Archive of Our Own ^beta

You don't even know how you ended up on your knees this fast. One moment Sans was making lazy conversation, half-lidded sockets fixed on you like you were the punchline to a joke he hadn't finished telling—and the next, he had you between his legs, cupping your cheek with one hand and tilting your face up with a touch far too gentle for how dark his grin had gotten.

"heh. guess you do like keeping your mouth busy, huh?"

You can't answer with his cock brushing your lips. He taps it once against your mouth, slow and teasing, smearing slick across your bottom lip like he wants to mark it. You open instinctively—maybe too eagerly—and he groans, soft but deep, as you wrap your lips around the head and take him in.

"goddamn," he rasps, voice going low and rough. "that mouth's gonna kill me."

He tastes like static and salt—like ozone. You can feel his magic twitch just under your tongue as you slide down, sucking slow, deliberate. His hips twitch just slightly, controlled despite the pressure behind his voice.

"don’t stop, kid. fuck—just like that."

Your tongue curls under him, moving instinctively, and it’s good —it’s too good. There's something deeply satisfying in the way he breathes when your lips slide down again, slow and warm and tight. You hollow your cheeks a little and he grunts , hips pressing forward just a little more.

You can feel him watching you. Half-lidded sockets locked onto your face like he's trying to memorize every twitch, every sound, every little hum you make around his cock.

"you like this, huh?" he mutters, voice a little breathless now. “so eager to drool all over my dick… guess you were just waitin’ to be full.”

You are drooling. You didn’t notice until his hand tilts your head back just slightly, until you feel it sliding down your chin, wet and messy. He likes it—you can tell. He moves his cock across your lips again, smearing precum and spit.

You moan—low, needy—and that earns you a groan . He fucks back into your mouth slowly now, shallow thrusts that drag against your tongue sweetly. That emphasizes the scrape of it against the top of your mouth. The way it kisses the back of your throat.

You bob your head, letting your lips glide wetly down to the base, and the moment your nose brushes the soft slope of his pelvis, he gasps , breath catching ragged.

"fuck. fuck, you're perfect."

His fingers curl into your hair, not forcing, just holding —just keeping you there, like he can't stand the idea of letting you go.

You suck harder.

Not just to please him—but because you can’t help yourself. There’s something addictive about the way he sounds, the weight of his cock on your tongue, the low rasp of his breath when you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.

Your body answers before your mind can catch up.

You’re soaking.

You didn’t realize how wet you were until you shifted your knees, pressing down for leverage, and felt it— slick and warm beneath your body, your need dragging across the floor as you rutted into it, desperate for friction. The pressure of your hips against the ground sends sparks up your spine, and it only gets worse when Sans groans again, low and ragged, his cock twitching on your tongue.

You press down harder.

Grinding your pelvis into the floor with each slow suck of your mouth, hips stuttering in rhythm with your bobbing head. It’s pathetic, how much this is doing to you. How your core pulses just from the weight of him on your tongue, the stretch of your jaw, the way he sounds when you moan around him.

And you do. You moan loudly , just for the feel of it—just to make the vibration shoot up his length.

"shit, kid" Sans hisses. His fingers tighten in your hair, hips jerking, and you feel his composure cracking. “you’re fuckin’ soaked, aren’t ya?”

Your cheeks burn. You don’t look up—you can’t. Not with how obvious it is. The way you keep humping the floor, grinding yourself raw against your own slick. The way your thighs tremble every time you take him deeper.

“heh… got you all worked up just from suckin’ me off, huh?” he pants, and there’s something unsteady in his voice now, something that makes your gut coil tight. “goddamn, you’re filthy.”

You are . You’re filthy, soaking, and ruined—and you haven’t even been touched. You rub harder into the floor, chasing some kind of relief, desperate and slick and aching for more.

And still, you don’t stop. You keep sucking him down like you need it, like his cock is the only thing anchoring you to this moment, to this body.

It’s obscene. It’s perfect