applesaucedream | they say you're getting better, but you don't feel any better [closed]

He dreams more and more of the house, more like the days before the rift when it haunted him almost every night and he stopped knowing the difference between sleep and hallucination. Sometimes he doesn't know they're dreams; often he does, and he knows there's help to be summoned if he wants it, but he doesn't want it. He deserves this. It's drawing him in, growing larger and larger at the back of his head, fed by too much probing and rearranging, fed by his own unwillingness to escape.

Tonight he knows. He stands in a massive, almost decadent foyer, never what Zampanò described, this would never be the house that Will Navidson and Karen Green moved their children into, but it doesn't matter, because the house can look like whatever it wants.

He stands for a moment, noting the stairways and the halls feeding into other rooms, and the various choices of doors. Just stands and observes, calmly, impassively, like he's memorizing it for something.

He has to pick a direction. He has to go somewhere.

His body tilts gently and pivots him to his left, toward the door that should be a coat closet, and he knows is not.

He opens it and steps through, letting himself cross into the belly of the beast, the true house interior, where everything is dark and ashen and quiet and cold. He moves forward, dread weighing him down heavily but not enough to pull him back, afraid but not enough to run. He moves like he's in a trance, like he has no choice (and he doesn't). The house is pulling him in, like it always does, it wants so heavily, so hungrily, and for whatever fucking reason it wants him.

He walks into the darkening, narrowing passage until he finds stairs, and then he descends.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

And just like that, there's something else here. He can feel it in his body, a twitch of a particular nerve, a change in his heartbeat, his breath. The house is part of him, after all, and his awareness of its entirety is growing, threatening to outpace him, bury him beneath its sheer infinite mass. He stops, turns his head slightly as if listening, though there's nothing to hear.

He pivots gently, moving toward the sensation of intrusion. He reaches out and feels a hand along the ashy wall, guiding himself up a passage, toward an eventual pinprick of light, a figure silhouetted against it.

He steps closer.

"Who's there," he says, low and almost indifferent.

It appears the entity has resolved itself into a more compact form, judging by the figure who steps out of the welcoming dark. Desire smiles, still fondling the wall. They suppose it is rather convenient to have this sort of shape, or perhaps the dimension has trapped this presence in the same way, tied them to existing in a limited humanoid fashion. This shape doesn't give Desire terribly many clues about its nature, other than it is vaguely male and not outwardly hostile and reasonably pleasing to the eye.

"Hello," they say with a smile. "I might ask you the same thing." They will be friendly; they still can't get a read on what it is, but it feels close enough to something they can converse with, if not one of their own kind. It would be better in this prison to have a compatriot than an enemy.

Johnny hesitates, staring at the stranger with mixed suspicion and curiosity. He - she - they - are looking at him like they know him, though he's certain he would remember if he'd ever met someone like this before*. They're - well, it goes beyond hot, or beautiful, or any word he can think of. It's like all thoughts of anyone else are just blotted out of his head. He wants to know this person, even though they scare him a little.

"I, um." He fidgets self-consciously. "I'm - well, this is my dream." He tilts his head up at them, cautious, like he's afraid to look them directly in the eye. Beyond them, outside his realm, is a house he doesn't recognize, brighter and decadent than anything he could ever dream. "I think." He swallows heavily and looks back up at them. They aren't much taller than him, but they are. Just enough. "I'm Johnny."

*[[unless, of course, any initial meeting had been retconned out of existence]]

What a curious thing, this Johnny. He certainly doesn't conduct himself in a manner befitting his scale, if Desire is in any way correct in their assessment of this place. It could go on forever, and the thought makes their heart pang a little.

They sidle closer to him, and tilt their head just a bit; it's confusing, they cannot yet discern enough of his nature, though they can sense his attraction, sharp and superficial. How odd. A more direct approach is required, perhaps: they reach out and stroke his hand and even in this dream state they can tell how concentrated he is, physical and finite and not at all the vast cold thing they were expecting.

