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Peter had framed the whole thing as a public service.
“Someday,” he said, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, “you’re going to meet an enhanced person who isn’t charming, reasonable, and deeply invested in your continued survival.”
Frank tightened the tape around his right wrist with his teeth. “Already met Rogers.”
“Captain America is very charming.”
“Guy stole my gun.”
“I’m starting to understand why.”
Frank’s current safehouse sat over an abandoned boxing gym. A heavy bag hung near the furnace, black mats covered the concrete, and one bare bulb threw hard shadows over Frank’s shoulders. His sleeveless shirt and low gray sweats had been tactically irrelevant for nearly four consecutive minutes, a personal record for Peter. The warm, musky smell of him after ten minutes on the heavy bag was proving harder to classify as irrelevant.
Frank flexed his taped hands. “Rules.”
“No guns, no knives, no biting unless the situation gets really emotionally confusing.”
“Your rules.”
“Oh. Right.” Peter lifted his hands. “I stay roughly human. No sticking to anything. No webs. No jumping over your head, because apparently that’s ‘showing off’ instead of ‘using the abilities available to me.’”
“You go through a wall, you fix it.”
“If I put you through a wall, do I have to fix you too?”
Frank’s mouth shifted at one corner. Most people would have missed it. Peter had made a private discipline out of catching every almost-smile Frank tried to bury.
“You planning to hit me, sweetheart?”
They had been sleeping together for almost two months. Peter should have developed immunity to one low, casual sweetheart. Apparently he had not.
“I was thinking about it,” Peter said. “Then I remembered your advanced age.”
Frank came at him before he finished.
Peter caught the jab, slipped the cross, and checked the knee Frank drove toward his thigh. He kept to the pace they had agreed on, offering Frank human timing and a center of gravity that obeyed ordinary laws until Frank earned a way around it.
Frank earned one fast.
He crowded Peter’s guard, hooked a forearm over Peter’s shoulder, and caught his biceps with the other hand. His heel drove behind Peter’s ankle. He turned through his hips, all compact violence and practiced leverage, and Peter let the momentum carry him backward.
His shoulder blades hit the padded wall.
Frank followed him into it. One broad forearm braced across Peter’s upper chest, close enough to pin without crushing his throat. Frank’s thigh forced its way between Peter’s legs as he blocked any ordinary escape. Heat came off him in waves. He smelled like salt, warmed cotton, and the heavy musk that gathered at his throat when he worked hard. Peter’s next breath went embarrassingly deep. Frank’s eyes flicked to his parted lips as his stubble rasped close to Peter’s cheek.
Peter forgot the joke he had prepared.
Frank’s eyes moved over his face. “Dead yet?”
“Emotionally? Years ago.” Peter heard the hitch in his own voice and hated it. “Physically, I’m thriving.”
He slipped out beneath Frank’s arm. He could have done it the moment his back touched the wall. Waiting an extra two seconds had been educational. That was all.
They reset. Peter tapped Frank over the kidney, then lost his next punch when Frank folded the arm across his body and seized his other wrist. Suddenly both hands were trapped against Frank’s chest.
Peter’s breath hitched. He could have opened Frank’s grip with two fingers. Instead he relaxed into it, acutely aware of Frank’s knuckles over his pulse and the firm press of his hip.
Frank pulled him closer.
Peter’s mouth had gone dry. “Interesting strategy.”
“Working so far.”
“Depends how you define working.”
Frank watched him with the concentration he usually reserved for a weapons diagram, then let go. Peter retreated and blamed the heated basement. The same helpless thrill he got when Frank shoved him behind cover, caught him by the neck, or moved him by the waist lived safely in a private vault labeled Never Examine.
Frank rolled his shoulders. “Focus.”
“I am focused.”
“On my hands.”
Peter’s heart gave one awful kick. “That’s where punches come from.”
Frank nodded as if Peter had given him useful testimony.
They went again. Frank never chased Peter’s hands when he could control an elbow, and every opening got his whole weight behind it. Peter loved that he struck hard enough to feel real. The suspicious number of clinches was becoming a problem.
Frank drove him toward the wall again. Peter pivoted out, pleased with himself, and Frank let the failed charge carry past him.
