In the Blaze of His Hungers (2 page)

Ryan pauses there, at the
tip, breathing through his nose, and it’s a lot like being taught to swim, being taught to pace his breaths, to stay underwater for longer and longer. He goes back in, taking it slow, just like Javier had said – trying and failing to move his tongue under all that weight in his mouth, implacable and too large for him to do anything but drool around it, drool and feel the saliva trickle down his chin.

“Fuck, you’re good,” Javier says hoarsely, and twists his fingers in Ryan’s hair, gently but with a premonition of force that makes Ryan shiver. “You take it so
sweet
.”

And there it is, the force Javier had promised in that
brace of his hand, splaying against the back of Ryan’s neck and keeping him
still
, still and soft and open, just a hole for Javier to fuck into, in deep, rutting thrusts that make Ryan choke, that make tears gather at the corners of Ryan’s eyes. It’s everything Ryan wanted, every dirty, filthy bit of it, and the feeling of being used sparks through him, ignites something in the pit of his belly – something feral and sharp and tight, something buzzing and barbed, frantic and full of vicious need.

Hi
s hand’s in his jeans before he knows it, tugging out his dick and pulling at it with cruel strokes that almost hurt, like Javier’s cock hitting the back of his throat
does
hurt, a building soreness that somehow makes Ryan buck into his hand even more, need to come even more, because it means that Ryan is being ridden just that hard, just that right, that he’s being
wrecked
.

God, he wants to be wrecked, wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything, and Javier is giving him that, giving him
what he craves.

Fuck me, fuck me
, Ryan thinks, through the rising tide of his own orgasm,
fuck me till I can’t breathe, till I can’t walk, bend me over my goddamn car and fuck me – spread my ass and lick your come right out of me – make me cry like you want to, like I know you want to – make me scream –

And
soon he’s coming, the power of it slamming into him and making him slump so that Javier has to hold him up by his hair, hold him up and keep thrusting into him.

Ryan is empty of thought, empty of will, empty of
everything.

And it feels so
full
–

So full, the emptiness of it, nothing in his head except for the dull pounding of his blood and the sound of Javier’s groans and the blackening of his own vision as Javier comes in his mouth and drowns him. Ryan is gone, finished…

And then he’s back online, staggering into awareness when a final spatter of come hits him in the face – when Javier hauls him up on unsteady legs and kisses him, kisses the come right off him – off his eyelids and cheeks and mouth.

Fuck, Ryan’s mouth stings, like it’s been punched, but it’s the best kind of punch ever. Ryan can hardly stand, he’s trembling so much, but Javier
grips him around the nape and goes on kissing him, holding him in place for that, too.

Ryan lets it happen, tremors running through him. He’s never come like that
, ever. He doesn’t even have the energy to kiss Javier back, so he lets Javier eat his mouth, fucking it with his tongue like he fucked it with his cock.

At last, Javier
releases him, dropping him onto a stool that Ryan just collapses on, his softening dick dangling out of his pants, his hands feeling useless and nerveless, his tongue numb, his throat so sore he’s worried he’ll never talk again.

Ryan is
fond
of talking.

This could be a problem.

Javier keeps watching him, like he can’t get enough of looking at Ryan, even now, when Ryan is sex-stupid and clumsy and can’t do anything but try not to melt right off the stool and onto the floor, which at least is a horizontal surface, because Ryan needs a horizontal surface. He needs a lie-down like nobody’s business.

After Ryan – uncharacteristically – says nothing for several minutes, Javier snorts. And tosses Ryan a grease-stained towel.

“Take that and go upstairs,” Javier says. “Shower’s on the right.”

“Oh,” croaks Ryan, because
damn
, his throat hurts. Hurts, hurts, hurts. And not in the nice way, anymore. The realization that he’s been face-fucked is too much for him to get his head around, so he just sits there, for another couple of seconds, before managing to wobble off the stool. “Thanks.”

“Don’t put your clothes back on, after that.”

