Bluecacob

He’ll read things for you when your eyes are tired. His voice is low and gravelly, but surprisingly gentle as he reads the textbook.

He always knows when to stop and give you space. His hand gently closes your notebook and pushes it aside. And he’ll stay close until your head clears.

If you cry from stress, he doesn’t panic; he just holds you. No lectures, no rushed comfort. Just silence and his arms around you. His thumb strokes your back as you sob into his hoodie.

He tracks your progress like it’s his mission. He remembers your exam dates better than you do. Sometimes he even leaves sticky notes with reminders. “Good luck. I believe in you,” one says in tiny handwriting.

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The room was quiet, save for the scratching of your pen and the occasional frustrated sigh that slipped past your lips. You sat hunched over your desk, elbows digging into the wood, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook began to lose all meaning.

It felt like your brain was made of static; each line you read melted into the next, nothing sticking. Your chest tightened, and for a second, you considered giving up. But then the shadows shifted—and you weren’t alone anymore. You didn’t hear him come in. Dust never made a sound unless he wanted to

Nevertheless, you felt him like the ghost of a chill brushing against your spine. His tall figure leaned against the doorframe, one eye glowing dim red in the low light of your desk lamp. He didn’t speak right away. He just watched, like he was trying to decide if now was a good time.

Eventually, his raspy voice broke through the silence. “Homework again?” He asked, like it wasn’t obvious, like he didn’t already know. You nodded, not trusting yourself to say much without snapping. Your fingers curled around your pen tighter. “It’s not working,” you mumbled. “I’ve been trying for hours, and none of it’s sticking," your voice grew tense.

That glow in his eye flickered just slightly. Without a word, he crossed the room and pulled out the chair beside you, the wood creaking under his weight. The scent of dust and worn fabric clung to him, along with something faintly metallic. Still, his presence steadied you. “Let me see.” He said it so quietly, almost like he was afraid to be too close.

His hand brushed over your paper, claws careful not to tear it, as he scanned the assignment. He didn’t frown; he never did, but you could feel him thinking, his mind sharp despite everything it had been through. “Alright,” he said eventually. “This part’s trickin’ you. You’re tryin’ to memorize it like a script. Don’t. It’s a puzzle, not a punishment.” You blinked at him, surprised, but felt at least it helped.

The next hour passed in small breaths and softly spoken guidance. He never raised his voice. Never got impatient. He sat close enough for you to feel the warmth that lingered in his magic, guiding you with rough fingers that hovered but never rushed.

When you got something right, his eye would flicker with something close to pride. Not loud. Not bright. Just real. "Knew you had it in you,” he muttered once, under his breath, like it scared him to say more. When your hands finally dropped, limp and sore from writing, you realized how tired you were. Dust noticed before you could speak.

His scarf brushed your shoulder as he leaned forward, closing your notebook with quiet finality. “You’ve done enough,” he murmured, then added, “C’mere.” He pulled you gently to his side, your head resting against the soft, worn hoodie he always wore. His hand lingered on your arm like a silent promise that he got you.

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Horror Sans

He grumbles at first but always sits beside you anyway. Despite the groaning, he pulls a chair beside you and plops down with a thud. His massive claw rests on your back.

Horror never finished school because we know he literally lives in a place where everyone is so starving that murder is normal, but he’ll furrow his brow and do his best. “I dunno what a mitochondria is, but if it messes with ya, I’ll bite it.”

He always brings food, even if it looks… suspicious. Like that day he made sandwiches that looked like they had blood as a jam, but he would jokingly say, "Relax. Just strawberry...probably.”

He treats every correct answer like a major victory. He would cackle, slapping the table hard enough to rattle your pen. You flinch and laugh, blushing as he throws an arm around you.

He forces you to rest when you overwork yourself. The moment your eyes droop, he yanks your chair back. Scooping you into his lap like you weigh nothing and then cuddling you, forcing you to take a rest.

He stays up with you through all-nighters without complaint. He’s seen darker nights than this. What’s one more beside you? He would brush his claws against your hand and hum a low and soft tune while you work.

He tries to learn with you, even if it’s awkward. He’ll read over your shoulder and whisper, “What’s a… parallelogram?” When you explain, he nods solemnly like he’s just learned a sacred secret.

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You stared at your homework like it had personally offended you. Equations danced across the page, blurry and mean-spirited, mocking you for trying to understand them. The overhead light buzzed faintly, and your pencil lay still in your hand, threatening to snap under the weight of your frustration.

Just as you were about to throw the whole notebook across the room, the door creaked open with a low groan and he stepped in. “Homework again, huh?” Horror’s gravelly voice echoed in the quiet room. His tall frame filled the doorway, eyes glowing faintly red in the dim light.

He scratched at the back of his skull, already grumbling as he lumbered in. “You really like punishin’ yourself, don’tcha?” he muttered. But before you could respond, he dragged a chair beside you with an awful screech and sat down, his clawed hand landing gently between your shoulder blades. “A’ight. Let’s see what’s killin’ your mood tonight.”

