He put him together with pieces of dolls porcelain skin, broken apart in the early hours of morning with a delicate hammer. Porcelain dolls scared him. They stared at him with the depths of eyes never seeing. Looked at him blankly; no thought, no speech, no movement. They were soulless, lifeless things that seemed to pierce your soul with their blank eyes and yet know everything.
But yet, he had a collection of porcelain dolls, stocked in his cellar. Rows upon rows of unblinking, cold dolls. All in various stages of disarray. Some had mysterious red and brown smudges on them, others marked for death by black sharpie. But all faced the wall so he didn't have to look at their cold, emotionless eyes.
If you traveled upstairs, you would find his workshop. Pieces of porcelain scattered the floor, sometimes crunched underfoot in his haste. A beautiful creation lay on the table, carefully glued together from pieces of the unfortunate dolls. Hunched over the beautiful creation he was often found, feverishly working to create his lover. The Creator watched his lovers blank face as he fit pieces together, creating arms, a torso, legs, feet. The Creator, when finished, fitted two pieces of hand made glass eyes into the black, empty sockets that lead into the head cavity. Painted delicately onto the glass was that of blueberry pupils. A mop of translucent strands of light blonde hair were sewn carefully into the scalp, covering the scars of hot glue and black stitches.
A bucket of cloudy white paint sat with a soft brushed paint brush, already dipped into the paint. Every inch of his body had to be painted over. Had to conceal the fractures that put him together. And when it was finished, a small dab of a smaller brush into rose water, painted onto the lips.
"Ah. . . ah. . ." the Creator let small sounds of pleasure arch from his own raspberry stained lips as he gazed upon his creation. A peck on the lips to bring it to life, and all was complete. The coldness of his lips never changed as the Creator moved back, watching with wary eyes. His creation stirred and turned his listless eyes to the creator, parting his pale pink lips.
No sound ushered forth, but this was enough. Enough that he was alive and moving. Though no heart beat underneath his porcelain flesh, he moved. Although no blood flowed through glass veins, he was alive.
"My beautiful creation," the Creator breathed, moving forward once more, "Your name is Alfred."
The creation looked at him, cocking his head. He had perfectly sculpted ears, he could hear though he seemed not to understand.
"Understand," the Creator pled, cupping his creations face, "Alfred."
His creation mouthed the word carefully. Mouthed his name, though not fully understanding.
"Yes, you are Alfred," the Creator said with tears in his eyes, "Alfred, my lover."
Alfred straightened his delicate head, strands of hair swishing past his ears.
He mouthed his name again, growing more accustomed to the feel of it on his lips.
"Yes, yes!" the Creator cried, growing more excited every time Alfred mouthed his name. In his excitement he leaned in and kissed him on his pale pink lips.
Alfred looked at him as he pulled back, and his same glass eyes seemed to depict confusion.
He mouthed his name again and the Creator smiled.
"A kiss." he whispered, leaning in and touching his lips to his porcelain creation. Again, he murmured the word onto his beautiful creations lips until he repeated it with him.
"Yes." the Creator whispered again, pulling back.
Alfred cocked his head and looked at his Creator, pointing to him with a shaky, fragile hand.
"My name?" the Creator asked quietly.
Alfred hesitated before nodding his head slowly.
"Ivan. My name is Ivan." he said. Alfred had an intense look of concentration on his face before his pale lips parted and mouthed the name, painstakingly slowly.
"Yes." Ivan whispered, excitement growing in his breast as Alfred seemed to put two and two together. Put Ivan's face with his name. It was slow moving, but Ivan taught this beautiful creation all he knew. Taught him about the cold world outside, the cold world outside that didn't accept him. Taught him about the world outside that banished him to this house, this house full of porcelain dolls that he hated so much, yet surrounded himself in.
In a fury, Ivan stood and shouted at the top of his lungs, screamed at the world outside that had shunned him to this place to go mad.
Alfred could sense the tension in the air, the tension that seemed to press in on him and he stared at his Creator fearfully, fearing that he would fly across the room and ruin him with a simple touch.
Ivan saw the fear in his creations eyes, saw the way he trembled.
