#ʜᴏɴᴇʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛs || .(ɴɪɢʜᴛ sᴏɴɢs ꜰᴏʀ ᴡᴇᴀᴋɴᴇss).

[wardogsong]

what's frank's dick size?

get spicy w/ frank || accepting easy to answer questions

I meeeeaaan. . . I think the diplomatic and demure way of putting it is to say that Frank is 6'4 and beautifully built and proportional all over. Alternatively, in less polite settings he is what you call an Italian stallion— in great part because we shamelessly exist to vibe with our size queen partners and other such enthusiasts. Because that's not everyone's thing though, we usually just vague our way through it and go with Frank being whatever size makes YOUR muse comfortable and happy.

After all, we wouldn't want to be accused of turning anyone's ass into the Grand Canyon LMAO. Sorry, inside joke.

There's a p.ornclaim/diccclaim video and still screenshot for the truly adventurous, but you gotta have the Premium Membership to this blog to unlock it.

[wardogsong]

Frank pays good mind to the hand of hers that reaches for what it can of his own, wrapping around the breadth of his wrist instead and holding there. More than an tethering point between them, it becomes a line on which to read all those important cues that could be missed with thighs clapped over his ears and face buried between them. Drowning in pleasure can be tricky like that— all those moments that border on too good, too much, overwhelming in the best and worst ways all at once, until a body doesn't know if it wants more or to run away for dear life. But that hand will tell him what he needs to know with it's nails, the way it might tighten, if it lets go or bats at him warningly. So he pays nearly as much attention to it as his mouth does to Karen's dripping sex.

Higher and higher towards that apex of pleasure that washes out all things he pushes her; with the steady rhythm of his plunging fingers, the work of his tongue, even just by staying right there and being the shore she reaches for again and again, bodily crashing into him until she breaks like a wave over him. God— there's nothing selfless in it; not with the way it makes his cock throb, hips twitching against the edge of her bed in both sympathy and search of friction. If he spent the rest of his life smothered by her salt, drowning in her musk? There could be no better paradise than that.

Still, he goes when he is summoned upwards, quickly wiping a hand over his face as a courtesy before he's nuzzling his way into the curve of her throat, dropping kisses on the smooth pale skin there while they both catch their breath. There, sequestered in a cove made of her hair, shoulder, neck and jaw, Frank breathes her in and can not help the appreciative groan that rumbles from deep within his chest. The bouquet of her conditioner, lotion, perfume and skin skin skin hits him low in the gut, lights up parts of his brain that have not seen use in too too long. Further down their tangled bodies the hard hot line of his interest is pressed to the soft skin of her thigh, dragging there as he shifts, moves to holding himself up over her on one hand, belatedly seeking her lips to kiss and part with his tongue. He is a man starved for her— as though he had not just eaten his fill to the sound of her screaming his name.

Time is pleasurably lost to the dance of their tongues, the trading of her taste between them, making out like teenagers who've just discovered it. The hand he has free is set loose on her recovering body, keeping the static between them alive and well-fed, all trailing fingers raising gooseflesh, careful squeezes— the cheeky pinch of a stiff nipple. Frank swallows the gasp it pulls out of her and moves on to nip at her jawline, moving along to trouble her earlobe with his teeth and relishing every sound and jolt he can draw from her body as he plays with it.

"Tell me what y'wanna feel now, sugar. Hm?"

His reassurance is pure. A comfort pulsing through her that only amplifies the moment. This couldn't be explained with any sort of sanities. From the very beginning there was a trust that she placed in him, a trust that she could not understand. He had always been so respectful of her, a roughness to his exterior, and always such a brutal way with his words, but nonetheless still gentle. Always so gentle. She shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here. But it was as if only he could do this. Only he could make those nonstop horrors stop. Only he could make her feel this sort of beauty and delectation.

But he's ruthless. God is he ruthless. And Karen is unsure she's ever felt this sort of pleasure. No man had ever been indulgent in her folds or barbaric against her clit. It was unimaginable and the sounds coming from her were so humiliating she's nearly begging him to stop. But it's primal. She needs this. She wants this. She wants him.

As his hands grip the fullness of her ass, fingers from one of her own hands frees itself to go grip his rough skinned hand. Her thumb brushes across his knuckles before coming to grip his wrist tightly as he devours her sex. "Frank!" the blonde cries out, her heated body, now beginning to coat itself in a layer of sweat, squirming against his merciless mouth, surely making the lower half of his face even more of a mess. She pants like a dog, her back arching sharply as she tugs at his hair, trying to keep herself against him- yet get away from the overwhelming pleasure at the same time. Though her need wins and she stays, even grinding her mound hungrily against him. "Frank!"

