#so for years now i have struggled with excessive and disturbing nightmares and i wake up often during the night | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vex-bittys · 3 years

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In Your Dreams: A Horrortale Story

Raffle prize for @purplesangel. When your life is a living nightmare, is it any surprise that your dreams are just as bad? Thankfully a dream-walking human has arrived to help, but will she still want to help Axe when she finds out what he’s done to stay alive?

WARNING: character death mention, language, blood mention, some disturbing imagery including cannibalism (no details)

READ ON AO3

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Life in the Underground was an endless nightmare for Axe. During his waking hours, he checked his traps and hunted in the forest, often returning home empty-handed only to see the disappointment and desperation in his brother’s sockets. Supply trains became frantic riots as too many monsters competed for their share of too little food, and the sharp pain of hunger lingered even after the skeleton brothers’ meager meals.

Madness seeped in through the hole in his skull, distorting reality. He clawed at his skull, trying to release the pressure of the frenetic energy that consumed him. He could feel the darkness lurking, waiting for him to make a misstep, some seemingly trivial mistake; that’s when it would strike, shredding his thoughts and shattering his focus. There was no escaping it, and Axe knew that one day it would swallow him up.

Sleep provided no reprieve. In his dreams, Axe continued to suffer. He watched his brother fade away to nothing from starvation. He felt the gnawing emptiness of his own unsatisfied hunger. Feasts appeared before his single working eyelight only to transform into grains of sand that slipped through his fingers when he reached for it. He ran through the shadowed forest outside of Snowdin, fleeing an unknown terror in the night while thorny tendrils of a deeper darkness caught him, slowing his progress, dragging him down, and allowing his madness to suffocate him.

Days dragged on into months, and months melted together into years. Waking life remained bleak with monsters still struggling (and at times failing) to survive. Food sources dwindled, and the gathering of other resources fell by the wayside as every creature in the Underground focused on filling their stomachs as best they could. Everything stagnated in its state of destitution and decay… everything except Axe’s dreams.

Axe’s nightmares repeated themselves night after night until slowly, they began to change. It started with the appearance of a new character- a human that Axe didn’t recognize, though he thought it might be a female. At first the human only observed the horrors that lurked in the sleeping world of Axe’s mind. Gradually, though, she began to interact.

It all started during one of Axe’s nightmares about his brother. Crooks would turn a pleading gaze to his brother, mouthing a soundless plea for food. Axe would fall to his knees, sobbing and pounding his fists into the ground. Crooks slowly collapsed, and the gradual dissolution of his body sent his dust drifting towards his brother, filling Axe’s mouth and nasal cavity until he choked himself awake… usually. This time things turned out differently.

“I’M SO HUNGRY, BROTHER,” Crooks’ voice came from the air around them and not his mouth, the teeth there long since broken or knocked askew from gnawing away at non-edible items simply to assuage the need to chew.

The human appeared, but instead of observing the unfolding scene, this time she glanced around until her eyes fell upon Axe.

Since the very first time you’d stumbled across this heart-breaking nightmare scenario, you’d worked hard to return to it. Dream-walking involved focus, practice, and a bit of luck, and in this venture, the fates were on your side. You’d walked this collection of now-familiar nightmare images many times, slowly working out which participant it belonged to and why the skeleton with the broken skull kept replaying these torturous situations in his sleep.

Now, you were ready to interact and hopefully restore some peace to the sleeping world of the monster in front of you. You extended a tentative hand towards him, unsure if he would welcome your touch as a form of physical comfort. He just stared at your outstretched hand as if it would bring some new and unfathomable horror to his disturbingly familiar nightmare. You let your hand drop. Words would have to suffice then.

“It’s not real,” you told the stocky skeleton firmly.

His sockets narrowed suspiciously. “what do ya mean, ‘not real’?”

“This-” you gestured to the vague, nondescript surroundings and very crisp, well-defined figure of the tall, starving skeleton behind you, never breaking eye contact “- is not real.”

The skeleton with the broken skull laughed, a harsh and humorless sound that grated against your ear drums. You sighed, frustrated but determined. It rarely improved a situation to reveal yourself while dream-walking; most dreamers forgot their nightly travels when they returned to the waking world anyway. Those who didn’t merely discarded your presence, along with any advice you might give, as part of a nonexistent scenario that could not influence their waking lives and should thus be ignored.

Normally, you resigned yourself to this and walked through dreams as a silent observer, but this skeleton’s torment tore at your heart and brought forth a tenacity within you to help him in the only way you could: by walking through his nightmares and defeating them, one by one, until nothing remained but peaceful slumber.

The skeleton with the broken skull scoffed. “you don’t know nothin’,” he growled obstinately.

“I know that your most frequent nightmares involve food, madness, and losing this other skeleton-”

“my bro,” the skeptical skeleton clarified.

“Losing your brother,” you amended with an edge to your voice, “to starvation.”

“it’s not like you’re some expert investigator piecin’ together the clues, pal. we’re all starvin’ and dustin’ down here,” he said, dismissing your observations. You frowned. Was there some truth to these nightmares? Often dreams represented thoughts and fears in a metaphoric manner, but maybe this skeleton didn’t have room in his troubled mind for subtlety.

Regardless, you would do what you could for him in the only place that you could reach him.

“I don’t know what your life is like in the waking world,” you conceded softly, “but this? Everything around us now? It isn’t real.” You continued in a rush before the skeleton could interrupt you again. “You’re asleep, and your mind is processing your fears… and your reality… into nightmares.”

The skeleton inhaled, obviously ready to argue again, but you stopped him by making a sweeping gesture towards his brother. Had this nightmare been reality, the taller skeleton would be dust by now. Instead, the image was frozen in place thanks to the stocky skeleton’s change of focus. “Look,” you ordered boldly.

Axe begrudgingly allowed his single eyelight to stray from you to his brother. While it was true that nothing had changed in the scene since he had turned his attention to his unexpected visitor, the moment he looked back, the scenario resumed. Flakes of dust drifted loose from his brother’s body, floating away on an unfelt breeze to disappear as they dispersed until nothing remained except the unbearable weight of guilt and his brother’s ghost of a voice whispering “Why?” over and over again in his head.

Why didn’t you save me?

“It’s not real,” you whispered solemnly behind him, but honestly, that didn’t matter. Watching his brother die of starvation that he should have prevented sent jagged pains through his SOUL whether it existed solely inside of his mind or not. Your next words, however, carried a much greater impact: “I can teach you how to change it.”

The most frustrating part of dream-walking was the inability to change the contents of people’s dreams or nightmares yourself. While you could view the unfolding events, you possessed no real power over them. Only the dreamer could affect their dreams. Thankfully, unlike dream-walking, lucid dreaming is a skill that can be taught.

As with every teaching experience, some students learn more quickly than others. Axe, as he eventually introduced himself to you, was not one of those students. The most difficult aspect of lucid dreaming for him happened to be the very first step to lucid dreaming at all: accepting that what he experienced while he slept was a dream instead of a warped reality that lived inside of his cracked skull and broken mind.

“These images all come from your thoughts,” you explained again. “You can control them, but first you have to accept that you can control them.”

You knew that the dreams involving his brother were far too emotionally charged to make good fodder for lucid dreaming practice, and you preferred to steer clear of the choking darkness since you had no idea what effects such a powerful and overwhelming negative force could potentially have on you, even as an observer within someone else’s troubled subconscious. This only left the dreams of an untouchable feast to practice on… and practice was not going well.

As with your many previous attempts to gently guide the stocky skeleton towards seizing control of his nightmares, the lesson had quickly devolved into a squabble. You insisted that Axe could learn to control his subconscious surroundings; Axe stubbornly insisted that he could not. You would point out that this was his dream, and his mind; he would attempt to discredit your existence as just another piece of the complicated web of nightmares that plagued him: a human offering him false hope in a bleak and hopeless world.

It did bother you a little bit that Axe considered you- a (mostly) patient and helpful human- to be nightmare fuel. Only monsters lived in the Underground since the long-forgotten war, so why would Axe’s guilt-riddled dreamscapes include humans?

You decided to save the questions for another time.

“Try again,” you told Axe, who only answered with a weary, frustrated sigh.

Irritation swirled through Axe’s excessive magic, though it was aimed more at himself than at you. Every night you tried to help him take control of his dreaming mind, and every night, despite your calm instructions, he failed. You made it sound so easy, so why couldn’t he just grab a stupid spider donut off of the stupid table and shove the stupid thing into his big, stupid mouth?

“Try again,” you told him patiently as he brushed the gritty sand from his finger joints. He uttered a weary, frustrated sigh.

“i am trying,” he grumbled, biting back a deluge of unhelpful comments and curses. He touched another piece of food, a french fry, still steaming though it had been sitting on a pile of its doppelgangers since the nightmare began. The entire fry stack crumbled to sand before he’d even lifted one free; Axe’s patience dissolved along with it.

“if this was as easy as you claim,” he shouted, letting his anger overflow into sharp words, “then i’d be able to pick up these plates and smash them on the floor like i want to!” Without any conscious thought, Axe lifted one of the plates in question and hurled it at the ground. It shattered, leaving silence in its wake as Axe and the dream-walking human stared down at the shards on the ground in awe.

Axe gave an entire stack of plates an experimental shove, sending them cascading over the edge of the table and onto the ground where they created an inharmonious symphony of destruction. You applauded the spontaneous mess and squealed with glee, and Axe swept you up into a quick celebratory hug, spinning you around once before setting you back on your feet. As soon as he set you down, he grabbed a donut and crammed it into his mouth. Chewing, his sockets narrowed in utter bliss, he picked up a second donut and offered it to you.

Nothing tasted as sweet as victory… except for maybe a spider donut.

You didn’t want to dampen the skeleton’s joy by telling him that you wouldn’t be able to taste a donut in his dreams, so you took a bite, your head still spinning from his sudden show of physical affection. With a promise to see him the following night, you stepped out of his nightmares. You felt content that you’d taken the first big step on a journey to giving Axe the power to sleep peacefully without constant, horrific nightmares plaguing him.

The next lesson would be more difficult; you intended to guide Axe through banishing nightmares of his brother’s death. Out of consideration for Axe’s privacy, you had never asked him why he had such specific nightmares about his brother, but nightmares involving a sibling death as vivid as Axe’s hinted at some very dark and complex situations existing in the skeletons’ waking world. Those hints aside, Axe had outright stated that things were terrible in the Underground where he lived. Maybe working through his dream would give him some insight into fixing his real-life situation, at least the one he faced with his brother.

You hoped so. During the nights you’d spent helping Axe learn how to lucid dream, you had come to consider him a friend. You hated the thought of him suffering. You especially hated that you could only reach him during his nightmares. You wished you could do more, but how? Those were thoughts for your own waking world.

Tonight you wanted to focus on Axe’s progress, and once he’d gotten some practice at lucid dreaming, you’d work on changing the heart-breaking nightmare of his brother.

Sweat beaded on Axe’s skull as he waited for you to appear. He could feel himself slipping towards darker dreamscapes, and he fought to stay in the safe in-between place like you’d shown him. He told himself that the tremors in his bones were caused by his unstable magic and not by fear. What if his previous successes were a fluke? What if he failed when it mattered the most?

Thoughts of failure sent him spiraling into the guilty nightmare of his starving brother. After all, his failures in reality led to this, and the dire consequences that he saw unfolding in his subconscious lurked only a step behind him in the waking world. Soon his real life would become this very same nightmare, and he would be left as powerless to stop it there as he felt to stop it here.

Thankfully, you appeared within seconds to chase away the grim meanderings of his mind and help him focus on the task at hand- Crooks.

Axe’s brother loomed in front of him, eyes pleading, begging for something that Axe could not give him. He watched the image of his brother twist and reshape itself, growing alarmingly large, the bones stretching from an influx of magic that still somehow managed to provide almost no nutrition. He whispered his brother’s name, frozen in place and unable to remember what he was supposed to do to stop the scene unfolding in front of him.

A small hand slipped into his; he had forgotten about you as his familiar fears swamped him. You looked up at him with a calm expression and nodded, encouraging him.

“You can do this.” Your words bolstered his courage. He dragged his panic back under control and turned to face Papyrus… or what had become of Papyrus under his inadequate care: the monster now known as Crooks.

“You know what you need to do,” you whispered.

Axe stepped towards his brother, focusing on Crooks as he had seen him last: tucked into his bed, the blanket no longer quite long enough to cover his lanky frame, wishing Axe a good night and sweet dreams and promising to see him in the morning. Keeping that image locked in his mind, Axe let his lone eyelight travel over his brother’s altered frame. Sure enough, not a single mote of dust rose from the other skeleton. Crooks simply stood there, watching him through sunken sockets.

Though he’d brought his brother’s recurring death to a halt, the words that swirled and echoed around him continued, too faint at first to make out individual words or phrases. His brother’s voice whispered accusations like poisoned arrows that pierced his SOUL. A chorus of questions, all beginning with “Why…?” slowed, sharpened, and gained clarity. Crooks spoke, though his mouth never moved and the words seemed to thrum within his very bones, tangible beyond mere sound.

Normally Crooks’ omnipresent voice asked him why he would allow his brother to starve, but this time the question differed, though it still sent chills to the very marrow of Axe’s bones.

“WHY DID YOU MAKE ME EAT-”

Axe quickly hushed his brother, stealing a glance at you to gauge your reaction. You simply made an encouraging gesture as if to say “Go on, you’re doing great.” He wondered if you’d feel the same way if you knew what Crooks’ next words would have been.

“i couldn’t let ya starve,” Axe spoke softly, tilting his head to maintain eye contact with his much taller brother. “i’d do anything to keep you alive.”

“EVEN-”

Axe nodded, nearly choking on guilt. “yeah. even that.”

“BUT I TOLD YOU I DIDN’T EVER WANT-”

Remorse softened Axe’s expression, and his gravelly voice hitched. “i couldn’t let ya dust. i had no choice. i’m so sorry.”