Then an arm banded around Peter’s waist from behind.
Frank hauled him backward, hard.
Peter’s feet left the floor. His back collided with Frank’s chest as Frank locked both arms around him and used his mass like an anchor. A soft, breathy sound escaped Peter.
Frank’s beard scraped the shell of his ear. “That a complaint?”
“It was a tactical noise.”
“Sounded useful.”
“Echolocation.”
“Right.” Frank’s arm tightened around his middle.
Each breath expanded Frank’s chest against Peter’s back. Peter knew a dozen ways out. When Frank shifted his grip lower and lifted again, Peter’s head tipped back onto his shoulder.
Frank set him down with conspicuous care.
“You finished?” Peter asked, because offense seemed safer than whatever his face was doing.
“Still figuring some things out.”
“I assume you mean enhanced combat.”
Frank’s gaze settled somewhere below Peter’s mouth. “Sure.”
Peter tugged down his shirt; his sweatpants had become an active security concern. “Your main issue is overcommitting when you close distance. Against somebody stronger—”
Frank rushed him. Peter redirected him onto the mat, turning him safely before Frank rolled onto one knee.
“Like that,” Peter finished.
“Again.”
Peter grinned despite himself. “You enjoy being thrown around by younger men?”
“One of us does.”
The grin froze on Peter’s face.
Peter came in low. Frank sprawled, caught his neck, then changed direction and hooked Peter’s ankle out from under him.
The fall was optional. Peter had more than enough time to stick to the mat or correct himself in midair.
He let himself fall.
The mat struck his back with a flat, padded slap. Frank followed him down before he bounced, one knee landing outside Peter’s hip and the other forcing between his thighs. He caught Peter’s right wrist, reached across for the left, and shoved both hands together over Peter’s head.
Then Frank put his weight over him.
Frank closed one hand around both wrists and covered Peter with his chest and hips. His knee kept Peter’s legs spread, every adjustment pressing somewhere dangerous. Sweat darkened his collar and disappeared into his beard.
Peter could bench-press a car. Frank still felt immovable because Peter wanted him to. The trap had no lock beyond his own permission, and the contradiction went through him like a live wire.
His dick pressed hard against the front of his sweatpants.
Frank’s expression changed.
Frank’s competitive edge vanished. He eased the pressure and lifted enough to search Peter’s face.
“Pete.” His voice had gone quiet. “You hurt?”
Peter swallowed. “No.”
Frank waited.
“I’m not hurt,” Peter said, steadier. “Promise.”
Frank stayed braced over him without pinning. Peter should have rolled out and suggested Thai food until his body stopped confessing things without legal counsel.
He remained exactly where he was.
Frank glanced down between them.
Peter watched understanding settle across his face.
Frank’s eyebrows rose by perhaps a millimeter. His appallingly calm eyes returned to Peter’s, whose nervous system attempted to leave through his ears.
“Okay,” he began. “So, physiologically, that can happen for lots of reasons. Adrenaline is complicated. Blood flow gets confused. The body is basically an electrical system assembled by a committee, and sometimes signals end up at the wrong address—”
Frank’s almost-smile appeared.
“Don’t,” Peter said.
“Ain’t said anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face asked about the committee.”
Peter pulled once against Frank’s hand, barely enough to tighten the grip around his wrists. The movement made Frank’s hips settle more firmly between his legs. Pleasure rolled low through Peter’s stomach.
Frank felt it. Of course he did.
His gaze sharpened. “There it is.”
“There is no it.”
“Been waiting on it.”
Peter stopped breathing. “You were waiting for this?”
“Wanted to see how many times you’d let me catch you.” Frank’s thumb moved once over the inside of Peter’s wrist. “Wall gave me a pretty good idea. Grabbed you from behind, you went halfway boneless.”
Heat flooded Peter’s face so violently it almost hurt. “I was creating realistic training conditions.”
“For who?”
“People with extremely specific combat problems.”
Frank’s mouth pulled wider at one corner.
The wall, his captured wrists, the arm around his waist—Frank had selected every position and watched Peter produce the same mortifying result.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose.”
“Last ten minutes? Yeah.”
Peter shut his eyes. “I have to move to another country.”