As thick fingers slide into her soaked entrance, Karen can't help but give a loud raspy cry, her legs kicking out around him as she clenches around calloused digits. "Oh god!" She continues to cry out, surely loud enough for a potential neighbor to hear her sins. "Please! Please!"

It isn't much longer before her slim body begins to shake, each breath sharp, high pitched, and heaved, and slowly her trembles grew more violent. The build grows, bigger and bigger, and she knows it isn't going to be much longer. Nails press into him, trying to steady herself one more time, but with no use. Her body tightens, legs squeezing around Frank, abdomen crunching as her body raises, clenching tightly as she trembles until finally her release comes.

Her walls throb around him, clit doing the same, screaming as she throb continues her spasm and sends powerful and brutal waves of pleasure throughout her heat and coursing through her body. Her legs thrash around him, the sensitivity overwhelming her but she enjoys the feeling- enjoys gift he's given her.

Once her body begins to come down, she crashes back against the mattress, panting heavily as she tries to catch her breath, though gives a repeating whimper as her sex throbs. Cerulean hues close, her hand that let go him during the orgasm, shakily reaches trying to find the man's hand again. "Frank," she whispers, her voice weak as her eyes flutter open again, her other hand brushing through his dark hair. "....come here...."

[wardogsong]

What is a MAJOR boner killer for you?

get spicy w/ frank || NO LONGER ACCEPTING!!

"Blue eyeshadow." Did he say that a little too quickly? Doesn't matter, because just the mention of it is enough to have Frank shuddering where he stands. Put it on the list of shit he gets traumatic flashbacks about— time spent in the godforsaken south, where a very specific shade of pale blue eyeshadow might as well be a mating call from blondes with teased hair and terribly pink lipstick. CHRIST, he used to dodge those particular ladies more than he ever dodged fire at war. "That shit's a fuckin' warning sign."

[wardogsong]

What’s Frank’s favorite position for sexy times?

get spicy w/ frank || NO LONGER ACCEPTING!!

"S'wrong with my last answer? Gimme some hair to pull— or better yet better yet, push 'em down by the shoulders, really get them ass-up face-down? Th'fuck is better than that?" Consider his appetite whetted. It may well be time to hit up his little black book and ring a few lines, see who is feeling friendly enough for a late night visit.

[wardogsong]

#8 :))))))))))))

spin the wheel fucc the frank || NO LONGER ACCEPTING!!!

Frank doesn't remember what has brought him into the boss's office, but he knows from the easy expression on the man's face that it ain't anything bad. That tracks. He's been keeping his nose to the grind, doing what's bid of him and taking his pay at the end of the day for it. In a lot of ways, working for Graves is even easier than being in the actual service. The orders here don't change as much, though they're all experts with flexibility and improvisation; it just helps to have the one streamlined chain of command. Frank thrives here. Does what he's best at for a guy he doesn't mind taking orders from.

That's it's own problem. Graves is a little too easy on the eyes, wears his command a little too well. Something about his swag reaches right into the scraps of the youngster Frank used to be a century ago and chucks him on the chin. It's a PROBLEM. The kind that makes Frank twitch where he shouldn't— threatens to make the front of his uniform tight. If he was twenty and boot he could see himself making a bunch of brand new discoveries about himself and Clint Eastwood but he's not. He's pushing forty instead and too old for whatever it is about Graves that effects him this way.

Fact is, he's kept it to himself, not even joining the other smatterings of banter that go around sometimes about their fearless leader— AND YET. . . when Graves looks up from his screen at him it's like he's browsed through Frank's every dirty thought about him like they were just mission briefings. CHRIST. He knows his way around authority; both ends of it, and yet he's pretty sure he doesn't wear it like THAT. Men follow his commands when he's in a position to give them because he knows tactics and strategy, because he welcomes genuine questions but brooks no bullshit and he's rarely ever wrong about his battle calls. Graves. . . Graves is something else entirely.

Graves makes his mouth water and puts an urge in him to hit his knees before the man, get shown a good time of an unusual nature.

What's worse is Graves comes around the side of the desk between them like he knows it too and is down to party and that worries Frank because it's one thing to think about it and another to cross this particular line. There are some things he won't do. Even for this enigma of a man who stands shorter than he is but has an energy that towers and compels and fills him with bad ideas.

