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They’re alone in the cabin like they were for most of David’s childhood. A brumal wet chill has settled into the wood, and drifts of ice lie thrown across the floorboards; a glassy, clinical light has limewashed skiffs of gray into Alex’s hair that are at odds with David’s memory of him. He is pale as a corpse. He sits up, hunched and wavering, and manages to slink off the gurney; he has to look down at his feet as he comes to a tentative stand, which gives David an opening. He does not stop himself from punching his father in the face.
Alex reels, and he huffs like he’s offended, not hurt, so David grabs him by his lapels. Within seconds, he’s got Alex wrestled to the ground; only then does he put up some token resistance. He shoves David off of him, halfway back to standing, but his foot slips on the ice and David catches his arm without trouble. He pushes Alex down by his shoulder, then knees him in the jaw—something crunches and it sends a shiver down his spine, a sensation that is, on a purely physical level, indistinguishable from startling arousal. Alex groans. “Fuck.”
“Get up,” David huffs, and he means it, though he punctuates it with a kick to Alex’s ribs. Alex rolls onto his back, then stems himself onto his elbows, further cracking the thin film of ice on the floor. David takes a step back. There’s no tactical justification for that; he moves on uninterrogated instinct. Alex looks up at him, wary but arrestingly defiant. When he bares his teeth in some approximation of a grin, David sees that it’s not just his nose that is bleeding: blood coats every single one of his teeth.
Alex makes no effort to stand up. He is waiting on David’s next move, seemingly amused. David’s rifle lies some five feet away in a wet pile of powder snow; they both know Alex won’t reach for it. So far, he has every right to be amused by the absurdity of the situation. David, compelled by instinct and trembling with adrenaline, steps over Alex’s body and places one foot firmly on either side of his waist. His hands are free, he could reach for his pistol, his knife, even stab David in the back of the knee and grab his gun instead, but he won’t. “Or what,” he scoffs, stuttering into a wet cough, “you’re just gonna beat me to death? You’re not—” He spits a glob of blood onto the ice. It looks almost black in the cold light. “You’re not gonna do that.” As cold of a father as he was, the venom in his voice is unlike Alex.
David shakes his head. “Dad, fucking get up.” He meant for it to sound stern and impatient, but it comes out oddly quiet; neither of them seem quite sure how to read his tone. Alex coughs again, and this time he wipes the blood on his sleeve. For one disconcerting moment, the gesture strikes David as childlike. He gives in to the urge to straddle his hips.
Alex bristles at this, tries to sit up straighter, but David grabs his right wrist, then, after a minute struggle, his left—he is still not resisting in earnest—and he scoots further up on his knees, sat astride Alex’s midsection instead so his pistol won’t dig into his thigh. He has Alex lie flat on his back—his heart is pounding as he pins his father’s wrists above his head—and Alex gulps, sputters, coughs up a string of blood and spittle; he lurches as if seized by panic at the realization that he may well choke on his own blood if he can’t keep his head up. That’s all it takes, apparently. David can’t help but smile at it. Cold sweat has tacked strands of hair to David’s forehead, and he’s breathing heavy, eyes wide; he knows this looks bad. Alex bucks against the weight on his torso, which is futile—David simply digs his knees into his sides—but the effort is appreciated. He tightens his grip on Alex’s wrists, enough to feel the sharp edge of his watch case thru his gloves. It occurs to him then that he cannot feel the warmth of his pulse. They’re not really touching anywhere. Both their clothes are cold, the familiar kind of cold that sinks into stone and doesn’t really leave until spring. David shifts his weight and feels the knife Alex keeps on his canvas belt. “I know you,” David says, and he can see his breath between their faces; “I know you don’t want this. Come on, fuck, prove it.” Alex doesn’t seem to pick up on his tone, like whatever he’s hinting at is unthinkable.
