Heavy breaths on fogged glass seemed to only further the blur of the window.
A single figure cast its silhouette, the edging form of a person only witnessed through hues of light painting the otherwise obscured features of hair and hands.
Miguel inhaled. Sharply.
He knew exactly what those coiled locks smelled like - how the glands of the boy’s skin smelt, how he seemed to waft with florals and auburn, gardenia and honeysuckle. Sweet, tangy - addictive. Miguel’s grip on his steering wheel tightened to white as he observed with flickering eyes, calculating every step of the boy he had grown so annexed to, like the boy was a part of his own figure; his own self, despite the kid not having a clue who Miguel was as a whole.
Steps rang clear in his head despite the pattering of rain against his windshield being the only noise he could hear - besides his labored breathing.
His car was stuffy, hot, stilled, and stale as he watched; quiet, still as stone. A predator staking his claim and marking this unconsenting party, who was all too innocently walking home from his short trip on the bus, all of which Miguel had observed, trailing closely behind in his car; insisting he was just keeping his petal safe under his own watchful eyes.
But behind his own guises and transgressions, he himself knew better than anyone that flowers wilted at too much attention, and his work had grown sloppy. It wasn’t just protection at this point - it was obsession. Unchecked angst and a sense to ravage, claim, mark, bite - eat, swell; anything and everything he could do once he could feel that skin under his own once more and obscure senses to anything but his fleeting touch on that underaged body.
He was a pedophile, a creep, a freak - nothing he’d shy away from, he had long since dropped labels alongside his own hibitions with stalking a child - a budding flower out in this silage with head barely above water.
Miles had a family, Miguel knew this good and well, a father and a mother; set together and loving as things should be - how they were once for Miguel. Set in stone.
His mother would worry over Miles, Miguel also knew this, picking up her habits alongside Miles' own when he would stake out their house or listen from beyond the thin glass panes of their windows; a good predator learned what he could use to isolate his prey, after all.
His lips were chapped, Miguel noticed after a beat, mouth having gone dry after staring for so long and unblinking; Miles was already far into his house - far from his home. Far from Miguel.
He swallowed dryly, his throat bobbing in a cotton-stuffed sense to draw moisture back, alongside some much needed clarity. His head swelled.
His body worked faster than his mind, already slamming the door of his car with trembling hands as he bothered not a glance behind himself or a doubled lock of his car with his keys - hellbent on something else. The urges had grown over the past few months; he was hungered - starved.
His left hand had met waist, tender, fragile under his grasp - he could envelop the boy’s thin frame with both hands like a doll, something he could hold and break as needed and fit. His lips had grazed skin under soft puffs of hair, peppering ghosted kisses longing for them to be reciprocated with writhes and whines - but instead the best he could get was hitches of breaths between soft sighs. Miles was asleep, and Miguel had gotten hasty.
The footsteps and soft murmurs of Miles’ parents right outside the door hadn’t deterred him, not in the slightest - even with the premise that Miles’ father was a cop.
Predators never cared who or what was around their victim, it was all blurred and smeared; lines faded to make way for the poised and centered piece. Them.
Miguel’s hands itched as he approached the house in calculated footsteps, he had taken this route before along with many others as to not get caught, though, he knew he wouldn’t mind watching the life fade from a few out-of-place eyes if he was caught. Though, his inhibition lied in touching Miles with those very same hands.
Miguel needed to stay clean - at least, until he could beg for forgiveness after the fact.
He walked between the side of the house and their fence, dipping down to hide from the cracks in the boards, as to not be witnessed by overlooking neighbors. His body knew where to go, when to stop - when to scale and when to listen. It was practiced procedure, followed like a map and rounded around the back of the house, honing in on the unused doggydoor in the backend sunroom. He was all too quick to brush aside the thin plastic coverings of the door, intent on keeping bugs and things out alike - but sadly, Miguel was evolved. Much more dangerous than a simple pest.
