Eden
AN: If you are the squicky-type and/or underage (you= less than 18), bail now--can't say I didn't warn you.
To my fellow deviants: let's party. :]
(This is AU-ish, because I can't bring myself to use 11 year olds, LOL).
Disclaimer: I don't own Coraline: talk to Neil Gaiman/Laika Studios.
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Coraline Jones had thought she was too old for dolls since she was eight years old.
As it turned out, the truth was she hadn't been old enough.
Then, she'd resented her parents for uprooting her at the delicate age of fifteen--and to Oregon, of all places.
Now, she couldn't be more grateful--where else could one accidentally stumble upon Paradise?
The journey through the rabbit-hole in the parlor had been brief but certainly made an impression; she'd tumbled head-over-heels into exactly where she'd left, but everything was different, improved: a fantasy version of her own dull existence, magic palpable.
And if it was also a little sinister, well, who was she to judge? The real world was rather dangerous, too, in its own way.
Here, Mom never got impatient, never said 'no' to any request.
Here, Dad never made up embarrassing rhymes, never was too busy for fun.
Here, there was no school, no boredom, no poison oak. Just cupcakes and laughter and self-indulgence…
And the doppelganger of a certain neighbor-boy, familiar in appearance but strange in his silence.
The Other Wybie had never been verbose, and Coraline knew that a word from her could change all that--but really, why bother? He was so good with his hands.
She'd never mentioned her budding interest in the opposite sex to any of her four parents, but it was as the Other Father had said: "She knows you…"
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Naturally, Coraline had been surprised the first time the button-eyed boy had gone beyond a friendly hug, a platonic linking of arms; the real Wybie could barely bring himself to touch her accidentally, let alone on purpose.
Apparently, this one was fearless.
He had drawn her close for a good-night embrace, which she had no objection to; it was the gloved fingers roaming all over her back that had her nervous, and then the touch of burlap-textured lips ghosting across her cheek, questioning, that made her afraid.
The answer, at first, had been no.
He never pushed her, content to do as she wished; after all, he'd been born to please her.
It didn't take long for curiosity to melt away her reservations, corroding what little of her still cringed with unease every time she stared into those soulless, beetle-black eyes. He'd taken her to the tribute garden, crafted in her honor, and there she'd honored him with her first kiss--a milestone she'd always thought she'd share with Wybie…in some form or another. His mouth was coarse and dry, and tasted like dust.
The Other Mother seemed to know this too, because when they tried again the effect was far more enjoyable; warm smooth silk, and, with the application of her soft pink tongue, moist too.
In light of this new discovery, the circus and the theater were forgotten, faded, altered; a basement hangout with a couch big enough for two, a loft with a skylight--
And a bed.
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Coraline had hesitated again when the Other Wybie had slipped his hands under her starry sweater one night; she'd always imagined the real Wybie, face redder than a tomato, stuttering and fumbling his way under her clothes and into her heart…
As it was, he was too shy and she was too impatient, but the Other had no qualms about palming her soft breasts through her top, and when that was no longer enough, under it.
She wanted to feel him too, and urged the un-striped black coat from his shoulders to the floor.
And if it was a little off-putting that his body generated no heat of its own, well, she had enough for the both of them.
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Coraline paused once more at the threshold of womanhood, unsure that she was ready to give her greatest gift; this was supposed to be the part where Wybie, decked out in a rented tuxedo and ever the definition of geek, would make her his in the backseat of Grandma Lovat's old Cadillac after prom. That was the natural order of things…
As she watched a flock of paper dragonflies flitter across her bedroom ceiling, she knew that this world was anything but natural.
But Temptation is powerful, especially when it wears the face of one you love.
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Other Wybie carried her up the staircase to the loft as though she weighed little more than cotton fluff, arms realistically thin but abnormally strong.
He said nothing as he peeled away her girlish, colorful clothes, nary a stutter escaping his lips.
His movements were sure and steady, not a hint of self-consciousness.
Not one drop of sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked her into a frenzy, not one passionate cry to answer her own, his breath refusing to hitch while she gasped like a fish out of water.
All this she might have ignored, if not for afterward, when she rested her head against his chest--
And heard nothing.
There was no beating heart to match her own thrumming pulse; no need to install such parts in a mannequin. Other Wybie's silence had never before been so disturbing to her.
He loved her because he was created to do so.
Wybie loved her because he chose to do so.
She'd walked out of Eden and straight into Hell, of her own free will.
The Other Wybie lie beneath her, impassive, as his rough skin absorbed her tears.
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AN: …so, this was an experiment. And I love Other Wybie, but he brings out the darkness in me… XD
I thought about forcing this to become a happy(ish) ending, but I think it's better this way. Next chapter of "Threads" will be up as soon as I'm done proofreading it, which ought to be soon because I'm getting impatient with myself. XP
Like it? Hate it? Want to see more along these lines? Let me know! Thanks for reading this little anomaly!
---258.