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gee10120 · 2 days ago

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The sacrilegion of falling in love

Part 1 - Nazareth

Vessel x Sleep but it's more of an exploratory piece than it is outright fanfic.

words: 2890

tws: graphic depictions of violence, blasphemy-ish, manipulation, description of gun, minor character death, kidnapping, sleep is terrible, and so is vessel.

a/n: so i wrote this on what i can only describe as a three day writing bender, and it's the first i've written properly in a long time, so it's not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it's something. I'm planning on writing more for this, a second part, maybe a third, sort of snippets of Vessel and Sleep's relationship as opposed to a whole linear story, part two will add on, but i haven't planned for anything more to. it's all supposed to be hella vague and unsettling because it's sleep token.

i think this is best read while listening to the instrumental version of nazareth, but the reg ver works fsfs. English is my first language, i just know 2 others and am crap at grammar in all of them x

all the weird punctuation is intentional though, it's supposed to sort of be read aloud or at least have the punctuation be followed when read. yeah anyways, i'm yapping x

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The deer is in the garden again. It’s staring right at him. It’s eyes big and brown and shining and he knows it’s her. It’s always her. Sometimes it comes as the deer, big brown eyes with its impossible stillness. He knows it’s her when the deer doesn’t run at the sounds of the city around it. It just stares, watching and waiting for him to notice it.

Sometimes it comes to him in his sleep, it did the first time. She comes in dreams less now, but sometimes it graces him with its presence, whispered praise, stroking his battered ego, reminding him of his place to follow her. Of his duty to worship her.

Sometimes it comes a woman, the most enticing woman he’s ever seen, her presence, when she makes herself known, is intoxicating, he knows she does it on purposes, changes her chemistry, her very biology to appeal to him, to keep him on the tightest leash, and unfortunately, it works.

Regardless of which form it shows itself in, it always comes. It always comes. He’s elated to see the animal outside the window, he’s been so lonely now, he can’t remember the last time he saw it, or any trace of her for that matter… probably weeks ago. She comes and she goes as she chooses, and he’s a slave to her whims.

He doesn’t bother to open the door, she knows how to get in, and he knows he can’t be too eager; she gets offended when he treats her too much like a human. If he doesn’t allow it the space to be itself.

The living room is dark as he slumps into the chair, waiting for her. The minutes tick by, the sound of the clock in the corner of the room lulls him into something of a trance.

“I know how much you’ve missed me,” The voice in his ear is honey, its caramel, its saccharine and he slumps even further into the seat at the sound of her voice, letting her take over. He wants to focus on her voice so much that it bounces around his brain. So that he’ll never forget the sound when she leaves.

He wants it to control him, to make him forget every sore thing that brought him to her feet in the first place. All the worlds woes that beat him to where he is now.

“I had some things to take care of,” at her words, he finds himself nodding, telling her it’s alright, that he doesn’t mind, that she’s here now. Her rich laughter echoes off the crevices of his brain, drowning out any doubts he had about her return.

“You’ve been looking for a new task, haven’t you? A new way to prove yourself. I’ve heard your whispered prayers for me.”

“Please,” his voice comes out before he can stop it, a low, broken whisper. He’s desperate to prove himself to her, to get her to stick around longer than the few hours a night she gives him every once in a while. “I’ve prayed to you so many times. I’ll do anything you ask, you know I will.”

“I know you will.” Her voice is closer now. He holds his breath. She’s in the room. He can feel her; he can almost make out her shadow in the corner. He has to hold back a desperate whine, shove it down his throat until he chokes on the humiliation of aching for her presence, for her touch. How long had it been since she’d touched him? Longer than the last time since he’d seen her. He wished she would touch him in some way, any way but he understands the delicate position he’s in, one wrong move, and she’s gone, until he doesn’t know when.

She moves, slowly, steadily, around the room, her movements are delicate and practiced, the long cloak over her makes it seem like she’s floating, and as far as he knows, she might be. She’s stalking him now, sizing him up, weighing him up, trying to decide if whatever she’s about to say is worth being said to him. He knows this, but he’s a slave to her, a loyal worshipper, he’s a fly trapped in her web, and so, he doesn’t move.

“So, I have a task for you,” her voice is so casual as if the next words out of her mouth won’t be the worst trial he’s faced to prove himself. “You’re angry, I know you are. I can smell your rage, it comes off you in waves, especially when I leave.” She begins to pace the room again. It’s one of her tactics, he can’t focus when he follows her, his eyes so intent on finding her in the darkness that it swallows his other thoughts.

“You think I owe you something. I do not.” There’s a pause, to let the words sink in.

“Do you wish to prove yourself? Do you truly wish to be freed from this? To give up everything to follow me?”

