Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     The second you see the redness of his cheekbones, you know something's off.

     Throughout the past twelve months since you met Sans, you've never once seen him blush or show any other form of embarrassment.

     Which can only mean he shagged someone before showing up here, jacked himself off for whatever reason, or he's drunk abundant amounts of alcohol for the two of you combined.

     You know him well enough to have all three checked out as possibilities, completely different from how you act. He sleeps around when he feels like it, satisfying himself and his partner for the night, while you’ve had trouble finding a date that won't leave you without an orgasm. You've been to his place, shared a bed, and heard him pleasure himself when he thinks you've fallen asleep, while you're too much of a prude to even try doing that at home alone. He drinks until he can't remember what he did that day, while you drink until you feel a little dizzy and a lot more bold. All-in-all, he could have numerous reasons for looking the way he does.

     “hey,” Sans greets, sitting down on the bar stool next to yours.

     “Hey,” you reply, taking away the beer you bought for him.

     You further confirm he’s deeply drunk, since he doesn't bother to look at the beer he likes, even as you hold it in your hands and claim it as yours.

     “how's it goin'?”

     “Same as usual.”

     Rather than at the beer, Sans stares at your face.

     Not at your eyes, or at the dangly golden heart earrings you're wearing, but at your lips.

     “you're wearin' a new lipgloss,” he comments, his grin lifting when he lowers his gaze to your waist, and then to your shoes. “lookin’ mighty sharp, too.” He looks back up. “went on a date today?”

     “Uh…” You try to cover yourself with the glass of beer, but his irises seem to phase through it, given how intense their glow is. “No, I, um… I haven't matched with anyone decent yet.”

     “great,” he says, flaring his nose cavity. “not uh, the not gettin' a match thing, but the fact that you're still single.”

     Oh, gosh.

     You don't like where this is going.

     “so…”

     He's staring at your lips again.

     “since, ya know, we've been drinkin’ buddies for a year now…”

     You don't want your arrangement to end — not like this.

     “and since i’ve never been with a human before…”

     No, no, no, no, no.

     “i wanna try somethin’ out…” Sans scratches the back of his skull, and he looks down at the table, his cheekbones tinting redder. “a whatchamacallit…” He chuckles, his grin as plastered as that sound. “a friends with benefits sorta thing? not just… a one-night stand, i mean. more than that.”

     As if to make matters worse, he eyes you over and stares at your chest.

     “been wantin’ to know what those mounds feel like in my hands.”

     You have no control over what you do next.

     And, by the time you do, you've already thrown the beer at his face and told him to fuck off.

     “Cool down, will you?” you scoff, glaring at him. “I— I thought you were a real friend, and…” You rub a hand across your face at the first sign of your cheeks warming up, the icy temperature of the beer having stuck to your palm. “And not a ‘nice’ guy wanting an easy fuck!”

     Now you know you've messed up.

     No matter how long you've known him and how long it's been since monsters arrived at the Surface, you still count as a human getting all up in his business, bothering him while you're in a district strictly owned by monsters only.

     What's more, you've poured a drink at a man known for harming people at the slightest provocation.

     He's like the leader of this side of town, and he knows it.

     “You've only dated monsters before. Why this, all of a sudden?”

     So, why is he doing this — putting you at risk like this?

     Doubling down and making himself look so vulnerable, like he doesn't have the power to make you disappear without a trace?

     “c’mon,” Sans pleads, unfazed by what you've done. “one night, at least.”

     His chest and face are dripping wet, but he doesn't bother to clean himself up. The people all around are completely different from his unbothered state, like you went out of your way to insult them and their bloodlines personally. Murmurs and whispers overcome the music playing in the jukebox, and Grillby shakes his head as if to emphasize you've taken a risky step. The drunk man sitting next to you is much different from the sober one you've seen in various alleyways, confronting his current victim to get what he wants. He's much different from the one you've seen make other women swoon with as much ease as blinking, his bad jokes adding further charm to contrast his violent nature.

     “Let’s talk,” you bark, standing up from the bar stool. “Outside, in my car.”

     While you stomp out, ignoring the rumours already being spread about you, Sans follows behind you, quietly and keeping up with your pace.

     This is an… unconventional way to do it, but it seems to be the most effective to get through him.

