Briggs' house was exactly what Pietro expected: peeling hunter-green shutters, a rusting Weber grill tilted on three legs. The porch light flickered erratically, casting jumpy shadows across the warped screen door. Briggs didn't move immediately — just sat gripping the wheel, his breathing still uneven. The streetlight through the windshield painted sweat-slick streaks down his throat, catching in the dark hair Pietro had fisted moments earlier.
Pietro peeled his sweaty shoulders from the vinyl with a sticky sound, watching Briggs' jaw twitch when he deliberately stretched, making the leather creak. Briggs finally yanked the keys free and shouldered his door open without a word, but the way his jeans pulled tight across his thighs told Pietro everything. He followed slowly, bare feet crunching on the gravel driveway, savoring the way Briggs' shoulders tensed at every footstep behind him.
The screen door shrieked on its hinges as Briggs shoved it open, revealing a dim living room dominated by a sagging plaid couch and a TV playing muted infomercials. The air smelled like stale coffee and motor oil — and underneath it, something muskier that made Pietro's nostrils flare. Briggs tossed his keys onto a cluttered side table with a clatter, his biceps flexing under the sweat-darkened fabric of his shirt.
Pietro lingered in the doorway, letting the humid night air swirl around him as he took stock of the room — the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table, the stack of unopened bills by the phone, the framed high school football photo where a younger Briggs glared from under his helmet. "Charming," he drawled, dragging a finger through the dust on the doorframe. "You hire a decorator, or is this the 'divorced dad who gets drunk at Applebee's' aesthetic?"
Briggs scrubbed a hand over his face, his usual bravado fraying now that they weren't sandwiched in the truck's cab. "Never been married," he muttered, toeing off his boots with unnecessary force. The admission hung between them, underscored by the refrigerator's arrhythmic hum from the kitchen. He hesitated near the couch, shoulders tensing when Pietro stepped closer — close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat. "I guess I'm what they used to call a 'confirmed bachelor'." His laugh came out rough and bitter, like he'd dragged it over gravel.
Pietro moved before he could second-guess himself. He hooked a hand behind Briggs' neck and yanked him into a crushing embrace, nose buried in the sweat-damp hollow behind his ear. The scent of him — musk, salt, cheap detergent — hit Pietro like a gut punch. Briggs stiffened, but Pietro only tightened his grip, fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. "You're talking too much," Pietro murmured against his stubble, feeling Briggs exhale sharply into his collarbone.
The fridge cut off suddenly, leaving the house eerily quiet save for their breathing. Briggs' hands hovered awkwardly at Pietro's waist before settling tentatively on his hips. His callused thumbs pressed into the marks he'd left earlier, making Pietro hiss through his teeth. "You like that?" Briggs rumbled, voice still rough with conflicted energy. "Are you still sore from where I had you bent over the —"
Pietro silenced him with a kiss. Not the violent clash of teeth from the truck, but something slower — lips parting hesitantly, the taste of sweat and spearmint gum bleeding between them. Briggs froze for a heart-stopping moment before responding, his grip gentling as he angled Pietro's head with surprising care. The stubble burn was just as sharp, but Briggs' mouth moved with unexpected tenderness, tongue tracing the seam of Pietro's lips like he was mapping unfamiliar territory.
When they broke apart, Briggs cleared his throat roughly. "Thirsty?" he muttered, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. The fluorescent kitchen light caught the silver in his stubble, the way his pulse jumped beneath Pietro's fingertips. "Got water. Beer. Some kinda orange soda that's probably flat as hell by now."
Pietro slid his hands down Briggs' chest, nails catching on faded cotton and coarse chest hair. "The only thing I want to right now is you," he murmured, watching Briggs' pupils blow wide at the implication. He pressed forward deliberately, letting Briggs feel the half-hard heat between them — the sticky remnants of their earlier encounter still cooling on Pietro's stomach.
Briggs' throat worked visibly. Without a word, he grabbed Pietro's wrist — not roughly this time — and dragged him down a short hallway lined with yellowed family photos. The bedroom door stuck slightly, swollen from humidity, before giving way to reveal a haphazardly made bed with navy sheets. A single bedside lamp cast long shadows across the dresser where Briggs' work belt lay coiled like a sleeping snake.
