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kokonattsu-tokui · 1 year ago

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Reaper x Passive!Nightmare

Hi! Here is my very first fanfic' OS published on Tumblr! I wrote this for a Discord event where you had to place the sentence 'Maybe in another life' in your story.

This is a Reaper x Passive!Nightmare. At first, it should have been a Reaper x Reader... but I had way too much imagination!

This OS is on my Wattpad account (French) too. It will become a long fanfiction. In fact, this text below is just the first chapter. But it can be read with no problem!

Considering that one is immortal and the other is six-

No. There is NO romance.

Reaper!Sans from Reapertale belongs to @/renrink.

Passive!Nightmare from Dreamtale belongs to @/jokublog.

Trigger Warning: Death, weapon, heavy blood, harassment and suicide mentions, injuries, cuss word, mental health(?). It contains some headcanons of mine. May be a bit long!

Enjoy your reading!

Maybe in another life

Sans, better known as the sorrowful nickname ‘Reaper’, detested his job. And that, for several reasons.

Firstly, he was a God of Death. Nevertheless, as it did not seem enough to assign him this horrible work as soon as he was created, he must necessarily be different from his brother. Papyrus was also a God of Death… But the painless death: he was only appearing to pure beings or those accepting their destiny from the outset. Those who were dying peacefully, having peace of mind and light-hearted. Sans, him, had to reap the souls of people who had committed atrocious crimes, whether they repented, whether they regretted... or not. In any case, they were all refusing their death. And were really impolite, mischievous or contemptuous.

Do not get him wrong, he loved his brother. Incidentally, he was wishing him never to know the agonizing aspect of their domain. At least... to never experience it.

Secondly, death knows no rest. He always had to go to such places, at such moments, to such people. He had to listen to the last prayers, the last words, the tears, the harrowing cries of the dying person or their entourage. The evidence being that, even the most corrupt of living beings could have a family, people who care about them.

Thus, Reaper was accomplishing his thankless task. And as the days, months and years passed, he lived simple, complicated situations, some giving him a rough ride, preposterous or frustrating… He was preferring some to others, without actually beginning to truly like his morbid duty.

He was preferring to precisely reap this fragile link between the soul and the body, without an ounce of bitterness. He was rarely granting five more minutes of life to those he was calling 'patients'. After all, his own were clearly not meriting it. This situation was bearable, he was managing it well and it was making his work easier, since the soul was transferred to the afterlife without a problem. Ironically, it was also the one happening the least.

Of course, there were always the other moments more... problematic. More recurrent.

If he had not been able to be present in time to reap the thread of life himself, then it would break by itself. And the complications were beginning because he had to persuade the soul to follow him or manage to catch it. Peace once dead, what a joke!

A whole plan of negotiation was then being put in place, composed of sweet words and anger contained on one side; and fury, fear and despair on the other. Reaper had to make use of all his self-control to convince the soul to finally give up. Several times, he almost lost his temper because a second lost trying to catch a single person, was letting the other dying people of the Multiverse reap themselves and repeat the same actions.

He had to literally chase, run after those spirits sometimes fleeing or hiding from him. However, never for very long: Reaper could feel their presence. He was Death itself, after all.

And there were other situations that were rarer but a lot more arduous… Like those people who, even after the reaping, were not realizing that they were henceforth intangible forever. They were more prone to become Doppelgänger, Poltergeist or any other dangerous supernatural entity in the grip of strong and negative emotions. Especially when they were finally becoming aware of their condition. And Reaper refused that, he did not want to deal with that kind of thing anymore.

He did not even want to think about the souls of Determination or any other strange type that were making him travel for nothing: they were refusing death and even him, could do nothing about it as long as their veritable time had not come. He could ignore them, yet, what was infuriating was that he just did not know how to tell the difference between these ‘false’ deaths and the ‘real’ ones. Those damned souls were dying well and truly but were refusing to accept that fact... and were coming back to life.