     “damn,” Sans says, squeezing your breasts. “this feels good.”

     After the bar incident, you drove far out of the monster district and parked behind a movie theater still under construction.

     Now, Sans has you pinned against the door of the backseat of your car, groping your breasts so hard and so roughly, it almost feels like you aren't wearing a bra or a dress. Him kneeling and leaning over your body while you’re nearly underneath him makes your height difference more pronounced, a sense of powerlessness overcoming you. The worry in your thoughts heightens as you think about how many people you've pissed off by treating him like he's just another drunk guy at Grillby's.

     “Is that all you're curious about?” you ask, sipping in a breath when he pinches your nipples. The silky fabric of your bra might as well as be deemed useless in this situation. “Why not… go to the redlight district and pay for a human's service?”

     Sans sucks on a nipple, leaving a big wet spot behind when he pulls back.

     He's good at making it feel right, so you have to grab the top of his skull and close your eyes for a second, sighing the feeling away. If taking a couple of shots while waiting for him to show up didn't already make you a tad tipsy, the scent of his cologne makes you feel like you've drunk more than you thought. The air conditioner hardly does anything to fight against the heat of his breaths against your skin and his warm, increasingly smouldering touches all over your body. Your thoughts are a mess, and your heart yearns for something you're too aware he won't be able to give you. It's bittersweet, and a bit salty as you lick a few tears that have slipped past your eyes.

     “it’s not the same,” he says, sucking your other nipple. He leaves a larger wet spot behind, and you notice the erection hidden under his pants grow bigger. “it's gotta be with you.”

     That's a confession of feelings, if you've ever heard one.

     But it's not the way you would have liked it.

     “I’m no one special,” you remark, biting on your lip when he slips his hands under your armpits, the sleeveless dress allowing him to gain full access to the annoyingly sensitive flesh of your breasts. “You could find yourself someone more experienced. Someone who can try it all out with you.”

     He asks if he can touch some more, and you mumble a yes, then shut your eyes, gasp, and arch your back as soon as his fingers graze your bare nipples.

     It's rough and it's needy, like he's been holding himself back for who knows how long.

     “can i feel your butt now?”

     You don't know whether to be annoyed or flattered at the fact he's chosen to ignore your statement, so you nod as reluctantly as that thought.

     “you sure?” 

     He narrows an eye socket and raises another, making it seem as if he's raising an eyebrow.

     “Yes.”

     “bend over, then,” he commands, and his skull paints itself red again. “uh… please.”

     You turn your back to him and do as he says, knees and elbows on the seat while your butt hangs in the air.

     He groans out a dragged ‘fuck’, then sets his hands on either cheek, squeezing them.

     “spread your legs a lil’,” he instructs, fitting himself between them when you do.

     His fingertips aren't long, but they're sharp, and you can feel them dig past all the layers of clothing and into your skin.

     “you're so soft,” he mumbles, and you can see him close his eye sockets through the reflection of your car’s window. “can i…”

     There's the sound of something unzipping, and then of heavy fabric shifting.

     “can i put it between your cheeks?”

     At the feeling of something thick slipping into the crack even before you've given him permission, you let out an involuntary moan.

     “i like you a lot,” he says, and — again — this isn't the way you wanted his confession to be like. “can i keep goin'?” His words are careful, like he's dealing with a short fuse. “and, uh… maybe do the same with your tits?”

     You close your eyes and gasp as he pushes himself forward a little.

     “...S— Sure.”

     He grabs your butt tighter, then presses your cheeks together, applying pressure to his length.

     The car rocks as he thrusts himself back and forth between your cheeks.

     “you’re fuckin' amazin’,” he groans, picking up his pace. “i knew it.”

     Your dress causes a slightly awkward experience, though it's thin enough that his precum seeps into the fabric and makes his member slide easier with each movement in and out.

     Similar to the bra, your panties are a useless barrier he surpasses with sufficient ease, his release now wetting both the dress and your underwear.

     He keeps thrusting and shoots some of his load on your back, the warmth felt on your skin immediately.

     “turn around.”

     Sans pulls his member away and holds it in his palm while you lay on your back, pushing your breasts together when you're in a comfortable position.

     “This is the last thing I’m letting you do,” you warn, looking to the side as he fits his length between your breasts. “Hurry up.”

