Aegri Somnia: A Sick Man's Dreams: Chapter One
Warnings: (taken from the adultfanfiction website) Abuse, Anal, Angst, AU/AR, B-Mod, Death, H/C, Language, M/M, MC, N/C, Oral, S&M, Slave, Tent, Tort, Violence
Full summary: Time inevitably passes, but the chains of slavery have grown stronger for the wear. Johnny C. is broken, lost to the System's control, and in a fit of desperation turns to Todd Casil, better known as Squee, for the comfort of something familiar, and most of all, safe. But there are dire consequences at the end of a hapless search for the unattainable, and Johnny's hands know only how to destroy.
Pairings: PepSquee, NnySquee, NnyWall (active); NnyEdgar, NnyDevi, NnyJimmy (passive, may not have been sexual, may not have ever even existed)
Note: Well here we have…something. Whatever the hell it is, it's a challenge to myself. A lot of what takes places in the following chapters isn't something I'd normally write. Much of it are things I do not advocate. Please, if you are disturbed by the pairings, don't hit the back button. Just give Aegri Somnia a chance. It's not about the hot sex, trust me. There's nothing here I'd call hot. And if you are here looking for steamy triple x Nny on Squee action, get the fuck away from me.
Story idea originated from a doodle done on some summer school homework from '07. Yeah, I don't get it either. Just move on and read the damn thing.
Mortals, remain contented at the Quia
For if ye had been able to see all,
No need there were for Mary to give birth;
And ye have seen desiring without fruit,
Those whose desire would have been quieted,
Which evermore is given them for a grief.
Dante Alighieri, Purgatory, The Divine Comedy (canto III)
Quia: the absolute truth.
It was a mistake to come back.
Johnny's face set itself into a broken scowl. The yellowed hardcover clutched in one corpselike hand snapped shut on the crooked words, breaking the dusty silence with a bang. A reaction. Skittering in the walls. Tired groans spilling across the ancient structure's vast expanses, gentle vibrations up and down the floorboards. Responding to his disobedience, his hate. Little poisonous tendrils crawling up and up, seeking to twist and blur the last few lines keeping whatever vestiges of humanity left inside of him intact. No no, it's fine, just a truck with a big load out on the highway. Very simple, nothing dangerous about that. Don't jump to conclusions; don't assume things are worse than they already are. Take a breath, relax, let's go for a walk Nny it'll clear your head let's get something to eat it'd do you some good come on Nny come on Nny let's come on let's let's Nny come on—
The journal hit the television screen, obliterating all quiet. Threw it as hard as he could just to shut the creepy little fucker up. Trying to convince him to go out when he was the way he was—in his own voice? How dare he. So Johnny threw it to rattle things up. Gray tinted glass imploded, slicing through all the things that made TVs function like TVs. The aged and molded set buckled on spindly legs, and toppled over. Its bunny ears popped free, rolling away into the darkness.
Crash.
He stared for a while, trying to make sense of it, of what had just happened in such a small amount of time. Trying to make sense of whatever there was to possibly make sense of. Trying to see if there was anything the least bit useful to take away from destroying his last means of communication with the outside world.
What a lot of useless noise.
That's all he got out of what had the potential to have been an extraordinarily symbolic event. He wasn't feeling particularly introspective today. Not in the mood to try. Didn't really give a shit. Didn't want to. Didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't. Didn't even know anymore.
Stood and stretched stiff joints and atrophied muscles. Ow. Kind of hurt but he was used to this sort of thing. Just another one of those setbacks to being a feeling creature. He grimaced as he half-walked, half-limped into the kitchen, and not just because of the pain. He was used to it, after all. No, he was caught up in the bittersweetness of it all. Again. Again. Again.
vibrations
All that time trying to purge his mind of all the excess, of all the emotional bullshit piled up to the rafters? All the failures, the lapses in judgment? All the regret? All those years? What did it all add up to? What? One giant fucking waste of time, that's what. He was the same as he'd been before he'd killed himself all that time ago.
Rummaged through cabinets for something to eat, absently thinking over the endless drawn-out seconds making up his meager existence. The same? Did he really think he was the same? Reached for a rusty can opener—
Is that really rust Nny?
--and set to prying the lid off a relatively new can of Skettios. No, he decided after a few minutes. No, he wasn't the same—he was worse. Before, before all the years had passed, at least then he hadn't known he was a flusher. Yes, he had been horribly insane—
"That's the fuck of it you know"
--a grinning idiot savant who knew only how to kill, but there had been a sort of freedom to it anyway. You could imagine you were the one deciding whose and why you were gouging out someone's intestines with a soup ladle. In reality it had always been an absurdly bold-faced lie, but it had been quaint in its own way. And it had all been easy, so much easier than this hell he'd nailed himself into now. A dry laugh as the dented, sparking microwave tortuously heated lunch, or whatever meal it was time for. He'd boarded up all the windows so well now not even a sliver of the outside could slip in, and that was reassuring, but then again since he'd broken all the clocks it made it difficult to know what time it was. Another monosyllabic chuckle, slipping back into the past. God, he used to be so naïve! How had he ever survived?
Oh wait.
He hadn't.
But he quickly stopped laughing. He didn't like the sound of it reverberating endlessly in so many empty rooms. The way it grated on the ear. Hysterical. Desperate. Gallows' humor couldn't heal the wounds of so many years of slavery to a goddamned wall.
The sensitive hairs on the back of his arms rose beneath ragged sleeves, fighting the fabric's weight. Tremors in the many strings of his spinal cord, branching out through infinite neurons, penetrating oft-abused tissues and wrecking havoc. His jaw clenched until thirty-two teeth ached in protest. Nails dug into the swollen wood of the countertop, splinters rupturing the minute spirals of calloused fingerprints, throat so dry he couldn't breathe—
breathe
--couldn't get his lungs to expand, his ribs to stretch, the sacs inside to absorb the little oxygen trickling down inside. He could feel it through the worn soles of his boots, running up his legs and sinking into every part of him. Gentle vibrations up and down the floorboards maybe there is something to worry about Nny maybe there is something to worry about maybe there is something Nny maybe there is
The ceramic bowl slipped from nerveless fingers, striking grime crusted—
Is it only grime might be more than that can you even remember
--tiles, shattering with an ear-splitting bang. Orange sauce ricocheted everywhere, splattering against his legs and flying in a wide arc. His dazed mind thought wildly that it looked like arterial spray peppered with Cheerios. Shards of bowl spun crazily, vanishing under the lopsided tale, into the dark overhang of the lower cabinets. A large piece struck the claw of one tomato-drenched boot and cracked in two. He stared holes into the floor, sauce-spattered hands tight fists, body frozen and angry.
Maybe there is something to worry about.
He decided he wasn't hungry anymore.
Character © JV and all that happy crappy, plot and all the extra stuff that decimates the original character conceptions © anthrop/androgynous napkin. If you see any grammar/spelling mistakes please inform me. Beta'd by Inanimate Obsessor/Incothe.
There will only be small a/n's after this, and only one per chapter. Questions will be answered…somewhere. Probably my dA account in a journal, or something. If there are questions, that is. Updated every Friday.
See you in a week. A.N.
