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normal-person-i-promise · 6 months

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I'd just like to clarify that i do NOT know how old nightmare was when he ate the apple, i simply assumed he was older. like not a minor if he indeed is a child then please tell me i will take this down

god i am so sorry >.<

Blood tw!!

Bad Apple

dreamtale belongs to jokublog

cross-posted to ao3! -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/51085057

As Nightmare finished off the last apple, his painful shriek split the air as four great tentacles burst from his back: thrashing, physical manifestations of negativity, his body too full of hate, anger, envy, and...

Love.

He loved you, he realized. Loved you a lot more than he thought he did. And when he realized he finally had enough power to scare the townspeople and have you all to himself, he was ecstatic.

* * *

He was just a boy. He just wanted friends, he just wanted people who cared about him.

They shunned him. Called him a monster, called him the devil.

Then you came along. You talked to him, you played with him, you sat with him, you smiled at him — and all these things combined would have made his SOUL flutter if he had one. He treasured you, savouring the moments when your eyes met his, the short seconds when his rough bone met your soft skin, those special times when the sun would hit your eyes just right and make them sparkle in the sunlight.

You were delicate.

Fragile.

Day after day he would talk to you — talk to you until the sky grew dark, until the only sound was your voices — until sleep took over and you dozed off in each other's arms. He would talk to you about the stars' grace in their eternal dances across the night sky, their steps never halting; about the moon's beauty, her soft glow guiding travellers in the night, protecting them from harm; about the sun's light, ever shining, bringing warmth to your world — about how nice it was, just the two of you.

Sometimes, he would take a black apple from the tree, place it gently in your hands, and let you marvel at it. The apples had such intricate swirls, designs so winding that you could get lost in them — like a maze — if you stared too long.

He'd let you sit by the tree with him, the both of you tracing the ancient bark's ornate patterns with your fingertips under the moonlight, admiring its beauty.

He'd tell you stories of his mother, the original guardian; he'd tell you of how he remembered her face, her eyes full of kindness, a smile gracing her lips. Her hands were always warm and welcoming, almost beckoning, and her touches were ever so gentle.

The memory was vague and distant.

And as the leaves fell from the tree and the sky grew dark, Nightmare looked at you. He looked at you with sockets open wide, regret and guilt swirling within them; he stared at you, right through you, gripping the once-golden apple in a hand clenched too tight, held by a form too tense.

The townsfolk were angry. After all, why wouldn't Nightmare do something like this? Why wouldn't he doom them all? They were practically waiting for this to happen, practically waiting for an excuse to kill him.

So as a last-ditch attempt to stay alive from the violent townspeople, Nightmare listened to that voice. He sank his teeth into the black apple in his hand, the perfect blend of sweet and sour flooding his senses — he became addicted to them, like a drug, eating them one after another.

But as he bit into apple after apple, the townsfolk started to back away as things started to happen to him.

Black muck as thick as tar began to pool and flood from any openings they could, blocking his right eye, coating all the surfaces it touched. The substance itself had a putrid smell, like a rotting carcass or spoilt fruit.

His emotions started to distort, hate and anger being prevalent among them, souring his mood. He could feel himself getting bolder with each bite he took, his confidence soaring, his mind unhinging.

But even though he had such hatred to the townsfolk, he never once had a negative thought about you. You were someone who cared about him, someone who kept him company when his brother went off to help the townfolk, someone who talked to him, someone who would love him. You alone had done more to help him than all of the town combined, and he wasn't willing to let that go unrewarded.

Love.

He loved you, he realized. Loved you a lot more than he thought he did. And when he realized he finally had enough power to scare the townspeople and have you all to himself, he was ecstatic.

Vaguely, Nightmare could see their scared faces, eyes wide and fearful, or hear their screams, full of terror — but it all seemed far away to him.

He was thinking about you. How you were too soft, too easily broken; how your skin seemed to glow in the gentle light of the moon, the way you would smile contentedly, — and how he would protect you from this moment onwards.

What could they do that he wouldn't?