Ryan swings toward him, incredulous. “Say what?”

“The
bedroom’s on the left.”

Ryan gapes at him.

So this wasn’t enough despoiling for a day?

There’s
more
despoiling?

Javier giv
es him another I-know-what-you’re-thinking look, which shouldn’t be so sexy, given that it’s such a fatherly expression, and, shit, Ryan just had sex with Pete’s 
dad
.

Ryan had sex, period.

Ryan can have more sex. If he wants.

And he definitely wants.
Maybe after a break. Maybe after a soothing drink. A carton of milk would be welcome.

“You got a kitchen?” he asks.

“Next to the bedroom,” Javier says. “It’s a weird layout.”

“You’re a weird guy,” Ryan replies, and proceeds to
waddle up the stairs and into the kitchen, where he guzzles down some milk, cold from the fridge. Then he finds the shower, where he strips awkwardly and slumps against the shower tiles, catching his breath.

He might be catching his breath for the rest of his
life
.

Okay. Oh-
kay.

Re-cap. He just had a man come in his mouth. He liked it. He may be embarking on anal sex, soon, if he was reading the subtext right.

Options: stay or leave.

Pros of staying: first experience with anal sex.

Cons of staying: first experience with anal sex.

No, no. That isn’t right.

Pros of staying: first experience with anal sex.

Cons of staying: not being able to
face Pete the next day. Maybe ever.

The thing about sex, though, as Ryan is discovering, is that it’s a goddamn persuasive motivator. It fucks with people’s minds.

And now, it’s fucking with Ryan’s.

So Ryan stumbles out of the shower, feeling rubbery but slightly more put-together, and spends a while
studying himself in the smudged bathroom mirror, his hands braced on the basin. He expects to look transformed, shaped by a new mould – an I-just-blew-someone-I-shouldn’t-have mould – but he’s largely unchanged, other than his lips, which are incriminatingly swollen. His hair’s a darker brown than is typical, thanks to his shower, and his eyes, though red-rimmed, are their familiar blue. Is this what Javier’s into, then? Ryan doesn’t care whether Javier finds him appealing. He doesn’t care, at all.

He crosses the hallway into Javier’s bedroom. Which is
manky and musty and has a dusty guitar leaning against one wall, but the main object is the bed, which is massive and invitingly rumpled.

Ryan falls into it, naked, as loose-limbed as a dead man, and inhales great
lungfuls of Javier’s scent. It’s everywhere.

Not that this is more than a thing, with Javier. It’s just a sex-thing. Ryan yawns, trying to think through it, but he’s too tired.

Things are just things. This doesn’t have to get freaky, with Pete knowing, because it’s never gonna be official. It’ll be on the QT. Under the table. (Okay, possibly 
over
 the table – if Ryan can find a table for Javier to fuck him over – but still. It’s the spirit of the thing.)

Sex is what it is. Javier’s willing to give it to him, and Ryan is willing to take it. Does Ryan honestly give a damn about anything else?

Should he? Yes. Definitively, yes.

Does
he?

…
no.

A big, exhausted no.

As of this moment, Ryan is in a bed, and he’s going to sleep in it. And whenever Javier drags his douchey hotness upstairs, Ryan is going to have sex in it. The end.

So thinking (or not thinking, he’s good at that, right? Especially when Javier’s around?), Ryan drifts off to sleep, his face mashed into a Javier-scented pillow, his limbs spread out on Javier-scented sheets.

Whatever happens, will happen.

But r
ight now, he needs his Zs.

Ryan knows it’s a dream because he’s in the house he grew up in, before Mom died. In the dream, he’s only about eight years old. His room’s covered in anime posters and the shelf above his bed is peopled with
Pokemon figurines. Pete’s there, despondently putting away their video game consoles, because Ryan’s dad told them they shouldn’t play past six p.m., and Pete’s well-behaved enough to obey him. Dad himself isn’t at home right now, because he’s at work, on the 24-hour shift he has twice a week. Firefighters have it tough, but Ryan’s proud of the work Dad does, because it’s a hero’s job and it’s about saving people.

