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capricorn-writes2 · 18 days ago

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Hey Erina, it's me again. Can I request Horror, Killer, Dust, Ganz and Reaper with Headcanons of S/O Pretending to be Happy but Depressed inside?

- Lilith

Horror Sans, Killer Sans, Dust Sans, and Ganz Having S/O Who Acts Happy but Depressed Inside

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Hey Lil's! Long time not chatting, and I'm happy that I finally can talk to you again after everything, and thank you so much for being a great friend and a great reader! I'm so happy that you read my book ^.^

Gender: Neutral

Warning: Profanities, depression, mental illness, profanity, and violence.

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Horror Sans

Horror Sans is not an idiot—far from it. People assume he’s slow because of his rough speech and lazy posture, but he’s smarter than he lets on. Years of trauma, survival, and bloodshed have made him hypersensitive to the emotions of those around him.

So when you plaster on a bright, cheerful smile, cracking jokes and laughing like everything is fine… He notices. And he hates it.

His way of showing care is simple: food. He’s not going to sit you down for a deep talk about your emotions, but he will shove a plate of food at you and grunt, “Eat.” It’s rough; it’s gruff, but the concern in his glowing eyelight is obvious. If you refuse? He won’t let it slide.

Horror isn’t the type to ask, “What’s wrong?” every five seconds. But when you’re having a bad day, he just sticks around. No words, no questions. Just… there. Sometimes sitting across the room, sharpening his axe.

If you joke about being worthless, his grin immediately drops. No more smirks. No more playfulness. Just a cold stare as he growls, “Don’t say that shit.”

If you can’t sleep, he grumbles and opens his arms. You don’t even have to ask. Just crawl in. He’ll hold you. And surprisingly, he is actually very warm despite being made out of bones.

He knows the signs. If he ever catches you hurting yourself, his entire body stiffens—not with anger, but with something deeper. Something haunted. And in a low, gravelly voice, he mutters: “yer better than this. ya hear me?”

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The laughter in the room was loud—too loud. It echoed unnaturally, like a performance where everyone was playing their part, including you. You grinned, cracked another joke, and watched as the people around you laughed. That was good. As long as they were entertained, as long as they were looking at the version of you they expected, no one would notice how hollow it all felt.

But one person wasn’t laughing. Horror Sans stood near the doorway, arms crossed, a red glow flickering in his single eyelight. He was watching you—not in his usual lazy, half-distracted way, but watching you. Like a hunter waiting for its prey to drop its act.

The second the crowd thinned, leaving you alone, his heavy footsteps approached. You barely had time to turn before his deep, gravelly voice cut through the space between you. “Cut the crap.” The words weren’t harsh, but they landed like a punch to the gut. “What are you talking about? I’m just having fun.” You hesitated, then forced a laugh.

A long sigh escaped him, and for a moment, he just stared, as if weighing his next words carefully. Then, his voice lower but unwavering, he muttered, “You’re tired.” Not a question—just a fact. Your stomach twisted. You tried to deny it, shake your head, and push the moment away like you always did.

But then Horror did something unexpected. His large, rough hand rested lightly on your head—not in an overbearing way, but carefully, like he was afraid you’d break if he held on too tight. The warmth of the touch, the quiet patience behind it, made something inside you crack. "Ya don’t have ta' pretend with me." The words were soft—softer than you’d ever heard from him.

It was as if he knew pushing wouldn’t work, so instead, he just let the truth settle between you. And for the first time in a long while, you felt seen. Not the smiling, joking, happy version of you, but you—the exhausted, aching, worn-down version you tried to hide. Your throat tightened, and no matter how hard you tried to hold it in, your vision blurred.

Before you could break apart completely, Horror pulled you into his chest. His embrace wasn’t overly tight or suffocating, but firm—grounding. Like he was holding you together when you couldn’t do it yourself. His jacket smelled like leather and metal, and his chest rumbled faintly as he hummed a deep, steady sound. It wasn’t a song, not exactly, but it was enough. Enough to make you let go, burying your face in the warmth of his hoodie as the first quiet sob escaped.

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Killer Sans

Killer may act carefree, but he’s scary good at reading people—especially when it comes to fake smiles. At first, he plays along, watching you laugh and joke around, but deep down, he knows something’s off.

He doesn’t call you out immediately. He waits, observing how long you can keep up the act, how often your “happy” mask slips when no one’s looking. He enjoys games, but this one? This one pisses him off.

He pushes boundaries, just to see how you react. Killer will casually say something like, "Y'know, ya don’t always gotta act like a sunshine factory." He watches your reaction closely—do you laugh it off, ignore it, or tense up? No matter what, he stores the information for later.

Killer isn’t the type to drown you in soft, fluffy words, but he’s an expert at turning pain into humor. He’ll joke about kidnapping your problems, threatening to “knife-fight” your sadness, or just saying, "If ya cry too much, ya might flood the underground. Bad idea."

