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Within the walls of the hallway, the conversation between them passes in a blur. Vil’s replies are automatic, practiced. He doesn’t care too much for what he says– this conversation matters little in the end.
It’s unsurprising his mind wanders, wherever it must be– Neige LeBlanche was such a dull boy. So sickeningly sweet and simple-minded that it’s beyond numbing to listen to anything he says, and so the only attribute of his worth any money is what Vil bothers to extend his attention towards; it’s a shame that even the harshness of his stage makeup up close does little to disguise the soft beauty of his rival’s face. Round eyes, dimpled cheeks, long lashes.
“Say, Neige,” he says at the sight of those lips. Rosy, virginal. “Are you thirsty at all?”
He is.
It’s cool even through his gloves as he holds the bottle of apple juice out for his rival to take, who accepts it with both of his hands. What little of them left uncovered by the oversized sleeve of his sweater is delicate– nearly too perfect to be anything but sculpture. His eyes linger on the soft outlines of Neige’s knuckles through perfectly pale skin.
He fits his own fingers against his hips before he meets his rival’s kind gaze. “By all means, then. Drink up.”
Hatred lies syrupy and thick in the back of his throat, and seeps onto his tongue despite his best efforts and slows his words to a drawl. He wasn’t quite aware of the extent before– and within a second, it’s clear how heavy his body is with it; tangled around his spine, drawn beneath the line of his fingers, sloshing in his lunges and drowning the organs fit into the cavity of his abdomen. He can feel it tickling his scalp and in between where his eyebrows pinch when his attempt at a pleasant expression sours.
The sudden awareness of his face makes his stomach roll with nausea and everything else that gathers within that seemingly bottomless pit at the thought of himself. People can’t see him, not like this–
“Don’t mind if I do!” Neige replies cheerfully, and it’s grating enough to snap Vil’s attention away from himself. It wasn’t like him to get so distracted. Twice in a row. He watches as the dark-haired boy endearingly presses the bottle against his chest for support, huffs out a breath and unscrews the lid with a joyous ‘pop.’
As he brings the edge of the glass to his lips, Neige’s mouth moves once more; although Vil finds that his ears aren’t assaulted by the awful scratch of his falsetto– a wet slosh drags itself through his canal instead.
It’s a dainty sip he takes before he moves to pull the bottle away, and Vil can’t seem to stop himself as he steps forward to fit his palm against the bottom of the bottle, his other hand reaching out to clasp about the back of Neige’s neck. There’s an indignant noise, far too adorable for the situation at hand, drowned beneath the flow of accursed apple juice.
Neige sputters and his fingers tighten about the class as he tries to pull it away. Apple juice leaks down his chin as if he were a fussy child, the droplets staining the collar of his button down. Vil holds him still as he feeds him the poison, desperate–
Once the glass is nearly empty, Vil removes his hand from the boy’s neck with his own gasp. Neige stumbles backwards on unbalanced legs, tripping over himself, falling backwards onto the ground. The bottle follows suit, shattering upon impact as it joins Neige on the floor, sending a beautiful array of glistening shards across stone.
It seems to take a moment for the action to register to his poor, innocent rival; trimmed, glistening nails and the pads of his dainty fingers press against his trembling lower lip, sticky with juice. His eyes are clouded when they rise to meet Vil. Confusion, mostly– and yet there’s the dawning of fear that only continues to grow.
Expensive white shoes slip desperately through the darkening mess on the floor, little shards of small melting into the bubbling juice, darkening itself into a deep, sickly purple. As they meet eyes, something in Vil’s stare seems to frighten him further– it sends Neige shuffling backwards. It’s a fitting emotion on the boy’s delicate face, wrinkles of his chin and quiver of his bottom lip– that too, darkens from the sheen of poison upon it– truly an exquisite feast for the eyes.
Something bubbles in Vil’s chest at the sight– hatred? Attraction? It feels like something more, now. Tar like, almost. Thick as it slathers his insides, warming itself with everything he feels and thinks.
Spidery fingers climb the length of his face, broad palms fitted to the ugly swell of his cheeks, pulled upwards by muscles to reveal a straight row of pearly teeth. Pretty little painted lips, perfect even without lipstick, stretched into a twisted smile.
