Fic-ness ahoy!
So...here is a disturbing fic. Enjoy?

Title: Validity
Rating: R
Fandom: JtHM
Pairing: Nny/Edgar
Notes:
+ 1st person - Edgar
+ Semi non-con
+ Major angst
+ Un-beta'd


I don't why I'm here. I had a thought in the beginning but now...now I don't know. It's all like some twisted movie trailer. Flashes of what happens before it all fades away only to be played again on a new day.

And I don't why I chose to stay here. To lay in a bed that smells old and musty with only a gray sheet wrapped around me to keep away the cold. But it's nothing but a thin rag worn over the years that was too pathetic to be thrown away and I sometimes wonder if that's why I am now. Just another piece of the background that's grown familiar, easy to be ignored on a whim or be caught by the eye in some realization.

It doesn't help that I can hear the screams either. Almost like they're right next to me when they're miles below the earth instead. I've gotten accustomed to it. It was the most terrifying thought a few months ago, knowing that I could sleep through the begs for mercy or just turn up the volume of the TV in the living room. But now? Now it's like living next to noisy neighbors and I just...let it go.

I hate to say how dull this has become because it's far from it. This every day life is anything but dull and at the same time there's no other way to describe it. It's volatile, frightening, insane and so incredibly mundane.

But not tonight.

I can feel it crawling up my spine that tonight is a break of the usual.

Because I can hear his footsteps. The click and thud of boots muted by the caked blood or flesh upon them most likely.

And I curl just that bit more on the bed, fingers tightening on the ragged sheet and trying to feign sleep as the door creaks open. Sometimes it works. He knows I still sleep even if he doesn't and if I'm lucky, he'll just turn around and go somewhere else. It would be then I wonder why I'm here, why I haven't run away for protection from this, to get my sanity stitched back together. Return to a time I didn't live in fear...like a sick submission.

Yet when the sheet is ripped free from my body, from my very death grip, I know. I'm never going to leave. I won't leave this house. I can't escape the hooks embedded in my soul. It's too late.

I've learned not to fight anymore. Not to ask questions when a clawed fingers touch my skin, the feeling warm only from the blood still stained on thin fingers. The wetness trails almost gently from shoulder to my cheek, a caress of the dead that I can't help but cringe from and shiver.

He speaks my name and I turn towards him, no longer laying on my side but now looking up at the cracks in a decrepit ceiling. I try not to think now. Not when those whisper touches become more pronounced, fingers digging into my shoulder as another strokes over my bare thigh. But thoughts won't leave me alone, rattling at me that I should run from this instead of allowing tense muscles to relax and for legs to part. Allowing him to settle between them, still stroking my thigh and leaving smears of red over pale skin in the darkness.

My name again and this time, I do look at him. Through the poor vision I can still see him as clear as anything. And he's smiling. It would be the end of me to call it loving, not when it's so warped by this insanity. I still find myself giving a smile back though. Because I've learned not to fight.

I hold back a choked sound at the first intrusion, knowing I should be used to it but it's abrupt, so sudden after those teasing brushes over my skin and I tense again, wanting to close my legs but there's a warning, a warning of a second finger pushing inside. And I have to relent, fall back and focus on my breathing in an attempt to calm, rewarded by a hand stroking over my stomach only to disappear within a few heartbeats.

I would like to think it was comforting but my eyes welled up with tears. This was meant to be an intimate act and I was helpless. Opening myself up to him and I can feel the slick digits moving in and out of my body. And I cry because I know...I know it's with some person's blood, their life on his fingers that makes this happen.

A drop slides free from my eye, caught up by a snaking tongue and a whispered voice near my ear. It happens every time. In later hours I'll start to wonder if he enjoys me crying, if it somehow concretes that I have only him alone in this life. Because when I cry, it won't be long before I scream. Clutching desperately to his skeletal form as he thrusts inside, poorly prepared and meant to feel everything, nerves on a trip wire, tangled in a web of pain.

It's burning and fierce, each push inside trying to rip me apart and cradle me in some perverse desire for more as I'm filled over and over again. My voice is hoarse in his ear, by a gasp or a sob I'm never sure when I feel that jagged spike run up my spine only to pool low in my stomach, tugging for muscles to tighten or relax...to move with him now. Because the fire is changing with each thrust into me and I have to push back and meet his hips for that spike to happen again, harder and more defined.

Now I know it's a gasp as I hold onto him when deceitful fingers move between our bodies to wrap around aching flesh, the channel of his hand firm and still slick with red but I won't think about that. I can't when I'm coiling so tightly inside from the blur of pain and pleasure, hiccupping moans of his name on my lips while movements are rough, harsh, erratic as I try to match with his strength.

I can feel myself shaking, trembling, as he seems to stave off my end with such a velvety grip before even that can't stop me from falling. Arching my back, hips pushing, the coil finally snaps within me and the world goes to pieces when I clench around him to drag us both down, down back to the bed with my heartbeat pounding in my ears and lungs burning for steady air.

I lay still as he shifts above me, wiping his hand on the old sheet while a few droplets of sweat fall onto my skin, mingling with my own and a cut-off breath when I feel empty again. Panting quietly as he cleans himself only to then shift away from the bed, mattress hardly dipping from his weight and I heard a zipper being pulled back up.

He has more work to do he says and leaves the room, his footsteps are unsteady but it's barely noticeable when the door closes behind him, leaving me alone in the night once again.

I should get up.

Should clean this mess of semen and blood from my body.

But I'm too weak because I'm crying again, smiling as the tears fall from my eyes to the musty bed.

It's because he loves me.

He loves me.

...Please.