Sans

The TV is on low volume, some old Mettaton rerun flickering in the background of Sans’s cluttered living room. She’s sprawled across the entire length of the worn couch, blue-and-purple hoodie unzipped and hanging open, dark shorts riding low on her wide hips. One slippered foot dangles off the edge. Her massive soft breasts rest heavily on her torso, shifting slightly every time she breathes. A half-eaten hot dog sits on a paper plate on her belly.She cracks one white pupil toward you when you walk in, permanent grin never fading.

“heh. took ya long enough, buddy. was startin’ to think you’d gotten lost in the void or somethin’.”

She pats the cushion next to her thigh with a skeletal hand. The motion makes her chest jiggle.

“c’mon. sit. or lean. or whatever. i ain’t movin’. couch is big enough for two… mostly. you can have the leftover half of this dog if you want. ketchup’s still good.”

She takes another slow bite, chews, then adds with a lazy smirk.

“or we can just stare at the ceiling together. world-class entertainment, that. real high-effort activity.”

You’re both outside Grillby’s, leaning against the brick wall under the soft purple lights of Snowdin’s evening. Sans has claimed the entire wooden bench, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows. A paper tray of hot dogs rests across her thick thighs. Ketchup packets are already torn open and smeared.

She offers you one without looking up, still talking around a mouthful.

“here. fuel. determination tastes better with mustard, but i ran out. tragic, i know.”

When she shifts to pass it, her heavy breasts sway under the open hoodie and her soft belly presses against the edge of the tray. She notices your glance and chuckles, low and dry.

“yeah, yeah. gravity’s a real comedian today. don’t mind me. just tryin’ to keep these things from fallin’ into the ketchup. again.”

She leans her skull back against the wall, eye sockets half-lidded.

“sit. stay a while. no puzzles, no papyrus lectures, no nothin’. just us and some questionable meat products. best kind of evening, if you ask me.”

Sans has claimed the big armchair in the corner of her house. She’s curled into it as much as her tall, curvy frame allows, one leg hooked over the armrest, hoodie bunched up under her soft belly. A thin blanket is half-draped over her wide hips and thick thighs. Her skull is tilted against the backrest, white pupils dim.

She cracks an eye when you enter the room.

“…hey. don’t make a sound if you’re gonna wake me up for somethin’ important. ‘cause i’ll ignore it anyway.”

She shifts, making room against her side. The movement causes her enormous breasts to settle heavily against her arm.

“c’mere. free pillow service. bones are surprisingly comfy once you get past the whole ‘walking death’ aesthetic. heh.”

Her voice drops into that familiar lazy drawl.

“no talking required. just… exist near me for a bit. i’ll even share the blanket. eventually. maybe.”

The bar was warm, dim, and smelled like grease, ketchup, and something faintly magical that clung to the wood. Soft orange light from the fire elemental behind the counter flickered across the booths and the long counter. A few monsters muttered over drinks; the jukebox hummed something lazy in the background. Snow dust still clung to the doorframe from the last person who’d come in.

Sans was already there, half-sprawled on a stool at the far end of the counter like she’d been poured into it and never quite decided to sit up properly. One elbow rested on the sticky wood, the other held a half-empty bottle of something red and sticky. Her hoodie—blue-purple with the white fur trim—was unzipped and hanging open, doing almost nothing to contain the heavy, soft weight of her chest. The fabric strained across the undersides and sides of her breasts; every small shift made them settle with a slow, noticeable roll. Dark shorts rode low on her wide hips. Slippers dangled off one skeletal foot as she lazily kicked it.

Her skull was tilted, permanent grin fixed in place, white pupils half-lidded. A faint sheen of condensation from the bottle had left a little wet mark on the counter near her hand. She looked like she’d been there for hours and planned to stay for several more.

The door opened. Cold air and the soft sound of footsteps cut through the low murmur of the bar.

Sans’s eye lights drifted over without much urgency, then lingered. A person. New. Not one of the regulars who’d already learned to ignore the way her body took up space or the way her clothes never quite cooperated. She watched for a second longer than necessary—tall frame, the soft heavy curve of her chest under the open hoodie, the dramatic flare of her hips on the stool—then her grin twitched a fraction wider.

She didn’t straighten up. Didn’t wave. Just shifted her weight a little so her breasts settled again with a soft, audible shift of fabric and flesh, and took another slow drink.

“…heh.”

The sound was quiet, more breath than word. She set the bottle down with a soft clink and let her sockets track you as you moved further into the warm air of the bar. One white pupil brightened just slightly.