He lowered his voice and his hand, realizing that he was scaring his lover.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Ivan whispered, walking slowly across the room to Alfred who was sitting on a platform of sheets and pillows that Ivan had set up for him in this room. A room that Alfred couldn't stand to look at; a room that seemed bare and empty even to glass eyes. Bits and pieces of his smashed brothers and sisters still littered the room and he had tried his best to sweep them into a pile in the corner so he didn't have to look at their remnants.
Alfred was trembling slightly as his Creator approached him. But when he touched him with his gentle hands, the trembling ceased to be. It still amazed Alfred that this person, his Creator, could emit volume of such magnitude and strike such violent positions, and yet still be so gentle with him. Could still touch him so softly and gently and harmlessly like before had never happened.
"I'm sorry." Ivan said again, cupping his chin and tilting his creations lips to his. Alfred still couldn't put into slow words what this feeling was when his Creator kissed him. He could so faintly feel touch, could so faintly run his fingers over things and feel the general shape. But when his Creator kissed him, he felt things that were so raw and bare that he dare not even think them. Things that seemed dark and forbidden, things that were vulgar and horrendous, yet seemed like they fit. Things that came from the darkest depths of him and made him want to do things that no one should.
He wasn't sure if his Creator felt this or not, and Alfred wasn't going to ask this man if he did. This man was powerful, and if he knew what he was thinking, he would be punished. He would be forced to sit in the cellar with his brethren, staring into the darkness and wondering what kind of beast lived in it to frighten his brothers and sisters so.
When put in the cellar, Alfred could feel the emptiness in his brothers and sisters, could feel them almost yearning to speak with him, their unspoken words vibrating off all the pieces of broken dolls of which he was created.
And the pain they felt was transmitted back to him in such an open form that it made him want to cry. Every part of him ached with a need to help, a need to do something. His brothers and sisters cried for him to avenge their murders. Cried for him to seek revenge on his Creator who created him under such unspeakable terms and turned him into a monster.
Then his Creator would come and take him out of the cellar, touch him with his gentle hands and kiss him with his soft lips so that Alfred forgot what he had wanted to do; what he had needed to do.
In some vague part of him, Alfred knew this was not right. That being distracted so easily by gentle kisses, soft touches; dark, smoldering gray eyes should not have been so easy for his Creator to do to him. Part of him wanted to see the blood on his hands, staining his porcelain flesh with dark crimson stains. But the greater part of him was telling him to just give in, to not question this aching feeling inside of him.
Alfred could make no noise, but Ivan knew when Alfred liked what he did to him. It was the way he arched into his touch, his mouth hanging open though no sound came out. The way he fingertips traced Ivan's back ever so lightly, his whole body trembling. Those were the times when Ivan would knock on Alfred's door in the middle of the night, needing some relief to this throbbing ache in his pants. Ivan didn't need Alfred's cock to tell him he was aroused. Alfred was, even if he couldn't physically show it. The cock was created; crafted perfectly between Ivan's fingers though Ivan knew he would never use it.
Nothing ever went farther than kissing or touching. Alfred would pull away and if he could, he would have blushed. Ivan longed to see the crimson splash across his cheekbones though knew it would never happen. Blood was the only thing that could trigger that reaction. Blood was the only thing that could cause a blush to stain Alfred's cheeks and blood was the only thing that could show Ivan Alfred's arousal.
And so they lived, Alfred treading his steps cautiously and Ivan watching every move he made. Alfred didn't eat, he barely slept, he didn't use the bathroom, and he never smelled. The most he would do would be to look at you curiously as you did these things, wondering why these actions had to be performed. Ivan loved his creation with a passion, but his mental health had been deteriorating since being condemned to the tundra that appeared to be his new home.
In random bursts, he would collapse into a heap, a seizure making his body twitch until Alfred cautiously fed him the home made medicine he had concocted and kept in the empty wooden cabinets. Other times he would break out in a temper so violent, Alfred locked himself in the cellar just to protect his fragile body. And even other times he would continue to scream at the top of his lungs, screaming at the demons that inhabited his tainted mind. The demons that tortured him, taunted him, teased him until he was in danger of completely losing himself in his own mind.
Ivan always came back from these episodes with no memory of what he had been doing, whether a black space lasted for no more than a few seconds or seemed to have stretched on for days.
"No more, no more."
Alfred could hear the silent chant echoing through the house, growing louder with each word until Ivan was screaming it; screaming and crying and pleading.