Pietro didn't wait for instruction. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his ruined briefs — the only garment he'd managed to keep on during their truck escapade — and peeled them down slowly, watching Briggs' nostrils flare at the fresh display. The elastic snapped against his thighs as he kicked them aside, standing fully nude in the uneven lamplight. Briggs raked his gaze from Pietro's collarbones to his toes — lingering on the beard burn welts at his inner thighs, the faint bite marks purpling his pecs — before exhaling sharply through his nose.
The foreman mirrored the motion with surprising deliberation, unbuttoning his stained work shirt with fingers that trembled ever so slightly. Pietro cataloged every newly revealed inch — the dense pelt of chest hair matted with sweat, the thick ropes of muscle in his forearms twitching as he shrugged the fabric off. Briggs' belt buckle clattered against the hardwood when it hit the floor, followed by the rasp of his zipper. The smell of them — sex and leather and musk — thickened the air between their naked bodies as Briggs finally stepped free of his jeans, erection bobbing heavily between them.
Pietro couldn't help the appreciative noise that escaped him. Briggs in full light was a revelation — broad shoulders tapering to a waist still thick with muscle, thighs sculpted from decades of climbing scaffolds, his cock curving proudly upward with a ruddy flush Pietro wanted to lick. Briggs caught him staring and smirked, running a palm down his own abdomen in a slow, filthy stroke that made Pietro's mouth water. "See something you like, Torigi?"
Before Pietro could answer, Briggs closed the distance between them, calloused hands mapping Pietro's waist like he was committing the contours to memory. The contrast of their skin in the dim light fascinated Pietro — Briggs' sun-leathered forearms against his own olive complexion, the silvered scars on Briggs' knuckles catching the light as they trailed up Pietro's ribs. Briggs exhaled sharply when Pietro pressed their bodies flush, their erections sliding together with a sticky friction that made them both groan.
The bedsprings protested as Briggs guided them backward, one hand cradling Pietro's skull before it could hit the headboard. For all his roughness earlier, his touch now held an unexpected reverence — fingertips tracing the tendon in Pietro's neck, thumbs brushing his jawline like he was something precious. Pietro arched into the touch, letting Briggs feel the full length of him as their legs tangled in the rumpled sheets. The foreman's beard scraped his shoulder when he bent to mouth at Pietro's pulse point, his exhale hot against sweat-damp skin. "I'm gonna wreck you properly this time," Briggs murmured, but the words lacked their earlier edge, sounding almost like a promise instead of a threat.
Pietro shivered as Briggs' calloused palms smoothed down his flanks, mapping every dip and plane with agonizing slowness. The contrast was dizzying — this same man who'd split him open against a truck seat now pressing featherlight kisses along his inner thigh, fingers carding through Pietro's curls with deliberate care. When Briggs finally took him into his mouth, it wasn't the brutal suction from before but a slow, wet slide that built heat in Pietro's belly like embers coaxed to flame. He tangled his hands in Briggs' hair — not to force, just to anchor — as the foreman worked him with unhurried licks, pausing occasionally to nose at the crease of his hip as if memorizing his scent.
The bedside lamp painted gold streaks across Briggs' shoulders when he finally rose, his swollen lips glistening. Pietro reached for him blindly, pulling him down into a kiss that tasted of salt and himself, their tongues sliding together without urgency. Briggs' cock pressed heavily against Pietro's thigh, hot and leaking, but neither rushed — too absorbed in the discovery of how Briggs' chest hair rasped against Pietro's nipples when they rocked together, how Pietro's fingers fit perfectly in the divot above Briggs' hips. The foreman braced himself on one elbow, his other hand guiding Pietro's leg around his waist with surprising gentleness. "Look at me," he breathed against Pietro's mouth as he pressed inside, the stretch still breathtaking despite their earlier coupling. Pietro obeyed — and found Briggs' dark eyes utterly focused, his usual smirk replaced by something raw and unguarded.
