Page 69 of Fought it Through the Teeth

Morgan turns over. Gets his knees under himself, shaky and graceless, and Bohdi's hand runs down his spine, pausing to feather over the fading bruises with that same infuriating gentleness, and Morgan is trembling so hard his arms won't lock. He buries his face in his folded arms and waits and feels Bohdi behind him, the heat of him, the presence of him, everything Morgan has spent years imagining and never dared believe he'd have.

Then Bohdi's cock nudges against his slicked, open rim and Morgan stops breathing entirely. The blunt, hot pressure of him, thicker than his fingers, thicker than anything Morgan has taken, catches at his entrance and holds there, and Morgan pushes back and Bohdi grips his hip and doesn't let him.

"You," Bohdi says, and his voice is rough and low and wrecked, "are going to take what I give you. And you're going to be good about it."

Morgan laughs into his arms, breathless and disbelieving. "I have never once in my life been good about anything⁠—"

Bohdi pushes in.

Morgan's laugh fractures into a moan that he muffles in his forearm, his fingers digging into the sheets, his body opening around Bohdi inch by devastating inch. The stretch is enormous and slow and Bohdi does it with a restraint that Morgan can feel costing him, the tremor in his hands, the harsh unsteadiness of his breathing, and it's the care that undoes Morgan more than anything else. Bohdi is enormous inside him and so careful about it that Morgan wants to sob, wants to shove back and take all of him at once, and instead he just breathes and shakes and lets himself be filled.

When Bohdi bottoms out, his hips flush against Morgan's ass, they both go still. Morgan can feel the throb of Bohdi's cock deep inside him, feels his own body clenching helplessly around it, and the fullness is so overwhelming that his eyes prick with tears that have nothing to do with pain. Bohdi bends over him, chest pressed to Morgan's back, and his mouth finds the nape of Morgan's neck and presses there, and his arm comes around Morgan's waist and holds him, and for a long moment they just breathe together.

Bohdi rolls his hips, a slow, deep grind that drags across every nerve Morgan has, and Morgan clenches his jaw and makes a sound through his teeth that sounds embarrassingly close to a whimper.

Then Bohdi picks up a rhythm, and Morgan stops being able to form thoughts at all.

It's slow at first, long deep strokes that pull almost all the way out and then push back in with a deliberateness that makes Morgan feel every inch, and Bohdi keeps his weight off Morgan's injured ribs, holds himself up on one arm while the other stays wrapped around his waist. Morgan pushes back into every thrust, greedy and desperate, and when he reaches a hand between his own legs because he is dying, aching, so hard he can't stand it, Bohdi catches his wrist.

"No," Bohdi says.

Morgan groans. "Bohdi⁠—"

Bohdi pulls his arm back. Then the other. And then Morgan's wrists are pinned behind his back, both of them caught in one of Bohdi's massive hands, and his face is pressed into the pillow and he has nothing, no leverage, no control, no way to touch himself. His cock hangs heavy and untouched between his legs, dripping onto the sheets, and the only stimulation he has is the thick, steady drive of Bohdi inside him.

Bohdi fucks into him harder, his composure fraying at the edges, his rhythm going ragged, and every thrust shoves Morgan forward against the sheets and drags a sound out of him that he has no control over. Morgan writhes and swears and pushes back and pretends to fight it because the fighting is what makes it so good, the knowledge that he could beg Bohdi to let go and Bohdi would, instantly, no question, but Morgan doesn't want him to. He wants to be held here. He wants to be kept.

Bohdi laughs, low and breathless, and releases Morgan's wrists.

Before Morgan can reach for himself, Bohdi has flipped him again, one hand on his hip, effortless, and Morgan is on his back with Bohdi between his thighs, and Bohdi slides back into him in one long thrust that has Morgan arching off the bed and grabbing for his shoulders. The angle is different, deeper, and Morgan's legs wrap around Bohdi's waist and his heels dig into the small of his back and Bohdi braces himself over him and drives into him.

"This is what I want," Bohdi says, looking down at him with dark eyes that miss nothing. "You, like this."

Morgan meets his eyes and stops breathing. Because this, this, is the thing that's harder than anything else. Not the surrender, not the physical vulnerability, but letting Bohdi see him: flushed, undone, stripped of every wall and every word, with nothing between them but skin and the years of wanting that put them here.

Then Bohdi reaches for his wrists again. Catches them both and pins them above Morgan's head, one-handed, pressed into the pillow, and Morgan pulls against the hold on sheer instinct and it doesn't give and his whole body lights up.

"You want to come?" Bohdi asks, and he's grinning, the bastard, even as his hips snap forward and his breath comes ragged. "Then come."

"I can't, you won't let me touch⁠—"

"You don't need to." Bohdi drives deep and grinds, and the angle drags across Morgan's prostate and his untouched cock jerks against his stomach, leaking. "I know how much you've wanted this, Morgan. How long you've wanted me." Another thrust that makes his vision spark. "So if you want to come, you'll come on my cock, like a good boy."

The words hit Morgan with a force that buckles something inside him. His whole body clenches, his spine bows, and he makes a sound that is closer to a scream than a moan. His wrists strain against Bohdi's grip and his thighs shake where they're locked around Bohdi's waist and he is right there, teetering on the edge of it, his cock throbbing and untouched and so hard he can feel his own pulse in it.

"I'm not, I'm not your, you can't just—" Morgan sputters, defiant and desperate, the defiance in him flaring even now, especially now, because surrendering all the way means admitting how completely Bohdi owns him and he cannot quite⁠—

Bohdi leans down, brushes his lips against Morgan's ear, and says, very softly, very gently: "Yes you are."

Morgan breaks.

His orgasm rips through him so hard his vision goes white and his body seizes and he comes across his own stomach untouched, thick pulsing streaks of it while Bohdi fucks him through it, deep, steady, relentless. The sound Morgan makes is broken open and desperate, and it's Bohdi's name, just his name, over and over, the only word left in his head. His wrists pull against the hold and this time Bohdi lets them go, and Morgan's hands fly to his face and his shoulders and his hair, pulling him close, pulling him in, needing the contact the way he needs air. Bohdi drops down to his forearms and buries his face in Morgan's neck and his hips stutter, once, twice, and then Bohdi comes inside him with a sound that is raw and unguarded and so wrecked that Morgan feels it reverberate through his whole body.

For a long time neither of them moves.

Bohdi's weight is on him, heavy and warm, and his face is pressed to the curve of Morgan's throat, and Morgan can feel the staccato of his heartbeat where their chests are pressed together. Morgan's hand is in Bohdi's hair, shaking, still shaking, and his legs are still wrapped around him, and he should say something sharp to start rebuilding the walls, should laugh it off, should reach for the armor.

But Bohdi turns his head and presses his lips to the pulse point beneath Morgan's jaw, so gently it barely counts as a kiss. Morgan closes his eyes and feels something break open in his chest that he knows will never be put back together.