by E M Lindsey
“Oh, I think Amit dragged him off to the bathroom to look at his tattoo. He scabbed and he’s panicking now about getting it fixed.” There was a smile in Miguel’s voice, something fond, something different than the man who showed up with a chip on his shoulder and determination to let no place be home. It was a good look on him, Wyatt thought. “How was the drive?”
Wyatt smiled softly as Apollo bumped his leg. “It was long. Nothing particularly thrilling between here and Arizona, but Mat’s been thinking about a trip East.”
“Avoid Texas and y’all will be fine,” Miguel said with a laugh in his voice. After a beat, he cleared his throat. “Thanks for having us at the wedding though.”
Wyatt frowned. “Why would…”
“I know we’re not family. Not like the rest of them. But watching you two…made me think.”
“About marriage?” Wyatt pressed, and he heard Miguel snort.
“Fuck no. But about…more. Love, I guess. Something like forever.” He let out a slow breath. “I’ve been afraid to let myself feel happy for a damn long time. But…”
The silence said the rest, and Wyatt understood it in the most profound way. But…it’s impossible to help it when you find the one person that gives your heart a reason to keep beating. But…it’s impossible to help it when you find the one person that makes you want to wake up and live forever.
“Hey, cowboy,” came a voice to Wyatt’s right, and he felt Mat brush up against his arm. Wyatt grinned, curling his fingers against Mat’s bicep and fought the urge to pull him close and use his body to show just how fucking much he loved being this man’s husband. “You ready to take off?”
They said their quick goodbyes, and Wyatt was half-tuned in to Mat’s chatter on the way back to their place. They’d stopped in already to drop off their things before picking up Apollo, but it felt like a real homecoming when he stepped past the threshold and unclipped the dog, and let himself breathe in the scent of the walls and floors that were unequivocally theirs.
He heard the click of the dog door as Apollo let himself out, then he smiled when Mat’s arms came around him and lips found the curve of his neck. “You okay, cowboy? You were really quiet on the ride.”
“Mm.” Wyatt leaned into him. “Just happy.”
“To be home?” Mat asked, kissing him there again.
Wyatt’s smile widened. “To be home. To be with you. To be married. To feel you right here against me knowing that this is it.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Mat breathed out, then his hand drifted down, fingers tugging at Wyatt’s button and zipper. Wyatt let out a choked breath when cool air hit him, but it was replaced with searing heat as Mat’s palm curled around his half hard dick and began to gently stroke—a tease, playful and soft, but so fucking erotic. “I missed this. Being able to fuck you right here in the kitchen.”
“Did you?” Wyatt choked out. He was getting harder with each pass of Mat’s hand, his body lighting up under every press of Mat’s lips against his shoulders, the back of his neck, the edge of his ear.
Mat didn’t say anything to that, but his free hand tugged at Wyatt’s jeans until they pooled at his feet. He let go of Wyatt’s dick for a second, but only to grab him by the wrists and press his hands to the counter top. “Hold tight, cowboy.”
Wyatt knew what was coming next, but for some reason, Mat’s tongue against his hole always felt like a surprise. A brief moment of, there’s no way I deserve this, passed by, but it was gone in a rush as Mat speared his tongue and fucked him with his mouth.
Wyatt’s breath rushed out of him, a groan lodged in his throat as he pressed back and let Mat’s hands pull his cheeks apart, let him feast like he was starving for this and only this. His fingers dug into the marble, the pain keeping him down to earth, keeping him from reaching for his cock which was desperate for something—anything—to ease the pressure of wanting to come.
But he knew Mat would make him work for it—wait for it. And he felt so fucking loved and so fucking cherished.
“God.” Mat’s voice was a hoarse groan as he finally pulled back, kissing his way up Wyatt’s spine. Wyatt heard the clink of his belt, the quiet shuffle as his jeans and boxers dropped. He felt Mat shift to the side, heard the sound of a lid popping, and he knew what for. “I l-l. Adore. I adore you,” Mat managed as he slipped two fingers inside.
