In a way, Randall’s almost glad you died. You can’t sing to him to calm him down anymore, but you’re still physically here. He doesn’t have to worry about something happening, and loosing you, in any form of the word. Even your death was something done by his hand. Something incredibly intimate between the two of you that he’ll treasure forever.
Your limbs are cold as they hold him, but if you were alive, if you were alive, there’s no way you’d hold him like this. No way Randall could get the courage to ask you to hold him. Still you’re squishy like this, despite the rigamortis having already set in, thanks to the beginnings of decay and decomposition taking hold of your unliving flesh.
Soft. Squishy. Cold.
Randall’s almost glad you’re dead. There’s no way you’d not be creeped out by him, by the hardness pressing into your thigh, bucking against you at just the contact. There’s no way you’d let him cup your face in his hands, and press your lips to his.
Like this you can’t kiss back, but you can’t reject him either.
And that’s just fine.
Soon just kissing isn’t enough. He’s humping against your leg like a dog in heat, and his face is a violent shade of red.
The eyes in your skull have long since sunken in, the texture of your skin like wax. Randall pins you to his bed, crawls over top you, and returns to kissing at your unresponsive lips.
He wishes your eyes had lasted longer. They were so pretty and he-
He’d always liked your eyes.
The idea he gets, makes his stomach flop in anticipation. It’s gross, but his cock is even harder than before, and it’s not like you can judge him now.
It’s slick, and cold around him. It makes him think of putting his cock in jello, and he can only breathe in panicked little huffs from the pleasure.
If you were alive he couldn’t do this-
If you were alive, the two of you wouldn’t be so close-
He’s gentle at first. He loves you, wants to preserve you. Randall doesn’t want to do anything to hurt you, though the angry red slashes upon your throat tell a different story.
But Randall can’t help but to get faster, and rougher. It feels so good to be inside you, and the wet churning of the liquid, all that’s left of your sunken eyes, presses him on faster and faster.
It doesn’t take him long to cum. The excitement, the taboo, it’s too much for him.
He stills, as deep into your skull as he can be, balls resting against your check bone as he releases deep into your eye socket, cum possibly tainting the rotting meat of your brain.