a hiddlesworth ficlet
i am currently stuck with my word association game ficlets (please keep sending me words though!) so i rummaged through my writing file to post something old and unpublished. and guess what i found? a hiddlesworth lolita au. this was the first part to the several short ones i wrote for this au. no names are mentioned for this one, so please feel free to choose either tom/chris as the older/younger character. that’s the whole fun of it! and of course, both so very delicious to picture inside our heads. yiss (if i decide to never post the other parts, i guess you would never know muahahahaha)
also i have an actual title for this ficlet waaaaaat!!!! don’t judge me its way past my bedtime okay
His mind is scattered. His eyes are on the newspapers. About politics. About the war. About gossips. About the good and bad. The clean and dirty. The right and wrong. What is right? What is normal? His mind is scattered. Then the boy enters. His tank is tight on him showing every outline of his youthful body. When he breathes in and out, he can see the shape of his ribs appearing and disappearing. His shorts are hung low on his waist. Too low. Too tight. Too much.
Now his mind isn’t so scattered. His mind focuses on one thing and one thing only. The boy. The boy who sits next to him so carelessly. Careless of him sitting peacefully on the sofa already. But no, his mind is everything but peaceful. The light shines through the windows. The warm summer light. The boy is restless. He moves and shuffles. The sweat shimmers. On his forehead. On his neck. On his bare arms. His legs.
The boy plays with his red apple. The apple is thrown high in the air and lands on his yet small and sweaty hand. His eyes follow the movement. The movement of the apple, not the red apple, but the boy’s apple. How as the boy’s face tilt up, his Adam’s apple becomes more plain to see. How he wants to dig his teeth on his neck and leave his mark on him. Leave his mark everywhere.
The careless boy glances at him as he continues to play with his apple. He grabs the apple mid air before the boy can grab it. The boy quickly reaches for his apple, but he’s quicker. He’s older. He’s faster and stronger. There is a momentary struggle. A playful one. A flirty one. A dangerous one. A wrong one. But what is right? What is normal?
As he pulls his arm behind his back to hide the red apple, the boy jumps on top of him. He feels the heat resonate from the thin fabric and his eyes shake in pleasure. The boy’s slippery, glimmering skin slides off his. The too loose shorts slipping down just a bit more. Just a bit more enough for him to see the happy trail. The trail not yet complete. He’s still young. He’s still so young! He raises his knee intentionally, unintentionally, to graze the boy’s cock. He’s young. Sensitive to everything. Every touch. Every breath.
He loses control for a split second and the apple is back on the boy’s hand. His sweaty hand. His sweat is on him. The heat is shared. The boy giggles and bites into the red apple. The juice trickles down his lips. To his chin. To his neck. The boy’s eyes never leave as he wipes the juice with the back of his hand. He licks the juice, already sticky on his hand, slowly with his tongue. Swirling. Smiling. He lowers his eyes. He’s hard. The boy’s hard.