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Frisk: *You tell Player that you require assistance
Player: you stuck on Hapu's battle?
Frisk: *she keeps one shotting your last remaining Pokémon with her "Z move"
Player, sighing: alright, give it here.
Frisk: *you hand the 3DS to Player*
Player: ...Frisk I don't know how the hell you managed to beat the other 3 Kahuna's but your team is seriously under leveled.
Frisk: *..oh
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I’d forgive him.
My ass is supposed to be writing collage essays but my autism is strangling me with error sans. LET ME WORK BRAIN!! UGHH. Hopefully this drawing satiated my hyper fixation. Probably not.
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Concepts for relationships I think would fit the Sans’. Pardon any typos.
Nightmare:
I feel he would more so be materialistic rather than physical.
Physical items are what is left behind once someone finally passes, it leaves behind their legacy for years maybe even centuries give or take.
While the emotions and actions of someone can leave huge impacts later on, they are destined to be forgotten. A fading memory no matter what they’ve done. Eventually everyone will forget you. Eventually there will be less and less people to trickle down your story to generations to come.
Material possessions leave your mark on the world, it ensures that people will know that you lived, that you breathed, that you loved. Even if not by name.
Even if Nightmare wouldn’t be a good partner mentally or physically, I feel if he truly cared for someone he would showcase it in gifts. There is virtually next to no emotional or physical availability, he’s busy all the time. He has no time to spare.
Even so I believe he would try, if only to ensure that you will not be forgotten.
That his love for you will not be forgotten
Dream:
Dream is the exact opposite however.
Unlike Nightmare, Dream has a less strained relationship with those he does love.
He prefers to keep them close. He values time over the lasting impression left.
You don’t even have to accept any confessions. He might not even make you aware with it out of his own nervousness of rejection. He will love you regardless.
He is far more appreciative of time that he is able to have with you. He knows that lives can not last forever like him, he wants whoever he does love to know how much he appreciates them no matter how much time they have.
He also hopes that no matter what happens after death that if you were to ever look back on your memories. That maybe, just maybe, you would only have fond memories to think about from your life lived.
Ink:
I cannot see him thriving in a romantic relationship.
He might think it would be something interesting to try, when he was unsure of his emotions that is.
Not to say he wouldn’t try to keep up a loving and fulfilling relationship with someone, it just feels as if it would be forced. He will try and get gifts, spend nights together, etc. he may even seem to be someone who is entirely committed to a relationship. Of course he has his faults with his flighty memory, as well as his… eccentric personality. But overall a very caring and “loving” relationship.
But he just can’t.
He has seen so many examples of what love truly is, that whenever he does try to showcase such things it comes across as entirely false. Or at the very least that is how it would feel to him.
Not to say he doesn’t LOVE people, he loves his friends very dearly and will act as such. But he can never truly fall in love in the way you wish him to.
Time to go back into hibernation
#nightmare sans#sans aus#undertale aus#undertale#utmv sans#utmv#sans#dream sans#self insert#technically#nightmare sans x reader#ink sans x reader#dream sans x reader
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Can someone give me an idea to write about, there’s nothing going on up in this little brain of mine.
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You’re a funny man Mr.Lucidifer5
Small W.I.P Killer Sans oneshot I’m working on
Killer hated the cold.
Pressing against his bones with an oppressive chill, it clawed and fought through fabric in an bitter bite that shredded though anything in it’s path. Numbness clawing its way along shivering bone, leaving pinpricked needles in it’s wake.
It hit way too close for him in his personal opinion. Far too familiar of a drag, a nuisance.
Such a thought dragged a sharp cold winded sigh past his teeth, breath coming out as short mist that clouded the chilled air.
Hands dragged up painfully slow, numb fingertips wrapped around faded blue cloth to drag it closer around his frame. Protectively hiding chilled bones as edges brushed past the now inverted heart shape that writhed his soul. Same in the fact nothing was safe from the bleak freeze of crystalized air.
A sniffle from his form broke him from his thoughts, hand shakily rising from his chest to wipe away tar from his cheeks leaving gray streaks upon porcelain white.
Stars, he hated the cold.
Yet…
He always found himself returning nonetheless.
Why..?
Why was that?
Was all that happened not enough.
Were these emotions even real, or yet another sick game masqueraded by inky black tendrils.
The thought brought a sharp inhale, singular white eyelight hidden within dull sockets flickering to life as he glances about surroundings with sudden clarity.
His back was pressed firmly against the cold wood of a crumbled building, sights of an old sign nearby with firm plantings within the snowy ground visible to his near left, lights reminiscent of those one might see during the holiday months amongst the surface dangled undisturbed forevermore.
‘S ow in’ it read, old and warm paint crumpled and itched off.
Yet he filled in the gaps of weathered writing.
This timeline held a Pacifist route. The inhabitants of this underground having long left to clearer skys.
The thought brought a furrow to his expression, hand instinctively pulled up to cold cheekbones to swipe away at rapid corruption reminiscent of tears.
He was NOT crying. He reminded himself.
Though not quite sure who he was really attempting to convince.
Soon.
Soon he would go back, just like a starving dog returning to a calling owner.
Everything would go back to normal.
A heavy cycle of dust and blood that stained his fingertips evermore.
His soul felt a sharp start at the thought. Tiny thoughts of rebellion seeping into his thoughts in a form of protest by his very being.
What could he do?
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Finished my Killer oneshot, I’m thinking of actually adding a couple chapters (god forbid I want these characters to be happy)
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Small W.I.P Killer Sans oneshot I’m working on
Killer hated the cold.
Pressing against his bones with an oppressive chill, it clawed and fought through fabric in an bitter bite that shredded though anything in it’s path. Numbness clawing its way along shivering bone, leaving pinpricked needles in it’s wake.
It hit way too close for him in his personal opinion. Far too familiar of a drag, a nuisance.
Such a thought dragged a sharp cold winded sigh past his teeth, breath coming out as short mist that clouded the chilled air.
Hands dragged up painfully slow, numb fingertips wrapped around faded blue cloth to drag it closer around his frame. Protectively hiding chilled bones as edges brushed past the now inverted heart shape that writhed his soul. Same in the fact nothing was safe from the bleak freeze of crystalized air.
A sniffle from his form broke him from his thoughts, hand shakily rising from his chest to wipe away tar from his cheeks leaving gray streaks upon porcelain white.
Stars, he hated the cold.
Yet…
He always found himself returning nonetheless.
Why..?
Why was that?
Was all that happened not enough.
Were these emotions even real, or yet another sick game masqueraded by inky black tendrils.
The thought brought a sharp inhale, singular white eyelight hidden within dull sockets flickering to life as he glances about surroundings with sudden clarity.
His back was pressed firmly against the cold wood of a crumbled building, sights of an old sign nearby with firm plantings within the snowy ground visible to his near left, lights reminiscent of those one might see during the holiday months amongst the surface dangled undisturbed forevermore.
‘S ow in’ it read, old and warm paint crumpled and itched off.
Yet he filled in the gaps of weathered writing.
This timeline held a Pacifist route. The inhabitants of this underground having long left to clearer skys.
The thought brought a furrow to his expression, hand instinctively pulled up to cold cheekbones to swipe away at rapid corruption reminiscent of tears.
He was NOT crying. He reminded himself.
Though not quite sure who he was really attempting to convince.
Soon.
Soon he would go back, just like a starving dog returning to a calling owner.
Everything would go back to normal.
A heavy cycle of dust and blood that stained his fingertips evermore.
His soul felt a sharp start at the thought. Tiny thoughts of rebellion seeping into his thoughts in a form of protest by his very being.
What could he do?
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