Their joining was slow as honey, Briggs pausing whenever Pietro's breath hitched to murmur nonsense against his throat — half-words in a voice gone gravel-soft. Pietro catalogued every sensation: the way Briggs' pulse fluttered under his palm when he pressed a hand to his chest, the minute tremors in Briggs' biceps as he held himself back from thrusting wildly. The room smelled of sex and the peppermint soap from Briggs' shower, their mingled sweat pooling in the hollow of Pietro's collarbone. Briggs curled a hand behind Pietro's knee, angling him deeper with a groan that sounded punched out of him, his rhythm faltering when Pietro clenched around him deliberately. "Christ, you're —" Briggs broke off, forehead dropping to Pietro's as their hips rolled together, the bedframe's quiet creaks marking time like a metronome. Pietro had never felt so thoroughly claimed without a single bruise left in evidence.
Then Briggs spoke, the words muffled against Pietro's jaw where his beard rasped the sensitive skin. "I knew you'd wreck me the second you climbed those fuckin' scaffolds," he admitted, voice raw in a way Pietro had never heard from him — stripped of bravado, just muscle and bone and confession. "That first day? With your shirt off and sweat rolling down your ribs? I had to walk off the job site and take three cold showers before I could face the crew." His hips stuttered forward with the admission, as if the truth was another kind of penetration. Pietro arched under him, fingertips digging into Briggs' shoulders where the skin gave slightly under his nails — not enough to mark, just enough to feel the heat radiating through.
Pietro turned his face into Briggs' neck, inhaling the musk layered under cheap soap. "Bullshit," he breathed, but his hand slid up Briggs' nape to fist loosely in his hair — not pulling, just holding. "I saw you watching. I made sure to bend over extra when I was picking up rebar that week." Briggs' responding laugh vibrated through their connected bodies, his thrusts growing deeper as he nipped at Pietro's earlobe. The confession loosened something in Pietro's chest — a tension he hadn't known he'd carried since that first shift. "You could've just asked," Pietro gasped when Briggs' cockhead brushed that spot inside him that made his vision whiten at the edges.
Briggs' lips curved against his throat. "Where's the fun in that?" But his hands gentled on Pietro's hips, thumbs rubbing circles into the divots there as their pace turned languid, almost sweet. The bedside lamp cast long shadows across Briggs' straining shoulders — a living sculpture of muscle and want and something dangerously close to tenderness. Pietro reached between them to wrap a hand around Briggs' cock where it slid against his abdomen with every thrust, their shared groan harmonizing in the humid dark.
Briggs' breath hitched when Pietro squeezed lightly. "Goddamn safety regs," he muttered into Pietro's collarbone, hips stuttering. "The whole crew'd walk all over me if they knew I—" His words dissolved into a groan as Pietro arched beneath him, heels digging into the small of Briggs' back. The foreman's next thrust came harder, knocking the headboard against the wall with a dull thud that neither noticed.
Pietro dragged his free hand down Briggs' sweat-slick spine, feeling vertebrae shift under calloused fingertips. "I get it. You have to keep up your reputation," he panted, tightening his grip on both Briggs' cock and the rhythm between them. "Big bad foreman who never smiles." Briggs made a broken sound low in his throat and buried his face in Pietro's neck, his thrusts turning erratic. The scent of them — musk and salt and the faint chemical tang of the jobsite still clinging to Briggs' hair — flooded Pietro's senses as his own climax coiled tight in his gut.
The sheets stuck to Pietro's shoulder blades where Briggs had pinned him, every drag of fabric sending sparks across oversensitive skin. Briggs' confession lingered between their panting breaths — not an apology, but an offering. Pietro answered by dragging his tongue along Briggs' jaw, tasting salt and stubble and surrender. "You can drop the act with me," he murmured against the corner of Briggs' mouth, feeling the man shudder above him. The admission cost them both — Briggs' rhythm fractured completely, his hips jerking as he came with a muffled curse, hot pulses of sperm spilling between Pietro's fingers.
