bujlililu

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Please don’t repost to other sites or use my art in any way without my permission!

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I am an adult, swearing and suggestive humor is not off the table. While the blog does not have an age limit, it is your responsibility to filter what you want to see online, as you know yourself best!

English is not my first language, sorry for mistakes in advance!

🌿 Specific tags:

My finished art is tagged as my art, everything else is tagged as doodles. See replies? answers? for answered asks. Anything else that is not art is in my stuff.

Redlilies is my selfship tag.

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(Updated: 2026. May. 26) (2025.Aug.30: Goodbye Valery profile picture, you will be missed very much. 2026.May.12: You served me well softly drawn pfp, now onto something more matching.)

He had been here before. Countless of times. Hundreds? Thousands? Does it even matter?

He knows really well how this goes down.

Funny, the whole place is lit up by what appears to be beams of sunlight shining in through the huge windows lining the walls. It is obviously not the light of the sun. It was always a very ironic trick. A sunlit hall, buried deep underground. Maybe for a moment one could even ignore that knowledge and believe. Hope.

The steps they take echo through the corridor.

Quiet and faint, but ever so persistently growing louder and closer. He still does not open his eyesockets. The light is warm against the side of his face, no need to rush this. It will all inevitably end the same way.

They will stop. Face bored. Resembling something not even human anymore, rather something twisted that no monster would even recognize. They will wait through his speech. He will take a deep breath and say it all again. The words are leaving his mouth for the first time, yet so familiar as if it had been said before.

Will it continue the same way as it always does?

He warns them. They ignore that warning. What is the distance between them and him? 3 meters? It would take them 6, maybe 7 steps to reach him.

And so he has no choice but to stand his ground and fight. For what is lost, for what will be. It is quite meaningless when he can recall the way sweat drops roll down his skull. When he remembers how magic crackles weakly inside his bones with every step through shortcuts. When he feels his eyelids slip.

He can blink them open. Stall a little more.

It’s just that. Stalling.

He can’t breathe. He doesn’t have to, logically he knows that. But he feels like he is choking on unneeded air while watching that patient smile on their face. His eyelids are made of lead, heavy as they droop against his will.

“So did you change your mind about my offer?”

Would you not be scared? To stand in front of certain fate. Infallible and unavoidable.

“Or perhaps I should make that proposal again so you remember properly…”

It is, is it not? He had tried his best. Had he not?

The look they gave him is so assured. Like they know how this goes down. He can only guess, but they are sure.

His consciousness slips from his grip for one tiny second. And it is followed by the painful drag of a sharp blade, and the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.

Then it is over.

With the sleeve of his jacket, he wipes the black liquid from the corner of his mouth, and looks at them.

They are kicking their legs, sitting on the windowsill. As they did countless of times before.

“Hmmm, so I was thinking about what we could do differently this time. Could we try surprising the king? I do not feel like listening to him really,” they mused, eyes looking up at the ceiling. “Ooooor, maybe you could try it. I mean Flowey isn’t here right now, so you could take that kill.”

Their eyes are on him now.

“What do you think, Sans?”

He shrugs.

Another change. This time he is the one sitting, back leaned against a pillar.

He listens to the footsteps that get closer and closer, but he is not in any hurry to open his eyes just yet.

“Oh, come on, comedian! Really? Taking a nap here?” They don’t sound angry, so at least that is one less thing to worry about.

“You didn’t follow the plan we had. I thought it out so well.” The childish pout in their voice lasts for a second while they watch him, then the next sentence comes out lilted. “I was so surprised to run into your brother! Poor Papyrus looked so confused, I really haven’t seen him like this before! You might have ditched me, but oh, you were just thinking ahead, so I should thank you for that opportunity!”

His mouth dries, but he keeps his grin in place.

The small child’s snickering gets a step closer and so he finally opens his eyes to look up.

He is stepping into the hall, shaking off his jacket. He doesn’t have to look to feel that the guardian of negativity is here. This is always one of the easiest places to drop him off and pick him up at, not frequented by many, no matter the universe.