Somehow it doesn't matter. He ends up barefoot naked up against his desk anyway, trading panted out breaths, working his hips into the rhythm of his boss's hand wrapped around them both. Something so simple has no right being SO GOOD but Graves makes it so; drawling filth in his ear that makes him leak on on to his own belly and feel like he didn't spend some eighteen years surrounded by worse talk. SHIT. He's too old to lose it like young buck but Graves makes it a damn close thing.

Talked through to an explosive orgasm, the only thing Frank has to be disappointed by is that Graves isn't actually there with him when he wakes— just his cold lonely sheets and the cruelty of a very different kind of throwback to youth.

xx

[wardogsong]

how does frank feel about sharing in the bedroom?

get spicy w/ frank || accepting til midnight

"Listen— if the right person's involved? S'nothin' better than bein' able to tag in somebody you got the right rapport with. S'a good way to ruin somebody in the BEST way. Get your buddy to wear 'em out first and just when they think it's over? HELLO, remember me?" Good times. Frank reminisces of them fondly and quietly longs for any chance to relive them.

[wardogsong]

7mm (Clint)

spin the wheel fucc the frank || no longer accepting

Were they not team captains they wouldn't have the ability to pull this off— privacy in a place that yields no man any. And yet here they are; testament to their effectiveness, commandeering the closest thing to locked doors that there are with whatever excuse Billy purred in Schoonover's ear. Either something about tuning up Sgt. Thomas here, or needing a co-captain meet with him about strategy. It helped that Orange wasn't around, meant that Schoonover wouldn't look too closely at what any of them were doing with a bit of a downtime.

Odds are he doesn't have money on THIS though.

Frank feeding his cock into Thomas' wide open mouth nice and slow— and at an angle that does more for the viewer in their midst than either one of them. What Billy gets out of just watching, he doesn't know but he's earned his little request— this performance. God knows he's good enough to them both when they have the time to exploit. Frank's made plenty of his own demands of him; lustful and urgent when he feels like he's about to crawl out of his skin and needs an outlet for the built-up pressure. "Y'like that, Bill?"

If it was himself watching he'd be itching with the need to replace the man actually being serviced— voyeurism is no delight to him, but Billy looks enthralled and pleased all at once, so Frank keeps it up for him. Dark eyes flick downwards to check on Clint too, making sure he's just as content with what's going down his throat. He sees no complaints and spots instead what seems to be a bit of preening for their audience— like he's waiting on praise or reward, or maybe looking to earn both. Shit, Frank can't blame the man. Billy's got a pretty purr he turns on to drip in people's ears and just hijack all their wants and desires and twisting them into his own. It's exactly how they've ended up here putting on a show for him.

So he bucks his hips a little deeper, really gives Clint something to suck on for a bit instead of just dragging precum all up and down his tongue. Fuck— he's got less and less complaints of his own with every moment that passes; every curl of that tongue along the underneath of his shaft, every firm suck on his cock that threatens to pull him deeper. Frank starts really losing himself in the moment with Clint, reaching down to get a hand skittering over the side of his face and skating over his short-shorn hair, mourning the lack of any real length to grip and tug. He's got to bend and curl and fuck with Billy's sniper line of sight to get his hand properly curved around the back of Clint's head and use it to pull him along even further.

If there's a protest from the peanut gallery, Frank doesn't hear it. There's only the wet sounds of Clint's mouth, his slurp and quiet groans when Frank tests the back of his throat. And there's Frank too, hissing quiet Fucks into the air, and other barely intelligible words of damning praise. They're punched out of him, his gruff voice even more wrecked than usual, laced with pure need need need and the slow building of a pleasure that demands more and faster and NOW. He's spurred on by the look on the man beneath him's face, the naked and open desire there that mirrors his own and magnifies it. That's a stroke he can't resist, ever. The being so hungrily wanted; the being savored and not just endured or placated in some overly measured trade-off. That kind of thing is addicting to Frank and pulls a pleasured and posssessive growl from his throat as he goes harder, starting to build up a sweat from the exertion of fucking that pretty face faster and faster.

