I really hope you guys like this... should be amusing. I'm too drunk to write a proper author's note... so I'm not going to torture you all.
Read and Review, please!! I really wanna know when I'm doing it well, okay?
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There's plastic on the floor.
Except for the dryness in his empty chest and stale air making its way through his teeth, he thinks he might be drowning, or maybe something similar. Maybe he's bleeding out, choking… Maybe he swallowed that little fucking mystery round yellow-jacket – gold, black, gold, black, gold bars – little motherfucker of a pill and it's ripping holes in his brain and making his heart jump and dance and writhe, ripping itself apart because it has no fucking idea what his brain is telling it to do.
The plastic crinkles rhythmically, and there's the sharp tearing of breath on teeth like crooked tombstones and thudding. Over and over. It never ends, the thudding, throbbing, pounding above his head.
Pounding, pounding, pounding above him and within him that never fucking synchs like the stupid fucking cellophane crackle beneath him and it all digs into his brain like someone's blissfully rolling it in broken glass. He screams at this sound like the surge of oceans he likes so much, or maybe more like the sound of someone beating against an unbreakable mirror until their fists crack and break and bleed. It's like he did when he wanted out so badly the other day, but he's just bruised a little, and there's a split knuckle on his left hand.
"Shut up, would you?"
A hand clamps over his mouth and he resists the urge to bite it as his back buckles and bows. He's too small, too weak to fight back because he is little and golden and beautiful, and this man driving him into the black plastic so carelessly is even more beautiful and strong and perfect. The interior decorator, master green-thumb and rich fucking prick and a troubled, fucked up little musician without a cent to his name and who doesn't know his head from a fucking hole in the sodden muddy ground. He couldn't find his own sore ass with both hands, but he has the sneaking suspicion it might not be there anymore with the way Marluxia is pinning him to the floor like this.
Total Annihilation.
Fingernails dig into those lovely shoulders and he screams behind that hand, gripping with his thighs and squeezing his eyes shut.
Tense, taut, sharp and wild, almost flailing with pleasure and beneath that fall of subtle pink fringe there's a small, pleased smile. He likes to see his toys writhe like this. He takes his hand away to twist a nipple sharp and the blond screams silently, usually smooth, soft body going even tighter, harder, jagged like broken glass, shark teeth, rusty nails.
Blood. He's torn and both of them know it because both of them can smell that fresh snow scent, and the blond screams again, this time mostly in pain as he finally slips completely over the edge, making a mess of both of them. Marluxia drives into him sharply, regardless of the fact that his toy is now a quivering, limp mass on the ground. He comes, withdraws and chuckles a little.
"Sorry about your jeans."
"Fuck… fuck… fuck…" the blond moans repeatedly, touching himself almost as if to make sure he's still all in one piece. "Jesus… fuck… Christ… bloody hell… Marluxia."
"I know, Demyx," he chuckles, practically sneering that name, already risen, cleaning himself up and getting dressed. "Make sure you clean that up. I don't want it sitting around here for three days like last time…"
His voice gets the point across clearly enough.
"Myeah…" Demyx mumbles, writhing a little. Fucking plastic. Fucking stupid loud plastic.
It's still on the floor, now furrowed and crumpled around his shoulders, and he fucking hates it. Fucking crazy, loud, stupid fucking place. He'd like to leave it… but…
It clings.