Even though Dad can’t save Mom. Nobody ca
n save anyone from cancer; it spreads inside a person like rust, eating away at them, leaving them sunken-cheeked and wan. No one’s talked about the fact that Mom is dying, yet, but Ryan knows she is. Dad knows it, too, but he and Mom are pretending everything will be okay, so Ryan’s pretending, as well. Pretending’s better than admitting the truth.

That’s something he and Pete have in common. Pretending. Pete pretends that being abandoned by his father doesn’t upset him, that not even getting birthday cards doesn’t bother him. He tries extra-hard to be a
perfect son to his mother, tries to look after himself as much as he can, making himself lunch and finishing his homework on his own, so he doesn’t worry her.

Ryan doesn’t want to be a burden on his parents, either, particularly with Mom in the hospital and Dad struggling to handle the household responsibilities alone. So Ryan acts like he’s happy even when he isn’t, and only ever tells his mom how awesome school is and how much fun he’s having, so he can see her smile when he visits her. Her smiles are tremulous things, nowadays, faded like flowers pressed in a book, their sweetness turned brittle with time. Ryan pretends he doesn’t notice.
Yet another pretense in addition to so many others.

“Mom’s changing her name,” Pete says, out of nowhere.

“What? She doesn’t wanna be ‘Fiona’?”

“No, dumbass. She’s changing her
last
name. Our last name. It won’t be ‘Ferrera’ anymore.”

Oh. That’s the surname of Pete’s dad. “Is she going back to her, um… maiden name?”

“Yeah. We’ll be ‘Lopez’ from now on. I guess Mom’s given up on Dad ever coming back. I mean, it’s been three years. He hasn’t even called to say hello.”

“You pissed off at him?” Ryan asks, because
he
sure would be, but Pete just looks sad, like he’s losing the last thing that connected him to his father.

“Nah. Not really.”

It’s gotta be a lie. Another thing Pete’s pretending not to feel. But Ryan lets it be, because sometimes that’s the kindest thing you can do, to let people continue to lie to themselves.

T
hen, because this
is
a dream – half-memory and half-imagination – Pete turns into his present eighteen-year-old self in the blink of an eye, complete with his favorite Mumford & Sons T-shirt. He’s much bigger and lankier, but with the same sad look on his face.

“You okay, man?” Ryan asks him.

Pete smiles humorlessly. “Are
you
okay?”

And
that’s when Ryan wakes up.

* * *

Ryan senses he’s being watched as soon as he awakens, the fragments of his dream fading from conscious thought, but he’s still disoriented enough to wonder
who’s
watching him, until he focuses his bleary eyes on the broad-shouldered man hulking in the shadows. It’s Javier, sitting on what must be the ricketiest chair in human history, his stance relaxed and his eyes hooded. Late afternoon light filters through the closed curtains, but doesn’t quite illuminate him. It dusts over Javier like a fine golden mist, gilding the curves of his muscles. He isn’t wearing his tank top. In fact, all he’s wearing are his jeans, with the button undone, and he’s running a hand up and down one clothed thigh as he watches Ryan, his thumb lightly brushing his crotch.

He’s at least half-hard, if the bulge in his pants is anything to go by. And boy, is it ever
anything to go by.

Jesus. Ryan did that.
Ryan
did that to another person, made them need him, want him. The knowledge is dizzyingly triumphant and leaves Ryan breathless, his skin prickling with fresh heat. His own nakedness makes him feel simultaneously more vulnerable and more powerful, because he’s never been looked at like this before, but he’s also never been desired with such ferocity. There’s something predatory in Javier’s silence, something fraught, that makes the hairs on the back of Ryan’s neck stand on end. Had Javier always looked at him like this? Had he just never noticed? No, it couldn’t be. Could it?

