Sans AUs Oneshots & Short Stories (Discontinued)

Killermare: Angel of Death

I am working on the DS!Dreamberry request! But this idea came to me, and I just had to get it started before it evaporated from my mind forever. Ya feel me?

Also, a question. Does anyone know if a power bottom is still the submissive one? I know it might be a dumb question, but I just want to make sure. This question is relevant to someone else's request. I don't really know much about power bottoms and positions, so I'm asking here. Kinda nervous to look this stuff up. Don't know why I feel like it's illegal to search sexual stuff up.

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"Nightmare? You barely even touched your plate..."

"I'm not hungry."

"O-Oh... okay then..."

"I'm going up to my room. Don't bother me."

"Okay... don't forget to take your medicine before you go to bed, alright?"

"Mhm."

Nightmare stood up from the table and excused himself from the room, not saying another word to his roommate. He knew they meant well, but they were just so... annoying. Their voice, their constant talking, just their entire existence was enough to piss him off. He didn't even know why the presence of others made him so angry all the time, it just did. He was surprised that he hadn't reverted back to his goopy, corrupted form. He hadn't been in it for a while, but it always surprised him when he had an outburst of rage and the long arms didn't tear out of his back.

If he had to take a guess, he'd say it had been a good four years since he last was in his goopy form. He didn't necessarily miss it or want to go back into it, but it would be an advantage at certain points. Like when he was stuck in that goddamn set of underground tests, forced to work with a serial killer to escape. He'd asked the man to kill him, just to get it over with, but he refused. Said he didn't have enough life in him to do it.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Opening the door to his bedroom, the smell of blood rushed into his face. His roommate had confronted him about it numerous times before, saying it was unpleasant and he needed to clean his room up. Nightmare always brushed it off. What did that idiot know? He came from Horrortale, which if anything was worse than that one serial killer. At least there was only one of them, and not an entire world full of murderers who feasted on the corpses of children. He didn't care if their queen was absolute shit at her job. If the people hated her so damn much, why didn't they just rebel and overthrow her?

His roommate, Horror, wasn't innocent either. He may have taken a personal oath to never eat the body and flesh of a human, but that didn't mean his hands were clear. They were far from it. He was one of the ones who hunted down humans. He'd dragged so many of them to Grillby's, where they were burned alive until they were cooked. He damn near killed that girl, Aliza, too. If it hadn't been for his Papyrus interfering, she would've been just another corpse in the pile. That probably would've been a better fate for her. But either way, it wasn't like he had any right to complain about the smell of blood.

But there, sitting perfectly still and beautifully on his desk, were his pets. They were the source of the stench, but he wouldn't remove them from his room. He would never do that to them. He and Horror had once shared a pet, a lovely white cat named Marshmallow, but she'd been hit by a car a few years back. After that, Horror said he never wanted to see another pet in their house again. The only exception was if they were temporarily watching over it. But regardless, Nightmare never stopped having pets.

The only way he could safely get them inside without Horror noticing was to sneak them in at night. It was a bigger challenge than what he'd originally anticipated, but he was willing to go through all of the trouble. He had hidden cats, birds, puppies, and even squirrels in his room. But they always died shortly after, and always looked so broken afterwards. They didn't look like his pets, so he fixed them up. He had learned how to sew from Error, an old friend of his. He would stitch up every wound and straighten every limb until they looked as good as new. Or as close as he could get them to that, at least.