Home, baby

pg13-ish maybe they can punk him up. dress him up, down. maybe they can dishevel his hair a little more. they can tousle the strands. tousle him. the two of them can take him and teach him and show him and they can revel in his wide-eyed wonder. maybe they can take him out, mess him up, get him drunk, stoned, fucked up. and it'll be fun and he won't remember much of it. but they will. and they can make him dance and dance with him, around him. with each other. they can laugh at him and they can make him laugh, giggle, fall over gasping for breath. oh and they can make him beg. the two of them together. maybe they can make him beg for another pint, for another hug, for another flick of tongue against sensitive virgin skin. and if they're lucky they can tie him up and really make him beg. but he's so young and so innocent and they're oh-so-not. in their club clothes with their spiked hair and their glimmering candy colored drinks in hand. and he's nothing if not glowing perfection in the pulsating darkness, in the tight slick shirt that isn't his and won't ever see his mother's hands as she throws it into the washer. perhaps they've left him in an uncomfortable chair in a corner while they've gone off to dance. or maybe they're watching him, hands on their fabric choked hips, as he twirls under the flashing lights with reckless alcohol induced abandon that he's never felt before. maybe the thirty quid he paid for his fake id was oh-so-worth-it. maybe he can't wait for them to take him home. and quite frankly they can't wait either. /end.