His fingers were nimble as he slid them up and into the crack between the door and the gate itself, to where the lock lay. With targeted precision Miguel had unlocked the doggygate, and had it sliding up in a hush, making enough room for his body to wriggle through and twist, unlocking the door itself.
He was in.
He stepped inside the house with renewed vigor, inhaling in deep, greedy gulps and filtering everything else out beside Miles. His fingers brushed the family photos that housed his boy on the shelves and tables as he walked; and turnt down anything that didn’t. What a waste it was to him.
He could feel a deep-seated satisfaction grace him as he so easily slipped past rooms and corners, avoiding the presence of Miles’ parents in the kitchen and trailing after the heavy scent he so sought out - leading up.
His hand gripped the railing of the stairs, white once more.
His steps were heavy, not audible in a sense, but they felt like the loudest thing in the house, second to the murmurs of voices in the kitchen, unaware.
Miguel’s nostrils flared as he topped the peak of the stairs and glanced about the small hallway that divided respective rooms. His eyes locked on to a singular one at the end of the hall, a physical amalgamation of his own tunnel vision. He allowed his hands to grace over the faded and textured stickers plastered across the door, bringing a smile to his lips as he picked at the edges.
His boy was so creative.
He pressed an ear to the door, listening for a moment, before hasty hands found their way twisting at the knob and pressing in - welcoming no one but himself.
Miles was laid on his bed, back turned and nose buried in his sketchbook, oblivious. Unaware.
Everything Miguel needed him to be.
He had told himself to wait, groom the boy with passing greetings and small trinkets or gifts - court him when the time was right. But he couldn’t stop his own body’s accordance.
He approached with a swelled throat and dry eyes, his gaze unwavered as the door closed with a soft ‘ click’ behind him; locking Miles up and away from the world for a moment. He kicked a disregarded shirt under the crack of the door, as to muffle any extra noises for what he knew was coming next, and his hands found their way to his belt.
Miles had his headphones on. He always did.
He was humming along to a song, something familiar to Miguel but it seemed to chase past his mind with the fleeting rhythms. His hand twitched.
His belt was off, and he looped it once, twice, around his left hand, the weaker - it would play a supporting role as the right carried all the weight.
Miguel’s stomach was in knots to match his nerves, a coursing anxiety rippling through him.
He knew this was wrong, not in a sense of black and white or even grey - but in the sense that if he fucked up his timing, Miles’ parents would be made aware.
He ached as he approached, the thick of Miles’ scent gracing him, ramping him up and making his cock twitch behind his jeans - oh how he longed to meld that smell alongside his own.
A flicker of light had Miles’ skin on edge. His room had grown cold and the hair on his arm stood up - a clear warning of something he was not yet made aware of. That flicker of his lamp beside him - it wasn’t a fault in the bulb or a misplaced dust observing his vision. It was a figure.
His head turned back.
Miguel moved.
A calloused palm drank the anguished cries from a frightened child, quickly muffling him with one hand as Miguel worked himself atop Miles - swallowing his thin frame. Heartbeats came out in thuds and struggles came out in vain as Miguel pinned him with just a knee to the spine, threatening to crack it beneath him like a misplaced scion on pavement if he kept struggling.
White hot rasps of fear and panic gripped at Miles’ mind, shutting off critical thinking and paving way to fight or flight - only to be snuffed by a belt to his throat, fastened by the buckle and tightened to choke out any air to his lungs that would allow a scream. He choked, gagged - clawing at the skin of his neck to try and pry it off, but Miguel held it firm and angled up, making sure the metal buckle was pressing in; digging into the soft spot of Miles’ neck.
“Still.”
Miguel had breathed out against the boy’s ear as he leaned down, the pressure added of his weight on his knee sending a sickening crack of Miles’ spine through the air. It wasn’t broken, no, at least not yet. But it was a warning.
Miles was too far gone to listen properly, the words lost among his breaths; but he did seem to stop struggling - he couldn’t help it. His mind was clouded, swelled with fear and lack of basic functionality, and his eyes dulled over as his fingers simply grazed the leather around his neck. Miguel cooed.