If you break down, he doesn’t panic or try to fix it. Instead, he sits beside you, silent at first, then mutters, “Y’know… I like ya, even when ya look like a mess.” He stays close, letting you fall apart without fear of judgment.

He’s bony and rough around the edges, but when he pulls you in, his arms feel secure, like he’s holding you together. He rests his chin on your head, whispering dumb things like, "Aww, my poor little disaster human." It’s ridiculous, but comforting.

If he notices you isolating yourself, skipping meals, or falling into bad habits, he’ll step in, no questions asked. He doesn’t care if you’re mad—he cares that you stay alive. And if that means forcing you to eat while he tells terrible jokes, so be it.

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"Wow, what a day, huh?" You laughed, stretching your arms as you flopped onto the couch. The words came out effortlessly, smooth as always, polished by years of practice. Your grin was bright—too bright—like the sun trying to pierce through a storm that never really left. You expected Killer to scoff, maybe chuckle darkly and throw a snarky comment your way. That was how this worked.

You played the cheerful fool, and he played the reckless, bloodstained trickster. But this time, he didn’t play along. Killer sat on the table across from you, spine hunched, elbows resting on his knees. His red eyelight flickered dangerously, not out of rage but something else—something unreadable.

He wasn’t grinning. He wasn’t cracking jokes. He was just watching you, head slightly tilted, his gaze sharp as a knife pressing against your skin. The air between you felt heavier than usual, thick with something unspoken. "W-What?" You chuckled, nervous with the way he looks at you "C’mon, don’t look at me like that. You’re creeping me out, babe-"he cuts you off.

"Drop the act."

Your breath hitched. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t a tease. It was a statement, cutting through the room like a scalpel to an open wound. You blinked, your throat tightening, your fingers curling against the fabric of your sleeves. He couldn’t—he wasn’t supposed to—he wasn’t supposed to see through you. That wasn’t part of the game.

You were supposed to smile, laugh, keep moving forward, pretend you weren’t crumbling under the weight of yourself. "I don’t know what you’re talking about—" You tried to reason. "Liar." His voice went sharper. That single word sent a shiver down your spine.

He said it so easily, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like he had known from the very beginning. His head tilted slightly, that flickering eyelight locked onto you like a predator watching its prey. But there was no malice in his gaze—just understanding. Quiet, unsettling understanding.

A silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, could feel the pressure in your chest threatening to crush you from the inside out. Then, before you could even think of another excuse, Killer moved. One second, he was across from you.

The next thing, he was right there, gripping your wrist, pulling you forward until your forehead bumped against his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you, firm, unwavering. He was holding you. Not out of pity. Not because he wanted something. Just… holding you. "Tired, huh?" His voice was barely above a whisper. Something inside you broke. The tightness in your chest snapped like a thread pulled too far, and before you could stop it, the first tear slipped down your cheek.

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Dust Sans

He saw through you from the start. No matter how bright your smile was or how cheerful your voice sounded, he could see the exhaustion hidden behind your eyes. He knew that look—he had worn it himself once.

He’s not one for physical comfort, but he’ll try. He’s not the best at hugs or sweet gestures, but when you’re at your lowest, he’ll pull you into his jacket. It’s stiff and awkward, but warm—and you know it’s the most honest thing he can offer.

He recognizes the exhaustion in your voice. When you tell him, “I’m fine,” with that tired little laugh, his grip on his knife tightens. Not out of anger at you, but at the world that made you feel like you had to lie.

He’s overprotective in a quiet way. He won’t always voice his worries, but he watches your every move. If he notices you skipping meals or isolating yourself, expect food on your desk and a presence at your side, whether you asked for it or not.

If anyone dares to hurt you, they won’t get a second chance. He doesn’t care who they are—if someone pushes you deeper into the darkness, they’ll answer to him. And no one survives the wrath of Dust Sans.

He will fight for you, even when you won’t fight for yourself. If you ever start to give up, if you ever reach that point where you feel like there’s nothing left—he’ll remind you that you’re wrong. Because you have him.

He never tells you to “cheer up” or “stay positive.” He knows it’s not that simple, so instead, he just says, “One day at a time.” It’s not poetic, it’s not profound, but coming from him, it means everything.

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"You’re so quiet today, Dust! C’mon, lighten up!" You laughed, nudging his shoulder playfully. Your voice was bright—too bright—like a firework desperately trying to light up a pitch-black sky. He just stared at you, eyelights dim, expression unreadable. It was a look you’d grown used to, but today, something about it felt different. Sharper. Heavier.

"Tch. You’re one to talk." His voice was low, quiet, but not unkind. You blinked, caught off guard by the response. Normally, he’d just grunt or brush you off, but now, he was watching you—really watching you. His sockets darkened slightly, his bony fingers tapping against his sleeve. “You’re pushin’ it too hard.”

