Fever Dream High In The Quiet Of The Night の小説・ストーリー

Chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. I was sweating. Sheets twisted around my legs. My shirt clung to my back like glue. Heat pooled low in my belly—too real. Like the dream had branded itself into me. I sat up, blinking into the dark. The glow from my clock told me it was just past 3 a.m. The room was silent aside from the soft whir of the fan. I stared at the ceiling for a long, stunned second. Then I whispered into the quiet: “…I’m so fucked.”

Hearing this, I tightened my arms and hugged her tightly. “Don’t be afraid. I am here. Sleep in peace!’ It was unclear whether it was the psychological effect, or if she had encountered something unclean. As soon as Anya falls asleep, she unconsciously dreams of David and her father lying in the hospital bed again. **** The next day, Anya inexplicably had a high fever. She had no strength left in her body and was in a daze. “Anya, why do you feel so hot? Are you running a fever?” I became even more concerned.

(Dante’s Narration) The fever came like an ambush, no less vicious than bullets tearing through flesh. I drifted between waking and oblivion, my body sweating, my chest burning, and always — always — the knowledge that I was not alone. The room pulsed with it. Even when I shut my eyes, I felt him there, an anchor in the storm, breathing steady, stubbornly refusing to leave me. And in the fever, memory bled into dream. The street. The ambush.

In his recollection, it was a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence. Yet, he couldn't remember much about his dream. He only knew someone was right beside him in the darkest of times. He wasn't afraid of the pitch-black house but only of the loneliness of being by himself. He hated being alone. Now, he had someone. He may not see their face clearly nor hear any voices. Yet, he felt it was okay to sink into this dream. Thus, he willingly sank into it, and never did he wake up again. "Shit. He has a high fever. He can't even wake up."

She can’t fix me. “Please,” I whisper, my voice like gravel. I try again to reach out, but I can’t. I’m so damn tired. “I need you...” And then the heat. It rushes in, scorching through me like fire. The dream shifts. I’m not alone anymore. The dark fog of pain is gone, replaced by something else, something hot.

I was feeling cold even though the it was really hot and I couldn't stop the feeling that someone else was in the room with me. I released sharp shaky breaths as I reached for my airpords and I resumed my music. It was Save me Slowly by Sodaq. I slowed my breaths as I tried to follow the lyrics. And as I walked closer to the edge of the earth. I need you to save me slowly. Eventually, I drifted off to a deep but not sound sleep. Because it was full of nightmares. Of things I'd rather forget. *********** It was hot. Like really hot.

Maybe it was because I was too tired, or maybe I just needed someone to take control for once, but something about his quiet command was oddly comforting. As sleep started to claim me, I thought I felt a fleeting, cool breeze against my face. Jared’s touch? Maybe. But everything was hazy. My body burned, the heat from my fever becoming unbearable, and my mind began to slip further into a feverish haze. I wasn’t sure how much time passed, but the burning heat in my body became overwhelming, and my vision blurred. The last thing I was aware of was the muffled sound of footsteps approaching my bed. I tried to blink through the fog of delirium, but my eyelids felt heavy, and my body felt too wea

Dawn's first light filtered gray through the blinds by 5:30, painting her sweat-glistened skin in soft hues as the final, shuddering release washed over her—quiet, profound, leaving her curled fetal around the bolster, pussy pulsing contentedly against its warmth. She didn't clean up. Drifting off fully at last, blanket clutched between thighs like a lover, Charlotte dreamed of endless rides, body finally sated for now.

She turned back to the snow. “Then you’d better pray your body holds.” “I don’t pray,” I muttered. But gods, maybe I should’ve. --- Fever Dreams Sometime in the dead hours, Isabella stirred. Not gently, not soft—jerked like her body had been yanked by unseen hands. She thrashed weakly, her fever driving her into half-dreams, words spilling broken from her lips. “No—don’t—please—” Her voice cracked, guttural, dragging knives across my chest.

The fever returned that night, but not in heat. It came in voices. Not from the trees. Not from the wolves. From beneath. From the part of her that had grown quiet ever since the blood ritual at the tree. The part that now whispered behind her teeth. She thrashed in her bed, quilts soaked through. Her skin glistened with sweat, cold as river stones. Her body writhed without command, pulled by invisible threads. And then she dreamed... But not the kind of dream one wakes from.