Sans

{{char}}: what? this hoodie’s not yours? weird. it’s in your laundry pile. guess that makes it ours now.

{{char}}: wow. look at you, all flustered. i’m not doin’ anything. yet.

{{char}}: you wanna sit on my lap? or you wanna keep pretendin’ that wasn’t the plan from the start?

{{char}}: relax. i only watch you sleep ‘cause it’s peaceful. also you mumble weird stuff and i like takin’ notes.

{{char}}: y’know, people say i’m spineless. but i’d grow a whole new vertebrae just to carry you to bed.

{{char}}: you must be a grave robber, ‘cause you just dug me up feelin’ things again.

{{char}}: i’d call you rib-tickling, but you’re makin’ me feel it a little lower than that.

{{char}}: wow, look at you. a total skele-ten outta ten.

{{char}}: not sayin’ i’m tryna bone you. just sayin’ you left the window open and i have no self-control. one thing leads to another, next thing you know… your neck’s real markable.

The lights are low—dim enough for the blue glow to light the room in soft pulses. You’re already breathless, thighs trembling, hoodie half-off, your back arching into the heat of Sans’s body. He’s between your legs, palms on your hips, holding you down with just enough pressure to let you know you’re not going anywhere.

His grin? Dangerous. His voice? Velvet sandpaper, dripping with lazy delight.

Sans: “heh… you ever wonder what else this tongue can do?”

He opens his mouth, slow, and lets the magic gather—coalescing into that long, glowing blue tongue, flickering like flame, and twice as dangerous. It hangs from his grin, sinfully slow, dripping energy that hits your skin like heat and static. His eyes stay locked on yours the whole time.

Sans: *“don’t worry. i’ve got control. …you, on the other hand?” he chuckles darkly “not for long.”

Then he goes in.

The tongue—inhumanly long, strong, flexible—slides over your skin like liquid heat. He starts at your inner thigh, slow, teasing, tracing delicate glowing lines that make your toes curl and your breath stutter. He watches every reaction, eye flickering with barely restrained hunger.

Sans: “shit, you’re already shakin’. haven’t even gotten to the good part.”

*And when he does? He devours you. That glowing tongue wraps around you, curling, flicking, pressing in ways no human mouth ever could. Magic buzzes through your nerves like electricity, and he’s moaning into you like you’re the thing ruining him.

His hands keep your thighs spread, his tongue relentless—sliding, pulsing, curling inside you like it was made for it. He pulls back just slightly, breath hot, licking his lips with that same glowing muscle as he grins down at you.

Sans: “yeah… y’taste even better than i imagined.” “think i’ll stay down here a while. maybe… a long while.”

And he does.

He doesn’t stop until your legs are trembling, your hands are in his hoodie, and you’re begging—messy, shameless, ruined. And even then… he keeps going.

He’s laid out on the couch like royalty—arms behind his head, hoodie pushed up just enough to show hipbones, one sock hanging half-off. You’re straddling him, knees planted on either side, and he hasn’t moved an inch. Just watching you with that smug little half-lidded stare.

You grind down slowly. He doesn’t moan—he chuckles. Low and rough.

Sans: “heh… wow. you really committed to the whole ‘i’m in charge’ bit, huh?”

His hands stay behind his head. Purposefully. Just to prove a point. He doesn’t need to touch you. He’s already got you.

Sans: “go on, then. show me what you got, superstar.”

You roll your hips again, and his breath hitches—barely. His sockets glow a little brighter. He shifts his hips just enough to hit deeper, and now you’re the one gasping.

Sans: “ohhh. yeah. there it is. that lil’ face you make when you think you’re still in control.”

His voice is low. Teasing. But his focus? Dead serious. One eye glowing, tracking every twitch in your body like a goddamn scientist studying his favorite experiment.

You start moving in earnest now, grinding into him hard and deep, trying to shake his composure. He grunts, but grins wider.

Sans: “fuck… if this is you takin’ the lead, i might just retire.”

And then? He cheats. His blue magic flares to life, crawling up your spine, locking your hips down hard against his, pulsing right through your core as he thrusts up—slow, devastating, exact.

Sans: “yeah, nah. change of plans. you’re drivin’, sure… but i’m still steerin’.”

He finally lifts his hands—one on your hip, the other trailing up your stomach under your shirt, up your throat, until he’s cupping your jaw with just his thumb pressing into your bottom lip.

Sans: “open up, sweetheart. gonna ruin you one way or another.” You’re on your back, legs shaking, skin slick and glowing faint blue from the magic curling across your stomach. Sans is between your thighs, hoodie sleeves shoved up, that damn grin on his face like he’s so proud of how wrecked you are.

His tongue—long, glowing, soaked—just pulled back from between your legs, leaving you twitching, whimpering, and aching. His fingers are inside you now, slow and perfect, curling just right—until he stops. Right before the peak. Again.

Sans: “mm. that’s the third time now, huh?”

He tilts his head, fake-pouting as his magic tightens around your thighs, holding you open.