Wyatt clenched around him, wanting to draw him deeper, feeling full but not full enough. He shifted his legs into a wider V, lifted his hips, letting his body beg because he couldn’t seem to find his tongue. And Mat read him, like pages of braille with the tips of his fingers as they brushed up Wyatt’s ribs, as one hand moved around his stomach while the other positioned himself at Wyatt’s waiting entrance.
“Now?” Mat asked.
Wyatt grunted, thrust back, felt the head push past the first ring of muscle. He swore softly, not even sure what language he was using—knowing it didn’t matter. His world was narrowed down to the light streaming from the window, bright orange like a river of sun through his closed lids, and the hot press of Mat’s dick filling him.
Mat’s hands moved to his hips to steady him as he bottomed out, and then time stood still for as long as Mat needed to regain his control. Wyatt could hear his breath, stuttered and sharp in his chest, could feel the tremble in his hands. Then one of them moved, wrapping around him and stroking in time with the first, hard thrust.
The movement forced a grunt out of Wyatt, the sound filling the kitchen, echoing off the counters and walls. He lifted up onto his toes and gave as good as he was getting—fucking into Mat’s hand, fucking back on his dick, letting pleasure eclipse all of his senses.
Somewhere in the void beyond being fucked was Mat’s voice, murmuring soft, filthy nothings in his ear. Was his mouth, the sharp edges of his teeth grazing the exposed skin of his neck. But none of that mattered as he chased the swirling pleasure in the pit of his gut, and he let out a cry as it exploded through his limbs and consumed absolutely everything.
He came to in Mat’s arms, sagged backward with come dripping down his thigh, and his knees too weak to really support him. He was grateful for Mat’s strength and composure as his husband bent down to get rid of their tangled clothes. He let Mat support him as they stumbled down the hall and into the bedroom to climb under winter-cooled sheets which were almost searing against his over-heated skin.
Mat’s arms didn’t stay far, kept him close, kept him possessed. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s ever going to cool.”
Wyatt laughed, his voice strained, and he nestled backward. “Sometimes it will. Sometimes it’ll be like this.”
“And that’s what forever is like?”
Wyatt turned and palmed Mat’s cheek with a gentle hand. “It is with us. You okay with that?”
Mat laid a kiss to the center of his palm, and Wyatt could feel his grin. “Yeah, cowboy. I think I am.”
* * *
Fin.
Miguel and Amit
The Happily Ever After
One
The Request
He never got tired of this, and he never would. Miguel didn’t have a lot of faith in life, and there wasn’t much he held sacred, but the sight of Amit standing in front of their tall mirror turning from side to side inspecting new ink was the closest Miguel had ever felt to reverence. Miguel had been careful not to hold Amit to some impossible standard. He knew what that did to relationships, and yet, there were moments that his partner was something close to holy.
Tonight was no different. Amit had a loose top with the shoulder down, and the fresh tattoo shone in the bright light of the bedroom. There was something charged between them, something Amit had been holding back all through the session, and Miguel felt anxiety settling at the base of his spine because usually Amit talked to him.
But that afternoon was different. Miguel cleaned up, then drove for food, and they ate on the sofa with their legs wrapped around each other. And now Miguel stood there staring at the reflec
tion of the person he was so deeply in love with, it made his chest ache.
‘You just gonna stand there all night?’ Amit signed, and Miguel couldn’t help his laugh, or the quick stride he made across the room before wrapping his arms around the slender waist.
He was careful with Amit’s hearing aids as he kissed just under his earlobe, and he tugged a bit with his teeth, relishing in the quiet moan that rippled through the air.
“I could, you know,” Miguel said, grinning against his lover’s neck. “I want to, except you’ve been acting weird and I want to know why.”
Miguel looked up to meet dark eyes in the mirror, and he saw the way Amit’s mouth was turned down in the corners. The lack of smile the most unsettling thing of the entire night.
“You don’t have to tell me, but…”
“No,” Amit breathed out, then closed a hand around Miguel’s arm and held him firm. “No, I…” The silence between them felt heavy and physical.
Miguel lifted his hand in front of the mirror. ‘Do you want to sign it?’