"Oh," they say softly, the tiniest bit bewildered, "but you're a...human being."

"Uhhh..." Johnny blinks down at the hand on his. "Y-yeah. Are you... not?"

It's very fucking possible.

He seems to attract nothing but gods and monsters.

He can't begin to guess which one they are. A little of both, maybe.

He makes no motion to pull his hand free. He doesn't mind it. There might be some faint tension in his fingers, but he doesn't mind that either.

They smirk, amused at his suggestion. "Oh no, certainly not." And that's all the answer he'll get from them, he doesn't need to know any more.

"You say this is your dream," they continue, intrigued by this mortal all the same, "but this place, it's more than that, surely. How is it that you can be so human and yet this is a part of you?" Because that other, deeper consciousness is still there, Desire is aware of it, somehow attached to this small and meek creature. He's more interesting than any of the other humans they've observed, of that they're certain.

Johnny pulls back slightly at that, eyes narrowed and flicking back and forth between theirs. "What do you mean?" he asks, playing coy - there's a chance they're just confused about how humans work. "It's just a dream. All humans have dreams."

Oh isn't that darling, he's playing pretend. Desire smirks a little at him, but keeps their tone gentle, not accusing.

"I've more experience with dreams than you might expect, and it's not terribly difficult to tell that you are...conjoined with this one, as it were. It has the weight of history behind it, it's palpable." They punctuate their statement with a squeeze to Johnny's hand. This little mystery feels like a present, one that they'll take their time unwrapping.

He feels the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck start to prickle, dread working its way up his spine. Whatever this is, he has the sudden very distinct sense that it is not good.

He's been questioned about the 'history' before.

The squeeze jars him a little and he makes a cursory attempt to pull his hand free.

"None of your business," he says. Coy didn't work, rudeness is apparently the next logical step.

They expected some measure of aggression, but this is not territorial as Desire would have thought. He's afraid, and isn't that interesting. They keep hold of his hand easily, running their thumb over the soft ridges of bone and tendon. However vast this presence may be, Johnny is but a human, small and fragile, and easy enough for Desire to overpower. He will be their point of ingress.

"I'm only curious," they murmur, leaning into him. "You can tell me, I assure you I'll understand."

"That isn't really-" he stammers as he backs up into the wall, "-what worries me."

He swallows heavily, staring up at them. "It's just a house," he lies again. "It's just - just this house I - I dream about." He presses his free hand back against the wall behind him, finding ironic comfort in it; a possible exit, as well as a trap.

"It's not for you," he says softly.

Johnny has no way of knowing how wrong that assertion is, but Desire smiles all the same. He'll learn soon enough.
"Not for me?" they echo, with a tilt of the head. "Is that so."

They lean in until they make contact, brushing their chest up against him, one hand on the (pleasantly cold) wall beside Johnny's head, the other still gripping his hand. "Well," the murmur, their lips ghosting over his neck. "What about you, then?"

He sucks in a quick, sharp breath between his teeth as they move in against him, oh god, he shivers involuntarily and his eyes flutter shut when feels their breath on his neck. "I - I'm-" he murmurs, still pulling his hand back - no longer trying to tug it free, just shifting, drawing their hand along. Like he wants them to snag his wrist and pin it to the wall. He does want that. They're powerful, whatever they are; luxuriant, intoxicating, completely overwhelming, and he wants to be overwhelmed. He always does.

And it's such an obvious ploy, using this to get at him, using him to get at the house, and there's a part of him that wants to resist, push them away, run, but the urge is dulled, whether by something they've done to him or by his own weak will he can't tell.

Does it matter?

"That's negotiable," he says, and hates himself for it.

they say you're getting better, but you don't feel any better [closed]

no subject

hijinks ensue

:o

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

ohohohoho

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

the dub con train is leaving the station all aboard the dub con train