They never talked to you, they never helped with you, they never even looked at you, too disgusted by the fact that you talked to Nightmare, the living embodiment of bad emotions.

Not like it mattered.

He could love you, alone, and you wouldn't need anyone. You wouldn't have to work, you wouldn't have to cook, you wouldn't have to do anything.

He would do it all for you if you loved him.

He ran to you, tentacles eager to feel your skin, hands reaching for a warm embrace — but the closer he came to you, the more scared you got, tears starting to pool at your eyes as your whole body tensed.

When Nightmare realized you weren't running to him, he stopped, his wide grin dropping, outstretched arms and tentacles falling. His change of emotion was near instant; he bared his teeth, almost growling, his shoulders raising while his single socket narrowed, crumpling into a look of utter rage.

"WHY WON'T YOU COME TO ME!?" He roared, voice echoing and hackles raising, hands balling into fists. Fear and anxiety were climbing up your throat, threatening to spill — your body was shaking as you struggled to keep your knees from quaking, your eyes too wet with tears blurring your vision.

This wasn't him. You both knew that.

Still a little far from you, he reached out a jet-black hand — and almost immediately his tentacles surged towards you, black sludge falling off them like rain from clouds. They wrapped around you, tightening, suffocating you while pulling you towards Nightmare faster than you could react — stopping just in front of him, inches away from his outstretched hand.

It was when he lowered his hand that you saw that his glowing teal pupil was a SOUL, looking straight through you.

Upon seeing you up close, his grin widened, showing one too many teeth and splitting his face in half. He was quiet for the longest time, just staring at you, greedily drinking in your fear as the tentacles wound about your skin uncomfortably, though softly — as if you were made of porcelain — leaving trails of black sludge.

The villagers, curious about the silence, came from where they hid. They found the perfect excuse in front of their eyes: a horrible monster, primed and ready to kill an innocent civilian.

"Monster!"

"Beast!"

"Devil!"

You whirled around (what little you could, at least) to face the villagers who said those horrid things, begging them to stop. He didn't hurt you! He's fine, really! Don't make it worse!

They paid you no heed.

When you turned back to what was once Nightmare, sweet Nightmare, he was livid. His eye socket was brimming with anger, his teeth were bared, and his hands were balled into tight fists.

The tentacles first released you, gently — stilling for a moment — then shooting out in all directions, elongating, killing any villager in sight in all the ways you could name. Tears pooled at your eyes as your hands covered your mouth in shock.

"What's wrong, darling?" A voice sounded, smooth and collected. Calm. It was him who spoke.

When you looked back at him, you saw that thing staring at you through, SOUL-shaped eye light almost appearing to beat, his grin thin and sly.

You couldn't speak.

"Is it not beautiful?" Holding your hand, he gestured with his free one, surveying the village: the strong smell of copper in the air, the blood staining the green grass red, the countless severed body parts littering the floor. You could hear cries of pain and shouts for help, begging for the pain to stop, begging for their families back, begging for forgiveness.

"Did they not get what they deserved?"

You looked into that socket, brimming with madness, hatred, anger — but also love, adoration, infatuation — as if he expected you to be proud of him for punishing those who had wronged him. He looked at you expectantly, awaiting your answer.

"Th-this isn't r-right." You stumbled through your words as your soft voice wavered, your cheeks wet with tears.

"Oh? And why is that so, my love?" He leaned into you, pulling you closer to him, tentacles caressing your skin. You were soft — so soft — and no matter how many times Nightmare touched you, he could never not be awed by your delicate skin. You grow uncomfortable, and try to put some space between the two of you to no avail.

"Th-they didn't h-have to die." You tried, in vain, to keep your voice steady and to stop hiccuping.

He glared at you, single socket narrowing.

"What did they do that I didn't to garner this much attention from you?" You could tell that he was becoming aggravated by the way he tightened his grip on you, his teeth grinding, a voice that wasn't Nightmare's struggling to get out from behind them.

"A-ah! Um..." You stutter, tears falling to the ground as you squirmed uncomfortably in his grip. You pointedly avoid his gaze, opting to look at everything else, making you cry even more.

