Chapter Text
It’s always the same.
Peter, bloodied on his doorstep after a rough fight, laughing off every injury, claiming he’ll be fine in an hour tops, if a little sore. He just needs to wipe the blood off, really, the blood makes it look so much worse than it is, really, and he’s not even cut that deep, doesn’t even need stitches, just has a couple quickly formed and now quickly fading bruises. Really. He’s fine. Dandy, even. Frank lets him babble the explanations every time. Frank steps aside to let him in. He doesn’t ask why Peter doesn’t go home to take care of it there, doesn’t need to, knows exactly why. Frank is well acquainted with being alone, enough to know how badly it can ache, especially for someone like Peter.
People like Peter aren’t meant to be alone, aren’t built for it. Too sensitive, too earnest. A hint of desperation. Peter only seems to exist when he’s getting the shit beat out of him or when he’s laughing at Frank’s stern expressions, when he’s being seen and heard and felt. Frank’s seen it, the faraway look the kid gets when he retreats into himself, when he leaves in the morning or after a fight, sullen and suddenly ten years older, the weight of the world pressing him down. He needs this. A witness of his existence.
Peter doesn’t say that part aloud, not until Frank’s got his face buried in milky thighs, mouth around that cute little tdick, making the poor kid cry. Then, and only then, does he say I need this, I need you, Frank, please.
He pretends for a while and Frank lets him. Pretending like they’re just friends instead of whatever tangled mess of a relationship Frank has let himself get webbed into. Pretending like Peter’s not here because he’s shit out of luck and somehow fuckin’ Frank is one of the only people he’s got left in the world. And Frank is alone when he pretends that maybe if he wasn’t Peter’s only option, the kid would still pick him anyways.
He could fuckin’ laugh at himself, at his sappy bullshit ridiculousness. As if. Peter shouldn’t be anywhere near him. Frank is selfish for letting this happen at all. Frank pretends, too, that he doesn’t need it just as bad. That his skin doesn’t ache, alone in bed at night, stretched too tight over muscle and sinew and bone. Frank has spent a long time pushing down that kind of need. It’s more of a want, really, he doesn’t need it. But it’s not like he’s supposed to want anything, either. Shit like that gets too messy. Shit like that gets violent.
Stupidly, his favorite part of the night comes long before Peter drops the pretense and clambers into his lap, clumsy and unsure, virginal no matter how many times Frank nestles his cock deep inside that dripping hole. And it’s good. It’s always impossibly good, something sweeter than Frank deserves, much more than he gets from his calloused hand. He never jerks off much, anyways. He rarely gets hard. Peter makes him feel so much younger, gets him aching in his cargos with a few sloppy kisses and that perfect weight in his lap. Frank feels a little too easy, and hates that he just can’t help it.
But that’s not his favorite. Not needy Peter in his lap, not a warm place to bury his dick. Nah, it’s freshly showered, swallowed up in his clothes Peter Parker. Peter never remembers his own change of clothes, and Frank has started to realize it’s on purpose. He doesn’t protest. The kid isn’t small, not really, with big thick arms and pronounced abs, but he’s smaller than Frank at least, which feels… good. Frank never thought he really had a thing for that, but he does. Peter enveloped in a hoodie with sleeves that fall past his hands. Peter in a pair of old boxers that he has to keep tugging up. Something about it makes Frank eager to protect him, this soft thing, as if Peter couldn’t take every punch Frank’s been dealt in his entire life twice over. As if Peter couldn’t pick him up like he weighed absolutely nothing and fling him across New York.
It’s easy to forget, when they’re not in active combat. He’s pretty sure Peter likes that part, submitting, acting like he’s some weak, fragile thing he never truly got to be. Acting like Frank could ever actually hold him down. And Frank can’t lie to himself, he likes it just as much, getting the kid out of his head, pliant and sweet, eager for anything Frank’ll give him.
It doesn’t start out that way. First, clean, soft-looking Peter lays himself on Frank’s shitty couch, lip curled up when Frank’s eyes find his. “Lazy day? Didn’t see you out there,” He says, and goddamn, what a fuckin’ brat.
Frank scowls, scoffs. “Ehhh, m’not interested in your boy scout bullshit. What’d you do today, get a kittycat down from a tree? Save the fire department a trip? Real hero.”
“It’s okay, Frank,” Peter placates. “60 years old is a perfectly normal age to retire. How’s your back?”
