(Character pictured from Kizuna manga, not mine, character created and mentioned, as well as story situations, are copyright to me. WARNING! This story contains YAOI..mxm relations. You have been warned.)
\The body hovering over him shudders, muscles clenching and releasing in one mad torrent of desire, fingers digging bruisingly hard into pale little arms, pounding heated flesh to cold flesh, covered in that gentle matting of sweat, a sweat that covers both bodies, hot on one, cold on the other. Drugs haze the mind, the man’s face is a blur, all he is...a strong body with a roof over his head, that is the important part, the roof. He’s vaguely aware of something, some sort of feeling between his legs...ah, that must be the other man, he’s been thrusting like that for a while, and through the haze, this little one feels nothing but the pounding of hips to hips, the sliding of chest along perspiration slickened chest. Dimly aware of voice, dark and husky, whispering obscene words into his little ear, even as the body collapses, spent atop this form that should have been far too weak to bear the burdon. The same drugs, however, that provide the numbness to pleasure, also provide a numbness to pain, and burden is bore, with nary a complaint. It was not his place to complain. It was not his place to fume, or rage, or even speak. He did not feel, he did not speak. He merely lay there, and let himself be taken.. in return for only two things. Money... money for the drugs that would shut the world out and away, the drugs that would keep him sane, to the degree he thought, give him the strength to move on. And then there was the roof, the roof over his head, for just one night he would sleep here, in the warmth and comfort of a drudgy downtown apartment, this little buiding with the moldy walls and cracked ceilings. This little place with the ivy growing all over, and on the inside, with pitiful excuses for beds, but anything was better than the sidewalk again. “You’re a tight little piece of ass, y’know that?” Silence. He didn’t need to respond. They didn’t pay him for conversation. “Not a talker, huh? You don’t even make noise while I fuck you, you’re like screwing a cold fish.” He remembered when the words hurt. How many years ago had it been when they had gotten to him, when he’d protested...when he’d cried? But they didn’t hurt anymore, the drugs helped with that. They made the pain easier to bear, they flushed the hurt from his system for the hours he spent... countelss hours stoned to numbness. He’s barely aware that the man over him has rolled onto his side, off of the smaller form beneath him, to lay to his side, and on his back, keeping a distance from the boy he’d just taken that suggested his displeasure with the evening. “If I hadn’t already promised to let you stay here tonight, I’d have fucking sent you out the door, y’know.” Again the man’s response is a silence that only this boy can give to those who ‘conquer’ him nightly. The look on his face at one time, at earlier points in his life, might have housed sadness and pain or some other such emotion. It used to appeal to the people he’d been appointed to ‘entertain.’ But now the face... the expression is completely void of all emotion, if one could even call it an expression at all. He remained, his back still firmly placed against the ratty blankets, head leaning back, pilling locks of filthy, matted auburn over the dirty white-ish pillowcase, and looking at the dusting cracks in the ceiling. Little bits and pieces of old plaster falling every now and again onto his pert nose, adding to the dust and dirt and grime already adorning his otherwise fine features. “Bah. You’re dead you know. Like fucking a corpse or something. You’re such a pretty little thing, or you might be if you let yourself fucking... speak..or look alive.” They never understood him, never understood the reasons he was so cold. Why it was laughable to think that he could look alive. His face was pale. He was skinny and pale, almost sickly to some people... a pitiful excuse for a human being, even he could not see what it was that people found attractive in him. But he wasn’t going to complain there, either, anything was better than the noisiness, and their money was most certainly a welcome exchange for his body. His body was worthless to him anyway. It was just a means to an end. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ His little violet eyes...with dialated pupils woke the next day.. and already he was on the sidewalk outside of the building. How many hours he’d been curled up there, he didn’t know..but he was alone, again... and his solitude..and now achingly sober mind, already begun its attack. With the flood of pain inflicted upon him the night before, relentless poinding and harsh words. The numbing effects of alcohol and heroine no longer his safehaven, naked on the walk, his clothes tossed out and laying next to him. Now it was time to cry.... silent tears streaming down his cheeks, burning like acidic rain... in torrents over pallid, soft flesh. Streaking clean lines through mud caked face, and he was all alone again. Alone... alone and sobbing, taking clothing into slender, little boyish fingers, pulling them close and covering up his form, his small frame, as though to sheild it from the view of lecherous passers by. But then, he knows all too well...what’s the point? He’s filthy, on the inside and on the out, ravashed by more people, men...women, anyone with a sick enough domination complex to offer a roof and some needle money in exchange for a dirty little boy, a dirty little creature’s body for just one night. He didn’t know why they wanted him, he was numb to it all, he was numb to himself, he felt no pleasure, he felt no pain.. he was so drugged up and drunk most of the time, that was the only way! It was the only way to keep himself sane. But as long as they had money, he’d go with them, and let them have their way.