Alfred cautiously made his way upstairs, watching for any sign of his rabid Creator.
In the last room of the hall, the room Alfred never entered because of all the disturbing things his Creator had done in there, his Creator sat. There were Satanic symbols scrawled roughly over all of the walls; some in messy black pen, others in a liquid much darker, a liquid that turned a horrid brownish-red color when left to dry.
Alfred stepped into the shadowed doorway realizing that new blood stained the walls. New, gibberish words were scrawled on the walls in fresh blood.
Ivan's blood.
Ivan sat in the middle of it all, naked as the day he was born, covered in his own blood. It was only just clotting around his wrists and up his arms to even his shoulders. His fingers had small, dashing cuts in them, but enough blood came forth from the wounds for Ivan to have scrawled whatever he was meaning to say on the walls.
And Ivan was trembling, screaming and crying, salt and water and blood mixing together in a grotesque puddle on the floor.
Suddenly everything went silent. That was the worst, when everything went silent. Alfred felt stiff, felt his brothers and sisters calling out for him in the cellar, calling for him to come and take shelter. They knew. They knew because they were the demons torturing Ivan's mind. They were the voices never stopping the torrent of cries and whispers and chants.
They knew because they had driven him to the edge, driven him there many times before backing off, leaving Ivan like a rabid dog just waiting to pounce and rip to shreds the first thing that moved into his line of vision.
Slowly Ivan moved into a crouched position, scoping the room carefully with eyes as dilated as those in the pitch darkness. Watched with eyes bloodshot and yellow in what used to be white as cream.
And when Ivan finally caught the shadow in the door way of someone he once knew, Alfred felt fear strike through him so fast and so quickly it left him weak. Ivan watched his creation for a moment, his mind fighting with itself between recognizing him and attacking him. But the part that dominated was the part that didn't recognize this beautiful creation he had once so carefully and delicately sculpted.
Alfred ran.
Down the hallway came Ivan's screams and incomprehensible words, coming after him as quickly as an insane mans footsteps. Alfred stumbled down flights of stairs, the call of his brethren taunting him, calling for him to come quickly, to lock the door behind him.
Just as Alfred slammed the door closed and locked it on himself, he heard the scratching at the door, the moaning and groaning of Ivan's demons before everything went silent.
It was like that that Alfred learned to hate and fear the quiet and the silence that he had once cherished.
Cold, the stars outside of the house. If you saw it from the outside, you would have thought it another abandoned house with intact windows. Stupid teenagers graphitized the outside, but knew better than to enter the house. Only those that were brave enough snuck a peek into the open windows, most walking away scarred with what they had seen and never speaking about it again.
Those were the teenagers that eventually moved out of the town, scary stories they remember the actual truth of the cruelties endured inside of the white walls.
Alfred knew this because he never slept. Ivan would never find out, and that was probably for the best. Alfred knew that if Ivan found out, that would only cause more horrendous things to happen including some teenagers from the nearby town to start mysteriously disappearing one by one.
"Alfred?"
Alfred froze from looking out of his window, turning slowly to his creator. Ever since Ivan's mental breakdown that almost killed Alfred, Alfred had been steering clear of his Creator. Now his Creator was approaching him, watching him with his dark, smoldering eyes. The whites of his eyes were white as cream; the look of yellowing and bloodshot eyes gone.
He probably didn't even remember how much he had frightened Alfred.
"Why have you been avoiding me?" he asked, his voice whisper soft, in a coaxing sort of way that he used just before he kissed Alfred.
Mouthing the words slowly so that his Creator could see them he said, 'I'm not Creator.'
Ivan slowly approached him and as he got nearer and nearer, Alfred turned his gaze away, shame burning his cheeks along with fear.
"Why do you call me 'Creator'?" he asked, cupping Alfred's face between his hands. There were scars on his hands, scars that Ivan didn't remember inflicting upon himself, and Alfred could feel the hard, puckered skin disrupting the otherwise smooth and soft surface.
Alfred didn't speak, but felt the fear strike again as Ivan crouched low, his hands tightening over Alfred's porcelain face.
"Answer me." he said in a low and dangerous voice, edging toward threatening.
'I don't know.' Alfred answered.