Without warning, Crooks slumped, but he wasn’t collapsing into dust. Instead, he crushed his brother against his ribcage in a tight hug. You sensed a loosening of the guilt and remorse that gripped this particular nightmare so tightly. Things weren’t resolved yet. Nightmares could rarely be banished in a single lucid dreaming session, but you’d given Axe the tools he needed to seize control of his sleeping world.

Only one challenge awaited you now: fighting the suffocating darkness of the final nightmare. You made plans to tackle that monumental task once Axe felt satisfied that he could manage this current nightmare on his own. Working through the tangle of emotions that his brother’s death awakened would take quite a bit longer than satisfying himself that he could eat his fill of dream donuts, but you were willing to go the distance to help Axe.

You actually wanted to do this, no matter how much the slithering darkness terrified you. Axe just meant that much to you.

“I think we’re ready for the final nightmare,” you declared after a dream session in which Axe showed off by summoning various items for his brother to eat.

In the lucid dreams about Crooks, his dream-brother mostly stood or sat nearby providing companionship and support as Axe practiced controlling his consciousness. Axe enjoyed the time with his brother, despite the knowledge that this version of Crooks existed only inside of his mind. It gave him a tentative sensation of hope that perhaps someday he could experience this type of peace with his brother in the waking world, free of the constant mad scramble for survival.

Your words shattered fragile, fleeting calm. Sweat beaded on Axe’s skull. The final nightmare contained his deep, dark fears, his madness, his guilt. Tendrils that reeked of his unspeakable crimes dragged him down into the cesspool that used to be his SOUL. He didn’t want you to see that part of him. He didn’t want you to know what he was truly capable of.

You’d never come back, and he’d be left alone with the echoing, blossoming psychosis that suffocated him. It would be worse now though. You’d shined a light into his life, and now he risked that glimmer of goodness being torn away… torn away because of what he’d done.

The punishment would fit the crime of his continuing survival.

You stepped into Axe’s dream world, excited and nervous at the prospect of facing the unknown horrors of this last nightmare that plagued him. The endless grey limbo that surrounded you came as quite a surprise when you expected inky vines of darkness encased in the thorns of Axe’s painful emotions and memories. Axe refused to meet your eyes when you approached him. Something was off about the whole situation.

“Is everything ok?” Maybe Axe wasn’t ready to face the darkness of the upcoming nightmare. You didn’t mind; you weren’t going to push him towards something that he didn’t want to do. You weren’t exactly eager to face it either, and besides, you thought you might enjoy just spending some time with Axe.

When he raised his head to meet your eyes, you couldn’t suppress a gasp of fright. Goosebumps erupted along your arms, and you shivered.

Axe’s single red eyelight… it glowed with an eerie flickering light, seeming to swell until the socket could barely contain the vortex of its power. Axe tilted his head at an unnatural angle and laughed at your reaction. You forced yourself to stand your ground despite your fear. This was not the monster you knew. Axe now embodied the darkness of his own inner turmoil, and it froze the blood in your veins.

“nothing is ok!” Axe’s snarl dissolved into sinister chuckles that made his broad shoulders shake. He lifted a hand, phalanges curved like claws to scrape at the hole in his skull. You lunged forward to pull his hand away before he caused more damage to himself, and he shoved you roughly away.

The hurt and confusion in your eyes filled Axe with dark satisfaction. You needed to know just what kind of monster he was. You needed to fear him, to run away and never come back. Instead, you offered him your compassion yet again.

“Let me help you.” Tears filled your eyes. His madness must be breaking your sweet, loving heart, but he drove home his depravity because if he let himself care, you’d find out the truth eventually anyway. Losing you would hurt more if he actually had you first.

This time when you reached out for him, he dodged, letting your momentum carry you to your hands and knees on the floor. He loomed over you, oozing menace like a thick fog.

“help me?” Axe’s scornful laughter echoed around the empty landscape. “and why,” he asked cruelly, “would you help a murderer?”

“Murderer?” You repeated the word as a question, as if you weren’t completely sure you knew what it meant. Your eyes widened in shock as tendrils of darkness climbed Axe’s arm, sliding over his bones like living tattoos until they pooled in his hand, taking on the shape of a huge meat cleaver.

“how do you think i’ve survived so long, little human? i hunt, and i kill.” He grinned, his mouth stretching into a disturbing parody of joy. “humans mostly. honestly, did you think the blood on my hoodie was mine?”

You admittedly hadn’t thought much about the blood stains on the hoodie. Maybe they were his. Maybe they were ketchup. Maybe in his dreams he wore the stains of his brother’s imagined death. Dreams and nightmares created their own reality with its own details pulled more from a dreamer’s mindset than accurate memories. It shocked you to think that Axe truly wore a hoodie that had once been soaked with fresh blood.

Human blood.

You trembled. Axe began to circle you like a hungry wolf, casually swinging his gigantic cleaver.

“Do you regret it?” you finally asked in a tiny voice.

Those four words penetrated the armor of madness that Axe was using to push you away, and they struck him like a well-timed attack. He reeled, reaching for some lie to keep you from seeing the truth and pitying him.

He found nothing.

The meat cleaver fell from his shaking hand. Axe sank to his haunches, covering his face with his hands, trying to hide from you and your perceptiveness. He wanted to scare you away before you could judge him and abandon him, but you shot your question straight to his SOUL, refusing to believe the worst of him.

“every fucking minute of my life.”

This time, when you tentatively reached for him, undaunted by his previous rejection, he leaned into your touch. He hated himself for his weakness, but every second that you stayed, even if you left eventually, was a second he would cherish until time wore away even the memory of his dust.

With his first admission, however poorly he’d delivered it, out of the way, Axe couldn’t stop himself from confessing even more of his transgressions and regrets. “i lied and told my brother it was meat from an animal in the forest. he didn’t want to eat humans, but i tricked him. i couldn’t let him starve” The words poured out of him; he feared that as soon as things went quiet, you would realize what an irredeemable abomination he was and flee. “i shouldn’t have done it, but i didn’t know what else to do. we were so hungry… and it messed up our magic. there’s no way to hide what we did. no way to undo it.”

Axe’s words stumbled to a halt, and you sat for a moment in the heavy silence of the grey dreamscape, contemplating them. You hated what he had done, but you also understood that his only other option would be watching his brother starve to death. The circumstances didn’t allow for any winners, and Axe suffered with the knowledge of the things he’d done.

“You were trying to survive.” Your voice nearly cracked on the final word. You could not fathom the desperation that drove Axe to his decision.

You remembered all of the heart-breaking stories that Axe told you about the Underground: the human who’d stolen the SOULs that the monsters had gathered and fled, taking the monsters’ hope with them, the death of their monarchs at the human’s hands, the Royal Guard Captain’s ascension to a throne that she didn’t possess the skills to manage, and the unbearable suffering of monsters starving to death or falling down because of an unshakable despair.

You raised your eyes to meet Axe’s eyelight, expecting to see softness there once more, but instead his horrified expression stared back at you. You didn’t need to puzzle out the cause because a moment later, barbed shadow vines lashed you, wrapping around your legs and dragging you towards a puddle of oozing darkness near your feet. You struggled against the thorny tendrils, and they tightened, driving each wickedly sharp thorn-tip into your flesh.

Pain seared your legs, real physical pain… in someone else’s dream. Panic washed over you, and you fought harder to escape, causing the barbs to rip deeper into you.

You screamed.

Shaking off his shock at the sound of your scream, Axe lunged forward. He wrapped both of his arms tightly around you and wrenched you away from the grasping vines. A writhing mass of them rose up behind him, swarming over him like living things. Staggering a few steps forward, Axe set you on an empty bit of space, but the vines quickly pulled him off of his feet and into a kneeling position. More tendrils rose to wrap around him, and the inky darkness of the puddle rose up to meet them, slithering up his body and swallowing him up in the darkness.

“i can’t protect you here… i can’t keep you safe from me, from my mind.” Axe choked out the words through the darkness consuming him. He couldn’t let you come back. He wouldn’t allow you to be in danger because of him.

This had to be good-bye.

He focused his mind.

“don’t come back.”

You jolted awake, that one last glimpse of Axe’s red eyelight, brimming with pain and regret burning in your mind. He had kicked you out of his dreams and told you not to come back. You couldn’t dream-walk in a mind that wasn’t open to your presence. Your throat constricted, and you felt tears sting your eyes. What if you never saw Axe again?

When you tossed back your blankets, you half expected to see scratches on your legs where Axe’s negative thoughts and emotions had touched you, but your skin was unbroken. You’d never experienced a nightmare so vivid and intense, but you breathed a sigh of relief that it couldn’t reach you in the waking world. If only Axe would let you come back, you could tell him that despite your panicked reactions, his dreams had no power to harm you.

Instead, he would continue to face the torment of his past mistakes all alone… for now.

Because while you had been helping Axe deal with his nightmares, you hadn’t neglected the appalling circumstances of his reality. If you could make your waking project work, you would be able to truly save the skeleton that you cared for so deeply.

I won’t let you push me away, you vowed.

Axe settled himself on the bench of his sentry station, taking a break from prowling the forest for potential meals. The barren snowscape left him all alone with his thoughts, and he hated it. In one bout of unhinged boredom, he’d created a sign for the outpost: “Head dogs, 5G.” It made as much sense as anything else in the Underground. Besides, there was no such thing as a hot dog in this frigid wasteland.

The narrow lines of dead tree trunks shifted if he stared at them too long, and the wind that howled through them carried voices whose words he could not quite arrange into coherency. The windblown whispers rose in volume until the roaring of innumerable voices filled his skull. The blazing white of the snow surrounding him only added to the sensory overload. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t see.

“shut up, shut up!” Axe chanted, clawing at the hole in his skull. Reality warped, the passage of time quickened and slowed, and nothing made sense anymore…

… and you were standing in front of him.

Axe recoiled in disbelief. How could this be happening? He hadn’t fallen asleep… or had he? Maybe you were a cruel hallucination conjured by his loneliness. He refused to accept the vision of you even when you reached out in that oh-so-familiar way to calm the scrabbling of his phalanges against the jagged edges of the hole in his skull.

Axe’s hand shot out as quickly as a striking snake and grabbed your wrist. He yanked you forward until you were partially bent over the sill of the sentry station. He raised his massive knife high above his head; his eyes held no recognition, no clarity, no sanity.

You held completely still, unflinching. The meat cleaver hovered threateningly above you, but it did not fall. You and Axe were frozen in the moment, but despite the madness that absolutely radiated from him, you trusted him not to hurt you.

“you’re not real,” Axe accused you in a gravelly whisper. You weren’t even sure if he meant to speak aloud at all.

“Are you going to kill me?” Your voice didn’t waver, and you kept your eyes locked with his single eyelight, calm yet firm.

Axe lowered the knife. Real or imagined, starving or not, he would never hurt you. You knew him too well. He released your wrist, hoping he hadn’t hurt you by grabbing you like that. He wanted to ask how you’d gotten here, but other matters demanded a higher priority.

“you aren’t safe here,” the skeleton scolded gruffly. “didn’t you listen? monsters here kill and eat humans!”

“Good thing I found you first then.” You tried to diffuse the tension with bravado, but you had to admit that your choice to come to the Underground was a risky one. Axe’s eyelight travelled over your body, searching for injuries while surreptitiously taking in the sight of you. His obvious concern for your safety filled you with warmth and determination.

“there’s nothing good about this,” Axe growled though he had to admit that seeing you again definitely felt like a good thing to him. That little bit of goodness could be snuffed out in a hurry though if another monster saw you and attacked. “i’ve got to get you out of here.”

Axe lumbered out of his sentry station, glancing furtively around the barren landscape, though it wasn’t entirely clear whether he expected to spot an enemy or an escape route. The skeleton stopped right next to you, attempting to block you from prying eyes. You found his protective stance rather charming, but you weren’t here to be charmed. You were on a mission.

You slipped your backpack from your shoulders, swinging it around into Axe’s line of sight and opening it. Seven clear canisters sat inside, each with a brightly-colored heart shape inside of it. Axe’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“are those…?” Axe sounded almost reverent, and with good reason.

“Human SOULs? Yes. I gathered these from willing donors who wanted to help set the monsters free.” It had taken dedication and time, but you’d meticulously interviewed potential donors until you tracked down all seven SOUL types that you needed. Now, only the path to the Barrier stood in your way.

Without warning, Axe swept you into a crushing hug, then proceeded to spin you around. Your feet actually left the ground, and you laughed softly at the thrill of it.

“you’ve got to meet my brother, then we’ll smuggle you into the Capitol.” For once you heard excitement and hope in Axe’s voice. His eyelight gleamed with resolution as he reached for your hand. You placed your hand in his without hesitation. Axe’s declaration that he knew a shortcut still rang in your ears as the world spun beneath you and everything went dark.

Disoriented, you tried to take in the scene around you. You’d been outside, standing in a forest choked with dead trees and carpeted in snow, but suddenly you found yourself in a house. The loud colors of the bowling alley style carpeting had long since faded, and the couch had obviously seen better days. Everything in the house was touched with the same look of elegant decay: faded colors, worn fabrics, the yellowing of book pages, and the subtle musk of disuse.

A fine film of the dust of time spoke volumes about the life of two monsters who devoted so much of their lives to simply surviving that they were forced to neglect the basic upkeep of their home. The house looked so long abandoned that the presence of life within it seemed almost surreal. You couldn’t find words to break the silence that permeated the house, soundless echoes of what it had once been.

Movement caught your eye; a lanky figure detached itself from the shadows and stepped in the dust-mote-filled light. Your eyes travelled up and up, an impossible height despite the figure’s hunched posture, until you found facial features that you recognized from Axe’s dream. The vivid colors of Axe’s subconscious bore the same washed-out appearance here that characterized their home, but you knew this must be Papyrus, now known as Crooks due to the effects of his recent tragic diet.

Crooks wrung his hands shyly, awaiting your reaction to his somewhat terrifying appearance. His teeth were crooked and broken, caked with something red that you tried not to think about too much. His nervous actions tugged at your heart, and you offered him a gentle smile which he responded to with a smile of his own.

“I’D OFFER YOU SOME OF MY SIGNATURE SPAGHETTI AND EYEBALLS, BUT WE’RE ALL OUT OF PASTA.” His apologetic tone did little to distract you from the fact that the skeleton brothers were short of pasta but not eyeballs.