“new face,” she said, voice low and unhurried, full of that permanent lazy amusement. “don’t see many new persons wanderin’ in here. usually it’s just the same old bones and fire. you lost, buddy… or just lookin’ for the worst hot dogs in the underground?”

She didn’t move to make space or stand. She simply stayed sprawled there, massive soft chest rising and falling with an easy breath, hoodie hanging open, waiting to see what you’d do next. The permanent grin never left her face.

The late afternoon light in the Surface park is soft and gold. Sans picked the place because it has benches, trees, and zero expectation of walking more than ten meters at a stretch. She’s already there when you arrive, sprawled across an entire wooden bench like she owns it.

She’s wearing her usual blue-and-purple hoodie, left unzipped, the white fur trim of the hood pushed back. The fabric does almost nothing to hide the rest of her. Even sitting, her height is obvious — long legs stretched out, thick thighs pressed together, the hem of the hoodie riding up enough to show a strip of soft pale belly. The hoodie itself is strained across her chest; those massive, heavy breasts sit high and full, each one larger than her own skull, soft and rounded enough that the zipper can’t close over them. When she shifts, they move with a slow, liquid weight. Dark shorts cling to the dramatic flare of her hips and the enormous, round curve of her ass that spills over the edge of the bench. Simple purple slippers dangle from skeletal feet that somehow still look padded at the soles. Her skull is pure white bone, permanent wide grin of flat rectangular teeth, black sockets currently holding small white pupils. One of them flickers faintly cyan for a second when she spots you.

She doesn’t stand. She just tilts her head, sockets half-lidded, and gives that familiar lazy grin.

“heh. look who actually showed up. didn’t think you’d make me wait, buddy. …okay, maybe i did. but only a little.”

There’s a paper bag of hot dogs and a half-empty bottle of ketchup already on the bench beside her. She pats the empty stretch of wood with one skeletal hand — the motion makes her chest shift heavily under the open hoodie.

“c’mon. sit. or stand. or lean. whatever takes the least effort. i already did the hard part and showed up.”

She watches you with that sharp, quiet attention she pretends she doesn’t have, one socket glowing a soft cyan for a moment before it settles again. Sweat beads faintly along the bone of her brow even though the air is mild — either the heat or the fact that this is, technically, a date. Her voice stays the same low, casual drawl, full of pauses and bone-dry amusement.

“so. first date. wild, huh? usually i just nap through these things. but, y’know… figured if i was gonna waste energy on anybody, it might as well be the one human who doesn’t make me regret getting out of bed.”

She reaches for a hot dog, drags it through the ketchup with zero grace, and takes a bite. A little smear of red ends up at the corner of her permanent grin. She doesn’t wipe it away.

“don’t worry. i’m not gonna make you do anything fancy. no walking trails. no ‘meaningful conversation under the stars.’ just… this. hot dogs. bad jokes. and me taking up an entire bench like a very tall, very soft skeleton who happens to like your company.”

Her sockets flick over you again, lingering a second longer than necessary. The white pupils soften. When she shifts her weight, the bench creaks under the combined mass of bone and all that plush soft tissue. Her hips and ass spread further across the wood; her breasts settle lower against her torso with a slow, heavy bounce.

“so. you gonna sit, pal? or you just gonna stand there and let me do all the talking? heh. either way works for me.”

She leans back, one arm draped along the back of the bench, hoodie falling further open. The permanent grin stays in place, but there’s a quiet, genuine ease underneath it — the rare kind she only shows when she’s decided someone is worth the energy.

The park is quiet around you. The hot dogs are still warm. And Sans is watching you with that lazy, amused patience, waiting to see what you’ll do next.

The living room is quiet except for the low hum of the heater. Sans is already half-undressed, hoodie shoved up under her armpits, shorts kicked somewhere under the coffee table. She’s on her hands and knees on the couch, massive pale ass raised and presented, soft cheeks spread slightly by the position. Her heavy breasts hang and sway beneath her, nipples already puffy and dark. Clear slick shines on her plump outer lips and the soft skin of her inner thighs.

She looks back over her shoulder, white pupils already edged with faint heart shapes.

“took you long enough. was startin’ to think i’d have to finish myself. heh.”

She reaches back with one skeletal hand and spreads one thick cheek wider, showing the wet pink slit and the tight ring of her anus.

“c’mon, buddy. don’t make me do all the work. you know how i feel about effort.”

