Chapter 9 DIEGO #2
He caught his rhythm again, but then went a little faster, hips jerking into me, fingertips digging in.
The ache was incidental after a moment, and then turned into something warm and sweet, afterglow following scorching flames.
I moved with him and pulled one knee up, trying to bury him deeper, to squeeze at the right time, to bring him off harder and faster.
He moaned into my ear, and goose bumps raced down my side. He said, “I can’t fuckin’ hold it.”
“I need it,” I gasped. “I need your cum so fucking bad, daddy.”
He slammed into me, his hips stuttering and stretching me out just a little more, so I shuddered with him.
His cock pulsed inside me, his arm tightened around me, and the sound of him fucking me got wet and messy.
Cum slipped out onto my thigh as he fucked more of it back up into me, then again, and again.
I swear I could feel the throbbing of his heartbeat inside me. All of him, raw and sensitive inside me, just as raw, just as real.
“God, Diego,” he huffed. “I have never… wanted someone like I want you.”
I narrowly suppressed a shiver, but my spine tingled at his breath against my neck, his words in my head. When he made to pull out, I moved with him, saying, “No. Stay. Stay in me.”
He nuzzled at my hair, my face. “How does it feel? After, like this?”
“Like we… like everything’s where it’s supposed to be. Like your cock was made for me.”
“It doesn’t hurt?”
“It pulls a little. But it’s warm and tight. And you’re mine,” I murmured before I could stop myself.
He kissed my face. “Yeah. As long as it’s good, baby.”
My toes curled a little. I’m not gonna lie. “It’s good.”
The thing is, it was always good, when I was with him. If I could keep him here, just me and him on my couch, in my world, forever, there’d be nothing to fear.
But that was a teenager’s dream, and this was the adult’s fantasy. Sticky and complicated and sweaty and beautiful. And possible.
***
We rinsed off and climbed into bed eventually, and when my alarm woke me up at ten for my meds, I was irritated as fuck.
But I had that nice just-been-fucked sensation to get me through it, at least, so I slipped out of bed and took a proper shower.
Probably still had cum leaking down my leg after, but I wasn’t gonna be mad about that—or take the time to clean myself out.
Fucking hated enemas, and I had the diet to make up for it, thanks.
If not for that familiar sensation in my ass, I might’ve thought last night was just a good dream.
The kind of thing my brain made up when Taran was back in his townhouse in Robinson and I was all alone and horny after work, thinking about his hands and his eyes and his dick and his mouth.
Cloudy and floaty and surreal, in spite of being a straight-to-the-point, quick-and-dirty fuck on the couch.
I still felt a little warm and fuzzy when he emerged from around the bookshelf, holding his phone in one hand and finger-combing his disaster hair with the other.
“Bettina wants to know if she can have your number,” he said.
I had no idea what he meant at first, but then I remembered the rest of yesterday. “Oh! Shit, yes, I meant to give her that. Go ahead. She said she’d connect me with her sister.”
“Nice.” He came over to the couch, kissed the top of my head, and wandered into the bathroom.
I watched him, smiling like a fucking idiot. “Did you fall asleep during the movie too?”
“No, but we can start from the Balrog. You fell asleep right after.” He shut the door halfway, and soon the trickle of piss sounded from within.
“You pissing sideways?”
“Just about.” He laughed.
“We’ll get you there before the weekend is over,” I promised.
At which he laughed even harder. “Challenge accepted.”
We ordered takeout, since he hadn’t gone shopping and I never had much worth eating, and camped out on the couch (after some minor spot-cleaning) with Strawberry Shortcake on watch.
While we took a few breaks to make out/get off as needed, I actually really fucking enjoyed the movies.
Maybe I was just too young the first time I saw them, and I mostly only do fantasy in my video games, so that could’ve been part of it.
Or maybe I was just unmedicated and had no fucking attention span.
But after we finished The Return of the King, I had to admit, “Damn, I can’t believe that shit is almost as old as me. ”
“Holds up really well, right?” Taran, wearing a tank top and his boxers at this point in the evening, brought me a plate of leftover takeout.
“Fucking incredible,” I agreed. “How long since you saw it again?”
“Probably not since Dad died. We used to marathon it a few times a year, just me and him.”
“That’s really sweet. My dad turned me onto Star Wars when I was a kid, but he never actually watched them all with me and Frankie.”
“I love those too. But the Lord of the Rings kinda gives me flashbacks in parts. He was so mad that they fucked up Faramir’s character.”
“Did they?”
“Yeah. He’s way cooler in the books.”
“Ah, a purist?”
“No, he liked that they gave Arwen stuff to do, even though it was someone else in the books.”
“Who?”
“Glorfindel.”
“… wait, the guy with Cate Blanchett?”
