100 Tales of SuBtext
Once upon a time, I couldn't write decent yaoi pr0n-ness, and so I've practiced. A lot.
My girlfriend said she'd beat me with a wok if I didn't post any of the one shots I write to amuse her while not paying attention in history.
My math class is where most get written.
Anyways, this is pretty much going to be a mass collection of all the random yaoi one shots I write, since posting them individually would be annoying. For the most part, the characters will be in the late teens-early twenties age group (although probably more teens then anything ::sweatdrop:: ), and all will have some sort of sex included. They're will probably be, at some point, varying incest, bondage, three-and-up-some-s, non-con, cross dressing, stalking, sadists, masochists, blood, shota and so on, but everything will be marked for the readers connivance, and no two characters will be used twice (their names, maybe, but not the character…). Hopefully, I'll post something every month…
I think that's all…
ONWARD! To the feature presentation.
The First Tale: The Trailer
Date completed: 4/23/07
Summary: Meet Daniel, collage sophomore working at a small convenience store during the summer just across the street from a trailer park. Now meet Zareh, high school senior who lives in said trailer park. The poor boy admits to the other his biggest problem and shows him his pride and joy, then gets shown some love. And, of course, there's Nate, Daniels weird roommate who always knew Daniel was gay.
Warnings: mentions of child abuse, maleXmale sex, cursing, and sadomasochism (WEE! Rough secks::heart:: ).
I don't know why I started watching him at the beginning of summer. Classes for me had ended a week before his did and I had gotten a job at a gas station convenience store across the street from a trailer park. His lanky form slumped down the road from the corner where his bus stopped and his semi long, dirty blond hair almost covered a purple bruise along his jaw. I just happened to look up as he was walking by. There was something intriguing about him.
He jogged across the street, slid through a broken board in the fence after chucking his bag over it, and climbed through a window. I wondered why he didn't just go through the door.
There was a bit of yelling; I couldn't make out any words and I couldn't tell if it was from the trailer he entered or another. A minute or so after it stopped, he jumped out the window again. I had to pull my eyes away to service a customer, one of the few all day. He came in just after the other left. I noticed his lip was bleeding and I think he was crying.
He spent about twenty minutes browsing before coming to me to pay. He bought a soda and some candy and paid entirely in dimes and nickels.
"I'm really sorry," he said with a slight giggle, "but I couldn't find any bills."
"It's fine. Actually, it gives me something to do. This is an unbelievably boring job," I replied. He smiled and laughed. I got the impression he didn't laugh much. He seemed reluctant when he turned to leave. I bit my lip then thought, what the hell, it couldn't hurt.
"Why don't you hang out here for a little? I could use the company," I said casually. He visibly relaxed before shrugging. I don't think he wanted to go home.
"Why not?" he replied, "I don't have anything better to do."
I held out my hand to shake. "My name's Daniel."
He took it. "Zareh."
I was stunned. He had such a beautiful name, so unique and just… I had no words to describe it, and I told him so. He flushed a bright red and covered his face with a hand.
"It's Armenian. My mother gave it to me."
"It's gorgeous. I wish I had a name even half that pretty," I pouted comically. Zareh continued to blush and leaned on the counter.
"Taniel," he murmured.
"Your name is Taniel in Armenian. My mother told me that. She could speak it fluently. It was really pretty."
We talked for a couple of hours before my shift was over. We got along really well.
I watched as he climbed through his window again before I left the parking lot in my car. I could have sworn I heard a muffled scream as I turned onto the street.
Zareh came to the store every day after school, I learned, to get a soda and candy, the same thing every day. He used his lunch money most days. I felt really bad for him yesterday, Thursday, when he came in. I had watched as he emptied the contents of his stomach in his back yard after jumping out his window. I bought him some nachos.
He hasn't been in yet today. I'm really worried about him. I saw him come home, so he's in his house, but he's not here, where I can keep an eye on him. I have come to the conclusion that his father beats him. By the time he comes running over, I'm already out by my car, ready to leave. His bag bounces on his back and he's clutching a large cardboard tube.