Truthfully, Alfred knew why he called Ivan 'Creator'. He knew that by calling him 'Creator' it would put space between them in his mind; would separate Ivan from Alfred, because they were different beings. Alfred the creation while Ivan was God.
If Alfred started to call Ivan by his name, it would make Ivan and him familiar, and Alfred couldn't stand that.
"You do know." Ivan said, but his voice was softer this time. Alfred could never keep up with his insane Creator's swing of emotions. One minute he was almost mad enough to crush Alfred to pieces, the next he was murmuring sweet nothing's in his ear.
Ivan managed to catch his creations' eye. There wasn't much there, but he could still see the flicker of fear, dully, just beyond those blueberry pupils. As he struggled desperately to remember what he had done to cause his creation this fear instilled in him, he saw Alfred trying to answer his own question. The blackness in Ivan's mind seemed to stretch on for miles and miles, with the occasional burst of memory like an oasis in a desert area. Mostly he was consumed by blackness. By this itching of knowing things, yet never being able to just reach them.
Ivan didn't know why the last room in the hallway was covered with devil words and blood.
Oh there was so much blood in that room that it reeked of metal, death, and insanity. Ivan saw the cuts on his arms and wrists and fingertips, but couldn't figure out why they were there. Ivan saw the fear in his creation's eyes, but didn't know what had caused it.
His hand still caressing his creation's cheek, Alfred slowly gave him an answer.
'Because you are more powerful than I. And I am afraid of you.'
His pale pink lips formed the words that Ivan knew. Ivan knew Alfred was afraid of him, and wished his creation could tell him why. Ivan wanted to know.
"Why are you afraid of me?" Ivan asked quietly.
That's all there was, was silence. Silence surrounded them everywhere and in the silence Ivan saw Alfred's eyes go dull and hollow, saw his face close up. But dark fear was there. Fear you only experienced in a life or death situation. Fear that almost made you angry, made you go insane.
Ivan knew that fear once. His body remembered that fear. But his mind could no longer recall what had made him feel that way.
Alfred didn't answer that question. Instead he looked away, down to his bare feet underneath the soft cotton of his sweatpants. Ivan constantly wore a dirty old black t-shirt, and dark, bloodstained jeans. The faint traces of muscles lingered just underneath the short sleeves, along his stomach as he squatted down next to his creation. Alfred tried his hardest not to notice this, but it was like trying not to notice an elephant that was blocking your path.
Despite being afraid of this man, this man who could break him with a simple touch, Alfred wanted to touch him. The deep, dark longing of touching his Creator, kissing him, thumped hard in him. The ache of need returned, the ache that brought with it dark flashes of inappropriate scenes. Scenes that Alfred, being as innocent as he was, couldn't being to understand. But somewhere inside of him a primal instinct urged him to seek out someway to ease the ache.
Flashes of tracing his masters body with his fingers as he writhed beneath him in something that resembled pain but depicted pleasure. Wanted to hear his master's voice in his ear, low and deep and dangerous from pleasure. Wanted to feel the ease of pleasure erupt within him, threatening to drown him. Wanted to hear cries ricocheting off the walls, whether it be his or his Creators.
So when his Creator leaned in and kissed him with his soft lips of his, Alfred couldn't help the partial opening of his mouth, and if he could breathe, the gasp that would have made its way through.
His Creator pulled back, a look of curiosity on his face. Alfred ducked his head, a feeling of shame burning through him.
"Are you alright?" his Creator asked him. Alfred slowly nodded his head but it was hesitant and Ivan could see it. Ivan could almost see the vibrations of a feeling trying to get out from Alfred's porcelain skin. Alfred was ashamed of this feeling that was burning through him and Ivan had to teach him differently.
"Does it feel good when I do this?" Ivan asked, running his fingers slowly down Alfred's arm.
Alfred quickly pulled back, his whole body trembling.
'No.' Alfred mouthed, pulling himself into the wall, as if that would protect him from his Creator.
But Ivan just moved closer, closing the space between them as he put his hands on the wall behind Alfred. The window was wide open and if anyone was looking, they would have seen the discriminatory things Ivan was doing. But no one was watching the dark house on top of the hill; no one was watching what a mad man was doing to sate is craving for destruction and pleasure.