Don’t touch your face , his mind whispers beneath the slog of ink collected in his cranium. Yet his clothed fingers press against the bridge of his nose, sliding about the length of his jaw towards his clear forehead. His eyes roll upwards, entirely too enraptured by the watery joy building within his chest. It’s a cruel laugh, truly.
His own name rings clear between the jumble of words of his desperate begging. A simple, straight sound that flicks off the tongue from under the teeth in a motion entirely too perfect to be spoken by the filth beneath him. It’s the name his father gave him, the one that he likes quite well.
It brings his attention down to the boy desperately scrambling away from him, fumbling with his phone in one hand . He can feel the full weight of his expression as it falls, his laughter pittering off into a nasty wheeze before he manages to grind out a, “ Stop it .” that rumbles through the slurry of ick in his chest, the growl of his voice shocking even to his own ears.
Stop what? He doesn’t know. Neige flinches at the sound, and that’s something that– something that manages to sizzle and burn its way into his chest. He feels disgusting. Ugly. Bloated with fat, slippery organs and black sludge and the three slices of apple he managed choked down this morning.
It’s all the validation he needs. One less person to gawk, to judge and to stare, stare, stare– Neige deserves it.
The uncomfortable bob of his Adam’s apple, Neige’s voice drowns in a watery babble, frothy pink sludge spills between his peeling lips. It’s hardly visible beneath a curtain of purple miasma, burning little holes into his smooth, pale skin.
His phone clatters to the floor, the screen smeared with blood. A child-like hand settles at his throat, while another drops to cradle his stomach with unraveling fingers, the tips wearing away beneath the bite of poison. He lets out a pathetic whimper, cloudy eyes lost and tears swelling in the corners of his eyes.
He steps through the doorway.
Neige’s body jolts as a wretched sound rattles through his throat. It sounds entirely unlike him, and it sparks a desperation within Vil once again; he stumbles, his knees hitting the ground with a bruising thump. The sight of his juvenile purple tips mock him as they slide forward, and he barely manages to catch himself with his hands.
His head lulls with the lurch of body, guided by the thrust of his arm, the jut of his shoulder as he crawls towards Neige. All those gooey emotions drag along the underside of his skin, thick. He feels insane– disgusting, disgusting . Ugly.
Those wide eyes seem to overtake the entirety of Neige’s face, cutting through the swell of his overly blushed cheeks. His grotesque reflection haunts his blown pupils as he draws near, all sharp lines and pounds of heavy makeup. He clambers on top of the smaller boy.
He grips the front of Neige’s tacky little sweater vest and wrenches him forward until their noses knock together– his mouth has fallen open, and each desperate breath he draws through his weakening lungs is wet, his throat slowly melting into a roll of liquidy meat. He doesn’t even have the energy to stop himself when he coughs up little dots of his corroding insides across Vil’s face.
Disgust should be his reaction such an action ilicts, and yet– he captures those etching lips into a kiss.
The action shocks him, made even worse as he moans into the corroding mess of his rival’s mouth; that pretty pink tongue is nothing more than a sizzling paste at the bottom of his mouth, and Vil laps it up like a starving dog. The meek of his head does little to deter him,
There’s really no helping himself as he grinds his knee between Neige’s thighs. Vil loosens his hold on his sweater and follows his body to the ground, allowing his hands to roam across the delicate slope of his shoulders, down his chest malleable, loose– his body is hardly holding itself together beneath his clothes, slipping into something a bit more moldable, a bit more tolerable before he’s gone–
He pulls away with delicate, silky threads of ivory skin and deeply uncomfortable splash of blood clinging to his face and settles between Neige’s slender, forcibly spread thighs. They twitch , his shoe scrapes the ground and his right hand weakly curls into a fist. Neige’s breathing has slowed, and only sends another wave of thick, bubbling with purple.
Vil’s gloved finger meets where the sticky gore of his rival's poisoned complexion lingers on his face, slick around the manufactured slope of his nose and swell of his lips. It clings to him and doesn’t quite sear, and it’s such a peculiar sensation. Without guilt, and instead with a cruel smile, he realizes he enjoys this far more than he should.
His gloved hands return to his face, smearing whatever he can of Neige until it slips into every dip and line he tries desperately to hide with makeup and injections. “Mmm…” he moans with an open mouth as it rolls, smooth, about his face as if it were a balm.
