Yes, Really: In which 13-year-old Logan Wright has a (rather uncomfortably personal) first experience after seeing one of Julian Larson’s new movies.
Warnings: Complete crack. XD Also masturbation, but it’s played for laughs rather than sexiness because he’s so young. Still, as he is thirteen at that point, feel free to steer clear of that sort of thing squicks you out. (:
Why I am Inflicting This Upon You: Because I’m a loser. XD Also, welcome back, Dani! :D
As a notably precocious eleven-year-old boy, Logan Wright had considered himself something of a realist.
His Hogwarts letter had not arrived on the morning of his birthday, which had brought about a number of earth-shattering revelations. The Tooth Fairy and her magical methods of bank fraud did not exist. Ice Cream Man by Lou Bega was not actually about ice cream. The trees in Central Park did not, in reality, serve as the home to a colony of cookie-baking elves. And not once before in his young life had he realized that life did not, in fact, consist of faith and/or trust and/or pixie dust. Life was fucking rough.
So naturally he’d been endlessly frustrated by the fact that all his peers seemed to care about was puberty.
Sure, zits sucked, he’d supposed, and voices that sounded like clarinets with mutilated reeds weren’t precisely the most attractive thing in the world, but come on. Fred Weasley had fucking died, and they were worried about some weird sort of growth spurt. It was teen ridiculousness at its height.
As a notably precocious twelve-year-old boy, Logan Wright, though still very much a realist, could only laugh nervously in response to such thoughts and run a knowing hand through meticulously neat golden hair.
And now, as a notably precocious thirteen-year-old boy, Logan Wright is still a realist, with the minor exception of a few stray… thoughts.
It started innocently enough — a flutter in his stomach whenever Mister Warren would lean down to help him with his work, a sudden rush of pulse when a pretty boy walked by him during one of Michelle’s “bonding mall trips.” That was fine. He could handle that. But then he started getting these… feelings. Like, feelings in his pants, feelings.
In the end, though, he’s going to have to blame Michelle for this. Logan likes his new stepmother well enough — always has, her intellect aside — and he knows she probably didn’t realize what she was doing. All the same, it was her idea to take him to the cinema to see that ridiculous new romantic comedy, which he’s quickly realizing is the root of all his problems. Oh, it was decent enough, he guesses, from what he could gather between sessions of blindness when manicured hands had obscured his hearing and vision — a little cliched, but whatever. He didn’t spend much time focusing on the supposedly-homely-but-named-one-of-People’s-most-beautiful-women-of-the-year leading lady or her obviously-twenty-seven-but-let’s-pretend-he’s-far-too-old-for-her love interest. It was the leading male character’s son that caught his attention: only there for comic relief and an occasional touching moment to further drive the plot, but… but…
He was just so pretty.
So now he’s here. Sitting in his room at his keyboard. Thinking.
The cheesily-soundtracked end credits dubbed the boy to be Julian Larson-Armstrong: a Hollywood name if Logan’s ever heard one. He doesn’t bother cross-referencing this with his laptop, because he knows what will happen if he does; in a fit of curiosity, he’ll press the “images” button, and his heart’ll speed up again, and his palms will sweat and there will probably be pictures of that scene, the one in the movie where he’s floating in comedic bliss around his father’s swimming pool, swimming-trunk-clad form draped over an inflatable lounge chair, shirt left tossed over a poolside chair, skin glistening and dark hair cast into wet twines and —
And suddenly his pants feel too small and awkward to fit him. Again.
He groans and presses his forehead to steepled fingers, the room ringing with the absence of his keyboard’s trillings. In the past few weeks, he’s only found one real solution for this: let it go away on its own. So he waits.
And waits some more.
…and then he has a thought.
Shoulders tensing, he sends a flickering glance toward the direction of his locked door — beyond which Michelle is watching some reality show and his father is off working in the city. He swallows. He couldn’t…
Logan swallows again and stares down at his hand, studying it as though its qualities have suddenly shifted. No. He’s heard this talked about in movies and stuff before, but surely he’s far too young —
His mind flickers back to the brunet boy splayed out over the lounge, eyes closed, mouth sweetly agape; he groans and draws that same hand, tentative and feather-light and intensely confused, up the expanse of his khaki-shorts-covered thigh. A shiver. Ooh.
Encouraged but not entirely reassured, he fumbles carefully with his zipper, moving across the room to his bed as he slips out of his khakis. His curiosity ensnares him for an instant, and he runs a hand lightly over the renting fabric of his boxers. Oh. He leans back and hastily sheds the rest of his clothing, burrowing deeply into the plush of his comforter:
When he’s feeling secure enough to continue, he closes his eyes — his fingers brush over the length of his cock, light-tipped in their hesitance. His lips part slightly in a bizarre sort of rapture. It isn’t long before he gets impatient, greedy for the new sensation; his fingers move on broader, heavier strokes, breath coming shorter and —
A bolt of electricity jolts him from the small of his back to the nape of his neck; the sudden frission of pleasure unraveling in his abdomen brings a quiet, stifled whimper to his lips, followed suit by a harsh new wave of pants. Fuck. Eyelashes fluttering, he wonders with almost childlike embarrassment what it would feel like for Julian Larson-Armstrong to be lying there beside him, breath warm in Logan’s ear as his fingers skim the blond’s erection, tongue running over the contours of his chest and stomach, down, down —
He gasps and pumps harder, the onsetting ache in his abdomen warning him that he doesn’t have much longer before he ultimately topples over the edge. Fingers moving with clumsy desperation, his mind flickers back to Julian, how Logan could evoke the prettiest noises, their mouths pressing against one another’s and their legs entangling as they meld together, and oh —
A sudden javelin of force rocks his frame, and suddenly he feels the rush of release; he lies back, panting into a sweet glow of satisfaction.
And then he realizes what he’s doing.
As a notably precocious thirteen-year-old boy, Logan Wright picks up on a number of things right away: his sheets are a mess, he’s covered in a light sheen of sweat, his hand and abdomen are somewhat sore, and he’ll need at least three showers to remove the smell of… sex or something from his person.
And this is just one person’s doing?
He lies back long enough to bury his face in his pillow and groan.
Sex is going to be a mess in the future.