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Hoodwinked

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There’s a little victory in the sense Red feels when he hears footsteps approach the porch. He’s been anticipating it ever since it hit 4:09pm, playing on his phone for the better half of the hour while relishing the sweet, sweet reward that would be all his. After all the hypertension of such a sexually charged afternoon, Red’s showered, dried and sprawled on the couch, taking up as much room as possible.

It’s also very on point that he’s managed to get whatever stain that was imprinted on Sans’ hoodie out, which now enfolds him like a lingering scent. Fuck what anyone else says, it’s not affection when he preens and nestles his mouth against Sans’ neck like he belongs there. Sans is at home, tucked in and cosy. He wouldn’t want to be a part of this, even if his objections are lessening lately. Red’s saving these kinds of things for when they’re a little less gun-shy.

So he waits, fighting the knee jerk response to look at the door when he hears the keys jangle against its wooden surface. He’s not in his usual place; Red has his back to the entrance of the house, which raises his hackles, just wired enough not to show it when Edge opens the door. Red pulls the hood up and around his jaw, burying the collar around his throat and the arm that would have one around his wrist if he actually was this world’s Sans. This way, he effectively hides the fact he’s not the Sans Edge expects to see, barebones and dozing on their couch.

The only betrayal is the several nicks and cuts in Red’s bones, a timeline and tallied list of injuries a testament to their lives spent in murder hell. He stretches out anyway, knowing that the LV in his eyes will betray him eventually. When he skirts his foot up and yawns, Red slings a forearm over his eyes, imitating the way Sans sleepily gets ready to snooze.

He can feel his brother approach with an air of caution.

Good. He hasn’t lost his wariness. Red’s almost proud, though in a sense he’s a little disappointed that Sans can so easily be his kryptonite.

The smell of Sans’ hoodie is a little intoxicating. Though washed and dried, there’s still a ghost of him tucked away in the fibres. Red curls pleasantly into the warmth, a grin tugging at his teeth. Shit, he forgot the teeth. Damn soft bastard. He’ll have to improvise.

“You’re extremely troubled if you think I’m going to fall for this,” his brother says, dry as a desert. That’s what Red thinks as he snickers, knowing full well how he thirsts for the short glass of water Sans is.

A little perversely, he wonders out loud, “Hey, if you think we can get me to smell enough like `im, all we’ll need is the hoodie and a fun afternoon.” He has to bite back the rabid dog he’s awakened with that comment, snarling at the back of his head. He placates it with the promise of a bone. “Been practisin’ how he talks.”

There’s a beat of hesitation and Red can feel Edge’s burning gaze. Interested in seeing just how the disguise has affected him, Red uncovers his eyes to witness the heat levelled directly at him, from Edge poised above him, his arms folded defensively. He’s not this easy to read. Normally he keeps himself in check.

Usually Red doesn’t have the audacity to lure out his innermost fantasies, bareboned and disguised as Sans, smaller than he feels without the layers of clothing.

It draws a deep though repressed breath from Edge, shuddering in all the want. Red can taste how much he wants him and Sans isn’t even around, it’s just that good. He really shouldn’t, but the unspoken promise that it would be too good to pass up severely outweighs any past indulgences.

“Y’wanna?” Red says, his voice feeling tight when he fixes his tone to be a little softer, so vastly different from years of spitting vulgarities that it feels almost fake. It ignites something in his brother’s eyes. “C’mon, edgelord. You already know I wanna.”

Edge is already moving to take up the other side of the couch and Red moves his legs to accommodate him. There’s no real rush, as much as Red senses him to pretty much be down with the idea already. He holds his legs close to his body, taking as little room as possible as months with Sans has afforded him insight to.

“He doesn’t nearly say `wanna` so much,” Edge says, likely in some effort to deter him. Red gives him a toothy grin, all sharp razors contrasting the soft cornflower blue of Sans’ hoodie.

“I can get into the act just fine. He says it a lot more when he’s fucked up and beggin’, though,” back to his regular cadence, Red sends Edge a leering smile at the pause that produces. God, it’s fun when he hangs up like a lost wireless signal. It’s the best. “I can give you some pointers. Coach you through it. Tell ya what pushes his buttons and what he does when you play with the joystick.”