He hadn’t even realized he closed his eyes until his eyelids fluttered open, long lashes beating against his cheek. The beautiful sight of exposed gums, slick shade of pink, framed about a line of withering skin is what greets him; watery as it slinks away from teeth and bone, revealing a tease of superficial fat beneath the swirl of poisonous fumes, before that, too, pools into the mess of his face.
Vil can hear the heaviness of his own breath, feel the warmth of it as he pants like a shameless pervert; all that inside of him, dark and wet and terrible, simmers with a delicious heat.
His cock aches at the sight of the purpling of Neige’s skin, little poisonous blooms that spread about what little has not dissolved into itself yet. One eyelid droops while the other flickers, and the whites of his eyes run into the liquid of his sinking cheeks. With so few features left, Neige still manages to look at him like a fish trapped on the shore, far from the tide's reach, awaiting maggots and rot.
It’s all dizzyingly erotic.
He pops the button of his glove, catches the edge in between his teeth to peel the damp fabric free. He brushes that hand beneath the layers of Neige’s clothes, the expensive fabric trickling his skin as it travels down the pale expanse of his flat, ivory stomach. Feels the thinning, sticky skin draped over bone, fingers dipping into each titillating droop between his delicate ribs.
His free hand travels towards his erection, pinned against the crease of his thigh by his constricting uniform. He rubs the hot flesh, and feels the delicious itch of friction, teasing the clothed tip with a stifled groan. He fumbles with his belt, zipper and buttons one-handedly until his desperate cock nearly surges free, and he sighs with sweet relief. It curves proudly towards his stomach, the strikingly dark tip already wet with pre.
As he wraps his gloved hand, slightly damp with the remains of his rival, around the girthy base of his cock, Neige oozes into himself. It’s almost delicate as his skin sinks beneath Vil’s hold, a pale mush that fills the lines of his palm and catches beneath the curve of his long, painted fingernails. He traces his touch along the rapidly receding edge of his body, where it curves into a tight waist.
He strokes himself as he watches the poison etch away Neige’s features into something gruesome, something raw and real– it only serves to excite Vil further, his cock twitching hard in his grasp. The gratification he feels is all encompassing, and even that liquified blight swelling within him feels sinfully pleasant against his boiling insides as he indulges himself in the sight of Neige’s death.
Shameless moans fall from his lips, still wet from earlier. He thumbs at his weeping slit, and feels the flash of pleasure shudder through his body as Neige’s clothes fall loose about his stubborn bones. The rise and fall of his chest has ceased to be, the bulk of his mass now lost in the growing miasmic puddle on the floor.
The smell is a giddy mix of rot, sweet apple juice and acidic poison that sends his stuffy, ugly little head spinning. His hips stutter as he continues to pleasure himself, his broad palm fitted to the underside of his shaft with long, curling fingers about his width. He has to keep himself from tipping his head backwards as his arousal leaps with steady strokes and the sight of his dying rival.
The thighs that once brushed against his own are nearly gone, leaving only tenting fabric over a weak skeletal frame. His pants are wet with all that gathers on the floor, knees firmly pressed into the warm remnants of the former star. It feels good, terribly good; soothes his aching body through the fabric.
Between fingers clothed in black, the shiny head of his cock peaks through. Once a curly mop of healthy, dark hair thins beneath his hat. The stubborn chunks of purpled gore slides free from his bones like melting wax, falling to the floor with a wet splash. It urges him closer to his release, each little splatter of Neige that decorates his clothes.
Even the bones begin to wilt beneath a sizzle of purple smoke. The corrosive apple juice whittles away at them as if they were wood beneath a blade, carving them smaller and smaller until they collapse in on themselves and into the mess on the floor. His hand moves faster and faster, unclouth and desperate.
It’s his ribcage that gives in last. A proud, solitary structure beneath the eroding pile of clothes, each one folding into themselves, dissipating into the poisonous mush. The sight sends a jolt through all his sensitive nerves, sending him closer and closer to the edge. All that muck beneath his skin feels warm, pleasant.
When the last one and the clothes collapse into the pile of ooze, Vil throws his head back– Neige’s name haunts the tip of his tongue, yet all that escapes is a loud, feminine shout. There’s no skull, no hair, and soon even his outfit will dissolve into the floors.
His cum splashes onto the pile that was once Neige LeBlanche in ropes of inky black.