The bed creaks like it hasn't before, sheets torn and pillows tossed, the smell of her sweat and perfume staining the mattress and his drapes, along with her dress he teared off only moments before – and he was still so greedy, still not satisfied. He thrusts relentlessly, she moans and holds him oh-so-tight, his eye-lights boring into her burning gaze, and what a delicious expression!

Her lips ( now bare of the dark balm from the scraping of her teeth, from the pressing of her mouth to her stifling palm ) were open and her pretty voice sang out, it was so damn intoxicating he just wanted to drown his senses into it. And along with her darkened stare, the heat of her cheeks and breath, her skin hot and melding into his form – fuck, he couldn't get enough. Not even when she couldn't speak properly, words slipping and fumbling past one another, her fingers digging into his robes and clutching the back of his skull to move him closer, close, close, close, and still not close enough.

She felt just as frustrated, she wanted more, though wouldn't beg it from him, she'd demand it, and she could get him to do anything, and everything – even letting her go, he'd plead all he can but in the end he'd let her go. But not here, not right now. Not when she felt so good, not when his voice seemed to make her skin prick like hot steel, not when she let him grind in between her thighs and her hips wouldn't help but to move with him, not when she'd tilt her chin up and allow him to lick and bite into her neck.

He huffs, fingers gently brushing her hair as it stuck to her olive skin, soft languid movements of his hands a vast difference from the sharp thrusts from beneath. Frisk doesn't mind, she only ever takes, and gives. Her legs wrap around him, one raised over his spine and he groans as his head drops to her shoulder, inhaling her fragrance and recalling how her slender digits had dotted her skin with the oils she was gifted with. None could be as sweet as her. Nothing could taste as sweet as her.

"Oh, gods," she cries out again, making Sans grunt and slowing down before he eased himself out. The woman whines as he leans his torso up to look down at her with a grin. He'd lick that pout of hers if he didn't think it was so cute. "Why, in all forsaken stars, have you stopped?"

The reaper moves his hands, squeezing her thighs before pulling her legs up near her naked chest, satisfied that she easily flexed under his weight. He enjoys the view, for one second was all it took to keep this memory stashed into his mind for the upcoming lonely days, and his grin widens when he sheathes himself back inside her warm folds. Her eyes widened at the new position but she did not retreat. Sans exhaled, shakily and slowly as his pelvis, then began to move though not as rough as before. She pulls on his robe, it makes his hood slip off and he rolls his shoulders to make the pins come undone and have the rest slide down to pool at his knees, his ribs exposed to the confined air.

Frisk bites her lower lip. "Please–"

"Please what?" That sounded more expectant than agitated, though his phalanges dug into the skin of her legs, encouraging her voice to rise while his own began to echo at the effect of his lust. "Just who do you think you're calling out to, girl?"

She opens her lips to speak, he pulls out, she frowns in frustration, then she yelps when he moves in again, and fast. "You," Frisk gasps, quick tears surfacing to her lashes. "Only you."

"That's right, no other god is here with you, only me." He shifts again, indicating her to steady herself, but she only looks on eagerly. Such a good queen he has. "Just me, and you, Frisk."

Gone were the shallow thrusts, deep and ravaging rhythm accompanying her increasing screams. He hears himself moaning with her, his own words slurred as he focuses on nothing but her, how she lays now deflowered on his bed, the sheets balled in her fists. His name spills out of her lips, again and again, a chant, a cry, a prayer, and finally, finally, he was near, she arches her back, they were edging right on the brim, bursting and on fire and falling, falling, falling stars, in his vision and on her tongue as he lowers to kiss her and taste the fallen constellations on a soft flowerbed.

He felt the last of her moans in his open mouth, symphony to the end of this passionate song, his movements slowing, slowing, and twitching out at last. She breathes out a sigh, content and cool breeze on his bones. Sans hums when he rests his head on her chest and she embraces him, a hand at his skull and tracing shapes of what he thinks are petals of a flower. He could hear her heartbeat, calming down as the minutes past. He loved the sound of it. He loved all the sounds she makes, he decides that now, especially when he is the cause of them.

Frisk's knuckles scrape his head once, bringing him away from his thoughts, and he only pokes her side to confirm he was still awake.

"Sans."

"Mm."

"Use that voice more often. On me."

He can't help but to snort, his fingers probing her sides and she giggles. "Don't make me start with you again, Frisky." He stops tickling in favor of holding her, warm joy a once rare guest in his soul. Sans relaxes against his wife, eye sockets closing and smile remaining. "But I will remember that."