“I think it’s easier if I speak,” Amit replied, though the hint of smile now was at least a little comforting. Whatever it was, Miguel didn’t think their relationship was about to crumble, though he still had days where he felt terrified and weak about future what-ifs.
They’d been together a long time. Years, now. Their lives were carefully intertwined, and Miguel often forgot he had once existed outside of Fairfield. Life with Amit was his beginning and end, and the thing that existed before he accepted his lover’s quiet, informal vows to give their love a chance at forever, felt like a ghost.
Amit had long since stopped working at the bar, had settled into a career, and every single day, he blew Miguel’s mind with his poise and grace and intelligence. And Miguel settled into Irons and Works, and into Fairfield like he had been made for it.
Seven years. Seven long, glorious years of this, but Miguel felt like they were standing on the precipice of change, and he wanted to be ready for it, brave for it—to give Amit his everything.
‘Talk to me,’ he signed, and Amit nodded sharply before taking a breath.
“I’ve been giving this some thought. Shit.” A pink tongue darted out for just a second, and Miguel fought the urge to kiss those lips until neither of them could breathe. “This was easier in my head. It was easier when I was just talking to myself, and I didn’t feel like such a fucking fraud.”
It was the heartbreak in those words that got to him, and Miguel quickly took Amit’s hands, pulling them both to the bed. It was a mess of soft blankets and too many pillows, but Miguel carefully nested them all together and kept in close so Amit would be able to hear him, but gave him enough space that Miguel could sign if words were too much.
‘Tell me,’ he signed again, a sweep of his finger to his lips, then to his chest.
Amit’s eyes fluttered closed for a long second. “When I was little, I learned about reincarnation. It was some cultural segment in school—I barely even remember it. And it was over-simplified, but the idea of it…resonated. I started thinking. Probably too hard,” the laugh coming from Amit’s chest sounded far too tight, and Miguel ached to soothe it. “Every time you died, you came back as something else, right? That’s the gist of it, anyway. And we read this article about these people who supposedly remembered their past lives.”
“Quacks,” Miguel said, and his lover chuckled softly.
“Maybe. Probably.” It was a concession, but Miguel appreciated the smile on Amit’s lips. “I actually forgot about it until I was like twenty-one. When things felt…you know. Different from everyone else.”
And Miguel understood that. They talked long, impossible hours where his lover agonized about what it meant to wear feminine clothes and spread make up on—and did it lessen him as a man? Did it mean anything?
“I told myself it didn’t matter what I wore—of course it didn’t. Gender is a social construct.” Amit laughed again. “If it wasn’t, biology would be the same across the board, right? There wouldn’t be different gender expressions in other cultures.”
“Right,” Miguel said, speaking quiet, but trying to pitch his voice so Amit wouldn’t have to strain to hear him.
“But what if I’m like this because I spent all my past lives as a woman, and now my soul just…doesn’t know what to do with itself?”
Miguel didn’t know what to say, because he’d never bought into shit like that, and his brain didn’t quite grasp the concept of what a past life could mean now. But he saw the distress in his lover’s eyes, and he sighed, leaning forward so their foreheads touched. “What do you feel? Right here?” Miguel asked, and pressed his stump where Amit’s heart was beating. “What does this tell you about who you are?”
Amit was quiet a long time. “I’m…a man. And I’m soft.”
Miguel kissed him on the edge of his jaw. “Okay.”
“I like feeling soft, and I like being treated delicate,” he went on. “That my clothes don’t define me.”
“They don’t,” Miguel said, and he dragged his stump down until his thumb hooked on the waistband of Amit’s tights.
“I don’t feel firmly rooted in…in being a man,” Amit said after a minute, “but it’s feels more right than anything else.”
“You don’t owe anyone anything except yourself,” Miguel said—because Amit had said that to him once, when he was struggling and feeling unworthy. “And I’m here to love all those parts of you, however they are. And whoever they are.”
Amit’s chin wobbled, and he breathed out a little shaky. Then he nodded and surged in and kissed Miguel until they were both gasping for breath. Miguel fumbled with Amit’s clothes, ripping the tights from his body, moving so Amit could spread out as Miguel ran the fingers of his hand up the inside of his lover’s thigh.
