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“Just act normal,” FDR hissed from the corner of his mouth.
Tuck frowned, FDR's shoulder bumping his as they walked, handcuffs quietly clinking between them. “I'm perfectly normal, mate,” he whispered, glancing sideways at him. “You're the one who looks suspicious.”
“I'm not suspicious,” countered FDR, his expression studiously blank. “I'm just too good-looking not to attract attention.”
“You keep telling yourself that, mate,” muttered Tuck, half-hearted, as they approached the dingy hotel counter.
“Yeah, hi,” FDR said, slipping smoothly into a charming smile as he rested his free hand on the counter. “Can we get a room? A double one.”
The receptionist looked wearily between them, one eyebrow slightly arched, the dark circles under her eyes a soft purple in the harsh light.
FDR's smile grew wider and less believable. “Don't worry, we're –”
“Married,” said Tuck.
“Brothers,” said FDR.
They exchanged veiled glares, then turned back to the receptionist.
She leaned back in her chair, a creak echoing through the lobby. “I'm not paid enough to care,” she sighed. “You got the money, you get the room.”
Tuck awkwardly dug into his pocket with his left hand, pulling out the wedge of notes he'd grabbed from the open briefcase as they escaped that mess of a mission. “Here you go,” he said, handing them over with a smile; he was sure it looked far more natural than FDR's.
She barely even looked at them as she held out a key.
“Thank you,” said Tuck, taking it before FDR could.
“See? Easy,” said FDR, nudging him as they shuffled in the direction of their room. “We can hide out here 'til our scheduled extraction.”
“Great,” muttered Tuck, tension curling in his stomach, every cell in his body aware of how close FDR was. “Four hours handcuffed to you. Just how I wanted to spend the night.”
“Better me than someone else,” said FDR, almost cheerfully, and even Tuck couldn't disagree with that.
They found the room easily and squeezed through the doorway less easily. When FDR flicked on the light, it revealed a plain, worn-down room. Clean, but not inviting. Tuck sighed. At least the double bed looked big enough to fit them both.
He moved with FDR as they approached the bed, tension wrapping around his spine, his best friend's looming presence a heavy weight inside his mind. Tuck almost flinched as FDR yawned and stretched, the man flicking his suit jacket off his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” asked Tuck, as FDR wriggled in the fabric.
“Taking my jacket off, man,” FDR said, like he was an idiot.
“Not gonna work, mate,” Tuck pointed out, lifting his right hand up, tugging FDR's left with it. “We'll just get a lovely blanket for our hands.”
“Shit,” FDR groaned slowly. He shrugged his jacket back on. “Fine, fine. We'll sleep in our clothes. Shoes off though.”
“Obviously,” agreed Tuck, as they both bent down to pry them off. “I'm not an animal.”
Shoes removed, they both stared at the bed, then slowly turned their heads towards each other. Tuck swallowed as FDR's blue eyes burned into him, only inches away.
He cleared his throat. “How are we gonna...?”
“Pull the blankets down, wriggle backwards up the bed?” suggested FDR, eyebrows slightly raised.
“Fuck. Okay,” said Tuck, and they shuffled to the foot of the mattress, gripping the blankets and clawing them down. Once the bed was ready, they had to do an awkward dance to turn around in the small space, pressing close enough for Tuck to get a lungful of FDR's cologne, musky and deep. But they managed it. He glanced at FDR. “You ready, mate?”
“I'm ready, man,” FDR said smoothly, poised to move, arm lightly tugging on the handcuffs.
They nodded and tipped themselves backwards, flopping onto the mattress in unison. Wriggling and writhing, they scrambled up the bed until their heads rested on the pillows, their cuffed hands lying between them.
“There we go,” said FDR, grinning at him, blue eyes bright. “Perfectly synchronised.”
“Think that might be the most awkward way I've ever gotten into bed,” sighed Tuck, shifting on the mattress.
“Yeah? Must be a tough list to top,” FDR teased drily.