“That’s alright. Really.” You didn’t hold out much hope that Crooks had misspoken considering Axe’s earlier admission. The sooner you got these monsters out of their Underground prison, the sooner they could return to normal healthy eating habits.

“my friend here wants to help us get to the Surface. they’ve got plenty of pasta up there. we just need to talk to ol’ Queen Undyne first,” Axe interjected, using a light tone to dispel the awkwardness of his brother’s offer.

Crooks perked up at the mention of Undyne. “UNDYNE WILL BE SO RELIEVED. I DON’T THINK SHE LIKES BEING QUEEN VERY MUCH…” You clutched your backpack and its precious cargo of SOULs, unzipping it slightly to show the mingled glow of seven vibrant colors. Crooks peered at them with a mixture of curiosity and delight.

Axe shifted uncomfortably. “yeah, relieved,” he mumbled, refusing to meet your eyes. You didn’t have much time to wonder about the skeletons’ very different reactions to Undyne because Axe extended a hand to you and Crooks. As soon as your fingertips brushed his smooth, warm bones, everything went dark again.

In the few seconds it took your eyes to communicate the view of a once-opulent throne room to your poor confused brain, a glowing blue spear appeared and slammed into the ground so close to you that you felt the force of the impact thrumming up the shaft of the weapon. If Axe hadn’t yanked you backwards, you would’ve been impaled. Where had it even come from?

“UNDYNE WAIT! THIS HUMAN IS A FRIEND!” You followed the direction of Crooks’ voice to see an armor-clad monster with a wild mane of crimson hair. She held another glowing blue spear, and her single yellow eye focused on you with murderous malice. You staggered backwards from the force of her glare.

“No human is a friend to monsters,” Queen Undyne roared, launching a volley of her spears at you. You resigned yourself to your doom, regretting that your rescue attempt had been such a short-lived failure.

A wall of bones erupted from the tiles of the floor, blocking the attack. Crooks and Axe both stood next to you, arms outstretched to summon the defensive maneuver. More spears struck the bones, causing them to shudder, but they remained standing. You turned wide, panicked eyes to Axe, searching for some explanation or reassurance.

“can you hold her off?” Axe asked Crooks, who nodded somberly. The stocky skeleton grabbed your arm and dragged you down a hallway of soaring pillars coated thickly in cobwebs and floor to ceiling windows of cloudy, cracked glass. Away from the immediate danger, you began to tremble. Tears welled up in your eyes.

Axe pulled you close, wrapping you in the safety of his arms and gently rubbing your back. He made soft shushing sounds, and you realized that your tears had turned into terrified sobs. Your body shook, and you hiccuped, trying to catch your breath. Axe held you until the overwhelming wave of emotion subsided.

“i’m so sorry. i thought maybe we could talk some sense into Undyne. she and my brother used to be really close, but the last human who came through here… well, that human killed a lot of monsters and stole the SOULs that we had collected towards breaking the barrier. they left us with nothing but despair and dust, and Undyne blamed herself for not stopping them. it… affected her.” Once again, Axe looked guilty.

“How can we convince her that I’m trying to help?” You gripped your backpack with determined hands. You didn’t gather these SOULs for nothing, and you didn’t plan to leave the starving monsters in the Underground without at least making an effort to save them.

“you aren’t going to convince her of anything.” You opened your mouth to protest, but Axe laid a phalange against your lips to silence you. “i want you to get out of here. it’s not safe, and i would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“What about breaking the Barrier?”

Loud crashes sounded from the Throne Room. Axe shot a quick glance over his shoulder before pushing you further down the hallway. “i need to go help my brother. if we can convince Undyne to trust you, i’ll meet you at the Barrier to break it and free the monsters.”

“What if you can’t?” More sounds of destruction threatened to drown out your whispered words, but Axe was close enough to hear you over the cacophony. Sorrow filled his single eyelight.

“i won’t put you in danger.”

“That doesn’t answer my question!” Actually, it did answer your question, and the implications left you frantic with worry for him. You wanted to explain how you felt about him, why his plan tore your heart to pieces, that you couldn’t just leave him behind, but the sounds of battle were approaching quickly.

Crooks slid backwards into the pillar-lined hallway, kicking up dirt. He held bone attacks in his gloved hands, and he used them to deflect wave after wave of spear attacks. The barrage of attacks drove him backwards again, closer to you and his brother. Axe stepped between you and the sound of Undyne’s war cries.

Turning, he cupped your cheek in one large, bony hand. His eyelight drank you in as if to memorize every feature of your tear-streaked face. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “go,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours.

Then he was gone, teleporting to the entrance of the hallway to join Crooks with bone attacks flying.

If you stayed, it would only distract him. He wanted you to go, to be safe. It took every bit of willpower in your body to walk away, to step through the Barrier without him, knowing that he never would’ve fought Undyne if it wasn’t for your meddling.

You waited.

And waited.

The seconds stretched out, each one lasting a thousand excruciating years.

You waited.

Axe curled up on the couch, full to bursting from a delicious dinner prepared by his brother. Yawning, he rested his skull in your lap, and you gently stroked his scapulae, smiling as he began to doze. He no longer feared nightmares. In fact, he rarely dreamed at all anymore. After all, what would be the point in dreaming?

Life on the Surface far surpassed anything that his subconscious could fabricate, and he already lived that dream every single day, with you.

INDEX

#vexy writes #horrortale #horrortale sans #ht!sans #horrortale papyrus #ht!papyrus #horrortale undyne #ht!undyne #horror!sans x reader #fem!reader

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combat-wombatus · 3 years

Text

Nightmare

Pairing: Hawks (Takami Keigo) x gn!reader

Genre: angst, fluffy ending

Warnings: choking (at the beginning), implied abuse, unintended physical assault?

WC: 1.5k

Summary: Hawks has a nightmare and you comfort him.

(A/N): not me skipping out on school homework again to write this-

anyways a lovely anon requested “reader comforting Hawks after a nightmare” and said something about Hawks’s father being a convicted villain. now, i’m not a manga reader so i don’t exactly know what’s happening at this point, so i did my own little take on it. u didn’t include the gender of the reader in ur request so i did my best to make it gender neutral! hope you enjoy, anon! have a lovely day ❤️ (and if u don’t like this take on it u can always request something else or a diff version of this!! i don’t mind at all! 😘 )

You woke up suddenly, the feeling of a hand wrapped around your throat making it impossible to breathe. Gasping for air, you struggled uselessly against the strong hand holding you captive.

“K-Keigo,” you rasped out, hands clawing desperately at the fingers constricting your airway. “L-let go, K-Keigo. I-it’s,” you coughed, spluttering. “It’s me.” You tried to keep a calm mind, but your vision was getting hazier by the moment, your thrashing slowing, running out of energy.

Finally, you stop struggling. Maybe he’d let go if he believed that you, or whichever entity you replaced in his head, was dead. He snarled once, then his grip around your neck slowly loosened. You sucked in air greedily, gulp after gulp, as if you’d never breathe again.

Once you had calmed yourself down, you slowly reached up to cup your boyfriend’s face with your hands, cradling it like he was the most delicate thing in the world.

“Baby,” you whispered, the choking having taken its toll on your voice. “Keigo, honey, wake up. You’re having another nightmare.”

Maybe calling him by his first name in a circumstance like this wasn’t the best idea. He immediately snatched both of your wrists and pinned them above your head. You winced at the sudden movement, and you could feel your muscles stretching further than they were meant to.

“Baby,” you tried again. “Hawks.”

His body went still when you called him that. His breath hitched, and his grip on your wrist loosened ever so slightly.

Slowly, you moved your wrists apart, then moved in to wrap your boyfriend in a bear hug. You rubbed his back soothingly, careful to avoid touching his wings, and murmured softly into his neck.

“It’s okay, honey. It’s okay. You’re just having another nightmare.”

Slowly, he shifted away from you. Blinking groggily into your eyes, he tried to recollect himself. You managed a small smile of relief, which disappeared quickly as soon as you saw his eyes latch onto your bruised neck.

“Babe,” his voice was small, almost as if he was scared this was real. “Babe, did I do that to you?” His voice cracked.

Clearing your throat to try and get rid of the excess scratchiness that remained, you replied as calmly as you could. “Yeah babe, but it’s okay, you were just having another nightmare. You didn’t really hurt me, see?” You tried to take his hand and place it on your neck to prove to him that you weren’t hurt, but he flinched away at your touch. You blinked back tears, trying not to let them fall. Why was this so hard?

You pushed back the covers to your bed and padded into the kitchen. Opening the cabinets, you looked for the hot cocoa mix that was perpetually in stock at your boyfriend’s apartment. He loved hot cocoa, and although chamomile was usually the “calming” tea, you found that cocoa had a much better effect on Keigo.

Quickly brewing two cups, you added some marshmallows and carried them back into the bedroom. Sitting down on the bed next to Keigo, you nudged him lightly with your elbow.

“Drink.” You held out a cup to him.

Wordlessly, he reached out and took the cup from you. He took careful measured sips, never once looking at you. You focused your eyes on your own cup instead and winced when you took your first sip. You hadn’t expected it to be so painful to swallow. Apparently, your throat muscles were still sore. Forcing yourself to take sips of the drink normally so that he wouldn’t catch on and ask what was wrong, you sat in silence, waiting until he was ready to talk.

Keigo moved to speak, but words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. He’d hurt you. Badly. If you hadn’t managed to think quickly enough to play dead, and then to realize that calling him by his hero name would be better than calling him by his given name, who knows what would’ve happened? Would he have killed you?

The sounds that came out of his mouth were more of a choked sob than anything else. Why? Why did this happen? He’d stopped having nightmares about his childhood years ago. Why now? He couldn’t understand it. Sleeping together with you in the same bed should have brought warmth and comfort. Peace. The opposite of what had transpired earlier.

He curled and unfurled his wings repeatedly, his go-to stress reliever. Taking another big gulp of his drink, he tried to clear his mind.

“Babe?” You asked quietly, not wanting to disturb him. “Babe, I’m okay. Look, I’m right here,” you tried to assure him that he didn’t really hurt you. Keigo didn’t respond. Suddenly, he stood up and marched out of the bedroom.

Keigo couldn’t think. He just couldn’t process it. He set his cup down on the kitchen counter, then quickly grabbed his pants, a shirt, and his warm flying jacket. He threw on his goggles and headphones faster than he’d ever done before, pressed a button to open the living room window, and hopped out.

You were still sitting quietly on the bed, hands wrapped around your favorite mug. Tears were trickling down your eyes, but still, you sat in silence. Why couldn’t he open up? Why couldn’t he tell you what was wrong, so you could help him? You didn’t think that you had ever felt so helpless before, the aching in your chest had never been as painful. You missed him. You wanted to hold him, tell him that everything would be okay, but he hadn’t let you.

Setting down your mug on the nightstand, you slid open the drawer. You took out a photo album Keigo had given you for your first anniversary. You flipped through it slowly, each picture reminding you of a happy memory.

The picture that your friend secretly took the first time he took you out on a date.

The two of you visiting the botanical gardens, him carrying you, flying right above the water lily pond.

A picture of him greeting a small fan of his, arms wrapped around the little boy’s body, beaming into the camera.

The time that you went to the animal shelter and adopted a pet kitty.

The picture of you lying back on a picnic blanket in a field of wildflowers, hands behind your head, gazing up at the stars.

You hugged the album close to your chest, convinced that you could help him. You weren’t willing to give up on this relationship, and you knew that he wouldn’t let it go without a fight either. Slowly, grogginess seeped in and you fell asleep, tear tracks staining your cheeks, still cradling the photo album in your arms.

That was how Keigo found you, snoring slightly into your pillow, curled up on your side. He’d flown around the prefecture, music rattling his bones, savoring the cool night air on his face. He circled the theater, the botanical gardens, and the meadows. He’d even flown up a mountain and stood on its peak. Surveying the city laid out before him, he’d realized that in this entire city of 10 million people, the only one he’d formed a true connection with, the only one he could truly call a friend, was you. He’d hurt his only friend, but selfish as it was, he wasn’t willing to let you go.

You woke up to the sound of footsteps by the bed. Blearily, you blinked your eyes, trying to rid your vision of the fuzziness that took over, and stared up at your boyfriend. He had his hands tucked in his pockets, looking wary, yet alive. Gingerly, he sat down beside you on the bed.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” you responded in a sleepy tone.

His gaze shifted towards your neck, where bruises in the shape of his hand littered your skin. He lifted a hand cautiously and gently rubbed your throat with his thumb.

“Does it hurt?” He whispered, looking ashamed of himself. “Please tell me the truth.”

“Only a little,” you begrudgingly admitted, then moved to place your hand on top of his.

He swallowed, clearly upset at his actions.

“You weren’t in control of yourself, Keigo,” you said quietly. “You were having a nightmare. It wasn’t your fault.”

“That’s the problem,” he whispered harshly. “I wasn’t in control of myself. I couldn’t stop myself. What if it happens again? What then, (Y/N)? What if we’re unlucky, and I don’t wake up in time?”

“It won’t happen again,” you reply sternly. “Because you’re going to talk to me about that nightmare you had and we’re going to work through it. If we can’t, then I’ll take you to see a therapist. We’re going to work this out, Keigo.”

He inhaled sharply, then took his other hand and wrapped you in a hug.

“You’re right, babe. We’re going to get through this together,” he murmured, chin resting atop of your head.

You smiled softly against his shoulder, knowing that it was the truth.

Masterlist

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loveandwarandmagick · 4 years

Text

Into Thin Air - Chapter 4

here is the fourth chapter ! it is a little on the shorter side, but here y’all go <3

you can find it here on A03, or read it under the cut, as always

thank you guys for the love and support

Simon

The first thing that he notices is that his leg is on fire. Hazily, he lifts his head to check, ignoring the dull, thrumming pain in his skull and slumping back when he finds no actual flame. He’s quite certain that his knee isn’t supposed to be on the side of his leg, but his head feels too heavy to care much. It takes another second to realize that there’s sand coating every inch of his body, and it sends a bolt of fear striking hot through his chest. A groan falls out of his mouth before he can stop it, but he’s silenced by a hand over his mouth and another one gently pressing his forehead down.