“60—” Frank scoffs again to hide a grin, shaking his head. “Y’know you got some mouth on you?”
“I do know, actually, I’m pretty good with it,” Peter offers, puppydog eyes sparkling, and damn him for that. So stupidly endearing, so excited at every mediocre quip he can muster and every mediocre response Frank gives.
“Mhm,” Frank grunts, rounding the couch, collapsing into the free space next to Peter’s sprawled out form, head rolling to the side to keep his eyes on the kid. “Demonstrate.”
Peter’s pupils dilate and Frank scoffs under his breath in disbelief. Kid’s always horny, it feels like. One command and he looks hungry, fuckin’ starving. One command and their pretend play is cut short, skipped for tonight. Frank feels a twinge in his gut he tries to ignore, feels a little like he cheated himself, that maybe for once he could’ve been anything but a pervert. They could’ve really had a nice night. He would’ve let Peter ramble on and on, would’ve let Peter shift til his head nestled in Frank’s lap, he would’ve pet those soft brown curls.
Ehh, he’s gone too soft. Too sentimental. He’s let this kid weasel his way into his life, get underneath his facades, scale over his brick walls. Too fuckin’ easily. Well, he supposes, what use is it, to resist it now? Frank tilts his head, pats his thigh to beckon the kid over, spreads his legs and shifts his hips. Peter looks like he might start drooling already. So cute.
“You’re a pervert,” Peter mumbles, licking his pretty pink lips as he slips to the floor, crawls between his legs like the good boy he is, sits so pretty on his knees.
“Mm, don’t act like it doesn’t make you wet just to call me that, sweetheart.”
“Never acted like it didn’t.”
Frank chuckles despite himself, low and husky, spreading his legs a little wider as invitation. “On with it, Parker. Show me that pretty tongue o’yours.”
He feels sleazy as he says it, partially put on, something he knows Peter likes. Fuckin’ look at him, catering so perfectly to the kid’s preferences. The control is all fake. He’ll grasp it in his hands and know it doesn’t truly belong there, knows he’s a dog for Peter, a guard dog at best, protective but obedient. Frank would never use that word to describe himself in a million goddamn years but he finds it to be true. Isn’t it all that’s happening right here, right now? Opening his door whenever Peter knocks, undoing his belt whenever Peter wants?
The kid whimpers at the invitation and leans forward, nuzzling his soft cheek against the bulge in Frank’s rough cargos, making him suck in a sharp breath. It’s not even the stimulation, that’s barely anything, it’s the visual. A sweet boy on his knees, rubbing his pretty face against Frank’s clothed dick, desperate and eager. Fuck. He can’t help himself. His fingers slide into those brown curls and grip, hips bucking against that pretty little face, pinking that soft cheek up with rough fabric. Peter takes it so beautifully, blinks up at him with puppydog eyes, a haze already settling inside honeyed-brown irises.
“Yeah, attaboy,” Frank mumbles, breaths huffing from his nose, more worked up than he should be. Peter squirms at the praise, even more worked up, levelling the playing field. Frank has an excuse, has a pretty boy’s face on his dick. Peter looks like he could cum just from Frank’s words, if Frank just kept talking filth and praise down at him.
Frank’s feeling impatient tonight, plenty eager himself, quick to unbuckle his belt. The clink of it makes Peter moan, a soft, precious little noise, and goddamn, Frank’s dick twitches at the sound of it. He’s quick to unzip and fish himself out of his boxers, grunting quietly when Peter is so quick to nuzzle up to him again, warm velvet skin, slightly sticky with drooling precum.
“Parker,” Frank grits, a warning as Peter lazily explores him, mouths gently over his length, eyes heavy-lidded. His lips are so soft, and he’s so goddamn cute like that, little breaths huffing over Frank’s sensitive dick. “Talkin’ a big game earlier about your mouth, hm? Fuckin’ show me, kid. Quit your teasin’.”
Peter pouts, bottom lip jutting as he narrows his eyes up at Frank, petulant and childish. God, he really is so young, isn’t he? What the hell is Frank doing, letting this happen?
“I’m getting to it, sheesh,” Peter murmurs, unbothered, pink tongue darting out to kitten lick at Frank’s leaking tip, making Frank jolt into the wet heat. “You’d think having a mouth on your dick would make you a little more pleasant.”