He nods almost too frantically. Too eager, but she doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t want to be alone,” she pulls his deepest insecurity from him, tosses it into the room as if it were trivial. “If you do this for me, I’ll make sure you’re never alone, I’ll make sure you know I’m there, that I’m always there.”

His heart leaps into his throat. It’s lodged in his windpipe. He can’t breathe. “Always?” he whispers into the room. She laughs again, this time, it’s cruel, jagged and harsh, she’s laughing at him. The moonlight glints off a tooth. Proof that she’s here, that she can be tangible when she chooses. That fact melts any hurt left from her laugh.

“Yes, and I’ll make sure there’s always someone else there, for when I’m not able to be around. To be there in my stead.”

“You haven’t told me the task yet,” he reminds her, he knows it’s bold, to talk back to her, but she chooses to ignore his disobedience.

There’s a thunk as something heavy hits the floor, she kicks it and it spins across the floor towards him.

There, at his feet, the metal glinting in the moonlight, is a gun. A pistol. He picks it up, fingers trembling, and he looks up at her, trying to look for her face, for something within her. He can’t find it. He makes a twisted noise, somewhere between fear and intrigue. Perhaps wishing he’d just shut his mouth.

She retreats into her corner again, looking over him in the armchair, testing him to say no, to tell her he won’t do it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he picks it up, his grip on the barrel tightens as he nods, waiting for her to continue. Her head cocks to the side, not impressed but pleased that he’s doing as she’s asking.

“You used to have someone. She was close to you. But as mortal lovers tend to, she got in the way of us, didn’t she? She thought you were sick. But you’re not sick, are you?” Her voice makes his head spin, he’s hypnotised by the way she puts the words together, she almost sounds like she cares about him. He shakes his head in response.

“Prove to me you’re not sick, prove to me that you have what it takes, prove how much you love me,” the word drips off her tongue like a threat, it’s a trap that she’s caught him in. Love.

He was so lonely when she came to him first. He’d been left so many times before. One night, deep in his dreams, a whispered voice he couldn’t ignore, told him it would reward him with all his desires if he followed it. If he worshipped it. Over and over and over again, the voice would come to him in his dreams, whispering praise and promise to him that he couldn’t ignore. He tried sleeping more in the day, to see if the voice would come, but it didn’t, only at night. He started to hear it when he was awake too, the same voice, late at night, promising him all the attention he wanted. He’d never be alone again. Follow me. Love me. Worship me. Follow me. Love me. Worship me.

He couldn’t pronounce its name, a tongue ancient and foreign to his. It told him Sleep would do. That it’s real name would wear away at his mortal tongue like sandpaper. So, he called it Sleep, befitting for how he met it.

And worship her he did. He did anything to hear that voice again, for three weeks he did everything, put apples on his mantelpiece, said words of praise, he even tried to write letters addressed to no one. Anything that he imagined would be well received by a god.

And then one day, she showed up at the bar by his flat, he knew it was her, she was sitting alone in the corner, her finger slowly but surely tracing the rim of her glass. When he walked in, she disappeared. It was then he knew that whatever he was doing was working. So, he kept doing it, kept worshipping, kept leaving gifts and writing letters and praying.

His grip on the pistol tightened again, pulling him back to the room, but when he looked up, she was gone. He swore, throwing the gun across the room. It hit the wall with a thump before clattering to the ground. She was right. He was angry. So angry. She played with him, toyed with him, and the worst part is that he knew she would sink her teeth into him regardless. That despite what he did for her, one day, she’d grow tired of him. His resolve shattered as he pulled on his jacket and trudged towards the door. If she thought he was weak. He’d show her. He’d show her the monster she’d pulled from him. He’d show her what this rage could do.

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The tiles of the public bathroom are dirty and decaying, the once pristine white surface, is now aged. Cracked and yellowed, fading, the mould climbing across the cracks like ivy, weaving its way across the gout like an infection. The metal tap is white with limescale and the smell of disinfectant masking shit stinks out the whole bathroom.

It’s almost four in the morning when he hauls the girl in. It was a real job to get her here. He knew where she lived, given he’d lived there for two years before they broke up but hauling her down the stairs to the public toilet across the road was the hard part. Maybe his ex was right, he could have used the gym.

He leaves her lying unconscious on the floor and locks the door to the bathrooms, shutting them in and the outside world away. He looks over her, taking her in, remembering her. She had been, unlike Sleep, nice to him. She’d treated him well for the most part. She was as pretty as he remembered, despite the couple of years it had been.

“Load the gun,” She isn’t here, but her voice is clear in his ear, he finds himself obeying, opening the barrel and putting all six hollow point bullets into the chamber. He tapes her mouth and tapes her feet and ankles together.