Baz

He’d woken up a while before Salisbury, but his head had been ringing too much to care about where they’d ended up. He’d sat up just enough to see piles of sand everywhere, and a few rocks scattered throughout, and then promptly laid back down. He should be worrying, probably a lot, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything more than dazed. His head feels like it’s full of cotton, and his lips are numb. Every thought that crossed through his head just flitters out of grasp, so he focuses on the sky instead, counting clouds and squinting against the sun.

And then Salisbury woke up.

The second Baz heard him start to shift; he sat up again just in time to press a hand to his open mouth and another one to his forehead to lay him back down. Baz had been desperately hoping that he wouldn’t see his leg, but the noise he makes like his voice has been ripped straight from his throat, confirms that he has. He mumbles something against Baz’s palm, but it’s muffled, so he removes both hands with a grimace and tries to keep his eyes on Salisbury’s to keep him from looking down at his leg.

“Motherfucker,” he mutters, “Stop covering my mouth when I talk.”

There’s annoyance flickering behind all the pain in his face, and it convinces Baz that it might not be that bad. But his eyes are fluttering, and his speech is slurred throughout each word. His breath is shallow and strained, chest heaving with a faint rattle. He waits until Salisbury stops talking and closes his eyes again, then looks back down at his leg. All the blood drains from his face. His black pants are torn from the thigh all the way down to his calf, which reveals the way his knee pokes towards his arm, rather than up. There’s blood coming from multiple scrapes on his skin, and it’s too awful to look at. It’s most-likely broken and it’s his fault, he knows. But it’s also bloody Salisbury’s. They wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place if it weren’t for him.

Baz huffs and turns away, partially to stop looking at the gruesome scene and partly to try to guess again about where they’ve ended up. It looks like flat desert land – all blonde sand and rocky soil and absolutely no water anywhere. The sun’s nearly directly overhead, so it must be near noon, and it is bloody hot. Baz pulls his eyes back away from the sky to look down at Salisbury again. His eyes are open, squinting against the glare of the sun and he’s struggling to sit up without jostling his leg. Merlin.

“Alright, give me your hand before you get even more hurt, you oaf.”

Simon

There’s never been a moment in his entire life that someone had called Simon an oaf. Maybe clumsy. Or peculiar, or hot-heated or too stubborn, but never an oaf. He freezes faster than he ever has before, whipping his head around to fix a glare on the man’s face. He’s staring back at Simon with an ugly sneer that makes his blood boil. He’s about to say something back, but as he twists to get up, his knee turns a bit more. He stifles a scream and stills again, trying desperately not to show all the tension in his jaw as he lies back flat again. The policeman sees right through it, of course, and arches an eyebrow as he waits for him to recover.

“Fuck you,” Simon grits, reaching out his hand. He pulls him up gently, making sure to place a hand on the back of Simon’s neck to keep from jostling his head. Apparently, he’d noticed the injury to his head as well. Of course, he’s attentive to details, he’s a bloody cop. Simon tries to shake off his bitterness, focusing instead on keeping his eyes from crossing. His head feels like it’s splitting in half, right down the middle. He focuses on willing it away, drawing his magic up to pour out over him like a bucket over his head.

The man’s eyes have gotten wide, and it only takes Simon a second to realize that his skin is smoking. He draws back immediately, even though it gets rid of the alleviation that was starting to creep in, because all the energy coursing through him makes his leg ache dangerously.

“What are you doing?” The man sounds incredulous. Simon thinks it may be because he’s smoking at the pores. It occurs to him, briefly, that that’s not exactly normal, so he decides to reassure the man before he passes out again.

“This always happens, my doctor said it’s completely normal,” Simon slurs, eyes nearly slipping closed again as he focuses on the thrumming pain in his skull and the burning pain in his leg. The ground rises up and he’s swallowed up again by dark.

Baz

This is the second time Salisbury has slumped over again, and it’s starting to worry Baz. The detectives had made it clear that his life had no matter – he was to be captured dead or alive. But Baz is no killer, and he has no way to explain this situation without Salisbury or mentioning magic. He could just use his magic to fix up the truth so it’s more believable, but there are too many holes in his story. To explain that he’d been strolling through a gated neighborhood and so happened to see Salisbury wouldn’t be a plausible story, and the type of magic he’d need to get them to believe him is much more than he has. That, and he really doesn’t want this man’s blood on his hands.

Baz looks away from him after making sure that he’s still breathing, and mutters healing spells one after another, hoping one sticks. Slowly, the blood clears away and he can see the sleeping boy visibly relax, though each time Baz adds another spell, he stiffens again.

The sun shines down on his scalp and burning magic floods his body, but Baz still feels cold looking down at him.

Simon

The worst nightmares plague Simon while he sleeps. He’s always had them: faces that scream at him, and eyes that stream with tears. Anger, grief, sorrow, disappointment – these are the things that he can’t outrun. He dreams that he’s on fire now, like the fire started inside his chest and is streaming up into this throat. When he tries to move, to scream, to do anything at all; his body collapses into ash.

He wakes up with a gasp, the sun burning down on him. At first, he thinks he’s actually burning. His whole body feels like a lit match, but as soon as he turns his eyes on the man kneeling over him, the feeling recedes.

“Where are we?” Simon asks, sitting up slowly in case his head still hurts. It doesn’t. Neither does his knee, but he’s not about to look down and check it. There’s no way that it isn’t broken, (he saw it earlier) but he feels fear settle in the pit of his chest when he can’t feel it.

“We’re in the desert, apparently. Thanks to your reckless spell.”

It’s a prime distraction to know that, at least. The desert? Simon sorts quickly though the past events and can’t find anything that might’ve led to this. He knows his magic gets out of control, but nothing like this has ever happened. His head latches on to the word desert before he spirals back to magic.

He can’t say that he’s surprised that the man knows that he’s magic. He did say spell just now, and he knew to hold onto Simon before he could escape properly. But it still shocks him silent for a second, trying to gauge the best way to navigate this without giving away too much.

“It’s not supposed to work like that,” he scoffs. “Not that it’s any of your business how it works.”

“Oh, no, it doesn’t concern me at all that the boy who’s been stealing for years uses magic to get away with his crime. I’m only the detective assigned to your case. One out of about twenty prior ones, might I add.”

“Twenty?” He echoes, a little lost. The man looks disturbed, probably mistaking Simon’s expression for pride. “That seems a bit… excessive. For one man, I mean. Surely, you could have done it on your own – figuring out that I’m magic.”

“You’re not magic, you have magic. And I only know that because I have it. Not everyone on the force does, Salisbury.”

He’d called him that before, in the library, but it still makes Simon wince. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Your name?” He peers curiously at Simon, maybe expecting a bold reply.

“My name is Simon. Also, I don’t have your name,” he says, swallowing down his irritation.

“No, you don’t have mine. You have yours. Are you trying to steal my name now, Salisbury?”

“My name is Simon,” he says, frustrated beyond belief. What a bloody prick. Simon doesn’t have the time to explain Mr. Salisbury’s agenda, nor does he think that he can convince him that they have a good cause even if he does. So he just turns his head, blinking back angry tears that spring to his eyes.

Baz

It was unnecessarily cruel to say, but Baz doesn’t have time to make friends with the criminal. They need to sort out this problem, get back home, and the people will finally rest knowing he’s been incarcerated. Of course, they can’t get anywhere until they figure things out. Salisbury has his jaw clenched fiercely and his hands are balled up into fists, obviously upset. It brings Baz some satisfaction to know that he’ll be easy to read – it’ll make getting a confession a lot easier – but he knows that they won’t get anywhere until he makes nice. The thought of being friendly makes him feel sick, so he settles for indifference.

Salisbury beats him to it, but keeps his face turned away from Baz.

“Look. We’re stuck here, with no supplies or anything. We’ve got to get out for one.”

“Yes, we do,” Baz agrees flatly.

“So, we need to figure out things. Okay, like with a list. Things we know right now and things we might be able to figure out soon,” he says, slowly, more to himself than Baz. “Magic too,” he adds after a second, “That’s important as well, I suppose.”

Baz nods, then clears his throat so Salisbury will look at him, and nods again.

“Alright,” he says hesitantly, like he’s worried that Baz might say something else. “I guess where we are is the most important thing. Can you figure it out with magic?”

His mouth draws into a firm line, but he nods once more. Salisbury’s expression goes dark for a moment as Baz refuses to speak, but it’s safer if he doesn’t. He can’t help himself from saying the cruelest thing, and it’d probably ruin any progress that they make if he made Salisbury angry.

“There’s no map, show me where.”

Some of the sand from where they’re sitting swirls up and begins to form a ball in front of them. Each continent is sketched out precisely, until they’re staring at a full globe rotating slowly. Baz narrows his eyes as he stares at it, ignoring how close Salisbury shifts to look as well.

“Is it marked?” He starts, but Baz shushes him sharply. They both look intently as the globe expands, turning all the way to Asia. Baz’s blood freezes in his body. From Europe to Asia? He turns to glance at Salisbury, still staring at the globe with wide eyes. Who is this kid? Who even has the magic for a spell like this?

Salisbury gasps, so Baz looks back at the sand image in front of them.

“What did I say?” Salisbury asks, voice strangled. “When you were trying to grab me? Did I tell you to get off of me?”

Baz can’t pull his eyes away from the map, but he answers softly. “Let go of me. You told me to let go of you. But… I covered-“

“You covered my mouth.” He’d already been speaking with intent. That’s why he’d jerked out of Baz’s grasp like that – he’d made his words a spell all on their own.

Simon

“Merlin, you brought us to the fucking Gobi desert,” the man says beside him, but Simon can barely hear him.

Let go of me. Simon wants to laugh, but it gets caught in his throat. “Go of me,” doesn’t sound much like Gobi, but his mouth had been covered at the time. It would have been so easy for his words to get muddled, and with the magic bursting out of him, well…

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound that the man makes, and he finds himself looking to check his expression. He’s incredulous, not quite smiling, but his gaping mouth is turned up at the corners. It’s a terrifying face, and Simon finds himself cringing away from it as best as he can without moving his lower half. But it finally gives him the courage to check his leg and finds that while all the blood’s gone, his knee is still angled outward. He swallows back bile and looks back over at the man, wondering what’s passing through his head.

Simon clears his throat and tries to snap him out of his shock. “Okay so. We have that; that’s solved. That’s good then. We’ve just got to get back home, we can use magic for that.”

The man does snap out of it, thankfully, but his expression is unreadable as he says, “I don’t have the magic for teleportation. This shouldn’t even be possible.”

He shifts his entire body to face Simon now. “Do you realize how powerful you are? Why are you wasting so much magic on doing so much harm?” His face is wild and open all of a sudden, a mask of equal parts rage and confusion.

He doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t known how powerful he was before this. Only that he had magic and all that Mr. Salisbury had told him about it. Thinking of him makes Simon think of how awful his disappointment will be when Simon comes home after this (he won’t go to prison), so he hides the thought in the back of his mind and tucks his fingers into his hands.

“Can we figure out the rest of everything before we get into magic? That seems like the least of our problems, at least right now.”

The man’s face grows impassive again as he looks down at Simon’s knee. He’s still for a minute, but it feels like five as Simon anticipates his rejection. He sighs and then says, “Alright then, we’ll need to fix this. I’m not powerful enough to do it with magic though.”

Simon only nods resolutely, batting back his chaotic thoughts. He has other things to worry about.

#lwm fic #into thin air (lwm)#carry on #snowbaz #carry on fic #snowbaz fic #simon snow #baz pitch #penny bunce #would tag the mage but fuck that guy #chapter four ITA

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edenofmonsters · 5 years

Text

nyctophobia | one.

nyc·to·pho·bi·a | [nik-toh-foh-bee-uh]

definition:

extreme or irrational fear of the night or of darkness.

subject:

wraith | gasouel

notes:

originally documented january 22nd, 2018

6,550 words | 01 part | s. f. w.

a seemingly harmless blackout proves to be an experience you have never considered existing beyond horror films. a monster lurks within the darkness, and it ensues a morbid game of tormenting you while vulnerable.

*✧🌙✧*

Nichole has taken the liberty of your phone pass-code to snap an atrocious selfie and appoint it as her own contact portrait. Truth be told, you don’t have the heart nor incentive to change it. It had taken time to ignore the scrutiny thrown your way, many times which consisted of ducking out of vicinity and of the like. At least her ringtone compensates for the source of embarrassment and entertainment. The wistful chorus of Patrick Swayze’s “She’s Like the Wind” echoes through the wood of your nightstand, a patterned vibration joining the melody. It’s tempting to ignore her call, especially since it’s already 11 p.m. on the night before a breakfast date with Mom.

Before deciding to answer her, you rid your mouthful of minty froth and smear on an even coat of face clay, allowing the chorus to play twice more, both times you sing along to. Either someone is dying on her end or she’s drunk, neither reason serving as good intention to call you. Once finished, you amble into your room and flounce on your bed with all the flourish of a tired individual.

“Babe, the bridal shower is next week, and I still haven’t got a dress!” she says the instant the call connects.

The volume of her voice makes you grimace, her dilemma even more so. Familiar with her procrastination tendencies, you aren’t as surprised as the next person would be. In no way does it lessen the degree of the problem, sadly. You determine how you’ll fare in the morning if the call hypothetically escalates past an hour.

Picking dirt from your nails, you ask, “Please tell me you have potential selections?”

The white, digital numbers of your alarm clock continue ticking closer to midnight as she sends you pictures of dresses she modeled in earlier that afternoon and lists off the pros and cons she’s found with each. You would make this task easier on the both of you with physical moral support, and by that you mean you would have forced her to buy one before the trip, but Nichole is out of state for her sister’s special event, and you happened to deplete your slot of vacation days for the year. After some back and forth bickering, you finally convince Nichole to narrow it down to a few dresses. With a vow to get back to you when she decides on the winning dress, the two of you exchange an “I love you” and “goodnight”.

