Tigger's Perfect Valentine


"Your cum," Tigger points out.

"I guess that's okay, then."

Tigger dives back in for another kiss. His cock has reawakened during the excitement of the blowjob, and now it's poking insistently into Harold's bare hip, drooling precum.

Harold thrusts his tongue into Tigger's mouth and he answers eagerly, sliding his own tongue around Harold's. His hips launch into a dance of their own, rubbing his cock against Harold's bare skin.

Harold slips his hands down and cups his small ass firmly, pulling Tigger more fully on top of him and encouraging his thrusts. A whimper of desire comes out of Tigger's mouth.

Harold pulls out of the kiss to whisper in his ear, "You're so fucking sexy. I love it when you lose it like this."

Have I lost it? Tigger wonders. He's too deep in a lustful haze to figure it out. His cock feels amazing sliding against Harold's smooth skin, and he can't get enough of Harold's hot mouth. The bigger man's hands stroke his back then move down to squeeze and knead his butt. He moans around the tongue exploring his mouth.

He's in heaven. Warm skin on warm skin. His hands have found their way to Harold's firm ass; he can feel his lover's muscles under his fingertips, clenching as Harold pushes up against him, helping him rub his cock against his hard abdomen. Sparks of ecstasy radiate from the tip of his cock up his shaft, past his balls, and right into his gut. He hears moaning gasps and realizes that the sounds are coming from him, but there's nothing he can do to stop them. He's lost all control over his body. He's on a freight train heading toward a broken trestle, helpless to pull to a stop before he plunges into the abyss. Not that he wants to stop, he just wants to prolong the delicious, torturous journey.

He's whimpering desperately into Harold's neck. He doesn't remember ending the kiss, but he's incapable of doing anything now except humping and clutching and making feral, needy sounds. Then the train rushes headlong over the cliff and Tigger screams. His rhythm breaks as he slams his hips against Harold in jerks, cumming in thick spurts all over his stomach.

It seems to take a long time for his brain to come back from La La Land. He feels Harold's fingers gently stroking through his hair. His cheek is resting on the bigger man's chest. He breathes in Harold's scent and sighs.

"You okay, Tig?" Harold asks softly.

Tigger has a hard time operating the muscles that move his head in a slight nod. "Never better," he mumbles.


Tigger suppresses a sigh as he turns the page in his history text. When he realizes he has no idea what the last three paragraphs said, he turns the page back to reread them.

I need to pull myself out of this, he tells himself angrily. There is no reason to be acting like a lovesick middle-schooler.

Those three days with Harold had been the best in his life. He didn't see much of Portland, but he'd tried very hard to make up for nineteen years of celibacy. They had licked and sucked and stroked and touched until both of them had been thoroughly sated. By the time he'd said a sorrowful good-bye to Harold at the train station, his cock had been rubbed raw and his balls sucked dry—literally.

He sighs again deeply, glad that his roommate is not there; Jon would be giving him shit for his pathetic state. At the same time he can't help but wish that Jon was there to take his mind off the fact that it's Valentine's Day and he hasn't heard one word from Harold.

He thought for sure he would get at least a text from him today, but the day is drawing into evening, and it's looking less and less likely. They texted back and forth a lot right after Tigger had come home, but within a few days Harold became much slower to respond. Tigger had called him that next weekend, but he'd sounded distracted and cut the conversation short. After that his text messages got still fewer and further between. Sometimes Tigger would send two or three texts without getting an answer back.

Harold said he was just really busy, but Tigger can't help thinking that isn't the reason. He sent Harold four texts yesterday and still hasn't received a response. He refuses to let himself contact Harold again. He knows how to get ahold of me. Tigger glances at his phone again. It's depressingly blank.

He can only think that Harold doesn't share his feelings. Harold doesn't want a boyfriend. It was just a weekend fling for him. I refuse to chase after someone who doesn't want me. I will not be one of those whiney, clingy saps who doesn't have enough self-respect to walk away when it's clear the relationship is over.

What relationship? Tigger desperately hopes that they can at least still be friends, but it's going to be damn awkward.

I can't believe he hasn't even texted "Happy Valentine's Day" to me. Tigger blinks back tears. Maybe he doesn't think about stuff like that. Maybe he doesn't think about me at all.

