Work Text:
It had begun just like any of their usual encounters, whenever they were back from yet another shitty tour to some country baked from the sun, fatigued and sore and with sand still clogging their pores, irritating their sun-burnt skin.
They’d shed their clothes with a fervent eagerness, faces glowing feverishly as they tore at each other, lips smashed together, blunt nails leaving their crescent-shaped bites wherever they could find an unmarked patch of skin.
Once they had gotten every last piece of obstructing fabric off and strewn across the carpet, Frank always insisted to take his time whenever they were back in the US, in some modest hotel room that they could still only afford for two or three nights before they had to part ways to their respective apartments in different parts of the city. They had no such luxury in the desert, in a tent with six to eight other men, on shabby bunks that barely held their respective weight, let alone the combined press of bodies. Back there, over a metal crate tucked away in some corner or inside the supply building had to suffice. Here, where there was no risk of getting caught or reason to remain quiet, Frank worshipped Billy’s body like it was the first time it was laid bare to him.
The first time, a few weeks after that fateful incident in the shitty motel near the barracks, when they had finally managed to apply for leave together without anyone making a connection, Frank had taken almost half an hour to map out every inch of skin, every rough pattern of scars, that he could get his lips and fingers on. Only when Billy had been reduced to a squirming bundle of nerves and spat-out curses and threatened to break his fingers had he relented and pounded him into the mattress until he had had to muffle Russo’s cries with a palm over his mouth.
Today, almost two years later and more seasoned, more accustomed to each other’s body, he still intened to go just as slowly, to take Billy apart, but his mind wasn’t quite set to the task despite his efforts to smother any kind of thought with bruising kisses that left both of them gasping and reeling.
Billy wasn’t stupid. He caught on quickly, even with Frank’s teeth scraping over the delicate skin at the inside of his thigh.
“Where are you right now?”
He pushed himself up on his elbows, directing a half curious, half suspicious squint towards the broader man kneeling on the floor, situated snugly between his splayed legs. The gel in his brown hair had fallen victim to the violent fisting it had received in response to a particularly nasty bite at Frank’s lip a few minutes earlier.
Frank finished sucking a dark bruise into the soft meat of Billy’s thigh before answering, and yet the handsome brunette sprawled halfway on the bed barely flinched, and merely glared harder at him.
“I’m right here, Bill. With you.”
“Quit your fucking lies, Frankie, I’m neither blind nor dumb.” Russo sat up fully, forgoing the urge to find purchase in Frank’s buzzcut, and grabbed his ear instead, yanking hard enough to sting and force the broad-shouldered soldier further up on his knees. It was easy for Frank to give Billy full control over their intimacies, but the taller man had grown bolder lately, more desperate for physical contact intense enough to hurt both of them, left them bruised and aching.
“Tell me what’s going on in your head. I want you focussed on me, not on whatever else you’ve got on your mind.” He soothed the angry red blooming along the shell of Frank’s ear with the pad of his thumb, bracketing him with knees to keep him where he was. “Tell me or get the fuck out.”
“You don’t truly want that,” Castle insisted, splaying his hands across the width of Russo’s thighs, kneading the meat until the other man relaxed ever so slightly under his expert touch. He didn’t want to talk, wanted to lose himself in the beauty of William Russo and forget everything else. They could—needed to—have a conversation later, when they were both sated and resting.
But Billy grew impatient, unloading his nervous energy with a smack across Castle’s mouth. He’d regret that later, they both knew, which was the only reason why Frank took it in stride instead of pinning him face-down to the floor right away.
“Tell me, Castle. Don’t make me ask again.”
This wasn’t going to be pretty, Frank knew. He wanted to stall for time, but Billy fully encompassed him with his legs, crossing them behind his naked back, heels painfully digging into his spine. No way to run, no way to wriggle out of this situation. He searched for the correct words, found none, instead forced himself to be open and blunt.
“I’ve met a woman, beginnin’ of the month,” he finally ground out between clenched teeth, returning Billy’s icy stare evenly. The moment he blinked, he was certain that he would end up on his back, with Bill’s long fingers squeezing around his throat.
“A woman,” Billy repeated, his voice tight, but devoid of any obvious emotion. “So? What does that mean?”