The aftershocks rippled through Pietro as Briggs' weight settled fully against him, crushing him into sweat-damp sheets. Briggs' heartbeat pounded against his sternum where their chests pressed together — rabbit-fast, then slowing gradually like a truck engine cooling after a long haul. Pietro let his hands roam the breadth of Briggs' back, mapping scars he'd only glimpsed before through sweat-soaked shirts.
The silence stretched, comfortable now, broken only by their slowing breaths and the distant hum of a refrigerator cycling on downstairs. Briggs lifted his head slightly, his beard rasping Pietro's cheek as he turned to murmur something — but the words never came. Instead, he pressed his forehead to Pietro's and exhaled, long and slow, his thumb brushing Pietro's hipbone like he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch him like this. Pietro closed the distance between their mouths before either could ruin the moment with words.
Their kiss tasted different now — not the frantic clash from the truck, but something deeper, languid. Briggs' lips parted under his without hesitation, his hand sliding up Pietro's side to cradle his ribs. His fingertips traced the edge of Pietro's tattoo, the ink still tacky with sweat, before trailing down to rest just above his navel where Pietro's stomach growled loudly. Briggs broke the kiss with a startled huff of laughter. "Christ," he muttered, pressing his palm flat against Pietro's abdomen as if to silence it. "When did you last eat?"
Pietro stretched beneath him, enjoying the way Briggs' eyes tracked the play of muscle under sweat-slick skin. "Breakfast," he lied easily, smirking when Briggs arched one skeptical eyebrow — the same expression he used on subcontractors who claimed they'd reinforced the joists. Briggs rolled off him with a grunt, the mattress bouncing slightly as he reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen's blue light exaggerated the shadows under his eyes, the exhaustion that came from too many double shifts and not enough sleep.
"Chinese okay?" Briggs asked without looking up, thumb scrolling through his contacts. His voice still carried that gravel-edge, but softer now — private in a way Pietro hadn't heard from him before. "There's a place that delivers until three. Their beef with broccoli doesn't give me the shits." Pietro snorted, propping himself up on one elbow to watch Briggs' jaw work as he placed the order — no-nonsense, just like his jobsite commands, but with an undercurrent of something Pietro couldn't quite name. When Briggs hung up, he hesitated before tossing the phone aside, his gaze flicking to Pietro's mouth. "Forty minutes," he said roughly, as if it was a threat and a promise all at once.
Pietro traced a finger down Briggs' forearm, following the path of a long-ago scar that disappeared under his bicep. "I got that working a Pennsylvania steel mill," Briggs muttered before Pietro could ask, shifting onto his back with a creak of bedsprings. His bicep tensed under Pietro's touch. "Third summer job. Foreman didn't believe in safety harnesses." Pietro winced in sympathy, but Briggs just shrugged, the motion making their shoulders brush. "Got me out of working the family farm, though. My old man wanted me shoveling shit while my brothers got to bale hay." There was something in the way he said it — the tightness around his eyes betraying more than his casual tone.
Rolling onto his side, Pietro pressed his chest against Briggs' flank, feeling the other man's pulse jump under his palm. "Sounds familiar," he murmured against Briggs' shoulder blade. "My nonno had me mixing mortar when I was twelve. He said real men didn't need kneepads." Briggs huffed a laugh at that, turning his head just enough that Pietro could see the way his mouth softened.
"Did you ever go back once you left?" Briggs asked after a pause, his fingers brushing Pietro's wrist where it rested on his ribs.
Pietro shook his head, pressing his lips to the notch between Briggs' shoulder blade. "Not since the funeral," he admitted, the words tasting bitter even now. Briggs didn't offer platitudes — just covered Pietro's hand with his own, calluses rasping against knuckles.
The silence stretched comfortably between them, broken only by the distant rumble of a passing truck. Briggs exhaled sharply through his nose, his thumb still tracing idle circles on Pietro's wrist. "I had a scholarship," he said abruptly, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. "Temple University. Football."
Pietro lifted his head, studying the tight set of Briggs' jaw. "What happened?"
