He had forgotten how fragile you were, how soft and delicate the tracery of veins flowing blue beneath that pale expanse of skin.
Sans runs a finger along the thick artery running down the length of your neck and follows it below the ripped collar of your shirt, his touch cold against your heated flesh. You lay as still and as quietly as you can, but your breath hitches a little when you feel his thumb brush against the swell of your breasts.
You're a little surprised by how gentle his movements are. He's got you pinned beneath him, his pelvis grinding hard into your hips and blue gravity crushing you into the floor, but it seems like he's taking care to avoid pressing against the most damaged parts of your body. You can feel him rubbing slow circles into your chest with one hand, the other tracing the inwards curve of your waist and ghosting over the mottled mass of bruises starting to form along your torso, contusions blooming like blue ink dissipating in water.
The way he runs his hands over you almost makes you forget that it had been he who'd marked you in the first place. Your body responds with the same premise in mind, flushing and and dripping with every touch in spite of the undercurrent of fear prickling your nerves.
Then Sans pulls your knife out from his pocket and all of your blood freezes to ice.
When he feels your body tense beneath him, he reaches a hand forward to cup your cheek affectionately. His voice is quiet and low as he hushes you, as he tells you to calm down and stay still, as he slips the flat of the blade beneath your shirt with an agonizing slowness. The metal rests cold against your skin until he flicks it upwards, the blade mercifully tilted away from you, and cuts easily through your clothes.
You let out a strangled little yelp when you hear the sound of ripping cloth and recoil instinctively. All your composure forgotten, you try to twist your body away from him, squirming and struggling against the grip of his magic before he slams the knife right next to your head, the sudden blaze of his left eye blinding you with cyan light.
"I thought I told you not to move," he says.
There's a faint sting on the edge of your cheekbone where the tip of the blade had grazed you before shattering into the tiled floor. You can feel a trickle of blood forming at the surface of the shallow cut, then a sensation like wet glass against your cheek as he presses his tongue to it, runs it across the length of the wound.
You'd told yourself that you wouldn't cry, but already you can feel a heat prickling behind your eyes, a low whimper building up in your chest that you try and fail to suppress. Something like pity flits across Sans' face for a moment before he curls his mouth backwards in a sneer.
"That's really all it takes?" he says, and savagely yanks your jeans and underwear down your thighs, "Pretty pathetic."
He trails his hand between your legs and shoves two fingers inside of you, makes a small surprised noise in the back of his throat when they slip in easily.
You whisper a desperate plea for him to stop, "Don't, oh please, don't, don't -"
Sans ignores you. He curls his fingers, the hard bone of his fingertips digging hard into your sensitive flesh, and you draw in a shuddery inhale.
"Earlier you said that you didn't remember me," he muses aloud, "But it looks like your body recognizes me well enough."
He's circling his thumb lightly against your clit and a burning pang of shame rushes through you because you're starting to relax into his touch, your body desperate for some sort of reprieve from the battering that it's gone through. There's a tightening coil of tension forming inside as he keeps on stroking you, a reluctant pleasure that makes you grimace and grit your teeth in frustration.
His movements inside of you are almost instinctually precise, as if he knows exactly how and where to caress you to bring you close to the edge. He's touching you slowly, coaxingly rubbing against your core and coating his phalanges with your slick. Your hips buck involuntarily into his palm, liquid arousal pooling between your legs, and you bite back a soft moan that turns into a humiliating cry of frustration when he drags his hand away right as you're about to reach your peak.
Then he's speaking softly in your ear, the deep rumble of his voice sending a shiver up your spine.
"I've noticed that you tend to hold on to certain memories through resets," says Sans, "So I'm going to try out a little experiment."
"I'm going to make this hurt. Enough so that you'll remember it every time you come back. But maybe I'm wrong," he tugs at the waistband of his shorts, letting his erection rest against your inner thigh, "Maybe you'll forget and try this again. And that's ok," he continues, his voice colder than you've ever heard it, "Because I won't. And when the time comes, I'll gladly remind you, as many times as it takes."
(Note: This is actually the first smut I've written since I was 14. Criticism and tips are much appreciated. Thanks!)