Alas, if his instinct as a reaper was indicating to him a Universe where he was required, hence, he had to go there. You never know. Those were the special cases he was encountering every so often.

All of this was wearying him continually. And even if, as a divine creature he did not feel physical pain or tiredness, his morale, which was already not being set fair, was always suffering a blow. Few were finally accepting their destiny after a word, following him obediently without shying away, accepting his scythe on their being or the touch of his hand. Geno had even attacked him several times.

These are the kinds of complaints that were going through Reaper’s head, as he was pursuing a spirit for the umpteenth time. His dark thoughts were whirling, assailing him and angering him as he was letting his body handle the maniac. He sighed with relief when he finally grabbed the child by the hand, sealing them forever in the afterlife. This alternative version of Chara will have given him a hard time… Certainly, he thought, the Frisk and Chara were definitely the worst to reap.

He furrowed his eyebrow arches and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the migraine showing up. He teleported himself to his next patient's house, who was supposed to come to him in two minutes. Enjoying his brief respite, the skeleton went into the kitchen and discreetly filled his cup of black coffee still lukewarm. Swallowing the liquid in no time at all, he felt much better. Fortunately, the coffee was helping him to hold on. Even though he knew he was drinking it to excess, the bitter taste was giving him a sensation of a semblance of life. But what he appreciated was the warmth of the beverage that was bringing him a vague impression of melancholy. A feeling of nostalgic plenitude was then spreading throughout his entire being during a few precious seconds.

Reaper washed his container and put it away under his tunic, making his work tool appear. A door opened on the go, the bullet flew, and his client collapsed on the ground. His scythe fell without hesitation as his wings unfolded, ready to take him to his next destination…

»——•——«

Reaper rarely met his brother.

Each of them could feel the presence of the other and know exactly where he was in the Multiverse. This was due to a magical bond whose reason for its existence remained unclear to them. Perhaps because of their status of God? Or a brother characteristic that Gaster had wanted to give them? They were not too concerned about it; it was convenient for them. The loneliness and horror of their work would have already driven them crazy.

Anyhow, their reunion would only be meaning one thing: several people with different states of mind were at death's door, or had already passed away. Many reasons could be the cause: a war, an accident, a disastrous weather event, misfortune… Generally, the two skeletons would only glance at each other in dismay or encouragement. Everything depended on the situation, which could be horrible, unbearable to observe.

Sometimes, the Gods of Death were both finding themselves in front of a confusing case. As surprising as it may seem, they realized that there were people whose death could not take part in their destiny. Like this strange gray child. Ink and Geno were also among those immortals. They were not gods. But it was close enough. They were the only living beings that Reaper could touch without turning them into dust.

It also happened that, from time to time, Core would join him or Papyrus to keep them company. Even though this walking mystery never stayed very long. The last breath, the sweetest it can be, has nothing amusing to observe even for an omnipotent being. Especially close up.

It was ironic. Death finding itself in a dead end. Where it even was no longer the point of no return. Becoming just a formality, sometimes inconceivable, sometimes forgotten or even foiled.

So, when Reaper perceived that he had to go to Dreamtale, the same place where he was currently feeling his brother’s presence, he sighed deeply. What was it going to be this time? The annoyance was already beginning to engulf him. He was already not liking what he was doing, why make his task even more complicated?

Chin up! Perhaps they will simply be in the same Alternative Universe but at completely opposite locations. In addition, he remembered that this world was rather pleasant and sweet and not much else. Well... it was hardly a bed of roses either. He had not been able to visit much to really get an idea, only the few dwellings where he had reaped a few lives. But he still remembered Dream perfectly.

The child who was almost always arriving in time with his golden apples to prevent the death of a person; this one yelling at him, with impetuosity and wickedness. It was clear that the poor boy was being exploited by these ingrates given his Guardian status. His brother Nightmare was not being outdone. Also a victim of harassment without Dream knowing anything about it, it was going as far as death threats.

