Aesthetically Chaotic

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sans x reader

This includes ANY sans. Could be fanfics, what-if scenarios, doodles, comics; anything.

[insert specific sans] x reader

Same as "sans x reader" tag, except it only includes the character specified.

fanfic

All the fanfics I post to Tumblr. Any multi-chaptered works can be found on my AO3 (or Wattpad, for the people who don't have an AO3).

🤔💭how would they react?💭🤔

How a specific sans (most commonly Killer, but could be any) would react to certain scenarios. May include small headcanons, fics, and/or comics.

📙✏️mini comics!✏️📙

Multi-paneled comics. Sometimes includes comics I made for my friends/mutuals, and sometimes includes X Reader comics.

💬💡headcanons💡💬

Specific headcanons I have for any of the sanses.

☁️🗣some antics🗣☁️

Anything that doesn't involve art, writing, or asks. It isn't used much, but if I ever yap (or post any polls), I'll tag it with this.

🫶✨️my friends!✨️🫶

Any interactions I have with my mutuals! Could be art, writing; whatever.

selfship

Art of my persona being shipped with a character! (most commonly Killer 👉👈)

❤️thank you!!❤️

Art/writing that someone made for me!! <33

chemistry²🔬🤍💀

An AU that @/kittycatpaw11 and I made together! If you're curious, you can read about it more here!

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Thanks for reading!

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You don't know what to do anymore.

The living room's air feels heavy—too heavy atop your aching head. The couch creaks as you lean forward in your seat, eyes closed, elbows atop your knees, head drooped. The lights are dimmed, though their absence does little to ease the discomfort.

The TV was on some minutes ago, but the sounds paired with the bright lights were too much to handle.

Even your phone, one of your go-tos for winding down and forgetting the present, lies face down somewhere you don't care to remember.

You feel utterly exhausted. It's an exhaustion that seeps deeper than physical—it's mental, surrounding, overstimulating, numbing—all at the same time. You feel too little and too much.

It's frustrating.

In fact, you're so drained that it hurts. Not just your head, but your entire body. There's a dull ache pulsing through your muscles, its source unlocatable, as if your body is reflecting the mental anguish you feel.

And all you can think about is how badly you crave some peace and quiet.

Fshhhh!

The distinct sound of the kitchen sink suddenly starts up, which you would've startled at had your mind been clearer.

Then the distinct clatter of metal atop your kitchen counter.

...It seems that peace may have been wishful thinking.

You don't even have to look in order to know who it is—it's Killer. Probably fresh out of work, and is now washing off a certain substance you forbid him from smudging onto your furniture.

At this point, Killer barges into your home like a landlord demanding rent, despite your countless attempts at redirecting him to the front door; y'know, like a normal visitor.

—Though you're not too sure Killer classifies as a "visitor" at this point—not with how your relationship has progressed as of late.

To your relief, this time around, Killer seems to have allowed you the luxury of teleporting to the kitchen rather than appearing before you like a FNAF Foxy jumpscare.

Killer's footsteps are practically inaudible no matter where he is, so all you get are miscellaneous audio cues to determine his location. And right now, the sink's constant background static is beginning to piss you off.

"babe?" Killer's voice can be heard off in the near distance. "where's the baking soda?"

Baking soda? The hell does he need baking soda for?

You crack an eye open, willing yourself strength and preparing to give an answer—

"nevermind, got it."

—Your eye promptly closes.

So he's rooting through your cabinets now. Lovely.

The fshhhhh finally cuts out, thank god, filling the house with silence to the brim once more.

The silence is short.

"not even a hello, huh?" Killer snorts, faking some sort of offense at your lack of dialogue as his voice carries. ...Though, you can’t help but notice an artificial perkiness in his tone, almost like he’s feigning emotion; a common occurrence after work.

Killer's voice carries again.

“yeesh, tough crowd."

Some part of you wants to throw him a sarcastic response, maybe start up a bit of playful banter; you know he'd like that. But you just can’t seem to bring yourself to do it.

All you can manage are furrowed eyebrows and a slouched posture as your hands drift up to massage your temples.

You hate to admit it, but his loud demeanor is getting annoying.

"you're awfully quiet." The tone in his voice hints at a playful smirk. "boooooring."