Frank laughs, low and condescending. “Oh, Pete, you don’t want me pleasant. You like being treated like a slut, don’t ya, sweetheart?”
Frank pushes Peter down, forces him to take it. The bliss of his mouth is too fuckin’ good, tight little throat constricting around his pulsing dick, takin’ him so deep. The wet click of Peter’s gag is sweet coupled with the way he can’t stop fuckin’ squirming, searching for relief, moaning with his mouth full. So damn pretty with his mouth full. So fuckin’ perfect that it pisses Frank off. It makes Frank want. More than he should.
Every tension that tugs at him has a place to go, though, a perfectly willing mouth, wrapped around him. He bucks his hips lazily, draws it out, grunts at the vibrations of Peter’s needy little mewls around his cock. Kid really does love bein’ treated like a slut, huh? Sucking him so well, messy, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth, eyes glistening with a wet sheen. He fights to keep them open, fights to keep looking up at Frank. It’s endearing, annoyingly, like every other damn thing this kid does.
He enjoys the warm pleasure for a few moments longer before quietly commanding “That’s enough, Pete.” He releases his grip on Peter’s hair, lets him pull back with a spluttering cough, panting, thighs still pressed together, still searching for relief. His face is flushed, chin wet with drool, cheeks damp with tears, lips glistening and swollen, a beautiful, debauched sight. Frank pats his thigh.
“Here, boy.”
Peter is quick to obey, and they haven’t gone all the way there yet, but Frank is pretty damn sure Peter fuckin’ loves when Frank talks to him like that. When Frank gives his commands like Peter’s his dog, when Frank treats him like an overeager pup. That’s what Frank is reminded of, anyways, with the way Peter scrambles up into Frank’s lap, a shudder wracking his frame, the poor thing so needy he barely knows what to do with himself. Frank can’t blame him, with how unused he is to touch, still, even now. Even after a couple weeks of this, his body is still regulating. Four years, completely isolated.
Frank understands more than Peter could ever know. He’s not sure he’ll ever feel fuckin’ normal, will ever stop craving this. The incessant need for skin and touch and teeth and tongue, a hunger like no other, a thirst that can’t be quenched. When you’re deprived of something for long enough, the debt adds up in your body, in your bones. Frank’s got a hell of a lot to repay to himself. Tonight his payment includes gripping the back of Peter Parker’s neck and dragging him into a sloppy kiss. Skin, touch, teeth, tongue.
Peter kisses like he’s starving— they both do. Frank licking into his mouth, Peter sucking on his tongue, filthy and wet. Molten heat pools in the pit of Frank’s stomach, the taste of Peter’s spit mixing with his, the scent of Peter, clean skin and something impossibly sweet. Peter bucks his hips against Frank’s still rock-hard dick and Frank laughs, groans into Peter’s sloppy mouth.
“Frank,” Peter whimpers, sighs, head tilting back as Frank trails wet kisses down his jaw, his throat, stubble scratching soft skin. “Frank, c’mon, I need— mmh…”
“What, huh? Whadaya need?” Frank murmurs against Peter’s skin, softer than he means to. His hands slide down Peter’s sides to clutch onto his hips, force him down in a slow grind, pulling a whimper from the boy.
“Mmhh, anything, anything, that’s— that’s good,” Peter tells him, shaky, letting Frank guide him til he’s straddling one of Frank’s thick thighs, the pressure on his tdick making him gasp, making him buck. “That’s so good, oh god, oh god—”
Frank laughs, can’t help it, it just bubbles out of him. Not held-back or condescending, just flat out amused. Jesus Christ, the kid is so sensitive it’s absurd. “Yeah? Humping my leg like a damn dog for two seconds is that good? So good? Neediest little cunt, goddamn…”
Peter nods frantically, slumps into Frank as he works his hips, panting and whining on his shoulder. He ruts and ruts against Frank’s thigh, and Frank lets him, for a while. Chasing that pleasure, wetting the pair of boxers he borrowed. It’s sweet, watching him writhe, watching him take what he needs.
“Frank, please, I lo—”
Frank tugs him back into a kiss to shut him up, cut him off. It’s not the first time Peter’s tried to confess, so the shock has worn off. Frank’s sure it won’t be the last. “I know, baby,” he whispers against those soft lips, “I know.” It scrapes against the walls of his throat on the way out. Frank, despite himself, despite bile building up his esophagus and threatening to sour his kisses, feels it too. He feels it too.