Frank chose his words carefully, rising slightly on his knees while he rubbed little soothing circles into the dip just below Billy’s hipbones. Whether he was attempting to calm the man or himself, he wasn’t certain himself. “I—I think she likes me. We’ve met at the park a few times now.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Russo’s fingers curled along the back of his neck as he bent down, thumbing along the strong muscles now strung tight with tension. “Do you like her, too? Do you want her?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know, Bill. What I do know, though, ‘s that I don’t wanna lose this. Lose you.” Billy had his back like he had his, and while Frank needed him in the field and on their tours, Billy needed him like this, as an outlet for all that pent-up energy and rage that he carried around. Needed Frank to be his anchor as he let go, a safety net to catch him so he would not lose himself. Without him, the door to that dark place inside of him that was always cracked just the slightest bit would open fully and unleash the unbridled pain of a man who had never known love before to the world.
“I won’t let her have you.”
Frank winced when the pressure against his spine grew painful, his back straining to accommodate Billy pulling him impossibly closer. He didn’t pull away when calloused palms came up to cup his cheeks and hold his head in place, nor did he avert his gaze, keeping his face relaxed and open as not to spook Russo. He’d deal with the fallout later.
“You belong to me,” Russo emphasised, guiding him up with the grip on his face until Frank had one knee awkwardly braced against the edge of the mattress. The hands moved smoothly down his shoulders until they grasped bruisingly onto his biceps. He went easily when Billy used the leverage of one surprisingly powerful leg to flip them over so he could straddle Frank’s lap. His legs hung off the mattress and the position provided an unsatisfactory angle, but Castle still couldn’t help but grind his half-hard cock against Billy’s ass. He attempted to reach up and pull Billy down for a kiss, only to receive another smack across his face.
If that’s the way Bill wanted to play tonight, to show him that he did not need sweet, cheeky Maria who taunted him for the choice of songs to play on his guitar, Frank would let him have his way.
“Be nice, Bill,” he chided him lightly, just the faintest hint of an edge to his voice. Russo rocked lightly on his lap, creating delicious friction that proved hard to ignore, but they both knew that neither of them would give in that easily. “Get the cuffs from my bag, will you?”
Instead of slipping off his lap to retrieve the item as told, Billy steadied his hands against his chest and gave his pectorals a firm squeeze, digging his nails in hard enough to break the skin. “Not in the mood. Can’t hold me down without them, Frank? Then maybe I should do the fucking tonight. Bet you’d take it like a champ even if you don’t like it, ‘cause you don’t wanna lose me.” He dragged his short-clipped nails down until they caught on a nipple, eliciting a sharp hiss from Castle. Not because it actually hurt too much—he’d been shot at, for fuck’s sake—but because he figured that was what Billy wanted. To have some semblance of control over him, draw those noises from him that he’d usually swallow and hide away. Even when, once they were actually going at it, they both knew Billy would eventually behave and offer up his goods.
“Get the fucking cuffs, Russo. I’m not gonna repeat myself again.”
Above him, with his hands curling into tight fists against the expanse of his partner’s chest, Billy was bristling with fury. Frank thought he was playing hard to get? Oh, he’d learn the difference.
He’d learn just how dangerous it was to make him jealous.
For now, he pretended to cave, sliding off Castle’s lap with the grace of a feline predator, all curved back and long limbs and elegant movements. He stalked over to where they dropped their bags, pretending that he didn’t sense the heated gaze following the sway of his hips and every dip and rise of his body as he bent over to retrieve the requested item from Frank’s bag. While that gaze was trained on the slope of his ass, it was easy to pick up the switchblade knife that he knew his friend kept in a side pocket. He masked the sound of the zipper with a flippant remark. “Like what you see, Frankie?”
The knife was small with the titanium blade snugly stored in its handle, perfectly sized to fit in his palm without attracting unwanted attention. He dangled the cuffs from his other hand, clinking the chain links together for Frank to hear. When he straightened up and turned back around, he found the intense gaze from Frank’s dark eyes still lingering on his body, a hungry growl rumbling from his chest.
“Fuckin’ perfect, Bill. God, wish I could parade you around like this, an’ then tell everyone to keep their hands off ‘cause you’re mine.”
The very notion of being owned by anyone else than himself, even if it was his friend and bedmate whom he so freely trusted, drove away any thought of that woman trying to claim his Frank. His gut clenched with what he perceived to be white-hot anger.
“Don’t misunderstand your position in this, Frankie.” He swaggered back towards the bed, deliberately setting one naked foot in front of the other on the soft carpet, intent on keeping Frank’s attention on his face, on the cuffs, away from the hand hiding the switchblade. “You’re mine. I’m using you because I need what you give me. That doesn’t give you the right to call me yours.”