The elder didn’t let up, not in the slightest, enjoying the way Miles’ eyes had rolled up and his soft lips parted in unforgiving gasps - with nothing to show for it. Miguel slipped the belt to be held by his teeth as his hands moved to fumble with the zipper of his jeans, his breathing loud around teeth and leather as his body buzzed. He was drunk, in a fevour; in a rut, desperate to taste this boy. His legs had moved to straddle the curve of Miles’ back, drinking in the sight of his clothed and stark-white bulge against Miles’ rich skin; gracing himself this moment before he hastily wriggled his pants down to his ankles, and threaded his hands through the little hole built into boxers to fish out his cock.
He laid it, heavy and heated, against the supple skin of his boy, marveling at how his sheer length alone almost reached up halfway of Miles’ back.
A small croon beneath him, a semblance that air had gotten through, stirred Miguel from his thoughts. He tutted.
“Can’t have that now, can we?”
He hummed around the belt as he reeled his head back, and even just with teeth, had Miles’ head gagged back and the belt tightening like a vice. He wanted the boy awake and conscious, sure, but could do without the noises - up until his dick was buried deep in his baby.
Satisfied, Miguel moved the belt back to his left hand, twisting it to hold tight as he ground down, sliding his dick in the dip between Miles’ shoulder blades, where his spine lay. He groaned at the slickened feeling, it was like Miles was freshly lotioned, and his precum was already collecting in the crease of Miles’ back. He bucked a few times, a piss poor excuse of foreplay mainly for himself as he mentally readied himself for the main course - what he’d been aching to do for the past three years.
He brushed off Miles’ tremoring hands with an annoyed hiss as they tried to blindly reach behind himself - trying to pry Miguel away. The belt tightened.
“Behave.”
He warned lowly as he dragged himself down, snailing his shaft along the boy’s body, watching as he left a thin sheen behind on skin. Internally, he purred.
His dick met the clothed cleft of Miles’ ass and he had to physically suck in a breath to calm his own tremors. It was finally happening, the only thing he had ached for, craved for, yearned for - needed and lusted after; the one thing that kept him up at night and sated in the mornings. The belt tightened.
Miles could feel his subconscious fail him as the weight sat heavy on him and the musk of a man he didn’t know wafted around him in dark clouds, furthering his vision loss. It was tight around his neck but the pressure internally was worse, his fear of the unknown now washed over with the fear of suffocation. But that soon too was thrown to the dogs as his thoughts gave out and all he knew was gaping his mouth and pliancy, his hands dropping down alongside the rest of his limp body, his head only upheld by the belt looped around his neck.
Miguel was lost in the thrills, his breathing ragged and stuttered as he trailed a rough free hand down the stretch of Miles’ back, almost stalling the moment. He could live here in this standstill forever, Miles’ life was quite literally in the palm of his hand - with one jerk he could snap the boy’s neck alone. The belt tightened.
Instead, he settled for watching the droop of his cock as it sat on the perch of Miles’ plump ass - much too big for a boy his age to know what to do with. But it was alright, Miguel knew what he was doing. He was well aware.
He lifted his hips, working with one hand to forcibly yank the boy’s pants down in frenzied rips, even tearing the fabric a bit as he managed to work them down to thighs, before it became too difficult with the positioning. Good enough, Miguel thought to himself, as he braced his hand to hook and hold Miles’ shoulder, pulling the boy up so his hips perched in the air, and his face buried in the sheets - further suffocating him. The belt loosened.
Miles sucked in oxygen as if it were his first and last simultaneously, hiccups and coughs drowned by the raw rasps of his breaths. He sputtered - but didn't have the strength to scream nor cry, that had long since been robbed from him, and instead he sobbed in clarity - his mind finally turning in gears. He regressed far into his mind, his body remaining unfought even as a roughed hand settled on his hip for leverage, and spread his intimacy out on display.