Frank lowered his mouth close to Peter’s ear. Stubble dragged over Peter’s cheek, a rough, slow scrape that made his hips twitch before pride could stop them.
“Knew before tonight,” Frank said.
Peter opened his eyes.
Frank was close enough that Peter could see the silver beginning in his beard. He could also see the exact instant Frank registered that he had found the kill shot.
“No, you didn’t.”
“You like my hand on the back of your neck.”
Peter stared.
“Like getting shoved behind me when rounds start flying. Like when I grab you around the waist.” Frank recited the evidence with the calm of a man inventorying ammunition. “Back you into a wall during an argument, you forget what you were mad about. Pick you up and move you, you get real quiet. Come home sweaty, you put your face in my neck and breathe like you’re trying to keep a sample.”
“I do not.”
“Sometimes you get hard.”
“Jesus Christ, Frank.”
“You thought I missed it?”
Peter wished desperately for a ceiling collapse. A small one would do. Just enough concrete to end the conversation.
Frank spread Peter’s legs farther and held his wrists overhead. The pose was theater; Peter’s strength waited under his skin while he allowed a human grip to keep him open. Frank’s amusement deepened into something hotter.
“You can throw me through the ceiling,” he said.
“I’m considering it.”
“Could’ve stopped every hold tonight before I had it.”
Peter’s throat tightened.
Frank loosened his fingers. “Say it and I’m up.”
Pressure disappeared from Peter’s wrists. Frank held position without trapping him, the teasing gone still.
Frank would move away the instant Peter asked. Knowing that made the admission easier.
“Don’t get up,” Peter said.
Peter curled his fingers around Frank’s palm. “I want you here.”
Frank’s grip stayed loose.
“Yes.” He felt himself flush harder. “I want you to—keep doing it.”
Frank’s hand closed around his wrists again. “Be specific.”
“You have a detailed spreadsheet, apparently. Pick a column.”
Frank leaned down until their noses nearly touched. “Say what you want.”
“This is extortion.”
“This is me making sure.”
Frank’s weight hovered over him, his grip waiting, his erection hard against Peter’s inner thigh. That made honesty easier.
“Hold me down,” Peter said. The words came out softer than he intended. He made himself continue. “Move me around. Use your weight. I know I can get out. I don’t want to.”
Frank studied him for another long second.
“Good,” he said, rough and simple.
Then he kissed Peter hard enough to drive his head into the mat.
Peter opened for him on a broken sound. Frank controlled his wrists with one hand and used the other to hold his jaw at the angle he wanted. When Peter lifted for more, Frank put him back down, beard burning across his mouth and chin. Peter shuddered.
“Been hiding this,” he murmured against Peter’s mouth.
“Doing a great job until somebody launched an unethical investigation.”
Frank rolled his hips.
Peter’s explanation dissolved into a gasp as Frank’s cock dragged along his through their sweatpants, devastating because his weight trapped the friction there.
“Great job,” Frank agreed.
“I hate your tone.”
“Like everything else, though.”
“Your sample size is compromised.”
Frank ground forward until Peter’s legs tightened around him, fabric pulling rough against Peter’s aching dick. The focus on Frank’s face usually meant someone was about to have a bad night. Peter had never been happier to see it.
“Could roll me right now,” Frank said.
Peter flexed his shoulders in a useless little test. Frank pushed his wrists harder to the mat.
“I could,” Peter whispered.
“Could break my hand.”
“I won’t.”
“Know that.” Frank’s mouth moved down Peter’s jaw. Stubble scraped a hot path over his skin. “You staying because you want to. I know the difference.”
The plain certainty undid him. Frank wanted Peter’s strength present, with Peter alert and choosing him every second he stayed beneath him.
Peter turned his face into Frank’s neck. Sweat and skin filled his senses. Frank’s musk was stronger there, dark and warm under the clean salt of exertion. Peter breathed it in greedily while Frank bit at the tendon below his ear.
“That get you?” Frank asked.
“You smell unfair.”
Frank lifted his head.
Peter’s eyes opened. “That was supposed to stay internal.”
“How’s a smell unfair?”
“I don’t know. You’re the detective.”
“Marine.”