“Shut up, mate,” huffed Tuck, frowning at him. “I've heard your chat-up lines. If you weren't such a handsome bastard you'd never get laid.”
“Lucky for me, I am a handsome bastard,” FDR said breezily, that grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“And lucky for me, I'm handcuffed to you,” said Tuck, jangling the metal by moving his wrist. “And I'm fucking exhausted, so if we can pause the banter for the next four hours so I can get some kip, that'd be great.”
“Okay, man, whatever. We can pause the banter,” FDR said casually, leaning back. “Let me know when to unpause. I can go any time.”
“I bet you can,” Tuck muttered.
“Hey! Hey, you asked for a pause. That's a foul ball, pal,” said FDR, almost pouting.
Tucked exhaled slowly. “Just go to sleep, mate,” he muttered, and rolled onto his side.
“Ouch,” whined FDR, and tugged on the handcuffs. “You can't sleep on your side, man. My arm'll be up in the air all night. It'll go numb.”
Tuck looked over his shoulder and saw FDR's outstretched arm, hand almost brushing his ass. “Alright, fine. We'll both sleep on our backs,” he conceded, rolling back.
“Okay. Okay,” said FDR, expression softening. He licked his lips and glanced down at the foot of the bed. “We not pulling the blankets up?”
“Mate, I'm not wriggling all the way down there and back up to grab them,” said Tuck, bones aching. Yeah, they should have dragged the blankets up with them, but the whole thing had been such a palaver without that. “Anyway, it's a warm night. We aren't gonna freeze.”
“Yeah, true,” conceded FDR.
They looked at each other, then both settled themselves as best they could. Tuck closed his eyes, breathing slowly. He was bruised and grimy and trying not to think about all the work they'd have to do after this fuck-up, but sleep was slowly winding itself around him –
FDR shifted about, grunting softly.
Tuck frowned, ignoring him. They still had to make it to the rendezvous, so he really needed at least a few hours rest to power through –
Sheets rustling, FDR wriggled.
Tuck clenched his jaw. Much as he loved the guy, FDR could be a pain. But if he could just drift off, he'd be solid out, and FDR's restless writhing wouldn't bother him any more. He just needed –
FDR sighed deeply, the mattress dipping as he squirmed.
“Franklin, stop being a twat and go to sleep,” Tuck growled, eyes flicking open, turning to glare at his best friend.
FDR grimaced, those blue eyes almost apologetic. “I can't,” he said softly.
“Why not?” asked Tuck, but FDR didn't answer – just looked up at the ceiling, frowning slightly.
Tuck shifted closer, fixing his eyes on him.
FDR didn't respond. His lips twitched slightly, discomfort in his face, and Tuck thought maybe it wasn't all about the shared bed and the handcuffs.
Propping himself up on one elbow, Tuck asked gently, “FDR, what's up?”
FDR sighed again, rubbing his free hand over his face. “Shit, I need to...” He licked his lips and turned to look at Tuck, expression entirely too innocent for the words that came out of his mouth. “Do you like watching people fuck?”
Tuck raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I like porn.”
“Obviously.” FDR gestured with his free hand, blue eyes earnest. “No, I meant... Are you into voyeurism?”
“Maybe. I guess,” said Tuck, studying the guy's face. “Why?”
“I jerk off before I sleep every night,” said FDR, plain and sincere. “Can't wind down without it.”
“Fuck, mate, you really are the horniest –” Tuck sighed, his stomach tightening. “So you want to do it now?”
“I mean... Yeah?” FDR lifted his eyebrows. “Or is that gonna offend you and your prudish British manners?”
“Mate, if you want to have a wank, have a wank,” said Tuck, frowning, his spine prickling.
“Have a wank? Is that what you Brits call it?” said FDR, face lighting up with a mocking smile. “Having a wank?”
“Uh, yeah, it is,” Tuck said calmly. “I'm sure I've called it that before. What did you think it meant?”