The words tasted bitter on his tongue.
Frank scooted further up on the bed to rest against the headboard without requiring further incentive, patting the mattress between his thighs. “We’ll see about that,” he promised, beckoning Russo to follow him. “You always end up shouting my name regardless.”
Russo crawled closer with his shoulders dipped, dragging the cuffs along. They were military-grade, made of sturdy metal, none of those kitschy toys cushioned with faux fur that vanilla couples used. Both of them could possibly find a way to break free, if they were inclined, at the cost of a dislocated thumb; but over the past months since they had incorporated them in their bedroom play, Billy hadn’t had a good enough reason to prove it.
He bared his teeth at Frank in a feral smirk, dropping the cuffs into his lap. With how hard, almost leaking, the guy already was, that must have hurt. Castle, the fucked-up bastard, barely batted an eye, picking up the cuffs without much further ado.
“’aight, you know the drill. Give me your wrists.”
Billy did as he was told, presenting his hands with the palms turned downwards, both curled into loose fists. Pretended to play nice.
When Frank made a move to grab his right hand to lock the first cuff around his wrist and used both hands to do so, opening himself wide for an attack that he would not see coming, Russo flicked the knife in his left hand open and sliced it across his side. The blade didn’t cut in very deep, carving a shallow line from Castle’s hip up to the bow of his ribcage that quickly filled with blood, but it was enough to startle him into letting go of the cuffs and raising his hands for an improvised defense in what little space was left between them.
His next mistake. Russo switched hands, aiming the second slice across his upraised palm. Frank was struggling to kick at him, attempting to pull his knee up to his chest, but with Billy situated between his thighs, there was no room for fancy maneuvers or gathering enough strength to shove him away. Within split seconds, before Frank could fully grasp the situation, Billy had him pinned down on his back with the blade pressed underneath his chin.
“Nice and easy now, Frank,” he purred, applying just enough pressure so Frank would feel the bite of the knife without breaking the skin. “I wouldn’t move around too much if I were you.”
Despite the brief struggle and a fucking maniac straddling his lap and pushing a knife to the column of his throat—or maybe even because of it; by this point of their arrangement, he quite frankly had stopped questioning his own kinks—Frank was still almost painfully aroused. He knew that Billy could feel it against his thigh, because the man possessed the audacity to throw his head back and laugh.
“My, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Oh Frankie, I knew you were fucked up, but this is wild, even for you.”
If it wasn’t for the knife keeping him at bay, he would have slammed Billy’s head into the headboard for that comment. Not hard enough to do any serious damage, of course. Just so he’d remember who he was dealing with.
“Drop the bloody knife, Russo. This ain’t fuckin’ funny anymore.”
“But you’re so obviously having fun, Frank. How could I take this away from you?” Billy shifted further up onto his knees, taking his chance of finding some release by shoving his cock against his firm thigh. The switchblade never quite left his neck even as Frank was unceremoniously turned over onto his front, his face briefly shoved into the pillow before Russo allowed him to gasp for air. “I intend on making good on my earlier promise, Castle. Two years of fucking and you still haven’t taken my cock up your arse. How about we see how you’ll like it?”
“Suck my fuckin’ dick, Russo.”
Obviously, that was the wrong answer, because Russo slashed the knife down over his upper back, barely missing his spine. This time, the cut wasn’t as shallow, and it drew a pained grunt from Castle, who bucked in retaliation; futile, as it turned out, because Billy merely planted his knees firmly left and right of his hips and rode it out, only to slice into his skin again.
“And here people tell me that you’re a fast learner,” he chided, smearing the crimson droplets across the taut muscles straining underneath his tanned skin. Miraculously, Castle yet had to use his hands in his attempts of getting him off his back; yet another sign that maybe he was enjoying this a little too much. Or enjoying it just enough, enough to never crawl into the bed of another person.
As much as Frank gave to Billy, and pretended to himself that this relation of theirs was mostly onesided, he still craved the mutual pleasure they shared.
The cuffs sat discarded on the mattress, just within reach. With a warning press of the blade to Frank’s shoulderblade, Billy picked them up with his free hand. “Hands up to the headboard, handsome,” he drawled, waiting impatiently until Frank obliged, aware of where this was going. He refused to abandon the switchblade, keeping it in hand as he clicked the first manacle shut around Frank’s wrist, looped the chain through one of the bars making up the headboard, and repeated the task for the other side.
Russo settled on his lower back, inspecting his work.
