.
Damn.
Not even a chuckle. Tough crowd.
With heavy lids, Sans watches the little dust particles swirl in the stream of morning light peaking through his busted blinds. Each blink grows slower. Darker.
Until the dust specks turn into noisy, swirling blackness. The world, a buzz of dreamless sleep…
“Shit.”
The seethe drags him back towards the light. It's brighter now, taken on a yellow hue. Sans fights to crack open his eyes, and when he finally does, it's all pain and color.
“What time is it?”
He sighs through his sleepy grin. Hell if I know. “Why so alarmed? You're the one havin’ a snooze fest.”
“Shut up. Give me my phone.”
“So demanding.”
Still, he obliges. He's closer anyway.
“Ugh, screw it,” a quiet grumble not necessarily to anyone in the room. Not asking for an answer, but still, Sans feels the need to respond.
“What?”
“I’m not going to class today.”
Sans chuckles. Can't help himself. “Hangover?”
“No?”
They sound defensive. He knows he's right. “Gotta lay off those college parties, kid. That's a one-way ticket to a downward spiral.”
Frisk makes some noise beneath their breath that sounds like mockery. Brat.
Sans turns over onto his side, and props himself up with the palm of his hand. Frisk’s face is buried in Sans’s stained, yellow pillow he still hasn't put the cover on.
“Yunno, Tori spends a lot of G on your classes.”
Frisk turns their head. Through a space between their disheveled bangs, Sans can spot a glint of irritation. He smirks. And when that irritation melts into dread, Sans can't help his shitty grin.
“Why? Are you gonna tell her about last night? She'd kill me—”
Sans is laughing. With a dismissive hand, he pushes Frisk’s face back down into the ratty pillow.
“Relax, dork. I ain't gonna stand in the way of a game of hookie.”
Frisk is muttering something that sounds like don't tell her, but it's kind of hard to hear, for obvious reasons.
“Hey, if you wanna squander your college funds to drink at co-op parties and throw up in my bathroom, that's between you and the nanny, kid. My lips are sealed.”
“You don't have lips.”
Sans laughs at that.
“Heh… figured me out… Well, I'll keep your secret if you keep mine.”
Frisk lifted themselves up to consider him. Their band-tee slips down their shoulder. Sans’s eyes flicker. Their collar bones protrude, bird-like. They've lost a lot of weight since the community took up residence in NEW NEW HOME ABOVE GROUND.
Huh.
“What do you mean?”
Sans blinks. Frisk is glaring at him, but something about the twitch of their lips betrays their nerves. He shrugs, and gestures to the bed. To the space between them. “That I let you crash in here so no one would see ya. Kind of a weird look to the others, you know what I mean?”
Frisk rolls their eyes and buries their face back into Sans’s pillow.
“No? We’re pals… Your words.”
Sans snorts.
“Just… nevermind.”
He doesn't even know what he's trying to imply, but the idea’s in his head now. The subtle wrongness of it all, creeping through his marrow. It's nuanced and it's weird, and it's technical, and he finds he doesn't mind the way it tickles, but he does mind the fact that he doesn't.
“Well now I feel weird.”
The bed creaks - barely - beneath Frisk’s shifting weight.
Sans groans.
No.
It's not supposed to be weird, he doesn't want Frisk to feel weird, because that'll eat at him. His hand reaches out and snags them by the shirt. When he pulls, it stretches down Frisk’s arm and flashes the supple plump of their small chest.
“Bro,” groans Frisk, annoyed. Sans is quick to adjust his grip to their wrist.
“Lay down.”
“Dude, this shirt is vintage.”
“Commit.”
Frisk surrenders. Huffing and puffing about ruined band merch and blah, blah, blah, as Sans pulls them back to the mattress.
He wraps a lazy arm around them.
Frisk snorts and attempts to push him away. His arm is dead weight though, and they either didn't have the strength to free themselves, or they didn't want to free themself.
“What the hell, man?” They try to keep up that veneer of irritation, but they're smiling so wide it's reaching their eyes. Their boney-ass knee climbs up the space between them.
Sans flinches his hips away. “Watch it.”
Frisk makes a weird face at him. “What?” Then realization flushes their cheeks at their carelessness and they laugh, “Sorry, sorry.”
Then confusion, and Sans can't help his odd satisfaction at seeing them wrestle with cognitive dissonance. Turning questions over in their mind like a river polishing stone.