"Taniel!" he calls, happier than I've ever seen him. He slides to a stop in front of me and doubles over, panting.
"'Sup, Zareh?" I ask, relived that he's not dead.
"C-can I crash over at your place tonight? My dad's out of town 'til tomorrow."
I can tell he's lying but tell him to hop in anyway. The dark bruise that barely peaks out over the collar of his shirt tells me to. His bag gets tossed into the backseat, but the tube stays in his lap. I eye it questioningly. He beams at me and holds the tube closer. I frown slightly.
"Stop smiling so much. It's kinda creepy," I tell him. He laughs, louder than I've ever heard from him and flashes his white teeth even more. I sigh.
It takes only twenty minutes to get to my apartment. It's a small one near the university that I go to.
"Damn," he whispers, "You must be old…"
"Well, thanks," I say sarcastically, "For your information, I'm only twenty-three."
"Older than me."
I let him in. he's still holding the tube to his chest protectively. I slide into the kitchen, literally, after kicking off my shoes, nearly falling on my ass in the process. There's practically nothing in the cabinets, I realize after going through both them and the fridge. I decide on the only edible thing that doesn't require going to the store: a peanut butter and jam sandwich.
"Want a sandwich, Zareh?" I ask.
"Sure," he replies from the doorway, his tube gone.
"Why are you so happy?" I demand as I make our dinner.
It takes him a while to answer, but when he does, it's a quiet, "you'll just have to see."
I glare half heartedly at his shy but happy reply. What happened to the almost silent, easily flustered emo boy who jumped at any loud noise? In the end, I can't help but to smile; he's completely relaxed.
Zareh takes the sandwich I hand him before I shove a portion of mine into my mouth.
"Lead the way," I say thickly and point in a vague direction. There's about six feet of canvas stretched out along the living room floor.
"Sorry," he says bashfully, "but it still needs to dry a little more."
My jaw drops as I stare at the painting. On the far left side is the portrait of a woman who shares the same bittersweet blue eyes and dirty blond hair as Zareh, a baby in her arms. There comes happy things, in pastels and bright colors, like toys and cakes and more images of the woman, before it fades into grey and a grave, with a little blond boy crying into someone's coat.
As my eyes cross the canvas, I'm told the life story of the teenager who nervously stands slightly behind me, twisting his hands together.
Blurred faces swirl around the crisp image of the child Zareh, whose wide eyes are painted with tears rolling down his cheeks. There's a single face in the swarm that has any distinct features. It's an older man with slightly graying hair and harsh eyes standing just behind the boy. Zareh looks all of maybe ten in his portrait.
The next two feet are a violent swirl of reds, blues, purples and blacks, creating vague images of pain and beatings, and after that, the convenience store lay bright under the dull blue sky and just beyond that, my cheerful face stares back at me, a hand offered out.
"Wow," I whisper, "you did all that?"
"I-it's an on going project… I've been working on it for almost two years now, and it's still not finished."
I squat in front of his painting and resist the urge to touch it, admiring the fine details. There are miniscule flowers dotting his mom's dress.
"Y-you're… the f-first I've ever sh-shown."
He's red from the collar of his shirt clear up to his hairline when I turn to look at him. I smile and tell him that I think it's really good. He shrugs, his face heating up a little more.
"Some people have a way with words; I have a way with colors."
"It's… really, really… I'm not sure. Unlike anything I've ever seen."
He sits heavily on my couch with a soft sigh.
"I've never told anyone. When people have asked if my dad beat me, I shrugged and left it at that, neither denying, nor confirming their suspicions. Most people never cared, and the ones who did, they were always too scared to do anything. I got teased, or ignored by the people who couldn't understand, and those who tried babied me. Even the people who were beat too, couldn't relate, because they always had another parent, or an aunt, or some other close relative.
