I'M OBSESSED

you like know something so deep about my soul. you know me. i am consumed with this. i've been sitting on it for days.

because yes???? yes yes yes yes, peter doesn't know why he keeps the bit going for so long and frank doesn't know why he keeps actually sending the money. he tells himself it's because he feels bad for the kid. but really, it's because the last time they met up, peter came in civilian clothes, in a shiny new pair of sneakers instead of the beat-up old pair frank was used to seeing. and when peter caught him looking, the kid honest to god fucking blushed and looked at everything but frank as he changed the subject, which could only mean one thing.

and that sparked the beginning of a deep, horrible addiction to seeing his money feed parker, clothe him.

eventually he stops waiting for peter to send requests and just sends a smooth $500 over whenever he needs a fix and waits for the call. waits for peter's "frank, it's too much! i'm sending it back!" just to hear the high incredulous pitch of his voice, the little hint of pleasure that seeps through the resignation when he finally accepts frank's excuse of just paying back the life debt he owes, and that he will shoot peter again if he tries to return it.

and then peter starts sending him pictures.

lunches frank paid for. a new chip for his computer. a haircut. frank stared at that one for a long time, trying to understand the meaning of it.

one random, unassuming tuesday, frank gets another photo from peter.

he's in a dressing room, wearing a black sweater with a white skull on it that looks startingly like frank's emblem, tongue sticking out between his teeth as he points to it with a beaming smile, his eyes scrunched with the force of it.

frank is painfully endeared. his own face starts smiling so wide his cheeks actually hurt. he can't stop it, and he fails miserably to rein it in.

real cute, kid, he texts back when he can think again. he decides to ignore the evolving situation in his pants. peter looks good with his mark on his chest. too good. and him being the actual friendly neighborhood spiderman only adds to the obscenity of it. the vulgarity of what the punisher stands for sitting on the chest of someone as kind and good as peter was dizzying. he feels like a dirty old pervert, knows he is, but what the kid doesn't know won't hurt him.

his phone pings.

what about now? peter had texted. frank tilts his head as he rereads it, confused.

and then his phone pings again.

peter sent a photo.

frank's heart drops into his ass when it loads, his breath catching in his throat as he stares at it.

peter is sprawled on the bench, a splayed, almost casual hand hiking up the front of the sweatshirt, exposing the smooth, muscular expanse of his torso. his legs are spread wide, knees tipped apart. his expression is half hidden by his phone and anything but innocent as he stares into the mirror, directly at a disbelieving frank.

his mind can't even process what he's looking at. he blinks and blinks and the image never changes. it's still peter half-wearing an approximation of his emblem, the undeniable suggestiveness of his pose, the look in the mirror like he knows something frank was hoping he didn't.

he must be taking way too long to say something, because his phone starts vibrating and peter's caller ID appears.

frank picks up. his voice is shamefully rough. "what the fuck do you think you're doing, kid?"

"just saying thank you," peter says, as if they're talking about the weather. he sounds calm. sure. like he's been watching frank as closely as frank's been watching him. he should have known. the kid's super senses probably snitched every time frank even thought about popping a semi around him. fuck. "is that okay?"

"okay? i'm old enough to be your dad. fuck no, it's not okay." frank doesn't sound nearly as chastising as he wants to. he sounds pathetic. like he's begging.

peter makes a breathless little sound over the phone that makes frank's eyes involuntarily roll back in his head. "i know."

"this isn't what i sent the money for," frank tries again to be rational, to make sense of this, thinking maybe the kid's assuming something crazy about this whole exchange, that frank expected this from him eventually, which was absolutely fucking not the case. "i just-i just want to. you don't need to-"

"i know. i want to."

frank's objections die before he can even voice the rest of them. i want to. god. what could he even say to that? no, he thinks. he should say no. peter's just lonely. trying to fill a void losing his girl left behind. frank knew what that felt like. and he would be a monster to take advantage of that, no matter how badly he wants this. no matter how lonely he is, too.

"can i come over?" peter asks after a moment of silence.

no, frank thinks.

"bring the sweater," he says instead, and hangs up before peter can say anything else unraveling.

And when Ilya arrives it seems like that's exactly where they're headed. Ilya is being so warm and attentive, kissing Shane so nice and slow, showering Shane with praise, touching and stroking him all over, encouraging him to grind up against his leg and calling Shane baby and sweetheart and darling and my love and Shane is grinning and melted by it all, absolutely glowing with it, so when Ilya bends him over the couch, Shane is so fucking eager, arching his back, legs spread, ready to get the deliciously perfect fucking he deserves.