It softens, then, what they have, like it always does, because Peter needs it and Frank can’t fuckin’ help it. He keeps feeling like that, when it comes to Peter. Over and over. Trapped in a loop with him, one Frank doesn’t wanna break out of.
It feels good. Frank’s not used to feeling so good and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve how often it happens these days. But it feels good.
Finally, they start to undress. Slow, familiar. Frank’s calloused hands sliding under Peter’s— his— hoodie, lifting it up and over the boy’s head. Peter is quick to help him shuck off his own shirt, more impatient than Frank, and Frank can’t blame him. This is Peter’s favorite part, and he’s never said that aloud, but Frank doesn’t need him to. He knows it’s what Peter’s really here for, skin to skin.
Frank grunts under his breath as he gathers Peter up in his arms and lifts him up, carrying him to the bedroom. The boy isn’t light, not at all, but Frank can manage it, he wants to manage it. He wants to keep Peter feeling small. Hell, this is probably the only time the kid gets to feel truly human. Who is Frank to take that away from him? Nah, he feeds into it, instead, ignores the ache in his back as he maneuvers them through the cramped boat. Peter trails warm, wet kisses on his neck, his jaw, and Frank feels, stupidly, a little wobbly.
He’s switched his bunk bed for a queen, ridiculous as it is, just so they can have it easier. It’s a win and a lose, it’s more room to fuck, but it’s more room to wake up alone in, too. The fucking is what matters. The loneliness, Frank reminds himself, again and again, he can handle.
Goddamn, this boy. Makin’ him weaker than he’s been in years.
“You smell nice,” Peter tells him, soft, nuzzling his nose underneath Frank’s stubbled jaw.
Frank huffs, amused. “Gun oil really gets y’goin’, huh?”
“Mhmmm.”
“’Course it does.”
Peter seems to like almost everything about him. It’s fuckin’ bizarre, and Frank doesn’t let himself look into it too often, think about it too often. He doesn’t understand it, but hey, y’know, whatever makes the kid happy. This beautiful goddamn boy he almost killed.
Frank doesn’t feel repentant too often these days, but guilt throbs behind his ribs every time he thinks of it. Blood never uneases him these days but Peter’s pooling underneath him made nausea swirl in his stomach. Superhero turned human fuckin’ shield. Frank thought he was saving him, thought that girl was— I mean, she even—
Frank swallows hard, lays Peter down on the bed and kisses down his torso, sculpted superhuman, soft skin. Frank selfishly wants to get a little pudge on him, til he’s softened up a bit more, a little pillow to grab and hold and lay on. Frank shouldn’t be thinking about goddamn cuddles.
“Thank you,” Peter breathes, and he always thanks him at some point, whenever they do this. Frank doesn’t like it. This isn’t the kind of thing you thank someone for. Peter should be spitting in his face and condemning him, turning tail to run. Maybe he’s not a kid, not really, at 22 and carrying more grief than most anybody, but the age difference is still stark. Frank at 45, skin scarred and weathered, lines etched into his weary face. Old enough to know better.
But Peter’s old enough to know what he wants, and what he wants is Frank. It’s a bullshit excuse. Frank ignores himself.
“Don’t gotta thank me, Pete.” He eases off the boxers, exposing that pretty pink cunt framed by brown curls, that swollen tdick he loves to suck. Both glistening with slick, mouthwatering. “Fuckin’ drippin’, sweetheart…”
Peter whines, the sound hitching in his throat as Frank drags two fingers through his slit, collecting that wetness to rub around his pulsing dick. So soft, so fuckin’ soft, it’s a marvel every time. Frank wants a taste but he’s holding back for tonight, knows he’ll spend hours down there until he’s tuckered poor Peter out, and he doesn’t want that. Selfishly, tonight, he needs something closer. He wants to fuck him, needs to be inside him.
They don’t talk much, they usually never do, Peter’s panting and whimpers and the sound of his slick cunt mingling with Frank’s heavy breaths, still so achingly hard it makes him lightheaded. He stops petting Peter’s folds for a moment to shuck his cargos and boxers the rest of the way off, kneel between the boy’s legs on his bed.