Alex just looks up at him, focused on breathing and on not swallowing too much of his blood. He tries to speak, but he inhales too deeply all at once, and he coughs, startles; David won’t let go of his wrists, but he leaves him enough room to turn his head and hack a mouthful of blood onto the wet floor. He can’t put any more of his weight into keeping his wrists in place without getting closer to his father’s face. The lines around his eyes are the same ones David sees in the mirror. He’s been told he has his mother’s eyes, and the color matches up, but his facial structure is all Alex’s. He licks his lips without meaning to, and for a moment he thinks he can taste blood, too. When Alex meets his eyes again, he’s furtive, more cautious than before, and there’s a furrow to his brows that lends his labored smile an edge of real bitterness. “Let me go.”
“Earn it.”
Alex tries—seemingly in earnest—to buck David off of him, to at least free his hands from his grip, but his struggle is uncoordinated, and he winces when the writhing aggravates his likely injured rib. “Ha—shit—”
“You’re not trying,” David scoffs. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that you’re trying.” He’s taken it for granted that his father was the type to endure combat wounds with stoic dignity, keeping a cool head even when the rest of his team can’t. “You’re acting like you haven’t had a day of training in your life.” He opts to let go of his wrists, both to see what Alex will do and to get a chance to unzip Alex’s vest, then his jacket. Alex—wide-eyed, breathing hard but shallow like he’s trying to keep his rib in one piece, fresh blood still trickling from his nose—grasps at David’s chest rig with trembling hands, and he finds just enough leverage to hit David in the jaw; it hurts but fails to disorient, and the effort wasted on it has distracted Alex from the fact that David has slid a hand up the side of his torso, dangerously close to his suspected injury. He can’t feel a thing thru his gloves, but he does enjoy the opportunity to watch Alex’s chest rise and fall. To be this close to his heart and smooth stomach at all is exhilarating.
He strains to even writhe underneath his son’s strong thighs, to play along with his demands of token struggle—he lifts his left arm far enough to dumbly claw at David’s collar, which makes him wince, and David takes that as his cue to place both of his hands on Alex’s ribcage and squeeze.
He draws a guttural, aborted grunt out of Alex that decays into a breathy moan, which gives David pause. It makes him want to do it again. Instead, he swallows around the lump in his throat and says, “Hit me again, Dad.”
He reaches for Alex’s throat with his left hand and Alex grabs his sleeve, smooth fabric offering little purchase, and David shifts again, lifting his hips just far enough to let him access Alex’s knife. He doesn’t want to use his own for this. It’s an awkward angle, but he frees it with one hand, keeping the other on Alex’s throat, tight enough to warn but not to hurt. Alex’s eyes are wide with instinctual panic, and for the first time in his life David sees them bleary with tears. “No—”
“Then stop me.” He’s straddling his hips now, a little lower than before, without compromising on the weight he can put into his grasp on Alex’s throat. Even with the padding, his knees ache, but it’s worth it. “You’re acting like I bruised your ribs. I didn’t even kick you that hard.” He leans in for a moment, knife tucked against his chest, safely out of Alex’s reach, and thinks about kissing the blood off his lips, but he doesn’t. He says, low and warning, with a finality that surprises even him, “I know you’re a fighter, Dad.”
It does not come naturally to him to address Alex as such. He avoided it thruout most of his childhood, preferring to awkwardly garner his attention in some other, less committal way, which Alex likewise seemed more comfortable with. The role of a family man never suited him. Keeping some linguistic distance between them helped keep their relationship stable. Right now, though, verbally acknowledging that it’s his father he’s got pinned underneath him is exactly what he wants, because it is making his cock fill out.
“Dad, look at me.” He’s stopped hiding the arousal in his voice. His intentions are clear, David thinks, yet this hasn’t spurred Alex into putting up a real fight. Both his hands are now on his son’s forearm, wide wet eyes repeatedly darting to the knife in his hand. He makes no sudden movements with it, he has no need to try and catch Alex off guard. Much of Alex’s focus is taken up by the need to keep his head in a position that allows him to breathe. Blood has dried in streaks down both sides of his face, flaking off his lips and his soft stubble, tempting David to take off his gloves and caress his father’s face. Instead, he inches backwards, briefly taking his hand off his neck, unfastens the buckle of his canvas belt, then untucks his button-down and undershirt from his waistband. Alex fails to take advantage of his newfound freedom; he merely props himself up on one elbow as he tries again to keep his body upright. It visibly pains him.