“Having a cookie. Or a biscuit.” FDR slipped into an English accent, at least three levels too posh to be Tuck's actual voice. “Oh, thank you, Your Majesty, I will have a cup of tea and a wank.”
“Pretty sure the Queen is not gonna invite me to have a wank,” said Tuck, raising an eyebrow. He flopped onto his back, skin prickling with FDR's mocking, his own voice turning sharp. “But if you want to jerk off, whatever. Go ahead.”
“Okay, I will. I will go ahead,” FDR said quickly.
“Feel free, mate, feel free,” declared Tuck, gazing at the ceiling.
“I will,” said FDR, his voice needling slightly. “Are you gonna watch, Mr Voyeurism?”
“Maybe I will, yeah,” said Tuck, twisting to look at him, challenge in his eyes.
“Okay, then. Hope you enjoy it,” huffed FDR, slipping his hands down to wrestle his pants open, the motion yanking Tuck's handcuffed wrist with it.
Tuck let his fingers go loose, eyes drawn to the display of his best friend unzipping his fly and easing down his underwear and – oh shit, that was his cock, thick and already hard and –
FDR pulled out his straining dick, hand confidently wrapping around his own shaft, fingers expertly finding their place. Tuck swallowed, stomach clenching, and forced his gaze up to look at FDR's face. He found no trace of shame there, just arousal.
The soft sound of skin sliding over skin rippled through the room, and FDR inhaled sharply, teeth finding his lower lip. Tuck's eyes widened, lightning jolting through him. Shit, FDR was actually –
He looked away, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. Just don't think about it. But that gliding sound was unmistakable, obscene, corkscrewing into him. Tuck breathed slowly. He was very aware of the metal pressed to his wrist – aware that its mirror enclosed FDR's left wrist – aware that FDR's right hand was –
Shivering, Tuck balled his fingers into a fist. But the sounds continued – fabric rustling, soft gasps, skin on skin – and every one made his stomach clench tighter. Fuck, FDR was just going for it. Really just going for it, tugging his cock next to him. The guy didn't care. Didn't care. Had invited him to watch, no, invited him to enjoy –
Tuck turned his head slightly, just enough to see a flicker of movement – enough to see his best friend's parted lips, heated air rushing between them. Shit, this was – He shouldn't watch, it was more sensible not to watch, and he was meant to be the sensible one because FDR sure as fuck wasn't – But tension coiled in his gut with every echoing thrust, and he kinda –
Licking his lips, Tuck tilted his head further, heart skittering in his chest. He locked his eyes onto FDR's face, onto those flushed cheeks, still trying not to look at the way the guy's hand slipped up and down. But he could hear it, hear every soft slide, and it was like each one also brushed over his – Fuck. Fuck. He should look away, he should ignore it, he shouldn't let things change between them – but they were tied together, locked in close –
And worse, for all FDR's jibes, he actually kinda wanted –
Tuck inhaled sharply; FDR turned his head to look. Looked right in his eyes as he kept on pumping his own cock. And a grin spread across FDR's lips – not sharp and judging, but bright and pleased. Triumphant. Conspiratorial.
Body wavering with indecision, Tuck stared at him, frozen. He should look away. FDR jerking off beside him was one thing, okay, their friendship could stand that – their work required weird and uncomfortable things all the time, dangerous things, intimate things – but to watch him... Watching him changed it from something that was happening to a thing they were sharing. And they couldn't take it back.
But FDR was smiling at him – shameless, friendly, easy. And every obscene noise, every half-seen motion, sent frantic lightning straight to Tuck's cock.
“Shit,” Tuck whispered, looking into FDR's blue eyes.
FDR laughed softly. “It's okay,” he said, face full of mischief, voice almost kind. Then he lowered his gaze to his own cock, and Tuck's eyes followed him down.
Chest tightening, Tuck watched as FDR's hand stroked up and down, fingers wrapped around the thick shaft. He'd seen his cock before, in Bangladesh, but that was just a glimpse – he hadn't stared, hadn't savoured the sight. But here it was, hard and straining, the blunt head leaking precome, silky skin flexing with every tug and jerk. Oh, fuck.