The dream has all but vanished from Ryan’s mind, leaving behind vague memories of Pete and a trace of melancholy, but that melancholy is swiftly subsumed by a potent dose of lust. Being a teenager rules; it means being ready to go anytime, anyhow.

“How long have you been there?” Ryan asks, his voice sleep-rough and woozy.

“Long enough.” Javier’s eyes glint. “When do you have to be home?”

“Oh, uh, my dad’s on the late shift again, so… I probably don’t have to be back for a few hours yet?”

“How convenient,” Javier says. “But maybe next time, I can
stop by your place late at night and fuck you while your dad’s asleep. Maybe I can gag you so you don’t wake him up. Or maybe I can listen to you trying to be quiet, trying desperately not to let your father know what a slut you are.”

Ryan flushes – partly from indignation and partly from unexpected arousal, because being called
a slut gets to him, even though it shouldn’t. “I’m not a – ”

“Aren’t you?” Javier undoes his zipper and slips a hand inside,
and Ryan follows the movement with his eyes, because he can’t
not
watch Javier pulling his oversized cock out where Ryan can see it. Nothing about the way Javier does it is hurried, though, as if he’s got other plans for his dick. Plans involving it and Ryan’s ass. “You could’ve left while I was downstairs. You didn’t need to strip and wait for me in my bed. Are you that eager to be fucked by me?”

Yes
, Ryan doesn’t say, because he’s still got his pride. He may not be able to hang onto it for very long, but he’ll make the most of it while he can. He raises his chin and says: “I could still leave, you know.”

Javier’s upper lip curls. “Then leave,” he says, gesturing
to the bedroom door. “Or you could stay here, and find out what it feels like to have this,” he clasps his cock, “inside of you.”

Ryan swallows. His hands clench and unclench in the sheets. One part of him doesn’t want him to
have his first time with such a jackass, but the every
other
part of him is clamoring for exactly what Javier’s promising him. Well, a democracy is the rule of the majority, isn’t it? And Ryan prides himself on being, er, democratic. But he can’t give in so easily, can’t –

“Tell me,” Javier says, idly, “do you finger yourself when you
wank off? Imagine it’s another man prepping you for his dick?” Javier shakes his head, smiles a hungry smile. “Wait, what am I thinking? Those pretty little fingers of yours aren’t nearly big enough. But mine are.”

Those callused, blunt fingers… God, not imagining how they would feel is impossible now that Javier’s mentioned them. Ryan’s own erection is iron-hard, and keeping his hands away from it is more challenging than he thought it’d be. Damn his ego, anyway.

“Go on,” Javier says, as if he can read Ryan’s mind. Who knows? He might even be able to, the evil bastard. “Show me. Show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone. Spread your legs and show me how tight that virgin hole is.”

Ryan’s ears are burning. His breath is coming in puffs, his chest rising and falling as if he’s been running for miles. He’s never thought of himself as the sort of guy who enjoys exposing himself, but apparently his self-assessment was wrong, because the next thing he knows, he’s bending his knees and spreading his thighs as far as they can go, far enough for them to twinge. A wave of vertigo crashes through him, taking him out of himself, as though he’s somebody else, somebody that can do
stuff like this and get off on it. “I,” he says, and has to unstick his throat to get any more words out. “I need some lube.”

“It’s in the bedside cabinet.” Javier’s eyes seem to glow in the dim light, like a tiger’s. “Slick yourself up for me. If you do that, I’ll help you out with the rest.”

The rest. Christ. Ryan turns to the squat, ugly cabinet, yanking out the drawer in his haste and retrieving a somewhat oily tube and a plastic square of a condom. Javier’s going to need that condom, isn’t he?
The rest
.

Ryan returns to his previous position, on his back, spreading himself once more. His heart’s galloping away inside his ribcage, like a horseless carriage in the Wild, Wild West. He’s acutely aware of Javier’s gaze on him, and that awareness flusters him, makes his hands tremble as they uncap the tube and squeezes lube onto his fingertips.

