Death's Queen

Part 8

There had been a few minutes of arguing before Gaster left in a huff. Sans leaned back into his throne, rubbing his face.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything." Frisk said.

"No, you're not...interrupting..." Sans trailed off when he looked up to see Frisk shyly standing there, clenching a pomegranate.

He had to admit, the dressmaker took her work seriously. The wedding gown was made to fit, the v neck low enough to hint at Frisk's cleavage. The waist had the white diamonds sewn in nicely, emphasizing her curves. Her long hair was decorated with the flower crown he had made her.

"Um, does it look nice?" Mercy asked nervously.

"It looks wonderful." Death whispered. A bright blue blush had appeared on his cheekbones.

She shifted nervously. His eye was caught by a flash of dark red. A pomegranate was in her hands.

"Um, I was hoping that you could...help me?"

Sans shook his head clear and nodded. Frisk smiled sweetly, hopping onto his armrest. He took the red fruit and hand and peeled a section away. The seeds smelled tart as they glistened. 

Death plucked one, two, three, six out and offered them to his angel. She took them with a thankful smile, lips stained with their juices.

Before he could grab some more, she caught his hand. The pomegranate squished in his hand in shock.

Sans stared, with wide sockets, girl perched on the armrest, juices trickling down his arm.

His jaw was slack, his sockets empty and his other hand clenching in his robes, as her lips closed around his bony fingers again, her tongue peeking past her lips to wipe a spatter of pomegranate juice from his phalanges.

Frisk made it worse by maintaining eye contact with him, her cheeks flushed but her expression determined, and Sans, under the cover of his hood, felt his magic flare. The feeling of her mouth around his fingers made him consider not just her acceptance of her place at his side, not just his comforted loneliness and misery...

But the finer points of their soon to be marriage, and how empty the throne room was at the moment.

The god of death's smile split his face nearly in half, and his thumb rose to stroke her cheek, his magic lighting his sockets with both satisfaction and desire.

She wasn't as innocent as she appeared, but he was far from even looking innocent. Frisk was playing with hellfire, flirting with death...

And she'd answer for it.

He picked her up gently, teleporting in a haze of blue.