Hey, this is a new writing technic for me and I have to say, it's actually pretty fun!
Please enjoy :).
The lovable, air-headed, heart-throb James.
They tell you not to read the blogs and they're right, mean things can go on in them places. You wonder how fans can be that fickle, how the girls that swooned at the sight of you yesterday are now shooting daggers that are being aimed for your back.
You can't do anything without it having to have two stories anymore. Whatever you say, whatever you do, it has to have some strange meaning behind it that even you know you're not smart enough to come up with.
The Hollywood dream, yeah it's a big deal and yes, it can be what people like to call "the glam life". Sometimes you wouldn't care if the camera lights blinded you or the noise of the weekly parties tore your eardrums in two because, that being the last thing you saw or heard would be an epic last experience.
Other times, you wish these things would just blind and deafen you, at least then you couldn't hear or see what mean, untrue rumours go around. Some of these things make you laugh, others make you cry.
It's irritating, you always think this, and very rarely do you think anything else, no matter how busy and eventful your day may be.
And now you walk home, head bowed and hands in pockets, aware that the paparazzi are probably waiting in a nearby bush, ready to take pictures that probably won't tell the story of you coming back from the shop. You know this because you see it in your favourite magazines every day, celebrities with their heads held high and the occasional thumbs up. You've even seen yourself, wondered who has taken them, you're thankful you try hard every morning so even if they wanted, they couldn't get you at your worst.
You hold the medication for your flu infested boyfriend, hiding it in your pocket so the hidden paparazzi can't twist and make a new absurd rumour. The last thing you want is to be accused of being a drug addict or a suicidal maniac.
And making your way into the Palm Woods, you smile at the usual people.
Same story, different chapter.
You make your way into the apartment, throwing your keys aside; deciding 'swirly' will be the easiest way to the top balcony.
Not that you're sure how that is exactly true.
Some call you lucky and honestly, you agree. You and your friends (well, in your opinion) worked your butts off to get this room to look as it does and once again, the media have twisted that. You're worn out butts have been branded with spoilt, undeserving, typical Hollywood kid.
You take the medicine out as you enter your shared room, the fear of the paparazzi wearing off, although somewhere within you, you're always scared they're there. But that fear fades as you spot and walk over to your sleeping sweetheart, sitting down next to his sleeping self as you gaze lovingly at him.
The medicine couldn't have come quicker.
The flu is so raw, sweat gleaming from his forehead, the duvet scrunched up at his feet as he still decides whether he's really hot or cold. Eyes are closed and you know he's only half asleep, he knows your here but he's too drowsy and stiff to make it clear to you.
You lean in, kissing his temple as you wipe the sweat away to do so. He shifts slightly, a small smile subconsciously tugging at the corners of his lips, making it so hard not to devour that smile.
You give into the urge, moving lower to kiss him, even in this awkward position. You're careful and you only kiss his top lip, keeping it easy for him to breathe. Because you know he's having trouble as it is in the breathing compartment, you don't want him to forget for even a second in case he can't learn as quick.
You move up, making your way back to his temple. You feel safe kissing him there because you can't hurt him there and it's adorably innocent.
It's not till you get to his temple that you realise his hand is tangled and knotted in your hair, tugging on it slightly as you press deeper.
After a second of what you hope is silent begging, you move, climbing on top of the boy to straddle and adjust yourself on him.
You try to look at him but your coat is scrunched up at your neck, making any other image but grey polyester virtually impossible.
You shed it quickly, itching fingers fumbling with the zip and you end up practically tearing it from yourself.
You breathe slightly, looking down at him as he lay's, still half awake without the medicine you promised you would get him. But right now you don't care, you need something, anything to stop the dreadful thoughts that are going through your mind and his half-hearted smile does quite nicely. You want a bigger, more meaningful smile though, something that will fill the empty part of your heart with all of him.
He always heals you.