“Dave.” His voice is achingly plaintive.
“Keep up that tone and it’ll be over quicker.” That sort of threat doesn’t mesh with his usual vocabulary but he allows it. He’s letting predatory instinct speak for him, and he lets it guide his hands: he’s been careful with the blade for long enough. He stabs it thru the fabric of Alex’s pants, just below his left hipbone, and tears; he nicks him, he can feel the blade catch on skin, but he doesn’t pause—he rips on thru the crotch seam, then places his hands firmly on Alex’s hips, the knife handle held in his index and middle finger, pressed flat against Alex’s skin and threatening to pierce it again.
He’s gone still as a rabbit. David has barely done anything and it’s sapped all the will to fight from him. Alex just observes him in a stuporous, weak horror. David grits his teeth, not exactly annoyed. He curls his fingers around the knife’s handle and, on sheer impulse, punches his father in the jaw.
Alex groans, then inhales sharply; a shudder rattles thru his shoulders. He instinctively touches his face, but David bats his hand away. “Fucking fight me,” he says, voice now edged with real pleading, with a childish, impotent anger, “act like him. Fuck. Fight me, Dad, you have to—”
To his surprise, Alex tries: his struggle is unfocused—he likely can’t see straight—but he succeeds in throwing David off his balance, a feeling David instantly chases, he rolls with it, but his rib keeps Alex down again, he falters, flinches, sobs—David’s weight is on his father’s thigh, and his achingly hard cock grinds against his leg right where his holster cuts into his flesh; the desperate, profoundly displeased whine Alex lets out in response burns off all that’s left of David’s resolve to draw this out any further.
Fear grazes him for a split second when he realizes he’s lost track of the knife, but he finds he’s dropped it but a foot from Alex’s side, and he grabs it with ease. The motion has him graze his father’s soft, clothed bulge with his straining cock, and he makes no attempt to suppress an appreciative moan. He palms himself thru his pants, unabashedly seeking eye contact, and he gets an idea. “Stop me,” he murmurs, “or I’ll pin your hand to the floor with this.” He lifts the knife just far enough to make his point.
Alex squeezes his eyes shut. Swallowing visibly hurts. He’s trying to speak, so David runs his left hand up his torso, applying enough pressure to goad Alex into trying harder. “You wouldn’t.” The pain in Alex’s voice makes his cock twitch, and he’s sure Alex can feel it. He’s set his hands against David’s chest rig in a worthless little defensive gesture. The distance his gear, armor, and thick gloves enforce between their bodies is as tantalizing as it is frustrating; David hasn’t yet made up his mind on how much of it he can bear.
He sits up on his knees, stifling a wince at the discomfort, and slides one hand between Alex’s thighs, the other clutching the knife. His own breathing is ragged with desire, but for once, it doesn’t embarrass him. Alex’s throat glistens with a film of algid sweat. He hasn’t lost that much blood, but in the snowblue light his skin looks sickly spectral. That thought cleaves a frown into David’s features. “Talk to me, Dad.”
“You don’t want to do this,” Alex rasps.
David huffs. It’s the closest thing he can muster to a terse, humorless laugh. “You don’t want me to do this.” He quickly repositions himself so his knees flank Alex’s right thigh. “There’s a difference.” The holster has to stay—his victory will be more meaningful if Alex remains armed thru all this. He nudges Alex’s legs apart, almost gently, and snakes a gloved hand up his bare inner thigh. If he could feel his skin, it would surely be icecold. Alex is tense as a bowstring. He is trying to steel himself for what he knows will come next. All this is miles off from the warriorlike grace he expected of his father. He grabs his balls thru his briefs just to startle him, and Alex flinches. “Frank ever see you this pathetic?”
There’s a flinch of recognition in his eyes. David is wary of it. He probably thinks this is about jealousy. “He’s seen worse,” Alex sneers; he is cut off when David tightens his grip. He gasps sharply, and his hand instinctively flies to David’s forearm, but he’s in no position to pry his arm away. David decides he likes that answer. It has a glint of that stubbornness to it that David inherited from him.