"Does it feel good when I do this?" Ivan asked gently, skimming his lips up Alfred's fragile jaw. And as he did so he felt Alfred's jaw tremble.
'No.' Alfred said, but his lips were trembling, fighting back the words that Alfred wanted to say.
But Ivan continued his torturous treatment, repeating the question over and over as he skimmed Alfred's throat, his chest, his fingertips before finally yanking down his pants and discarding them in the corner.
As he trailed his lips and fingertips across Alfred's smooth inner thigh, he could feel the trembling grow increasingly as Alfred fought off the feelings.
Ivan slowly let his lips linger up to Alfred's, brushing his hair out of the way as he pressed a delicate kiss to Alfred's ear.
"Just tell me what feels good. Tell me. I want to know. I want to know your dark fantasies, no matter how twisted. Just tell me. Please." Ivan whispered into Alfred's ear, trailing his fingers up and down Alfred's inner thigh getting centimeter's closer to Alfred's cock with brush strokes of finger tips.
'I can't.' Alfred said with his eyes closed, lips trembling, body aching.
"You can." Ivan whispered finally touching Alfred where he most wanted to be touched. At that Alfred's eyes flew open, his mouth open in a silent gasp of pleasure.
Alfred's saw Ivan's smirk through blurry eyes; eyes hazed with lust.
"Just tell me." Ivan said, continuing to tease Alfred, never returning to the same spot that caused him the influx of pleasure.
'Please.' Alfred pleaded with quiet lips. Ivan kept his eyes on Alfred's lips as he ran his fingers along his body, knowing that he had to see Alfred's plead for pleasure.
"Please what?" he asked.
Alfred arched his body as Ivan touched him again in the same place.
'Please, make me feel good. Touch me.' Alfred plead, twisting his hands into fists.
Ivan, not going to make Alfred beg anymore than he already had.
He closed his fist around Alfred's cock, moving it up and down slowly. Alfred bucked his hips, his mouth twitching as it hung open.
Faster went Ivan's fingers and faster Alfred's jerked. Then something exploded behind Alfred's eyes. A wave of pleasure had been building in him, getting higher and higher and bigger and bigger until it crested and came crashing down on top of him.
If Alfred could speak, he would have been screaming in pleasure.
His back arched, his fingers clenched so hard into his palms it would have made half-moons, Alfred tried to regain himself. Everything felt sensitive to him, his touch and smell and sight more acute as his body slowly lowered itself to the floor.
The ache had dulled into a slowly, steady throbbing. For a moment, everything was calmly silent before Ivan leaned back over him. Alfred hadn't known when he had taken off his shirt, but the smooth plain of muscles on Ivan's chest and arms were defined. Perfectly defined, not too muscular, but not limpid and weak.
Alfred's had a hard time to organize his thoughts as he stared at his Creator. Ivan slowly traced his fingertips up Alfred's side, across his stomach and up his other side until he got to his face.
"This is why I created you. To love you." Ivan whispered, lowering his lips to Alfred's. Alfred closed his eyes and willingly leaned up into the kiss, his own cold lips forming over warm and soft ones. Alfred's body was molded by these hands that now touched him everywhere; places he didn't even know could stimulate pleasure from him Ivan found and tweaked.
Alfred ran his own slim fingers over Ivan's body, trying to memorize the feeling of it. His wiry, lithe body above him aroused him strangely, enough that Alfred found his fingers tweaking the buttons of Ivan's dark denim. There was something stiff and hard beneath the pants, something Alfred's wanted to find.
His fingers felt clumsy as he fingered the buttons, so much so that Ivan helped him undo the buttons and fly, pulling the dark denim down.
The first thing Alfred noticed was that Ivan wore no underwear underneath his pants and something sprung forward, hard and stiff and engorged.
It was Ivan's cock, Alfred recognized this much. He knew this, but his cock didn't react this way in Ivan's presence.
At Alfred's questioning look Ivan lead his hand up to it, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and closing his eyes and groaning.
'Why?' Alfred mouthed to him.
"You do this to me. Every inch of me." Ivan said, tightening his grip around Alfred's hand, causing him to squeeze his cock harder.
Alfred could feel the life that thrummed underneath Ivan's skin; and Alfred wanted to feel it rushing for him.
