One of the things Sans loved most about you was the way you totally enabled his lazy lifestyle. Sure, he fully planned on pulling his weight around here sometime. He was working, very slowly, at getting a degree, online. He was trying out all sorts of new things, like writing and art and photography, to see if he had any natural talent to spring off of. Of course, in the event that the two of you had kids together one day like you often talked about doing, he would take up the role of the stay-at-home dad in a soulbeat.
But for now, he lived an easy life, seeing you off to work each day of the work week with a kiss goodbye and proceeding to do… whatever, for the next eight hours or so until you came home.
He never took this for granted. He knew how many people—NORMAL people—would probably get angry with him for taking so long to start pulling his weight. But you were always, always patient. You wanted him to take his time. To find his passions. To think long and hard about what he was going to dedicate so much of his life to. It was a great big world, and he had only relatively recently been thrown into it. How depressing would it be for him to end up caught in some miserable job he hated just because he rushed into a career choice, just like so many other people? You didn’t want that to happen to him. This was his epilogue, and he deserved a gentle and happy one. What kind of shitty story ends with ‘the world isn’t what he hoped it was, and he spent the rest of his life a little less than satisfied because of it?’
You would never, ever know just how far that was from the truth.
You were right about one thing—the world wasn’t what he thought it was. He was expecting violence, hatred, war, abuse. And when political tensions escalated with the liberation of the monsters from the underground, he felt that his concerns were validated. But Frisk was a wonderful ambassador, Toriel and Asgore were extremely effective as figures of royalty, despite their ruined marriage, and humans… humans were better than he ever gave them credit for.
Sure, some were just what he’d expected. They wanted monsters dead, or at least gone. Shoved back into the underground. Out of this country, out of that country, out of every country.
But most weren’t. In a matter of weeks, there were laws being drafted, negotiations being made. Some of the more progressive schools and workplaces began accepting monster applicants. Charities, food banks, shelters. It was his first taste of widescale human kindness and altruism.
He met you because he and Papyrus needed a place to live, and you were offering. One double bedroom in a two-bedroom apartment (the other bedroom was yours, of course!). Two bathrooms. Kitchen, electricity, wi-fi, 1025 square feet. That all sounded like a dream, but he’d been worried that just one little thing about it could still turn it into a shit pit: their new flatmate.
You. He was worried about you. Thinking about that still made him want to laugh. He was intimidated by you when he met you. You were taller than him, like everyone was, but it suddenly seemed threatening. Your colorful eyes, your silky hair, your disarming smile, you fucking galaxy-design jacket you had on when he met you. You had bad news written all over you!
… By which he meant, he felt like his soul was tying itself in knots in his chest, and he’d never really felt that before, and he didn’t know what it was. Stupid.
It was his soul falling all over itself trying to say hello to its soulmate for the very first time, in a situation that was in no way conducive to such a momentous occasion.
That was how you met. And how you got together was a whole other story, best told in a multi-chapter format that a particularly lazy and fickle writer wouldn’t be too keen on attempting. But the important thing was that you were together now. He’d found his soulmate, and he was with them. He was living with them from the get-go, the lucky devil, which meant the two of you never had to go through the laborious moving-in-together song and dance! The only moving you did was moving his bony ass over to your bedroom instead of Papyrus’, selling your two single beds and getting a double to cuddle in together. Papyrus was happy about it—not only did he strongly support the relationship between the two of you, he was also delighted to have Sans and his messy lifestyle quarantined in a new room that was not his own.
All of this did wonders in mending Sans’ broken soul. For the first year or so after meeting you, even as he fell for you, he never would’ve dared show you his soul. It was hideous. Marred by depression, death and circumstance. He worried that somehow, if you saw his soul, you might not love him so much anymore. You were counting on him to be strong, and stable, and grounded, and blasé about whatever terrible things happened to him. What would you think if you saw that he wasn’t really any of those things? Then he wouldn’t be the man you knew. He wouldn’t be the man you loved.
It was when you proved him wrong about that, that his soul fully made the connection with yours. That wasn’t possible until he completely opened himself up to you. But when you sat on the bathroom floor, hugging him to your chest as he drunkenly cried his eye sockets out about some nightmare he couldn’t even remember, it broke down the last weak walls he had around you, and your relationship changed forever. Each of you, individually, changed forever. His soul changed forever.
It wasn’t that the scars went away. It was all about the way you looked at him, the way you looked at it. Under your gaze, it was the most perfect soul in the world just the way it was. It was a bit of a domino effect after that. Knowing how truly and unconditionally you loved him made his soul glow brighter. When his soul glowed brighter, you noticed, and it made you even happier with him. Seeing you so happy over his recovery put him in even better condition… and needless to say, today, that soul was still beating strong, and it hadn’t glowed so healthy and bright since he was a naïve, optimistic little babybones. With only one difference.