A tremble spreading down his back, Tuck looked up at FDR's face. The handsome bastard showed no trace of shame, unbound pleasure twitching in his features, cheeks flushed deep. Tuck could feel the heat in his own cheeks too, feel the heat growing in his groin.
Eyes bright and eager, FDR glanced at him but didn't stop, hand still working his hard cock. Tuck swallowed and turned back to the display: FDR's fingers gliding up and down, expertly teasing the sensitive flesh, pace even and obscene. He knew those hands, knew the sinews and knuckles – had daubed them with disinfectant and wrapped bandages tight, had clasped them while dangling from a ledge, had felt their firm heat as they pressed a fresh magazine into his grasp, watched them punch and choke and pull a trigger. Tuck knew their strength, their grace, their reassurance. And as they flexed around FDR's shaft, steady and skilled, he could not help imagining them wrapped around his own –
Tuck moaned, veins thrumming as blood rushed to his cock. FDR's hands were smaller than his, but that really didn't matter – not when they were stroking that hard cock before his very eyes, entirely real, so much better than porn. He could reach out and touch it, if he wanted. But the sight alone, fuck. Even when FDR had asked him, he'd never really considered what it meant to watch – in order to watch, there had to be a show, and FDR was giving him one.
Inhaling sharply, FDR arched next to him, handcuffs clinking as he tensed. Tuck drank in every bit of it: the flush of his cheeks, the dazed look in his eyes, the erotic slide of his hand over that private flesh. FDR was sharing this with him, unashamed, unguarded. His own cock hardening, Tuck watched FDR's hand, teasing himself so intimately. Those fingers were almost elegant as they curled around that thick shaft.
Tuck could see other things too: the hitch of his chest inside his suit, the tremble of his lips, the slight twitch of his hips with every tug. And then the sounds – the little gasps, the frantic rub of skin on skin – and all of them told him FDR was close.
Swallowing, Tuck fixed his eyes on FDR's cock, on the familiar hand working it. There was no denying it: this display was obscene, intimate, incredible. His own cock ached at the sight, ached to be touched, ached just to watch. He wanted to see FDR's bliss, pure and unfiltered.
FDR gasped. “Tuck, I'm gonna –”
Tuck hummed a long note, low and approving. He watched as FDR's cock pulsed, those firm fingers stilling as he spilled beside him. Pleasure bloomed in FDR's face, sweet and intense, a wave rising high to crash across the shore before ebbing away to empty sands.
Panting softly, FDR turned to look at him. “That wasn't so bad, was it?” he said, his grin playful and delighted.
A groan caught in Tuck's throat. Fuck, his own cock was rock hard.
Entirely casual except for the catch of his breath, FDR put his softening cock away. “Okay, I'm good. You good?” he asked, eyes calm and earnest, as if he hadn't just –
Tuck shivered, his cock aching. Did he need to – Was he going to – “Fuck,” he muttered, and swallowed.
FDR raised his eyebrows, a half-laugh fading on his lips. He stared at Tuck, recognition slowly dawning, and his eyes drifted down Tuck's body, down to his groin, his obvious bulge.
“Guess that answers my question,” FDR said, grinning.
“Fuck off, mate,” said Tuck, whipping his head to stare at the ceiling, stomach swirling hard.
“If I can, you can,” FDR said, so calm, so entirely normal, as if this wasn't just a bit insane –
Breath lodging in his throat, Tuck glanced at him and said nothing, cheeks still burning hot.
“Or,” murmured FDR, mattress dipping as he rolled onto his side, facing Tuck, “I could...”
FDR's fingers, those clever, obscene fingers, brushed Tuck's hip.
“Why do I let you drag me into these things,” groaned Tuck, squeezing his eyes shut, desperate to ignore him, to ignore the pleading hardness at his groin.