A feeling of dominance overflowed in him, something that was strange and foreign to him. Alfred tightened his fingers on his own accord, watching Ivan's face as he started to tentatively move his hand up and down Ivan's erection. Ivan's whole body shuddered and shook, trying to support him on rapidly weakening arms.
But, just before he came, Alfred lowered his mouth over it, lightly sucking on the tip.
Without being able to control his body any longer, Ivan came. The groan that came out of his chest startled Alfred as had the sticky white liquid coating the inside of his mouth and his hands.
When Ivan finally recovered, he looked down and saw Alfred's startled and confused expression and smiled despite himself.
"This is how you do it." he whispered, taking one of Alfred's stained hands and licking the cum off of his fingertips.
Alfred watched with captive eyes; every single time Ivan wrapped his plump lips around one of Alfred's fingers it sent jolts of electricity down his body. Alfred felt this insistent hunger, emanating from every section of his body.
He closed his eyes and let his body surrender to the feeling of what Ivan was doing to him.
Ivan traced his fingers over Alfred's body and Alfred jerked every single time Ivan went over a sensitive area, his mouth hanging open.
'Help.' Alfred mouthed to him, opening his eyes slightly and searching Ivan's for something. Ivan felt this sharp, jolting pain in his groin, and realize that he was hard yet again.
"Turn around." Ivan managed to gasp between his chest rattling breath and his heart pounding in his chest so hard that it was threatening to send him spiraling into cardiac arrest.
Alfred did as he was told, on his hands and knees. The position threatened Ivan's sanity, and Ivan felt him slip slightly into a state where nothing else mattered but to accomplish the task at hand which happened to be to quench the thirst of his ache.
At that moment, Alfred no longer felt like porcelain. Alfred felt like flesh and blood. Like he could feel a heart racing in him and the painful erection that Ivan could cause.
Ivan felt it too. Almost as if his fingers were misleading him, he ran his hand over Alfred's flesh, down his thighs, to his erection.
Grasping it, he could almost hear Alfred's strangled gasp of pleasure as Ivan touched the tip of his penis to Alfred's entrance.
Not ever thinking that Alfred would need preparing, he slowly slid himself in and when Alfred's mouth opened in pain, not pleasure, Ivan realized his mistake.
But it was too late now. All Ivan could do now was wait for Alfred to accustom himself to Ivan and slowly, ever so slowly, he relaxed.
The movement in which they both moved was like they had known each other's bodies for years. Ivan slowly running his fingers over Alfred, over and over, bringing him to the edge before pulling him back.
It kept in this rhythm until Ivan felt himself slowly drawing closer and closer to his second release and started to jerk Alfred faster so he would come with him.
In the bliss and pleasure, Alfred realized how much trouble he was in. He knew his Creator was crazy, yet he let him do these things to him. He knew his Creator could kill him right now, yet his gave himself up so vulnerably. He knew that what they were doing was not right, yet he continued along with the same road.
Alfred felt like he was selfish. Created by his brothers and sister still sitting in the cellar, he forgot about them on a daily basis, never remembering the pain they emitted to him. He wanted to receive this pleasure, keep receiving it until he could no longer see, breath, think. Keep receiving it until he was gone, the feeling vibrating back to him in the dark void that he was created of to keep him company when he had dissipated.
And somewhere deep inside him, he knew as he came in an explosion of pleasure, he knew that this vulnerability and innocence he held with his Creator was going to be his downfall.
Alfred was awake the next morning, staring out the window as the sun just touched the trees. He was still completely naked, the feeling for pants that he had once held before disappeared along with his fear of his Creator.
When Alfred had awoken that morning, his Creator had not been there. He had been down in the kitchen, fixing himself food of some sort. Alfred had watched his Creator move about the kitchen, his jeans just nestled upon lean hips and a beautiful bottom. Alfred had watched his easy movements as he set up a pan and poured a powder substance into it, turning on the heat high. The arch of his back as he leaned over and the flexing of his arms as he uncapped things and opened other things mesmerized Alfred.
But, in fear of being spotted, he made his way back up the stairs, staring out the window for a large immense of time.
Ivan finally appeared, standing right next to Alfred and running his fingers along his spine. Alfred felt his body shiver slightly and turned just slightly to see Ivan standing there, looking hungrily at the place where Alfred's shoulder met his neck.