“No, that’s Celeborn. Don’t worry about it; he’s not in the movie.” Taran chuckled and tucked into his food.
“But your dad liked Faramir?” I was always kind of curious about his dad, probably because he didn’t say much. It was implied that they were close even back in the day, but now he was gone—and suddenly, too, from what I understood—I had no idea how Taran felt about it.
“Yeah. He was this kind of ideal hero, you know? Contrasted with Boromir—who could’ve been amazing but got sidetracked. And their father. Jesus.”
“Faramir also bagged the baddest bitch in Middle Earth,” I pointed out. “Eowyn’s a smokeshow.”
“I was so into her when I was a kid,” he admitted. “Between her and Aragorn, I didn’t stand a chance.”
“I always like the villains more. Or the conflicted characters, like Gollum. Literally arguing with himself,” I mused.
“Yeah, fair. I like them tormented.”
I snorted and glanced up at him. “Obviously.”
“You’re not tormented. Well, anymore.” His smile was goofy and crooked, a little missing piece of the seventeen-year-old Taran who’d done all my chemistry homework and kissed me breathless in his car.
“True. You’re the tormented one now.” I smiled to soften the blow.
“Oof.” But he laughed. “It’s funny cuz it’s true.”
“Is it hard to talk about your dad?” I wondered.
“Why? Is there a vibe?”
I shrugged. “Not really. Just that you don’t, much. You never did, but I feel like you were close.”
He sighed. “Yeah. I mean, that’s another thing I’m trying to figure out, these days.”
“Oh. No shit?”
“You know how those guys in their class were. I mean, he wasn’t that different from your dad.”
“Except white and rich,” I said with a raised eyebrow. Okay, Taran’s family wasn’t rich, but from my viewpoint growing up, they looked it.
“Right, yeah, that’s—kinda huge, now you mention it.
” He chuckled. “I don’t… know how to talk about it.
I tried with Mom, but she jumped to his defense, which—I mean, I get the reaction.
I guess the short version is that I don’t know how to reconcile missing him like I do with all the angry, hateful shit he said about queer people. Not just around me but to me.”
Oh. Yeah. And unlike with me making being content not to confront my father about his past behavior as long as his current behavior stayed good and he kept learning…
Taran would never have that choice. That ability to take the power back for the powerless kid he used to be, surrounded by homophobic locker room talk at school and homophobic toxic masculinity at home.
Jesus. What was it like the first time Taran connected himself with the word faggot?
What was it like for insidious words, ideas like that to come from people he loved, and then to never, ever have the satisfaction of an apology—or of telling them off, at the very least?
I was never gonna get the former, but I had plenty of the latter right from the start.
Taran said, “So, there’s most of the list. Stuff that stems from those two massive things.”
“Disappointment and faggotry?” I smiled apologetically, but I couldn’t fucking help it.
He barked out a laugh.
“Sorry. My mouth.”
“I love your mouth,” he said quietly, gaze dropping to it briefly, then back up to my eyes.
I flushed, but apparently he didn’t realize what he’d just said and how… close that was.
He just shook his head and said, “That’s why I noticed you. That night on the sidelines. I don’t remember a lot of things, but that’s like a movie in my mind.”
“The homecoming game?”
“Sophomore year.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah,” he said, as if he thought of this all the time. “Because junior year, you didn’t go to the game. But you went to the dance with Darcy, and you wore a green carnation.”
I smiled. “How the fuck do you remember that?”
“You’re pretty unforgettable.” His smile reached his eyes now, crinkling them behind the thick-rimmed glasses. “You sassed Connall McPherson right to his face on that sideline, like two minutes after we won the game. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I laughed so fucking hard.”
“That’s what attracted you to my dorky little twink ass?
” I gotta admit, I’d always wondered but never been brave enough to ask.
Yeah, Taran spent junior chemistry flirting his face off with me, doing all my work, getting me that A I didn’t deserve.
But that could’ve just been a popular, hot kid wanting more people to fall in love with him, soaking it up.
We didn’t hook up until the summer after that, and it had seemed more a convenience thing at first. He was horny and queer, I was horny and gay, we liked each other well enough, let’s hook up?
Looking back, I should’ve known there was more to it on his end. There was on mine, for goddamn sure. But hindsight, twenty-twenty; etc.
“Yep,” he said. “Why; what attracted you to me?”
“Your ass in football pants,” I deadpanned.
“Yeah, I still do squats to keep it up.”
“It shows.” I leaned over and kissed him. Then, into his lips, I admitted, “I thought you were freakishly kind and annoyingly smart. And you laughed at my jokes.”
“Yeah, I did.”
I kissed him again, this time with intent. And I knew for fucking sure that he was my boyfriend, even if I couldn’t tell him that yet.