Miguel’s breathing seemed to stop altogether as he was greeted by petals and nectar, Miles’ cunt having soaked itself as a trauma response. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was piss or slick, his sense of smell and proper analysis tossed out the window alongside his barely withheld hunger; and he moved his hand in to dip fingers regardless of either option.
It was his first touch of Miles’ raw and unclothed pussy, his fingers twitching in anticipation as he breached wet folds with a dry mouth and the trepidations of a dead man; knowing what lay for him in the afterlife for this.
He crooned as his finder slid up and in, out of sight, practically melding into the boy; taking a poised moment to lightly dip his finger and apply pressure to Miles’ tight-run entrance. An involuntary groan worked it’s way from his lips, pausing, before he begrudgingly continued on, only sating his wavered excitement once he found Miles' clit. His hand was buried in at this point, sandwiched between soft thighs, only fueling the sick sense of desire pooling in the base of his cock, just aching to be concealed deep in the tiny body beneath him.
He soldered on, moving his hand as best he could between the pressure, dully scraping a nail against the sensitive nub, not yet dry-brushed from years of masturbation, nor attention.
This elicited a strangled little noise from Miles, a pretty noise that Miguel groaned in tandem too, his eyes fluttering shut as he found pleasure in it alone.
He repeated this again in practiced rhythms from past lovers, rubbing his finger in circles around the swollen clit - still fresh and untouched with youth. Miguel would change that.
Miles’ body was heated, sensitive - responsive. Oh so responsive.
His sobs became accompanied by needy little whines and unsure, unplaced moans as his thigh muscles tightened. He was struggling to hold himself up for the man, but he held firm even as his legs ached - the prospect of a tightened belt around his neck once more scaring him enough to find the strength.
Miguel took his time, careful not to let his little petal cum, instead he would pause and let the pressure linger on the nub - swatting Miles’ hip if he tried to grind down and chase the blind high.
Miles was growing eager. Miguel sucked in a breath.
He dipped his finger back, lightly tracing the hard muscle of the boy’s cherry, soft coos of falsified apologetics breaking the silence in dialogue.
“Relax for me, mi vida. This will hurt.”
It was misplaced softness, stark contrast to how openly rough Miguel had been with the belt; but appreciated by Miles, giving him a moment, a brief second, to swallow everything down.
Nail scraped cherry and was met with a sharp inhale from Miles as he jolted a bit, but Miguel was quick to steady him with a tug to the belt and a kiss to the globe of the boy’s ass.
“Behave.”
Miguel reminded him again, before repeating the action once more, like how you would repeat a trick over and over with a dog, just to make sure it sticks.
Then he breached past and deep still, until his finger was met with a spongy texture; the inner walls of the boy. It was heated, tight, as he expected it to be - but even more so with Miles’ age. He was like a forbidden fruit, begging to be picked despite barely being ripe - and Miguel was far too eager to skip past the wait and bite directly from the branch.
He curled his finger, testing the waters and gauging for a reaction, humming in content when he was met with a soft keen, muffled behind clenched teeth. He let his finger sit, allowing Miles’ hole to flutter around him in this continued softness, before he breached a second finger - now met with protest.
Miles’ hips bucked forward, an attempt to get away, which had Miguel angered.
He tugged on the belt, hard, causing the poor boy to choke and reel his head back in the motion to prevent his neck from potentially getting snapped.
“How many fucking time do I need to remind you to relax?”
Miguel spoke in low, a growl to his voice as he had leaned over the boy’s ass to speak closer to him, as if he were trying to drill the ideology into Miles’ skull.
Miles’ body grew pliant once more as the boy sucked his tremouring bottom lip in between teeth, biting down at it to muffle any and all vocal rejections.
Miguel purred, settling back - and forcibly popped his second finger inside, drawing a bit of blood from the thickness.
Miles dry sobbed, but didn't move away, instead his body buckled a bit, only drawing Miguel’s finger in deeper. This elicited a noise of content from the older man.
Miles was learning.
"Look at you taking me so well. It was like you were made for me, no?"
