This again?

Though the nightmares consisted night after night, their effect on Wriothesley weakened. It's not as scary when every time he goes to sleep he knows what to expect: The same horrible memories, twisted and deformed yet ever so vivid, haunting him in the comfort and safety of his own bed. A monster he can't fight or escape.

It's not bad— not as bad as it used to be. You know what's happening, so it's not scary. But the funny thing about nightmares is that even when you know what's going to happen, your body will react. Heart thumping in your chest until you wake up in a cold sweat.

This isn't how it's supposed to happen. Wriothesley felt himself struggling, thrashing about, but he wasn't moving. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything but listen to those damn screams. You aren't supposed to be here. He desperately tried to move, to open his mouth, to do something— anything. Move. Move damn it.

And then everything went dark. Before he knew it he was shaking and kicking the covers off as if they were strangling him. You on the other hand woke up to see him hovering over you, checking your pulse, sweaty palm against your neck.