Because he's yours. And you know that sounds possessive, you know he'd be angry if you he knew you thought this. It's been drilled into the minds of you and your friends that you shouldn't think so greedy but you are a naturally greedy person. You need something to yourself and you can live with it just being the one thing. But it has to be one specific thing and that things lying under you, its sweat is staining your lips, the flavour making you hungry for more.
This currently fragile creature is all yours and your annoyed, the guilt is uncalled-for, less than two days before your positions were switched, you were the one begging for mercy, sweating under this delicious thing.
You didn't get a choice but it's not like you cared.
You begin by sucking on his adam's apple, enjoying the feel of every moan that rips from that very spot and makes its way out of his tired, sore, unused but worn out throat.
And as you run your hand down his bare, damp chest, you're kind of thankful that the virus took this guy and made your toy its next victim.
He's submissive and you know he wants what you're giving, you've grown together over the years, learnt to love and adore everything about each other.
You're both padlocked books with the honour of having the only key to each other.
If someone was to walk in, you'd most likely be accused of rape or being unreliable and selfish when it comes to care but you know this is alright and somewhere in there he knows this is okay too.
You never really say and wouldn't dare to tell but you're so much weaker than him. You count on him. If he wasn't there you would be a wreck, your hair and fashion wouldn't change but you'd forget to eat, shower and hell, the likely hood of you being found in the corner of a room trying to get out sounds quite accurate.
You grab a handful of his semi-erect self and you laugh slightly, you love how the sick boy can be so fucking horny.
When noticing his pleasure you let go, watching as his doe eyes look up at you through dark, lust filled clouds.
The noise that goes with it even has you adjusting yourself, placing a hand to his briefs as you grind yourself roughly into him. The noises are hoarse and you can tell they're painful for him but he doesn't stop and you can't help but let them fuel your need for him as you continue to sway back and forth on him, bouncing slightly every time you rub together.
You suddenly have the only piece of clothing on him off and in your hands, torn at the seams because your strength disappeared and became unknown as soon as you had even kissed the boy. Unable to help yourself, you reach down to kiss the tip of his proudly stood cock, enjoying the taste of his bodily fluids as they dance around on your taste buds.
You lock eyes with the boy, butterflies forming as he smiles the same toothy grin he smiles every single time you kiss, every single time you make love and every single time you are just together.
You kiss his inner thy, continuing to watch your lover as his eyes roll back and hips jolt forward.
He's always teasing. Ill or not, he deserves this.
But you realise you're teasing yourself, feeling his cock on your skin every time you brush past it is painfully tempting and then you wonder why you're being so mean to yourself, why you're not just doing what you both know in the end you'll end up doing.
You swallow him whole, hollowing your cheeks as you try to fully taste this large organ of his.
You moan unwillingly, the pulling to your hair stimulating these vibrations as you fight your gag reflex and take him whole.
You don't move for a second, holding on to each hip as you enjoy him being in you. Something so...him, stopping anything stupid that you normally say from coming out and ruining everything.
He tries to push into what he likes to call one of his two paradises but you pull away, looking at the string of saliva that comes with it.
You love and stare at the coat you have given him.
You get up to shed yourself of your own clothes, making sure you do so slowly when it comes to pulling off your t-shirt, flexing your muscles and bending in the sexiest of ways as he watches you.
You finally grow inpatient and pull down your boxers, not even taking a second to think as you take your seat on top of him again.
You can see he's shaky and slightly hesitant as his hands try to find an appropriate place to lie at such an unrighteous moment.
You take his hand, placing it to your arse and rubbing his hand there for him. You can understand why he's so shy; he's only half here with you and you're pretty sure he doesn't even know if this is real.
And the thought of that is amazing, you remember times during romantic evenings and damn right nasty nights when he's said he dreams about you, how reality is never enough and he's always left wanting more.
The thought always makes you just that little bit hornier.
He can make you weak with them words and you have plenty to come back with but half the time, you don't even care, you'd rather get on with it and do what you both know you need.
All thoughts are cut short as a burning pain is suddenly taking place in your lower regions, making you grind back into it as you fall into your submissive and masochistic mind. Your stretched quite thoroughly anyway but you admire the boys concern. Although the concern you consider for him doesn't appear to be that well known.