It’s so fun to play with him. Frank can admit that to himself. A grin tugs at his mouth as he eases just one finger inside that soft, velvety hole, watching Peter gasp and tremor at it. Already. Fuckin’ already. So sensitive, so deliciously sensitive and easy, so many buttons for Frank to press. He doesn’t even pay attention to the kid’s poor, neglected dick, not yet. That’ll come later, when he has Peter on the precipice, needing just a little more to cum.
He watches Peter with heavy-lidded eyes as he crooks his finger, petting those pulsing walls. Fuuck, he tries to make this about Peter’s pleasure, he really does, but it feels good around his finger, gonna feel even better around his throbbing dick.
He adds another finger, pumping inside and stretching open that pretty hole, crooking and petting inside his sensitive cunt. Peter’s a beautiful mess already. Eyes half-lidded, hips rolling into every touch, thighs twitching when Frank rubs that special little spot inside of him juuust right. Frank has to stop himself from cooing at Peter’s little mmh, mmh, mmh—’s so impossibly sweet.
“Goood, good, good, just like that,” Frank finds himself crooning, low and soft, softer than he means to. Praises just start spilling from his mouth before he can think about it when he gets Peter like this, mind-melted and soft underneath him.
“I— please, I— Frank, just—”
“Hmm?”
“Fuck me! Fuck me, please, jus’ want your dick, Frank, please…” Peter begs, and he begs so pretty, and Frank indulges. He always indulges. God, Peter needs to find someone else to indulge him.
He positions himself over Peter, one hand by the kid’s head, flat on the mattress, and the other guiding his cock to that pretty hole, nestling the tip inside as Peter keens.
It’s slow, the slide in, Frank inching his way into Peter with little rocks of his hips, incremental, enjoying every second of the stretch accommodating his dick. He doesn’t deserve this, oh, god, he doesn’t, oh, god, he’s taking it anyways. He’s fuckin’ taking it anyways. Peter feels so good. He wants to make Peter feel good. It aches in every fiber of his being, how badly he wants to make Peter feel good.
He starts to move. Steady, deep thrusts, the slick drag something euphoric, ecstasy slipping sweet into his bloodstream. Peter whimpers with every thrust, hands clutching to Frank’s forearms, holding on, desperate.
It throws him off-kilter when Peter begs. It’s not please, deeper, or faster or any of that shit. It makes Frank’s heart nearly crack in two, despite the fortifications around it. Peter manages to surpass them all.
“Please— please don’t leave me, Frank, please? Please, I don’t— I don’t wanna be alone, please, I don’t wanna be alone… please don’t leave… not ever, I can’t— I can’t be alone again…”
It babbles out of Peter, pours out of him, grief vomiting up. Isolation and trauma he spent years repressing, and Frank feels a little like vomiting, himself. Does the kid think he cares that little? That he would up and leave, that he would leave him all alone? Shit, he can’t. Maybe he should, but he can’t. He cares so much it rips him apart. Too fuckin’ much.
He loves Peter.
“Hey, hey, you’re alright, I gotcha,” Frank lets a little of his weight press down on Peter’s frame, reminds himself the kid can take it. “Not leavin’. Never gonna leave ya, huh? My boy. My boy,” he mumbles, with a tenderness that hasn’t imbued his gruff voice for who-knows-how-long. The kind of tenderness, the kind of love he knows he’s capable of. He’s been capable of it every minute of every day since he lost— since he lost everything. It propelled him forward, a steady ache in his chest, laying dormant with nowhere to go, nobody to give it to, not anymore.
He fucks it into the cradle of Peter’s willing body. He stops himself from thinking how sick that is, how sick he is, how maybe he’s no fuckin’ better than everyone he’s killed. It’s not the first time the thought has crossed his mind, he just figures his punishment will come after this life, fire and brimstone, pits of hell. And he’ll deserve it. But for now, here he is, loving this boy, fucking this boy, defiling this boy. Taking every tenderness he wishes he could’ve shown his family, every goodnight, sweetheart, he should’ve said, every bedtime story he should’ve read, and twisting it into this. Something off-center, something grey, blurred lines. Peter really could be his boy. He’s old enough to be the kid’s damn father.
It steals the breath from his lungs, then, when on the next thrust, the kid whimpers “Dad, please—” all garbled but sweet, so impossibly fuckin’ sweet.