Oh, Edge grips at his knee like it’s the single most tether to this realm and it’s the only thing keeping him in place. Red knows he’s only got a little line left before he starts running out of material. He’ll go pretty far for a joke, but not far enough to actually engage in softer affairs. It’s not their thing. Though…

His soul does the needy little clench it does when he touches that metaphorical hot stove. Red’s grin slips a little when Edge gives in and leans over him, tracing his femur up to reach the ribbed band of the sweater. The crest of his hip aches with the warmth of Edge’s fingers.

“You want to do well, don’t ya?” Red says, his voice a little shaky when he trains his voice again. He doesn’t resist, but the softer way Edge handles him makes him feel wobbly. “Get in some good practise for me?”

As he speaks, Edge’s been yearning closer, and with it, Red’s soul has been pounding faster. He isn’t sure why he’s into it, or maybe that’s the real reason he allows himself to sheath the knife and allow his brother to treat him differently. There’s a brief shock to his system when Edge pulls his pelvis into his lap, his fingertips digging into his hip where he knows it’ll bruise, if only to ground him. Then his mouth is on his and Red can close his eyes, feeling a swell so intimate in his chest that for a moment he thinks this is the most fucked up he’s ever been.

He knows Edge’s got a thing for sentimentals. He knows Edge needs this as much as Red’s fling turned… whatever. But it throbs like a fresh welt, sweet and heady and playing nice(r) just for his brother. Edge needs this. Hell, Red might need this.

Despite the niceties, heat pools towards the base of Red’s pelvis just from the ache of being handled, both with hesitance and a leashed want that he can feel ripple throughout his magic, hungry and yearning. His laugh is a little breathless when Edge lets him up for air with an inquisitive brow raised.

“No commentary?”

Red sends him a look that’s more brow waggles than anything. “He don’t get too chatty with me, unless I initiate. He holds back,” he replies, a little snark to the bid. He resists the urge to bite the inviting clavicle under the pristine black shirt. Lucky him. His hands find the centremost button of Edge’s shirt and he slowly unbuttons it, his breath catching a little. “He lets you know with his body anyway,” he continues, rolling his hips in a way that’s not fair at all. He can feel the heat of Edge’s magic under his tailbone. “Bet he’d love to suck your cock to distract you. He plays dirty for how sweetly he sings.”

It’s an illegal shot but he takes it. He’ll end up in the penalty box later anyways. Edge sucks in an eager breath, pinning one of Red’s wrists down to the armrest of the couch out of habit more than anything else. It’s a point to fix on, to not allow himself to get too soft. Red leers as it pinches his shoulder, knowing he’s out of the scene.

Regardless, Edge’s other hand strokes over the curve of his hip and upward, tracing the small healed gashes in Red’s bones like they’re smooth porcelain instead. Red’s soul does another traitorous throb as Edge savours the inward slope of his ilium. It makes Red’s hips jerk at the featherlight touches.

“You hold `im down, he’s going to fold for you like a cheap lawn chair,” Red says, predictably irritating. Belatedly, he remembers something dirty and laughs, his voice turning back to the other Sans’ tone. “I wouldn’t object to a little rough h.. handling, though.”

It doesn’t hide the fact that his breaths are getting a little shakier as Edge closes his eyes, then leans down, using his height as leverage to pet under Red’s ribs. They’re unmarked there, all the better for their little roleplay. Red feels Edge growl lowly, it shaking all the way down his spine and catching on every ridge of cartilage. 

Red makes a noise low in his throat, one that’s decidedly less patience than it is warning. Edge keeps to their established rules, trading bites for nips that get Red just as hot. Red huffs under his brother’s touch, testing the strength of the arm holding him. As though in reassurance, Edge’s hand releases him, untethering Red from the world. For a moment, Red lays there, helpless and a little spurned, but the tether returns. Edge’s fingers lace between his own, pushing his hand back against the couch again.

It’s a little thing, but it creates a solid ache in Red’s chest. He huffs out a wry laugh, trying to keep his head in it. It’s too soft. It’s too fragile. He wants to bite and kick and yell, to spill profanities and say the filthiest shit that comes to mind. It’s not enough for his safeword, though. He’s just irritated.

He’s just irritated that he can’t be this way with his brother. Not for real. He can unironically treat Sans sweetly, but any gentle gesture shared between Edge and him must only be play. If it were serious, he’d never forgive himself.

But god, does he crave it. It’s a guilty wish and pleasure that ripples through him like oceanic waves, leaving him breathless in high tide.