     He takes it literally, as the car rocks harder with each rough jerk forward into your cleavage.

     His tip reaches too close to your face, though he pulls himself off your breasts right as he shoots more cum, making it fall on your stomach, staining your dress.

     “Is this all you want?” you ask, frowning. “A fuck buddy?”

     “not just that.”

     He's panting like he's run a marathon, despite the feat lasting…

     You glance at the time on the front side of the car.

     “Six minutes,” you remark, grinning. “Shows you're really into foreplay, huh?”

     You hope teasing him about how much longer he often lasts with monster partners will get him angry, but he doesn't say anything.

     “i’m gonna make you happy,” he states, pulling himself away from you. “if you’ll let me.”

     Sans tucks his erection into his underwear, then fixes his pants back on.

     All of a sudden, he appears sober, and the man you're more used to shows up in his irises: intense, and as demanding as his threats.

     “will ya?”

     It's hard to believe he was a complete mess mere seconds ago.

     “I'm not sure.”

     “trust me that little?”

     As if he's screwed his drunkenness off his mind and body alike, he stares at you like he's finally remembered what you did at the bar. His irises wander up and down your body like he's judging you for how far you've let him go. And his grin stiffens at the sides like he's angry at you for spilling the beer on him, or regretting he's dry-fucked you.

     But then, something in his gaze softens and warms, and he lets out a chuckle so light and so airy, you feel a twist and turn in your chest — feelings and thoughts you’ve bat away since he seemingly showed no interest in dating his drinking buddy.

     Or humans, for that matter.

     “i wanna kiss you, walk with you to an altar, and see your face get more wrinkly the more days i wake up next to you in bed.”

     He helps you sit, then takes out a couple of wet wipes from the ones you typically stash in your purse, removing the cum stains off your dress.

     “take it how you will.”

Chapter Text

     After spilling that beer on him yesterday and dragging him off to her car to talk, the first thing (Y/N) did was take out a spare change of clothes from the trunk.

     Because of course, she did.

     “You left these at home the last time you stayed over,” she explained, already in the process of removing her jewellery while he changed out of his beer-soaked shirt. “There’s some wet wipes in my purse, if you wanna clean your face.”

     Sans has known her for a year, and — just like how she's the type to carry everything she could possibly need in her purse — she does the same for her car. With her tendency to overprepare, she hardly needed to borrow anything from him the few times she stayed over at his place. She had it all, and the only things she had ended up asking for were… a towel and a blanket.

     And only because she lent those to the friend she last dropped off at the beach, the day before that one.

     “thanks.”

     But Sans was also aware of where that overpreparedness came from.

     It's still a fresh memory, as if it happened an hour ago.

     “Can you pick me up, please?” she asked in between sniffles one night, and he had shot up right from the bed, that phone call made far too early in the morning. “I got kicked out.”

     That was two months into being her drinking buddy, and that's when her drinking habits got a little more severe. 

     Amidst body-wrecking sobs, throat-hurting wails, and eye-burning sniffles, she confessed it all to him inside his car. Sans provided her a firm shoulder to rest on and a warm hand she squeezed tightly, like she was about to go into labour. Her partner of three years had kicked her out in the middle of an argument about how he did more for her, and how she hardly gave anything back, and — with her having moved in with that partner the second year into the relationship — she had been left without a single thing to her name. Sans helped her further by bargaining a good apartment for a cheap price from one of the people who owed him big.

     Finally, four months after the breakup, she returned to her usual self, with only two major changes being made. 

     First, she never left her home without all the essentials for survival in her purse and her car, and…

     Second, she swore off being in a serious relationship, settling exclusively for casual sex by hooking up with someone on a dating app, and meeting them at Grillby's.

     Whenever it was a good date, Sans saw her leave with that person off to the hotel a five-minute drive away.

     Whenever it was a bad date, he swept in and took care of escorting the person out of the bar.

     What made this whole ‘soulmate’ nonsense difficult was catching the first clear view of that red string on his pinky finger and hers the exact same day she declared with the clink of two glasses of whiskey — hers with his — that she would never date someone more than once again.

     Before that, he'd only caught glimpses similar to the day he met her a year ago, with Frisk excitedly tugging her along behind them, introducing her as their primary caregiver during the time they spent in her foster care.

     “Ready?”