Frank looked—gorgeous like this, with his arms pulled up and firmly secured, face almost obscured where he was pressing it into the pillow, and thin rivulets of blood snaking across the plane of his muscular back that heaved with every laboured draw of breath. His hips occasionally rocked against the mattress, as if he was seeking to relieve some pressure.
If Billy hadn’t planned to work him open and fuck him senseless before, he certainly would now.
“I wish you could see yourself, Frankie,” he groaned, and briefly wondered whether he could get away with snapping a photo with his phone, finding out how to contact that woman Frank met, and sending her the picture. Of course, after having carved his own name into Frank’s back.
Castle grunted in response, turning his face to the side to rest his cheek on his outstretched arm. What Billy could make out of his face was flushed with a mixture of arousal and shame.
“Fuckin’ hate you, Bill.”
“No. No, you don’t.” Of that, Russo could be certain, because even that very first time they had spent the night intimately together, Frank had come with his name on his lips despite attempts at keeping quiet. He had gotten a lot more vocal ever since. “You love this, don’t waste your breath pretending otherwise. I know you too well.” He slid off his back, giving his delectable backside a firm swat for good measure. Castle groaned and cussed in return, twisting to watch him slide off the bed and walk back over to their bags, rummaging around for lube and condoms. He took his time just to spite the other soldier, even when it was increasingly difficult to ignore the weight resting between his very own legs. They both severely lacked patience when it came down to this.
Meanwhile, Frank couldn’t even pretend to be surprised by the change of events. Mildly traumatised from that first night at the motel, he had read up enough on less vanilla types of bed play before drafting a set of rules they could both agree on—from options for experimenting to safewording out in case either of them got overwhelmed. So far, only Billy had fallen back to that safeguard one single time.
And Frank…Frank would never bring the word over his lips, no matter what Billy asked of him, or did to him. Balking out meant depriving his friend of something he so desperately needed. It felt wrong. Selfish.
Right now, he wasn’t overly shocked—Russo had displayed a craving for violence lately, both inside and out of the bedroom—which led to him putting up little of a fight when Billy had secured his hands to render him defenseless. Instead of protesting or squirming too much, he took it in stride, eager to lean back and enjoy the ride, if it meant to please his partner. Even if that meant to bite his teeth and take it up the arse.
If Bill could do it, he’d be damned if he couldn’t.
The mattress dipped under Russo’s weight when he returned. Frank craned his neck to shoot him a mildly annoyed glare for taking entirely too long, leaving the blood on his back to clot, the crust pulling uncomfortably on the broken skin. Billy hushed him with a hand splayed over the small of his back, switchblade tucked between thumb and index finger, while he discarded the small packet of lube and a condom on the sheets next to him.
“Don’t worry, handsome. I’ll take good care of you,” he crooned, dragging the fingertips of his free hand over the slashes on Frank’s upper back, watching with morbid fascination as the crust broke to release a new, slower well of blood. He might have to cut him again, just to spring free another fresh trickle of crimson on his bronzed skin. “You’re always so patient with me. Let me return the favour and show you a good time.”
“’cept you can’t be patient, ‘s not in your nature,” Castle huffed out, earning himself a tut and a smack on his ass that left his skin stinging and back arching for more, only so he could laugh at Billy the next morning when his palm smarted more than his arse. Soldier or not, the man had incredibly soft hands with nimble fingers, meant for different activities than laying a good beating on his partner’s skin.
“Good thing you’ll hold still and accept what I give you nevertheless, Frankie, like the good little soldier you are,” Billy observed, grabbing at his thighs to pull his hips up while he used the flat of the switchblade to guide his upper back down, forcing him to arch uncomfortably with his face half pressed into the pillow. If anyone else ever saw Frank like this, he would gouge their eyes out without hesitation.
He looked delicious like this, all hard muscles and strong limbs, and it was all his to use as he pleased, and Frank might even thank him in that gravelly voice of his when they were done. It was almost too good to be true. So, to reassure himself that this was real, he bent to bite at the swell of Frank’s ass, hard enough to elicit a surprised yelp. Mustn’t have seen that coming. Billy lapped over the indents of his teeth before pulling off to inspect his handiwork.
Oh, now that would bruise in the morning.
“Jus’ get the fuck over with it, Bill,” Frank growled, but he arched his back the faintest bit further, as if in offering. It was hard to resist when he urged him on like this, but then again, it was Billy who was in control of the pace they were taking, and he would prefer to watch him squirm for a little longer.
