#tw:insomnia | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

capricorn-writes2 · 2 months ago

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Hey! I would like to request again with Horror, Killer, Dust, Ganz and Reaper to help S/O who cannot sleep. Thank you ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Horror Sans, Killer Sans, Dust Sans, Reaper Sans and Ganz with Insomniac S/O

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A/N: Hello, Anon! Thank you so much for requesting this headcanon, and I tried my best to give the best portrayal for these guys. I hope you like the final result, and I'm sorry if there might be some OOC characters. I am really sorry, but I have to close the asks because my asks are overflowing, especially in the other account.

Warning: Mention of Insomnia, tiny description of violence. Gender: Neutral

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Horror Sans: Horrortale

Horror Sans keeps a stash of hot cocoa (extra thick) for your worst nights, even if it's hard to find in the Underground, where food is quite scarce in here. He lets it simmer until it’s just right, then shoves it in your hands.

He doesn’t sleep much himself, so when you’re tossing and turning at 3AM, he’s already up, carving wood or sharpening his cleaver. When he hears your sighs, he puts his tools down without a word and climbs into bed. One giant arm wrapped around you.

Sometimes, when you can't sleep at all, he takes you on silent walks through the underground ruins. The broken halls and empty echoes oddly soothe your racing mind.

He carves little trinkets for you when he knows you’ve had several bad nights in a row. A tiny bone charm, a wooden heart, even a keychain shaped like a sleeping skull. They’re crude, but strangely they ease your mind because it feels like he was there for you.

When you cry out in your sleep, Horror jolts awake instantly, eyes glowing red. He doesn’t shake you to wake you up. Horror Sans just murmurs your name, rubbing circles on your back until you stir or cuddle you.

Sometimes, he tells you stories, gruesome, broken fairy tales from the Underground. He softens the gore just for you, weaving his trauma into tales that somehow feel familiar.

He once let you draw on his bones during a particularly sleepless night. You doodled stars and hearts across his ribs, giggling when he flinched at ticklish spots. Now he keeps a marker nearby, just in case.

He doesn’t understand everything about insomnia, but he understands pain, loneliness, and silence. That’s why he stays, through every sleepless night and morning. He never asks you to be okay. He just stays next to you in the darkness.

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The clock blinked 2:57 AM, its red digits glowing like tiny, merciless eyes in the corner of the room. You stared at the ceiling, wide awake, your limbs heavy with exhaustion but your mind spinning like it was being chased. The silence was loud. Too loud. Every creak of the floor, every distant hum from outside, seemed like something waiting, lurking.

You turned over for the twelfth time, pulling the blanket tighter around you, but it wasn’t warmth you needed. You needed something to calm your racing thoughts. The door creaked open softly, and the familiar silhouette filled the doorway. Broad shoulders, a glowing crimson eye, and a jagged grin that somehow never looked threatening when it was turned toward you.

Horror Sans didn’t speak at first; he just stepped into the room, the floorboards groaning under his weight like they knew he was someone to be respected, even by the house itself. In his hands: a chipped mug of cocoa and a small carved bone charm tied to a string. “Could smell your thoughts from downstairs,” he rasped, his voice like gravel soaked in black coffee. “Kept me from my nap. Rude, ain’tcha?” But his grin softened.

Horror Sans walked over as his footsteps made a creaking sound from the wooden floor, placing the mug on the nightstand and the charm gently into your palm. You clutched it tightly, its surface warm from his hand. The room felt a little safer already. He sat beside you on the bed, the mattress dipping under his massive frame. “Wanna talk?” He asked, his tone surprisingly gentle for someone who once tore a monster in half for looking at him wrong.

You shook your head, and instead of prying, he leaned back against the headboard and opened one arm, wordlessly inviting you closer. You curled into his side, head resting on his chest, feeling the faint thrum of magic through his bones. “Close your eyes,” he murmured. “You don’t gotta sleep. Just rest. I’ll stay.” His fingers were cold but firm.

His fingers moved in slow circles along your shoulder. In the darkness, his presence filled every corner like a ward against whatever shadows haunted you. You thought you’d feel small next to him. After a while, he started humming. Low and slow, like a lullaby carved out of broken memories. There were no words, just sound and vibration and something old behind it, something kind.