     Presently, a week after that beer-throwing, dry-fucking incident, Sans feels guilty, having her bend to his will — both literally and not.

     “You've got ten minutes, tops. Don't come inside, and no kissing me while we're doing it.”

     She's on all fours on her bed, in only her underwear.

     He's aware his touch has at least some positive effect on her, judging by the wetness of her cunt, but it doesn't help with feeling any less guilty. 

     She's been through too much shit this year to add more to the list, and that's what's made him doubt this whole ‘soulmate’ thing. It's almost the New Year, and she texted him this morning saying she wouldn't be going out anywhere for the holidays, so he had to get his present early, if he wanted it. He stupidly replied in agreement without a moment of hesitation, and then arrived at her place to see her in a short and sparkly, gold-and-black dress, with a golden ribbon on her head, and a tiny little tag on her shoulder reading ‘unwrap me'.

     Sans obliged, only to be frozen with that guilt now that she's waiting for him to go inside her.

     “Sans?”

     Her tone — after so many months of him hearing her guarded tone, making sure not to show too much emotion — is currently as tender as the touch to his cheekbone feels.

     She's stood up and walked up to him, searching his face for something.

     “Are you okay?”

     Sans stares at her eyes, wet, wide, sparkling as much as her dress, and—

     She squeaks and closes them when he kisses her.

     His tongue keeps itself in wait as he goes slow first, indulging in a feeling she hadn't allowed in the car, and one she warned she wasn't a fan of anymore, and that it was something she swore off just as she swore off anything that wasn't casual.

     His hands cup her arse, and she gasps into the kiss as she's brought back into bed, with her sitting on top of him.

     When his tongue makes its entrance, she moans and kisses back, her hands finding their home around his neck while her arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer. She grinds into his erection and, after a while, removes a hand from his neck to part her panty to the side, rubbing into him more without that layer to keep her apart. He's still clothed, so her wetness stains his pants the more she rubs against him.

     “I thought I said no kissing,” she says after breaking the kiss, eyes wetter, wider, and more sparkly than ever. “You—”

     He cuts her off with a deeper kiss, all tongue and teeth and desperately needy.

     Until he feels a careful push to his chest.

     A warning.

     “Stop,” she pants out, tears marking her cheeks. “Don't make me regret this.”

     The sight of her like this makes all sorts of emotions swirl and whirl across his mind: anger, love, betrayal, repentance, and…

     Want.

     So, so much of it.

     Her breath hitches when he goes for a third kiss, pinning her down in bed.

     She makes no effort to stop him, yet she repeats it between partings of her lips from his teeth.

     Stop.

     Stop.

     Stop.

     “Stop!”

     A hard shove to his chest sobers that last feeling, while the other four reign havoc, overcrowding his sufficiently busy mind.

     “You don't love me, and… I don't do relationships,” she remarks, glaring at him through the tears. “I don't want this! Just fuck me and go home.”

     She's still offering herself, at least, and yet…

     The last thing he wants is to be inside of her right now, when she's looking at him like he's responsible for all the bad things she's gone through.

     “Do it,” she says, after a seemingly eternal beat of silence. “If you don't, it's over.”

     “that makes no sense.”

     Sans stands up and sits on the edge of the bed, allowing her to sit up straight, too.

     “What?” she snaps, crossing her arms. “Why?”

     “i’m not gonna fuck you if you don't actually want it.”

     She eyerolls, albeit with all the tears leaving her gaze and further staining her cheeks, then stands up and walks to the bedside table.

     “If you won't, I'll do it myself,” she warns, opening the top drawer. “What will it be?”

     He stands and walks up to her, hands in his pockets and his irises on the hand she's slipped into the drawer.

     “i don't just wanna fuck you,” he states, taking her wrist and pressing himself against her.

     She's almost as tall as him, though he's wider.

     “i wanna make love to you.”

     She removes her hand from the drawer, closes it, and turns around, facing him.

     “But I don't.”

     Her head nods behind him, and she brushes away the hand still on her wrist.

     “Go away, please.” She crosses her arms over her chest, yet it's more like she's trying to hug herself. “We can still be friends, and I'm gonna give you one more chance to have sex, but…”

     Her eyes close and the tears stop.

     “You can't say you're in love with me, because you're not.”