Reaper gritted his teeth while scything his last soul in the world he was in, his thoughts bringing themselves up again. Now that he was thinking about it… what if it was for them that he had to go to Dreamtale? Those little ones have been surrounded by scoundrels since their creation. The probability was much too high, their short life had been a hell…

Even as a seemingly ubiquitous entity, Reaper could not see or anticipate how his patients were leaving the world of the living. He knew they were doing it, he was coming to them and that was it. However, this time, there was no doubt for him. Everything was coinciding and he was not stupid.

One was taking his own life, accepting the arrival of Papyrus. The other’s life was hanging by a thread, certainly praying for Reaper never to appear.

Shaking his head to avoid imagining this before time, the reaper teleported with a snap of his fingers, ready to put up with the miserable and unjust ending of two innocent children.

»——•——«

Reaper had always been used to predict the worst. Whether he was right or wrong, it did not matter. The outcome always remained the same.

However, when he appeared near this tree with bicolored fruits, his orbits darkened. He was feeling a heavy ambiance around him. It had everything like a ruthless war. The azure sky had made way for an oppressive blood-red one, the glowing red clouds casting a shadow over the earth. The air seemed to have cooled… a cold biting the heart, piercing it like thousands of thorns. What had occurred to the happiness? Vanished. There was nothing left but an atmosphere giving nausea, causing pain and fury to lose the head.

From the Tree of Feelings, there remained only a dried out trunk and branches, the apples entirely pitch black dangling in misfortune. Negativity was reigning supreme from this point forward, having seized this wooden throne coldly receiving it; this new queen overthrowing the balance and the peace with positivity. Murderous intentions, paranoia, depression became its mercenaries. Silence, manipulation, wickedness became its henchmen. And at the foot of it, the unintentional initiator of this coup d'état. A six-year-old skeleton, horrified, holding an ebony stained apple in his hand.

Sans felt his soul pound in his ribcage. He tensed, his hand clenching his robe at the place of the very culmination of his being. Ah… He was feeling unwell. He was feeling swooning... His vision grew darker, he could almost see a veil blindfolding him, his pupils fading. His thoughts let themselves be overwhelmed by an infernal black like a dreadful cumulonimbus. The tornado in his mind was on the increase, crushing every ounce of his reason, knocking over any capacity for judgment. His sadness transformed into grief, his anger turned into rage, his contempt changed into disgust. His body began to tremble violently, his head struck by a throbbing pain. The storm residing inside of him was growing, trying to become a hurricane.

The God of Death was ready to explode. Too much, it was way too much! Biting his tongue until the pain invaded his mouth, he grasped his head with both hands, his fingers sinking into his skull as he was bending over. His erratic breathing erratic, his soul beating faster and faster… Everything was nothing but fog and darkness. He had to free himself, he had to let this hell out! He would feel so good, so better!

One of Reaper’s frightening powers was the creation of black holes. He used them only to catch the souls fleeing from him. But it could happen that in the middle of rage, the blackness consumed him. Then, the inexorable attraction of the celestial body was destroying everything in its path. And that was exactly what was happening. A dark aura began to surround him. And all these voices echoing louder and louder in his mind kept whispering in a hypocritical way the same sentence to him: What is the use in trying to fight...?

The angel of death was falling into the throes of despair and nothing and nobody could prevent it from doing so.

“Sans! Sans! Can you hear me, Sans? Focus on my voice!”

The hooded skeleton felt two warm hands grab his cheeks, forcing him to raise his head. His empty eye sockets met his brother’s worried pupils. Sans could hear the cries of people dying around him, distinguishing blurred movements behind Papyrus who was forcing him to divert his attention only on him. The chaos was still vituperating inside of him, trying to tear him away from that life-saving touch.

In all of this shambles, Reaper had almost forgotten the person who mattered the most to him, the only one who could stop him.