Without even thinking Alfred leaned back into Ivan, and let him ghost his lips across his neck, sending Alfred's senses on high alert. Alfred let his body arch into Ivan, let Ivan touch him slowly and softly.
This time though there was some kind of animalistic urge buried in Ivan that Alfred felt as Ivan pressed him to the window and spread his legs. This time Ivan prepared him, being slow and careful. This time the pain lasted only a few moments before Alfred was cloaked in this erotic feeling, making him see colors in front of his eyes. Ivan's voice in his ear-low and husky-sent Alfred spiraling into someplace deep within him that he had a hard time climbing out of.
Suddenly Ivan was too rough. It brought Alfred out of his spiraling pleasure, catapulting him into a sudden world of fear and confusion.
Ivan was almost raping him now, pushing him into the wall so violently that Alfred was trembling from the pressure.
He opened his mouth but he couldn't usher a sound, just the opening and closing of his mouth like a fish gasping for water.
'Creator!' he mouthed uselessly. Ivan had managed to lapse back into one of his moments and nothing in the world could stop him from doing whatever his disease riddled mind was forcing him to do.
When Alfred looked back he could see the dark, dilated pupils of his Creator's; just barely rimmed in blue-gray. Alfred could see the bloodshot whites of his eyes pulsing almost angrily as he pounded his hips into Alfred's.
Alfred closed his eyes and faced the wall and knew what was going to happen.
The last thing he saw was the laughing children on a sidewalk so far away, oblivious to everything around them.
When Ivan came too, the first thing he realized was the large amounts of porcelain he was surrounded in. Porcelain crunched under his feet and hands as he struggled to his feet. The porcelain cut his hands and arms and feet, scarring him with crimson.
"Alfred?" he called out shakily. And the only proof he had left of his beautiful creation he had strived so hard to create and loved with all his heart was a bit of heart shaped porcelain, one with the corner of an upturned mouth.
The translucent hair that Ivan had sewn to Alfred's scalp had been discarded everywhere. The only solid part of Alfred that was left was that of blueberry pupils. And as Ivan looked at him in horror, the only part intact that was sitting strangely on the desk, he didn't see anything dark. He saw a light behind the eyes that he had never seen before. The light of a smile, the light of a life lived, the smile of sacrificing himself for those he loved.
Ivan could not remember. He could not remember anything besides coming upstairs and seeing Alfred standing there in all his beautiful glory, staring as the sunlight hit his skin and made him sparkle.
Ivan stared as his cut and bruised hands long into the night before finally looking around. Porcelain was scattered everywhere-everywhere-and the pain of looking at it and somehow knowing that he had caused it cause him grief beyond repair.
Now in a feverish rage that almost blinded him, Ivan screamed and screamed and screamed. And when he could no longer speak he went into the cellar, found rope that he had used to tie the porcelain dolls so that they couldn't attack him and brought it with him through the rows and rows of dolls.
They couldn't scare him any longer.
Into the room, he tied the rope to a hook in the ceiling that had been there since Ivan had moved into the house. He had never paid any attention to it before, but now it would play a very big part in the bigger story of everything.
He climbed onto the makeshift bed that had once belonged to his beautiful creation and tied the rope intricately to the ceiling, making sure every knot, every tie, every turn of his hands was perfect. Now the light was just coming through the window, creating a new morning that none in this house on top of the hill would see.
Then looking down at the scattered remains of what was once his lover he sipped his head through the intricate knots and stood there, in the pale morning light, realizing that he would never have another episode. He would take with him the memories of a beautiful boy made of porcelain and light, while he was made of flesh and blackness.
Just as he was about to kick the pillows and the blankets away, he saw a vision before him. A vision of clear light and golden light and sky pupils.
In it Alfred had a voice.
"I love you. I always will. You brought me to life. And no matter how much the dark consumed you, you were always light to me."
And with that the pillows and the blankets gave way and the vision was gone and the light went out of everything. A shadow was cast on the floor, swinging back and forth gently, ever so gently like a wind was blowing it.
Almost as an after thought, a single clear tear fell to the floor, catching the sunlight in a golden state.
Years afterwards, the imprint of a golden tear remained stained into the floor, all that remained of Ivan and Alfred.