And then Ilya is pulling down Shane's soft sweats (he didn't wear any underwear obviously) and suddenly going still and silent. And just when Shane is about to look behind him to see what's the hold up, Ilya is grabbing Shane by the back of his neck so hard it makes him yelp with shock, and jerking Shane upright so he can snarl furiously in his ear "Who the FUCK did you let use your hole like this??" And Shane is like "W-what??" his head still spinning from the whiplash, and Ilya's grip goes from his neck to his hair and yanks hard as he says, sneering "You thought I wouldn't notice your hole all sloppy and puffy and stretched out? You think I'm fucking stupid??" And Shane's whimpering No No I'm sorry, and then Ilya is bending Shane over and he's hitting his ass, spanking him so hard it's jerking Shanes body up the couch, until Shane is wailing, and the whole time Ilya is just asking "Who?? Who fucked you? Tell me" over and over and Shane is just saying No one, no one I would never Ilya, never never I love you I only want you and Ilya is laughing down at him because "Never? I don't believe you. I knew I shouldn't have left a slut like you alone, all you think about is how to get cock. That's why you let someone else fuck you, isn't it?" And now Shane is all sore and shuddery and confused so he thinks he knows the new rules of the game, and denial obviously isn't working, so instead he just sobs "Yes yes I'm sorry Ilya, I just missed you so much -" but then Ilya is yanking Shane upright by the hair again and he's making Shane look at him, shaking him by the hair like how you'd scold a disobedient dog by the scruff as he says, his voice gone all soft and dangerous "So you fuck someone else and then you think you can get away with lying to me about it?"

“Shane, how does it feel to be back on Montreal ice?”

- "Okay so you can either give a guy a full blowjob without nutting OR let him cum in your mouth. And you have to pick one. Which one are you doing?"

- "How many backshots would you take for a million dollars? Okay, a billion. Okay, fine, a--a wizard says that he'll make you king of the world but only if you take ten backshots--"

- "Your wife grows a penis every year on her birthday and if you don't suck it she'll never have a pussy again. You sucking it?"

- "If I was dying and the only way to save me was to suck a dick would you do it? Does it fucking matter whose dick? Fuck, I dunno. Ilya Rozanov. Yeah, you've gotta suck Rozanov's dick to save my life--"

- "All the women are dead and we've gotta repopulate the Earth and--yeah, Andy, obviously men can get pregnant in this scenario--and you're one of them--do you let a guy knock you up or do you let the human race die out? No Andy, IVF doesn't exist, it's the apocalypse. Do you let a guy nut inside you for the good of humanity?"

- "A million dollars per blowjob and you've gotta swallow. How many are you giving?"

- "Okay so what if the Commissioner came in right now and said Great job boys, you won the Cup, but we're not gonna give it to you unless one of you takes it in the ass from another player in the league--who are you picking? Yeah, if it's you who has to take it. I dunno! Maybe it's gotta be the ugliest player on the team who does it haha."

- "Nah man, that's not cool, don't bring Cap into this. If the Commissioner said Cap had to take it in the ass, I'd volunteer to do it for him. Just because he's Captain doesn't mean he'd automatically have to be the one to take it. We'd never let that happen. That's our FUCKING CAPITAINE WOO HOLLZY--"

- "There's a gun to your wife's head and they're gonna pull the trigger of you can't convince Ilya Rozanov to make out with you super sloppy. Yeah, of course there's tongue. You've gotta act like you want it too."

- "How many times would you lick another dude's asshole for--"

- "Okay there's a genie. And he says, good news Gil, I'm gonna give you a billion dollars. But the only way to do it is to live with Ilya Rozanov for a full calendar year. And yeah you've gotta fuck him. I dunno, a normal amount? Twice a month? Like a normal married couple I guess. I dunno which one of you is the girl, Gil, that's a fucking weird question."

- "Okay FINE new question. Would you fuck Ilya Rozanov for a billion dollars. What do you mean fast or slow? It's Ilya fucking Rozanov, Gil."

- "Well, I mean, okay--if it was fast it'd be over sooner right? But if it was slow, like, that's probably better for, like...your asshole--"

- "I don't know, Gil! Probably like, lube. Not that I'd know about that, my girl's always WET AS FU--"

Consider Shane just going soft and buzzy and pliant as Ilya moves a hand over the bulge in his jeans, a brief and tender touch, and then draws his fingers up to Shane's stomach, which jumps as he laughs and moans.

"Don't you wanna fuck me, baby?" Shane finally mumbles when this has gone on for a while.

"Always," Ilya replies, like he's making a vow, and Shane shivers. "Let me turn you on, sweetheart."

"I am," Shane whines.

Ilya doesn't quite know how to explain to Shane that there are levels of arousal that can come from long moments, hours even, of touch. Arousal that builds from wandering hands and curious lips and whispered secrets. Sex that feels like summiting a mountain together rather than a race to the top. He thinks that Shane, with his yoga and his careful self-discipline would find it absolutely enthralling to discover that they can build something like that inside his body together.

Ilya doesn't have the words to explain these things, because some of them are desires so deep inside himself that he's only just uncovering them. So he kisses under Shane's ear, and lets him wiggle and whine, and draws his hands over his thighs again, over his clothes, keeping him warm and happy and tingling and floaty.