He didn’t have his soul cycle as a babybones.
Soul cycles, bone moons, monster heat, whatever you preferred to call it, it was all the same thing, though he preferred the term soul cycles, simply because it was the most accurate. For one thing, it was very much tied to the soul, as it didn’t happen spontaneously upon hitting puberty like he was aware most biological hormone cycles did. It only began post-pubescently along with the presence of a monster’s soulmate. But besides that, its purpose was fairly similar to that of a human’s hormonal cycle. Each month, a monster’s body would go through a cascade of changes culminating in a night of… how could one put this lightly?
It made him want to fill you with his semen until it came out the other end. (Forgive him for not having a perfect understanding of internal human anatomy.)
He was only a few soul cycles in at this point, and still getting used to it. So far, he’d been lucky enough to always have them on days that you spent at home. You always knew what was up, because even when he wasn’t fully conscious of it, he spent all day courting you like he was going to have to win you over all over again just to get you into bed with him (which wasn’t at all true, because for the rest of the month, you were always the initiator). He cuddled you relentlessly, couldn’t spend a minute away from you, made you food, showed you anything he could to impress you. He got needy and clingy.
This was, of course, absolute torture now that you were off at work and he was home alone. Damn. All he wanted was to burrow his face in your chest, have your softness and your scent all around him… God, that was creepy. He sounded like an animal. But you did have a scent, and it drove him crazy, especially during his soul cycle when his senses were so heightened.
Sweating and silently begging his aching soul to calm down, he lay on the living room couch with an arm around the pillow he took from where you slept in your bed, and his phone in his other hand, texting you surprisingly quickly with just one thumb.
Sansafras: how’s work?
Sansafras: listen uh
Sansafras: i need you
He eagerly awaited your response. Honestly? He’d settle for phone sex. Hell, he’d settle for sexting. Not even with pictures. Just sweet little words about how much you loved him and how good you were going to make him feel when you got home.
You never left him waiting long for a response, as disappointed as he was in the one he got.
Vertebae: Sorry honey, important presentation in a few.
Vertebae: Are you okay? You don’t usually quadruple text. I can come home if it’s an emergency.
Oh, he was so, SO tempted to say that it was. But that would worry you to death, and you probably wouldn’t be happy with him at all if he tricked you into coming home just to bone. He could hold it in. Oh, man, he could hold it in if he really tried.
Sansfras: nah i’m fine just missing you. luvya xo
Vertebae: Love you!
He sighed and put down his phone. That didn’t help at all. Hell, it only made things worse. Just seeing those words, that you loved him, made the magic flowing through his bones just a little bit more excited than before. That was the awesome and terrible thing about these soul cycles. The shows of love and affection that had become a part of your everyday life with each other was suddenly the kind of thing that could push him over the edge. You had a personal voicemail message for him, and he was so pent up, on such a total high off his feelings for you, he could honestly whack it to that voicemail message right now.
Hey, he could totally whack it to that voicemail message right now! He was a genius. He texted you with both thumbs this time, blepping his tongue out a little as he did.
Sansafras: turn off your phone k. you know my phone loves to buttdial you and you don’t want ‘skeleton love’ blasting around polite company.
Vertebae: Lmao too true. Ok turning it off now. Should be back on in a couple hours, text you then, and if you need anything you know Papyrus always picks up on the first or second ring.
Sansafras: lol yeah i do. buh-bye babe.
And hello, babe’s voicemail! He was too far gone to even realize how pathetic and desperate he was being right now. That only registered faintly in the fleeting interim between consecutive orgasms. He gave you a few minutes, five to be exact, to make sure you’d really turned your phone off. It would be pretty embarrassing to be caught calling you right after telling you he was okay and saying bye to you. He wasn’t sure his sex-fogged mind could come up with anything on the spot.
Luckily, it didn’t need to. You must’ve done what you’d said you would, because your phone went straight to voicemail.
“Hey babe. Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. But knowing you, I think I can tide you over until I can get back to you.”
Sweetheart, you didn’t know the half of it. He already had his hand in his shorts, wrapped around his hastily-formed cock.
“Let’s see, I’ve got Google up, aaand…” There were exaggerated typing noises in the background. “Oookay, quickfire round. Why are skeletons so calm because nothing gets under their skin. What does a skeleton order at a restaurant spare ribs.”