“Don’t tempt me.” His voice is low but caustic.
He runs his right hand along Alex’s bared hipbone, then hooks his thumb into the edge of the fabric tear and widens it with one swift, rough motion, and squeezes Alex’s white thigh. Unscarred and almost hairless—virginal, save for the small, accidental cut David made earlier—his skin all but begs to be wounded. His gaze flits to his throat again, and to the dried blood on his jaw. The urge to mark Alex, to leave bruises, bite marks, gashes, possibly rope burns, make him self-consciously adjust the sleeves and collar of his uniform in public, prickles David like a belt of barbed wire.
He can’t let that thought linger. He slips the knife into his dominant hand and tears into Alex’s briefs. He instinctively attempts to close his legs, which at this point is just cute, though he appreciates his recklessness in squirming this close to the blade. Its flat side briefly touches the petalsoft skin on the inside of his thigh and he tenses, which makes David smile.
Absurdly, he’s still shy about seeing his father’s cock. The fact that it’s soft—natural, the way he might’ve glimpsed it on a summer Sunday morning when he’s just gotten out of the shower—is unbearably intimate. “You can still stop this,” David lies lazily. Maybe he could—the way he’s bracing Alex’s thigh, he’s left him plenty of room to maneuver, and his injuries can’t be that bad; he’s seen enough rib fractures firsthand to know his breathing wouldn’t sound like that. He could buck him off, slink out from under him, roll over, reach for his gun—but he doesn’t. He just stems his palms against the icy floorboards and leers. David dimly wonders if the cold water does anything to soothe or exacerbate the pain that he’s in.
David leans forward, partially to obscure him gently setting down the knife near Alex’s knee—out of easy reach, just in case—so that he can finally unbuckle his own belt, awkward as it is with his his plate carrier overlapping it, zip down his fly, and take himself into a frigid gloved hand, which makes him wince and inhale sharply thru his teeth—rubbing against coarse, chilled rubber is not pleasurable in its own right, but the harshness of it heightens his anticipation of sliding into something hot and at least somewhat wet in a minute—and partially so he can kiss his father on the lips.
Alex starts, alarmed, presses his lips into a taut line, and whips his head to the side; David follows, then brings his free hand up to Alex’s jaw. It takes more strength than he expected to keep his head in place, so he slides his fingers into Alex’s hair instead—if not for the gloves, he’d allow himself a moment to savor the perverse intimacy of it, but his damp hair catches unpleasantly on the rubber. He makes a point of laughing—he is hoarse, his voice ragged with want—at Alex’s first true display of revulsion; his right hand stills once it’s freed David’s cock from the constraints of his briefs, letting the heft of it rest against the rough, cool, artificial surface of his gloved palm, and he summons the focus to speak: “That it, huh? I disgust you.” He grazes Alex’s lips with his own, then mouths at his jaw, and the shell of his ear, which has gone pink from the wintry chill—that, too, reminds him of the way he’d appear to David during his childhood: obstinately at home in the cold, insistent that it didn’t affect him, even as his body signaled otherwise. “You don’t want this, fucking fight back then.”
“You’ll regret it,” Alex offers. The hand on David’s chest doesn’t even try to push him off, just to keep his gear and armor from putting any undue pressure on his ribs. All it does is invite David to press closer, to pin Alex’s hand between their bodies when he finally leans in far enough to let the slick tip of his cock slide against his father’s inner thigh. He laughs coarsely, hot breath visible against Alex’s cold face.
“So you’re resigned to it happening.” He sits up then, inches backwards, and positions himself between Alex’s legs. He moves gingerly; he can’t afford to waste another drop of precome by inadvertently brushing up against cold skin or fabric. Alex, tense as ever, watches his son grab his hip hard enough to bruise, then line himself up; he reaches for David’s arm, not at all to try and struggle, but purely to dig his cold, stiff fingers into the fabric of his sleeve. “And you call yourself a man,” David says; his musing tone indicates that he’s talking for his own entertainment more than anything. “I’m assuming you won’t wanna get yourself ready for me.” He’s never talked like that to anybody—he should be embarrassed, really, but it is kind of thrilling to transgress even against his own character. “Well, I’m not taking the gloves off now.”