It's only the belated remembering of their audience that keeps him from giving in and just chasing his cresting end— something they haven't been given permission for just yet.

xx

[wardogsong]

"Is it true, wha' dey say about a man wi' big hands?" She drags her gaze from his eyes to his mouth. Then down to where his hands hang between his knees. Then beyond them to rest blatantly at the space there, before looking back up and grinning.

get spicy w/ frank || accepting easy to answer questions

Oh the things that will sometimes just casually stroll right out of Beth's mouth. He's never heard her swear in all the time he's known her— even when she's got good reason to, and she's made of soft-spoken care for everyone she ever meets AND YET, every once in a while, something just like this will emerge as a bit of random curiosity. What can Frank do but laugh? He catches sight of the way she gives him the old once over and it makes his boyish pride stir from sleep and reminisce about the days when he was even more regularly on the receiving end of such appraisals.

"Y'pro'lly took more anatomy classes than I did, sugar. They don't got something in those books about that?" What were the odds that the old wives tales of all those supposed indicators were true? He buys his boots in a size 13 1/2 and he's been this tall since late teendom— his hands? He pays less attention to those but he's heard the talk she's referencing; remembers it from middle school and everyone discreetly measuring with their eyes the distance between the tip of their thumb and... was it the middle finger? Index?? Something like that. It was supposed to show how big a guy's equipment was without the direct look. Naturally, he looks all over again and laughs some more.

But really, what is he supposed to say? Only assholes brag about measured inches and even when they're telling the truth those are the guys most likely not to know what to do with what they've been given. Frank learned that from girls chased all over Bayside and never forgot it. And there'd been other lessons too, fingers wagged in his face, shoulders bumped and jostled as he crossed the threshold into manhood surrounded by wiseguys who presented themselves as experts and took pride in leaving no complaints behind them. It was more important to know what to do with what you'd been given than just being proud of it. That lesson had stuck too.

So he shrugs, casually as he can manage and TRIES to answer the question. "Sure, I surprised a couple'a girls back in the day. Never had to stuff anythin' when Russo and I ran that bachelorette party racket down in NC. Guiness World Records never got in touch though."

[wardogsong]

Is there anything you wish your partners would do more of in bed? Something you enjoy, but don't get to experience as often as you'd like?

get spicy w/ frank || accepting easy to answer questions

"S'at really a problem people have? Let me— let me ask ya somethin'. Whaddya— whaddya doin' stickin' your dick in somebody you won't even have a fuckin' conversation with?" Forty looms around the corner for him and leaves in the ancient past the days of being young and dumb and grateful enough that a girl was letting him pet her up to figure out how to actually talk about desires. That felt like a highschool struggle— maybe something dragged on to the very edges of twenty, when sport-fuckin' was a thing and it could get awkward talking to strangers and one night hook-ups.

Now on the other side of marriage and life and eventual widowerhood, he scoffs at the question with a little disbelieving shake of his head. "Anything I want? I ask for. Haven't really run into too many problems yet. Sometimes— sometimes something ain't somebody's thing, but it's not like I'm hard up or missin' out, y'know? What Susan won't do, Sheila will."

[wardogsong]

Where is Frank most sensitive

get spicy w/ frank || accepting easy to answer questions

Frank is of average sensitivity in all the usual places— along the sides of his ribs, over his nipples, on his treasure trail, all over his groin, the insides of his knees, and of course is very sensitive towards having nails in his scalp or digging into his shoulders. But, being a veteran of war and later a one-man-army of a vigilante, he also has a lot of scars and stretches of skin where sensation is various levels of dulled to non-existent due to nerve damage.

[wardogsong]

[ CAR ]:  sender  and  receiver  have  sex  in  a  car.

frank after dark || no longer accepting

It's barely comfortable enough to be worth it— crammed up in the back seat of their little non-descript rental; Frank's shoulders nearly kissing roof even hunched down as he is over Lou. Except it was either this or wreck, what with the way he just hadn't been able to keep his hands off of her as they peeled away from the perfectly executed explosion. Between the job well done, the high of running out from under it, and watching her handle their ride with the kind of ease and precision of a ten year wheelman? She'd stood no chance of making it anywhere unscathed— un-pawed at and groped, her neck kissed and nipped, thighs teased by rough hands that wandered and gripped and tugged and pinched until she'd seen the salvation of an empty enough parking lot to sate the beast of their hunger in.

The rest is high school worthy fumbling— shoving seats forwards brusquely, scrambling into the back a mess of elbows, knees, and near-misses, shoving pants open and down just enough. JUST ENOUGH to get what needed doing done. They make just enough room to bite at each other's mouths as Lou goes down flat, legs bent and spread to cradle Frank's bulk; enough room for him to get a hand in her panties and work her up good for him, teasing out a fuller bloom of her matching arousal, until she's dripping around his fingers, filling the quickly heating air with the musk of her juices. The windows on all sides of them fog quickly with between their rising body temperatures and panting breaths; a nearly sheer curtain of privacy between them and the outside world empty as it may or may not be.

