
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12011193.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      John_Egbert/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      John_Egbert
  Additional Tags:
      noncon, dubcon, Mind_Control, Tentacles, Psychological_Horror,
      Horrorterror_Dave, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, porn_with
      plot?, god_don't_read_this_if_this_stuff_freaks_you_out
  Series:
      Part 1 of Dream_Eater
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-05 Words: 1946
****** Dream Eater ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     Perhaps the nightmares are payment for the good life you lead.
Notes
     Ugh God. Came up with this idea with my buddy Cake. So this takes
     place in an actual AU with actual plot but I'm not sure I'll ever
     write it due to all of the world building issues. Its not too present
     in this unfortunately, so i'll just leave it as a series of smaller
     things for now until then.
John can’t sleep despite exhaustion. His mind, however, would like to gently
remind his body that it is an asshole and it needs to stop doing this asap.
 
The nightmares they-
 
These are the moments that John has to hold on to; waking up to the horror
(embarrassment ) from the previous nightmare still being fresh in his mind. It
grants him a lucidity that time wears down to a drug-like haze.
 
They always start out the same; John’s whole body is incapable of moving, sans
for his head. Not that he has any desire to look around. His arms, legs and
waist are held fast to a warm wall by even warmer, slick appendages. Sometimes
he doesn’t open his eyes, but he knows the sensation all too well now. It’s
slimy, it’s gross, and John hates every second of it.
 
It was only made that much worse when his mind decides to be an even bigger
asshole than his body by making John open his eyes.
 
Eyes, everywhere. Infinite in number, shapes and sizes. They watch him like one
would regard a curious bug or specimen under a microscope. Their unblinking
gazes send goose pimples flaring up his skin and makes John want to scratch
everywhere. The eyes don’t bother him as much as they should, unnerving as they
are. He’s too busy fighting against his restraints.
 
Were he not on the verge of an honest to God panic attack, John would have
laughed at the absurdity of his nightmares. It was like he was starring in a
odd mashup of Rose’s and Dirk’s respective fetishes. Why were his friends all
such weirdos? Jesus. Where were they right now? Wait. No. Where was  he ?
 
This is when things become painfully lucid, and a deluge of questions begin to
fill John’s head. The sensation is very much like that mini existential crisis
one gets while performing any number of mundane tasks. These thoughts are
pushed back down into the back of the mind, never to be fully understood nor
addressed. John has no such luxury and cannot quiet the thoughts; they become
almost deafening in his mind.
 
John’s hysteria goes into overdrive the longer he remains dreaming, outright
thrashing and pulling himself away from those fucking gross tendrils don’t
tOUchhim let go letgo-
 
The walls themselves rumble with a sound not meant for sane ears. If John had
to describe the noise, it would be something like heavy machinery
malfunctioning crossed with a man being crushed to death. John feels the
vibrations in the wall he is attached to; the tendrils that surround him grip
even tighter. He suddenly feels so very small in their thick embrace, like a
twig being strangled by an anaconda.
 
John’s vision blurs, his heartbeat pulsing madly in his chest, trying to break
out of its cage. These moments make the nightmares feel all the more real,
impossible as they are. None of it makes any sense; why his mind would conjure
up such foul things. Perhaps he had a lot more to work out than he previously
thought.
 
His struggling weakens until John has little strength to do much more than
gently tug here and there. Maybe these nightmares were his shitty subconscious
trying to make him realize just how much he feared weakness. Great.
 
The walls of the space he is in continue to undulate before his eyes; its
surfaces no longer vibrating from the ungodly shrieking. The slippery
appendages also slacken their hold on his limbs a bit, rubbing them almost as
if in apology. John is somewhat grateful, but it doesn’t really register. He
feels himself being sucked back into the typical fogginess of dreaming; more of
an observer rather than a participant.
 
The rubbing of his limbs turns into roaming, John knows this feeling well too.
The walls rumble again with a much deeper, almost pleased sound. His breath
hitches when he feels one of the slick appendages slip underneath his shirt.
(Was he always wearing one?)
 
More touch him, stroking his face and hair and John thinks he can almost feel
puffs of air next to his ear. He shudders. He had forgotten about these parts,
he always does. It made waking up with morning wood a hundred million times
more embarrassing. It was embarrassing because...because... He wouldn’t want
them to know right? Important people? Important people.
 
Important people to him, ones that he liked. John tried to slog through the
quagmire of his thoughts, but could only find one name that stood out besides
his own. Yes, this one was important, they were his friend? No, no, more than
friends. Better than friends. Closer.
 
“Dave.”
 
John hears the moan that rises out from his traitorous throat, but finds that
his shame is strangely absent. Maybe it was a good thing that he got off to
thoughts of his...his..  (boy?) friend while being felt up by some tentacle
beast. Better than thinking about said monster he guessed.
 
The rumbling has turned almost into crooning that resonates both inside and out
of John’s head. Not only that, but the walls with their endless eyes seem to
get closer into view. His dreamself finally allows him to close off the vision.
 
The tendrils that held him suddenly feel far less clumsy  (when did they
change?)  and much more dexterous. Numerous hands touch John all over, in
places where only he has dared to touch himself. His gasps are swallowed by a
sudden pair of lips on his, warm and wet. The mouth pressed against his feels
kinda gooey and weird like the rest of everything surrounding him, but it’s at
least humanoid. He feels himself kiss back.
 
