Voice clipped in urgency, beckoning a boy who was away. Not here in your domain. Hand not able to caress that soft, supple, and pink flesh that stretched taut over his facial structure as gaunt as it was from his inadequate care of keeping up his physique. Never taught properly was he, and you wish he were here. You’d fatten that boy up. Give him the delicacies of life. Meat and candy all to one’s desire. Sweets, cakes, and pies.
And we all know how spoiled you are.
“ God, god. Please , god.” as you called for a deity to bring upon the release trapped at the base of your spine, fingers furiously and unrelentingly coiled and pumping until you felt the apples of your fleshy, velvety cheeks light as pink as the sun bleeding into the darkening sky. A breath sucked between teeth and your free hand snaked its way through messy, chocolate brown locks. You couldn’t.
and it was all his fault. that goddamn. strider kid.
Only six years older than you. Twenty-four-years-old and flourishing. Whole life planned out for him! Everything he ever needs or wants, he gets. You knew his brother only handed him the luxuries in life because he feels guilty for neglecting his only kid or some shit. Blah blah, etc. You cannot nor will not care about the tragic Striderean playwright, Dirk Strider, the Boy who Never had it all Until Recently.
And very well your joke could have cracked you up if your fingers weren’t ass deep and another hand gripped over the shaft of your cock in a vice, a hiss puncturing the air hung heavy with humid sex, or what could be if Dirk was in your room right at this given moment. Now bed laden with adolescent hormonal anguish, your sweat rolling off your brow in beads.
It had always been far too hot in this manor for your liking and damn your degenerate uncle and his finicky desire to keep everything uncomfortably warm so he could predate his eyes on his two young custodians who paraded in minimalist clothing. It made you sick.
But never will your mind stray to that thought. Not now and never when he was on your mind.
That grin with teeth perfected by five years of dental work, recently removal of the flaw only to reveal the ivory pearls carefully crafted by a sculptor. Body rigid and svelte, with deliciously fatty areas you wish to sink your teeth into quite literally:
Inner thighs, buttocks, hips? at a possibility.
Breast since you remember clearly that he hadn’t had top surgery yet, but that was a non-issue. He has been on that curative miracle injection since he were sixteen. He is already unmistakingly male and even if he did happen to share the biological makeup of the majority of the gender you despised, he was not like them. He’s a man.
He’s your man .
You’ll fucking digest him, one kiss at a time.
He’ll cry when you pin him to the wall by his throat and whisk away those tears with the tip of your tongue, you shall.
“Ahh… D-Dirk. God -” so lewd was your begging, only doing nothing to stop the consistent need to reach the peak of. nirvana.
“- Cali?” fuck.
Fuck. Why of… why of all times? Frozen in time, weightless and incorporeal at once before that heavy reality of dissociation settled in. Not for a defensive upbringing based on a traumatic or anxiety-inducing event, no.
For the fact that your goddamn bitch of a sister couldn’t wait thirty more minutes with harsh news that turned your stomach to acid and caused your tongue to split, teeth to elongate where fangs were needle sharp. A pit at the base of your tongue and how in this moment, you wish your body would transform so you could just end her pathetic, menial life.
And so god help her, if she interrupts one more wank session, you’d see to it.
“Cali, father needs you to come here for a moment before he leaves again for another trip. We’re going to be supervised by Dr. Scratch again for -- erm. For the fact that you bloody well know you can’t behave for five moments even if your life depended on it.” said she, and normally it wouldn’t bother you, but the comment was a razor straight down your dick and your hand released control. Boner instantaneously killed and clothes jerked on as you stamped into her irritating presence.
Aura of holier-than-thou radiating off her like the sticky, muggy heat of the summer’s sun baking tar.
So be it, Dirk Strider. One day you will be his and one day this nuisant little mistake of a sister will be dead.
You swear on his grave and all those incompetent retarded failures who so happened to hold the title of friendship.