Oh, fuck yeah. You were reciting skeleton puns just for him. That was such a distinctly Sans’ datemate thing to do. While his left arm was hard at work vigorously stimulating himself, he pressed his right arm to his sweaty forehead like a sinner in church feeling faint.
“What do you call a snake skeleton a rattler. You should call me more often on the tele-BONE.”
He whined, pulling his knees up towards his body a little more. Your voice dripped with your love for him, just for him, with every syllable. You looked up bad skeleton puns on Google just for him. He was your boy. You loved him so much, you were glad he was so happy, you only ever wanted him to be more and more happy with each passing day—
“Uh. Shit, shit. There’s a SKELE-TON more puns here but I’m running outta time so ask me about ‘em next time we talk, alright? Okay LOVE YOU BYE—” There was a beep signifying it was time to leave a message.
“noooo…” He whined like a child having his toy taken away from him. “i was—” He was about to vocalize his disappointment that he’d been just about to cum when he remembered that the beep did, indeed, indicate that he was being recorded now. Mortified, he hung up. Then immediately called your number again. Nothing could stop his thirst for you on his bone moon—heat—soul cycle. Whatever. Stars, he needed to cum if he wanted to be able to think straight for five damn seconds.
“Hey babe. Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now. But knowing you, I think I can tide you over until I can get back to you…”
He squeezed his eyes shut, blushed, bit the knuckle of his right index finger, anything to immerse himself in nothing but your voice and the essence of your love for him. He had to concentrate on that, not on the fact that you weren’t actually here right now, and that he was servicing himself, which he saw nothing sexy about, and never really understood why you saw it any differently. Love really must be blind for you to be attracted to him, he always thought.
“Why are skeletons so calm because nothing gets under their skin.”
“oh. yes. baby—"
“What does a skeleton order at a restaurant spare ribs.”
“baby, i’m so turned on right now, i can’t h—nnh--!”
“What do you call a snake skeleton a rattler.”
“fuck!” He was losing himself in the moment so much, he probably wouldn’t even notice if Papyrus came in the front door. His eyes were squeezed shut and covered by his arm, his own voice and, more importantly, yours, drowning out any other noise. He was blind, he was deaf, to everything but you and him. “oh, yeah, keep going, please!”
“You should call me more often on the tele-BONE.”
That did it. That sent him over the edge, and it was fast, and it was intense. Sans wasn’t one to shout, his natural voice as quiet and laid-back as it was deep, but these soul-fueled orgasms were something else. His small body curled in on itself, totally rigid, and he made an absolute mess of his old, beloved basketball shorts. What was a dribble of cum at “tele” was a hearty spurt by the time you said “BONE,” and was immediately followed by several more. By the time he was done, and he let his body relax with a soft whimper, his shorts, his femurs, and his pelvis were all thoroughly soaked in his ejaculate.
Even in his brief moment of otherwise-clarity, all he could think about was what a waste that was. It should be inside you, not all over himself.
God, he was such a pathetic little bastard.
He waited until the “LOVE YOU” to hang up, but made sure not to let it go to voicemail this time. Then he got to sit there in the total, oppressive silence of the living room and think about what he’d just done. It wasn’t like he could ignore it, with the cold wetness slowly settling between his legs, his hand still wrapped around an ecto-boner that just wouldn’t quit, and his phone still on the couch cushion beside his head.
“… i guess that’s what gets me off. listening to a recording of vertebae’s voice. reciting skeleton puns. off of google.” He groaned, bringing your pillow over his face with the arm that wasn’t still preoccupied with holding his junk. “c’monnn, sans. you’re better than this. you coulda’ at least had ‘em tell you the puns in real time. or had ‘em make up the puns themself. what kinda weak bullshit…” He chuckled, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. “ah, what the hell, though. maybe that’s just true love.”
There was no ‘maybe,’ really. He knew he was in love with you. He was so in love with you, he forgot what it felt like not to be. What was that huge space in his soul filled up with before he met you? Was it occupied by a conglomeration of other things, or was it just… empty? Maybe it had to be. He’d never wanted to do this before. None of it. Not the romance and even less, the sex. Not until you filled that space.
Maybe that was what that open, waiting space was. It was his soul waiting to meet yours. Stars, that was romantic.
… Stars, your pillow still smelled so good…
* * *
“hnnh—ahhh~! oh please, baby, just one more. i’m beggin’ you, i know i don’t deserve it, but PLEASE lemme cum just one more time…”
Oh, man. Sans had no concept of how much time had passed. Could’ve been half an hour, could’ve been five hours. Actually, it was about one hour, almost exactly. But he’d been abusing the hell out of that pillow the entire time, and he didn’t feel like he was going to stop. Not anytime soon, not until the damn thing didn’t even smell like you anymore. His sex drive was stuck in the ON position and at maximum intensity. A soul cycle had never been quite so unbearable for him, and the need for sex never hit him quite so early in the day, possibly because, up until this time, he always had you around to cuddle with and take the edge off until the evening.