Briggs' fingers flexed against Pietro's. "Ruptured spleen sophomore year," he said, too casual. "Coach handed me a bus ticket home same day." Pietro could see it suddenly — the younger version of Briggs with fewer scars and brighter eyes, shoulders just as broad under a letterman jacket. He slid his hand up Briggs' chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath thick hair.
"Asshole," Pietro muttered, and Briggs barked a surprised laugh, the sound warmer than Pietro had ever heard from him.
The room smelled of sex and Briggs' cheap detergent, the sheets warm where their bodies touched. Pietro rested his chin on Briggs' shoulder, watching the pulse jump in his throat. "Din you ever think about —" he started, but Briggs cut him off with a sharp shake of his head.
"Nah," he said, too quickly. Then, softer: "You?" Pietro smiled against Briggs' skin, inhaling the musk layered under industrial soap.
"Not until today," he admitted, and felt Briggs' chest expand under his palm on the next breath. The admission hung between them — fragile as the dust motes swirling in the lamplight — until the doorbell shattered the moment. Briggs stiffened, then rolled off the bed with muttered curses, grabbing his jeans from the floor. Pietro watched him go, cataloging the play of muscles across his back where sweat still glistened in the hollows.
The front door slammed, followed by the crinkle of takeout bags and Briggs' gruff thanks. Pietro stretched, wincing at the pleasant ache between his legs as he padded naked to the dresser. Briggs' flannel shirt hung crookedly on the knob — still damp with sweat at the armpits when Pietro shrugged it on. The fabric swallowed him, smelling irrevocably of Briggs as he wandered downstairs.
He found the foreman in the kitchen, dumping cartons onto a chipped Formica table. Steam curled from the containers, painting Briggs' forearms with condensation as he ripped open chopsticks with his teeth. "You look ridiculous," Briggs said without turning, but Pietro saw the way his throat worked when he glanced over his shoulder at the borrowed shirt barely covering Pietro's thighs.
Pietro slid into the chair closest to Briggs, knees bumping under the table. The first bite of lo mein flooded his mouth with grease and nostalgia — some universal shitty-Chinese-food taste that transcended state lines. Briggs watched him chew, fingers drumming restlessly against his beer bottle. "Good?" he asked, like Pietro's answer mattered more than it should.
Pietro licked a stray noodle from his lip, grinning when Briggs' gaze followed the motion. "Better than your dick," he deadpanned, and laughed outright when Briggs choked on his Tsingtao. The beer foamed over Briggs' fingers as he set it down too hard, dripping onto takeout menus stacked beneath.
Outside, a train whistled in the distance — long and lonesome through the humid night. Briggs' fingers stilled on his bottle. In the yellow kitchen light, with soy sauce staining the corner of his mouth, he looked younger. Less like the jobsite hard-ass and more like the man who'd trembled above Pietro in the dark.
Pietro reached across the sticky table, thumbing the sauce from Briggs' stubble. The foreman caught his wrist — not to stop him, just to feel the pulse jumping under Pietro's skin. They sat like that for three breaths, four, until the fridge cut on with a rattle that made them both jump. Briggs didn't let go.
"You always this handsy with your foremen?" Briggs asked around a mouthful of fried rice. His thumb traced Pietro's knuckles absently, calluses catching on old welding scars.
Pietro stole a bite straight from Briggs' carton, grinning when the older man scowled. "Only the ones who fuck me through truck seats." The neon clock above the stove blinked 2:47 AM, painting Briggs' frown in garish red. Pietro nudged his knee under the table. "Relax. It's only Saturday. We have two days together — if you don't kick me out before then."
Briggs' chopsticks snapped in half. "That's not —" He exhaled through his nose, shoulders dropping. "Christ, you're gonna be the death of me." The confession hung between them, underscored by the drip of a leaky faucet. Pietro watched Briggs' throat work as he swallowed whatever else he'd been about to say.
The carton of lo mein sat half-eaten between them, noodles congealing in the humidity. Briggs pushed it toward Pietro with a grunt. "Eat," he muttered. "You need your energy." His fingers lingered near Pietro's wrist — not touching now, just close enough that Pietro could feel the body heat radiating off them.