“You are late.” Nightmare sounds calm. “I needed to wait for you, despite the fact that I have told you that I do not have desire to spend more time than necessary to spend here.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

Just one universe of many. It is doomed as well. Despite wiping his hands in his shorts the disgusting feeling of dust doesn’t leave, like the particles are stuck between his phalanges.

His hands have helped dooming so many people, he cannot wash this off.

“It’s a shame truly because that means I had to run into someone. And you know we cannot exactly leave loose ends without consequences.”

Another witness to get rid of. He is faintly aware of black liquid running down his cheeks and dropping onto the shiny floor of the corridor. He nods as he makes his way over to Nightmare and the person he will have to take care of.

Blood is pooling under the body lying at his feet, his shoes stained red. Even with their face blurred he instantly recognizes them.

Killer had not often left his jacket over at your place, but today seemed to be one of those days when you found the article of clothing lying somewhere in your apartment.

As usual, he had not notified you about his visit. The blue jacket thrown over the back of a chair in your kitchenette is the only indication that he has stepped foot here. You tried looking for him when you got back home, calling out his name and waiting half an hour, nervously anticipating some kind of a prank or scare, but after nothing happened, you arrived at the conclusion that he just forgot.

You stare at it for a bit, your own laundry in your hands. Your clothes desperately need a wash at this point because you are out of clean ones to wear, so you can’t procrastinate any longer.

And while during the short time for which you have known Killer for (short because despite months having passed, the combined amount of time you spent together is not that long) he had not once smelled bad or looked dirty, the fact that he almost always wore the same outfit did raise some questions in your head.

You’re just curious.

That’s what you tell yourself when you grab the jacket in your hands to search for a tag on it. Washing instructions are the thing you are hoping for. Maybe the materials list. Or just the brand name works as well, you can search that up online.

But nothing.

You decide checking the pockets is stepping over the line of being a creep and so you refrain from doing so despite the burning curiosity in you.

And that’s what you’d leave it at. If by having messed with the jacket while putting it back onto the chair wouldn’t have caught your attention.

At first the small black hair on the blue fabric is barely noticeable. But when you focus, you realize there is short little hairs all over it.

Animal fur?

“it’s just a jacket, nuffin too fascinating.”

You yelp (scream) at the voice coming from behind you, spinning around so quick you give yourself vertigo for half a second.

“or were you looking for something in it?”

His smile and narrowed eyesockets tell you he is teasing, but you do not want to take your chances.

“What do I look like, a creep?! If anyone then that’s you, why the hell do you need to do that all the time?”

“you scream like a little bitch,” he grins unrepentant. “it’s funny.”

Oh, you’ll give him funny…

But those plans have to wait because he steps beside you to grab his jacket.

“forgot this here earlier. i only had time now to come back to grab it.”

Come back to grab it. So he is just here for that and is leaving again.

“Yeah, I was wondering about that…” You crouch down to gather your laundry into your arms again that you have put down earlier to inspect his jacket. “Next time you leave it here though I do not promise not to snoop. And it will go into the washer.”

“aww, washing my clothes for me? how awfully domestic of you.”

You scoff.

“As if. I was just referring to all that dog hair on it. Also who knows how dirty is that thing, I have never seen you wear anything else.”

“it’s cat hair.”

“Huh?” You turn to glance at him, but he is not meeting your gaze, empty eyesockets staring in front of him while he slides the jacket up his arms and adjusts it. “Cat hair? Huh. I didn’t know you had pets.”

“i don’t.”

“Oh.”

You do not have time to really cringe over that smart reply from your mouth, because Killer just nods at it.

“Would you ever want pets?”

Although he had looked ready to port out of your apartment just a second ago, he does stop to tilt his head in consideration.

“… no.”

“Oh.” You do not want to go back to standing dumbly after that again, so you quickly follow it up with another question, trying to prompt him to tell you more. “Why not? Do you not like cats? Or just any kind of animal in general?”

The silent look you get from him after those questions make you regret it a tiny bit. It’s not that bad, is it? These are normal questions about a totally normal and nonpersonal topic.

“i don’t mind animals. or cats.”

Usually this guy does not shut up and now you feel like you have to drag every word out of him. You are not that bad at making small talk, geez, but this is awkward.