“There, that’s good. Look at me, Sans. Breathe slowly. It will be okay, it happens to everyone to feel overwhelmed.” Papyrus continued in a calm voice. “You feel it too. There is still a glimmer of hope somewhere. All is not lost, don’t worry. Focus on that tiny positivity. I’m here.”

Sans suddenly grabbed hold of this one's wrists, squeezing them tightly as trying to find an anchor point somewhere in the physical world. He was not even aware that he had stopped breathing, submerged by the waves of negativity. He shut his eyes, complying with what the other god was asking of him. Slowly, his grip loosened, his own pupils reappeared. As if a light radiating from Papyrus was piercing through his clouds of qualms, dispelling his intrusive thoughts.

The divine being completely regained consciousness, hit by reality like a slap in the face. It was at that moment that he realized the heavy silence that had fallen on Dreamtale. Everything seemed devastated, abandoned, in mourning. The ferrous smell of the blood was merging with putrid lingering odors capable of turning any stomach. The soil was being permeated by a liquid as black as the abyss and emitting foul effluviums. The scarlet blood was still dripping from the bodies sliced in half with an impressive macabre sharpness. A statue resembling Dream was laying on the ground, next to a rotten trunk.

Shivers were sent down his spine as he was seeing this sudden change from this pacifist Alternative Universe to the post-apocalyptic world. No more living beings, only corpses littering the ground and zombies wandering aimlessly. The unique manifestation of life that he could feel was situated deep inside of this Dream of stone. The souls were screaming each one more so than the other, running away, crying, trying to hold their loved ones in their arms without success. This vision tugged at his heartstrings. Then, the annoyance and resignation took hold of him. Reaper hated his work.

“What happened?” he murmured, still disturbed by what he had just experienced.

Papyrus told him everything. How Nightmare had contaminated all the apples with negativity, explaining to him why Reaper had been affected so sorely by this transformation that eliminated any positive emotion from this world. How Dream had been jostled and trampled mercilessly. How Nightmare was prepared to let himself die by taking a severe beating by the inhabitants. How the God of Death had been ready to extend a hand to him in order to reassure him once he had done so.

Yet, the skeleton dressed in purple had clinged to life. And this change definitely forbade Papyrus to reap his life to his greatest displeasure. He felt helpless, he could only collect one soul from this place: a terminally ill lady that Dream was supposed to save with the last golden apple.

The brother had bit into a black apple, before eating all the others. This, while enduring incomparable suffering as the corruption was trickling from his body. As his bones were breaking, as they could not contain all the evil that was rushing in. He repeated word for word the last wish of a broken being.

He narrated everything to him, without omitting anything, with a distressed face. Papyrus was the personification of Death. But he was still Papyrus. He could not bear the suffering of others. Soon, the child disappeared, drowned in this blackish mass with a fetid smell and deadly tentacles. The screaming, the killing, the desolation.... In the matter of a few minutes only, a whole world had been condemned. In the matter of a few seconds, a pure soul had been soiled with sins.

Sans remained silent during this time, his face wearing an indescribable expression. Papyrus had released his face, standing by his side but no longer daring to look at the scenery that was giving him retching. And once his story was over, he waited for some reaction from the smallest of the skeletons.

Snorting sarcastically, this one gave a faint abstruse smile. In the distance, he could make out the souls of the unfortunate wretches, slowly becoming aware of their state or being contaminated by negativity, changing into ghostly entities and malicious spirits. If he took care of it now, he could stop things from getting more difficult. Ah, life… What a joke in bad taste! He, who had expected to discover two corpses near the Tree of Feelings, was now finding himself hunting spectral monsters. He finally opened his mouth, looking into his brother’s eyes.

“He… It just goes to show… A rotten apple spoils the barrel.” he said nonchalantly.

