Dancing Bruises.

Pete held up Frankie's pearly body with dazed arms and a drunken stumbling torso; he just held him up and crushed lips with the puppet boy in a first kiss that will give birth to others as they go on.
First sign of chaos: a first punch, a busted condom and morning sickness.

And Pete realized he just impregnated this relationship.

They're both perched against a highlighted wall and Frankie has his little toothpick legs wrapped around Pete's intoxicated middle and he's just aching for another touch. He's falling into this kiss and he doesn't want to get up again; he wants to choke between those lips and in this kiss. Die like no-one did before.

Pete's kissing Frankie like he's trying to dig up all his crippled demons and the searing hot reasons he's kissing Frankie for; the wolf impregnating the lamb to eat the embryo.
They're still glued to each other and it's a mental massacre. It's a bloody beating minus and the guts and the hate, instead, it just wears them down. It's the invisible internal bleeding that they won't dare show to anyone.

This is like the second night, only more physical and he's not the only one with the bulge.
He's holding onto Frankie's wrapped legs and letting the younger man's pearly hand feel him all over and cling to his very existence; a paperclip-thin little tiger who's fighting his way to what he wants in a forest of what he needs.

I'll give you what you want if you tell me what I need. Pete's head is throbbing with words and his body's throbbing with lust in contrast to his touch that shrilled with guilt. Can Frankie taste it yet?
Can he taste the bitterness and artificial candy-sweet concern?

Lithe hands roamed under his clothing and over his bones with Frankie's fire-hot lips invaded his neck. Nothing's happened yet, Wentz. You can still abort this; you can still kill this miscreation before it's alive. The cat never had a chance, you do.
But Frankie's lips are digging into him now; he's being poisoned by this little disaster who's slipping into his brain. All that's on his mind is get him on his back, get him on his knees, get into and break this pretty boy.

It's a mental massacre where necrophilia isn't out of the question. It's a movie played backwards where the reel pukes out all the edited grotesque actresses and their far than unique characters. And they were just more hatable than unique characters who're naked right now; even more than they were without their clothes.
They're two real unreal people who're too selfish to let go of what they want. Pete and Frankie can see what kind of character the other is. The first was the obsessed boy who was too much of a coward all of his life but when it comes to what he wants he'd jump mountains and drown himself in oceans of flames and sizzling pain; and Frankie's his polluted obsession this time. While the second one was the boy with the broken veins and complexes. When everyone calls themselves the antichrist, he stands out and becomes Santa Clause; just a bit more fucked up and used. Makes himself better by making everyone smile in his own way; it's not as selfless as you think, though. He's making cuts over his ego and letting all those boys and girls suck out the venom and enjoy it. At first sight, he's a leech. At last blink, he's a snake.

They're half naked now, clothes-wise, and Frankie's feet are back on the ground now but he's still high with arms over Pete's neck. Wanting those imaginary tattooed thorns to pierce his tiny arms to bit, perhaps?

Now Frankie's arms are sliding down as his fingers stagger towards Pete's belt; he's teasing and pulling at every small piece of attention he could get; and he starts losing a little bit of himself along the way every time this tape rolls.

"Let's..." Pete's breathless but he's trying to break his chained shallow moans into words just for Frankie's ears, "Just stick to above the waist, okay?"

The fuck? Frankie's liquid greens are bubbling with frustration, hurt and pure anger.

He was fucking livid.

No-one leaves Frankie intact; that was worse than twisting an arm to the breaking point and letting go, worse than an unfinished orgasm and a headless corpse flinching and squirting red life all over the place.

If you had the balls you'd do it.

Pete was terrified; plain and simple. He had this sinking feeling down at the pit of his stomach; like when you swallow a gallon of blood and you just can't puke it all up because of how good and sick it tastes.

His brain is falling apart under dancing boy's gaze and he's getting rid of every last bit of guilt through his pores and breaths.
But Frankie's fingers are just too fucking painful; grazing and digging into his skin, just like his acid green eyes now.
Frankie's fingers are sneaking beneath the belt loops and touching hidden skin now and Pete's just speechless as his own fingers start to slide away from the other boy.

Frankie's brain just worked his body on autopilot while he's registering all this hurt and anger; his gray-matter is bubbling like wax on Venus. Emotional meltdown might explain all the tears on Pete's clothes. Frankie felt like his bruises were all cracking and spilling lava as he paved his way through Pete's boxers; it would've felt better drinking kerosene; all the way to the point of flaming his own piss and insides.
He wouldn't have felt more fucked up than he did now.

Pete's just watching him without a word, lips hesitant to speak between every breath. Frankie stopped listening to him. his thoughts are crashing and canceling each other out as Frankie's hand tightens around him through the frail fabric of his underwear.

Fuck.
This relationship's just about to give birth.

And labor's a bitch, Wentz.