Under Our Roof (11a/14)
anonymous
April 6 2010, 04:40:26 UTC
Matthew
Of course, Miguel made the first move. He would.
It was after a late day of setting up for the show. My shoulders ached from lifting bits of scenery. Miguel punched me hard in the arm as I got into the passenger’s seat of the car. I made a pained noise.
“Wuss,” he said, but he gently pressed his palm to my shoulder, kneaded it soothingly.
I smiled. I was going to say sorry, but then he was moving closer. His hand moved up my arm. I breathed the smoke on his breath.
He paused. “Matthew. I… Is this…?”
And then he pushed his mouth onto mine. There was no grace to it. Our teeth clacked, and I would have drawn back in surprise, but Miguel pressed his hand to the back of my head and made me stay in place. After a second, I relaxed into the kiss and it became gentler.
When he let go of my head and abruptly jerked back, I could taste his salty, tobacco-infused spit in my mouth. He looked away awkwardly.
“Matthew-” he began.
“Thank you,” I whispered, smiling. He looked at me a moment, then he smiled weakly back, and smiled back and pulled me close for another kiss.
We drove to his apartment and he pulled me into his room. I sat down on his bed, while he closed his door. Then, he went back to me, sat down, and hesitated a moment before kissing me roughly. He repeated the same things that he had said in the car, about how much he had wanted me, how hard it was keeping it a secret, how wonderful he thought I was.
I murmured quiet “you too’s” and he laughed, pushed his hands into my hair, kissed again. Lots of kissing. Neither of us could get enough now that we were free to. It must have been a long while, kissing with wet, open mouths and then breaking apart to gasp for breath and nip at cheeks and necks.
Miguel had a bit of stubble. It scraped painfully against the sensitive skin of my throat. I swallowed my gasp and pulled my chin back to expose more of my neck.
He pulled my sweatshirt over my head, the fabric catching awkwardly on my nose. Then, he slid his hands inside my shirt, while nuzzling at my jaw. He rubbed my chest, toying with a nipple between calloused fingers.
“Is that all right?” he breathed uncertainly.
I couldn’t make coherent words, but managed to nod. I put my hand on the back of his head, stroked his thick hair. My eyes were shut tightly.
It felt wonderful. Even without any touch below my waist, it felt amazing. I wanted to beg him for more, more, but thought that if I opened my mouth I would scream and cry.
This is how Alfred must have felt.
I whimpered. No, I begged myself. Don’t do this. Please. Don’t think about it. No. No. No.
Arthur’s hands are strong. You’ve felt them on your arm or patting your head. They’re almost as strong as Miguel’s. They’re your father’s hands. And they were on your brother. Touching your brother. Making your brother moan.
No.
Does Alfred feel Dad’s stubble tear at him? And does he gasp like you do? Does Dad’s touch feel like this? Father…
No. Miguel’s hands were still on me, his tongue still tracing the line from the corner of my jaw to my lips.
Miguel’s hands. Dad’s hands. My father pushing me down. Alfred moaning, grunting. My brother.
“Stop!” I might not have said the word. I might just have let out an inarticulate panicked sound. I grabbed his wrists and pushed him back, jerking my face away.
Of course, Miguel made the first move. He would.
It was after a late day of setting up for the show. My shoulders ached from lifting bits of scenery. Miguel punched me hard in the arm as I got into the passenger’s seat of the car. I made a pained noise.
“Wuss,” he said, but he gently pressed his palm to my shoulder, kneaded it soothingly.
I smiled. I was going to say sorry, but then he was moving closer. His hand moved up my arm. I breathed the smoke on his breath.
He paused. “Matthew. I… Is this…?”
And then he pushed his mouth onto mine. There was no grace to it. Our teeth clacked, and I would have drawn back in surprise, but Miguel pressed his hand to the back of my head and made me stay in place. After a second, I relaxed into the kiss and it became gentler.
When he let go of my head and abruptly jerked back, I could taste his salty, tobacco-infused spit in my mouth. He looked away awkwardly.
“Matthew-” he began.
“Thank you,” I whispered, smiling. He looked at me a moment, then he smiled weakly back, and smiled back and pulled me close for another kiss.
We drove to his apartment and he pulled me into his room. I sat down on his bed, while he closed his door. Then, he went back to me, sat down, and hesitated a moment before kissing me roughly. He repeated the same things that he had said in the car, about how much he had wanted me, how hard it was keeping it a secret, how wonderful he thought I was.
I murmured quiet “you too’s” and he laughed, pushed his hands into my hair, kissed again. Lots of kissing. Neither of us could get enough now that we were free to. It must have been a long while, kissing with wet, open mouths and then breaking apart to gasp for breath and nip at cheeks and necks.
Miguel had a bit of stubble. It scraped painfully against the sensitive skin of my throat. I swallowed my gasp and pulled my chin back to expose more of my neck.
He pulled my sweatshirt over my head, the fabric catching awkwardly on my nose. Then, he slid his hands inside my shirt, while nuzzling at my jaw. He rubbed my chest, toying with a nipple between calloused fingers.
“Is that all right?” he breathed uncertainly.
I couldn’t make coherent words, but managed to nod. I put my hand on the back of his head, stroked his thick hair. My eyes were shut tightly.
It felt wonderful. Even without any touch below my waist, it felt amazing. I wanted to beg him for more, more, but thought that if I opened my mouth I would scream and cry.
This is how Alfred must have felt.
I whimpered. No, I begged myself. Don’t do this. Please. Don’t think about it. No. No. No.
Arthur’s hands are strong. You’ve felt them on your arm or patting your head. They’re almost as strong as Miguel’s. They’re your father’s hands. And they were on your brother. Touching your brother. Making your brother moan.
No.
Does Alfred feel Dad’s stubble tear at him? And does he gasp like you do? Does Dad’s touch feel like this? Father…
No. Miguel’s hands were still on me, his tongue still tracing the line from the corner of my jaw to my lips.
Miguel’s hands. Dad’s hands. My father pushing me down. Alfred moaning, grunting. My brother.
“Stop!” I might not have said the word. I might just have let out an inarticulate panicked sound. I grabbed his wrists and pushed him back, jerking my face away.
“Matthew…”
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