A sigh pushes through your nose before your head falls forward into your hands, face buried in your palms.

Not now, Killer...

"feels like i'm talkin' to a wall over here. well," Killer considers, "guess i technically am, 'cause you're all the way over there. i'd better fix that, huh?" he adds with a certain flirty undertone.

Please stop talking…

His voice is suspiciously closer than it was moments ago.

"y'know, if i wanted to talk to a wall, i'd pull my hood up n' babble in the corner like a lil bitch."

You're pretty sure he's trying to reference something, but you're not quite sure what. If it's from his life outside of your relationship, you wouldn't know—he can be awfully cagey about details.

Killer seems to realize as much, because the next thing out of his mouth is a quiet, "...nevermind." 

His tone sounded more authentic that time.

No other words follow.

Devoid of even the faintest of footsteps, the house falls silent again, though something undiscernible hangs in the air like a question unanswered.

A presence that you theoretically should be afraid of looms close—you can feel it. A clear sign that Killer is nearby.

Your soul is in constant jeopardy of fear and fond when he's around, though lately it's leaned closer towards fond.

You know he means no harm. But his stats and overpowering LV still put your soul on edge from time to time, like a prey animal, unsure if he's friendly to approach.

It's your natural instincts, you think.

The presence draws closer, though from where, you can’t say.

That is, until you feel a shadow looming over you.

Your eyes peek open at the newfound shade.

The first thing you’re drawn to is the source of your jeopardy; a jumble of red and white rings wobbling before a turtlenecked chest. The rings want to bend up into a flipped heart, but they aren’t quite there yet. 

A vague sense of danger leaks from his soul's aura. Dim, yet still there.

Then your eyes drag up to meet that automated, sharp smile.

Killer’s head slowly tilts to the side, considering.

“hey.” His tone is dull. The shift is notable, considering his previous perkiness.

You offer a mere eyebrow raise in response, partially in greeting, partially in confusion. Where'd that chipper attitude go?

Killer doesn't even blink.

“you look like shit.”

“Thanks. You too.”

That gets a brief smirk out of him, before his mouth curls back into that same blank smile.

“not like that.”

“I know.”

It's true; your expression looks as though you were dragged through hell and back, meanwhile Killer's soul looks like a portal leading there.

Two peas in a pod.

Despite your best efforts to meet Killer's gaze, your eyes dance between his empty sockets and that indecisive soul shifting before his chest. While his lack of eyelights is apparent, you can still feel the weight of his observation pressing down.

You haven’t even done much, and yet he can already tell something’s off just by looking at you.

A beat passes.

Two beats.

"what happened?"

"Nothing." Your voice sounds tired; it's more of a sigh than anything else. You don't enjoy showing Killer this more melancholic side of yourself, but right now, it can't be helped.

You're tired.

So, so tired.

Killer's expression is unchanging.

"liar."

Your mouth opens to speak, but no sound comes out.

That singular word sliced through your layers more effectively than you were prepared for.

Your mouth closes after a moment too long.

Killer’s uncomfortable gaze keeps your own locked in place. You can’t help but gaze back, even if you don’t want to.

It takes a few moments of staring into his sockets to notice the faint dot staring back.

Killer repeats himself.

“what happened?”

"I don't know.”

Your eyes complain, begging you to close them—so you oblige.

"I guess I'm just tired."

The silence returns for a few beats, eventually broken by the sound of a jacket zipper being drawn. A weight soon presses down into the couch cushion beside you, prompting you to glance over despite your eyes' pushback.

Killer is sitting up, chest facing you, his soul promptly hidden away beneath his jacket's fabric. Your trained eyes immediately take note of Killer's shoes atop your clean cou—

Oh.

Socks.

Killer took his shoes off for once. This is new.

A bony finger beckons you forward.

"c'mere."

The danger dissipates.

One moment, you're inching towards Killer's inviting arms, and the next you're being wrapped in them, head pulled flush against his chest whilst he lowers himself onto his back, head propped up by the armrest just behind him.

The pulse of his soul can be felt through his jacket, buzzing against your cheek. It's reminiscent of a heartbeat, warm and consistent, except rather than beating, it radiates a constant vibration similar to a purr within a lion's throat.

Your arms instinctively press down into the couch, partially holding your weight so as not to crush him. He is made of bone; you lying on top of him probably won't be comfortable for either of you.