It should fill him with horror, the way he throbs inside Peter at the title. Shuddering and dropping his face into the boy’s soft neck, panting, hips stilling with his cock buried inside Peter’s perfect, wet warmth. “You can’t— kid, you can’t, you can’t—” he can’t get the words out, chokes on them, feels like crying. For as tough as everyone thinks he is, as tough as he tries to be, part of him always feels like fucking crying. Like letting loose and sobbing til some of the heavy grief dissipates, lightens. It bubbles to the surface so quick, with soft, sweet, innocent Peter. Young Peter.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, sir, didn’t mean— I didn’t mean it, just please don’t stop, please don’t stop—” Peter hiccups, poor Peter, cunt fluttering around Frank’s pulsing dick, sucking him in, clinging with every inch of him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’ mean it… please…”
Frank knows he’s lying, lying over and over, through his fucking teeth. There was no mistake. Peter meant it. If the heady way he whimpered it out wasn’t confirmation enough, the thick, viscous shame coating his every desperate plea is the nail in the coffin. Yeah, the kid fuckin’ meant it. And who is he, who is Frank, to judge him for it? Knowing how he responded to it, how his dick responded to it? Knowing he wants Peter to say it again? Peter’s just a fuckin’ kid. A lonely, hurting kid. Scared, though he’d never admit it, though he masks it well, though he’s simultaneously the bravest person Frank’s ever known. At the root of it, he’s still so young.
Lonely and hurting, Frank can understand. Young and scared, he hasn’t known for far too long, if ever. So no, he can’t judge Peter, can’t blame Peter, when that youth scatters him, makes him want things he shouldn’t want. Things like Frank. He can only blame himself. Him and his needs that amalgamate into one aching part of him. Romantic and platonic and familial and sexual, not a single one fulfilled, all ripped away from him. It melted in the mixing pot of his palpitating heart for years til he couldn’t differentiate. It’s just love, love, love. Not pleasant or warm like a home-cooked meal, not sappy sweet like a cheesy rom-com, pure and raw and animalistic. A base, core need, an instinct. Frank is powerless to the pull of it.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he’s whispering, and he can’t say it any louder, the quiet assent. Okay. He’ll let this be something Peter needs from him. Peter needs him. So it’s okay.
He rocks his hips gently, slow and steady, barely leaving Peter’s cunt, just grinding deep. It’s slick heaven, it’s fuckin’ bliss, it’s pulling the sweetest noises from the boy arching underneath him.
“M-mmh— a-are you mad at me?” Peter whispers back, sounding so small, his whimpers half-sad now, pleasured tears mixed with rejected ones, breakin’ Frank’s fuckin’ heart.
If Peter needs a father, Frank can’t help but take care of him like one. Pulling his face out of Peter’s neck and sliding a thick hand up to cradle his cheek, stroking a calloused thumb over soft skin. His Petey, his boy, his baby. His baby boy. Frank chokes back emotion again, feels pathetic over it. Feels sick over it. “No, kid, ‘course not. Never mad at you, not really, y’know that, kiddo? Yeah? S’okay. S’okay to need me like… like that, baby. Dad’s here. M’right here.”
Peter responds so beautifully to the title in Frank’s mouth. Dad’s here. He gasps and sobs, clings, arms shaking where they wrap around Frank, and Frank can tell he’s holding back. Wishes he could tell Peter to just give in, squeeze, crush him body and bone. He doesn’t. The kid keeps shaking, making cute little yelps as he bucks his hips up, desperate for more now, the gentle lovemaking not enough to satiate his growing need.
“Please, Dad, need you, need you, fuck me, please— mmnhh, j-just a little more, m’bein’ good—" So goddamn needy, this boy. Whining like a puppy, begging like a whore. Frank’ll give it to him, he’ll give him what he needs. It’s hard not to, when Peter is so pliant and warm and willing, when Peter is so pure. A perfectly good thing for Frank for ruin.
“You’re bein’ good, kid, so, so good. My good boy,” Frank huffs, obliges, draws his hips back to punch back in, starting up a punishing pace as he fucks Peter good and deep, grunting with the effort of driving into his perfect cunt.
“Your good boy,” Peter moans, emphasizes your, makes Frank’s hips stutter. “Yours, yours, yours…” hiccups out with every thrust, broken and needy, a chant, a prayer.
Frank doesn’t believe in God, not really, but if he did he’s sure it’d feel like this. Incandescent, all-consuming. He can’t help but feel reverence towards the angel underneath him, the angel he’s dirtying with his blood-stained hands.