“Because you love me,” laughed FDR, and fuck, that was a heavy word when he'd just seen the man come. To his surprise, Tuck found he could still breathe under it.
Groaning, Tuck opened his eyes and looked over at him.
FDR was still grinning, his expression utterly lacking in judgement. “Yeah?” he said, reaching out.
“Fuck,” grunted Tuck, stomach clenching hard. He inhaled sharply. “Yeah.”
FDR chuckled, the sound raw delight, and grabbed for the button at Tuck's waistband. Tuck shivered as he popped it free – shuddered as FDR moved to his fly, slowly pulling down the zip, each chik-chik-chik sending blood to his groin, FDR's fingers brushing over it, brushing over his –
Tuck moaned, fire igniting in his gut. He held himself still, eyes locked to the sight of his best friend peeling his underwear down, fingers curled into the fabric, drawing it back to reveal his achingly hard cock.
Breath harsh already, Tuck looked over at FDR, who just grinned and reached out –
A strangled noise lodged in Tuck's throat as FDR's warm fingers closed around his cock, firm but not rough, easing the sensitive flesh up to stand at attention. He shivered, staring at those blue eyes, but FDR's gaze was fixed on his cock, and Tuck was drawn to the sight, pulled like a deep current in the water.
Oh, fuck. Those familiar digits looked even better wrapped around his shaft, flexing gently, promising so much. Seeing them set tension coiling in his stomach, a spiral to match the one spurred by the sensation of touch. He needed – He needed –
“FDR,” Tuck croaked, pleasure rippling down his shaft, summoned by his best friend's hand. “Franklin. Please.”
FDR chuckled. “Like I wouldn't,” he teased, and then – oh, fuck – he slowly slipped his hand up and then down, and that was a tease of its own.
Tuck groaned, his own fingers tightening in the sheets. He'd never let another man touch him before – but it was FDR, and it was okay, and it was great –
Pleasure danced over his skin as FDR stroked him, not gently or hesitantly, but experimentally, those clever fingers learning his body, each touch better than the last. They squeezed him, rubbed him, worked that sensitive flesh.
“Hey,” FDR said, drawing Tuck's eyes back up to his face. “Can you –” He made a motion with his head, and through the haze of arousal it took Tuck a few moments to realise what he was asking.
Swallowing, Tuck rolled onto his side, facing him. FDR's hand followed him all the way, resting on his shaft.
“Yeah, like that,” said FDR, hushed and hungry, eyes dilated. He pumped him once, slowly, then set up a rhythm, steady and even and amazing.
Tuck moaned as FDR's hand slipped up and down his cock, fingers wrapped around his shaft, warm palm pressed to the skin. The heat and the pressure and the friction of him, fuck, every bit of it stoked the fire in his gut. Pleasure sang under FDR's fingers, those fingers that had washed blood from his skin in Belfast, pressed down on his wound in Riga, squeezed tight on his shoulder after that dark night in Quito – those strong, clever fingers, those fingers he knew so well, that knew him utterly now, tugging on his most intimate flesh.
“Fuck,” whispered Tuck, a shudder jerking through him. Every touch of FDR's hand – every squeeze, every glide – fanned the flames in his stomach. It was incredible, so intense, like tugging his own cock but so much better, FDR finding just what he needed and granting it to him, smiling all the while.
He groaned as his best friend stroked him, the rhythm driving him higher and higher, pleasure layering inside him. The friction, oh, that beautiful glide. And the press of that grip, just perfectly tight. All of it, everything FDR's hand was doing added to the taut sensation in his gut, an ache building inside him.
FDR licked his lips, eyes aflame. He maintained the pace, his touch masterful, wonderful, incredible.
Tuck swallowed hard, air lodging in his throat. He'd never imagined this, never imagined the trust and testosterone of their work tipping over into this, never allowed himself to imagine it would feel so good. It was almost too much, FDR teasing him expertly. Tuck fought to get breath into his lungs as his best friend pushed him higher, nearer, closer.
