Hey there! 8D
This my first HINABN fic and actual first time writing anything for the YoungConWorth AU so...Be gentle with me, hm? ;D
It has a mature filter for a reason and none of these beautiful characters belong to me(obviously).
I would love, love, LOVE if you commented. 3
The small snip of scissors to paper was the single sound in the quiet, well organized room that smelled of pure cleanliness and perfection(clean linen, none of those musty smells of mold or mildew). Bespectacled brown eyes watched in silent concentration as each clip of the handle began to shape the paper about the dotted lines into a rounded circle and soon there was even a small smile on his lips at how the edges were coming out smooth. Although, had the edges come out messy and jagged he would of taken out a clean piece of paper and began it all over again; Conrad demanded a level of perfection in his artwork.
Though, he kept this to himself and had learned that no one much cared for his opinion on putting one's self into an art piece or more exactly talking about art at all. In fact if his school mates had seen him there making geometric shapes out of paper they would of called him a faggot(or queer or whatever the word of the day was) and then commenced to sabotage his entire project with him watching. He had learned to keep his art projects at home after an incident such as that and so instead he sat in his room and created what he could without his mother wandering in to scold him about something or other.
Conrad would do this most every day after finishing homework, just gently closing his door and sitting himself down to create whatever his mind aspired to. Sometimes he would paint or sketch, other times he sculpt, and then there multi media days such as he was having where he would wing it with sometimes wonderful or faulty results.
This routine had been interrupted for a solid month now by a recurring event that he would of rather not discussed with anyone for it may cause a blush or for him to drop his glasses from flailing about far too much(it happened). Even thinking about said event caused a line of crimson to sprout about his cheeks and run across till it trailed over his ears, flooding the lobes with color. In fact his face was beginning to redden when his fingers placed the scissors down upon the desk in front of him while his eyes caught gaze of the small receipts that were peaking out from the place which he stow them. The place in question was none other then one of his monstrous text books, white receipts hidden between the pages near the tops so he would not forget where they were. Sometimes he took them out and stuffed them in his pockets when he was at school, as he was afraid someone would shove him and upon doing so the text book would drop(them falling out and he being teased and them more then likely being stolen for no reason other then to be hateful towards him).
It wasn't as if they were anything special to begin with. Just plain, ordinary coffee house receipts that one would throw away as soon as look at but…They smelled like cigarettes. Cigarettes and musk. Conrad loved placing the paper to his nose despite himself in the middle of the day when the bullies had just tormented him or later on like he was now, pulling open the text book and taking the little pile of five or so out. These receipts held the only proof that he hadn't been imagining the whole thing, the whole wonderfully embarrassing thing. Sometimes he liked to spread them out on the table and rest his head in his crossed arms as he leaned against the desk, eyes full of that ooey gooey warmth as his stomach fluttered and he felt the ghost of lips on his own; flushing harder at the memory.
When he felt daring he would remember that low, too rough voice in his ear and feel long(god so long) fingers trail up his thigh. Sometimes he would use his own hands and pretend, unzipping his pants the way the coffee buyer did with a teasing roughness as if he could feel the other biting on his ear hard and driving him to do it himself. In this pretend land that blonde was right in his chair with him, or sometimes bridged over him on his bed and he could just about see those eyes burning into his as his length was stroked firmly. He never could get his wrist to work in the way his coffee buyer could but he had figured out how to dig his nail into his tip, biting his lip as to not moan in the room that was such a stark contrast from where the other lived.
It always was the same though in the end. He always came hard and fast, panting out "Luce, Oh Luce..Ohh…Ahhh..Yes Luuuuce…!" and liked to imagine the other's smirk of approval and something offensive(but so hot fuck) that he would say to him. Or more growl to him before leaning down to have Conrad bite him about the neck, Conrad still not understanding this part entirely but it got the other off perfectly so he didn't mind. The blood was always salty and rusty, rushing in long strands of drips over Luce's shoulders to which there was demanding grunts of "Dun be messy, leek it up faggot. Yahh you like tha, dun yah?" right against his ear. This was usual more then enough to make him harden again in utter defenseless arousal and surrender to probing fingers and slick precum about his entrance as he was entered.
In imagination land he couldn't do one thing, however, and that was wait until Luce was asleep or not looking and stick a hand into whichever pocket he had seen the other place the receipt from the coffee of the day. He was unaware of why Luce kept them but he must of thought little of them to not have noticed Conrad was taking them each time for his own collection, and maybe if he did notice he just didn't care.
So when he was finished imagining and panting, as he was today, he would maybe go back to cutting out different shapes and perhaps making creative constellations or faces. Though those blonde lashes were in the back of his mind, curved over dark eyes with a beckoning stare that oh so dominated all they gazed upon. That body so lean and tight, hugged by equally as tight shirts and pants with little left to the imagination and his imagination never helped when he was around Luce Worth.
Suddenly a cup of coffee was sounding mouth watering as he desperately had flung on his coat, pushed up his glasses and made his way down stairs without disrupting his napping mother.
Later on that night he would creep back in, she in her same place on the couch sprawled and his lips buzzing and face still hot from it all. Fingers pulling at his pant pocket he would dig out a white bit of paper, gently setting it down with the others but not before pressing a kiss to it.
God. He really was a faggot, wasn't he?