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Eat You Up

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Oz Vessalius had heard the door creak open, but paid it no mind. He stayed still in his bedside chair, apathetically turning the pages of a book in his hands. It seemed as if he was reading blank words, or if the pages themselves were nothing but pure white.

The smell of booze reached his nose slowly but surely, and his emerald gaze tore itself from hazy concentration—although it could barely be called that, as he wasn’t absorbing any of the words that his eyes passed over. Oz set down the book on the nearby nightstand, the comforting silence of his room being broken by the commotion from the hall as a figure he recognized as his uncle’s stepped inside.

“Oz!” His uncle, Oscar Vessalius, roared with laughter and Oz couldn’t help but wince at his volume. “What’re you doing holed up inside here? Waiting for me to come and find you, huh?” With words slurring and stench overwhelming, it was clear that the booze had stuck to the air around Oscar. It took much just for Oz not to scrunch his nose in discomfort.

“Uncle, you’ve gone and gotten yourself wasted,” the smaller blond noted, keeping his voice steady and calm as he rose from his velvet seat. Carefully, placing his hand on the inside of Oscar’s arm, Oz attempted to pull him along. “You’re bound to get yourself hurt wandering around. I can’t believe I have to take care of you like this.”

The closer he got to Oscar, the more the smell of alcohol flooded into his nostrils. It was such a strong, unpleasant smell that Oz figured he could get himself drunk off that alone.

“Don’t be a killjoy!” The man pried Oz’s hand from his arm, instead holding it tight at the wrist. He paused for a moment to examine his nephew, emitting a low chuckle after his eyes scanned up and down his body once. “You look so much like a girl sometimes, Oz.”

The comment sent a shiver up the boy’s spine; it wasn’t what he had said, but rather how he had said it. Oz has seen Oscar drunk before and he was just as loud and boisterous as normal, but those words did not belong to his uncle. They sounded dark and malicious.

“What? Uncle, please, you need to lie down.” He tugged at the grip Oscar held on his hand, though it was as if his hand was trapped in hardened cement. He wasn’t budging.

Panic set in, painfully so. His uncle had gone almost completely silent now aside from the heaving breaths he took, and his movements were slow as he now grabbed the other wrist that was peeling back his larger fingers from Oz’s pale skin. With the distorted look Oscar had, Oz realized just how much he looked like his father.

Oz felt his stomach churn as a dryness crept through his throat. “U-Uncle?” He could barely even speak now, the single word causing a tickle in his mouth. For a moment, he felt like vomiting.

It passed, though, possibly too quickly.

Oscar said nothing else as he steadied the shaking wrists he held and leaned closer, peering at Oz’s face with an emotion the boy couldn’t place. It wasn’t until he was knocked back onto his own bed that he felt the wetness growing over his eyes; this wasn’t Oscar, he knew that, but the strength difference between the two was the same as ever.

The formerly welcoming and comfortable bed felt like it was swallowing him now. Oz gasped a breath from the impact, using it to scream a broken “Gi—“ before Oscar’s large, calloused hand pressed over his mouth.

His uncle silenced him in a hush and spent a moment gazing at the boy’s fear-ridden features. It was soft, almost inaudible, but Oz caught the “you look so much like her” that tumbled out of Oscar’s mouth.

Now, popping off the buttons to Oz’s dark green blazer, it seemed that Oscar had lost it. The boy could tell that his uncle no longer thought of him as just Oz, his nephew, but now he morphed into something he lost long ago: a reflection of his deceased wife.

Muffled shouts of protest slipped through the gaps of his uncle’s fingers, but Oscar only pressed down harder on his mouth. It hurt. A numbing sort of pain swelled in his jaw from the screaming and pressure against it and soon enough there were streams of glossy tears sliding down his cheeks.

Oz’s twitchy limbs still struggled to fight back against the push of Oscar’s body weighted down onto his own, but his childish strength was nothing to that of a grown man. Even so, with all the pushing and screaming he could barely bring himself to move his arms when his uncle began to undo his undercoat.

And then Oscar pulled the openings over his shoulders. The clothing draped over him lazily, and Oz finally let his arms fall to his sides. He was tired, so tired. Both physical and emotional strength had been sapped from him as his drained gaze watched the man move his hands closer to his heaving chest.

The cold air nipped at his skin first, but Oscar was close behind. His lips were chapped, and Oz could feel the roughish texture against his collarbone first, the strange drag of teeth pulling out a grunt from his throat. A murmur of his uncle’s name followed, small tears still prickling in the corners of his eyes. The flowing had stopped now, but a spike of pleasure to his chest spilled them over once again.