Watch him bleed.
“Not just yet, gorgeous.” He pressed against his backside, leaning over his back with one hand splayed on the mattress next to his side, pressing his own erection against Frank’s hot, feverish skin. Not yet.
Castle silenced a groan against the pillow, screwing his eyes shut. No need to show that little shit how much he was enjoying this—the rush of arousal that Billy chose him, over and over again, to seek his pleasure. The knowledge that there was no one else he shared this side of his—both the reluctant submission, as well as this darker, more violent part—that he was the only one to be involved in this dance of theirs. Of course, there were others Billy slept with—he knew about every story that reinforced the idea that he was a hopeless womaniser; but those stories were different. Those women got Billy the Beaut, the considerate yet passionate lover with skilled tongue and nimble fingers. They’d never receive a single glimpse at the beast that lingered underneath that mask. He did.
It tore him apart, now. Knowing that what they had was unique, that he would never find anything like this ever again, while at the same time falling so head over heels for beautiful, funny Maria with her sharp tongue and cheerful smile.
He’d need time to think, but not now. Now was the time to feel.
What he felt was the sharp bite of the blade that Billy slashed over the length of his back, starting just underneath his shoulder blade and ending right above his hip, and this time Frank couldn’t hold back the almost keening noise that he made. Russo had cut deep, deep enough to hurt and paint his skin red within an instant. Deep enough that he might need a stitch or two, when they were done.
“Pay attention to me, Frankie. I can see you slipping, with that stupid open face of yours. Pay fucking attention.”
Frank merely cussed at him, violently. At the same time, he couldn’t help the buck of his hips. The pain—it brought him back on the battlefield, where everything smelt of blood and shit and gunpowder and death, where everything ached, and he felt alive like nowhere else.
Sometimes, during their sessions, he thought of Billy as the sick one, the one with unhealthy coping mechanisms that he included in their games. But maybe, maybe it was him festering a sickness, a cancer, at the very core of his being.
“Again,” he snarled, ignoring that Billy would taunt him mercilessly. He wanted more.
For once, Russo was surprised enough by the demand to keep his cruel tongue in check. Instead he complied, positioning the tip of the blade next to the last line he drew, digging in deep before he slowly, painfully created another crimson line that spanned over the length of Frank’s back.
Frank moaned, openly now, arching against the soldier pressed against him. Behind him, Russo’s breath hissed through clenched teeth, a telltale sign that his patience was waning quickly. As expected, he tossed the knife aside when his cut had reached Frank’s hip, curving from where it began beneath his shoulder blade all the way down the length of his back. He went for the packet of lube instead, tearing it open hurriedly to squeeze some of the gel onto his fingers, coating them generously. His other hand placed at the small of Frank’s back to hold him still, to swirl his fingers in the pool of blood, he pushed one digit past the tight ring of muscles, uncaring of his partner’s discomfort at both the sudden intrusion and the temperature of the lube.
“Shut it,” he snapped when Frank hissed and initially jerked away, the sensation foreign, a blunt pain shooting up his spine. Billy smoothed his hand across the bleeding cuts, then dug a short nail into one, coaxing another pained exhale from Castle. “It’ll feel good soon, I promise, handsome. You enjoyed me cutting you, huh? The bite of the blade? You’ll get more of that if you hold still for me now.”
That warranted him a huffed laugh from Castle, who managed to turn his head enough to tuck it into the crook of his outstretched arm. “Your dirty talk fuckin’ sucks, Russo. That what you tell your other conquests?” He almost smirked, that cocky little twist of his lips that set Billy’s nerves on fire, made him crave to punch the man in the face to wipe that smile off. Or kiss him senseless. Sometimes those two impulses blurred into a single one. Right now, though, both of his hands were busy and he would rather die than taking the cuffs off Castle to turn him around for a brutal kiss, so all he could do in retaliation was to shove a second finger in and twist them hard.
That earnt him a yelp and a curse of fuck, Bill and the irritating smirk vanished from Frank’s face, but he took it like a soldier and actually held still, took what Billy gave him. The second twist of his fingers also earnt Russo the knowledge of the precise location of that small bundle of nerves that drove crimson heat to Frank’s cheeks and left him breathless, gasping for air, his throat working around the noises he tried and failed to conceal.
“No need to be quiet, Frankie,” Russo commented, always the charmer, “the walls are pretty soundproof. Just let it all out, there we go.” His fingers did not cease their merciless assault, brushing against the bundle of nerves, then retreating to scissor apart, only to return for another insistent nudge.