He stems his thigh up without trouble. There is no way to make this comfortable or easy, and he thinks for a moment that he should’ve just dragged Alex to the couch with him, but he can work with this. He hooks his forearm around Alex’s trembling right thigh, rougher than necessary, and guides his tip to within a half inch of Alex’s taut, recalcitrant hole. He forces himself to hold out just a moment longer, enough to gather a mouthful of saliva and spit it, slow and luxuriant, directly onto Alex’s entrance; the muscle twitches in response, a display so undignified David can’t bite back an appreciative sigh. He wastes no further time in pressing his glistening cockhead against it; the warmth of it is as inviting as a kiss, and he pushes on, tightening his grip on Alex’s hip—to his surprise, the head slips in, there’s no serious resistance: David gasps, and all but doubles over; Alex pulls him closer by his sleeve, and the nauseous sob he lets out dispels any doubt about this motion being involuntary. Alex grasps at his son’s arms, his armored shoulder, the unrelenting mass of his chest rig, wholly unfocused, desperate and aimless like a child. When David seeks his eyes, he squeezes them shut.
He’s so hot against the damp chill of the cabin. David pauses for a moment, allowing both of them to catch their breath, which he is more successful at than Alex. “Fuck, Dad—” Just hearing the word in his own strained voice sends a jolt down his spine that culminates in a full-body shudder, and he has to steady himself by setting one hand against the icewet floor. His toes curl in his boots. He manages to feed another inch of his cock in before his father clenches down on him, failing to choke back a sincerely pained groan, and David has to hold still. “Fuck, that’s—that’s the most of a fight you’ve put up yet.” He places both his hands on Alex’s waist then, wanting to dig into warm flesh even if he can’t feel it.
Alex grits his teeth. His death grip on David’s biceps hurts, but not enough to try and pry him off. He leaves Alex a few seconds to adjust, then pushes onward; he no longer bothers to conceal the fact that this much friction pains him, too. He’s hot and dry, almost too tight, but his unwillingness makes up for all of it. He lets his hands roam across Alex’s clothed torso without any particular intention to press down on his ribs. He is content just to touch, to holistically possess, and when he bottoms out, loses focus for a moment, and brings the full weight of his upper body down to bear on Alex’s chest, it is a genuine accident. Alex gasps, but his voice dies in his throat.
“Y’know, Dad, when I—” His breath hitches; he rocks back for an agonizing moment, then attempts his first real thrust. Alex’s insides are as firm as thick rubber, and David wants to order him to relax already, but he refuses to encourage his unseemly submissiveness. “Nh, when I—fantasized about this, I really thought—I thought I’d have to force you.” For whatever reason, Alex keeps his legs held steady behind David’s back, letting the mag pouches on David’s hips dig into his calves. Maybe he really thinks playing along will be easier. “I thought I was gonna have to rape you, Dad.” Getting those words out is almost better than the harsh, bare, bodily heat enveloping his cock. “You’re too easy,” he whines, tries to make it sound mock-mournful, but it ends up clipped by a high-pitched, reedy gasp. If it were anybody else underneath him, he’d be ashamed of it, but he knows that Alex is more humiliated by his little shows of pleasure than he is, and he can’t help but smile.
“David—”
Hearing his name, his childhood name, in his father’s ragged voice makes his cock twitch inside of him. “Fuck,” David huffs, “at least tell me to stop.” It’s a genuine request—if he won’t fight, the least he could do is verbally confirm that he still doesn’t want this. That’s the whole point.
Alex refuses. He doesn’t say another word, just keeps his eyes closed and his head facing sideways, resolutely ignoring him. David appreciates what little insolence there is in it. He makes to undo the lower three buttons on Alex’s shirt, which is fiddly but doable with his rough gloves, all the while settling into a shallow, grinding rhythm, not yet fucking his father in earnest. Alex grasps at the edge of his plate carrier, and David, finally, frees Alex’s undershirt from his waistband and ghosts a hand over his bare stomach; Alex whimpers at this, which he at least has the good sense to be embarrassed by.