Pietro swirled a noodle around his fork, considering. "You ever do this before?" he asked casually. "With guys on your crew?" The question landed heavier than he'd intended. Briggs froze, a single grain of rice stuck to his lower lip.
The faucet dripped twice before Briggs answered. "No." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes fixed on the water stain spreading across the ceiling. "You?"
Pietro smirked, kicking Briggs' ankle under the table. "What, you think I make a habit of getting railed in company vehicles?" But his chest tightened when Briggs didn't smile back. The foreman's jaw worked silently, his gaze tracking the slow slide of Pietro's chopsticks through sauce.
A car backfired somewhere down the block, the sound cracking through the humid night. Briggs jumped like he'd been shot. Pietro watched the way his fingers curled into fists before deliberately relaxing. "We should —" Briggs started, then stopped. The digital clock blinked to 2:49. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned.
Pietro nudged the carton of soggy egg rolls toward him. "Tell me about the Pennsylvania job," he said around a mouthful of lo mein. "The one where you got this." His finger traced the scar on Briggs' forearm — a jagged lightning bolt of raised flesh that disappeared under his rolled sleeve. Briggs exhaled through his nose, but didn't pull away.
"They called it the Widow-maker," Briggs muttered, thumbing condensation off his beer bottle. "The third floor joists weren't braced right. I was the lightest on my crew." His laugh came out rough. "Nineteen and stupid. Thought the foreman would put me on finish work if I took the sketchy assignments." The ice in his glass clinked when he set it down too hard. "Got this when the I-beam sheared." He flexed his arm, making the scar ripple. Pietro wondered how many other stories were written in Briggs' skin — the knuckle he'd broken punching some nameless asshole, the shiny patch above his left hip from a welding accident.
The refrigerator hummed to life, vibrating the takeout containers slightly. Briggs picked at his fried rice with sudden intensity. "You ever been married?" he asked abruptly, eyes fixed on a water stain on the ceiling.
Pietro snorted, stealing a wonton from Briggs' carton. "Are you kidding? Have you seen my bank account?" He kicked Briggs lightly under the table. "Got close once. Catering girl from a Philly hotel job." The memory tasted unexpectedly bitter. "Turns out electricians make shitty husbands."
Briggs' chopsticks stilled in his rice. "Yeah," he said quietly. The word hung between them, weighted with unspoken parallels. Briggs cleared his throat. "I got a nephew in Scranton. The kid sends me comics sometimes." He gestured vaguely toward the living room where Pietro had noticed the stack of graphic novels earlier — carefully preserved in plastic sleeves.
Pietro imagined Briggs sitting on that sagging couch, reading Spider-Man under the flickering porch light. The image stuck in his throat alongside the too-salty lo mein. He stole Briggs' beer just to watch him scowl, the familiar irritation smoothing over whatever vulnerability had crept in. The bottle was warm where Briggs' lips had been.
"You any good at poker?" Briggs asked suddenly, chasing a pea around his carton with clumsy chopsticks.
Pietro arched an eyebrow. "Depends. You planning to fleece me?"
"Nah." Briggs wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, soy sauce smearing across his stubble. "Got a monthly game with the drywall guys. I thought you might —" The sentence died as Pietro leaned in to lick the sauce from his chin. Briggs' breath hitched, fingers tightening on Pietro's wrist.
The neon clock buzzed softly as it changed to 3:02 AM. Pietro didn't pull back, tasting soy sauce and the ghost of Briggs' earlier spearmint gum beneath the salt.
Briggs exhaled sharply through his nose. His free hand fumbled for Pietro's thigh under the table, rough fingertips skating over bare skin where the flannel shirt had ridden up. The contact sparked something low in Pietro's gut — less urgent than their earlier frenzied coupling, but no less electric.
"You're gonna be trouble," Briggs muttered against his mouth, the words more promise than warning.
Pietro suck Briggs' lower lip in answer, savoring the groan it pulled from the older man. The takeout containers rattled as their knees knocked together under the table, forgotten.
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