“Those are famously known for olfactory jurisprudence.”
Frank stared, visibly deciding whether the sentence deserved an answer. “You think I didn’t know about that too?”
Peter’s stomach dropped. “About your smell being a miscarriage of justice?”
“About you stealing my shirts before I wash ’em.” Frank lowered his arm beside Peter’s head, caging him in with the damp cotton and hot skin of his underarm close enough that Peter’s lungs betrayed him again. “Go on. You been trying to get closer all night.”
Peter turned into the crook of Frank’s neck. The musk there was thick from the spar, unmistakably human and unmistakably Frank. He breathed it in until his head swam, then felt Frank shove one knee higher between his thighs.
“Oh,” Peter said faintly.
“Better?”
“I withdraw all criticism of the United States Marine Corps.”
Frank huffed a laugh into his neck and dragged Peter’s shirt higher. A callused palm passed over his bare side before closing around his waist.
“Lift,” Frank said.
Peter raised his hips without asking why.
Frank hooked an arm beneath him and hauled him several inches down the mat. Peter’s shoulders slid, his arms stretching overhead as Frank followed and settled between his legs again.
Blank pleasure flashed through Peter. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Had to listen to you pretend you don’t.”
Frank caught both wrists in one hand. His other hand spanned Peter’s hip and guided him into the next grind. Peter followed eagerly before the pressure arrived, and of course Frank noticed.
“Easy,” he said. “I got you.”
In Frank’s voice, “I got you” became obscene. He stopped Peter’s jerking hips and set the rhythm himself, rubbing them together through damp cotton. Whenever Peter tried to thrust, Frank restrained his hip. The force gave him something solid to yield against.
Frank kissed him until breathing became a logistical problem. Peter tasted sweat at the corner of Frank’s mouth. He felt the rasp of beard stubble leave his jaw tender and knew he would touch the red skin later, remembering.
“Frank,” he said when the kiss broke.
“Here.”
“I’m going to need you to be less—” Frank ground down, and Peter’s head tipped back. “Dense.”
“That right?”
“Your mass. It’s excessive.”
“Want me off?”
The question cut cleanly through the haze. Frank stilled without withdrawing, his grip already easing.
“No.” Peter caught his breath. “No, I want more. I was making a physics complaint.”
“Keep your complaints clear.”
“My mouth is a hostile witness,” Peter warned.
Frank’s almost-smile came back. He released Peter’s wrists.
For one confused moment, Peter missed the pressure so sharply that disappointment showed on his face.
Frank sat back on his heels and caught Peter by the waist with both hands.
“Frank—”
He lifted Peter cleanly off the mat.
Peter could have stuck to the floor. Instead he let Frank pull him upright and drag him across his lap until Peter straddled him.
Frank locked his arms around Peter’s back as their chests struck together, seating Peter’s aching cock directly over his.
“Oh, this is evil,” Peter breathed.
“You asked.”
“I was vulnerable and compromised.”
“Still asking?”
Peter rocked down once, helplessly. Frank’s grip stopped him from doing it again.
“Yes,” Peter said. “Very much.”
Frank closed a broad hand around his neck. Peter went loose immediately, forehead falling to Frank’s.
“Every time,” Frank murmured.
“You’re ruining a nice moment.”
“Hand here, you melt.”
“Maybe you have a soothing pulse.”
Frank held Peter’s neck and drove his hips up.
Peter cried out. The sound bounced off the low ceiling.
“Real soothing,” Frank said.
Peter kissed him to stop the commentary. Frank’s fist tightened in his shirt, and he turned them.
Peter landed on his back with Frank between his legs, one hand protecting his skull while the rest of Frank came down heavy enough to punch the air from him. His spider-sense gave a harmless shimmer.
“Do that again,” he said.
Frank went still. “You want me to flip you again?”
“Yeah. Maybe. Later. I mean, we’re already here now, so the geometry would be challenging.”
Frank kissed him once, short and almost gentle. “Later.”
Frank pinned his wrists and started grinding against him again, leaving little room for softness.
Frank drove forward in hard, short strokes. The seam inside Peter’s sweats caught beneath the head of his cock on every pass, coarse fabric dragging over already-wet underwear.