"Fuck, Lou..," Frank has the groaned words punched out of him by the heat of her sex gripping him as he pushes cotton to the side and starts to sink in deep. It means ignoring the sassy encouragement that that's exactly what he's meant to be doing— fucking Lou. Better yet he answers her brat ass mouth with a further rocking in, sawing out and then back in timed just right to steal any further words from her, replacing them with pretty noises that join the creaks of the car's suspension being abused, the squeak of leather, and the slick wet smack and drag that keeps the chorus going until they're harmonizing her high notes with his own low growls to an end that reduces them both to quiet pants for regained breath before the chuckles of having to unpretzel and unstick themselves from cheap seats that just don't want to let them go.

[wardogsong]

{ Driver }

frank after dark || accepting [ DRIVER ]:  sender  goes  down  on  /  touches  receiver  while  receiver  is  driving.

CHRIST. He'd known the night would be full of nothing but bad decisions— if only because those were the only kind a bunch of drunk soldiers celebrating a bachelor's were capable of making. It'd started well before the liquour hit most of their systems and included indulging of every stupid idea that tripped out of their mouths; most of them brought home from overseas where they had long stretches of nothing to do but talk shit and make what should have stayed imaginary plans for nights in the city and showing the fuck off. So they hit the dive bars, commandeer dartboards and make up games with increasingly stupid rules until the jovial mood goes staticky with rising tempers and a reminder of why competition between them all rarely stays all that friendly.

Distraction is someone's' call for tits in their faces and that snaps eager smiles right back in place until they're settling tabs and taking their raucous bullshit back out again into the night. Frank had bitched about it at home in the hopes Maria would forbid him from going, but even the menace of ending up in stripclubs with the guys hadn't deterred her from encouraging him right on out the door.

Fuck— and now three-quarters of the night later he's got Bill's hot wet mouth wrapped around his dick in the same car he drives his wife and kids around in when he's home long enough to get it out of the garage. It's the worst of the bad decisions but he'll be damned if he's using his grip on Billy's hair to do anything but feel how far down he goes.

"Just couldn't wait, could ya Bill? Just— just had to have it." Wait until what? Where? When? Privacy has always been something they invent out of literal nothing just to scratch this goddamn itch. And he knows he's a hypocrite to call the other man out on it, often as he himself gets that want to put paws on him, to catch his eyes and make the forbidden invitation. It all just tumbles out of his mouth, words in place of actions he can't take with one hand on the wheel and the other in Billy's hair. He can't even buck up into his mouth, fuck his throat like they both know he can take, what with having to keep his foot on the gas and the car rolling steady. It's just barely a step above cockwarming, and still it makes Frank want to shut his eyes and tip his head back and indulge. Instead he narrates the contents of the Midtown Tunnel to Billy, wrapped in a spoon-fed fantasy about the show he would be giving them if they looked over into the Mustang, if they could see down into his lap where hes gagging for it without a care in the world for getting caught or exposed. He tries really hard not to think about the potential truth of it all— the very real pleasure that Bill might get out of having their secret blown and the beautiful consequences he imagines would come of the ruination of Frank's marriage.

It's not nice to tease starving orphans.

[wardogsong]

What do you find to be the most attractive or sexy thing about a sexual partner?

get spicy w/ frank || NO LONGER ACCEPTING!!

"I always wonder what y'wanna hear when I get asked this. Like-like I haven't said already I'm a sucker for a mean right hook and a pretty mouth." He is a man of SIMPLE tastes. What more does it really take than a little flirtation of the playfully violent kind and at least ONE pretty thing to look at. A pretty mouth, a nice ass, some thick thighs, a nice rack... he'll take any of it, all of it. All comers welcome. A good time is a good time and his party has never been the exclusive kind. "Sexiest thing you can do? Wrap your legs around my head, try to choke me out— see if it shuts me up."

[wardogsong]

So who is the dom in bed between you, Billy, and Gemma? And let's be honest its Gemma ;) (Totally not Gemma ribbing Frank haha.)

get spicy w/ frank || no longer accepting

"It's Gemma when we all want it to be," Frank answers with a shameless shrug about it, face going thoughtful for a beat before he adds to it. "But we all fuck like we fight— to win. Y'ever been on that side of Russo before? Motherfucker's devious. And then sometimes I gotta remind them both who the top dog is 'round these parts."

