If you have those short story skills warmed up, how about some Asylumswap Sans having one of fits and Frisk calming him down?
Frisk had really, really wanted to sleep in this morning.
The skeleton currently having a panic attack outside her bedroom door didn't seem to care what she wanted. Not that that was very surprising.
The sun wasn't even up yet.
"FRISKFRISKFRISKFRISK," Sans punctuated each "Frisk" with a loud knock. "FRISKKKKLETMEIN PLEEEEASSSSE PLEAASE PLEASE PLEASE!!"
Frisk sighed. It was gonna be one of those mornings.
She dragged herself out of bed, adjusted her oversized shirt so it showed less cleavage (like that would stop Sans from faceplanting himself between her breasts once she let him in), and shuffled to the door.
Frisk opened the door. Sans immediately grabbed onto her like a drowning man grabs onto a life preserver. He, predictably, nuzzled himself into her chest as close as he could get.
He was breathing (skeletons don't even need to breathe, Frisk thought bitterly) like he had just completed a marathon, sobbing and hiccuping, and shaking like a newborn deer. There were dried tracks of cyan magic trailing down his cheekbones, though he was no longer crying. When Sans looked up at her, his wide, blank sockets were illuminated by small twin white lights.
"Frisk," he said, his voice much quieter than when he was trying to knock her door down.
His sockets lidded slightly upon making eye contact with her. His shaking and breathing calmed as well, though not enough to no longer be concerning.
Frisk sighed. "Alright," she said. "Let's go back to bed."
And began the arduous process of shuffling both herself and Sans back to her queen-sized bed (she wasn't sure why she even bothered putting him in the guest room anymore; he always ended up back in her bed eventually).
Sans had practically attached himself to Frisk. If there was space between them at all, he quickly closed it, which made it very difficult to walk.
After adjusting herself and her charge into bed, Frisk began the long process of calming Sans down.
Petting his skull to the slow rhythm of her breathing, planting soft kisses on his forehead, rubbing up and down his spine...Frisk had become very well-versed in the art of skeleton-soothing. Sans had calmed considerably, only shaking slightly and quietly muttering her name under his breath. He had nuzzled his face into her neck, and pressed his teeth to her pulse.
Though he no longer held his bodily tension, Frisk noticed that Sans' hands still had a deathgrip on the back of her shirt. She reached around to gently pry his hands out of the fabric.
She brought his shaking hands to her lips and gently kissed the knuckles of each one. Sans sobbed minutely at the gesture, sliding his hands into her hair. Frisk sleepily kissed his nasal ridge and heard him giggle softly. He pressed his bony lips to hers for a long moment before returning to nuzzling her neck.
Frisk heard him mutter something before falling back into the sweet embrace of sleep.