Peter pulled at the hold without meaning to. Frank gathered both wrists more securely and stretched his arms overhead.
“Stay there,” Frank said against his mouth.
Peter could have laughed. The command was absurd. Nothing on Earth could keep him there unless he cooperated.
That was why it went straight through him.
“Make me,” Peter whispered.
Frank stopped.
His eyes found Peter’s immediately. “You mean that?”
The silence left Peter space to hear himself clearly. He nodded, then remembered Frank deserved words.
“Yes. I want to push a little. I want you to put me back.”
Frank considered him, breathing hard. “You say stop, I stop.”
“I know.”
“Anything feels wrong, you tell me.”
“I will.” Peter shifted under him, deliberately testing the grip. “Please.”
Frank’s expression went dark with pleasure.
“Go on, then.”
Peter pulled one arm down at a fraction of his strength. Enough to imitate a real struggle. Frank caught his forearm, forced it back overhead, and changed his grip so his fingers locked around both wrists. Peter twisted his hips. Frank dropped more weight over him and wedged a thigh between his legs, stopping the movement with body mass and leverage.
He knew the resistance was measured. Peter knew Frank knew. The game lived inside that shared fact.
Frank pressed his mouth to Peter’s ear. “There. That what you wanted?”
Peter shook under him. “Yes.”
“Strongest man in the room, lying here because he wants my hands on him.”
“Please don’t put it on a greeting card.”
Frank bit his jaw. “Could get up.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Could move me.”
“Frank.”
“Say it.”
Peter turned his burning face into Frank’s beard. The stubble scraped his cheek raw. “I’m letting you.”
Frank’s hips rolled against him, deep and hard.
“Again.”
“I’m letting you hold me down.” Peter’s voice broke on the final word. “I want you to.”
Frank made a low sound Peter felt more than heard. His hand slid down to grip the outside of Peter’s thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. Then he used that hold to drag Peter’s body into each thrust.
The loss of control was exquisite. Peter couldn’t keep a rhythm because Frank kept changing it: two slow grinds followed by a sharp drive that made their erections knock together through damp cloth. Peter’s body tried to chase. Frank moved him where he wanted, fingers digging into the muscle of Peter’s thigh, his other hand relentless around Peter’s wrists.
“Been wanting this every time I put you against a wall?” Frank asked.
Peter’s answer caught on a moan.
“Every time I move you outta my way?”
“Maybe.”
Frank thrust hard enough that Peter’s back slid on the mat. “Liar.”
“Yes, okay? It’s—God, there—it’s every time. Happy?”
“Getting there.”
Peter laughed once, wrecked and breathless. “Asshole.”
“You’re close.”
He was. Horribly, humiliatingly close. They were fully dressed under a flickering basement bulb, sweat cooling at Peter’s sides while Frank rubbed off against him like they had forgotten every sophisticated option available to two adult men. Peter’s cock pulsed against the wet front of his underwear. Each rough slide made his thighs shake.
Frank lifted enough to see between them. Peter followed his gaze and wished he hadn’t. A dark patch had spread over the front of Peter’s gray sweatpants.
Frank rubbed his thumb over it.
Peter’s whole body seized.
“Frank.”
“Made a mess already.”
The blunt observation sent heat burning up Peter’s neck. “You are directly involved in the production process.”
Frank pressed the heel of his hand against Peter’s dick through the soaked fabric.
Peter choked on whatever he had planned to say.
Frank watched him with unbearable attention. “Gonna come in your pants for me?”
“That phrasing seems designed to influence the outcome.”
“Answer.”
Peter tried to turn his face away. Frank caught his jaw, brought him back, and waited.
“Yes,” Peter admitted. His voice shook. “If you keep doing that, yes.”
“Want me to?”
“Please.”
Frank kissed him. He covered Peter again, chest to chest, until Peter could feel the full drag of his weight. One hand returned to Peter’s wrists. The other clamped around his hip and held him exactly where Frank wanted him.
Then Frank drove against him.
The first thrust tore a helpless sound from Peter’s throat. The next came before he recovered. Frank’s cock pressed along his through the thin, wet layers between them, hard enough that Peter could feel its shape. Their hips struck. The friction was crude, nearly painful, and Peter wanted it with a desperation that stripped the humor out of him.