You breathed in deeply, his scent all smoke, ash, and something earthy, like he’d fought monsters in the forest and never truly left. His thumb brushed your cheek once as he was careful that the sharp part of his claws didn't touch you, just enough to ground you. “Night ain’t got nothin’ on you,” he whispered.

Your body sank deeper into him, muscles slowly relaxing one by one. You weren't asleep yet, but your mind wasn’t racing anymore. Not with his humming, not with that charm still clenched in your hand, and not with his arm across you like a blanket. He wasn’t perfect, but he was yours and somehow, in his arms, even the monsters under your bed seemed to keep their distance.

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Killer Sans: Something New

Killer doesn’t sleep much either, so when you’re awake at 4AM staring at the ceiling, chances are he��s hanging upside-down from your doorframe. “Can’t sleep, babe? Good. Let’s go commit insomnia crimes together.” He means playing card games, not actual crime… this time.

When your insomnia hits hard, Killer builds a blanket fort around you using stolen bedsheets, pillows, and questionable tape wrapped around the fort to make it steady. Inside, it’s cozy and lit by tiny fairy lights he definitely didn’t steal.

He doodles on your arms with a red pen when you’re too restless to stay still. He draws little skulls, sleepy eyes, and hearts with knives in them. Sometimes he kisses your hand afterward like you’re royalty.

He sneaks out to get your favorite snacks and drinks when you're having a hard night. It doesn’t matter if it’s 1 AM or 5 in the morning. He’s got sticky fingers and zero morals. Shows up with a bag of Cheetos and cans of Coca-Cola or Dr. Pepper.

On the worst nights, he lets you lie on top of him while he traces shapes on your back. His gloves are rough, but his touch is so careful you could cry. He tells you stories of twisted fairy tales where the villain always wins.

Or sometimes Killer keeps your favorite movie downloaded and ready when it was your worst night. You don’t even watch it sometimes; you just let it play in the background as the sound soothes you.

If you ever fall asleep in a weird position, he doesn’t move you. Instead, he moves himself around you like a puzzle piece. Once you woke up with him curled around your legs like a cat.

When you can’t stop pacing, he mirrors you, walking in circles dramatically. “New sport: Midnight Marathon. The first one to fall asleep wins.” You roll your eyes, but it makes you smile when he jokes.

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You weren’t sure what time it was, but the glow from your phone screen said it was way too late to still be awake and way too early to give up trying. The ceiling had become your favorite thing to stare at lately, not because it was interesting, but because at least it didn’t talk back. Your thoughts, though? Loud. Spinning. Buzzing like a glitch.

Even blinking felt exhausting now. You buried your face in your pillow with a sigh, half-hoping the universe would knock you out just to shut you up. The window creaked open with a familiar, unnecessary flair. Of course, he never used the door. “Knock knock, insomnia!” Killer’s voice rang out, too energetic for someone who probably hadn’t slept in a week either.

You sat up just enough to see him climbing through the frame like a smug cat burglar. “Guess who brought your favorite bag of salty death chips and tons of Dr.Peppers and Cola cans?" He grinned, eyes glowing in the dark, and a snicker escaped from him.

Then he tossed it onto the bed, kicked his boots off, and flopped beside you like gravity meant nothing. He smelled faintly of rust and trouble, chaotic comfort wrapped in a hoodie too big for someone who didn’t have skin. You didn’t have to say anything. He just knew. With a dramatic sigh

Killer Sans rolled over onto his side and propped his head up with his hand, the other one reaching out to poke your cheek. “You’ve been overthinking again, haven’t you? Tsk. Told you not to go in that haunted house you call a brain without me.” The jab was playful, but the concern in his voice was real. You didn’t answer, but you turned your face toward him, your silence enough of an answer. He suddenly reached into his hoodie and pulled out a red marker. “Alright. New plan.”

You didn’t even question it. Killer grabbed your arm gently and began drawing some little skulls with hearts for eyes, crooked stars, and cartoon knives with blood. His focus was intense, tongue poking out like a kid with crayons. “Therapy. Killer-style. If I can’t make you sleep, I’ll make your arm a distraction masterpiece.” You watched him, heart slow and quiet for the first time tonight. “Y’know,” he said softly after a while, “you don’t gotta force yourself. To sleep. To be okay. Just… be.”

