Hands up hi s shirt, running them over snow-white skin, the creature who wears it arches breathlessly. Bodies flush together, the room fills with gasps and moans and the constant rustling of cloth as they grab at each other. The one subtly smaller, daintier, than the other; allows himself to be pushed onto his back, falling into that familiar pattern of Submission. His lover's breath should waft over his face. Though the Dominate is panting out the beat of his arousal, it doesn't.
The nails against his back go unnoticed, even when they puncture and break his skin. He doesn't feel it.
The humid air, musty, with so much blood collected over the years; he doesn't taste it.
Whirlpool eyes roll back, and the creature that belongs to them lets out another breathless moan. He basks in the heat of it. In the liquid fire that oozes from his partner's identical body, he shudders.
'mm so hot. S-so, ahh! I..mm , eff, I lo-'
"-polite tO WALK ON THE DEAD!!?"
Fuck stops. With an irritated snarl, his hand re-emerges from the white fabric of his partner's pants, and he stands up. He leaves the room, without so much as looking over his shoulder, but he hears D-Boy let out a shaking sob, and wishes that he had walked faster.
The Manic Voice got to the scene just in time to witness Johnny throw a meat cleaver out the front window. There was the unmistakable thud of a body collapsing to the ground. Despite himself, Eff lets out a delighted cackle at the display of mindless violence. But the rough noises come to a halt quickly, something is different in Johnny. Something had changed in him, and the simple fact of not knowing what brought on anger in the Styrofoam figment. He stomped (though being made of Styrofoam, his steps were inaudible) into the afternoon sun-lit living room.
Eff berates the maniac, arm gesturing in his irritation. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, JohnNY, JoHNNY, JOHNNY!!!! 'Why does he ALWAYS have to FUCK EVERYTHING UP!??!!?' He wanted to hit something, to break something, to make it cry and bleed. If it weren't for this fucking little mite, things could be perfect. He would be real, alive, he would be able to truly say those words back to the beautiful creature he left sobbing in the other room, and be able to feel it… In his pounding Heart.
He screamed. He kept up his character, the one he was created to be, instead of the one he grew to become. Fuck knew he'd said too much, he was shaking, panting, standing right in front of the maniac. His small form shaking with barely contained despair.
But Johnny turns from him, his attention redirected to something outside, though this goes unnoticed to the Head Voice for another minute. And he continues on, trying to justify to the air why he should be free… be allowed to be happy. His whispered monologue comes to an end and he knows if he were just a little more Real, tears would be flowing down his face. 'It's not fair,'
Fuck lets out a quiet wail, a meek attempt to vent new found emotions that came with the transition. The door opens, and the pastry display stand gives himself a couple more moments to compose a look of a macabre manic on his face, before following Johnny out. He got no more than halfway to the sidewalk when an ear- splitting squeal sounded, followed closely by a sickening crunch. In the time it took for Mr. Eff to gasp, he was spattered in blood with a corpse at his feet.
I seem to be dead.
Screaming. Words that hurt, words that bruised and scarred. He tried so hard…. So hard, to do things right. To make daddy happy, and make daddy love him. Shmee says it's not worth it.
"You fucking bitch!" Mean words.
"You ruined my life," Words he doesn't understand.
"Why did you have to be born!???" Questions that he had no Words to answer.
"I hate you." Words that not even the innocence of a child could dampen.
Shmee says I should kill them.