My brother enters the room. My silence worries him. I can see this in his gaze as he sizes me up, and I can sense the rages and amorous passions that are building up inside of his frame. I smile with my fangs tucked away behind the curtain of juicy red that is my mouth. He need not find out about those just yet.
He whips off his tailcoat and struts towards me. Only with me can my beloved brother ever strut, in true peacock style, unbuttoning his shirt to expose his pale, shivering chest.
I love him. I truly do. I embrace every part of him: his bony wrists, his fragile pelvis rotating tenderly against mine, the bones that jut out of his ribcage like long straight razors. And as he plummets into me, I let my head sink back in half-fake bliss, and I grunt the way I sense he wants me to, and I toss my blood red hair, and I look into the hollows of his eyes. There is emptiness inside, and a need to feel secure, and a loathing for me that gives him strength to carry himself, and an excitement which I cannot share. I close my eyes and think of that sparkly-coated red-head, her glittering eyes as black as midnight, her mouth, her tongue that is always on the go, her skin, her thighs, her breasts. I get myself excited just thinking about her, and at last I am able to scream orgasmically.