C418 (Sans AUs x Phantom!Reader)

Chapter One

What is death?

Death is the heavy feeling of sifting through darkness on your own feets.

Death is the cacophony of voices parroting back your own thoughts like excitable little kiddies.

And death was the form that shadowed in fronts of you, bird like in its shape and its posture. Green eyes a sharp sorts of piercing as they gazed back at you from within a mask of dusk colored wisps of its shape. Its teeth of which had pulled up into a snarl around its lips like a hound.

Death was you.

And it was death.

But death did not always take kindly to those she was unfamiliar with.

The sharp pain that bloomed from the side of your angular face was a testament to that. Leaving behind only ragged clawed marks as it clutched fiercely at your face, leaving you only to back pedal and squirm beneath its smoking form as it lunged upon you.

Blood crept from the new wound, staining your vision with its deep black ichor, sure to leave its mark on your mind.

You did not like death.

A shriek escaped you, or so you thought. Your mind abuzz with so many screeches and cries that it was hard to tell which sounds you were even making anymore.

But you still had your sight and feels.

Maybe that was all you needed.

Thin wings spread wide and with a blind swipe your claws furiously batted at the offending creature as it continued its pointed assault upon your prone form, your own talons struggling blindly for purchase against sickly slippery scales and hide.

Violence was the only language others of your kind seemed to speak.

Your talons finally found their mark, a weak point. A small spot of plush skin if the give beneath your claws was any measurement.

Probably the underbelly, chimed lowly in your head the words rung like a bell over the constant noise and confusion.

With that final thought your talons sank into undead flesh, wispy skin breaking like a knife as it carved through layers of stringy sinew and deoxidized blood. Life juices sputtering out in delay, pumping out in a weird sort of rhythmic rot.

Things like that made you ill.

Why?

You've been asking that of yourself long as you can remember.

It ain't funny that something born from the despair of dying was squeamish at the faintest traces of gore, and you were damn sure it was the result of some weird sort of divine punishment for... well... whatever you did in your past life.

Even as bones caved beneath your crushing grasp, ignoring the ringing of your ears as silent shrieks of pain escaped the writhing mass beneath you, you still ain't seein the humor. Even as the bloody mass beneath your winged claws flaked, chipping away like dust of the wind. One final guttural scream leaving its writhing body

It wasn't funny, not one bit.

Sickness and everything nasty curled at your throat, and you swear it took everything in ya to hold it back. Forcing past a short burst of breaths past your bile filled throat taking twice the effort than it usually did.

You weren't sure why.

Everything had been all sorts of off for the past couple of days. More off than it usually was.