Sliding out of bed, you make way to the bathroom and rinse off the crusted paste of your now creased face mask with lukewarm water. Once cleansed, you clear excess droplets from your eyes with a single wipe and freeze when pitch blackness greets you. Your heart thrashes for a second. After experimental flicks of the light switch, it's obvious the power is out. This aspect isn’t entirely surprising; it’s been raining all day, the menacing storm threatening to down the roof with the harsh pelting. You’ll just have to make do without charging your phone tonight or an alarm.

Blinded helpless, you use your outstretched hands to inch through the dark, hoping to not stub your toe on anything. By a miracle, you find your way to your door, fingers touching the worn wood.

Did I…close the door? You pause, filing through recent memories. I know I left it open. Not willing to ponder the oddness of it all right now, you settle for blaming the blackout for disorienting you.

That night, you have a peculiar dream about a spectral figure hovering at a fair distance. You may be standing in the abyss of your thoughts, but you feel oppressed just by looking at the figure. It looks to be a lean, masculine silhouette draped in a hooded robe that sways to a nonexistent breeze and falls in misty tendrils. You dare a look inside the hood to see a clean slate face void of details. Chills prickle through your nerves. He doesn’t have any distinctive features, but you feel eyes gouging you, and it leaves you rigid in trepidation. You wake up to your table lamp casting a disc on your ceiling.

Breakfast with Mom is pleasant, Nichole falls in love with the perfect dress, your phone can charge throughout the night, and there’s no dream of the apparition.

Tuesday evening, your lights flicker dead while you’re cooking dinner. It lasts but a few seconds, and in those handful of seconds you swear the air ices over, but it’s gone just as quick as the waning of the electricity. By Friday, you begin to contemplate calling maintenance to inspect for any issues with your apartment. You bring it up with the other tenants and are alarmed when they report no trouble with their power. When you do decide to call maintenance, they report nothing out of the ordinary. The electrician reassures you he will return if you begin experiencing actual problems. You can see he doesn’t appreciate his time being wasted, but he’s polite enough to not say what’s on his mind. His visit leaves you bitter for more than one reason.

You find yourself washing off face clay over your sink for another night. When your eyes open, the light is on; however—you glance into the mirror, see that black character from your dream and vault yourself to the side in a panic. You tumble from your haste, clashing down to the glossed tiles with your heart pounding in your ears. Of course, no one’s there. People imagine ‘things’ from the edge of their eyes all the time from paranoia, but this disturbs you on spiking levels. It shouldn’t unnerve you this much, you tell yourself, and yet you race into the safety of your bedroom and slam the door shut. The image is burned into your eyelids, whether they’re closed or not.

A week passes, each night projecting that damned phantom who does nothing but watch at you. Last night was different, though. You dream, and he isn’t there. He hasn’t proven to be a threat in past dreams, but you can’t brush off the layering fear after the mirror episode. Every which way you look, movements slowed to that of limbs swinging under the density of water. A certain trace of desperation urges you to locate the shadow cutout. You aren’t sure how the notion birthed, the idea that you’ve become the sheep in a hunt, but it’s there.

Here.

You pivot around just as the blackness lunges at you, and you jolt awake screaming. Shaken by the nightmare, you remain fastened to your bed until well into the noon.

It storms again, this time more rageful than the last. You tense, holding your phone in a cartilage-white grip when an especially powerful thunder splits the silent sky far too close. The apartment tremors, your glassware tinkling to the movement. A week has slipped by since that horrendous nightmare. Thankfully, you haven’t been plagued by anymore aside that one. To distract yourself from the storm, you peruse the channels for anything eye-catching. Unsurprisingly, the TV cuts off and dark swallows you whole.

A brief note of panic assaults your chest, a cowardly reaction you will away with a struggle. You can’t help falling victim to fear, no matter how severe you berate yourself for being ridiculous. What is a little darkness going to do to you?

Steeling your nerves, you snatch up your phone, turn the flashlight on, and go hunt down for a candle you remember seeing in one of the kitchen drawers. You locate it with quick success, gathering the untouched stick into one hand. You could have sworn there was a lighter in there somewhere, too. It’s apparent you can’t search for said item with both your hands occupied. You set the candle on the kitchen counter and rummage through the drawer a second time. Just as your fingers wrap around the lighter, the waxen rod rolls right off and onto the floor with a startling clatter.

You determine you can be as young as five or as old as fifty, and you’ll still be uncomfortable with the dark. Long ago, you established there was nothing to fear but the invented creatures you yourself conjured, but you also learned how dangerous imagination could be. It’s what led you to cower under the false safety of your blanket as a child and to avoid the ominous alleys tainted by horrific stories as an adult. At this moment, however, you have every right to be afraid. The past days have pushed you further toward the edge, and you’re waiting when you might fall into the chasm of whatever it is that has been haunting you.

It takes a moment to ease your throbbing heart. As you crouch to retrieve the dropped candle, you detect the weight of another presence in the room with you. There’s a subtle shift in the air that seems to be making room for the second being. You notice the beam of artificial light quivering and realize it’s because you’re shaking. You want to cast the light around the kitchen to see if you can catch a glimpse of anything at all, but you’re stricken frozen by fear. The moment passes, and you scoff for believing you’re in any possible danger. Just as a safety measure, you pan the kitchen with your meager light source. Of course, there’s nothing to jump out at you.

You gather your senses, the materials and make leave for your room. Once alight by the candle, you settle into bed and dive into the fictional world of a novel in your hands. You aren’t aware of how much time has passed, fully immersed with the story playing out in your mind, but a faint sound harshly extracts you from the book. You’re overcome with stillness, ears honing onto the distinctive thud.

These walls are known for giving tenants the privacy they need; thus, you shouldn't be able to hear your neighbors unless they directly pound on the separating plaster. The neighbors on the left are currently out of town for the week and the neighbor on the right has a night shift, so he shouldn’t be home at this time.

Fear and curiosity can go hand in hand; however, the two are warring for the chance to influence your choices of either exploring or hiding. You don't understand how the silence has suddenly become eerie, but it's enough confirmation to allow fear to win. You discard exploring and eagerly hole into the haven of your bed. The candle won't last the night, maybe until you fall asleep if you aren't overwhelmed by apprehension. Remaining in bed seems the less evil of the two choices, but you’re rolling around in the festering thoughts of the worst-case scenario. You should have grabbed a knife when you had the chance.

Oh, come on. What's to be afraid of? Ghosts? You laugh, a forced laugh at that. A minute goes by. Fine. I'll just look around to prove there's nothing that can hurt me. Resolve cemented, you peel away from your blanket and grab the lit candle for your journey, notably ignoring your jittering nerves that make you tremble.

As soon as you peek into the short hallway, whispers of cool air wash over you, setting off a shudder or two. The flame restricts your view to a mere foot radius, giving you the impression of being stuck in a claustrophobic sphere. You leave your door cracked and take a confident step forth. Immediately, that same chill swipes at your spine. You can’t decide if it’s terror painting the horrific thought of a lone finger tracing up your back or not. Regardless, you jump so hard you’re surprised your bones aren’t broken at the joints.

What the fuck was that? you think, flattening to a wall as if it might decrease your vulnerability by a smidgen. Stupid Victor and his stupid horror movie nights. Yet as you throw the blame on your friend, you know better: you just need something tangible to fault, something you know that can be a rational factor to your delusions. But your instincts won't allow you to deny that you aren’t living a fantasy moment, you’re not suffering the side effects of a jump-scare film.

The dark is crawling all over you, seeping into your skin, and dragging you deeper into a thick pool of dread. The steady heat fails as a source of comfort; rather, it seems to be laughing at you. Just then, the mini fire sputters, dancing a chaotic pattern, like someone has walked by.

There’s something inside with you.

Ice skims along your cheek and the candle tumbles from your hands. The dark devours you up, leaving you cold and on the brink of going mad with fear. Quickly, you fall to your knees to search for the candle. You know you aren’t alone but can’t pinpoint how or why, you only know. The figure from your dream comes to mind, and a broken whimper escapes your lips. And then the hairs of your arm stand. You used to think of it as ants navigating underneath your clothes, but it isn’t ants this time, it's a hand running along your limb.

Right here.

You bolt. The slam of your door is so loud, you expect the entire complex to shake. You clamber for your blanket, hurry to light the candle, and wedge yourself into a corner. There you remain, eyes refusing to close. Seconds, minutes, hours, and the thud resounds again. It begins distance, stops at your door, and disappears altogether. The longer you sit there, the more the fear augments to a staggering degree, yet nothing has plowed through the door and attacked you. You refuse to break free from your stiff position, though, staying perched where you are.

You don’t know when you fall back asleep or how you gave in to the need, but the moment of peace is broken by a third pound. The most recharge you gained was by hovering just beneath the first layer of unconsciousness. Instantly, you notice that the candle has gone out. Reaching for your phone, you turn the flashlight on again. Initially, the first thing you notice is the low battery percentage, and then the time (1 a.m.), but once you look to your nightstand, you almost drop your phone.

The candlestick is burned only half way through. It's impossible for it to drown and extinguish in its own pool of wax, because it's a lone stick supported by a holder. Your windows aren’t opened to invite a draft, and you know your sleeping habits as well as Mom does, so you had no play in blowing the flame out. Someone did, something thing.

You hear a soft touch, pulling your attention back to the door. You imagine a palm pressing into the wood. Not a second later, the handle twists ever so slowly. For some inexplicable reason, you can't move, helplessly watching as the handle turns all the way to unlatch. Any moment now, you wait for the door to slam open. It doesn’t. It remains twisted. And then, as if the hand holding it in its place has let go, it abruptly turns back without warning. You fling to the wall you’re already embedded to. As afraid as you are, frustration sidles up to your mind, and possible anger.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice tight.

The handle turns slow, the door opens, and it closes the door just as softly. A cry croaks from your throat from witnessing an invisible force committing the action. Gentle steps travel across the floorboards to you. The bed sinks, and you cry harder.

“What do you want?!”

That same figure from your dreams manifests right before your eyes, ripping a gasp from you.

“You.”

Cold, hands latch onto your ankles to yank you forward and you shriek—

“Babe!” Nichole is shaking you awake, her face creased in concern.

You’re gulping for air, desperately clawing at your bedding. After you calm down some, you grab onto Nichole to reassure yourself she’s real. You think about those hands on your ankles. They felt just as real as the woman before you. A single sob falls from your mouth, leading to uncontrollable weeping, prompting your friend to support you to her chest. She holds you without a word.

You tell her you’ve been having nightmares but don’t specify them, afraid Nichole will suffer the same fate if she knows. You treat it as a curse. It takes some effort on your side to convince your friend you’ll be fine. She leaves, albeit reluctantly, only because you’ve promised to call her if anything happens. You almost kick her out, so she won’t be late for work. She only came by to retrieve her charger she left when she spent time with you yesterday.

You can’t decide if you’re glad or not that she doesn’t live with you. The two of you roomed together after graduating college, but as soon as Nichole nabbed a boyfriend, you wanted out. You wouldn’t mind sharing a living space with them if it came down to it; Victor was good and played the older brother you never had. You just don’t want to invade their relationship. Nichole took it hard. According to her, you came first before Victor, but you know how much she loves him.

Your random thoughts skid to a halt when you return to your bedroom and zero your attention onto the candle still on your nightstand. Burned only halfway through. In a bout of boiling rage and terror, you swipe it away. It hits the wall and cracks in two. Nothing makes sense. Are you going insane? Are you being haunted? You’ve never had any reason to believe in the supernatural in the past, but that idea is becoming more likely. This is out of your league. Tears shed again. For a moment, you think a salted globule has been wiped away by a finger.

That evening, you force yourself into a tub of scalding, sudsy water, attempting anything to ease your mind, because you still believe it’s all part of your imagination. You shut away the world, focusing on the rhythmic strokes of the bath loofah dragging along your limbs. Some time during the process, ghostly hands join in. You stop, and it stops.

It’s fake, it’s just fake, you chant, scrubbing harder until your skin becomes red.

When you dream this night, the apparition is there. This time, he disappears. Alarmed, you seek for him, afraid he might harm you. Just as sudden, he reemerges behind you. You buck, but he holds you steady.

“Please, don’t hurt me!” you cry.

“Hurt you?” he whispers, a wispy sort of sound with an echoing quality. He constricts his embrace harder, eliciting a grunt. “You’ve already done that to yourself,” he continues, attesting the statement by soothing touches down your scrubbed raw arms.

If you weren’t so afraid, you might have thought he was genuinely worried for you. The sweet wickedness in his words is nothing short of mockery.

“No, I have far more different intents for you.”

One moment, you’re in his arms, another moment, you’re being thrown to the floor. You can’t feel pain, just the pressure. Regardless, you become dazed by the impact. The figure looms over you with an unseen smile. You don’t have the chance to scramble away, losing that opportunity by hesitating. He pounces on you, and you fight.

“Shh, I won’t hurt you.” He testifies by caressing you with the touch of a lover.

You wake up in a sweat, gasping, and unable to forget the gentleness of his gestures.

The dreams persist, becoming more and more vivid until you can no longer tell reality and dream apart. Not before long, they intensify to actual phantom touches out of dreamland but strictly after the sky is dark (he never makes an appearance until then). The second time he touches you while you’re awake and aware of your surroundings, you’re doing laundry. His hands cup your waist, pressing his fingers just so you can see invisible prints of his touch crinkling your shirt. He leaves, but not before kissing your shoulder.

You call an exorcist; he fails to find the smallest traces of any paranormal activities, although he blesses you with a prayer before taking leave. The words spill in one ear and out the other. The second exorcist concludes with the same results as the first.

“Don’t make me leave,” he whispers after you bid the exorcist goodbye.

You whirl on him, and any nasty words you want to spit dissolves at discovering his invading proximity. Your breath hits against his flat face, echoing the warmth back to you.

“Oh, don’t be afraid. Haven’t we met before, once upon a dream?”

You grow stiff hearing the quote from Sleeping Beauty you watched yesterday. “Why are you doing this to me?” you ask in a brittle voice, brimming with mental exhaustion and anguish, because you’ve given up.