Not having you there drove him up the wall, and he was becoming more and more sure that he wasn’t going to be fully satisfied until you took care of him, somehow, however you wanted to. Penetrative sex, handjob, blowjob, even just mutual masturbation could do it, he hardly cared—though sex, for once, sounded the most appealing, simply because at the root of his urges was the desire to cum inside you in a wild attempt to impregnate you, responsible family planning be damned.
In short, it wasn’t going to matter how long he masturbated, he was still going to have some fire left in him for when you got home. So he was all settled in and more than ready for a several-hour-long, nut-busting marathon of an afternoon. When you texted him to let him know you were driving home, then he would make himself decent so that he could proposition you with what little dignity he could retain with an obvious, glowing boner. That wasn’t going away.
Except that what he thought was a neighbor unlocking their door, was actually you unlocking your door.
“Saaans!” You called out, not immediately spotting him. “The meeting got out early, you were texting me, acting weird and you called me TWICE, do you want to talk, orrr…”
Aaand now you saw him. He was not the picture of grace at the moment. He was on his back, cum-stained shorts around his ankles not even fit to compete with the cum-splattered pillow he had held up to his nose. His left hand was wrapped firmly around his short, thick little cock, and though frozen in place now, you could only guess at how furiously he’d been stroking himself before you got there. The blush on his face spoke volumes of it.
“… My pillow…” The perfectly-timed dejected tone of your voice would’ve been enough to make him howl with laughter if he wasn’t so terribly embarrassed.
“… b-babe. go back outside for a minute. you didn’t see shit.”
“… Oooh~!” You burst into giggles, which only made him blush harder and cover more of his face with the pillow. For the first time since it all started, he let go of his manhood. It felt wrong to touch himself, especially in front of you, unless you ordered him to do it.
“baaaabe!” he whined at you. “go out there and gimme a minute to get myself together. or else i’m gonna throw this pillow at you.”
“Mister, you aren’t throwing that pillow anywhere but in the laundry machine!” You chided him. “Ohhh-ho-hohh! Sugar skull, you had me so worried! I got a voicemail from you and all I heard was you going… ‘noooo.’” You laughed like there was no friggin’ tomorrow, and he loved your laugh, loved it more than anything in the world. But right now, he felt like it was mocking him, like it was at his expense, and he wanted to just T-pose, clip through the floor and disappear off the plane of existence that was this life.
“shut uuup, you don’t know what a soul cycle is like, especially for an… otherwise asexual monster.”
“’noooooo!’” You mocked him some more, and he was about to tell you to ‘seriously, knock it off,’ but then your hands were at his sides and you were tickling him furiously, and it was impossible to be upset with you doing that. He burst into laughter to match yours, though his was much more breathless. Then his laughter trailed into a soft, grateful moan as you began kissing his sternum, from the bottom to the top. His body relaxed and went limp (well, all of it except one very stubborn part) in a show of surrender to you.
“i’m… i’m so glad you’re home,” he mumbled, feeling each and every kiss like it was directly on his soul. “because i love you. and. because i need you right now. for, uh. for this.”
“Hmmm…” You hummed gratefully against his clavicle, stopping just short of kissing it. “And what is ‘this,’ exactly?”
He could see, in his periphery, that your gorgeous, colorful eyes were staring right up at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with you as he spilled everything he knew.
“these. these feelings i have for you. i’ve never had them before. i don’t think i could have ‘em except for the soul bond. you started this in me. it’s so dirty but it’s only because i love you so damn much. i love you and i don’t know what to do, because i can’t get my mind off of… off of all this filthy stuff i wanna do together with you. oh, s-stars…” he sucked in a breath through his teeth, gripped the couch cushions, as he felt your lips on his clavicle. He could tell you knew that was one of his favorite places to be kissed.
“Mmm…” Contrary to his expectations, you seemed to approve of that. You climbed on to his lap, sat carelessly—or maybe completely intentionally—on his glowing length, making him yelp at the sudden foreign contact. You kissed each of his cervical vertebrae, then his cheek, then his teeth. He cupped your cheek and kissed you back, slowly coming to accept this as you were. It was what he’d been waiting for all day. You were finally going to take care of him. Comfort him. Satisfy him, completely. You were going to fuck him six ways from Sunday and leave him in a 24-to-48-hour vegetative state he could never give to himself.
To love it.