Yan Mandrake

Another Anons from the /aco/ Warhammr thread.
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The temperature in the room drops. Even under the blankets, you feel a chill. Frost glistens on the walls, the bedposts and the edges of your personal cogitator. The first time this happened, you reached for the laspistol you kept under your pillow, but you weren't fast enough. Now, there's a tingling itch in your hand as your instincts and training tell you to make the attempt, even though you know it's far too late.

Out of the darkness glistens pale green-blue lines, almost runic in their appearance, casting just enough light that you can see the barest of curves of a body, outlining arms, a head and neck and the bare, pendulous breasts that you can't quite see, but you know are there.

A voice sighs through the shadows. "Mon-keigh..." faint, and low, it sounds like a banshee's lullaby.

She's here.

You don't know when it was that she first started stalking you. Maybe it was that battle amidst those overgrown ruins, where you buried your bayonet to the ring in the belly of an ork and when you looked up, you thought someone was there. Maybe it was the aftermath of the fight against the heretics where you sat next to your buddy's still body and felt a cold breeze, despite the warm rain falling on you. It was definitely by the time you fought the tainted Eldar and one of their screaming wyches lunged out of the darkness at you, only for his eyes to bulge in surprise and be pulled into the shadows, never to come out.

You don't know how often you woke, shivering and thinking there was something next to you, but you know that one night you knew that there was. You went for your pistol, only to end up thrashing and struggling, pinned on the ground with her above you, long hair the colour of ice light by the inhuman glowing of her flesh, her eyes looking down at you. Her mouth parted and you saw those sharp teeth, but instead of them finding your throat, you heard her speak. "Warm..." she said, the first thing she'd ever said to you.

She takes your hands, guiding them to her sides. The cold of her alien flesh is almost painful, just an edge shy of it. She shivers as your hands make contact with her skin. "Warm..." she repeats it like a word she's never used before, a concept that, if she ever knew it, was a long time ago. "Watched you," she breathes in a voice like a wind through a graveyard, leaning down. Her chest is bare; save for a ragged skirt of fabric and what might very well be skin, she's utterly naked. "Saw you. Stalked." She giggles at that word, feeling the sudden spike of fear that drives down your spine like an icicle. "Another mon-keigh," she whispers, her sharp teeth next to your throat, her breath on your cheek. "But not. Watched more," each admission seems to be forced out, as if she's battling some inner compunction, her nature as a shadow-thing to kill and torment. She settles down on your hips, her heavy breasts, covered with the winding, sickly-glowing lines that criss-cross her flesh. It feels like having death itself lay atop you, but she doesn't move, nestling her face into the crook of your next. Somehow, you actually manage to fall asleep. When you wake up, light is shining through your window and she is gone.

You tell yourself that it was just a dream - you've heard stories about 'the Old Hag' and the 'Night Visitor', what the medicae call sleep paralysis. It must have been that. And for a while you believe that. Even when she appears the second time. And the third. The pills and medicines don't help with your condition. One night, she hears you murmuring to youself that this is all a dream, that you'll wake up and everything will be fine. She rears back, her clawed fingers resting on your chest. She stares at you from behind those unfathomable green eyes. For an instant, you think she is going to kill you. Denying her presence is denying whatever need is drawing her to you, again and again.

Instead, she digs her claws into your skin and leans down, her face almost touching yours as she studies you. “I’m not a dream,” she tells you. Her talons rake down your chest. “I’m here for you.” When you wake up, the wounds are still there.

The next night she comes, you feel braver. Maybe it’s knowing that you’re not going mad, maybe it’s that she could kill you at any time and she hasn’t yet. Maybe your curiousity is overwhelming your sense of caution and Emperor-given fear and loathing of the xenos form. Maybe you just want to be the one in control this time. Whatever the reason, the next time she climbs atop you, you don’t settle for holding onto her sides. This time you reach up and take each of her breasts in your hands. They’re as cold as the rest of her. She makes a noise, indecipherable but not aggressive as you cup her soft mounds, running your thumbs up and down their slopes, each nipple resting in the center of your palms. You stay like that for Emperor-knows how long, petrified to do anything more and just as afraid to stop. You stroke and squeeze her breasts and she stares at you as you do so, a half-tame animal letting itself be pet for the first time, unsure about what is happening, but not wishing the sensation to stop. As you continue to gently fondle her, she continues to make that low, contented sound. It sends goosebumps and chills running up and down your skin, but you realize it’s the same sort of noise a human woman would make when she’s enjoying your touch.

You feel her nipples stiffen in your hands, pressing against your skin. She lowers herself onto you again. “Warm…” she says it like a prayer. The pair of you stay like that for some time, until you can’t fight exhaustion any longer. Just before you fall asleep, the breasts of a xenos in your hands, you realize that you’ve gotten hard.