He falters from the question, sensing the loss of fight within you. “I’m alone, so alone. I have nothing and no one,” he drifts around you in a melancholic circle, like a drapery shifting in murky waters, “I don’t remember who I am, but I know I’ve done evil, which makes me what I am. I suppose not all of it has withered away. I won’t deny that I find it thrilling to torment you. Your fear is exhilarating and so delicious.”

You can’t see the twisted smile he grants you, but you feel it there, and it makes you weep.

“However,” he swoops down to gather you into his phantom arms, somehow carrying you into the air, the shadow cloak wrapping around and pulling you further into the being, “your tears also make me sad,” he says, streaking the wetness away with his own cheek. “Why is that? Why does your pain please me and hurt me all at once? Tell me.”

You struggle uselessly in his strangely comforting arms. “I don’t know,” you say, feet kicking above the floor. “Please, put me down.” You strain your face away when he tries to wipe your tears again.

His chest heaves, as if he’s huffed with resignation. “Fine.”

In a whirlwind of blurred colors, the phantom whisks the both of you to the living room in a mere blink. It takes you a second to regain your bearings, a spell of dizziness disarming you. You come eye-to-eye with the hooded face and come to realize you’re on your feet but still trapped in his arms. You try wrestling free from his impossible grip.

“Don’t push me away. You’ve been enjoying your dreams so far, and this isn’t any different,” he says against your temple. You will never understand how he can speak without a mouth.

Shame burns your face. “You’ve been forcing them on me! I can’t help what my body reacts to. If you hit me, I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt,” you grit out, wincing from the tightness of his constricting embrace.

“I know, I know it all. Stop closing yourself from me—”

Both of you freeze at the startling sound of the front door opening. You’re about to scream for Nichole, but the apparition vanishes into nothing. Said friend stumbles through the front door and pauses.

“Are you okay?” she asks, walking to you.

“Yeah, just, I thought I saw a mouse,” you lie.

Her face scrunches up. “You better call for extermination just in case. Anyway, I know I should have sent you a text beforehand, but wanna grab a drink?”

You agree. On your way out the door, his hand briefly clutches for yours, tracing a sardonic plea into your knuckles.

Don’t leave.

You rip your hand loose, shut the door, and walk away. You crash over at Nichole and Victor’s and remember what it means to laugh and have fun. You spend the following day with them and return home much later that night, although reluctantly. Your heart stops when you notice the door is ajar.

He wouldn’t be able to escape, would he? Regardless, you ease your way into your apartment. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, except some things have been moved. You tiptoe to your bedroom and flick the light on. You gasp when the phantom comes into view right in the middle of your room. He turns around from his rummaging through your draws, and he’s not the ghost. The stranger is dressed in black, hauling a backpack, and wielding a knife that glints at your eye.

You jolt to action when he growls and sprints for you. He’s quick, snatching at your hair and jerking you around to a stop. A shrill cry burns your throat, forcing the man to flinch.

“Shut up—”

His poised knife never makes it into your flesh; no, instead, a ghostly hand spears through the man’s chest. There is no blood, for there isn’t a wound in sight, but his life is gone regardless. You watch the hand wrench away from the body, ripping away a black mass with identical qualities as the phantom with it. That’s when you glance toward your unlikely savior who has been taunting you. You are wrong to believe he was terrifying before: he is the epitome of hatred and fury. He’s blacker than black, heaving like a beast, and, to your shock, there are red eyes as the only visible feature within the swirling darkness of the hood. The slits heighten the staggering aura wafting from him, and you curl within yourself.

“Begone.” The single word is pure venom.

He squeezes the blackness in his hand until it falls apart in smoky ribbons, hits the floor and dissipates to nothing. You watch in horror as the body materializes away in the same manner, leaving the clothes and items behind as the only evidence of the man ever existing. The dark figure suddenly roars his anger out, a simultaneous ear-splitting slice and rumbling bellow that sparks your electricity dead, leaving you in the dark, which is beginning to become a familiar setting.

You wait, anxious and wondering if he will finally kill you. You’re wild when his arms vine around you, cradling you into his ghostly form and lifting you from the floor. He’s now frighteningly serene, acting like he wasn’t furious just seconds ago. In the dimness, the phantom is more solid than ever before, neither constricting his arms nor releasing you. He hums a tuneless lullaby, shushing into your ear until you still.

“Hush now, you’re safe.”

The adrenaline leaks away, replaced with tears, in which your savior kisses away. You can’t decide what kind of relief it is that you cry from—is it relief that he’s saved you, relief that you’re alive, relief that he isn’t as evil as you assumed? Whatever reason it may be, this moment of cathartic release lightens your heart.

The clothes and knife are gone the following morning, and your belongings are stored to their rightful places. You aren’t as averse to the ghostly touches as your previously were, although it took you time to welcome them. He gives you peace throughout the day and even during your dreams. Sometimes he embraces you as you go about your nightly chores, adhering your body like your own cloak.

One night he brazenly slips into bed with you, intimately pressing against your back. You fidget in his hold. You’ve built a strange trust with this supernatural being and you don’t want to go back to cowering from it.

“Stop,” you whisper, pulling at his hands that have found way around you and are tracing circles into your arms.

“Why?” You have no answer, so he resumes his loving strokes. “Haven’t I been patient enough? Kind enough?”

“Why are you even doing this, why me?” That makes him pause.

“Even I surprise myself. My kind are as old as the earth, meant to exist as creatures of evil. Yet the longer I persisted my game with you, the faster my resolve crumbled away. Do you have any sense as to how wrathful I was seeing that foul human attempt to hurt you? I thought to let him be, let him destroy himself from his own deeds, and then you waltzed in.” He turns you to face him. “I suddenly couldn’t bear to see you turn into a lost spirit. Perhaps I was jealous, perhaps I wanted to turn you myself, but then I can never feel your warmth again.”

You recoil, thinking yourself an idiot for believing he might harbor the tiniest sliver of good in him. He keeps you still when you begin to escape, planting his forehead to yours, his hood tickling your hairline.

“I tired of haunting and torturing the evil humans, so I thought to play with someone whose soul wasn’t as black. I settled for you by chance. Before I could stop myself, a drop of your goodness tainted me, leaving me impure. I am no longer wholly evil. Now I understand why my kind despised and cowered from the light, not only because it could destroy us to nothing, but because it would save us, and we evil wraiths are not meant to be anything but. What have you done to me?”

You can say nothing, only breathe and stare into red eyes. They make rare appearances, but when they do, you can’t help but imagine them as garnets. You can only think of one question.

“What’s your name?”

He doesn’t speak for a moment, whether from hesitation or contemplation. “Gasouel, call me Gasouel.”

*✧🌙✧*

“Have you always liked your apartment this cold?” Nichole asks, shivering as she does so.

You hardly notice the temperature now. You only shrug in response, cleverly placing a drink in front of your friend to distract her.

“Any colder and you might turn this place into a freezer,” Victor laughs good-naturedly, while patting your shoulder and giving you a playful shake.

You open your mouth to quip a remark but freeze when Gasouel appears behind Victor and phases through the unsuspecting man. A violent shudder rakes through his body.

“Fuck, that was a bad one,” he mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets before making his way to cuddle next to his girlfriend currently swathed in one of your spare blankets.

You toss a glare to the wraith who is quite unapologetic.

Later that night when the clock hits midnight, you lecture the idle wraith.

“I told you to leave them alone,” you hiss.

He grabs your face and rubs his forehead on yours. “I would never hurt them; I know how much you care for them.”

It’s a bit odd to see him jealous. You suppose it will just be another facet to accommodate to, along with his affectionate inclinations. A couple months have passed by since the day he saved you. You still have trouble overcoming the disappearance of the burglar. While you never even touched the man, you know you’ve played an indirect part in his death. After all, Gasouel had killed him for your sake. If not for you, he’d still be alive. Although, recently, you find it hard to pity the man. In fact, while your ghostly companion did destroy his soul, it saved him from suffering the fate of becoming a wraith and saved the world from the existence of another dark creature.

That aside, you’re convinced Gasouel will leave one of these days, either from boredom or in fear of losing his entire purpose as a being of evil. If he stays long enough, you wonder what will happen to him when you’re gone.

“What are you thinking?” His question brings you back to the present.

“It’s…nothing,” you say, extracting yourself from him.

Displeased, he flies to stop you from walking away. “You can tell me,” and he pairs this with a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You still shy away from any affections, not having such devout attention since your last relationship, which was well over two years ago. Gasouel knows this, too, spurring his efforts.

“Come now, don’t be shy,” he whispers, hugging you close.

You relent. “Will you ever leave me?” Immediately, you regret your choice of words—you sound desperate for him to stay.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, more amused than troubled.

“I don’t know—”

He chuckles. “That’s enough for reconsideration.”

And you blush. If you want him to leave, you wouldn’t be unsure. Even the smallest amount of hesitation is proof that you do want him to stay, regardless how insignificant that wish is now.

“I was afraid of you for a long time, and then you saved me. You’ve proved to be good, even if that only pertains to me. I won’t lie, I’ve come to enjoy you being with me, whatever this is. But how long are you going to stay? I know for a fact you wouldn’t want to stay forever.”

“And if I want to stay forever?”

You laugh a humorless huff. “I won’t live that long.”

“You think I would be sad if I stayed and watched you grow until your death?”

“I—I’m not implying that—”

“You are,” but you can hear the smile in his words, an impish one at that.

Growing frustrated, you cut to the point, not wanting to suffer a bout of taunting from him. “What I mean to say is, you’re wasting your time with me. There’s no point in staying with someone who will just ruin what you’re supposed to be.”

“You want me to continue my villainous deeds?”

“Damn it, Gasouel, no! I just…I don’t really know what I’m trying to say anymore.” You turn to leave but are swept into his arms before even taking a step.

“I have wasted centuries wandering and tormenting. I would stay with you whether it meant the end of my existence or not; I would rather stay and lose you than not having stayed at all. Don’t you have any hope that I have a chance of dying with you?”

You laugh. “Who would have known you could be such a romantic?”

“Is it so bad?”

“No.”

“Is it so bad that I stay, regardless what may happen?”

He makes you look into his eyes. It never occurs to you that he may be tired, and he’s only just realized because of you. “No,” you say.

“Then I’ll stay right where I am.”

*✧🌙✧*

When Nichole asks if you’ll ever date again, you merely shrug, glancing at Gasouel who lazily circles you as you slice some vegetables. You’ve grown used to his invasion. Victor makes some teasing remark you can’t even remember because you must hold onto the wraith’s cloak to prevent him from maiming the poor man’s soul. Gasouel still hasn’t warmed up to Victor.

You don’t think dating will prove to be wise, not with your embarrassing attraction for your ghostly companion that grows by the day and not with Gasouel’s possessive streak charging out when a man sends any form of flirtation your way (yes, you discover he can roam outside your apartment during the nights). You think it’s impossible to pursue a relationship with him, so you might have to convince him to back down when you go soul searching. He doesn’t ever give you the chance to consider another human partner, he doesn’t even give you a chance to approach him about the subject for that matter.

You don’t recall how it happens, but one moment you’re debating taking on a coffee date with one of the new tenants a few doors down (he’s rather cute) and the next, as soon as you step inside your apartment, you’re being cornered.

“Have you become my tormentor now?” Gasouel hisses, hovering close in all his furious glory of red eyes and billowing cloak, yet he doesn’t touch you.

You shrink away, not from fear but from the intensity of his emotions. “W-what?”

“You think I haven’t noticed, did you? You couldn’t be more obvious with your blatant staring and the longing on your pretty face. I suppose I am at fault for depriving you any human partners, but why settle for that when you have me?”

Your face burns. He’s known all along.

Despite the mischievous tone, you can tell he’s been playing the patient predator. For how long, you don’t know. Before you can get a word in, he yanks you into his arms. You watch with fascination as he molds himself a mouth. He doesn’t waste time to finally, finally kiss you. It’s everything fervent and heartfelt, and it leaves you unable to stand. Gasouel’s touch isn’t anything new, but unlike before, they can’t even compare to the strength and desperation of his hands now. That night, you release yourself from any inhibitions and give in to him.

Come morning, he’s still there. One taste and he can’t seem to have enough. At one point, the reality and insanity of it all makes you laugh while he makes you see stars. He doesn’t find it as funny as you do, all too consumed with absorbing your warmth and listening to your blood pound underneath his ears. When you realize you love him, it’s the exact moment when he stops for a second to look far into your eyes. He must realize it, too, because his intent slows to a tender passion. He moves with deliberation, wanting to memorize this moment and every part of it. The two of you are closer than ever, not an inch of space existing between your bodies as he lays atop you. Of all the nights you have spent with him, this particular night brings you to overjoyed tears.

Nichole notices a difference about you. You smile because he kisses your cheek, unseen by the woman. Mom initially worries about your lack of boyfriend, translating to the lack of a husband, but if you’re content then she is (although, she would really want to see some grandchildren running around and to spoil rotten). When Nichole marries Victor, not once are you envious. You catch the bouquet and laugh. Gasouel makes love to you the same night, absently tracing your ring finger in the afterglow. The passionate nights eventually stop, but you hardly mind. Being with him is more than enough. He still holds you every night while you sleep, even as you lay in the crisp whiteness of a hospital bed at the age of eighty. He tells you he loves you while the sun is high. His existence doesn’t even waver in the light. You return the words and close your eyes just for a moment. A warm hand touches your cheek, and when you open your eyes, you see a man.

“I always knew you were handsome,” you say.

He laughs, and his smile is exactly as you imagined.

*✧🌙✧*

fin.

*✧🌙✧*

thoughts:

i came up with the brilliant idea to format my posts as if i were writing a field guide to mythical creatures i encounter! that aside, the last half of this piece is fairly censored, thus some ideas have been changed accordingly. i hope you all enjoyed it nonetheless.

resources:

monster masterlist by thespelia

encyclopedia of monsters by thespelia

#terato #exophilia #monsters #monster love #monster romance #monster boyfriend #horror #romance #fear to love #wraith #oc: gasouel #writing

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princevolker2788 · 6 years

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(Vermintide Fanfic Chapter 1) Life for Life, Death for Death, Love for Love

@xavirne

Hello everyone, this is my first post in over a year, and I apologize for that. I'm pleased to say that I just recently graduated from college.