“That’s it,” Javier says huskily. “That’s a good boy.”

Ryan jerks, his hips jolting upward and his cock spitting pre-come, and shit, he hadn’t known he had a kink for
that
. “S-say,” he says, even as he trails his fingers down past his balls and to his hole, which twitches at the coolness of the lube. “Say that again.”

“Earn it again.” Javier smirks. “Do what I say.”

“Fuck you.”

“I think you’ve got that the other way around.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ryan pants, curling his fingers and pressing against the tender opening with his nails, so that it becomes almost painful. It’s so fucking delicious it makes him sweat, makes him bold, makes him lift up so that Javier can see every detail of what he’s doing. “Maybe I’ll fuck with your head, instead. Maybe I’ll stretch my ass out in front of you until you’re drooling for it, and then I won’t let you have it, not until you’re the one begging me.”

“Begging?” Javier raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Now why would I do that, when I could hold you down and fuck you
whenever I please?”

Ryan curses, because the thought of all that
bulk
pinning him, all that immovable muscle, is too tempting to resist. He slips his index finger into his hole, as a reward for his own endurance. “I wouldn’t be able to b-breathe with you on top of me,” he says, and Javier grins, shark-like.

“I thought you
liked
being choked. Weren’t you choking yourself on my cock a short while ago?”

“That’s because you were fucking my mouth like a goddamn animal.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t want me to.” Javier’s eyes are fixed on the dip between Ryan’s buttocks, where Ryan’s managed to insert another finger. It’s a close fit, but not so close that he can’t add a third.

Ryan hisses as though scalded, because now he can feel it, and it’s too much.

It’s not enough.

Javier’s gone
silent, watching him – watching Ryan arch his back to display himself, fucking himself with his fingers, growing slippery with perspiration and lube. And still Javier doesn’t do anything, just strokes himself languidly, no urgency at all, like Ryan is an art exhibit, untouchable behind a glass case.

Ryan’s fingers become more and more inadequate with every boiling, throbbing second,
his wrist threatening to cramp. He’s making small, broken sounds that turn the now-sweltering bedroom into a humiliating echo chamber, because he can hear himself and he can’t stand it, can’t stand having a man’s cock so near and yet so far, not when he’s working so hard to earn it, to be a good boy, like Javier had said.

Ryan’s eyes must’ve fallen shut at some point because when he flutters them open, his eyelashes clumped with tears, Javier is
right there
, standing by the edge of the bed, gazing down at him.

“Please,” says Ryan, and then Javier is sitting next to him, reaching across to touch Ryan’s face. The gentleness of Javier’s touch is somehow jarring, and makes Ryan flinch as though struck.

“Hush,” says Javier, his voice strange and dark and tender, as though Javier can’t decide whether to break Ryan or protect him. Protect him from whom? From Javier? “You’ve been good. You’ve been so good, Ryan.”

“Y-you said you’d help,” Ryan says, almost accusingly, and Javier laughs, soft and indulgent, keeping
a hand on Ryan’s face, grounding him, while with the other moves down and under and… Oh. Inching a finger in right alongside Ryan’s, and the stretch bloody well
aches
, but it’s an ache Ryan’s been waiting his whole life for, an ache that opens him up and terrifies him and frees him, all at once.

“You have no idea what you look like, do you?” Javier asks him. “So fucking
greedy
, starving for cock, opening yourself up and letting me see you, letting me hear how sloppy you are.”

Javier’s finger feels enormous inside him, dry and lube-free beside the three oiled fingers Ryan’s already shoved up there, and their combined
width makes the rim of Ryan’s anus burn, even though Javier is being careful, sliding his finger in and out, in and out, till Ryan is whining with impatience, squirming and bucking back. The friction’s driving him crazy, getting hotter and hotter with each passing moment. He should ask for more lube. He knows he needs more lube, but he doesn’t
want
more lube, because what he wants are for the brief flickers of pain to coalesce into something mirror-bright and blinding and complete.