The words were casual, tossed out like candy, but they stuck to your ribs like poetry. You looked at your arm that are now covered in doodles and realized you felt warmer than you had in hours. Killer dropped the pen and stretched out beside you, then pulled you gently to his chest. His bones were hard, sure, but his magic buzzed low and calm, like a lullaby under your skin.

He didn't say anything else. Just wrapped his hoodie around your body like a blanket that protects your from the cold. You closed your eyes, not to sleep, but to listen. You matched your breathing with his, letting the strange rhythm of him settle your nerves. And for once, your thoughts weren’t screaming. Just whispering. Slowing. Resting.

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Dust Sans: Dusttale

Dust isn’t the touchy-feely type, but the moment he finds out you haven’t been sleeping, he starts sticking around at night more often. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans in the doorway and watches you, like a guardian.

He hates the silence as much as you do. So when the room gets too quiet, he flicks his fingers and make a soft, low hum of magic to fill the space. It’s subtle, almost like static or wind, just enough to keep your thoughts from spiraling.

Dust has insomnia too, sometimes. So he doesn't judge when you’re wide awake at 3 a.m, just staring into nothing. Instead, he pulls out one of his old journals and starts writing, letting you listen to the scratch of pen on paper.

He has a stash of old books in his room, dusty and broken-spined. On the worst nights, he reads to you in his low, tired voice. Sometimes it’s horror. Sometimes it’s lore, or sometimes it’s his own writing.

Sometimes, He learns to sketch just to keep your mind busy. He hands you broken pencils and torn notebooks at 2 a.m., challenging you to draw a monster uglier than him. You always lose.

When you’re shaking from exhaustion, Dust lets you rest your head in his lap. He doesn’t move, even when his legs go numb or the world outside gets too loud. One hand rests on your head, thumb brushing your temple in slow, repetitive motions.

Dust memorizes your bedtime routine. Even if it’s dumb, even if it doesn’t work, he does it with you. Brushes his teeth at the same time, turns off lights together. It becomes something sacred between you two.

He once built you a dreamcatcher out of bone and thread. It’s crooked, a little creepy, and probably cursed. But you hung it above the bed anyway. And somehow, since then, the dreams haven’t been so scary.

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You didn’t know what time it was. The world outside your window had melted into that liminal kind of dark, where even the moon looked half-asleep and the street lamps buzzed like distant insects. Your eyes were heavy, but your mind was wide awake with thoughts jumping between regrets, missed texts, and unspoken worries. You hated this feeling: trapped between the want to rest and the inability to shut your brain up.

The door creaked open without a knock, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. His footsteps were too quiet, calculated. Dust never walked like a normal person, he moved like someone who expected a fight, even in your bedroom. “Still awake,” he muttered, not a question. You hummed in response, watching as he sank into the chair beside your bed.

His hoodie half-falling off his shoulder, sockets dim with exhaustion he’d never admit to. He didn’t ask what was wrong. Dust never wasted words like that nor the type to ask many questions. Instead, he reached into his hoodie and pulled out a cracked thermos filled with tea, handing it to you. “It’s bitter,” he warned.

You took it anyway, the metal still warm from wherever he’d gone to get it. The first sip made you wince, it tasted like old herbs, medicine and despair. “You’ll live,” he grunted, clearly amused by your face. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was with him. You listened to the quiet hum of his magic, that low, pulsing thrum like a heartbeat beneath your own.

It made the air feel heavier, safer somehow like if any nightmare tried to crawl out from under your bed, it would disintegrate before touching you. Dust rested his head back against the wall, one glowing eye flickering toward you now and then. “You’re thinking too loud,” he said. You sighed, curling your fingers around the thermos. “I know.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and held out his hand. You hesitated, then gave him yours. His grip was rough but careful enough not to accidentally prick you, his fingers cold, but he traced small circles into your palm like he’d been doing it his whole life. “You don’t gotta fix it all tonight. Just… stay. Breathe....” he murmured, voice lower now.

He pulled something from his jacket pocket, a stubby pencil and a wrinkled notebook. “Let’s draw ugly things,” he suggested, like it was the most natural response to insomnia. You blinked. “What kind of ugly things?” “Like that thought that told you you’re not good enough. Let’s make it fat and give it six arms.” You laughed, just a little. He smirked, and the sound made his soul flare gently in his chest.