It really hurts to think that, because Harold is all Tigger can think about. He keeps trying to get his mind off of the tall handsome man, but it doesn't matter how he distracts himself, Harold is always a thought away. I should have never gone down there in the first place, he tells himself, but he immediately recants that thought. No, it was all good—then. If I can just get over this pathetic heartbreak, I'll have some wonderful memories that maybe someday won't be so painful. He swallows down the lump in his throat. It was perfect. And now it's over.

I'm an idiot to let myself fall in love. Why didn't I guard my heart? Why didn't I see it the same way Harold saw it—two buddies jacking each other off for fun. That's all. That's all it ever was.

The clock on his desk is ticking excruciatingly slowly. Still, if he doesn't get himself together in the next ten minutes, he'll miss dinner in the dining hall.

He's not hungry.

Ugh! I need to snap out of this!

He decides to force himself to eat something just to pretend that nothing is wrong. His body feels lethargic, almost as if he has the flu. He drags himself out of bed, sheds his sweats, and pulls on the first pair of jeans that comes to hand. Glancing in the mirror, he runs a hand through his pale hair. The big blue-green eyes that stare back at him look sad.

He slips on his tennis shoes and is just reaching for his coat when there is a knock on the door.

Probably someone looking for Jon, he thinks. He makes an effort to brighten his face—he can't quite manage a smile—then swings wide the door.

Harold is standing there with a huge grin on his face and a bouquet of a dozen red roses.

Tigger blinks.

"Hey, Tigger—Happy Valentine's Day!" Harold's radiant smile is directed at him.

Tigger melts. He can't seem find any words to say. He can't seem to control his muscles at all, especially the one between his ears. But that doesn't matter because Harold is taking control. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. He sets the flowers on the dresser and pulls Tigger into his arms.

"I missed you," he says as his lips descend on Tigger's.

Tigger's world turns on end. Harold's familiar scent envelopes him. Harold's strong arms wrap around his waist. Harold's lips are warm and demanding. His lethargic body is suddenly full of energy. He snakes his arms around Harold's neck, tangling his fingers in the heavy dark hair. A whimper erupts from the back of his throat as his lips press hungrily against Harold's.

All of that horrible tension, those feelings of unworthiness, drain away. He wants me! He came all the way up here to see me on Valentine's Day. Suddenly a million questions crash into his mind and he pulls away from Harold, gasping.

"How did you get here?"

Harold smiles his stunning smile. "I took the train."

"And how did you get into the building?"

"Jon let me in."


"Yes, I wanted to surprise you. I've been planning this for a while and Jon is in on it—he's found someplace else to stay for the next couple of days."

"Really?" Tigger is shocked. "I thought ... you didn't answer any of my texts yesterday."

"I know. I'm sorry. I was crazy busy and then my cell phone died. I got all your messages this morning, but I knew I was going to see you soon and I wanted to say Happy Valentine's Day in person."

"Really?" Tigger had convinced himself so thoroughly that Harold didn't want him, he's having trouble believing what Harold is saying.

"Yes, really. I've missed you so much. I'm sorry I haven't been more communicative. I've not much of a phone guy."

Harold is looking at Tigger with so much longing—love?—in his eyes, Tigger feels light-headed. Perhaps he's walked into a dream. Nothing is real.

"I've made reservations for us at Le Pichet at eight-thirty. Is that okay? Can I take you out to dinner?"

"Y ... yes."

"I can't believe I'm finally here with you. You're so beautiful." Harold pushes a lock of Tigger's hair out of his eyes. "Will you be my Valentine Tigger?" His voice is husky with emotion.

A huge smile erupts across Tigger's face. He can't remember the last time he felt this happy. "Yes! Oh, yes!"

Harold swoops in for another kiss and Tigger meets his onslaught with enthusiasm. He's instantly lost in a maelstrom of passion. Harold's tongue thrusts into his mouth and he sucks on it eagerly. He feels strong hands gripping his butt, massaging, and he pushes his swelling erection against Harold's, feeling the heat of him even through his jeans.

Harold's hands move around to the front of his jeans, tugging at the button.

Tigger breaks away from the kiss for a gasp of air.

"We have time for a quickie now before we have to get ready for dinner." Harold is breathless. "Then maybe after dinner we can take our time."

Tigger looks into Harold's deep blue eyes. "That sounds perfect, Valentine."

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