Besides that though, I've had this story running around in my head for a few months.

If it wasn't obvious, I've fallen into the Warhammer hole, specifically concerning the Sisters of Battle in Warhammer 40K and the Wood Elves in Warhammer Fantasy, or as its known now: Warhammer: Age of Sigmar.

A little terminology for the uninitiated:

Slaanesh is the deamon lord of gluttony, excess, and pleasure in the world of Warhammer Fantasy. His primary desire is to consume as many elven souls as possible. Which is pretty much guaranteed unless an elf dies near a magical gem known as a waystone.

Upon death, an elf’s soul will enter the gem and act as a barrier against deamon intrusion into their cities.

This story focuses around two characters in the video game Warhammer: Vermintide II: that of the Human Mercenary Markus Kruber and the Wood Elf Waystalker Kerillian. I hope you all enjoy my little indulgent fic about my two favorite rat slayers bonding... and maybe something more.

Kerillian tapped her fingers against the wood of her bow in anticipation. Lorner had promised a horde of ratmen en route to a convoy of food supplies. The problem was that they’d been waiting for an hour in torrential rain that would make the citizens of Stromdorf gawp, and the ratmen hadn’t arrived.

“Can barely feel my toes…” muttered Kruber.

“Then maybe you should have brought better boots,” snapped Kerillian.

Though she would never admit it, she could feel the cold seep into her bones, along with the lack of feeling spreading to her fingertips.

“No need to be snippy, elf.”

She rolled her eyes and inspected a single arrow, wouldn’t do to miss a kill due to sub par equipment.

“Stop complaining, food comes to the quickest!”

The elf snapped her fingers and pointed to the edge of the trail. Kruber, Saltzpyre and Bardin nodded as they prepped their weapons. She prayed this wouldn’t take long, a good fire and a long nap would be much appreciated at this point.

Kerillian drew the string to her cheek and steadied her breath. Wouldn’t be long now, their foul stench wafted through the air like a globadiers poisons.

A furry muzzle poked its way into view and she released. She smirked under her mask as it struck home and pinned another rat to a tree trunk.

With this complete she unslung the glaive from her shoulder and leapt off the fallen tree she’d been balancing on, arching the blade high in the sky as she brought it down on a stormvermin’s skull with a satisfying chunk. Surprised squeaks and yelps filled the air as her compatriots followed suit, Kruber and Bardin swept the front ranks with crushing blows, while Kerillian and Saltzpyre tore through the center ranks, slipping under the arms of the lesser vermin with brutal efficiency.

She heard a familiar hiss and a pop as a blaze of warpfire tore the left flank of the Skaven apart. The elf dove behind a nearby tree, wincing as one of the warp infused bullets scraped her side.

“Gunners targeting me!” She shouted.

“Got our own problems wutelgi!”

Kerillian swore under her breath as her cover was bisected by a stormvermin great sword. They were learning, adapting to their particular method of fighting. Well, she didn’t become a waystalker to be taken out by a simple grunt.

The elf spun around the trunk and brought the glaive into the ratman’s side. As it reeled, she took a single step back and cleaved its head from its shoulders. Foul brackish blood splattered against the forest floor. Satisfied, Kerillian dove into the underbrush as the ratling gunner adjusted its fire. Thankfully its reactions were slower than the mayflies or she’d have been torn apart long ago.

Skaven bodies littered the ground around her, making it much easier for her to creep up on the unsuspecting beast. It kept firing at her last known position, ignoring her compatriots with a fervor she hadn’t expected.

Does it hate me I wonder?

The thing barely had time to contemplate its next move before she dug her blade deep into its spine. It let out a shriek of fury as it swung around, tearing the polearm from her grasp. Kerillian growled as she drew two arrows back and let them fly. Only one struck its intended target, but it was enough to make the rat beast pause.

“Burn in hell!”

Just as she drew a third arrow to finish the job, a spear impacted the ground by her feet, forcing her to step aside as a veritable wave of Skaven swarmed up the hill on her right.

“Pull back!” Shouted Bardin, “Its not worth the trouble!”

Kerillian scoffed as she made her way to the rest of the group, firing at any rat that got too close for comfort.

As the vermin fell, so too did she into her familiar battle trance, like in Ubersreik when it had just been the five of them in the streets, each member of their little group working in tandem.

But they had failed, and now the Reikland burned.

“No more,” she muttered.

She let one more arrow loose and scuttled up the rock outcropping they had agreed on as their final stand. Kruber’s gauntleted hand clasped her wrist and tugged, giving her enough momentum to flip onto the rockface and resume firing. He took up position behind her, swinging out at the horde that roiled and fumed with fury beneath them.

“Still cold mayfly?”

“No, pissed off more like.”

Kerillian snorted and spun around to cut down an Eshin assassin before it could leap onto the mercenary.

“Keep your eyes open.”

Kruber grunted as he drove his Zweihander deep into the neck of a stormvermin stupid enough to expose itself. Bardin let out a triumphant shout of glee as the rats started to break, each looking to the other for support as Saltzpyre’s flintlocks blew the brains out of their last squad leader.

She cast her gaze over the retreating force and spotted the rat gunner, lumbering away with the glaive still embedded in its side. She drew back her bow with a confident chuckle.

“Got you now…”

The arrow flew in an arc, descending on the hapless gunner in perfect silence. The rain still fell in sheets, but the satisfaction of a day’s work complete gave the waystalker enough energy to make her way through the dead, collecting as many arrows as she could on the way to her fallen weapon.

The rest of her compatriots were about ten meters behind her, save for Kruber, the man seemed to be watching over her, more so than when they were in Ubersreik. She was content to let him, after being captured by the enemy she welcomed someone by her side. Even if that person was a Lumberfoot.

Rainwater hissed as it impacted with the glowing metal of the ratling gun, creating a small cloud of condensation that hung in the air. As she inspected her kill, a grim sense of satisfaction came over her. There was nothing quite like taking down worthy prey from such a distance.

“You got what you needed?”

Kruber hovered behind her, no doubt curious as she yanked the glaive free. She marveled at the blade’s resilience, any human made weapon would have chipped at such abuse, but not this.

“Oh yes.”

She hefted the pole arm on her shoulder and nodded towards their allies, still making their way across the battlefield.

“Not bad mercenary, another decade and we might make a proper soldier of you.”

Kruber shook his head as he hefted his own blade.

“I don’t think I’m getting any better, much less younger.”

“Oh I dunno, your form seems to have improved significantly since Ubersreik. Or else I’m misremembering. Which could be true…”

Her dreams had quieted as of late, but when they came, they wracked her with visions of terror, elven souls consumed by The Prince of Pleasure, Slaanesh, grown fat in his gluttony. Skaven multiplying unchecked, spreading their foul corruption with the chaos warriors of the north. She’d wake in a cold sweat, silent tears streaming down her face as she struggled to reign in her terrified breaths.

She thanked Lileath that no one seemed disturbed by her thrashing, but there were days she wished someone would ask about it, just so she could have an excuse. But then again, what would it sound like to the likes of Kruber, Bardin, or Saltzpyre? The ravings of a lunatic?

Sienna was the only possible option, but the woman seemed subdued as of late, consumed in her devotion to Sigmar. Even Saltzpyre remarked on her reverence of their god with an almost respectful tone.

So she fought and fought, praying that exhaustion would be enough to hold back the nightmares, to little success.

Kruber quirked a brow at her silence. She met his gaze, nodding to the Witch Hunter as her approached.

“I’m going to check on the convoy, they should be arriving soon. Make sure we don’t have any unwanted guests hiding in the underbrush.”

Kerillian said nothing, leveling a scowl at the man as Kruber made his way down the path and onto the road.

“You presume much mayfly.”

“And you’ve yet to earn my trust.”

The elf scoffed.

“I would think the months spent in Ubersreik would be enough.”

She didn’t give him time to respond as she followed Kruber’s path, lightly stepping around the corpses while he merely stepped on them.

“He’s trying his best I think,” he said as she finished her approach.

“To what end? Being less of a pompous ass?”

Kruber chuckled.

“I think he’s trying to make it work. He’s not so bad ya know.”

“When he’s not insulting my people, he can be tolerable,” she admitted, though with the taste of bile in the back of her throat.

“Well you do make it enticing from time to time, the way the bridge of your nose crinkles when you’re angry can be quite amusing if I’m honest.”

She scowled.

“See? Like that.”

Kerillian shouldered her blade and drew her bow, looking in every direction except Kruber’s.

“What he does is of no concern of mine as long as he ducks when I tell him to.”

Kruber said nothing as he checked the nearby bodies for signs of life. A few had slid down the hill; most bearing broke arrow shafts embedded in their necks or chests.

“Well? Are we done here?”

“We will be if you’d let me have a decent look.”

She opened her mouth to snap at him and froze as she became aware of a titan sized figure staring at them just behind a cluster of trees.

“Kruber…” she whispered.

“Not now.”

Kerillian let her hand reach out for the sergeant’s shoulder. He tensed under her grip, but only for a fraction of a second.

“Markus, we have a shadow. No sudden moves. Run for the others when I say,” she hissed, attempting to look as casual as she could with a white knuckled grip on her companion’s shoulder.

“Where is it?”

She shook her head.

“It's not worth it mayfly, just go when I say.”

“I’m not leaving you behind.”

Kerillian bit back a groan. Most of the time the man’s loyalty was admirable in its own way, but now it was bordering on infuriating.

“I’ll be right behind you ya idiot!” she snarled, “Just go!”

With this, she drew a single trueflight arrow from her quiver, one of three she’d managed to scavenge.

But the figure was no longer there.

“I don’t see it!”

Kruber was only halfway up the hill.

“Keep moving!”

A deafening roar split the air, forcing Kerillian’s gaze to her right as a mass of muscle tore through the trees, barreling for Kruber’s exposed position. She fired without thinking, striking the beast she recognized as a bile troll in the arm. She cupped her mouth one handed.

“Hey, over here!”

It didn’t turn from its prize. Kruber, to his credit, turned to face the beast, blade in hand. She switched to her glaive and charged, roaring at the top of her lungs. Arrows could do little with this thing’s reach.

The glaive dug into its shin cleanly, taking a good chunk out of its flesh. It’s arm swatted at her ineffectually, giving Kruber enough time to drive his sword into its chest.

Heavy bile gushed out of the wound, cutting through Kruber’s gauntlets at a sickening speed. He gritted his teeth, dragging the blade out and striking once more. Kerillian followed his lead, dancing behind the crouching troll to strike at the tendons connecting its feet to its legs.

She didn’t have time to duck as its hand clamped around her waist. It squeezed its prize, forcing the air from her lungs as it brought her up to its gurgling maw. Everything in her chest hurt, her lungs refused to bring in blessed air as bile made its way to the top of its throat.

“No you don’t!”

A familiar Zweihander struck the troll in its throat, not enough to pierce, but enough for it to loosen its grip.

She fell to the ground in a pained heap, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air as Kruber dragged her away. Damn him, she tried to explain, but no the man just wouldn’t listen.

Kerillian cast about for her glaive, finding it a good three meters behind the troll. She tried to stand, only to be forced to the ground by the mercenary.

“No, stay back, I’ve got this.”

“I had it! If you’d just—”

The beast roared again, charging Kruber at a frightening speed. She resigned herself and drew her bow, grateful that the wood still retained its shape.

Kruber halted the beast’s progress with a slice at its legs, where she had struck before. He stepped out of its grasp, drawing it away from her and closer to a nearby bridge. Now she understood.

Her fingers traced the ridged fletching of a hagbane arrow and drew it from the quiver. Just pulling it back was a trial in of itself; lances of fire ran up her sides. The foul beast had done more damage than she thought.

C’mon Kruber, just a bit more…

The Bile Troll took one lumbering step onto the bridge, and she let it loose.

Satisfaction took her as the beast stumbled, soon replaced with concern as it continued to move. The poison should have downed it in seconds!

Despite her body’s protests she rushed forward, scooping up her fallen glaive and driving it deep into the monster’s flesh. It groaned, swatting at her pathetically. So the poison had done its work, just slower than she anticipated.

“Kruber! Are you alright?”

The lack of a response drove her to strike again, this time at the back of its knee, which she took clean off. This time it couldn’t just shrug it off.

“Kruber!?”

She ran to the front, to find the mercenary struggling in the grip of the troll, armor being crushed like cheap metal. Kerillian didn’t need any further prompting, she hacked away at its fingers, each the width of her arm and twice as strong. Kruber struggling ceased midway through her work.

“No.”

She hacked at its ring finger.

“No!”

Its pinky.

“Not today!”

Finally she severed the thumb from the rest of it, releasing the mercenary in a heap. She dropped the glaive, shaky hands reaching for the healing draught she kept on her person.

His eyes looked to the sky, vacant, but with a small sliver of life.

“You aren’t gonna die on me here.”

The elf cupped his head and forced the glass in between his lips. She massaged his throat at a hurried pace, the quicker she was, the sooner she could berate him for his foolishness.

He coughed, shuddering in her arms as breathed deep.

“You bloody idiot…” she sat back with a relieved sigh.

“Did we win?”

She coughed out a laugh.

“Yeah we won mercenary, now lets—”

The beast’s remaining hand lashed out at lightning speed, striking both her and Kruber in the ribs and over the bridge. It soon followed, blotting out the meager light as all three tumbled into the raging rapids below.

The entire world turned on its head as she struck the bone chilling water. It took all her willpower to remain calm and focus on finding Kruber amidst the deluge. The troll’s corpse, at least she hoped it was a corpse, floated behind her, while Kruber’s limp form lay just ahead.

Kerillian kicked forward, ignoring the thumping pain in her side. She had to get the armor off him; otherwise she’d never get them both to land safety.

As her fingers found the clasps, a disturbing through hit her: what was keeping her from simply leaving him here? Why was she so dead set on sparing the life of a single mayfly when thousands died every day?