"When my mom died, I was only seven. The only family members I had were my maternal grandmother and my dad. My grandma was nearly eighty at that time, and couldn't take care of me, and no one knew where my dad was. I spent five years bouncing around in different foster homes. I never stayed much longer than six months, and most of the foster parents were always on edge around me. I would barely talk, and chose to color instead of playing outside with the other kids. When I would speak, it'd be in mostly broken Armenian, unless I was replying to what someone else said.
"My dad was discovered a couple of months before my thirteenth birthday. He took me in primarily as a way of repaying my mother… for leaving her in the first place, I guess. It wasn't all bad those first few months. It was nice having a parent. I look a lot like my dad, believe it or not, and half the time I act like him.
"He couldn't really afford much by himself, and when I came along, his budget was even tighter. He bitched about it when he thought I couldn't hear, but he always smiled a little smile when he looked at me. 'You look like your mother, Zareh,' he'd say. I was naïve.
"But don't get me wrong. He never tried to put the moves on me. It was merely the love for my mom that shone in his eyes, and it made me feel special. None of the foster parents could tell me stories about how they met my mom, or about how they ran off to sit in a tree and talk as teenagers. I love my mom more than anything in the world. She was just so perfect. But she was sick.
"I don't remember what the condition was that she had, but something about having a kid was what sent her in a downward spiral. No one ever blamed me but there were times that I wish they would. Even as a kid, I realized that people died, even when you didn't want them too, and rather than have people wish that she didn't die, I wanted them to wish that I never lived so she wouldn't have suffered. She was in a wheelchair her last few months.
"Anything my dad did that reminded me of her made me happy. He'd make pancakes on occasion, and he told me that it was Mom that taught him how. The only thing with my dad is his short temper. I'd get smacked when I did something stupid, or whatever, and I bruise easily. I get it from my mom, I guess.
"However, when I was fifteen, Dad lost his job. He got depressed. He drank. And that's when I started getting beat. He never said he was sorry, but I always knew he was. Sometimes, I'd wake up to him grumbling about his hangover while making pancakes. He'd only drink once or twice a week, and spent the rest of the time looking for a new job.
"Everything he found, though, was short lived. He never stayed in at one job for more than a few months, and every time he'd be fired, he'd drink a little more. After almost a year, he gave up, content as an alcoholic. I learned to be careful around him. We still got along when he was sober, but he rarely was.
"It started to get real bad this past year. I've never had a girlfriend, and he says I'm girly, so I get beat. I'd miss a few days of school here and there because I was nursing my wounds, and I'd get beat. I didn't come home, I'd get beat. Bad grades, more bruises. I so much as breathed wrong on him while he was drunk, I'd be knocked out 'til the next day.
"Never once did I think of reporting him. I probably should, but he's my only family left since my grandma died almost a year ago. I didn't want to go back into the system, because I knew I'd be in it until I turned eighteen, or got emancipated, and I'd much rather deal with the pain rather than move every couple of months.
"I was almost ready to kill myself a couple of months ago when his drinking peaked, but something wouldn't let me, so I painted. Every spare bit of money I could save, I did, and I bought more art supplies then I ever have. That's when I painted most of the middle part.
"Then I met you. I did the same thing I always did, and you called me back. You never asked, you never treated me any different than whoever walked through those doors, you never did any of the things I hate…"
He breaks off and laughs a little as I continue to listen to his monologue and watch as tears slide down his face. I don't think he's realized he's crying.
"You made me laugh. I feel so completely comfortable around you. I'm not sure why, but I do, and something told me to show you this, so I listened. It's that same something that told me you deserved a place on my life and that same something that showed me the coins…"
Zareh goes silent. I stand and step over to him to wipe away his tears. He lays his head against my stomach afterwards with a mumbled sorry.
"For what?" I ask.
"For being a nuisance," he replies. I pat his head and tell him to eat his sandwich, which has been neglected.
Somehow, after his rant, we end up in a tangle of limbs, his thin form pressed against the couch and my lips against his. Boney fingers claw at my back as he moans softly.
"I shouldn't do this," I mumble while stripping him of his shirt, but he needs comfort. A mock love. That's how I justify my actions in my mind as I suck on his neck.