Oscar’s warm hand had slid up along with his head, but focused lower, and began to toy with the newly-aroused buds on Oz’s chest. Tingles of a sensation unknown to the boy surrounded his chest and caught in his throat as a moan hitched on the way out and came as choked. His uncle began trailing soft kisses up his neck, the tickling of movement sending a small shiver down Oz’s spine that dragged another low groan from his lips.

Oscar captured the smaller, parted lips against his own in a rough, desperate kiss. He forced his tongue in on another larger gasp caused by a jarring pinch to Oz’s nipple.

The sharp taste of alcohol flooded into Oz’s mouth, willing his mental escape more than before, and soon through the blurred glaze of tears, Oscar was no longer there in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut, the reality of the situation flooding away from his senses, and fully accepted his own replacement.

Slowly, Oz reached his arms around the man that was no longer his uncle and began to kiss back against the intoxicating flavor.

He tangled his fingers in the back of Oscar’s hair—but no, it wasn’t Oscar. Shorter strands of blond locks morphed into longer, silky waves of raven-colored hair that was more familiar to the touch. Chapped lips were not such, but soft and caring like the ones he knew.

The kiss broke for both to catch a breath, and Oz’s eyes flickered open slowly, clouded with newly-found lust at his mind’s trick. The figure on top of him was foggy and hard to see, but through the distorted vision he could make out someone he knew well: Gilbert.

“Gil….” The boy’s voice was tired, the word falling off his lips between heavy, panting breaths.

Oscar’s hand slid from his nephew’s chest, now moving to free the growing arousal in both their lower halves. He removed Oz’s pants first, his own following shortly after.

The arousal was clear in both of their twitching erections, precum dripping slowly from the tips. With his legs rising up slightly to help the indistinct older man, Oz’s moist boy hole a clear indication of how little help he would need from now on.

It was easy for Oscar to slip one finger inside him, and his nephew rewarded him with a moan of someone else’s name. It didn’t bother him much, though, as he was more focused on his growing desire to please himself rather than anything about Oz anymore.

In and out; he moved his finger slowly and then picked up speed as he slid in one finger after another. Soon enough, Oz was swallowing up all four fingers. By then, the room was filled with lewd squelching and squishing sounds and various, equally lewd, noises tumbling out of the back of Oz’s throat. He might’ve thought to calm his voice had he been sober, but the boy was more or less intoxicated by the taste of alcohol mixing with jolts of pleasure when thick fingers prodded at his prostate every now and again; the feeling of his ass being stretched was definitely something new and uncomfortable (having been a virgin, and all) but the gentle waves of pleasure drowned out the discomfort easily.

Oscar’s digits slid out slowly with a small popping sound and at first all his nephew felt was the semi-rough texture of fabric against his newly-gaping bottom, but the elder wasn’t hesitant in deciding that he needed the border removed.

Of course, there was no warning when his erection pushed into the small body. Oz cried out in a cracking voice, butchering the name of a precious servant. A gasp followed, and his legs were trembling; it was only for a moment they didn’t move, the squeezing of Oz coaxing Oscar into taking his first thrust foward. The addictive pleasure washed through Oscar first, seeming to then ripple into Oz at his waist.

Oscar gripped Oz’s hips for leverage, hitting deeper with each thrust. He was barely focusing, instead twisting and tugging at his nephew like some toy. Unbothered, or rather too out of it to care, a string of moans shot from Oz’s lips and his hands fell back to grip at the sheets of the bed behind him.

“I-I love you, I love you…!” He began abruptly, cutting through another gasp. Body shuddering, his abdomen was churning with heat. His head was spinning, the approaching orgasm driving him to dig his fingers further into the bed. “G-Gil, Gil—!”

Crying out for the second time, Oz felt a buzz of static pass over him with the immense pleasure that followed. He dropped his limbs, the grunting of his uncle above fading with the exhaustion that began to set into his muscles.

Finishing with a twitchy push to Oz’s hips, Oscar was more than charitable in the load he filled his nephew with. There he paused, panting and catching his breath from the high, and then simply pulled away without a word.

And it was over.

He pulled out, letting the cum drip naturally from Oz, and slid his clothes back on as if nothing had happened. Perhaps he was sobering up, or maybe he just was still too drunk to bat an eye at the situation.

Either way, Oz remained asleep as the door opened and all the same, closed once more.