His Favorite Wordscontrary_izybelJanuary 22 2012, 00:47:06 UTC
They called him many things. Filthy, disgusting things that made his face burn like fire even when he was busy putting his mouth to work on more interesting endeavors than worrying about little things like modesty. They would call him beautiful and passionate and horrible things while pulling at his hair or holding him so tight he’d bruise. They would gasp out words he’d never heard before until he had quite a vocabulary. They would moan, pressing him against alley walls while calling him “slut” and “whore” and “vixen.”
They called him many things and none of them upset him.
Well, all but one.
“Hey, baby brother. Where you off to?”
And Oliver would ignore Dodger’s raised brow, he could manage it better than anyone else he knew, and would focus on the street. He’d focus on finding something fun in the city that never slept, never stopped. He would find someone like Roscoe, always waiting outside his step-father’s apartment with cigarettes he’d stolen from the gas station two blocks over. Sometimes DeSoto would be there too, all growls and grunts and angry stares. DeSoto wasn’t nearly as fun as his step brother but he certainly knew enough of Oliver’s favorite words to be worth the time.
Sometimes it would be DeSoto, pressing him into his bed with such strength Oliver knew, just knew, he’d never walk again. And between bites and thrusts and friction so painful he would almost die DeSoto would be there with his words. They tethered him to the ground when he was breathless and a million miles into the sky. They would chain him to DeSoto’s touches.
“Fucking slut. Fucking needy little slut, aren’t you? Don’t you need it you filthy bitch? Say it. Tell me how much you need me.”
And he would, not because Oliver really needed DeSoto but because it was what DeSoto needed to hear. Just like Roscoe needed someone who would beg and plead and scream for it, usually in the back seat of his step-father’s ridiculously expensive car. Roscoe wasn’t as predictable as DeSoto, and Oliver had to fight to get the words he craved when they were together. He had to fight with nails and teeth and moans. But it was worth it.
“Oh kitten. Beautiful, sexy kitten. Go on, tell me what you want. Tell me baby.”
Roscoe was unpredictable. Sometimes he wouldn’t wait to get inside. Just there on the step, usually with DeSoto watching from the shadows of the porch. Sometimes he would just pull Oliver into an alley, or a bathroom before Roscoe had been expelled. But if Oliver tried hard enough he could get those words he craved so much.
“Tell us what you want, slut.”
“Be nicer to the poor kitten. You’ll scare him.”
No, they really wouldn’t. They would never manage to scare him away as long as they gave him those words. Those filthy, disgusting, and beautiful words that his Dodger just wouldn’t give him.
“Hey shrimp, you’re home late. Get into trouble?”
“Nah, just walking. I see Tito stole my blankets again.”
“Share with me. What’s that on your neck?”
“Those Skye boys got me a while ago. Don’t worry, I got away quick enough.”
“Want me to talk to them, kid?”
“Nah. I can handle them.”
“Alright. Night little brother.”
And curled in Dodger’s warm arms Oliver would bite his lip, hating those damn words and hating Dodger and loving him and knowing that tomorrow he’d be right back to the Skye boys. They would give him the words he needed until Dodger could finally figure out what his little brother had become. And besides, Oliver didn’t mind waiting for Dodger. He was having plenty of fun in the meanwhile.
I'm...speechless and kinda stuck between "Aw, poor Oliver! ;A;" and "Stupid Dodger! Thought you were smart enough to realize what's going on!" and "Holy sh--that's hot."
Anyway, thank you SO much for filling this prompt and I'm so sorry that I didn't comment sooner and that I can't give you any detailed comment (critisism and stuff) as I can't write to save my life. :/
They called him many things and none of them upset him.
Well, all but one.
“Hey, baby brother. Where you off to?”
And Oliver would ignore Dodger’s raised brow, he could manage it better than anyone else he knew, and would focus on the street. He’d focus on finding something fun in the city that never slept, never stopped. He would find someone like Roscoe, always waiting outside his step-father’s apartment with cigarettes he’d stolen from the gas station two blocks over. Sometimes DeSoto would be there too, all growls and grunts and angry stares. DeSoto wasn’t nearly as fun as his step brother but he certainly knew enough of Oliver’s favorite words to be worth the time.
Sometimes it would be DeSoto, pressing him into his bed with such strength Oliver knew, just knew, he’d never walk again. And between bites and thrusts and friction so painful he would almost die DeSoto would be there with his words. They tethered him to the ground when he was breathless and a million miles into the sky. They would chain him to DeSoto’s touches.
“Fucking slut. Fucking needy little slut, aren’t you? Don’t you need it you filthy bitch? Say it. Tell me how much you need me.”
And he would, not because Oliver really needed DeSoto but because it was what DeSoto needed to hear. Just like Roscoe needed someone who would beg and plead and scream for it, usually in the back seat of his step-father’s ridiculously expensive car. Roscoe wasn’t as predictable as DeSoto, and Oliver had to fight to get the words he craved when they were together. He had to fight with nails and teeth and moans. But it was worth it.
“Oh kitten. Beautiful, sexy kitten. Go on, tell me what you want. Tell me baby.”
Roscoe was unpredictable. Sometimes he wouldn’t wait to get inside. Just there on the step, usually with DeSoto watching from the shadows of the porch. Sometimes he would just pull Oliver into an alley, or a bathroom before Roscoe had been expelled. But if Oliver tried hard enough he could get those words he craved so much.
“Tell us what you want, slut.”
“Be nicer to the poor kitten. You’ll scare him.”
No, they really wouldn’t. They would never manage to scare him away as long as they gave him those words. Those filthy, disgusting, and beautiful words that his Dodger just wouldn’t give him.
“Hey shrimp, you’re home late. Get into trouble?”
“Nah, just walking. I see Tito stole my blankets again.”
“Share with me. What’s that on your neck?”
“Those Skye boys got me a while ago. Don’t worry, I got away quick enough.”
“Want me to talk to them, kid?”
“Nah. I can handle them.”
“Alright. Night little brother.”
And curled in Dodger’s warm arms Oliver would bite his lip, hating those damn words and hating Dodger and loving him and knowing that tomorrow he’d be right back to the Skye boys. They would give him the words he needed until Dodger could finally figure out what his little brother had become. And besides, Oliver didn’t mind waiting for Dodger. He was having plenty of fun in the meanwhile.
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Anyway, thank you SO much for filling this prompt and I'm so sorry that I didn't comment sooner and that I can't give you any detailed comment (critisism and stuff) as I can't write to save my life. :/
Thank you again! X3
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Again, I'm so glad you liked it! o3o
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