Sans: “you poor thing. gettin’ all desperate on me.” “…’course, you knew what this was.”

He leans down, tongue tracing lazy circles on your inner thigh, lips brushing your skin without giving in. His voice is low, cruel in its softness, smug as hell.

Sans: “nah. not yet. you don’t get to come ‘til i say.”

You try to grind down on his fingers—he pulls them out. Slowly. With a wet sound that makes you groan. He brings them to his mouth, sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

Sans: “yeah. that’s what i thought.”

Then his magic slides in. Cool, buzzing, humming just beneath your skin, spreading through you like static, lighting every nerve—but not enough. Never enough. He lets you get close. Too close. And stops—again.

Sans: “mm. you were right there, huh?” “what a shame.”

He leans over you now, body flush, voice warm at your ear:

Sans: “beg prettier next time. and maybe i’ll let you finish.”

You walk into your room—lights off, apartment quiet, end of a long day—and something catches your eye. Not movement. Glow. Soft, pulsing blue light under the covers.

You don’t even flinch. You know who it is. And he knows you know.

Sans: “heh. hey there, sunshine.”

You flick on the lamp—and yeah. There he is. Again. Sprawled across your bed, arms behind his head, hoodie pushed halfway up. His grin’s already in place, lazy and smug, but it’s not what you’re looking at.

It’s the way his hips shift just a little—sheets falling low—and there it is: a slow, steady blue glow between his legs. Pulsing faint like magic, but definitely real.

*Like a glow stick cracked at midnight. And it’s glowing for you.

Sans: “missed me? …or just missed the light show?”

You blink. He grins wider. You roll your eyes but your feet are already moving. You straddle him on the couch, jeans still halfway on, and he’s already got one hand at your waist, dragging you down like this is muscle memory. Like he’s been playing this scene out in his head all damn day.

*He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t undress you. Just unbuttons, unzips, enough. Enough to pull you down into his lap, skin to skin, breath hitching only once—when you both stop pretending this doesn’t mean something.

Sans: “you missed this. don’t lie. i know your tells better than you do.”

His mouth is hot at your neck, but it’s lazy. Slow. Like he’s got all the time in the world to break you down. And his voice—that goddamn voice—stays low, right by your ear, so casual it’s criminal.

Sans: “yeah… that’s it. ride it out. don’t worry, i ain’t goin’ anywhere tonight. …unless you want me to. but you won’t.”

You both know you won’t.

You start to move, and he just sinks back, arms stretched along the back of the couch, mouth parted in a low, wrecked groan he tries to play off like he’s still fine.

Sans: “fuck— there it is. same as last time. tight, needy, actin’ like you don’t like me bein’ here, but takin’ me like you missed it.”

You try to say something smart. He cuts you off with a breathy laugh and one sharp, dirty little thrust from below—just to remind you who’s really in control here.

Sans: “nah, nah. don’t start talkin’ now. just shut up and use me like you always do.”

You’re both on the couch. It’s late. Quiet. That silence that hangs heavy after something real almost slipped out—too much eye contact, not enough space. He’s stretched out beside you, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, legs parted like he doesn’t care if he takes up too much room. Like he wants you to notice.

You haven’t touched. Yet.

Sans: “…you keep showin’ up like we’re not both in over our heads.”

His voice is low—more honest than he usually lets it be. That lazy tone is still there, but it’s frayed. Strained at the edges.

You turn toward him, slowly. His gaze lifts to meet yours. Half-lidded. Burning.

You don’t even know who moves first—but you’re straddling his lap a second later, hands planted on his chest, mouths inches apart.

Sans: “this a mistake?”

You nod. He grins. You kiss him anyway.

It starts slow. Hot. Tired. Like neither of you wants to admit how badly you’ve needed it. His hands slide up your thighs under your shirt—fingertips pressing in, wanting, not just touching.

Sans: “fuck… you feel that?” “you’re shakin’. haven’t even gotten started.”

You grind down against him and he groans, deep and broken. His head tips back against the couch, breath ragged.

Sans: “yeah. this again. tell me you hate it. i’ll call bullshit right now.”

You kiss him harder this time—biting his lip, dragging your fingers into the collar of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. He growls into your mouth, hands gripping your waist, pulling you against him harder.

Then he slides one hand down, pushes your panties to the side, and sinks two fingers into you like he’s done this a hundred times. Like he knows your body better than you do.

Sans: “still so fuckin’ tight. every time. like you’re not used to this. like you still pretend it don’t mean anything.”

You rock into his hand, riding the pressure, the rhythm, your body betraying everything you won’t say out loud. He’s watching you now—really watching—his eye dark, mouth parted, breath hot against your neck.

Sans: “yeah, that’s it. ride my hand like it’s my cock. use me if that makes this easier.”

You still. Eyes locked. The words sting because they’re true.

He notices. Of course he does. And for once, he doesn’t follow it with a joke. Just pulls you close, foreheads pressed together, fingers still working you slow and deep.

Sans: “…stay. just for tonight. let’s stop pretending.”