You swallowed. "Pushing what?" You feigned confusion, tilting your head with that same easy-going smile. The one you always wore, the one that kept people from asking too many questions. But Dust? Dust was different. He saw through every carefully placed mask, every joke, every laugh that never quite reached your eyes.

"Don’t do that." His voice dropped to a murmur. It wasn’t a demand, but something about it made your stomach twist. You opened your mouth—instinctively ready to brush it off—but the words died on your tongue when you saw the way his eyelights flickered. That wasn’t annoyance. That wasn’t cold indifference. That was concern. And somehow, that was even worse.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Then, just as you were about to force out another excuse, he moved. One moment, he was sitting across from you. The next, he was right there, fingers curling around your wrist, his touch oddly warm despite the chilling aura that always clung to him.

He didn’t pull, didn’t force you to speak. He just held on—light enough for you to pull away, but firm enough to let you know he wasn’t letting go unless you made him. "You don’t have to pretend." His voice was barely above a whisper. His thumb traced small, absent-minded circles against your skin, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. “Not with me.” That was all he said, but it was enough.

Because in those three words, he wasn’t just telling you to drop the act. He was promising that he’d be there, no matter what was underneath it. Your chest tightened. The weight you had been carrying the one you thought you could handle alone suddenly felt unbearable. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as your shoulders trembled. You didn’t want to cry, but when you felt his other hand hesitantly settle against your back.

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Ganz

He’s not easily fooled by your mask. GANZ’s sharp senses catch the smallest signs: the way your shoulders tense when no one’s looking, or how your voice shakes when you try to force a cheerful tone. He may not call you out on it, but he always knows.

He won't offer false reassurances. GANZ knows you don’t need empty words like “everything will be okay.” Instead, he’ll quietly sit beside you, offering his own version of comfort—by simply being there when the world feels too heavy.

If he sees you overworking yourself or isolating, he’ll gently remind you that you’re allowed to rest. His way of caring is often understated, but you’ll feel it in the small gestures, the soft touches, and the quiet observations.

When you’re at your lowest, he won’t let you push him away. GANZ is stubborn in his own way. If you try to distance yourself, he’ll quietly follow, always a few steps behind, ready to offer help whether you want it or not.

He’ll take on your burdens when you can’t. If your emotional load gets too heavy, GANZ won’t hesitate to help you shoulder it. He’s not a talker, but he’ll carry your pain in his own quiet way, always making sure you don’t bear it alone.

GANZ will protect your peace. If he sees you getting overwhelmed or pulled into drama, he won’t hesitate to shield you from it. His protective instincts run deep, and he’ll do anything to keep the world from crushing your fragile peace.

GANZ doesn’t always know what to say, but he knows how to create space for you to heal. Whether it’s a quiet walk, sitting together in silence, or just offering a soft, reassuring smile—he knows how to make you feel seen.

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The soft sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway, and GANZ glanced over his shoulder, his sharp, glowing eyes narrowing. You were walking ahead of him, smiling and chatting with the others, but something in your smile looked off. It was too bright, as though you were trying to force it into existence.

He had seen it before—the mask you wore to hide what really churned inside. He didn’t approach you immediately, letting you keep up the act for a while longer. Letting you be happy. But he knew—he always knew.

GANZ had spent too long pretending himself not to recognize the signs: the small, forced laughs, the way your shoulders slumped when you thought no one was looking, how your eyes darkened even when your words remained light. He wasn’t fooled.

The moment you were alone, he followed. No words, just the silent steps of someone who was tired of watching you pretend. GANZ didn’t need to ask if you were okay—he already knew the answer. But he couldn’t let it go on, not for much longer. As you reached the door to your room, he stepped in front of you, blocking your path with a stillness that made your heart skip a beat. "You don't have to pretend, you know." His voice was quiet but his eyes focus on you.

You froze, caught off guard. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you gave him a shaky smile, trying to brush it off, but he saw through it instantly. He always did. His gaze softened just a little, and his hand reached out, placing it lightly on your shoulder. There was no force behind it, only the quiet reassurance that he was there for you—whether you wanted it or no

GANZ wasn’t the kind of person to demand answers or fix things in an instant, but when it came to you, he wouldn’t let you slip through the cracks. He wouldn’t let you face this alone. "Stop hiding," he murmured, and though the words weren’t loud, they felt like a weight lifting off your chest.

You wanted to push him away, to retreat into the fake version of yourself that you’d perfected for so long. But his presence anchored you, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you didn’t have to be strong. Tears welled in your eyes, and for a moment, you let them fall, not bothering to hide them. GANZ didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He just stood there, his hand still on your shoulder, offering silent comfort.

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