Papyrus stayed frozen at his sentence, giving him a disapproving look, his mind trying to assimilate what he had just heard. By the time he reacted, Sans had already pulled out his scythe, ready to go to work, snickering slightly at the face of his brother. It was doing him good to joke or make small talk with him. He was feeling his worries were going away just for a brief instant.

“Sans!” exclaimed the tall and outraged skeleton, crossing his arms like a mother scolding her child. “Seriously?!”

Of course, that comment was inappropriate in that situation. But the god knew Reaper well. When he was behaving like that, it was to conceal his angst. A way of announcing that his brother could not care less... when it was absolutely the opposite. Never was Sans speaking to him about what was going on inside his head. Never has he confided in him. They had all eternity ahead of them but Papyrus knew nothing would ever change.

The latter sighed before showing a worried expression again, deciding to change the subject to not get the reaper's back up. He cast a glance at the scowling and hissing apparitions across Dreamtale, wandering around like lost souls, spewing out a slimy and repugnant liquid. And suddenly, he felt the vital need -a way of speaking- to go to another Universe. Here he was again, in connection with a soul. It was bad timing but death never took a vacation.

“Duty calls. Will it be all right, alone?” wanted to assure Papyrus, a little guilty of having to leave Sans dealing with the consequences of the acts of one unfortunate soul.

Oh, he knew he would have no problem defeating them. But death waits for nothing and no one and every lost second counts. This disorder had probably already delayed his brother’s collection of souls.

“Don’t worry, bro. It's not the end of the world. They’re shabby, I’ll crush them to a pulp easily!” Reaper replied with a wink.

The concerned one only displayed a deadpan expression before raising his eyes to heaven, containing his annoyance at these jokes which he did not really appreciate. The off-beat humor, the misfortune of others, the self-deprecation, the polemical subjects…not for him! He waved one last time at his counterpart, wishing him good luck; then he opened a portal and crossed it, taking him away.

Sans, from now, was all alone in this reddish and seedy immensity. Shrugging his shoulders, he stared at a paranormal creature whose potency had increased tenfold by exposing itself to the evil enveloping the world. This concentration of goo was so powerful… it could ravage an entire Multiverse. With a single snap of his finger, he made a Gaster Blaster appear and fired without an ounce of remorse at what was once an ordinary living being. The deflagration and the light beam drew the attention of the other monsters, uttering shrieks before setting on the man with the scythe, feeling the danger emanating from it.

“I’m dying to drink a cup of coffee.” Death gnashed his teeth, his right eye shining with burning magic.

His cold eyes looked at his enemies defiantly. Taking a run-up, wings spreading like a shadow above them, he was ready to call the tune, his tunic twirling at his every move. His sharp blade rose, marking the tempo of a long music score. His Gaster Blaster will constitute the orchestra, his black holes will resonate the last note.

Once again, the angel of death will play that silent melody which was the eternal rest.

»——•——«

A sigh was heard when his weapon cut through the viscosity of the last evil spirit. His scythe vanished and his wings folded back as he was stretching out, his head tilting back to observe the carmine sky. Reaper was slightly tired and out of breath. His ribcage was moving up and down at the rhythm of his irregular respiration, his mouth catching gulps of air useless to his body. If he could feel the heat, he would have all the symptoms of past physical effort. A sardonic laugh escaped him at this observation.

He was a God of Death, an immortal and invincible being. Time had no impact on him, he was even flouting its law. He did not, in reality, need to eat, drink, or sleep. His touch was deadly, his weapons pitiless and the end, ineluctable. Now, at the slightest use of his magic, he was weakening and had to rest? What a quirk of fate!

His reaper instinct called him to order. Again. He had to continue his endless journey. Chasing souls, reaping, visiting the underworld from time to time. He had to forget this Alternative Universe like so many others. He clenched his jaw. He had enough. But the strings of fate were keeping him obediently under its control, like a puppet. He had to obey or it would be chaos. And everything would be his fault. Again.