The urge to reach for the knife rears inside David. He perceives it as a heady whirl, a prickling sensation not unlike that of feeling creeping back into a limb. He glances for it, his other hand splayed possessively across his lower abdomen—Alex is distracted—and finds it where he dropped it; he wraps his fingers around the handle, and, just as swift, seizes Alex’s right hand. Startlingly pliant, he lets his son pin his wrist against the icy ground, wholly oblivious, it seems, to the possibility that his earlier threat might’ve been genuine.
He stills inside Alex, which somehow fails to alert him to the fact that he’s planning something. His eyes remain shut. He appears to be content to just wait this all out. David slides his hand up Alex’s wrist until he’s close enough to press his thumb into the center of his palm. He’s anxious like a teenager about to hold his crush’s hand for the first time. He wills his hand not to tremble as he lines the blade up with his father’s palm; he knows he only gets one shot at this. He readjusts his grip on the knife, allows himself one furtive glance at Alex’s face to make sure he’s still not looking—he holds his breath, mentally rehearses what he wants to say, then does: “You know, Dad. I wasn’t kidding.”
He plunges the knife thru his hand. Alex screams, for barely a second, before his voice degenerates into a dry, horror-stricken death rattle of a cough; he panics, tenses, writhes, and makes to read for the knife with his free hand, but David catches it mid-air and slams it to the floor, shivering with adrenaline. He’s succeeded in pinning his hand to the floorboards, driving the blade deep enough into the damp wood that Alex won’t be able to dislodge it without causing serious further damage. It slid along one of his metacarpal bones on the way in, and he’s no doubt severed some tendons. His fingers tremble uncontrollably; his eyes are wide, bleary, uncofused—David grinds up into him, hands clasped firmly around Alex’s wrists, reasonably careful not to drive his hand much further into the blade.
Alex’s breathing comes in frail, serrated gasps. There’s nothing masculine about it, and David finds himself grateful for it: it’s so unlike the interminable irritating, graceless groaning of IED casualties. It’s attractive enough, even if it makes him sound unlike himself. The real, desperate fear in his eyes isn’t something he would’ve thought his father capable of. He’s entirely helpless—unable to focus on anything but keeping his impaled hand steady against the force of David’s thrusts pushing his body into the floorboards. His eyes, a nocturnal shade of blue even in sunlight, appear dark in their unguardedness. David can’t help but touch his face again, leaving Alex’s left hand free to reach for either his or David’s sidearm if he really wanted to—but he doesn’t, he won’t even lift it off the ground. “Dad,” David sighs, “stay with me.”
Blood leaches into the meltwater at a steady rate. His fingers twitch aimlessly. He’s tense all over, but it is an idle, purposeless tension. David’s cock has stretched him far enough now to allow for harsher thrusts, but he sticks to an indulgent rhythm, almost loving in the unbroken closeness it permits them. The bottom pouch on his chest rig grazes, sometimes chafes against the root of Alex’s limp cock, but it probably doesn’t dig in hard enough to hurt. His hand comes to rest on Alex’s cheek, thumb close enough to his eyesocket to work as a half-hearted threat.
“Won’t even reach for your gun.” He says it with an airy laugh, more of an observation than a taunt. Alex lifts his hand in some last petty show of resistance, which David allows just to see where he’s going with it, and he reaches for David’s collar before coming to a shaky rest on his shoulder. The sheer wrongness of it, of his father touching him the way a woman would, is a thrill, albeit one tinged with disappointment. It spurs him to quicken his pace; he hasn’t earned seeing his father this low, this defeated and nakedly weak, it falls short of the gratifying reward he envisioned, but—selfish as he is—he’ll take it all the same.
He grabs Alex’s hip, eager to crush bruises into both sides, and adjusts his angle, straightening his spine. Alex’s pallid face is no longer contorted in pain, instead he looks accepting of it, passively receptive, even patient. His lips are numbly parted, his eyes soft and hooded, drained of all defiance. He ruts into his father’s hot, pliant body, harder now, paying little mind to the way this forces the blade thru more of his flesh. It may well tear all the way thru, bisecting his palm in a torturously slow sawing.