Grasping for straws as Edge finds the crook of his neck and unlocks his jaw, Red turns the needy groan into more lewd instructions. “I dunno if I can make a cunt as tight as his,” he mutters hazily. “Maybe we’ll finger-”

He’s cut off by Edge’s automatic kiss, disrupting the joke before it has a chance to ruin the moment. Red feels Edge’s fingers searching down his spinal column, testing the bone under them quiver like he’s meant to be gentle this entire time. It’s feather-light and soft.

His breath shudders into Edge’s mouth, hungry and deep. His fingers catch and hang into the slight indents in his sacrum, teasing the openings with a precision that makes Red’s mouth fall slack. He fights words. Sans does exactly what he’s doing right now, clinging to the sensations. He holds back his little noises for a more promising reward.

Then again, Sans is not a dead fish. There’s a little kickback during their one-on-ones, though Red knows it’s only to relieve some of the tension of Sans admitting to what he wants, whereas Red has no issue with voicing his. He’s got no shame.

Though there’s a bit of hesitation behind showing affection to his brother, Red reaches out with his hand, telling himself it’s ok to want this, that it’s Sans Edge is thinking about, craving, wanting to spoil with every kiss and stroke. He’ll accept it as the proverbial neutral zone, leaving marks on him to pass back and forth like notes in secret. He huffs as his soul skips with the prospect, Edge tugging his collar to the side to expose more bone, groaning filthily into his sternum like he’s lost in the moment.

His tongue touches the not-scar and Red inhales sharply, a bolt of sensitivity passing through his rib cage. “I,” he starts, his breaths becoming a little more ragged. “Sans’ll like that.”

It’s fair to let Edge do this, Red thinks. It’s just pleasure, welling up inside of him. There’s a raw ache in his pelvis, just yearning to turn into something. He whispers encouragement, no longer goading, and his throat feels tight every time he forces Sans’ natural way of speaking. After awhile, it doesn’t feel as forced and for a fleeting moment, Red feels and smells Sans between them, caught up in the seams.

Possessivity sneaks up on him like a flare of heat and helplessly, Red groans in a way that’s not his. There’s a spike of desperation in it, and Edge’s hand cups down to the newly conjured pussy he’s made for him. It’s still bright and red, but the way Edge treats him is never like Red is normally treated.

Red throws his head back when fingers curl up into him. There’s no pain, just a sweet stretch when he’s already so slick, thinking of his brother and Sans. The hand in Edge’s grip tightens slightly as Red desperately claws his way to the proverbial surface to get his head above water.

“There we are,” Red gasps, a reedy little noise. He almost slips back into his regular tone, but he manages to catch himself. He doesn’t bear down on Edge’s slickened fingers, trying to get more of him as he usually would do. Instead, he lets Edge treat him right, feeling inside of him like he’s lost the remote in between the couch cushions. It helps to think of it that way, otherwise Red might just clench up, demanding pain.

“I’m,” Red starts again haltingly, as though he’s hung up on the fact. “He’ll be impatient, but he’ll love to be stretched open around your cock.” It’s tempting fate to say the L-word, but Red feels his brother’s breath hitch, sucker-punched into thrusting deeper. The movement makes a lewd noise and Red can feel the swell of his clit throbbing.

Edge feeds him another finger, coaxing wetness from him in deep, careful strides. Red can practically feel the tightness of Edge’s pants against his coccyx, the unbridled desire in his brother’s hasty, excited breaths.

This is very different. He’s not disliking it. Red cinches his legs around Edge’s waist to keep him close, his free hand going to snake around Edge’s neck, hanging on as his thrusts get deeper.

It unlocks something. Softly, Edge murmurs against his sternum, right next to his soul, “That alright?”

Fuck, it is. It is, and Red shakily nods, satisfaction crawling up his throat to groan. His free hand kneads absently at Edge’s nape and Red’s eyes get hazy like he can’t see through water.

“Ah… yeah, Edge-”

He’s slipped. He slipped and Red doesn’t care. With his eyes closed, Edge can’t see that he actually wants this, to be craved and tendered, comforted and checked in on. He groans, clutching to Edge’s shoulder when a fourth finger is introduced. With the movement, his entire body sinks back. Red can feel it in his spine, and he lets out a huff of impatience.