"ANSWER ME!" Tightening his grip on you, you could feel the black sludge staining your clothes, weighing you down.

"I-I don't like them m-more!" You weren't lying; you didn't like them more than you did Nightmare (what with all the things they've done to him, done to you), but whatever he was now... It was a different story.

Still, he seemed to believe it, judging by how he visibly sagged, loosening his grip.

He pulled you into him, trapping you against his body in a web of arms and tentacles, promptly sitting down on the grass and pulling you with him. Bringing you into his lap and caging you against him, he kissed your head more times than you could count, muttering and mumbling sweet nothings into your hair. He basked in the scent of you, a sweet, alluring fragrance, and relished the fact that now, if only for a moment, you would smell like him.

You could feel a rumbling from within his ribcage getting louder and louder the more he kissed your head to the point where it was all that you could hear.

Chuckling.

Then, a strangled,

"You drive me mad—" Then he was squeezing you, his arms wrapped firmly around you, pinning yours to your sides. Preventing you from leaving. He continued to kiss your head softly, murmuring, when a shout came from behind:

"Leave her alone!" It was quite clear that it was Dream that spoke, judging from the voice and by Nightmare tightening his grip on you as he halted his affections.

When Dream spoke again, asking to let you go, Nightmare growled. The sound echoed through his hollow ribcage, reverberating through yours from where you were pressed up against him, sending shivers down your spine as footsteps approached.

"This isn't you." That was clear, alright; the voice was close enough that you knew for certain it was Dream, and you could tell by the tone that he wasn't all too pleased.

Nightmare got up, tangling you in his tentacles, impeding your escape.

"Your brother is gone." The way that Nightmare uttered those words sent shivers down your spine, your skin tingling as goosebumps rose from beneath your skin.

Dream summoned something — it was hard to tell, black sludge coated your vision — but then you were gently put down on one of the taller cottage's roofs, allowing you to both not be hurt and to be able to observe what was unfolding before you.

They were fighting.

Truly, if it was to be attempted, their battle could not be captured by words, no matter how hard one could try.

Although it won't be easy, there will be an attempt to describe what cannot be described.

Nightmare was the graceful one — he was almost like a dancer, feet barely touching the bloodstained grass, his form never still: every one of his movements smooth and calculated. Dream, on the other hand, appeared inexperienced — his motions were hesitant, too fast here, too slow there — and though he could dodge the sharp black tentacles that came for him, slicing through the empty air, the way he moved didn't look nearly as effortless as his opponent's motions.

The fighting went on for quite a while, from what you could tell, but you weren't really paying attention. You were mostly praying that Dream would be the winner, since he would likely have some way to fix this, and who knew what Nightmare wanted with you.

You were sitting down on the roof comfortably, your crying having subsided, when the fighting noises abruptly stopped. You tried to see who won, craning your neck, before a glowing teal eye light looked right through you.

There were no signs of Dream.

Nightmare smiled at you, his thin grin splitting his face in half.

"There's no one left."

His low baritone rang out through the quiet village, the only sound for a thousand miles; confirming your suspicions as you choked back sobs, Nightmare making his way towards you, his grin victorious, his stride prideful.

He scaled the cottage wall, tentacles grabbing at each and every little imperfection, using them as grips to get closer and closer to you.

He lowered himself onto the roof, gently making contact.

His grin impossibly widened before he slowly walked towards you, each step making the wood creak as your anxiety heightened.

You looked behind you — the drop wasn't far enough to kill you, but it definitely was enough to leave you with a broken leg or two. Seeing as you had no other choice, you turned on your heel and bolted.

"Oh, I do love a chase."

You couldn't see what Nightmare was doing, but you didn't hear any footsteps as you leapt from where you stood.

The fall was quite quick.

There was a wet crack when you collided with the ground, but before you could register what it was, you heard something behind you. Adrenaline can be powerful, you realize as you get to your feet, barely feeling any pain as you made a break for it.

Where you were going was secondary, the strong urge to get away overpowering your senses and clouding your judgement.