Quite the opposite. Despite his vocal protests being quelled, Miles' body was readily rejecting him. Blood from fingers wasn't normal - and he had been wet at first but was steadily growing dry. Tight.
Everything that you shouldn't be during sex.
Miguel chalked it up to nothing more than nerves of a virgin, still delusional that Miles wanted him - he just didn't know himself. But Miguel knew. He had always known.
He rocked his fingers in a few more times, guided in by thick wine and whimpers. Instead of letting up, he just took it as a sign to grow rougher, unsteady - his movements grew less rhythmed and more like a sick sense of curiosity as to just how tight the boy was growing; that of a child poking at something they shouldn't.
A third finger was added, and Miles was in sniffles at this point. Snot pooled in his philtrum to match his trembling lower lip as his eyes couldn't quite choose whether or not they wanted to focus on the sheets clutched between his fingers, or glancing behind his shoulder at just how dark this man's expression had grown. How at peace he looked here, knuckles deep in a boy too far gone to realize just how at mercy he truly was.
But he was slowly realizing.
"That should be enough." Miguel hummed, sliding his fingers out and giving them a quick once over, to savor the mixture only a virgin could provide, slick and blood.
He moved to grip his cock, lubing the snotty mixture along his shaft in languid strokes, eyes keen on watching the very same juices ooze out of the boy and drip onto sheets below. Gods was this a sight.
Miguel could swear his dick wouldn't get harder than this, at full attention and so painfully in aches - but this boy in a pathetic display, energy robbed from him and readily bent over; it had him almost shaking in anticipation.
He bent forward, laying himself over the stretch of Miles' back in a sigh, and settled with nestling his face in the nape of the boy's neck.
" Señora Santana "
Miles paused.
No.
No.
No, no, no, no-
" Por qué llora el niño ?"
Miles' breath came out in desperate rasps as Miguel’s voice rumbled low in return.
Miles knew this melody, this exact lullaby.
“ Por una manzana .”
It was the sane one he sang in church with his mother, the same one she hummed as they washed their hands at the end of youth, the same one sang in his choir with the other virgin boys - the same one his mother sang to him in his younger years when he couldn’t sleep.
Miguel rut up against him blindly, the head of his swollen length prodding as it searched for entrance, an open ending both physically, and mentally within the boy.
The lullaby was anything but that - instead, it was sung as a mockery.
“ Que se le ha perdido.” Miguel continued on, carrying the tune in a breath exhaled through his nose - so fixated on the way his tip was leaking, unable to quite keep his excitement less than palpable.
“Pl-ease,” Miles pleaded,
“Please don't do this-“
“ Ya no llores, niño.” Miguel was lost in the thrills of his heat, in the velvety walls of what lay before; what he had been so hellbent on for years. He had laid caution, paced himself for the boy to grow - at least enough he could take his cock, his adult dick, with a semblance of maturity; as a young adult would. But tonight, he had grown hasty.
Miles couldn't stop his sobs from picking back up, even if he tried. His cries were languished, ugly sobs; no threat from a belt nor hands could snuff them as he choked and gurgled. Miguel only cooed.
“ Aquí tengo dos.”
He was close. So close. He pushed in, a testament to just how far he’s gotten in a single night, how little the red strand this boy had woven around his heart had stretched - how much he craved him wholly.
Miles only prayed, that’s all he could do. He knew what came next - it all hit him like the repine of a violin singled in a symphony.
“ Una pa’ la Virgen.”
It had all been laden down to a single, shallow thrust.
Miles was deflowered at that, a pest had come to collect his pollen, once bountiful and bright, as a flower’s pollen should be - now flit around him like that of flies.
“ Y ota para it.”
The melody had come to a close, and all Miles could picture was his mother’s face.
His own anguished cries fell deaf on his ears as Miguel pushed in, stretching him far beyond how he should be, practically snapping him in half with nothing more than girth alone.
Miguel had been good, he reasoned internally, he had sung the boy a melody; one he had listened to before, time and time again outside the boy’s window as his mother peppered him in kisses and love reserved only for a single child - the sole light in her life.