Eloquently, Red gulps, “Big.” Amazing. He’s getting top points for acting, here.

Edge’s no different, though he’s a lot smoother than Red’s unsteady breathiness. He manoeuvres his hand in a way that his knuckle grazes over Red’s clit, a jolt of pleasure something for him to ground himself on.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re nice and prepared,” is the reply. Red feels every word slip under his defenses and shudder down his spine again.

When Edge’s fingers curl, the pad of his thumb flicks over his clit again. Red can’t help but clench down, spasming, a taste of what’s to come. He huffs, laughing a little shakily with the private joke. His grip on Edge’s nape is less sure.

“C.. c’mon, edgelord. I can take it,” Red murmurs, his mind focusing on the distinct way his brother tenses his grip on his body. He tests the width of his fingers lithely moving inside of him, coaxing him to relax as the slickness builds up. Red swallows a desperate noise despite himself. He can’t believe how wet he is. From somewhere in the back of his memory, he pulls on a loose thread. “I want you.”

It just sighs out of him. Red lolls his head back, too strung out on pure sensory input to fix what he’s said nor to properly analyse it. It’s innocently enough spoken, but not from him. Red’s body follows the achingly slow draw as Edge’s fingers slide out of him, only to be hoisted up. Edge’s grip is steady, though it's clear that he’s having difficulty with only one hand. Red decides to give him one, still caught in the moment.

It’s a partnership of who can wrangle the pants off from whom and Edge has always been second place, or as Red would normally call it, ‘first to lose’. It isn’t the first time he’s seen Edge’s dick, but the sight of it hard and pulsing with magic makes Red’s tongue form and water. Thickly, he swallows, his breath shivering.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s lost the premise of telling his brother how Sans ticks, instead acting it out like he’s there between them. He can feel the tip of Edge’s dick at it lays against the lips of his pussy, empty and warm. He shudders another breath like he’s expecting to be slammed into.

Somehow, he doesn’t want that. Somehow, Edge knows it, takes his dick in hand and parts him easily. Red’s mouth hangs open and he unconsciously pushes himself up onto his forearms, the hood of Sans’ sweater hanging off one of his shoulders. Red catches the scent and watches through hooded eyes as his brother pushes into him, maddeningly slow.

There’s no pinch, no sharp split of pain or tears. All there is, is a wet glide and the rough exhale that escapes Edge. Red has a moan locked in his throat, saved for when Edge will push inside him until his channel relaxes and he can sink further in, filling him up. It makes his walls throb with the thought and Red inches back a little to rest against the arm of the couch, curved to match his spine.

 

Edge follows, sighing deep and appreciatively. He’s checked in the entire time, and there’s been green lights as far as he’s seen. He knows that Red is more uncomfortable with the prospect of being gentle with, so he’s sure to pepper their session with bites and light scratches to ground him. He isn’t expecting Red to fully give himself over for it and to throatily call out Edge’s nickname like a cheap trick to catch him off guard.

But god, it works. The way his brother’s unquestionably true. He’s heard Sans groan from behind closed doors, to keep quiet like Red is doing for him, when small touches unfurl him, Edge feels it broil in his marrow like a fever. Red’s eyes have hazed over, his expression a little dreamy and soft. He thinks it’s how his brother sees Sans in bed and Edge’s soul gives an affectionate squeeze. He’s sure it means Red knows Edge is confident in his tenderness for the other Sans, whom they both know he stays awake at night thinking about.

Sans, whose affection Edge craves so much he can taste it. His fingers burn where they grasp his brother’s hips, still lined up with Red’s cunt to sink into him.

As he does, Red twists a little under him, but it’s not in pain. It’s hitting all the angles inside to make Red lose control. There’s a new rip on the innermost side of the cushion, and Red has pulled one side of the hoodie’s front panel over him with the sweet torment. Edge pulls his hips closer, finding the angle tight, feeling every throb around his dick.

Red’s mouth hangs open on soft sounds that increase in frequency and pitch. He covers his eyes, his face and joints flooding a brilliant crimson. Edge groans, satisfied when he pushes just a little more. With it, Red’s knees tremble and he lifts his lower end as though to accept more of him. He can’t. It’s all he can take.