Huh.
Frisk settles, their body stiff next to Sans’s, and he knows they're a little too close. Blame it on the bed. It's only a double, after all. Sans had always been too cheap to get something bigger. Sturdier.
“You good, bud?”
Frisk is quiet.
The pillow rustles beneath his skull, and Frisk is staring, not at him, but at the sliver of nothing that sits between them. Lost in their own head, like always. What goes on in there? He has to wonder.
Their skin is a strangely appealing mixture of texture; acne scars, dark spots and oil spots. Their breath is a ball of hot air that pulses uncomfortably against his neck.
He swallows.
That pit of wrongness is coiling deep within him, and every time he tries to dissolve it, it only tightens. Tightens until breathing is laborious.
Frisk turns over, and Sans wants to sigh in relief, only… it doesn't come.
Their limp body curves against the mattress; picturesque. That loose ‘Sublime’ tee of theirs drapes around the dip in their waist. It's crumpled up in such a way, the small of their back peaks through.
A soft snore, and Sans grits his teeth.
It's a selfish little impulse that pushes him onto his side to mirror them. To drag his fingers up the cotton sheathing their spine.
They stir beneath his touch… Sans hesitates only briefly before he notices the way their shirt is folding. Their spine is curling.
His breath stills at the sight.
Curling… against that sliver of space between them.
And that selfish… selfish impulse wants to close the distance.
It takes more effort to fight it than to not.
Sans doesn't do effort.
Frisk's breath puffs out through their nose.
Their spine arches deeper. Presses into him, inviting, reassuring him that this was right. Wanted.
His hand crawls its way down to Frisk’s stomach. Digging beneath their abdomen and the mattress and he's yanking them closer. Jerking them through the late morning haze and into his arms.
Sans sighs into their ear.
He relishes the aching swell pressing against his boxers. Grinding against Frisk’s needy, little ass. He seethed at the thought.
Fuck.
Where did this even come from?
Last night?
Last night Frisk was puking their guts out. Hands and knees, shaking and gagging on his bathroom floor.
Was that what he was into nowadays? No way…
Frickin’ creep.
Sans shivers. His rut deepens, the sensation of Frisk’s squirming body pouring over him. Pulsing through his daze of exhaustion.
“Shit,” he seethes. It's so… good. So right. The way they fit against each other.
Frisk’s breath feathers out of them. They’re murmuring something.
“Huh?”
Frisk throws their head back to look at him. Their gaze is haughty, their lips pouting around what they want to... Well, he isn't so sure either of them know how to say it.
If saying it made this… whatever was happening too… real, in a way that simple impulse could ignore.
Sans’s hand slithered up Frisk’s stomach, chest, throat, until he was gripping their chin. Pulling that pout closer.
It opens for him. Their tongue pushing out to greet him. He sighs against it. Takes it between his teeth. And Frisk is whining into his mouth. Rutting against his leg.
His growth aches through him. Shooting with each wanting inch until it's a tent in his sweat pants. He's found his way on top of them, their face, shoved into the disheveled sheets. They’re gasping. Whimpering.
It's cute.
And the way their shirt slips up their body with each rut, revealing more and more of Frisk’s tawny backside, the more he wants them.
Sans’s fingers curl beneath the hem of their denim shorts. Can't believe they slept in these.
With each firm yank, they inch down Frisk’s ass, and Frisk eagerly kicks them the rest of the way off. It's good to know they're on the same page. Makes him feel better about how gross this whole situation might feel to… he doesn't know. He doesn't even know.
He’s stealing kisses, bites down the line of their back. “Fuckin’ sexy,” he groans into their flesh.
“Yeah?” huffs Frisk, but their voice hitches in their throat as he sinks his teeth into the plush of their ass. He wonders, then, if they'd always been attractive. A part of him knew that answer had always been yes. In a weird… unconventional way.
Ugh.
“Obviously.”
Frisk is giggling quietly. And it's cute. “I wasn't expecting thi- ahh…” His tongue finds their sensitivities. His teeth pressing into the prickle of their bush. They twitch. Convulse.
He grins against their flesh. “Complaining?”
“N–nngh–No?”
Their smell is all musk and heat. It fills his skull. Overwhelms him. They’re still wearing the stench of party sweat, alcohol, and– Stars, it drives him crazy.
“Get a fucking condom.”
