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Fight Club Slash

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An Insomniacs Dream [Aug. 8th, 2009|06:42 pm]
Fight Club Slash

fightclubslash

[scardecathect]
Title An Insomniacs Dream
AuthorScarlett scardecathect
Rating Mature (Sexual Content)
Pairing Narrator/Tyler
Warning Slash. Language. Sex.



Summary Yes, Tyler.
That was what woke me; that was what I was now deeply disturbed by. My dream, my choppy, insomniac dream was about Tyler. Well, it wasn't really about Tyler, it involved Tyler.
Similar to a dream with Marla it involved nakedness and two sweaty bodies.




Disclaimer Palahniuk owns Fight Club. No profit comes from this fan fiction.
Author's Note Written in the style of the book (somewhat), just a piece I wrote randomly.





You wake up at LAX.
The feeling that you've forgotten something is fresh in your mind. As are the flashes of the dream you had when you constantly came in and out of that insomniac sleep.
My legs are crushed up against the back seat of the chair in front of me. The asshole thought it necessary to recline his chair back. I think of kicking my legs to piss him off, but it’s really not worth it. My elbow is smashed into by a food trolley, filled with single serve, tasteless treats. Ah, this is the life.
The dream I had was disturbing, different from what I normally dreamt of. I wished that I had dreamt of a mid air collision. Or an engine failure or cabin pressure failure. The smell of burning jet fuel and the screams of frightened passengers. It was nice when they cried, a sort of poetic additive to the horrific scene. I just wished that they waited to cry, waited until the plane was near impact to the ground, or they were beginning to be sucked out of the plane from the gaping hole in the side. If they would just stop crying, they could take in the feeling of falling. Everyone would love the feeling of falling if it weren’t for the knowledge that they were going to splat onto the pavement. The thought that they'd exist no more in this shitty world that they complained about day after day. Me, I wouldn't mind it, the only thing that bugged me was that I pictured a bloody, fleshy mess of jelly being scraped off the pavement with an oversized spatula. Okay, it did look pretty funny.
I wished I had had the dream with Marla. The one where we're naked, sweaty and filled with ecstasy. She's screaming too loudly and I can't actually tell her to shut up, because I’m occupied with screaming too.
Fuck me.
Fuck me.
Fuck me.
Fuck me.
She screams louder than a Banshee. If Banshee's were real but they're not, just another brothers Grimm lie like "a righteous government," and "low fat lattes." I didn't really have the 'Marla dream' often, but whenever I did, it was always the same. Twisted sheets and squeaking springs, she's still holding her fucking cigarette. I wondered if she'd actually do that, I’d have to ask Tyler.
Yes, Tyler.
That was what woke me; that was what I was now deeply disturbed by. My dream, my choppy, insomniac dream was about Tyler. Well, it wasn't really about Tyler, it involved Tyler.
Similar to a dream with Marla it involved nakedness and two sweaty bodies.
I couldn't believe that even my unconscious mind had produced such a thought.
I am Joe's extremely confused brain.
Tyler was above me. His perfectly tanned skin. His rippled abs and short hair. His scarred and bruised face. Tyler and his expression, his expression of ecstasy.
I was an outsider in my dream, watching in on myself and Tyler, but I was also me.
Tyler was above me. His naked body over me with that fucking expression. His scabbed fist was in my hair, grabbing at what he could get.
I was bent over the kitchen table; Tyler had thrown me against it. I was naked. He was naked. We were covered with a layer of sweat. Tyler was screaming in ecstasy and me, well.
My pale arms were against the bench. My hands dug into the wood, the kiss scar evident on my hand. My legs were spread.
My expression was strained. My eyes closed tight in what looked like pain. My mouth was gaping open though, my jaw slack.
Fuck me
Fuck me
Fuck me
Fuck me.
I couldn't believe that those words came out of my mouth. I watched as an outsider, but I was also me.
I watched and felt as Tyler drove his hard cock inside of me.
I watched and felt as he gripped at my hair, pulling.
I watched and felt as Tyler leaned forward and bit into my shoulder.
I cried out. I'm not sure if it was from the pain or the fact that Tyler's cock had slammed into my prostate.
The feeling was so strong that it seemed real and I had to look down at my crotch when I woke up to make sure I wasn't hard.
Being in a tiny seat on an aircraft with someone sitting close to you is awkward enough. Add a raging, pulsing hard cock into the mix and it becomes all kinds of weird.
Luckily it didn't happen.
It happened a lot though.
There's always that man next to someone who seems shifty. He starts to sweat and uses his crumpled news paper to hide his tenting pants. He has to wait until the toilet sign is green. As soon as it is, he rushes to it and fixes the problem.
I've never been that guy. I'm too tired and unfocussed. I'm a little worried about this time though. The images of my dream continue to haunt my mind.
Imagine if Tyler found out what I’d dreamt of. Perhaps I should start calling this a nightmare. It didn't seem to fit though.
Flashes of my explicit dream. Sitting in an isle seat as the occupant next to me snores lightly. Their head lolled towards the window and drool dripping onto their business suit.
Flashes of me and Tyler.
Tyler's naked, tanned body.
Tyler's fingers digging into my hip.
Tyler thrusting his cock into my ass.
Tyler screaming obscenities.
“So fucking good,”
“More, fucking more,”
“Oh yeah, gonna fuck you,”
“Scream my name.”
I did as he asked.
I screamed his name so loud that I had to look around the plane to make sure I didn't do it out loud. When you're an insomniac, you're not quite sure what's real or not. If you actually emailed that report to your boss or just dreamt that you had.
I pushed back against Tyler. Driving him deeper into my ass. I grabbed behind me and groped his hip, pulling him into me.
Tyler, fuck me.
Fuck me.
Harder, fucking harder.
Yeah, fuck.
Deeper, Harder.
Shit. I'd become Marla Singer.
Instead of dreaming about being Tyler fucking Marla, I'd dreamt about being Marla, getting fucked by Tyler. But I wasn't Marla, I was me.
And I actually liked it.
I liked being fucked by Tyler Durden.

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Comments:
[User Picture]From: paiyrx
2009-08-09 10:36 am (UTC)
Very nice.
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[User Picture]From: scardecathect
2009-08-09 11:10 pm (UTC)
Thanks. It's not that great, but I just wanted to try and write in Palahniuks style.
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)
[User Picture]From: paiyrx
2009-08-10 06:52 am (UTC)
^_^ You really did it very well!
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)
(Deleted comment)
[User Picture]From: scardecathect
2009-09-15 05:17 am (UTC)
thankyou =) ...your display picture is awesome.
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)
(Deleted comment)