Stop TalkingMature

A very tentative attempt to try and write a new story on my part. It's about a teenage boy, about sixteen years old, and the broken people in his life. I would really love feedback as I rarely write from a male perspective, in this style.


He looked at the wall opposite him; immobile to the naked eye, but bitterly fighting himself. He knew what he wanted, knew he shouldn't. The two sides within him bit and ripped at the other, snarling and tearing, while he sat throughout it, controlling only his state of stillness and nothing more.

Violence. It's what he needed. It's what he craved.

His fingers, the ones that patted him on the shoulder condecendingly, slipping beneath her knickers. Pulling them down, thin white lace against soft pale thigh. Her arched back, curved like it had been for him so many times, pressed against another. Moaning his name, whispers, touches, roaming hands and burning lust that he thought only he could ignite. Her body pushed against a wall, her legs wrapped around his back, his tongue invading her mouth that had whispered beautiful things to him.

He smacked himself around the head hard, a hard slap across the face designed to slap the thoughts from his mind. The band of his ring nicked him in the eye, and he stopped, breathing heavily, his eye throbbing. He wondered if it was bleeding.


Whispered thoughts crept towards him, like smoke too thick to be blown away, thin enough to carress and strangle him.

The End

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