“Franklin,” he whispered, voice cracking. His chest ached, hunger roaring through him. It was so much, so good, and he needed more, but he didn't know if he could stand it, the touch of those skilled fingers already overwhelming.
FDR smiled at him, never slowing, each stroke providing more friction, more pressure, more heat – and that heat pooled in his gut, burning, blazing, begging. He could see his peak on the horizon, every tug drawing it closer. He was already shaking, half undone by that relentless hand.
Sucking in a ragged breath, Tuck twisted his cuffed hand, seeking FDR's other hand – one to ground him, one to wreck him, both anchor and storm – and the position was awkward, the muscles in his arm tensing, aching, almost hurting. But FDR matched him, lacing their fingers together, a touch far more tender than the devastating one on his cock.
Tuck squeezed that hand, savouring the firm flesh, studying FDR's face. The guy was still smiling, and it was so earnest and friendly and calm, like they were just chatting or drinking or shooting pool together, like FDR's fingers weren't wrapped tight around his cock –
Fuck, every touch drove him higher, pushed him to the precipice, his soul teetering, unbalanced. He clasped FDR's cuffed hand, pleading him to steer him through, but he needed – Shit, there was an urge in him, rising up his spine, but he didn't know what – Shuddering, Tuck tilted his head forward, lips parted in a gasp –
FDR leaned in, pressing their mouths together, a raw and aching kiss that struck deep to Tuck's core. The hand on his cock was overwhelming but this was undeniable, real as a secret, more than just some joking indulgence of biological need. It was new and shocking and comfortable; kissing his best friend felt so right. Moaning, Tuck nudged into the kiss, tongue seeking entrance as desire coiled in him, tender and desperate. FDR opened for him, welcoming him in as his hand worked him hard, guiding him to the edge.
Tuck shivered, squeezing FDR's cuffed hand, tongue slipping back as he wavered, trembled, reached – and as FDR's tongue dipped into his mouth, Tuck came with a moan.
Pleasure roared through him, fierce as a storm, summoned by those clever fingers still stroking his pulsing cock. Soul aching as all his shields slipped away, Tuck was only half aware of those blue eyes fixed on him, his mind momentarily shattered by the force of his bliss. His peak rocked him, tumbling him like a wave, until he collapsed upon the shore.
Breathing hard, Tuck gently released FDR's cuffed hand, a deep satisfaction spreading through him like thick honey. He groaned as FDR let go of his cock, the guy's grin utterly unapologetic.
“Never seen you like that, man,” said FDR, pride and delight mixing in his voice.
“No,” admitted Tuck, flopping onto his back, staring at the ceiling in a daze. “You haven't.”
FDR sighed, a relaxed and easy sound, and rolled onto his back too. “Now that's done, we'd better sleep. We've got a lot of shit to sort in the morning.”
Tuck glanced at him, a litany of consequences weighing on his chest. “Yeah, we do,” he muttered, easing his underwear back over his softening cock.
FDR stretched, settling on the mattress. “We're gonna be okay, man.” Sleep was creeping into his voice now.
“We always are, mate,” murmured Tuck, tiredness washing through him too, his ribcage tight. “Long as we're together.”
Grinning, FDR tilted his head to look at him, blue eyes softening with sleep. “Oh, you're stuck with me, man.”
Swallowing hard, Tuck raised his cuffed hand. “Yeah, mate, I noticed.”
FDR chuckled, soft and almost tender. “You know I didn't mean that, man.”
Tuck inhaled slowly. He lowered his hand, an ache thrumming through his veins. “Yeah, I know.”
Nestling further into the pillow, FDR licked at the fond smile curling across his lips. “Good,” he murmured, sleep claiming him like the tide slowly rolling up the shore.
“Good,” Tuck repeated softly, falling into his habitual echo as sleep rose inside him too. Eyes hazy, his heart clenched as he studied his best friend. FDR looked so earnest... so unguarded... so...
As they drifted off, Tuck couldn't help echoing FDR's smile too.