He breathed Frank’s name against his mouth. Frank answered with a rough kiss, teeth catching Peter’s lower lip. His beard abraded Peter’s chin. The dense smell of him filled every breath: hot skin, clean sweat, the darker musk under his arms and at the base of his throat. Peter turned his face there and inhaled, dizzy with it.
“That’s it,” Frank said into his hair. “You stay right there.”
Peter pulled hard enough to feel Frank’s grip answer, then surrendered the tension. He let Frank hold his wrists down. He let Frank control his hips. He let himself have the impossible sensation of being physically overwhelmed by someone he could lift with one hand.
Frank knew exactly what Peter was giving him and wanted every deliberate second of it.
Pleasure gathered so tight that Peter couldn’t breathe around it. His thighs clamped against Frank’s sides. Frank dragged him lower by the hip, forcing their cocks together at a better angle, and ground down with his full weight.
The next grinding thrust tipped Peter over.
The orgasm hit him hard enough to bow his body off the mat beneath Frank. His wrists jerked in Frank’s hand. Frank kept them pinned, kept his hips pressed close while Peter spilled into his underwear in hot pulses. The wet heat spread across the front of his pants. Every small movement dragged fabric over the head of his cock and pulled another shudder out of him.
Frank watched his face through all of it.
That knowledge made the last pulse feel endless.
Peter sagged back, gasping. Frank gave one slow, deliberate grind over his softening dick.
“Wait.”
Frank stopped before the word had fully left Peter’s mouth. His hand opened at once. He lifted his hips, taking every point of pressure away except a steady palm on Peter’s ribs.
“Too much?”
Peter nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “Good. Just—really good. Everything’s sensitive.”
“Got you.”
Frank rubbed his side until Peter’s breathing evened out. He made no move to resume. The clean immediacy of it let Peter’s body unclench.
Peter opened his eyes. Frank was still hard, his sweatpants damp and tented where they strained over him. Peter’s gaze caught there. Then it caught again.
“You done?” Frank asked.
“My dick has submitted a formal leave request.” Peter wet his lips. “My mouth remains available.”
Frank became very still.
Peter heard the sentence after it was far too late to retrieve it. “I phrased that like a dental office, but you understand the general—”
“Yeah.” Frank’s voice had roughened. “I understand.”
His thumb brushed the corner of Peter’s mouth. Peter parted his lips without thinking, and Frank pressed the pad inside, resting it on Peter’s tongue. The taste of salt made Peter’s eyes flutter.
“Tell me,” Frank said.
Peter closed his lips around the thumb once before Frank drew it away. “I want your cock.”
“Tell me how.”
“In my mouth.” Heat climbed all the way into Peter’s ears. “I want you to hold my head and use it. I want it rough.”
Frank searched his face. “You sure you got more in you?”
“I’m sure.”
“Tap my thigh twice and I stop. Once if you need air.”
“I have enhanced lung capacity.”
Frank’s eyebrows lowered. “Ain’t using spider lungs as consent.”
“Okay. One for air, two to stop.” Peter curled a hand behind Frank’s knee. “Please.”
Frank gripped the back of his neck and hauled him upright. Peter went easily, still loose from coming, and let Frank turn him onto his knees. The movement put Peter’s face level with the dark patch at the front of Frank’s sweats.
Up close, Frank smelled stronger. Sweat had soaked the waistband during the spar, deepening the warm musk rising from his skin. Peter’s mouth watered before Frank even pushed the fabric down.
Frank noticed his inhale.
“Jesus,” Peter muttered. “Do you ever stop collecting evidence?”
“You ever stop giving it to me?”
Frank freed his cock. It was thick and flushed, wet at the tip from grinding against Peter. The raw scent of his groin mingled with salt and the clean cotton of his clothes. Peter leaned closer on instinct, brushing his nose through the coarse hair at the base as he breathed Frank in.
Frank’s hand tightened at his nape. “Like me sweaty.”
Peter shut his eyes. “This evening has become very hostile to my privacy.”
“Answer me.”