Unable to wait, you pull away from his hand with a slight sigh, rubbing it as you hold it to your heart, showing the other boy what you always want and need, how this affects you when the thought of it arises.
You know he's insecure and sometimes wonders what you find so interesting in him and quite frankly, you feel quite the same, laughing every time he gets himself down.
The big, unnecessary words that he uses makes you wonder how he can act dumb enough for you.
You have the looks but you know you're not exactly the easiest one to talk have a proper conversation with.
He has the looks and the inner beauty. He's everything and he still calls you perfect.
Using the saliva you left on him as lube, you hover over him, catching your lip in between your teeth hard as you lower yourself on him. You hear him try to croak out your name as you sit on him fully, rocking slightly as you try to adjust to it.
You're so used this. Him tearing you open is second nature to you now.
You place your hand on his chest, taking the chance to feel his own heart as he arches forward for you. It's so fast and the increase of life is all down to you.
You're making him like this. This thought has you pulling off, slamming back down with vast and crucial force.
You both moan, sweat dripping from you now as the heat from you and the clammy boy join forces.
You fall forward, hands dropping to either side of his head as you repeat your previous actions. You watch his jaw drop loose as you clench around him. You moan and do it again, desperate to make it hit the floor.
You're desperate now to have him hit that spot, the spot that always has you moaning his name over and over.
You cry out when he reaches it, the anticipation finally catching up to you. He grunts like an animal and you smash your lips to his like a savage.
He's a wild boar and you're so, so hungry.
You carry on bouncing and grinding on and in him, keeping his throat slick and thoroughly moist with your own saliva as he moans and cries for you. He loves it, you know he secretly hates you but he wants it so bad because he's a hormonal teenager, you both are.
He rambles when you move to carry on hitting the spot he's hitting dead on now, your name and the occasional 'fuck' and 'love you' coming out of his nonsense, purely sex inclined croaks.
He pulls you down, strength seeming to overcome him as you make eye contact. Sweet, chocolate brown eyes watch yours and before you even get the chance to touch yourself, give yourself the same kind of attention he is getting, you spill, a drop hitting his chin as he follows in suit.
You carry on rocking back and forth, empting his seed inside of you and getting an amazing chill shoot up your spine as his warmth fills you rim deep.
You kiss away yourself from his chin sloppily, moving straight up to kiss him again as he licks it from you.
Finally, exhaustion takes you over and you slide off of him with a hiss and you fall down next to him, laughing as you try to fill your lungs with new oxygen that you won't scream out.
You turn to him, draping an arm around his fragile yet structured waist and rub the spot you're at with your thumb softly.
You watch him, the guilt creeping up on you again as you notice him continually swallow, whimper and sweat beyond belief.
You're so selfish.
You kiss between his ears, stroking his hair softly as you try to think of a way to apologise. You needed help and as much as you know he's prepared to, he's in no state to actually to do so.
You look away, tears of shame puncturing your heart as you give up on any speech.
The feeling dissolves as you watch the boy lifts your hand from his clammy skin, sliding a finger through the seed you've left on his stomach like dip and placing it in his mouth to lick and suck on it expertly.
You watch, unable to believe it, finding reality hit you hard when he bites down on the finger.
Then you flinch, pulling away to look at the mark he's given you and him.
You see him smirk and you realise your punishment is over, you've been branded once again, just like every other time you do this.
You lay down to pull him closely into you, kissing his neck as he slowly drifts off.
You can't even remember why you were upset, why you regretted anything for even a second. It was all fine and it took your sick boy to make you see that.
This is your life. Good or bad, it's worth it.
Because you have your Logan.
The names of the people being at the beginning and end was intentional but it kinda blew up in my face. Seriously, I'm removing the idea from my dead brain as we speak. To whom it may amuse: ChaoticLullaby kinda hacked me and...reviewed as me? Dumb? Yes... She found it highly amusing. I find it embarrasing. (Just saying.)
But oh well, fun to write :).
Review? Good or bad they make me smile...