It nips and licks at John’s mouth, gently asking for entrance. A twist to one
of his nipples causes him to whine, granting the tongue the opening it needed.
The warm appendage takes this opportunity to explore his mouth. John’s tongue
gains a will of its own as it twines with the other. They continue this
tentative dance for a time, if time means anything at all.
 
“Dave...”
 
He sighs. The hands keep themselves very busy stroking him both above and below
the waist, coaxing more sounds out of John. He groans into the mouth that had
been sucking on his tongue when he feels fingers press (when did-)something
inside him. His ass, thighs and belly receive most of their attention, although
his arms and legs somehow still remain immobile. The intense heat and moisture
leaves no part of him untouched; mind, body and soul all laid bare for them to
explore.
 
It feels... simple to give in; to offer the walls, mouth, eyes and hands
everything he has. The desire to give, give and give- starts to swell inside
John’s chest. To become a part of a larger whole, it was almost a relief to
unburden himself like this. There is no greater euphoria than utter oblivion of
the self. Take his guiltshamesorrow- lift him up, leave him hollowed. This will
be all he ever needs, all he’ll ever want-
 
If this was hell, then maybe he didn’t mind burning.
 
(John is too far gone to comprehend the voice in recesses of his mind hissing
in agreement)
 
All too soon the mouth on his pulls back, allowing John the breath he doesn't
want back. He feels the mouth begin to softly nuzzle and pepper kisses into his
neck. Unlike the lips, the hands have ceased their gentle rhythm and stroke him
to a fevered pace, both hot and demanding. John sucks lungfuls of muggy air,
sweat and slime meeting together in long trickles down his panting form.
There’s too much, it’s all too much, close, he’s  so close-
 
“Dave!”
 
A deep, guttural noise passes through the mouth on his throat, tearing through
John’s arousal like a bird of prey through old carrion. Whatever part of his
dazed mind considered the thing that’s kissing him to pass for human is
savagely torn to shreds. The overwhelming heat of the hands suddenly feel cold
and clammy against John’s skin.
 
A hand that was busy caressing his cheek switches to gripping his jaw, keeping
his head from moving. The mouth removes itself from sucking a hickey onto
John’s collarbone, pulling itself back to face him. Something, John isn’t sure
what exactly, but something in the nightmare wants him to look. The walls
themselves can be felt shivering with anticipation.
 
John really, really does not want to look.
 
Nails? No, claws are painfully digging into everywhere that he had been stroked
so tenderly before. It hurts like a bitch, but he hopes the pain will help to
wake him up. (when will it be over?)
 
He continues to weakly writhe in torment while his eyes stubbornly remain shut.
 
Unfortunately for John, this is a nightmare and what he wants apparently
doesn't mean jack shit and never did.
 
His eyes open of their own volition.
 
 It is humanoid, John thinks. The thing possesses a vague head and torso of
human, but its familiar features stop there. He sees a white saucer stare
unblinkingly at him. No. As his eyes adjust to the sight John realizes there
are two clock faces looking at him. The clocks take up the entirety of a the
creature’s respective eye sockets. Pairs of smaller slanted eyes rest beneath
the ticking time pieces. In fact, eyes seem to pop up wherever they feel like
on its slimy, red body.
 
After chancing a look down, John’s stomach clenches. Below the waist is is
nothing but a shapeless mass that appears to have jutted out from the walls
themselves. Even more appendages, eyes and mouths are attached to this creature
and
Christ, what the fuck is wrong with his brain what the actual fucking  fuck-
 
“Let me go! Fuck!”
 
John’s mental downward spiral is followed by his restraints trying to strangle
the life out of him once more. he doesn’t even put up a fight this time,
letting them do whatever the fuck they want. The entity before him watches
silently for a brief moment before dragging its massive lower half to draw
itself near.
 
Fuck what is happening, where is he, what is going  on?  His eyes squeeze shut,
but even in the dream John can feel the tears rolling down his face as sobs
continue to wrack his frame.
 
A clawless hand gently places itself upon John’s cheek, thumbing away newly
shed tears.
 
“Please.”
 
It’s not certain if he chokes out his plea from the sobbing or the tendril
constricting around his neck. Nor is John sure of what he is even asking for at
this point. He just wants it to be  over .
 
Lips, now by his ear whisper a simple phrase in a language that he heard spoken
by a dear friend. Once, long ago. The way she burbled her words and hissed
syllables had made him giggle. He didn’t understand it back then, but he does
now.


“S̵͇̳Ḻ̢̻̪̰̩EE̮̭̕P͙̪̼͉̦ ̗͚́ ̴J̩̱̫̩̰̫̫O҉͙̜͈̖H̼̝̦̺̝̳̞̀N͔̻̬̙͟ͅ”


There’s no way to fight the words that wrap around his weary mind. Oblivion is
coming up fast, it pulses across John’s vision and finds he can’t muster enough
energy to give a shit.  He feels the eyes still watching him, there is almost a
sense of remorse in the way they watch him. He doesn’t know why he can fucking
feel these things, but it none of that matters now. Darkness is swallowing him
as John comes to what he thinks is a terribly funny realization. He lets out a
weak huff of air.
 
He forgets the nightmares, because he doesn’t want to remember; the truth too
horrible to bare.
 
He wakes up.
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