She didn’t have time to ponder this as the heavy chest plate fell to the bottom of the river. Now she had to get them both to the surface. The Waystalker wrapped her arms around his chest and kicked the bottom of the river. They made it about a meter off the silt before they started to sink. She kicked harder, praying it would be enough, only to find herself falling once again.

This is not how it ends! Not here!

Her lungs were starting to burn, her legs as well. Her question from before made itself known once more.

Why spare him?

Because I care.

Kruber stirred in her grasp, flailing his legs in tandem with hers. This time they rose swiftly, breaking the surface in seconds and gifting the two of them lovely air.

“The shore!” she screamed, “Find the shore!”

Whatever strength she had fled her then. It was all she could do to keep herself treading water as Kruber’s powerful arm brought them closer and closer to a sandbank.

The concept of being truly chilled to the bone hadn’t been adequately understood until they scrambled into a small outcropping out of the rain. Her ribs screamed in protest as she shivered, teeth chattering beyond her control.

Strong hands rubbed her arms, a familiar mustached face coming into view as she attempted to do the same. Her numb fingers clutched his gambeson tunic, attempting to impart some semblance of warmth into the soaked material.

“W-we need to strip down,” she whispered.

“What?”

He sounded embarrassed, and if he wasn’t as cold as her she was sure he’d be blushing. Nevertheless she forced her hand to cup the back of his neck.

“Body heat Lumberfoot, no fire, so body heat.”

Kruber still looked unconvinced, but nodded and turned his back as he started to remove his tunic. Kerillian turned to her own clothes, shaking fingers just managing to remove the tassels on her armor, but when it got to the series of knots on her tunic it became much more difficult.

“D-damn piece of—”

“Let me…”

She stilled. Kruber took up position in front of her and worked away at them with deft speed. Soon he had her shirt completely unfastened, all that remained was her breast wrapping. That she decided to keep, along with her cloak and facemask.

“No dawdling then…” she said, rubbing her arms and torso as quick as she could.

“Right.”

Neither of them moved.

“For Isha’s sake!”

She leaned into him, one hand rubbing at his shoulder while the other continued to massage her torso, careful to avoid her bruised ribs. Under normal circumstances she might have taken note of how toned his arms were, but no, not here, not now.

Kruber, to his credit, took to his task quick, rubbing her back as quickly as he dared, obviously scandalized by the whole thing. Humans could be so prudish. Even simple displays of affection were looked down upon. Among her people this would be considered an act of survival nothing more.

So why was she trying to hide the burning in her cheeks and praying to whatever gods that would listen he didn’t notice the accompanying redness on the tips of her ears?

In an attempt to remedy this, she buried her head into his shoulder. Though this only made it worse, for now she could hear his heartbeat. A steady thump-thump that reverberated through his chest in a comforting way.

She realized why she didn’t mind him keeping an eye on her, why the constant worrying after her health, or how her attitude wasn’t irritating, but endearing.

He felt safe.

Kerillian let out a shudder. Kruber brought her closer, which only highlighted the issue for her as her cheek brushed against his chest, now warm from their proximity. Well, his proximity, she didn’t know how much heat she was giving off.

As if to reassure her, he rubbed harder, transferring as much warmth as he could.

“K-Kruber.”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He stopped rubbing.

“For what?”

She shifted in his grasp.

“For staying by my side. I don’t know how long I would have last against that… thing.”

Kruber visibly relaxed.

“Ah, well, likewise. Thanks I mean, f-for saving my arse back there. Twice.”

“Thrice,” she corrected, eyes drooping.

When did she get so tired? All she wanted to do now was sleep, sleep for years if she could.

“Kerillian.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, had she fallen asleep?

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to sleep somewhere else? You’re not shivering, and I-I wanted to make sure you were—”

“Shh mayfly…” she slurred, “sleep now, talk later.”

Her ear fell against his chest once more, though this time without a sense of trepidation. Why forego warmth and safety when it was right here?

His grip tightened ever so slightly as he adjusted his position, this time to the sandy floor of their little cavern. She became vaguely aware of the sensation of a familiar cloak being draped over their shoulders.

“Sleep than…” he said, uncertainty still lacing his words.

“Sleep,” she commanded.

She closed her eyes, letting the sound of the man’s heart and breathing ease her into a pleasant rest. Or at least what she hoped would be a pleasant sleep. Goddess knew she needed it.

***

Cold enveloped her, a cold she felt beyond the icy rainwater numbing her fingers and bones. She struggled against it, trying to burrow into something warm. But when she opened her eyes all she saw was darkness, darkness her eyes couldn’t pierce.

Suddenly, there came a flash of light so vivid it forced her back, craving the darkness more than she previously had. With the light came the howling of a thousand voices crying out in terror, or madness, or whatever fever gripped them. The light seemed to reach out as one, clawing at her body with increasing intensity. She felt their fingers, could almost see them as they stretched forward to touch her.

Kerillian could do nothing as a single cold finger brushed against her arm, and a wave crashed over her.

Millions of voices were chanting in her ears, warning her of things to come, or of things that may come. Goddess she couldn’t tell through all the noise. She saw Athel Loren burning, then swallowed by the weave. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her Ulthuani cousins followed, then the dwarves, and even parts of the reikland. Her gods failed, the dwarven gods, all save for Sigmar.

They were all consumed. The world would fall to darkness, a plaything for the dark powers of foul Gods.

Just as the light began to overwhelm her, it vanished, leaving her in darkness once more.

Tears still streamed down her face, falling into the nothing around her. She clutched at her shuddering frame in a halfhearted attempt at warming her core. It didn’t help.

“Why?” She whispered. “Why would you forsake us?”

“Who?”

#Vermintide #Vermintide II #Warhammer: Vermintide II #Kerillian #Markus Kruber #Fanfic

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hermanwatts · 5 years

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Fantasy and Adventure New Releases: 12 October 2019

This week’s fantasy and adventure new releases feature wars between secret societies, unraveling deep-state conspiracies, dragons returning to fantastic worlds, and the Old West turns weird once more.

Blood & Iron: Part Three – Eli Steele

Magic doesn’t exist, until a mage falls in the streets of Ashmor. In his last moments, he gives Rowan Vos, a thief for hire, a sword that will alter his future, and threaten not only his own life, but the lives of everyone around him. Now, fleeing Ashmor for the mysterious city of Thim Dorul on the Cormorant, the Sea of Shields threatens to end everything he and Kassina have fought for.

The men of the Brae have repelled the Meronian invaders in the Battle of Hell’s Gate, but must now race to repair the keep, while contending with Rayland Mace, the arrogant commander of the Beyornian Army.

And introducing Byron Dhane, shamed commander of the Meronian forces that lost a legion of souls to fifty men and the blaze in the Braewood, as well as a hand to Griffon Alexander in single combat, who now wrestles with the grim realities of war, and struggles to reconcile himself to the dark allies that he must rely upon.

The Brand of the Warlock (The Counterfeit Sorcerer #1) – Robert Kroese

A hooded man, his face marred by a mysterious black brand, walks the Plain of Savlos. Some say he has the power to summon demons. Others say he is the only one who can vanquish them. His name is Konrad, and he has a secret….

Once an ordinary soldier, his life was forever changed by a fateful meeting with a dying sorcerer. Now he is all that stands between civilization and the creeping evil of the shadow world. The Brand of the Warlock is the first book in the fast-paced sword & sorcery series THE COUNTERFEIT SORCERER.

The Counterfeit Sorcerer is a five-book epic sword-and-sorcery series. Think Conan, Elric, or Prince Corwin of Amber. After finishing up my Iron Dragon saga, I wanted to write something for pure fun (and that didn’t require so much research!). The Counterfeit Sorcerer series tells the story of young soldier named Konrad who is unwittingly drawn into an age-old conflict between warring sorcerers–and will need all of his cunning just to survive!

Ogres, demons, warlocks, wraiths… you’ll meet them all in The Counterfeit Sorcerer.

Dragontiarna: Thieves (Dragontiarna #2) – Jonathan Moeller

Ridmark Arban has defeated both the mighty Frostborn and the evil of the Seven Swords, and now he only wishes to live quietly with his family.

But Ridmark’s oldest enemy, the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, has not forgotten him.

And the Warden knows a dangerous secret…

Ridmark Arban defended the town of Castarium from dark forces.

But the Warden of Urd Morlemoch has other servants.

Now a sinister cult is stirring in the great city of Cintarra, corrupting the lords of the realm as it searches for lost relics in ancient ruins.

And if the cult finds what it seeks, worlds beyond count will burn…

Invisible Wars: The Collected Dead Six – Larry Correia and Mike Kupari

OMNIBUS EDITION OF ALL THE HARD-HITTING MILITARY THRILLER DEAD SIX NOVELS from the creator of the multiple New York Times best-selling Monster Hunter series Larry Correia and the best-selling science fiction author Mike Kupari. Includes:

Dead Six: Michael Valentine has been recruited by the government to conduct a secret counter-terror operation in the Persian Gulf nation of Zubara. The unit is called Dead Six. Their mission is to take the fight to the enemy and not get caught. Lorenzo, assassin and thief extraordinaire, is being blackmailed by the world’s most vicious crime lord. His team has to infiltrate the Zubaran terrorist network and pull off an impossible heist or his family will die. When Dead Six compromises his objective, Lorenzo has a new job: Find and kill Valentine.

Swords of Exodus: On the far side of the world, deep in former Soviet Central Asia, lies a stronghold called the Crossroads. It is run with an iron fist by a brutally effective warlord. Enter Lorenzo, thief extraordinaire, and Michael Valentine, implacable mercenary warrior. Their task: team with a shadowy organization of modern day Templars and take down a brutal slave lord.

Alliance of Shadows: Europe has spiraled into chaos. In the midst of the disorder, mercenary Michael Valentine and his team are trying to track down an evil woman bent on total power. They’re on their own, with few friends, few resources, and racing against the clock.

Plus, two short stories set in the Dead Six universe: “Sweothi City” by Larry Correia, and the two-part short story “Rock, Meet Hard Place” by Mike Kupari and Peter Nealen.

Plague of Shadows (The Aldoran Chronicles #2) – Michael Wisehart

In his quest for vengeance against the witch Mangora, Ty stumbles across a curious book he believes might help. But its pages hold a dark secret that threatens to unravel everything his family and friends have been fighting for. The more he reads, the more addicted he becomes to the knowledge it offers…

With no memory of who he is or where he came from, Ayrion finds himself traveling with a pair Rhivanni tinkers as they head east toward Sidara. Then a plea for help from a young rover boy leads them into the middle of a horrific bloodbath against an enemy no one has seen in over a thousand years. If they aren’t stopped, these creatures will spread across Aldor, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake…

As the first prisoner to escape the clutches of the White Tower, Ferrin’s only concern is reaching his sister, Myriah, before the Black Watch catches him. Joined by Rae, her daughter, Suri, and a former captain in the Black Watch, the small band makes their way north, hoping to keep ahead of the white riders. Little do they know who has been sent to track them down…

Meanwhile, Kira and the Warren underground continue their search for Reevie as they attempt to discover the reason behind the strange disappearances in Aramoor. However, the answers they seek are more disturbing than anything they could have imagined…

The Raid (Ryan Decker #2) – Steven Konkoly

After exposing and dismantling a deep-state conspiracy that nearly destroyed his life, Ryan Decker finds his covert skills have put him on the radar of influential Senator Steele. Now Steele needs his help. Two patrol agents were killed in a bizarre explosion near the US-Mexico border—and the evidence doesn’t line up with the official story.

Enlisted by Steele to run an undercover, off-the-books investigation, Decker and his partner, Harlow, head to the border town of Tecate. But when they’re caught in an ambush, Decker realizes they’ve stumbled onto something far more dangerous than any of them understood.

The cover-up is rooted deep in the Department of Defense itself. Fearful for their own lives and unable to trust anyone outside their small circle of skilled associates, Decker and Harlow set in motion a risky plan to stop a criminal conspiracy.

Straight Outta Deadwood – edited by David Boop

Baen’s Bestselling Western Fantasy and Horror Anthology Returns for Another Showdown!

Once again, we return to the Old West with a new posse of top authors spin tales of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. We take no prisoners as they explore what really was, and mix in what might have been.

Charlaine Harris [The Sookie Stackhouse Series, Midnight, Texas] shows us a glimpse inside her new series as a tormented gunfighter faces a true demon of her past. Mike Resnick [The Buntline Special] reveals what Doc Holiday thought was so funny on his last day. Jeffrey Mariotte [Desperados, Graveslingers] introduces us to a man who specializes in pictures of the dead who won’t stay dead. Jane Lindskold [The Firekeeper Saga, The Star Kingdom Series (with David Weber)] teaches us not to underestimate a schoolmarm when her students are in jeopardy. And Shane Hensley [Deadlands] cooks up a stew that threatens to send every famous lawman in history to their graves!

Plus, a dozen more stories of how the west was wilder than any history book could contain, such as a new Native American legend by Stephen Graham Jones and a Mormon troubleshooter straddling the line between his faith and the supernatural by D.J. Butler.

The west that was rides again with west that could have been in this follow-up to Straight Outta Tombstone!

Where Nightmares Ride – R. A. Baxter

When Jack Park received an invitation to Camp Farley, a summer camp promising self-improvement using cutting-edge dream technology, he hoped he’d found a remedy for the repetitive nightmares that had been plaguing his dreams night after night. The camp, however, provided something far different than he’d expected: mysterious visitors, excessive security measures, abusive staff, unexplained technology, and camp courses seemingly bent on leading the campers on a path toward chaos.

Katie Frost had endured too much after losing her adored older sister, Abby, to a freak accident. Not long after that, her mother had taken her baby sister and disappeared, leaving her alone with a neglectful father obsessed with, if not controlled by, Montathena Research, his secretive dream-tech business. When her father’s partners demanded that Katie be compelled to serve the company, following a security breach, she stopped caring altogether.

The questions increased when Jack and Katie finally crossed paths, the course of events eventually propelling them into a surreal adventure where the boundaries of life, death, and nightmares meet.

Fantasy and Adventure New Releases: 12 October 2019 published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/

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