So why now, was the boy crying?
Instead of the belt, he soothed. He knew it must’ve hurt, Miles must be blinded at this point - even for matured people he was considered big; so he kissed at the corner of the boy’s eye, pecking away the welling of tears in his vision that seemed to sting and rot away at his face in stains. Miguel hated it.
“Miles, mi bebé.” He urged, moving his hand from where it was once placed to smooth over the boy’s forehead, to smooth the tracing of sweat drops out from the course of his eyes; and pushed back his soft coils, scraping at his scalp with dull nails.
“Want me to sing it again? Eso ayudará?”
The offer was in vain, as the boy only gaped and shook his head - he wasn’t entirely sure of what Miguel was asking for at this point, but all he knew was no. The answer was no.
Miguel pulled out, but not in reverence.
He thrust back in a snap, the sound of skin to skin clapping along hollowed walls and undusted shelves. Miguel’s hand had slipped down, further this time, to cup and swallow the youth’s desolate cries.
Again.
And again.
And again - he didn’t let up or let Miles breath; instead he was on him like a vice, lavished in the way Miles’ pussy was taut around him, whether he meant it to be or not. The boy was a virgin no longer, but took his cock like a seasoned fuck; his sobbing soon melding into hesitant moans; which soon melding into croons of more.
It all felt wrong, unfitting in his body - because it was. But he didn’t know anything better past surface level.
Miguel did.
So he held him, his hand once more moving low, first to perch at Miles’ throat - to feel the vibrations of the boy’s open-mouthed mewls; then soon to dip between his soft thighs.
His hand hovered over the heat, it was thick and wafted, like that of a furnace.
A dull finger found it’s way snaked between flesh, and soon looped itself under the hood of Miles’ clit, rubbing once more at the swollen nub in drawn out circles.
“ Tan hermoso , you take me so beautifully.” Miguel groaned in appreciation, his hips picking up in fervour as his internal heat pitched. It was everything he could’ve wanted - everything he had wet dreams over, worth every step and pace that had lead him to this moment, and every empty thrust into his hand as he daydreamed about this moment; now come to fruition.
Miles was tremouring now, soft pleas of, ‘ no, no, no,’ were only met with harder thrusts, stirring his insides and molding his walls to the shape of Miguel exclusively.
Murmurs of soft praise soon turned to grunts, that of an animal, as Miguel slapped into the boy, his boy.
His to deflower, his to bleed, his to mark and his to burden well into adult years - etched in as a memory well past Miguel’s death.
“ Almost ,” It was an unfinished sentence, as it need not be finished.
Miles could feel something grow in his stomach, like the sensation of needing to pee, only it was heavier, blinding; numbing. His abdomen was being split in two by a size not fit with him while a finger worked in tandem to numb him to that very same pain - a hard balance that left him wordless.
Then it hit.
He threw his head back in a lull as he struggled for air, choking only himself with the belt as he blanched. The feeling was so foreign, so lost in translation from mind to body - so he just felt. The pressure inside him was immeasurable, a shaken bottle with the cap, only now popped off to be passed around.
The boy’s pussy had spasmed and seized around him - making Miguel reach his own peak. His was rough, messy; a deep incline to Miles’ hike.
A growl wasn’t enough, his teeth ached, and he sated it with flesh - leaning in to latch to the fat of the boy’s shoulder with his jaw; not letting up even as he jerked. He just rocked with Miles’ frenzied movements, keeping them as one as his seed delved past the tight ring of a cervix and right into the uterus; fixated on breeding him thoroughly.
Miles was full, so full. If the pressure hadn’t been enough before, it was unbearable now, painfully swelling his stomach and mind with thoughts of nothing but white as the sensation of teeth latched to his skin numbed with the rest of him.
He was out cold.
“Miles?”
Miguel had finally pulled back, ignoring the ooze of merlot from the boy’s skin where he had broken it with teeth alone, and the heavy taste of astringent sat on his tongue.
“ Miles?”
He repeated once more - only to be met with silence.
Fuck.