Somewhere in Suburbia, Rodrick Heffley fished his shiny pocket knife out of his book bag and held the solid weight in his right hand. The ratty band T-shirt he wore, some knockoff Nirvana group, smelled of cigarettes and old sheets. He infested the small confines of the van with his drooling scent. Greg kind of liked it, in some sad, sick way. Just the same as he liked it when Rodrick straddled his hips and laid the cold knife on his sternum. He hadn't really kept up with the time, but he knew their mother was waiting for them. And so they had to hurry, mumbling quietly in the dark, only illuminated by the street light that streamed weakly into the van through the back windows.
Rodrick's eyes were warm and watchful, so unlike their usual encounters when the older brother was scowling, venomous and cold. Greg didn't know how he ended up there in that moment, laid out like prey to be gutted and skinned. However crude, it was what he wanted. He couldn't help it. Greg craved the touch of Rodrick more than he craved normality. Suddenly, the knife was in Rodrick's hand again, being opened slowly as he gazed down seductively. Greg wanted to kick him. "Get on with it! Mom's gonna come looking for us," he snarled, wiggling his hips beneath Rodrick. It was hard with all the weight atop him. But it was delicious, slight twinges of pleasure crawling up his spine as he stared in bemusement.
Rodrick's eyes rolled back in agitation, and he swiftly rocked forward as if to show he was getting to it. The knife clicked into place, showing an erect blade that gleamed threatening in the soft lightning. Greg wasn't scared, though. Quite the opposite. And then Rodrick was pushing up his shirt, and running the flat of his warm palm against Greg's small belly. "You're so good for me," Rodrick whispered, almost as if he didn't want Greg to hear. He brought the blade just below the base of his hand, lying it on its side teasingly. "Sweet, innocent Greggy."
Just as Greg went to retort, he felt his skin part like petals. He hissed, hips rising pathetically. It was so sharp, he thought, as it perfectly flayed his flesh. He felt heat bloom like pure morphine in his stomach, lightheaded and on fire. The knife left as quickly as it came, and Rodrick leaned down, transfixed, as his mouth graced the long wound. It wasn't very deep, but he surely drew blood, and in fact, could taste it on his tongue. Greg shivered, grinding upwards into the feeling of Rodrick's hot mouth on his skin. He felt his brother's hand slither up his body, and before he could react, it was covering his mouth. He wanted to question why, but then Rodrick was snaking his tongue deep inside the knife wound and dragging it from end to end, mixing his spit with Greg's blood. Greg squirmed, yelling at the pain and the sickly pleasure that throbbed through him. Rodrick's hand moved, and he sat up again, smirking down at Greg before licking his lips. "If I were a vampire, I'd suck you dry, Greggy," Rodrick said sweetly, and Greg's cheeks went red.
The knife returned, along with Rodrick looming over him. They were face to face then, and Greg suddenly felt small. Vulnerable. He throbbed inside his underwear. He closed his eyes tight when he felt the cool blade press ever so slightly to his throat, not enough to draw blood, but enough for him to moan blindly. Rodrick began his steady, horrible rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth. Just pressing his hips lazily into Greg's like maybe he could do it forever. The world seemed to stop when Rodrick pressed his lips to his ear and murmured, "I could do it. I could slit your throat."