     When her eyes open, a smile rises to her lips: sad, bitter, pitiful, and—

     “how the fuck can you know that?”

     Sans takes a step back and shakes his head, a mirthless chuckle leaving his teeth.

     “y’know what?” His irises wander to the drawer behind her. “you're right. you should do it yourself.”

     “W— Wait!”

     Ignoring her, he reaches the door and sets his hand on the doorknob.

     And then, he turns around to see she's actually hugging herself now.

     “I've got a real present for you,” she says, looking at the floor. “It's… on the couch in the living room.”

     Sans nods and stuffs his hand in his suit jacket's pockets, producing a gift.

     “mine,” he replies, throwing it on her bed. “happy holidays. i'll call you before the new year.”

     She stares at the gift and sits down on the bed, smiling when she takes it and hears the contents jingle.

     “Happy holidays.”

     The door closes, and he slips out his phone, staring at Grillby's phone number.

     After picking up the gift his… soulmate left for him, Sans paces back and forth — from the living room to the door of her bedroom, and vice-versa, until he dials the number and stuffs the gift away in his suit jacket.

     “No, you're not gonna drink tonight, punk,” Undyne answers instead, sounding as loud and angry as ever. “We warned you, didn't we?” she continues, not a trace of sympathy in her tone. “Spend the holidays alone and sober.”

     “she’s human, and she's my soulmate,” Sans repeats, passing a hand across his forehead and all the way to the back of his skull. “it's not my fault she can't see the fuckin’ string.”

     There's the sound of rustling, then of a new voice on the other line.

     “If you think it's that easy,” Alphys interjects, sounding pissed. “Do you think Undyne and I wouldn't have been together sooner?”

     She hangs up.

     And Sans, with a hand still set vaguely on the doorknob, pushes open the door just a little, seeing his soulmate in bed, doing what he told her to do after he refused to do as she wanted. Her eyes are closed and her legs are spread as she thrusts the vibrator in and out. His name is mumbled and whimpered in between each wave of pleasure, and she grinds into the device, trying to find her release. Her unoccupied hand holds onto his unwrapped gift like it's her means to support herself, and her toes curl when she shuts her eyes tighter and goes faster. Squelches and moans compose a song, almost luring him in.

     He shuts the door, slumps to the floor, and lets out a breath, closing his eye sockets and calming his soul down until the image and the noises settle into an afterthought.

     “Don't— Don't go,” she pleads when she appears to have reach her climax, but he doesn't listen.

     Sans is well on his way to the exit, until he hears a door open and rushed footsteps follow after him.

     “We can talk this out,” she comments, and he turns around to notice she's standing in the middle of her living room, her eyes still wet and her legs evidencing the results of her self-gratification. “Please, stay.”

     His irises glimpse behind him: at the easy way out.

     “I see the red string, too.” Her voice is too defeated — too unlike the human woman he used to know before she came undone after that breakup. “Stay. I want you here with me,” she says, more clearly now.

     More sure of herself.

     “you don't see it.”

     “I— I do!”

     Seeming to have reached her breaking point, she wipes her eyes with an arm and scowls at nothing.

     “It's here,” she elaborates, poking out her pinky finger. “And it's connected to yours!”

     She sniffles and makes eye contact, a smile bursting through her self-pity.

     “I want the same as you, but…” She draws in a deep and sharp breath. “I— I need to fix myself first. Pull myself back together. You can stay tonight, and… return if you want to, when and if it feels like we deserve each other.”

     Sans stares at the tremble in her hands and the sorrow in her eyes.

     And then, he joins her side and offers his hand.

     “doesn't mean you have to do it alone.” She takes his hand. “let's go get you washed up first.”

     “...What?”

     He winks, gaining a confused grin from her.

     “i’m takin’ you out for the holidays. somewhere fancy.”

     Her smile grows bigger, and she welcomes him with a hug.

     “Why?”

     “‘cuz that's why i bought ya that gift for.”

     His hands lower from her waist to her rear, groping her butt and drawing her closer to him.

     She kisses his teeth, gentle and sweet.

     “still got a change of clothes around?” He stares down at himself — at the stain of her sex on his pants. “or... maybe i can borrow your laundry room?”

     She beams at him and nods, pulling herself away from his embrace and pointing with her brighter eyes at the bathroom.

     “Be my guest.”