He makes another reedy little sound, clearly attempting speech. Either words or breaths, but it’s so different when Red doesn’t try to take the reins from him. Instead, Edge can feel the fluttering pulse of his magic around where they’re connected and he withdraws a little, his touch feathery-light as he pets Red’s clit with his thumb. With it comes an achy groan from the bottom of Red's soul and he squeezes tightly around him.

 

He’s so full. It’s soft, but it feels good. God, is this what Sans is looking forward to? He’s fucked up. Red’s fucked up, and he can barely think. It’s the most vanilla position, fucking on the couch, his cunt so slippery that Edge has a time keeping inside of him as he’s fucked into, and Red doesn’t know how to talk anymore. Instead, his teeth are clenched around little moans, left grasping at his (Sans’) hoodie, wrenching it in his fists as the angle he’s given into is slow and deep and good.

God, why is it so good??

He tries the nickname again. It wheezes past his teeth in desperation, almost inaudible as his brother pushes into him again. He hears the slick sound of their bodies connecting and the soft muted knock of bone on bone. Red grips the hoodie, twisting again when Edge hits a spot inside of him just so, making him flex around him again when he pulls out. His throat protests, caught in Sans’ voice.

It’s slow, there’s been no banter, Red doesn’t even know which way he’s facing anymore. He’s wetter than he’s ever been before, desperate and hot as his body warms up despite wearing barely anything at all. When Edge groans out his name (Sans) between them, it kickstarts something inside of Red that he refuses to lay a finger on. Whatever it is makes his soul shudder, warm and bright. He accepts the praise as though it’s meant for him.

His voice is tight but he’s alive with Edge’s body claiming him like he’s never been owned before. He’s rocked into at a devastatingly merciless angle and Edge hangs over him, so easy to latch onto. Red can’t help the difficult little gasps that escape, heightening in sound and desperation as he loops his arms around Edge’s neck and holds him close.

It affords them a better position when Edge holds onto his hips with ease, his fingers finding their old favourite marks to hold onto, in case Red needed another tether. Red doesn’t, he’s honestly good with this. He can feel a slow, aching curl at the base of his tailbone, hot fluid trickling down his spine, and the way his body twitches just so is tantamount to utter euphoria.

The base of Edge’s dick grazes just barely against his clit and Red lets out a sob. He knows he can cum like this, but it’s slow, a dirty grind that has pips of light cropping up behind his eyes. Red sucks in a breath, his mouth too wet, his soul dripping to mix with the fluid in his magic. It sets everything off like a flashbang.

He jerks in Edge’s hold, huffing out winded breaths like it’ll save him. As he clings to him, orgasm alight in his body, Edge’s pace slows but an aggravated thinly veiled noise tells Red that his brother was close.

“I’m,” unashamed to say it, Red vulnerably swallows, his words hazy and thick. “Gimme a sec.”

The ensuing thrusts are slow, lingering in the cum and slick of Red’s pussy. Red sinks down against it, lifted up into Edge’s lap to be used, sweaty and trembling like he’d just been running for miles. His chest burns in a way that is right, in a way that makes him feel less charged than usual.

He calms, though Edge’s thrusts have never stopped. They’re instead slow, so slow that it’s stoking another small fire within Red. Red hums in vague delight, his throat hoarse from straining it, finding odd comfort in his usual tone. It doesn’t matter, as croaky as he is, because his brother has him, buried deep inside where the ache is just sensitive enough not to plunge him into… anywhere, really.

He’s content. He’s content to stay where he is, buried against Edge’s chest with his arms wrapped around him. There’s probably a wet spot, soaked right through the hoodie. In fact, Red’s sure of it, otherwise Edge would’ve kept fucking him into the couch instead of scooping him into his arms to hold like something precious.

Something inside of Red stirs, hurt and lonely. To push it back, Red puts weight into his knees and toes to push himself further onto Edge’s dick to unlock the spasm of pain deep inside. It’s so he can wake up. It works, since Edge drives up into him and makes Red scrabble at his shoulders as a second wave hits pleasure and numb pain. The sound he makes is flattering, if nothing else.

 

Edge is aware of the second run plan. It’s been employed before when Red senses that he’d gotten too into things. It’s about control for him, and Red's given a lot up that evening. Though his soul aches, he whispers Sans and thinks of them both. He locks his arms around Red’s ribs and holds him close so he’s bowed against his body. Red isn’t able to stay soft for long, and the more usual grunts and rolling moans start up again, pried from whatever pornographic soundboard Red’s been keeping them in.