You lost track of time. The notebook filled with sketches and doodles, half-formed monsters and imaginary fears with googly eyes and terrible fashion sense. Somewhere between a grumpy scribble of your anxiety and his horribly disproportionate sketch of your math teacher, your breathing evened out. You leaned your head against his shoulder without thinking. He didn’t move away. Just rested his skull against yours and let the silence settle in again.

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Reaper Sans: Reapertale

Reaper doesn’t sleep either, at least not like mortals do. But the moment he learns you suffer from insomnia, he begins appearing at your bedside more often. Not to judge, not to fix, just to be there for you.

He calls you “beloved” in the softest way possible. Like the word itself might shatter if spoken too loud. When you’re curled in bed, tense and wired, he’ll whisper it near your ear. And it makes the monsters in your head pause.

He will whisper your name like a prayer. When you’re shaking, when your thoughts won’t shut up, when you feel alone like there was no one was there for you. He speaks it softly, over and over, anchoring you to the present.

Reaper reads ancient texts in a deep, rhythmic voice. Not all of it makes sense, some in dead languages, others in stories forgotten by time. But the sound of his voice lulls you into calmness.

He conjures a thin veil of shadow over the windows. Not just to block the light, but to mute the world, silencing the honks, the wind, even the ticking clock. To him, sleep is sacred; not even Death should disturb it.

Reaper’s cloak becomes your second blanket. Heavy, slightly cold, smelling like magic and grave lilies. When you curl up in it, it feels like being wrapped in the night sky itself.

He draws sigils in the air, casting soft charms for peace and silence. They hang invisible around your bed to wards of calm, of rest, of dreamless slumber. “Nothing dark may trespass here,” he says solemnly.

He has a near-perfect memory. So he repeats the things that helped before: the right words, the exact position that made you sigh, a cold comfortable pillows, a warm water for your throat, sleep masks, the lullaby from week two. He tailors his care like a ritual.

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The ceiling above your bed stared back at you, painted with shadows and the slow crawl of hours you couldn’t name. You’d counted the cracks in the paint, memorized the rustle of the curtain, even listened to the hum of your heart like it might lull you to sleep. But nothing worked. Sleep had abandoned you again.

A cold breeze stirred the air, though no windows were open. You didn’t flinch. You knew that sensation by now, the quiet arrival of something otherworldly, dark yet comforting, and the hush that followed. When you blinked, Reaper Sans stood by the foot of your bed, framed by nothing but the dark. His cloak moved like smoke in water, face half-lit by the soft blue glow of his soul. “Still awake, beloved?”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded, too tired to pretend it was fine. He said nothing more, simply walked across the room and sat beside you. His scythe always with him, always gleaming with ghost-light, hovered in the corner, like a silent sentinel. You could smell the magic clinging to him: lavender, ash, and something like ancient ink. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was…comforting.

Without asking, he extended his arm, and you curled instinctively into his side. His robes were cold, but his magic hummed with a warmth you didn’t understand. Death shouldn’t be comforting, but he was. “I cast a ward earlier. It should help with the voices tonight," he said quietly.

You hadn’t told him about the voices, those fleeting thoughts that liked to whisper lies in the silence. But of course he knew. His hand rose slowly, carefully brushing your hair away from your face, as though you were made of silk or something long buried. “Your soul is loud when it suffers, I hear it calling me, even in the realm between," he added.

You felt your throat tighten at that. No one had ever said your pain was heard. Not like this. Not like it mattered. You wanted to tell him everything. How afraid you were of your own thoughts. How the night made everything worse. But you didn’t have to because he pulled his cloak around both of you, sheltering you in that strange, sacred space where sleep wasn’t forced, but invited. “Let me share the night with you,” he whispered.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time melted beside Reaper, soft and slow. The flicker of his magic reflected on the wall in constellations that weren’t real but made you feel small in a comforting way. You focused on the rhythm of his soul’s pulse, a deep, slow echo beneath his ribs. And the protective way he curled his arm around your side like a shield from unseen things.