“Yes.” Peter kissed the underside of Frank’s cock, feeling it jump against his mouth. “I like the way you smell after you fight. I like it when it’s all over your shirts. I may have taken one from the hamper once.”
“Four times.”
“I’m going to start biting.”
Frank pushed the head of his cock between Peter’s lips. “Mouth’s busy.”
The first shallow thrust silenced him. Frank tasted of sweat and precome, the blunt head dragging heavily over Peter’s tongue. Peter opened wider and gripped Frank’s thighs. Frank held him still with one hand behind his neck and began to move.
He gave Peter time to find the rhythm. Each stroke went a little deeper, until the head nudged the back of Peter’s tongue and made his throat tighten. Frank pulled out before Peter had to signal, waited through one full breath, and slid in again.
Peter’s eyes watered. Saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth and slicked Frank’s shaft. The hand at his neck kept him exactly where Frank wanted him. When Peter tried to follow a retreating stroke, Frank stopped him and drove back in harder.
The sound Peter made came out muffled around his cock.
“Yeah,” Frank said, gaze fixed on him. “Knew you’d like that too.”
Peter glared upward as effectively as he could while Frank’s cock filled his mouth.
“Still mouthy.” Frank’s thumb traced the hinge of his jaw. “Somehow.”
He pushed deeper. Peter’s nose pressed into the damp hair at Frank’s groin, surrounded by the heavy smell he had spent all night pretending not to chase. His throat worked around the intrusion. Frank held him there for a measured second, then pulled back and let him breathe.
Peter swallowed, panting. “Again.”
Frank’s grip shifted into his hair. “Harder?”
“Please.”
Frank gave it to him. He fucked Peter’s mouth in steady, forceful strokes, hips snapping forward while his fist held Peter in place. Peter’s throat opened for him. Tears slipped hot down his face, and saliva shone over his lips and chin. Every time it threatened to become too much, Frank eased back before Peter reached for his thigh. Every time Peter nodded him on, Frank’s restraint frayed further.
“Look at you,” Frank breathed. “Come in your pants, then get on your knees for me.”
Peter moaned around him. Frank’s hips stuttered.
He pulled out far enough for Peter to suck in air. “Where?”
Peter tightened both hands on Frank’s legs. “My mouth. Want you to come in my mouth.”
Frank cupped his wet jaw. “Still good?”
“So good. Fuck my face, Frank.”
Frank’s cock filled him again. The next strokes came fast and raw, Peter held by the jaw and the back of the neck while Frank used his mouth exactly as he had asked. Peter breathed through his nose whenever he could, dizzy on Frank’s scent and the thick slide over his tongue.
Frank went rigid. He buried himself deep with a broken groan, then pulled back enough that Peter could swallow. Come spilled hot over Peter’s tongue in heavy pulses. Peter took it, holding Frank’s gaze while his throat worked.
Frank loosened his grip and withdrew carefully.
A thin whimper slipped out of Peter before he could stop it. He followed on instinct, mouth searching after Frank even though his jaw ached and his throat felt used.
Frank dropped to his knees in front of him. “Pete. Eyes.”
Peter managed to lift them. Frank’s face swam at the edges, intent and softened by concern. One hand steadied Peter’s shoulder. The other cupped his wet chin.
“You with me?”
“Mm.”
“Need words.”
Peter swallowed. Satisfaction had turned his bones liquid, and every thought drifted away before he could finish it. “Here. Good. Need—”
Frank waited.
“You.” Peter caught at his shirt with both hands. The fabric was damp and warm, rich with the smell of Frank’s sweat. “Need you on me. Please.”
Understanding moved across Frank’s face. He pulled Peter against his chest and lowered them to the mat, keeping an arm beneath Peter’s head while he covered him with the solid weight of his body.
The first broken sound Peter made embarrassed him. The second came out before he could care. He pushed his face into Frank’s underarm and breathed, surrounded by heat, musk, and the coarse scrape of damp cotton. His body had gone loose enough that even curling his fingers in Frank’s shirt took effort.
Some distant part of Peter supplied the word subspace. It floated through the warm vacancy in his head and disappeared. Frank’s weight was the only thing keeping him together. When Frank shifted one elbow, Peter tightened both arms and whimpered.
“Easy.” Frank settled back over him at once. “Ain’t leaving.”
