2-D:
You're still shaking as you hear his footsteps fade into the distance. Soon, it becomes unbearably quiet and you pull out the small lighter from your back pocket, flicking it on and running your fingers back and forth through the flames. You contemplate what might happen if you just allow them to hover directly over the flame but decide against finding out. Slowly, you get up—your feet are a bit shaky from all the emotions, but you cross your arms firmly in front of your chest, pulling the hood of your jacket over your head to detach yourself from the outside world. As you arrive at your room, you turn the loose gold handle and kick it open gently with your shoe, a few flecks of white paint chipping off and fluttering to the ground soundlessly.
It's cold, so you decide to take a bath to defrost what feels like the cold, dead flesh of your imperfect being. Stepping into the bathroom, you kick off your red Converse, then sit down on the closed toilet lid to remove your socks, letting them fall balled-up to the cold tile floor. A mute sigh escapes your lips as you tug the sleeves of your jacket, slouching it off. You inspect the dried bloodstain on the sleeve, standing up and walking toward the sink, to whose constant dripping you have become steadily habituated. You turn on the water, allowing it to soak the offending spot of the sleeve, and taking a few pumps of soap, you get to work on removing the stain. The water is cold against your skin, making your fingers numb while you scrub absentmindedly. After a while, a slight tint remains, but you decide to call it good, turning off the water and wringing out the sleeve. After draping the jacket over the toilet seat for drying purposes, you continue stripping off your clothes.
Gingerly, you pull your shirt up over your head, tossing it to the floor and glancing in the cracked mirror of the medicine cabinet. The bruise you earned earlier has deepened to a sickly greenish purple, and is tender even to the slightest touch. Recalling your initial purpose for being in the restroom, you saunter over to the tub, turning on the hot water with a creak, holding your hand under the stream. At first, the water is cold, but slowly begins warming up and you proceed to finish undressing. Fumbling a bit with the belt, you undo it, remove your trousers, and they fall to the floor with a jarring "clink" as the belt buckle makes contact with the soulless tile. This causes you to flinch a bit. And this where you pause. Both now and always while undergoing this ordeal. Your fingers find their way to the edge of the bandages biding your chest, flirting with the tan fabric, and finally finding its edge tucked expertly and securely. As it is freed, you bandage begins to unwind eagerly, and you help it along, winding it into a tight ball for safe keeping. The skin below is pink and irritated, a fibrous pattern etched into the tender flesh. Your mind is screaming as the bandage separates from your skin, exposing your flawed body cruelly to no one other than yourself. If only you could have a chest like all the other guys. But it seems that no matter how much you bind, those feminine features of your anatomy won't disappear. You've even tried praying, alas all to naught.
You take care of the rest quickly, unwilling to acknowledge the dirty secret hidden from the public sphere. You drop your underwear to the floor, stepping out of it and sinking into the warm solace of the tub. Reaching for the bubble bath, the bottle is slippery and escapes your grasp, plunging into the depths of the bathwater. You fish it out, squirting a bit into the water and as it continues to fill the tub, bubbles overtake the surface, until you are hidden beneath their thick, foamy layer. Turning off the water, you sink back into the warm water, allowing your body to relax as much as possible. Closing your eyes, you gently touch the bruised spot on your side, teeth clenching a bit and one tear slowly rolling down your cheek. Your mind begins to wander. To Murdoc. And how he must never know about your condition. Running your fingers up and down your chest, you trace the curves that ought not be there at all, flitting over your sides, stomach and nipples. Your eyes remain closed, as one hand finds its way between your legs, quickly drawing back. You begin to feel tension returning and you quickly get up out of the tub, reaching desperately for the towel and dry yourself off hurriedly. The stark cold of the room's air shocks your skin, causing goosepimples, as your scramble into your underwear and reach for the bandages. With little conscious effort, you begin winding the fabric around and around your chest as tightly as possible, immediately restricting the proper function of your lungs. When you finish, you pull your shirt back on and walk out of the bathroom, climbing onto the couch. It's cold as your lower half still lacks trousers, but you don't care, curling up in yourself, the still-damp skin making contact with the ratty, deformed upholstery.
You wish he was here. And just like that, you're asleep again.
/
He walks in on you as you're freshening up, wrapping his strong arms around your tiny frame as your breath hitches from both worry and excitement. His hands begin groping your chest and you try to pull away, but then realize you're in a different body. One of an anatomically-correct male. And so you take a deep breath, grinning to yourself as his hands wander under your shirt caressing the tiny fleshy nubs of your nipples. You let out a stifled moan, pushing back against him eagerly, and he reciprocates, slowly grinding his hardening erection against your backside and running his long tongue over your neck. He bites down on the tender, translucent skin, summoning a bruise as you moan louder, mouth falling open as you reach forward to steady yourself against the sink. You feel a warm sensation building in your lower regions as he raises one hand to your mouth, pushing two of his long, bony fingers into your mouth. Your lips close around them eagerly, and your tongue snakes around the digits as you begin to suck slowly. He grinds against you increasingly, his other hand switching from its position on your chest down to the waistband of your trousers. They feel incredibly tight as he unhooks your belt, sliding the zipper down with ease. Then you feel a hand on your cheek. "Stu…" he says.
"Stu…"
"Ey, Faceache!"
Your eyes fly open. You look down. You're fully clothed and he's standing over you. Your heart leaps as you jolt up instinctively brushing his hand away and shielding your face.
It was a dream.
But this isn't. And you're sitting in front of him in your underwear.
Hope you are all enjoying this~ hopefully will have another chapter done by tonight so you get more of Murdoc's POV. Read and review, as always!