When sleep finally began to creep in, you felt him shift slightly. Not to move, not to leave, but just to settle in more deeply beside you. His voice came one last time, a whisper that reached into the growing stillness of your thoughts. “Sleep now. I’ll keep the world away.”And for once, you believed him.

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Ganz : GZTale

Image Source: SkyDixie

Ganz isn’t the type to say much, but he notices everything. When you’re tossing and turning, he doesn’t question it. Instead, he lies beside you, skull tilted your way, watching with a soft glowing eye.

He starts keeping track of your insomnia patterns. Not in a notebook, but mentally, like he’s preparing for battle. If he senses the signs from twitchy fingers and far-off stare. He’s already planning how to help.

Ganz will light up the room with little flickers of magic. Not too bright, just enough to distract your mind from racing thoughts. Sometimes they form shapes such as foxes, ghosts, symbols from his world.

Sometimes, he tells you stories from his world. They’re weird, a little violent, and full of sarcastic commentary. But they make you focus, it give you something real and chaotic to focus on.

He learns what helps you calm down such as music, humming, fidgeting. Then he offers them without being asked. You want music? He’s already queuing your playlist in the spotify or from the youtube.

On the worst nights, he doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, holds you tightly, and doesn’t let go. His magic flares up just enough to warm your back and his silence are comforting.

He sometimes takes you to the underground ruins via portal. Not to scare you, just to walk so your mind can be distracted by the view. The ancient silence calms your nerves, and the glowstones help your eyes rest.

When you do finally fall asleep, he doesn’t move. Not even to check his phone. He just watches over you, bones still, magic soft. And if a nightmare flickers in your expression, he’s ready to fight it.

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It was 2:47 a.m. when your brain decided sleep was off the table. Again. You’d been staring at the ceiling so long, the texture had turned into mountains, and your thoughts had gone from overthinking what you said at dinner to imagining alien civilizations made of cheese. Everything was quiet, too quiet for your likiking.

And then, the air shifted. A chill, a disturbance in the space between the seconds. A presence you couldn’t mistake. Ganz stood at the edge of your bed, his glowing eye cutting through the darkness like a lighthouse in a storm. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at you with that poker face, arms crossed. “Tough night?” he asked in his usual gravelly tone, though his gaze softened.

You couldn’t manage words, just a half-hearted nod as you buried your face into your pillow. It was too much tonight—too many thoughts, too many anxieties that kept you up, relentless in their pursuit. He seemed to read it in the way your shoulders slumped, the way your breath hitched.

Ganz didn’t offer a magical fix or an empty platitude. Instead, he sat down beside you, his presence solid and grounding, like the only thing that was real in a sea of chaos. Without a word, he reached out, his skeletal fingers brushing your hand, offering warmth that didn’t quite belong to him. “C’mon, let's get some fresh air. The night’s too big to let it eat you alive," he muttered.

And with that, he tugged you up, guiding you outside with a force that was oddly gentle for a being like him. The cool night air hit your face, sharp and fresh. Ganz pulled you onto the rooftop, where the city sprawled beneath you, the lights a distant constellation of dreams. "Isn't this better?" he asked, settling beside you as the wind tousled his jacket.

You nodded, your heartbeat slowing, just a little. The vastness of the night was no longer suffocating, but freeing. His voice broke the silence again, not forceful, but comforting. “Sometimes you gotta step out of your head, y’know? The stars don’t care about your worries.” His hand casually brushed against yours, like it was the most normal thing in the world. And for a moment, it was.

You stayed there for what felt like hours, letting the quiet of the world mix with the strange warmth of his magic. When the weight of exhaustion finally began to pull at your eyelids, Ganz made no move to rush you back inside. Instead, he hummed a low, comforting sound, the kind that only someone like him could produce. “You gonna make it through the night?” he asked, not teasing. It was an offer that he would be willing to stay awake as long as you need him to be. “I can stay up as long as you need. I’m used to it.” He finally says.

Eventually, you found your way back to your bed, though now, it didn’t feel so oppressive. Ganz didn’t leave. Instead, he laid beside you, his cool body curving protectively around you. His arm draped over you, not too tight, just enough to feel his presence. “The world’s still out there, waiting for you to wake up. But for now,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper “just sleep, for once," and with that, the tension in your body eased.

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