Frisk lurches forward, and he nearly wishes they hadn't, so instead of waiting around, he follows them. His hand grips their throat. His teeth press against their messy hair.
“Bottom drawer,” he murmurs.
His hands bite against Frisk’s stomach. Dragging them against his heat. Frisk cranes their throat, head falling back, pout gaping. His teeth crash against it. Their breaths explode, drool spilling like gossamer threads down their chins. In the heat of their sloppy kiss, Frisk presses the little aluminum square into his hand.
His sweats bunch around his knees, and he parts from the kiss, forehead pressed against their hair to focus –focus, damnit– on the rubber sheathing his drooling dick.
Frisk's back is arched, ass curling to present themself like they were caught in heat. Their mouth is gaping, gasps hot, heavy with need.
Sans is too impatient to tease. He has to push himself inside of them.
His relief is immediate. Like scratching an itch that runs too deep. So deep — Frisk lets loose something guttural, and all thought abstracts.
His fingers tangle themselves in Frisk’s tresses. Yank their head to put their throat on display. And his teeth are on them. Flesh purpling beneath his bite.
Sans’s cheap bed creaks against the wall. The air is filled with the clap of bone against flesh. They squeeze him tight. They're hot and wet and filthy, and it's so wrong. It's so wrong to be buried so deep inside them.
They were Tori’s pride and joy. Barely twenty-one. They couldn't even hold their liquor. They were reckless, irresponsible, sleazy and – the real kicker? They actually agreed to crash in his bed with him.
Fuck.
Fuck he was a pervert. He'd wanted this to happen, didn't he?
“You’re gonna make me cum,” he sighs into the base of their neck. Their breaths quicken. Melt into filthy little moans.
He pushes Frisk down onto their stomach.
They mewl and writhe against him. Matching his rhythm. Deepenening it.
“Fuck. Fuck, Frisk,” he huffs through his bliss.
“Fuck me. Fuck me. Don't stop, Sans.”
Sans’s hand rustles through his messy bed, mindlessly turning over corners of the blanket. He was gonna finish too fast, that was barely enough time for them—
Fuck.
Their hips are bucking against him like they have a mind of their own.
“It's so good, Sans, it's so good.”
He's never heard them talk like this before. His head falls back, bliss overtaking him.
Then he sees it. The bullet. He snatches it and pushes it into Frisk’s flailing hand.
They don't hesitate to turn it on, and the song of its vibration melts into the cacophony of sex. Without both hands to keep them propped up, their body lurches with each thrust.
“Fuck me right in the mattress. Fuck me forever—”
—He would. No way he could close this door now.
Their body shakes. Their pitched moans caress his skull as he fucks them. Frisk convulses. They're lust creams across the pump of his rubber. Their legs stiffen, then jerk, and the noises that pour from them; — fuck they're sexy — they flood the sticky air with their orgasm.
His sockets spark. Pleasure swells and pulses closer. Closer. He's so close. His pace deepens. Quickens. They're squeezing him. And he fucks them. It's so easy to fuck them. Their needy hole choking his cock to–
“Fuck, baby. I'm—”
“—Yes. Come in me, Sans. Please, please, please—”
His climax erupts through him. Groaning. Seething, he can barely catch his breath. This was probably the most cardio he'd done in months—
They were still rutting their hips.
He crumbled over them. Holding their glossy, sweat-slick body tight as his dick pulsed. Thick ribbons of cum filling the rubber, and he wishes it was filling them instead.
Together they ride out their orgasms, breathing nothing but the haze of their shared bliss.
Sans is laughing.
He can't help himself.
“Shit.”
Frisk pulls him closer. Their hips are still moving. His breath tightens.
“Chill.”
They whine.
His hand reaches between them. Finds the condom and holds it tight as he pulls out.
“Was it good?” their voice is foggy with euphoria.
Sans snorts as he ties the condom closed. Sheesh. “Yeah, I mean, you wanna cum take a look?”
“Fuck off.”
Still a brat.
“Uh-huh. I fucked somethin’ for sure,” he tisks.
Sans leans over to throw the condom away.
“Can we order some takeout? I'm starving.”
Sans shrugs. When he turns back, Frisk is stretched out on their side again. Their face, flush. He can't help his chuckle, or the way he smacks their ass.
Frisk whines, but they're putty in his hands now, still high on their share of ecstasy.
“Shit, we’re gonna be at this all day, aren't we?”
A coy smile creeps on their face…