“I’d want one. I think. Well. It is a big responsibility. And most animals are not even allowed to be kept here.”

“that’s funny, i am pretty sure the guy in the second floor right door apartment has a cat,” he muses out loud.

“He what?”

You blink at the information, trying to recall who is even that guy. Your landlord has been awfully strict about policies, there is no way someone can keep a cat without it being noticed. Second floor… is that the tall monster who dresses weird? Or… oh god, you are confusing your neighbors, there is no way you can’t remember who lives in this building.

“anyway so about that washing my clothes…”

You are pulled out of your head by Killer’s words, and you are quick to fix him a glare.

The cafe is full of people. Lunch rush. It’s the worst part of the day, by far the busiest. Morning rush is a very close second.

Your head is practically buzzing and you don't even have much caffeine in your system today. How does everyone else think in this babel of voices? Maybe that is why they try shouting over other conversations, one upping each other. You get that, you really do, but understanding it does not make it any less annoying. You are trying to work here! Trying to coordinate your movements, while putting together a plan in your head to get the most orders done in the shortest amount of time possible. You can brew more than one batch of coffee at the same time, that is fine, but you are running out of mugs and cups and spoons because you had not had any time to wash them since this rush started. Ccino is trying his best to help with it, but it's not like he also doesn't have stuff to do.

Even without glancing up at him, Killer’s gaze is something that can be physically felt on you. And his amusement as well. You wonder what is amusing about this. Pouring hot coffee onto him, now that would be amusing.

Did he really need to show up at the worst time?

You hastily fix the lid on two drinks to go, sliding them over to Ccino on the counter with the order scribbled onto a piece of paper so that he can handle the rest.

“I really don't have time right now, Killer,” you hiss, momentarily delaying his answer by drowning it out with the noise of the coffee grinder.

Momentarily.

He waits patiently until you’re done.

“technically you do have time for me. i’m a customer just like everyone else here.” God you wish you had time to stop and lean against the counter like him, not even sit, just be allowed to rest for a second.

He is right, but the grin on his face is unnecessary, and is incredibly tempting to try to remove forcefully.

“my order isn't even that difficult. just a pastry. no complicated fifteen step drink.”

You are losing track of that complicated fifteen step drink you are in the middle of making. Your memory is not cooperating, despite having read the order it feels like the words are just not registering.

Strawberry. Yes, extra strawberry sauce. You know how that goes. You can read.

God who is that guy who thought it would be a good idea to come into a cafe while talking about important business loudly on the phone? You can't look up to check, but damn is their voice irritating.

“If you get what you ordered will you be out of my hair?!”

Killer raises both hands in front of himself in surrender, or rather what seems to be an attempt to convince you that he's being genuine.

“i think that's a fair deal, yep. that's all i asked, didn't i?”

Something brushes against your shoulder and with a quick glance you confirm Ccino has stepped around you to help out with washing and preparing drinks.

You fix Killer a glare, finished iced strawberry latte in one hand as you open the pastry display to grab the other item for that particular order, a chocolate filled croissant. You decide you’ll leave the skeleton with his hands in the sink to his work and instead it will be easier if you bring this order out yourself.

That was the plan that prompted you to dash out from your usual spot, muttering not too patiently for people to please move out of your way.

It works for the most part.

Somebody either has not seen or heard you, or ignored it. Whatever the reason, one second you are slipping between two customers and the next you are being shoved from one side.

You are already flailing instinctively even with the plate and drink in your hands, anything to stop yourself from ending up crashing face first into the hard ground.

The speed of at which everything happens is hard to keep up with and all you realize a little late is that you did not in fact end up tripping over yourself, but rather you got grabbed at your elbow and spun away from the direction you were heading. That hold is also what helps you stabilize as you find your footing once again. As quickly as the touch came it is gone again.

Heart beating way too fast in your chest, you take some much needed breaths. Right. You have not broken yourself, nor the cup of coffee or the plate with the croissant.

The cup and the… plate.

Which is not in your hand.

You know damn well whose hand it was that steadied you, the faint scent of magic that lingered for just a second after was unmistakable.