“Don’t.” Peter hated how small his voice sounded. He also wanted Frank to hear it. “Hold me.”
Frank pressed a kiss into his hair. His beard scraped Peter’s forehead. “Got you.”
They stayed there until Peter could unclench his hands. Frank rubbed the back of his neck in slow passes, occasionally checking Peter’s face without making him explain anything. When he finally pushed up, Peter made another needy sound and clung harder.
“Water,” Frank said. “Taking you with me.”
He gathered Peter from the mat and stood. Peter wrapped his legs around Frank’s waist and buried his face beneath Frank’s jaw, breathing in the heavy scent at his throat. His strength could have supported them both. He let Frank carry all of him anyway.
Frank got water into him a few mouthfuls at a time, cleaned his face and stomach, and found black sweats to replace the ruined gray ones. Peter lifted his arms and legs whenever Frank nudged him, pliant and shivering. As soon as Frank finished, Peter reached for him again.
“Couch,” Frank said.
“With you.”
“Yeah, sweetheart. With me.”
Frank carried him upstairs with Peter tucked tight against his chest. On the couch, he pulled a blanket around them and let Peter crawl half on top of him. That lasted until Peter made a frustrated noise and tugged at Frank’s shoulder.
“Heavy,” Peter whispered.
Frank understood. He turned them until Peter lay beneath him, then settled most of his weight along Peter’s body while leaving him room to breathe. Peter’s eyes closed. A helpless whine vibrated against Frank’s chest as the hand at his nape tightened.
“That it?” Frank murmured.
Peter nodded. He rubbed his face over the collar of Frank’s sweaty shirt and held on.
Softness after sex usually left him defenseless. This went deeper. Frank had taken him apart, learned every humiliating want, and then stayed close enough to hold the pieces in place.
“You don’t think I’m weird?” Peter asked eventually. The words blurred together.
“Think plenty about you is weird.” Frank rubbed his back. “This ain’t.”
Peter gave a weak, wounded noise.
“You trust me,” Frank continued. “Like giving me the weight for a while. Makes sense.”
“You like it.”
“Yeah.” Frank’s mouth brushed his temple. “You could put me through a building. Still choose to go soft in my hands.”
Peter’s fingers clenched. A whimper escaped when Frank pressed more firmly over him, and the quiet satisfaction in Frank’s breath made his face burn.
“When’d you know?”
“Delancey warehouse.”
Peter forced his eyes open. “Three weeks ago?”
“Sniper on the roof. Grabbed you around the middle, put you behind the loading crane.” Frank’s thumb stroked his nape. “You heard the shot before I did. Stayed behind me till I moved.”
“Tactical decision.”
“You rubbed against my belt.”
Peter made a miserable little noise and hid under Frank’s chin.
“Knew before that, anyway.”
“Frank.” It emerged as a plea for mercy. Frank clearly had none.
“Kitchen. Couple weeks earlier.”
Peter remembered sitting beside the coffee maker and refusing to move. Frank had put both hands on his waist, lifted him, and set him on the other side of the kitchen. Then he had done it twice more while Peter repeatedly lost the thread of his argument.
“You needed the drawer,” Peter mumbled.
“Drawer was empty.”
Peter stared up at him. “Three times.”
The almost-smile sat openly on Frank’s mouth. “Had a theory.”
“How long?”
“First week we started screwing around. You were mouthing off while I cleaned a rifle. Put my hand on your neck and walked you outta reach.”
Almost two months ago. Peter remembered standing wherever Frank left him, dazed and obedient, while Frank watched.
“You knew.” Peter’s outrage lacked volume and most of its consonants. “Kept doing it on purpose.”
“Yeah.”
“Picked me up on purpose.”
“Yeah.”
“Asshole.”
Frank’s chest shifted with a silent laugh. He tightened his hand around Peter’s nape and bore down with that warm, overwhelming weight.
Peter’s attempt to repeat the insult collapsed into a needy whimper. He shoved his face against Frank’s sweaty chest, breathing him in, too soft and far gone to pretend he wanted anything except to be held there.
Frank kissed his hair and kept him pinned beneath the blanket, quietly and unbearably pleased with himself.