‘Beautiful,’ he signed, and Amit glowed. “You are so fucking beautiful.” He undressed himself with precise tugs on his shirt and jeans, then knelt between Amit’s spread legs and pushed his knees up, spreading him out like a feast.
His mouth watered, and he pressed both thumbs into the juncture of Amit’s thighs. “Please,” Amit gasped, because he knew what was coming.
He wanted to be treated soft and delicate, and a long time ago, Miguel didn’t think he was capable of giving that to anyone. With his missing hand and scarred face and jagged past, he felt like anything he touched would shatter into a thousand pieces. But he knew better now, trusted himself, and he planned to show that as he leaned in and kissed slowly, mouthing without teeth, toward Amit’s balls.
They were heavy, warm, soft as Miguel sucked one into his mouth, and then the other. He pushed Amit’s legs up further toward his chest, dragging a touch back downward along the backs of his thighs, then spread his cheeks and nosed along his crack.
Amit mewled, shook, his tone desperate as he clung to the back of his calves to keep himself open and spread for his lover. Miguel allowed himself to indulge in light grazes, tracing a circle around his hole, pressing a tender touch to the space behind his balls where he knew it would send zinging pleasure up Amit’s spine.
Then he dipped his head low, and licked a long stripe, feeling the way Amit twitched under him. His lover gasped out something, begging almost, but Miguel wasn’t ready to give in just yet. He wanted to watch Amit open, wanted to watch him writhe. He wanted to take his time to feel grateful that this impossibly beautiful, perfect man not only was his, but wanted to be.
Amit’s fingers curled in his hair, and Miguel took that moment to thrust his tongue inside. He fucked with his mouth, letting Amit’s groans, gasps, and pleas wash over him like they were the oxygen he needed to breathe—the strength he needed to keep going until Amit shattered.
He didn’t torment him long though. He pulled back with gently biting nips to his thighs, then kissed a line up Amit’s chest. “How do you want me?”
Amit’s eyes were hazy and half-lidded, mouth hanging open. He lifted his hands and framed Miguel
’s face like he was the one fragile, like he was the one precious. “Inside me,” Amit said. “Slow. Hard.”
Miguel’s entire body shuddered with want, his hand trembling as it reached and fumbled and eventually found the small bottle in the drawer. It was liquid and silky against his fingers, and then Amit’s body closed around him as he pushed two fingers inside—but he didn’t plan for a lot of prep. He wanted to feel Amit loosen and stretch around his dick, wanted to claim him inch by agonizing inch.
He wanted to see Amit lose grip on reality, ascend to the heavens and stay there until his orgasm sent him falling back to earth.
Amit’s hand curled around the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss just as the head of Miguel’s dick caught on his rim. There was a moment where Miguel thought he might not open, and then he slipped in past the first ring of muscle and forced his entire body to still. The tightness was almost unbearable, and he added a little more lube because he wanted this to be no pain, only absolute pleasure.
Amit was shaking with the effort to keep still, and Miguel curled his fingers through his hair, holding tight and firm while the edge of his stump drew a line down the front of Amit’s throat. He could feel the echo of his pulse pounding, feel the strain of his breath, hear the way it caught in his chest.
‘Please,’ Amit begged, his hand flat, circling over his sternum.
Miguel could deny him nothing, so he gave another inch, and Amit bowed to it. His back arched and his ass clenched, and Miguel knew if he was weaker—less practiced—he would have lost it then.
But he kept his control, and he gave another inch, and then another.
And he kept going until he was fully seated and Amit’s ass was cradled against his thighs.
‘Want you,’ Amit signed with one hand. ‘Want you, need you. Please.’
Miguel’s gaze traced a bead of sweat that trickled down beneath Amit’s brows, and he wanted to give in to the plea with hard, fast, claiming thrusts—but it wasn’t what Amit wanted. So he drew out, a slow drag and felt every single pull, every single clench as Amit’s body tried to keep him there. When he was almost entirely out, he pushed back in—only slightly faster this time, and the pace tormented them both.