“Please— jus’ wan’ feel you, please, mm— please?” Peter begs so sweet, tugs Frank down flush with his soft skin and muscled torso, and Frank understands. He drops his weight on the kid, all the way this time, enveloping him in warmth, in touch, til they’re both drunk on it. That’s why they’re here, right? Seeking this comfort that they don’t get from anywhere else.
Words fade to pants and groans and whines, the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of Frank’s rickety bedframe. Sometimes it’s better like this, when they fall quiet. Losing themselves in raw pleasure, molten and addictive. The kid’s close, Frank can tell, he can always tell, the flutter of wet walls around his dick and the babbled half aborted pleads. pl— a-aah, mmph— oh f- oh ple— mmnhh, da-ad—
“You want me to play with your little dick, baby?” Frank murmurs, steadies his graveled voice, sharp pants cutting his words. He feels as fuckdrunk as the ruined boy beneath him, holding on as best he can, needing the kid to cum first before he’s allowed to let go. “Want your old man to take care o’ya? Make you feel so good? Yeah, yeah… I know…”
His fingers wedge between their sweat-slick bodies til he finds what he’s looking for, Peter’s hard, aching little t-dick, throbbing as Frank slots it between his fingers. Poor thing. The kid can only manage open-mouthed gasps as his slick hole is pounded into while his pretty little dick gets jerked, heat and pleasure looking so goddamn pretty on him. Pink-cheeked and wet-eyed, open and desperate. Vulnerable. Frank is fuckin’ addicted to it. That saccharine sweet vulnerability. It cuts to his core, cracks him open, Peter’s softness unveiling his own. Frank is unwilling. It doesn’t stop it from happening.
It’s in quick succession, when they cum. Frank used to last longer, used to pull orgasm after orgasm out of Peter until he gave in and followed him into bliss, but not anymore. Caring like he does, embarrassingly, makes him a little worse at sex. If Peter wants, he still has fingers and tongue and knows how to use them. But he can’t fuck him into a second with his dick, not like this, not when Peter is yelping and whining and calling him Dad—, not when Peter is cumming and tightening around his dick like a vice, warm wet heaven, creamy slick. Not when Peter is crying so pretty and wrapping his legs around Frank’s hips to keep him buried deep, pleading love me, love me, love me—
And Frank does. His face drops back to the safety of Peter’s skin, where neck meets shoulder, biting down at the conjunction as he fills his boy full of hot, sticky love. He groans through it, dizzy, claiming his boy. Loving his boy. His. His. His. Peter whispers “yours”, all loopy and pleasured, like he can fuckin’ read Frank’s mind. Maybe he can. Frank’s still a little unsure of how the radioactive spiderboy shit works. It’s a little above his pay grade, always has been.
“I love you,” Peter whispers, and Frank lets him, for once. He lets him say it. “I love you, dad.”
Frank shudders, gently maneuvers them to their sides, cradling Peter close into his warmth. They should get cleaned up, Peter all sticky with cum, but not yet. Frank just holds him. “Oh, kid. You gotta know— you gotta know, this is a bad idea, hm? I’m a bad idea. For you.”
“…You don’t love me back?” Peter asks him, so mournful Frank feels like crying again. Damn Peter. Damn himself.
“No, no, I—” Frank sighs, long and heavy and tired. “I do, kid, I do. I love ya. So much. My boy.”
“Yours,” Peter yawns, precious, sleepy. Frank lets him drift, lets him go lax in his arms, satisfied and at rest.
Eventually, Frank eases himself out of Peter’s grip. Grabs a washcloth from the bathroom, runs it under the tap. Cleans Peter gently, the boy snuffling in his sleep. Dad. Fathers don’t do this kinda shit. Never in a million years would he do this if he were Peter’s father, clean out his own cum from between his soft thighs. The thought is utterly revolting.
But he’s not Peter’s father, is he? It’s something different. That’s what he tells himself, what he has to tell himself. Peter… what he feels for Peter, what he is for Peter, is something different entirely. Not a lover, not a father, not a brother or a friend. Something different. A caretaker, maybe. Something to fulfill all of those needs, at once, whatever aspects Peter craves. Frank can do that. Frank can be that.
He curls up back around his boy, soft and warm, and starts to feel drowsy, himself. It’s nice. It’s the kind of gentle that only Peter can give him. He buries his nose in brown curls, inhaling deep, and lets sleep take him. I love you.