You also know that the disappearance of your earlier annoying ‘customer’ and the disappearance of the pastry from your hands are connected. Looking up stunned, you lock eyes with the other barista not far away still behind the counter, who looks just as baffled having witnessed that scene.

But he seems to sober up way quicker.

“… he stole it, didn't he.”

“Yes.”

'Home sweet home'

That doormat was the most general and boring one you could get in literally any store. Yours is slightly more faded in colour — discolored to be precise — from use, the edges of the coarse material worn and a little tattered. You stand on it right now, blabbering about something Killer is only hearing but not listening to. He knows already what is your whole spiel, an embarrassed attempt to seem composed and irritated after the earlier scare of you finding him in your apartment. Yes, yes, you did mention it a few times that it was creepy of him coming and going without a word, but he had no actual interest in listening to that.

"And you— I mean just what kind of person in their right mind would assume that it's normal to—" His face does that funny thing, bone moving as if it was something soft and malleable, imitating the motion of pulling one's brows up. So your words have reached him. You even get a bored sounding hum.

No other indication that he would be considering what you just said.

You grumble under your breath, from which he catches a halfhearted insult directed at him and confusion mumbled to yourself. You have shimmied out of your shoes by now, leaving them on the mat as you make your way out from the hallway and into the middle of the apartment to properly stare him down.

"your couch is comfortable, what can i say."

Killer's smile stretches a little wider when your eyes narrow, nose scrunching up in a reaction you try suppressing.

"You must have very low standards if my couch, that awful thing, is comfortable for you."

The earlier heat has bled out of your voice by now, leaving your huff to sound like a rather resigned sigh instead.

"Do you not have a couch at your place? Or is it made out of stone?" Your words slow down while you study his amused expression for a second, the lazy smile, and the dark smudges which look like he smeared ink all over his cheeks. As always, but... Maybe he forgot to clean up today? Not that it is your business, you remind yourself. You are above making a joke of something like that, and besides, your mind is more occupied with the idea of getting something to eat after the long day. "... I really wonder, because I have a hard time imagining a worse couch."

Your lips curl up a little in a disbelieving smile at the mere idea as you turn and make your way into the kitchen, leaving the skeleton on your couch.

"I mean... no, like actually. What's your place like?"

Killer barely notices the way his own face moves, the exact opposite of you, the edges of his mouth turning from a practiced smile to a grimace. He had mostly let you muse to yourself since you arrived, but now you seem more curious than anything.

His place...

He shifts on the couch so that his soul isn't pressed into the backrest cushion he's leaning over, it's uncomfortable enough.

You move easily in the familiar kitchen, knowing where to reach for what, where to find what you're looking for. Your kitchen, your routines.

His head twitches and to fight the feeling he shakes it instead. He had a headache, but this is just making it worse. Why can't you shut your mouth sometimes.

He seems like a messy guy you say. Sleeping on a mattress on the floor type. He can't recall when was the last he actually did sleep.

His place. What does that even mean. His place. You mean his home.

The dark room he gets to call his isn't his home… Surely. His room. His home. That's wrong, that is not his home, he doesn't want to call that home—

The air is stale in your apartment, you need to air it out. There are boxes and clothes thrown around the place that you still haven't put away since he had last been here. Do you not go insane in this mess? He is going insane from your voice, since when is it so annoying?

"Hm... I don't really know. I'm just trying to think about stereotypes. Obviously, look who's talking... I have moving boxes as decoration." The sandwich you prepared is raised to your mouth so you can chew a tiny corner of the bread while your other hand hesitates, hovering above the butter with the butterknife.

He didn't give you anything. No answer, no reply. The silence is louder as your mind slows down and focuses on actually thinking. Yeah, he scared you when you opened the door to him in your apartment. Yeah, your day has been long and full of annoying people. But as tired as you are, to your surprise you do miss the banter.

Maybe he had a long day as well. Nice friend you are.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't even ask." You cringe, curious musing turning to quieter inquiry. "Are you hungry? We could probably order pizza actually, I didn't really eat much today... Like last time, but not from that place, I know you said—"

Your words trail off as you turn around to look back at him where you left him. One blink, two blink, a quick glance around.

No teleportation scare. No familiar scent lingering in the air.

"Killer?"