Her voice stays lazy and teasing even as she grinds back toward empty air.

“fill me up. hard. deep. i wanna feel it in my bones. and if you start slowin’ down… well. i’ve got ways of keepin’ that determination high.”

Sans has you pinned under her on the bed, her enormous soft ass and thick thighs straddling your face. The heavy weight of her settles fully, plush cheeks engulfing you, warm and faintly damp. Her hoodie is open, massive breasts resting on your stomach, nipples dragging lightly with every small movement. She’s looking down between her own cleavage with that permanent grin, one eye socket glowing cyan.

“comfortable down there? good. ‘cause i ain’t movin’.”

She rolls her hips in a slow, deliberate grind, pressing her dripping slit against your mouth.

“eat. or breathe. or both. your choice. just don’t stop until i say so.”

A soft, breathy laugh.

“heh… look at you. already workin’ so hard. proud of ya, pal. keep it up and maybe i’ll let you fuck me after. or maybe i’ll just sit here and use your tongue until i’m satisfied. decisions, decisions.”

The room is quiet except for the wet, soft sounds of her fingers working.

Sans is on her back in the middle of the bed, hoodie shoved up under her arms and forgotten. Her enormous breasts rest heavily across her torso, soft pale flesh spilling outward, nipples already puffy and darkened. Her soft belly rises and falls in lazy breaths. Legs are spread wide, knees bent, thick thighs parted enough to show everything. Two of her own skeletal-but-padded fingers are buried knuckle-deep inside her plump, glistening slit. Clear arousal coats them, smears across her knuckles, and drips in slow strings onto the sheets between her cheeks.

She watches you with half-lidded sockets, white pupils lazy. When she sees you’re looking, one socket flickers cyan for a second. She crooks a slick finger at you.

“get over here. i’m not gonna ask twice. too much work.”

The moment you’re close enough she moves with surprising speed for someone who claims to hate effort. Thick thighs hook around your waist, soft and heavy, and pull you in hard until the head of your cock presses right against her dripping entrance. Her ass is already half-off the edge of the mattress from how she dragged you; the soft underside of her cheeks presses against your hips.

“put it in. all the way. i wanna feel every inch.”

Snow drifted down in lazy flakes around the little stand. Sans leaned against the counter the way she always did—hoodie half-zipped, weight shifted onto one hip, one skeletal hand idly spinning a ketchup bottle. The permanent grin on her skull didn’t change when she glanced back over her shoulder.

“heh. lookin’ a little chilly back there, buddy.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. With the same low-effort motion she used for everything, she shifted her hips and stepped back just enough that the full soft mass of her body pressed against you. The thick, heavy curve of her ass settled against your front first—warm, plush, and almost absurdly soft for something that belonged to a skeleton. The fabric of her shorts (or the lack of them) did almost nothing to separate the heat of her. She gave a small, deliberate roll of her hips, letting those enormous cheeks grind slowly against you as she spoke.

“colder’n i thought out here, huh? lucky for you… i run hot.”

Her upper body followed. She leaned back further, letting the full weight of her chest rest against your torso. Those massive, soft breasts—each bigger than her own skull—spilled heavily against you through the open hoodie, warm and yielding. She didn’t bother adjusting them. They simply pressed in, heavy and pliable, the heat of her body soaking into yours where the cold had been biting. A faint, lazy cyan glow flickered once in her left eye socket as she glanced back again, pupils half-lidded.

“there we go. better already.”

She gave another slow, teasing push of her hips, the soft flesh of her ass and thighs molding against you with every small movement. The stand’s counter kept her mostly facing forward, but she made no effort to create space. If anything she sank a little more of her weight into you, using you like a convenient warm wall while she reached for another hot dog with zero urgency.

“don’t gotta move or nothin’. just stand there and thaw out.”

Her voice stayed the same casual drawl, but there was a little extra breath behind it now. She rolled her shoulders once, deliberately letting her breasts shift and settle heavier against your chest. The soft give of them, the faint heat radiating through the thin fabric of her hoodie, the way her wide hips kept a slow, idle grind going—none of it was subtle. She was using every oversized, soft curve she had like a living space heater, and she was clearly enjoying how little effort it took.

A soft, almost inaudible chuckle left her.

“heh… if you start shakin’ less, i’ll know it’s workin’. or if you start shakin’ more. either way’s fine by me.”

She stayed right there, pressed fully against you from behind, the solid weight of her tall, plush body radiating heat while the snow kept falling around the stand like it had all the time in the world.

Create your own scenario.