Killer instantly takes note, shaking his head.

"shh, relax." As if reading your mind, he quietly adds, "you're not heavy. lay down." While his volume is low, the firm command prompts you to finally settle, letting your body relax into him.

Rather than the bone you were anticipating, your body presses against something else. It's softer, squishier—far more pleasant than bone. Maybe he stuffed a blanket or pillow beneath his jacket. Or maybe it's his magic, creating an encasing barrier around his bones. Whatever it is, it's…

It's nice.

Being close to him like this makes his magic more noticeable; there's a certain heaviness to the air around that swirls in your lungs, allowing your body to unwind a little easier.

Like a natural relaxor, gentle and light.

A pleased hum emits deep within Killer's ribcage, an unspoken acknowledgment of your compliance. He shifts, getting comfortable between you and the couch, one hand curling around your back possessively whilst the other busies itself with gentle scratches along the back of your head and neck.

His skeletal fingers are sharp, with cat-like points at the ends, offering a wonderfully deep scratch. His movements are intentional, hitting all the spots that make you relax deeper into his enveloping warmth.

You can't help the small sigh that leaves your chest, letting go of your body's tension.

“there y'go, just like that.” Killer's voice is deeper when he's like this. It's soothing.

The arm around your back is careful yet firm; cautious not to squeeze, but heavy enough to keep you in place, pressing you right where you belong.

Killer lets out something reminiscent of an exhale (despite not having lungs?) before you feel a soft pop beneath his jacket where his soul lies. Its vibrations calm to nothing more than a light buzz.

You shift a bit, glancing up at Killer.

Two fuzzy eyelights stare back.

"want me to yap or let'cha sleep?" Killer mumbles as you lie back down. The arm around your back gives a faint squeeze when you nuzzle into his chest.

"Sleep..." Your voice is muffled by the jacket, but Killer gets the gist of it.

The last thing you remember is a deeply muttered, “poor thing…” before your mind is blissfully numbed by Killer’s careful scratches, effectively working to swirl your thoughts into nothing more than a warm fog.

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Smaller

If it's a small bruise on your leg or arm, Killer wouldn't think much of it.

Humans are fragile. They get hurt pretty easily. Small bruises are inevitable at times, though he might still point it out with a small, "when'd that happen?" just because he's nosey.

When you confess that you don't actually know where it's from (and if this is a regular occurance), Killer is... amused? But also confused?

He'll just assume you're clumsy from now on.

Expect some light teasing, but nothing more.

Bigger

If it's a bigger bruise, Killer would be more adamant about questioning you. He wants answers.

Killer wakes up before you, lazily watching your adorable sleepy face as you curl into him. Warmth practically radiates off you, your body pressed snug against his soul in a way that offers him comfort and security—a peace he's beginning to grow accustomed to around you.

It's nice. This is nice.

Killer yawns, gaze drifting across your resting form. Soft mornings are one of his secret guilty pleasures. There's something about it that's just...

so...

...

Killer's sockets open a little more.

Since when did you get such a big bruise on your arm?

You're given some time once you awaken to adjust your eyes to the new lighting and snuggle back into place against Killer's body. He then asks about the bruise after a little while, though his tone is calm.

He's just making sure that nothing happened.

Major

But if the bruise is on an area like your neck, face, etc., then there would be some pushback. Because, to be fair, those areas are not commonly known for sporting "unknown bruises."

Killer's sockets widen when he notices the darkened area on your face, thumb brushing over the bruised skin ever so delicately.

When you finally wake up, stretching and nuzzling back against him, the first thing Killer says is a firm "what happened?"

Killer doesn't like to wait or beat around the bush. He is very direct.

You could maaaaybe convince him that it really was nothing, but it's going to take some assurance. He'll seem unconvinced for a while—because he is not pleased.

His demeanor is tense, though... your contrasting calmness confuses him.

He's good at reading people, so if you're genuinely relaxed and shrugging it off, he'll accept your answer.

Though he will begin to believe that you are dangerously clumsy. And that you bruise like a peach.

Maybe it'll even earn you a fruit-themed nickname in the future.

Let's just hope that his soul isn't already on edge from something else beforehand, because then you might have a few issues. He doesn't listen super well when his soul is out-of-wack.