Original Ficlet
Title: Little Boy
Fandom: Original Characters
Rating: R
He is soft. So, so soft and so incredibly, sweetly accommodating. No matter how many tears he sheds initially, in the end, his performance is always flawless. I could spend hours, days cataloguing every tempting little nuance of his body. His soft mouth, his skin - so pale that I can see the tiny network of veins just beneath - his wrist bones that feel like twigs under parchment. Not old enough to have outgrown all the angles of planes of youth, he is perfection to me. He should have been off-limits - should have never been mine - but that’s not how things ended up. He was a lost boy, a forgotten child - and so he sought comfort where he could. I never considered turning him away. If the truth were to be known, I pursued him relentlessly. If you ask him about it, he’ll probably tell you that I force him, but he doesn’t really mean it.
That is not to say that he hasn’t told me ‘no’ on more than one occasion, because, honestly, I’ve lost count of all the times he’s tried to refuse. Still and all - no matter what innocent, pleading words cross his lips, those traitorous eyes of his always give him away. He will curse me with his very last gasp, even as his eyes roll back and his hands curl into fists, tangling in the bedsheets.
He will spread his legs and arch his back and all the while, he will cry and claw at me, tell me how much he hates me, how he’s going to kill me one day. That’s when I grip his thighs and push back until he’s resting on his shoulders and I give him what he’s really crying for.
That’s when he comes the hardest.
Sometimes I hurt him, simply because he seems to need it so badly. Or perhaps I have no self-control and would use any excuse to justify what I’m doing. I rationalize that it really doesn’t matter. How important can it be when he clings so sweetly to me when I hold him down and fuck him hard. I ride him much harder than he can probably stand - I’ve watched him bite his own lips so hard that he draws blood, but then I always notice the hungry, desperate way his tongue darts out to get every single drop.
He likes it when I mark him - he likes it when I bruise his skin. He makes the sweetest noises when I bite his nipples and he pouts when I stop before he’s through. And he does it all while his tears are still drying on his cheeks.
He’s always silent afterwards, as though the expectant silence is a prelude to something more profound - something more real.
What I can’t tell him, and what he’ll have to learn on his own, is that it doesn’t get any more real than this. Wrong or right, he belongs to me and there is nothing that I wouldn’t sacrifice to keep it that way. In return for his youth, for his innocence, I’ll teach him what he needs to know.
I don’t think he’d have it any other way.
Fandom: Original Characters
Rating: R
He is soft. So, so soft and so incredibly, sweetly accommodating. No matter how many tears he sheds initially, in the end, his performance is always flawless. I could spend hours, days cataloguing every tempting little nuance of his body. His soft mouth, his skin - so pale that I can see the tiny network of veins just beneath - his wrist bones that feel like twigs under parchment. Not old enough to have outgrown all the angles of planes of youth, he is perfection to me. He should have been off-limits - should have never been mine - but that’s not how things ended up. He was a lost boy, a forgotten child - and so he sought comfort where he could. I never considered turning him away. If the truth were to be known, I pursued him relentlessly. If you ask him about it, he’ll probably tell you that I force him, but he doesn’t really mean it.
That is not to say that he hasn’t told me ‘no’ on more than one occasion, because, honestly, I’ve lost count of all the times he’s tried to refuse. Still and all - no matter what innocent, pleading words cross his lips, those traitorous eyes of his always give him away. He will curse me with his very last gasp, even as his eyes roll back and his hands curl into fists, tangling in the bedsheets.
He will spread his legs and arch his back and all the while, he will cry and claw at me, tell me how much he hates me, how he’s going to kill me one day. That’s when I grip his thighs and push back until he’s resting on his shoulders and I give him what he’s really crying for.
That’s when he comes the hardest.
Sometimes I hurt him, simply because he seems to need it so badly. Or perhaps I have no self-control and would use any excuse to justify what I’m doing. I rationalize that it really doesn’t matter. How important can it be when he clings so sweetly to me when I hold him down and fuck him hard. I ride him much harder than he can probably stand - I’ve watched him bite his own lips so hard that he draws blood, but then I always notice the hungry, desperate way his tongue darts out to get every single drop.
He likes it when I mark him - he likes it when I bruise his skin. He makes the sweetest noises when I bite his nipples and he pouts when I stop before he’s through. And he does it all while his tears are still drying on his cheeks.
He’s always silent afterwards, as though the expectant silence is a prelude to something more profound - something more real.
What I can’t tell him, and what he’ll have to learn on his own, is that it doesn’t get any more real than this. Wrong or right, he belongs to me and there is nothing that I wouldn’t sacrifice to keep it that way. In return for his youth, for his innocence, I’ll teach him what he needs to know.
I don’t think he’d have it any other way.