“You’re,” David pants, “you’re really—gonna let your son come inside you?” He’s bluffing a little, he’s close, but not that close. “Way to make a—make a man feel like a conqueror, Dad.” His tone is breathlessly haughty, almost overconfident, but Alex is in no position to pick up on that. It’s not that fucking him isn’t as good as David expected—not exactly. He swats that thought away by curling his hand around his father’s left thigh and digging in hard. Without the gloves, he’d surely break the skin with his nails.
“Dave.” His voice is no more than a feeble croak, but there’s still so much of himself in it. David seeks his eyes, but they’re unfocused, staring dumbly at the nightblack ceiling.
“Talk to me,” he repeats. Resigned to obedience, Alex tries again to enunciate his name, but David strangles the attempt with a vicious snap of his hips, both hands on Alex’s tight waist as he’s opted to just chase his overdue orgasm at a selfishly efficient pace. He won’t get what he truly wants out of Alex, but for the time being, that’s fine.
Alex whimpers. “Nh—no.” His free hand now lies limp against his own chest. “No.” David smiles; it is such a childishly simplistic plea, it’s imprecise, shameful, and completely ineffectual. It’s below him, really, below both of them, and maybe it’s that very wrongness that draws David closer to the edge.
For one startling moment, he pictures himself coring Alex out, not just chafing him raw, not just drawing blood—but carving into him a gory channel, and he sees himself forcing his cock into red meat, dead and shapeless, driven by sheer, dumb animal need; heat surges thru him, soured by a twinge of objectless disgust, but it’s not enough to stave off his climax: David shudders, thrusting into his father for a final, decisive time, all the while forcing his voice down; he holds his breath, lets his eyes flutter shut, and releases inside Alex—his grap slips and his hands slide up his torso; David bears down on his ribs without meaning to, and it draws a groan out of him that makes David want to laugh.
He keeps his hand on Alex’s chest during his drawn-out comedown and subsequent attempt to catch his breath. He pats him twice, and pulls back a little, then decides he’ll allow himself to stay within his warmth for just a moment longer.
There’s a dozen options for what to say next swirling languidly inside his head and none of them are good. He instead decides to curl his hand around Alex’s neck and run his thumb along his jaw. There is no violence in the gesture beyond that of its circumstance. “See,” David huffs, smiling against the frown that threatens to settle on his feature like snow, “see, Dad, wasn’t that bad, was it.” Alex winces. He keeps his head facing away from his mutilated hand.
David lets his half-soft cock slip free unceremoniously, then sits up taller on his haunches and tucks himself—wet and dirty—back into his pants. Alex doesn’t move. His breathing is heavy and steady. For reasons unknown even to him, David stifles the impulse to lean in and gently touch his face again. Instead, he rises to his feet, stumbling once as he underestimates the pins and needles in his legs, and straightens his back with a groan, like there’s nothing unusual about what he just did. This, too, is more for his own benefit than for Alex’s. David takes two measured steps towards his pinned hand, careful not to splash him with any of the icy meltwater he’s lying in.
“Dad.” He nudges him with his foot. It’s a markedly soft touch of the toe of his boot to Alex’s waist, just enough to signal his presence. He refuses to look up at him. David sighs. “Get up or I’ll kick the knife.” His tone is leisurely. He probably means it, he’s willing to commit now that he’s said it, but it wasn’t his intention to threaten him. “Dad, get up.” He swipes a strand of hair off his cold, sweaty forehead with the back of his wrist. With a wry, listless laugh, he adds: “You’re gonna catch a cold like that.”
Alex won’t move. He keeps his eyes shut tight like he’s waiting for David to dissolve into air. David watches his chest rise and fall.
He moves in close enough to touch Alex’s wrist with the sole of his boot. He does not intend it as a sign he’ll make good on his threat. He just stands there and observes. Alex’s nose and ears no longer appear flushed. He is pale all over. In the wintry, artificial light, his lips look blue. “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” David sighs, sounding—he thinks—convincingly disinterested. “Stop messing with me. For fuck’s sake, Dad.” His voice wilts to a whisper. “Get up.”