Occasionally, you'd hear his laughter, full of mirth, and would glance at him for only a second. A grin split his face every time he caught sight of your's, his tentacles' movements growing erratic, almost excited.

You'd face the front again quickly.

You ran for at least an hour before you couldn't anymore, intending to stop for a short break to get your energy back.

Looking behind you and seeing that Nightmare was gone, you made your way into one of the abandoned houses, sitting down on the floor. Your legs were burning, feeling like they could give out at any moment, and you were so thirsty that you couldn't think straight.

I'm just going to lie down for a while...

...

Nightmare looked through the broken glass and peered at your form, sound asleep.

Now was the perfect time to go in there and take you. But...

He had heard something when you collided unceremoniously with the ground.

...

Ah. You had broken a bone, most likely your tibia on your right leg, judging by the way you slept on the cold, hard floor.

That was no good.

He turned, calmly, and made his way to the clinic to collect bandages, water, and a long piece of wood.

He walked through the empty town, surveying the area with a lidded eye socket for anyone who was still alive.

He regarded the felled tree with little emotion as he cut it up even further, carving a piece into the exact length of your leg to act as a crutch to make sure your it healed right.

Once he got the supplies he needed, he walked back to the cottage you were sleeping in and slowly opened the door, careful not to make too much noise, lest he rouse you from your slumber. Kneeling beside you, he gently took your injured leg and put the piece of wood next to it, securing it tightly with the rolled-up bandages.

He leaned back to inspect his work, humming in approval.

His eyes drifted to your sleeping face, wanting nothing more than to feel it under his phalanges — to caress your delicate skin. You were so pretty, just like a doll, soft skin almost glowing as your chest rose and fell.

He took in a breath through his teeth.

His tentacles itched to feel your skin, soft and smooth; his hands twitching to hold yours, small and breakable.

He stared at you again, watching, as you adjusted your position and felt the wood on your leg. Your face scrunched a little, brows furrowing and mouth pressing into a thin line as you tried to move your broken leg before failing and grimacing.

Your eyes shifted beneath your lids before they slowly fluttered open, hazy eyes looking everywhere before settling on him. You just languidly blink your sleepy eyes before looking down at your leg, noticing the wood, and waking up a little bit more.

Your hands slowly came to the plank tied to your leg, before you quickly retracted them, whipping your head up to look at Nightmare.

You were more awake now, evidenced by your wide and fearful eyes looking up at him while he drank it all in, single socket open wide, staring into you.

Stars above you were cute.

Your face went through several emotions in a few seconds before you ultimately decided that your best course of action was to try and get away from him again. Before you could make any moves, though, Nightmare's black, bony hands gripped at your upper arms tightly, grin widening and waning as his one eye socket narrowed in delight.

"Where are you going, love?" Your eyes widened, form stiffening as his intense teal eye light bore into you, the SOUL shape it had taken appearing it beat, like a cheerless imitation of a heart.

You swallowed.

"You are aware that resistance is futile?"

He said those words with such glee, such elation that it made your stomach drop.

His eye light flickered down to your injured leg.

"You are in no condition to walk — let alone run — my dear." He brought his hand up, gently brushing a sludge-covered finger across your cheek before promptly shoving the ink-black hand beneath your knees, the other snaking behind your back.

He lifted you with ease, black, slimy hands gripping your soft body as he began walking, ignorant of your struggles. He was very gentle — gentler than you thought he would be. The way he handled you reminded you of how one would treat a porcelain doll: with tremendous care, like you would break if he so much as breathed on you wrong.

He walked through the village with little difficulty, occasionally checking on you, peering into fearful eyes with a fondness too great to describe.

He made his way to somewhere near the tree, although it had already been cut to pieces smaller than a hair. He stopped, and his tentacles came forward and picked a large stone from the ground, and upon closer inspection... It was Dream, petrified, a look of terror forever etched on his grey face.

You held back tears as Nightmare nonchalantly picked up the statue without any of the care he had given you, and you watched in horror as the pain became too much and things started getting fuzzy, eventually making you lose consciousness.

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