"Consider it a birthday present," he whispers. I freeze, my tongue hovering over one of his many bruises.
"What?!" I ask entirely confused. I feel him blush.
"Well… today's… kinda… my 18th birthday…"
I stay silent, pulling away instead of continuing. Zareh's chewing on his lip, just shy of the split down the middle, with his eyes closed.
"Well," I say, "at least I don't feel like a pedophile anymore."
He laughs and pulls me back, sliding his hands under my shirt to finger my spine. I grin, still not feeling completely comfortable.
"Tell me," he murmurs sweetly, "is there a good kind of pain?"
I sigh; "it depends. What's your definition of 'good'?"
"Just fuck me already, why don't you?"
I choke on my spit in answer. I was not expecting that.
"I'm serious!" he whines, before dropping his voice to mumble something I don't really catch through my sputtering.
And so, I'm pushed to the floor with a boy straddling my hips and his tongue down my throat. I groan, then grunt as I roll to reverse our positions again.
"There's no way I'm bottoming," I growl. He just arches as we grind. I leave a few more bruises on him that he gasps happily at before standing completely and pointing in the direction of my room.
"Yes sir," he says after a moment, walking numbly to my room. God, I hope my roommate doesn't come home tonight. Now I need some lotion or something.
I search through the bathroom drawers and find nothing.
"Fuck!" I exclaim, annoyed and impatient. I can never find anything when I really need it.
The wood of the bathroom's doorframe creaks softly and I turn, seeing a nearly naked Zareh just outside the door. He's blushing and again chewing on his lip.
"I don't mind," he whispers, "please…"
He sounds so needy and innocent; I just can't help but drool and drag him back to my room. I get the impression he likes to be dominated when he allows me to shove him roughly onto the bed and pin him down, biting and sucking on his lips. His cut splits open and blood mingles with the kisses. He just moans.
"You like pain, don't you?" I ask huskily. He squirms under me in reply. I take it as a yes.
He begs for me to go faster and to stop teasing him. Naturally, I slow down and pay attention to practically all the skin from his lips to his boxers, kissing every bruise, cut and scar I can see before stripping him completely. He's beautiful.
We're both panting, flushed and starting to sweat, but I don't care. I don't thing he does either. All I care about is fixing this gorgeous boy's heart and banging him hard enough to make him forget his past.
And that's what I do. At first, I'm gentle, moving slowly so he can adjust. Zareh urges me to speed up though and I do, wanting to please him. He claws at my shoulders and fists his hands into the tee shirt I'm still wearing, moaning all the while.
"Harder!" he demands. I find my favorite bruise of his, the one on his collar bone, and suck, thrusting as violently as I dare. He writhes, arches and groans. I pant and moan periodically.
"Harder!!" he yells, pounding his hands against my bed. Somehow, I comply, showering kisses over his face and neck, tasting tears and blood. He moans and whimpers.
"HARDER!!!" he screams, tilting his head back. I push his knees as close to his chin as I can manage and force myself to go harder. I can feel his blood trickling down my inner thigh.
"Harder," he whispers.
"I… I can't," I reply.
I think I stop breathing as I release. It's only when I collapse next to him that I notice the smear of cum on his chest. I never thought someone covered in blood, tears and semen could be so hot.
"When… did you…" I murmur to him, still breathing heavily.
"When I screamed."
I wait until his breathing to slow, signaling that he's asleep, before I crawl off my bed and tip toe into the living room. Nate, my roommate, is flipping through the channels on the TV.
"Always knew you were gay, man," he says without ever glancing towards me.
Well… Zareh's sandwich never got eaten, incase anyone was wondering.
Oh, the inspiration you get from watching the news…
And on a different note, I've been dating my girlfriend for six months! Go me! XD So this is for you, my love. You get pr0n for an anniversary present. How wonderful ::blows kiss::
Reviews feed me. I'm skinny. Make me fat!
If anyone has any ideas for a tale, tell me and more than likely, you'll get it. I'll need ideas anyway ::sweatdrop::