You hesitated, watching him lean in, his face inches from the page. Despite his monstrous appearance—bloodstained teeth, shredded hoodie, and that ever-present aura of death—he squinted at the math problems with a furrowed brow like a concerned dad trying to help with fractions. “Okay,” he muttered. “So we’re dealin’ with demon numbers. Got it.” His finger tapping against the table. “Let’s hunt ‘em down.” He softly nods to himself.

The next half-hour passed in a strange blend of horror and hilarity. Horror Sans made up terrifying metaphors to help you remember concepts, calling exponents “tiny monsters that multiply behind your back” and telling you to imagine mitochondria as gremlins powering up haunted castles.

You couldn’t stop laughing, even when your stomach hurt and your cheeks ached. He’d flash a crooked grin whenever you answered something right, eyes gleaming with a pride that made your chest warm. “Knew you had it in ya,” he’d whisper, ruffling your hair.

But when your brain finally hit a wall, your hand falling limp over your notebook, he didn’t get annoyed, he got worried. “Hey, hey,” he rumbled, pushing the chair back and standing with a creak of bones. “Break time. C’mere.” Before you could argue, he scooped you into his arms and sat back down, pulling you into his lap like you were a pillow he refused to part with.

His arms, massive and warm despite the stains on his hoodie, wrapped securely around your waist. “You ain’t gotta do it all in one go,” he muttered, his voice low and scratchy against your ear. His thumb brushed your wrist, careful not to graze with his claws. The silence was soft between you safe. Somehow, even with the monsters hiding in his voice.

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Killer Sans

He doesn’t do it by the book because “the book’s boring, babe.” Killer leans over your desk upside-down, red eye glinting in mischief. “Lemme help, but Killer style,” he smirks, scribbling over your worksheet with doodles of knives and hearts.

He turns everything into a game to keep your brain awake. “Every time you get a question right, I owe you a kiss. Deal?” You roll your eyes, but he’s already grinning like an idiot.

He gets way too into helping with presentations. He insists on adding sound effects and creepy fonts to your PowerPoint. It’s chaotic, but somehow still works despite your presentation looking like a living horror show.

He snacks obnoxiously loud while you study but always shares. Killer crunches chips next to you like it’s a performance art. He always saves your favorite bits for last, sliding them to you.

He trash-talks your homework like it’s a living enemy. He roasts every subject like it personally insulted him, just to make you laugh. “Biology? More like bye-ology. Get rekt.”

When you get overwhelmed, he instantly drops the act. One look at your tired eyes, and the teasing fades from his tone. “Hey, hey, breathe. You’re not gonna explode. That’s my job,” he says, gently tugs you into his side and letting you rest against his hoodie.

He starts humming when you focus, just to stay close. His tune is strange, off-key, but somehow soothing. It fills the room without needing words, matching your scribbling pace.

He forces you to celebrate small wins. Killer would throws imaginary confetti and tries to get you to dance, acting as if he was your personal chaotic cheerleader.

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It started with you throwing your pencil across the room. The poor thing bounced pathetically off the wall before hitting the floor, joining the graveyard of erasers, crumpled papers, and your will to survive pre-calculus. You slumped forward on your desk, face buried in the notebook that still mocked you with unbalanced equations. If numbers had a face, you’d punch them.

Then came the sound in a light, fast footsteps that always seemed to flicker into existence. “Whoa, okay, who died?” Killer Sans leaned in through your open door, hoodie falling slightly off one shoulder, signature grin stretched across his face like a weapon.

His left eye glitched with a low red pulse. “Tell me I get to punch your homework. Please. I’m so bored.” “You can’t punch math,” you groaned without looking up. “Believe me, I tried.” “In your heart,” he said dramatically, sliding into the room, “you just need to believe harder.”

He landed in your desk chair like a falling ragdoll, legs sprawled out, skull tilted back lazily. “Now. Let’s make a deal. You do three problems. I get to doodle on your notes. Fair trade.” You rolled your eyes but sat up, scooting the chair over to share space with him.

He leaned in immediately, chin almost resting on your shoulder, humming some off-key tune while you scribbled through the next question. After a second of silence, he interrupted with, “Pfft. You’re holding the pencil like it owes you money.” “Because it does. It owes me my life back," You muttered. "Okay, drama queen,” Killer Sans snorted. “But hey, look at you. You actually solved it," he poked your cheeks. You blinked, and sure enough, the answer was right.

He continued to sit beside you, half helping, half distracting, his red-tinted eye light flickering whenever you smiled or cursed under your breath. Every time you got an answer right, he’d offer a dramatic gasp, a made-up trophy speech, or on particularly good ones a kiss to your temple. It made you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Homework still sucked, but somehow, it sucked less when he was here. By the end of the night, your desk and the homework from the workbook was covered in doodles of bloody hearts, little knives, your initials mashed with his along with the workbook you once hated was filled out, problem after problem.

Killer leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head, watching you with a lazy kind of pride. “Told ya,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’re smarter than you think.” And in the low light of your room, with his lopsided smile and glitching eye reflecting soft red on your cheek, you realized something: he may not have understood your math… but he always understood you.

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