“Take her clothes off,” The voice resounds of the tiles. He looks up and around, finding her still not there. He doesn’t ever know why she asks the things that she does, but, despite being in the dark, he follows her commands. Reminding himself why he’s here. If he doesn’t want to justify it by means of religion, he could use any of the other rewards she promises. Fame, wealth, love,

He cuts at the fabric of his past lovers clothing, peeling the layers back and revealing her body. He stills. Memory clinging to the nights they shared, heavy breathing, skin against skin, the skin his fingers remember, her fingers that touched his skin in the same way. He knows this is wrong. It’s all so wrong. It’s worse to compare the girl on the floor to the being he knows is bigger than both of them. Yet he does, if only to try desperately once again to justify the position he’s found himself in.

“Let’s fuck her up.” Let’s… Let us. As if she is doing any of the dirty work, as if she isn’t only commanding him, his body a vessel for her will.

“Put her in her place for ever thinking such things about you, you were never sick, no, your eyes were open, wide open to the truth, it was she who was blind. Wake her up.”

He does, he shakes her awake, splashing her face with water from the dirty sink till she comes to. His past lover’s eyes widen, she tried to scream but her mouth is bound by tape, she tries to run, to scramble back, but she’s bound. The thick duct tape sticky and burning against her wrists as she struggles.

He watches her, like a scientist watches new bacteria through a microscope. He watches her with new interest, like he’s seeing her differently. He’s so aware of her mortality, he’s so aware of her life in his hands. She shouts through the tape; it’s muffled and incoherent. He traces the gun along her skin. She starts to cry, fat tears falling down her cheeks, eyes wide and fearful as she shrieks through the tape. She looks at him, her eyes big and glassy, like she doesn’t recognise him.

“I have to do this,” it’s the calmest he’s been all evening. Sleep is whispering praise and promise in his ears and it’s the only thing keeping him from slipping away.

“It’s all her fault, no one will miss her,” Sleep whispers. He nods, she’s right. It is her fault. He thinks of all the times she nitpicked him, all the times she looked at him funny, all the times she brushed Sleep off a figment of his imagination. But they’re here now, she can’t deny Sleep now, without Sleep this wouldn’t have happened, without Sleep, he wouldn’t have had the power to do this. He whacks the gun against her, the weight of the metal causing her body to shake, her exposed flesh ripples in it’s wake.

She cries out. He does it again, watching the impact. He does it again and again, watching the bruises bloom across her skin. He feels it, the anger that Sleep talked about. He feels it rise up inside him with each whack of the metal against skin. Each bruise that flowers.

Sleep stands in the corner, a grin across her features, she watches his wrath build and manifest like the crescendo of an orchestral arrangement, she doesn’t have to say she knew, because he knows too. She knows him better than he knows himself. She knows just what to say to unravel him, to pick him apart and leave him waiting and panting and angry. She knows how to whip him up into that animalistic frenzy he finds himself in.

Each whispered command in his ear, he gets angrier and angrier, the wrath welling up and up as he hits harder and harder and her cries get louder and louder, he can’t stop it, it, the butt of the gun coming down hard against any free bit of skin he can find. The repetitiveness of the movement is almost soothing, despite the wailing in the room. His movements get more rapid, more frenzied, faster and faster and faster.

Until all at once, there’s a loud bang.

He shot her. The hollow point bullet cut through her stomach.

And for a moment, a lovely moment, everything is quiet, the gunshot rings in his ears, the blood seeps from her wound, it pools below them, staining his clothes and his hands as he dips his fingers in it. Feeling it, tasting it, smelling it. And in an instant, he’s pulled back to reality.

There’s a dead body below him in a public bathroom. He fired a gun. He beat her with that same gun. Blood is pooling out of her; her eyes are wide and blank and vacant. Her body is covered in bruises, the side of her head is bleeding from a nasty gash, presumably made in his rage. She’s dead. He can feel the anger dissipate, and in its wake. Panic. It rises like a hand around his throat, curling around his neck and choking him until he can’t breathe. He presses his hands to the wound, doing nothing but staining them with more blood.

He looks around for the voice, staring at the ceiling, trying to look through it, for Sleep to guide him.

“You’ve proven yourself,” is all it says. He’s caught between every emotion. Elation, panic, leftover anger, exhaustion. He doesn’t know what to do or how to feel. So, he does what he knows best. He picks up the gun, and he runs.

He runs as far and as fast as he can. Down streets and alleyways, past cars and hurtling into the woods nearby. He doesn’t stop running until daylight, and even then, he doesn’t stop running.

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a/n: if you read this, thank you!! i hope you to some degree enjoyed this, let me know if you'd be interested in more to this (i'd probably post regardless but still, it's nice to get feedback). overall this is messy but i hope as i sort of get back into writing, it all straightens itself out again.

#sleep token fanfiction #sleep token vessel #sleep token #fanfic #music #vessel x sleep #sleep x vessel #character exploration #it's my first time in ages pls be nice x

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