He shook his head. The dismal village was standing in front of him, the harrowing silence of the place was driving him mad. No breath of wind, no bird’s song. He felt that there were only two survivors left. One turned into stone, the other was several kilometers from the village. Which was surprising. Maybe that person was immune to this corruption. Feeling uneasy, Sans prepared to say farewell to Dreamtale and teleport elsewhere.

That was when he heard it.

Sobbing, hiccups, a reedy, muffled little voice whining. Was it Dream? Had he freed himself from the spell? No. His new soul was in a lethargic state. But then, who? A ghost he would have forgotten in all likelihood? If he did, why could he not detect it?

Turning to face the hill where once stood the majestic tree, Sans put his hood back in place, starting to walk slowly towards the origin of the noises. Once he reached the top, he could not help but be surprised. Lying on the ground near the decaying roots, the statue of Dream, facing down, was covered with dust and was a sorry sight. The few remaining puddles of negativity had melted and dried around him. Notwithstanding, that was not what Reaper was looking at.

Nightmare.

On his knees, being in floods of tears on his petrified brother. He was embracing him, the pearls of water drenching the rock. His white cheeks were now puffy, letting his tears flow endlessly, that were going to soak his nice purple clothes. The circlet on his head, formerly of a brilliant gold, was from now quite morose, almost ocher. His little hands were grabbing onto the only one who had always mattered to him. He was trying to nuzzle against the cold and uncomfortable back of the Guardian of Positivity, trying to find the reassurance that he had lost through his own fault…

“Sorry! Dream, I apologize! I’m sorry! Forgive me!” he was sobbing, apologizing again and over again, his breathing jerky.

It was obvious that the little skeleton was tormented by guilt. He had never wanted this. And this heart-rending vision left a bitter taste to the God of Death. He will never experience this cruel pain in the loss of a loved one. On the other hand, just the thought of losing Papyrus was making his heart beat violently. He comprehended this attachment and all the hardship and happiness that it could bring.

“Wake up! Please, don’t leave me!” Nightmare was running out of breath, begging. “I’ll play with you! I’ll read you stories, I’ll keep teaching you to read! I’ll do anything for you, so wake up!”

The boy was being subjected to the worst torture, even after he had passed away. The psychological and physical suffering he had to endure since his birth was by far one of the worst that Reaper had ever seen during his reaping. Good grief, what the hell did fate want to do with him? Could it not leave these poor children alone?!

Without thinking, on an impulsive thought of wanting to console the child, Sans took a step forward. He stopped immediately, lowering his head, staring at his foot as if it was not belonging to him. But what exactly was he thinking? His assignment was to send the dead to the afterlife, not to help them heal from their torments! At the slightest touch, this tormented soul would perish and be finally freed. Yes, that was what he had to discreetly do.

He looked up. His eyes caught Nightmare’s open wide eyes, rooted to the spot, completely frightened. His body was trembling all over, his hands never ceasing to clasp his brother in a protective way.

“Damn it…” the god muttered.

“W-Who are you?!” cried desperately the child in purple clothes, clinging a little more to Dream.

Reaper rarely hesitated about how to proceed. The times he did, it did not end well. But at that very moment, he was lost. Moreover, although the child looked tangible, his translucent body suggested that he was now a spirit. So logically, he had to reach the kingdom of the dead. But if that was the case, where was his body? He had like... disappeared.

If only he had not had a nervous breakdown during the previous events, he or Papyrus could have seen what was going on behind them! There he was now, in front of a saddened ghost whose soul and body were nowhere to be found and his presence imperceptible! He was finding himself with a new special case on his hands! Reaper was irritated by his own behavior.

He was lost in his thoughts, his tense expression and his empty gaze alarming a little more Nightmare. All of a sudden, he felt his soul establish a connection with the latter. The Guardian of Negativity had its essence held somewhere in the Multiverse. What Sans was seeing was only an unstable and wounded illusion, ejected from its own body. The shadow of a specter. His instinct was from this point forward, yelling at him that he had one more patient. So, he had to accomplish his mortuary duty.