[wardogsong]

Would Frank Castle rather give oral or receive it 👅

get spicy w/ frank || accepting til midnight

// Frank is never going to pass up getting some head, but truth be told, he's more of a giver. You gotta understand, he's the type who gets off on making his lovers fall apart into incoherent messes. If you can still make words at him? He hasn't done his job right. That's his thing. It's what strokes his ego AND revs his motor and there's no better way to go about it than getting his tongue on his lover's body and keeping it there until they are overstimulated and begging for reprieve.

[wardogsong]

14

spin the wheel fucc the frank || no longer accepting

It's only fair, Frank supposes as he watches Billy try to work his demons out on his dick, that the man get a shot of his own at taking what he wants from him; what he needs. It's fair because that's what Frank does. It's what he's come to rely on from his work wife, his right hand, his spotter and shadow. There's too many things that piss him off when they're in the shits, too many bad calls he's just gotta take on the chin, and then survive them to boot— all the while feeling a personal responsibility for his squad and a nagging guilt imported all the way from home. Ten times outta ten he copes a lot like this, just grabbing Russo and pointing him to the closest thing to privacy that exists out there; emptying his frustrations and his balls into his willing body bent over an exhausted crate of goods until he feels like some semblance of rational again.

Billy's never complained. Not about that, at least. He just lets Frank manhandle him however he wants and grunts back his own lovestruck report of everything he's watched Frank do and how; his own war-time lust apparently fueled by seeing him put that standard issue ka-bar to good use in close quarters; opening up throats and guts alike. The flattery of it all works Frank to pieces— soothes what someone else irritates. Yeah, he LIKES that. Like that Billy loves what he does, that he's fucking rock-hard from watching him do it. Embracing him for it. Giving it up for him and moaning like a whore about it til Frank has to clap a hand over his sinful mouth to shut him up because even if they get caught he's not sure there's any stopping him and that's a problem too big to imagine.

IF Bill's got a complaint in him— it's this. The whole rules of stateside play thing. He doesn't care about Frank's vows, his guilt, his morals, or his bulllshit guido justifications for why he does what he does but has rules about. He's sure as fuck never cared for Maria. Doesn't wanna hear Not here, Bill. Not in the city— shit not in the whole fuckin' state my wife's in, brother. It's on the inevitable horizon for them, though they've put off the damning dawn by getting a hotel room near the base they've been returned to before they make the trek back north to New York and home. Here Frank will bend the rules because can it really count when there's still sand in their discarded boots? Yeah, they're home but they're not HOME— his wife's not in the next room or even a cab ride away. This kind of distance? They might as well still be in the desert where it's sanctioned and above board by him.

But the sun's rising on them quick. Literally. Two and a half rounds the night before might have been enough to get some depths of the dead type sleep, but it'd never just be ENOUGH. So there's this. Waking up to the feeling of Bill suddenly straddling him, grabbing his morning wood in a wet hand like he fucking owns it and sinking down on it hard and fast enough to suck the breath out of Frank's lungs. He rides like that too, greedy for once, focused on his own pleasure instead of trying to wring Frank's out of him sweet and quick as he can with his purrs and his praise his begging for it— harder, give it to me, wanna feel you shoot!

No, this time Bill fucks him in damn near silence, expression pinched with everything he's holding back, the soundtrack of their bodies a hard and nasty smacking rhythm that revs Frank's engine more than it probably should but it's so so good hearing it— watching the thing that makes it happen, those determined motions that bounce Billy off his hips just to see him rebound and do it again and again and again; his cock slipping in and out of the hot vice-grip of his body. How could it not get Frank off too? Watching his boy take it like a champ, never a fucking fuss or pause, just sinking down until he bottoms out in him and riding back up to the very tip again. Shit, he's got Frank playing with his chest and wishing he could see it in a mirror or something, the porn camera angle of Billy making his dick disappear in him, hole stretched wide around the base of him, both of them a slick mess of lube that makes their skin stick just the tiniest bit. "Get it, Bill— take it, jus' like that."

There's no stopping to think about whether or not Billy even wants his voice intruding on his angry bubble, there's just no helping it either, the gruff encouragement that just pours out of Frank as he lays and lets himself be used in the best ways, doing everything in his power to hold back the pleasure that simmers and threatens to boil over— determined to make this last good and long, really eat up the morning until management HAS to badger their still fucking bodies about checkout. They're both going to be too long without this after; too many days and nights of leave, itching to get back to that place where it's a relief, not a torment.

xx