He clenched his fists. In one jump, one hit, it could be done. No complications, no time lost. Sans was not fond of empathy. It was a troublesome and hurtful feeling. If he had lacked it, he could have fiddled with his scythe without ever feeling anything for the deceased.

Despite that, the angel of death did not want the true end of the little one to be achieved in such a brutal manner. He had already had enough roughness in his short life. Overdoing it until the end would be just intolerable. He had to brush him or better, convince him to take his hand.

The personification of Death advanced toward his patient.

“Don’t come any closer!” shouted the apparition, leaping up to place himself in front of Dream.

With his arms outstretched to protect his loved one, Nightmare was staring fiercely at Reaper. It was obvious that he was tetanized by fear. His body was trembling and yet, he was drawing deep in his courage to maintain his gaze, sniffing from time to time. The tears had still not dried. Did he even know who he was dealing with? No, of course not. He was only six years old. And even the books he had read were just tales for babies. But he was smart. He must have understood, deep down inside.

“Relax. I won’t touch your brother.” Reaper reassured him with a placid smile.

To avoid provoking him, the hooded one stopped at a good distance from the skeleton child; who did not drop his guard for all that. Argh… How come Papyrus could find patience and witty remarks so easily? He had absolutely nothing in mind to appease the boy with the moon circlet. His black orbits were probably not inspiring trust to him. Perhaps, he had also seen his 'massive cleaning' just a few seconds ago. In any case, he could only acknowledge his bravery. What a pity that he would only show it when Dream’s safety was compromised, and not his.

“You are somewhere between life and death, a kind of in-between.” Reaper began in a voice that wanted to appear gentle. “Your brother will be fine; he’s having a nap. He’ll wake up. But you, if you stay… you’ll suffer. This world will consume you. Come with me. Where I'm taking you, peace is finally waiting for you.” He finished by holding out his hand in a benevolent gesture.

“I don’t want to. I want to stay!” protested Nightmare shaking his head.

“I’m afraid that's not possible, kiddo.” Sans replied in a bittersweet tone, restraining himself from being sarcastic.

There was no exception to the rule. After all, it was the much talked about common trait among all his patients. They were all refusing to accept their death. This was all the more so as natural for a person who only survived six years. The little boy had not even begun to live, that he already had to leave us, to part with his twin. It was breaking his heart but he could not afford to let a spirit wander, especially in a condemned Universe. He took a step forward, his wings shuddering with an unpleasant shiver.

“I can’t go! P-Please, leave us alone! I won't do it again, I promise!” cried out Nightmare, tears in his eyes. “I must take care of my brother! I must stay with him!”

His crying was showering his face once more and he had a runny nose. He could not hold back his emotions, he, who had to hide so much before. Dream was all he had left. Even the villagers did not succeed in taking him away from him. The God of Death clicked his tongue, his gaze averting the being in front of him. He was torn between affliction and the obligation to end this. The weight of these new remorse would add to the others and haunt him forever.

“Please! I want to stay with Dream!”

With a somber and contrite face, the god escaped from the eyes of Nightmare. It only took him half a second to reappear next to the little boy. His crow wings had majestically spread, the iridescent feathers hiding the sinister cinnabar ether. Their shadow singularly had a soothing aura, like a warm blanket enveloping the two brothers. The look of Sans softened, his smile becoming melancholic.

In a single second, he is within easy reach. Death never waits.

The skeleton child began to turn his head, his pupils expressing stupefaction and despair. But he did not have time to react.

Death never gives any chance.

“Sorry, kiddo. Maybe in another life…” whispered the adult, his hand tenderly placing itself on the top of the child’s head.

Death is forever inevitable.

And always and forever, Reaper will loathe his work.

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