It was maddening, but Frank couldn’t find it in himself to tell—order—him to stop, instead cursing and moaning into the crook of his arm, rocking his hips, whether to push closer or pull away, he did not now, because he was getting closer—
All of a sudden, the ministrations stopped, and Frank was left empty and aching and wanting to scream at the unfairness of it all. He could hear Billy tearing the condom wrapper behind him, lubing himself up, but he didn’t care—he wanted the fingers back, the ruthless way with which Billy had driven him to the edge so he could find release—and he wanted it now.
He directed a glare over his shoulder, dark and full of promise for violence, and bared his teeth in a feral snarl.
“You put your fingers—your cock—anythin’—in me right fucking now or I swear to God, I’ll find a way out of these cuffs an’ strangle you, you fuckin’ prick. I’ll kill you, with my own two hands.”
Russo threw his head back and laughed. This—this was Frank’s way of showing just how desperate he was, through barked orders and sharp teeth and promises of murder, because he simply had not learnt to beg properly. Billy had, Frank had made sure of that; but this wasn’t the right time to teach him a lesson. This was the time to remind him just to whom he belonged.
“Promises, promises,” he purred as he lined his cock up, pressing the tip against Frank’s entrance. He wasn’t prepared enough. It would most likely hurt both of them.
It was perfect.
Billy pushed in, slowly, inch after inch, and Frank grabbed onto the headboard, screwing his eyes shut. The pain was—different than anything he had ever felt before, not unbearable in intensity but so much more intimate than getting stabbed or shot at, an ache that was solely shared between the two of them. Above him, Billy moaned quietly, for once not paying attention to the sounds he made, because the tight heat enveloping his cock was almost too much and yet perfect at the very same time. He held still only for a moment before he pulled almost all the way out, only to sink back in, just as slowly as the first time. Savoured each moment of it, the way Frank clenched around his shaft, how his muscles strained when he curved his back further to shift the angle, the unashamed moan that passed his lips.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he blurted out, much to his own surprise. Usually, he would be more careful of his words. It didn’t seem to matter now, with Frank, who would guard his secrets with his life. Billy repeated himself, a little more firmly. “Perfect and mine.”
“Yours,” Castle agreed, meeting the slow thrusts with his hips. With his hands cuffed to the headboard, there was little he could do to urge Billy on, simply had to trust his friend to take care of him. He always did, in the field. He’d do the same here.
They kept up the languid pace for another few thrusts, content with the slide of skin against skin because, even though Frank had threatened to kill Billy if he didn’t fuck him right now, at this very moment he was satisfied with the mere feeling of being filled, as if this sensation filled a hole in his heart as well.
In the end, nothing could last forever. Russo sped up his thrusts slightly, expertly angling himself to find Frank’s prostate again to make him yell because that was so much better than just his fingers and Billy’s aim was impeccable here as it was in the field. His fingers found the switchblade again, discarded next to Frank’s sweaty upper body, and he slid his hand underneath him to cut a neat line across his abdomen, right above the cock bobbing between his legs.
And another.
And another.
With the fifth slash of metal across sensitive skin, Frank came untouched, Billy’s name spilling over his lips, eyes open so he could hold his gaze through it, through Billy continuing to thrust into him, the flat of the knife chafing against the cuts.
It was enough—almost—
When Russo pressed his lips to his back, kissing one of the lines he had drawn on the canvas of his skin, he finally closed his eyes. Exhaled.
Their heartbeats intermingled in the press of their bodies. Billy was quiet in his own orgasm. Frank could feel it nevertheless; the sudden spike of his heartrate, the shudder, the soft moan he smothered against his throbbing skin, the pulse of his cock inside him—
Billy collapsed on top of him the very moment he pulled out, and for once was content staying there, even though their skin was sticky and they both reeked of blood and sex. They remained like that for what felt like an eternity, two bodies melting together until Frank couldn’t tell where his own being ended and Billy’s began.
Only when the sweat on their skin began cooling and the crusted blood began flaking off of his chest whenever he moved against Frank’s back, did Billy finally roll off him.
“I’ll clean up and then get the keys for the cuffs,” he said, voice oddly hoarse, before he carefully slid off the mattress to saunter into the adjacent bathroom. When he returned with a damp washcloth in his hand, Frank had managed to curl halfway onto his side, arms bent at an awkward angle and head tucked between them.
He fished the keys from the duffle bag on his way over, quickly unlocking first one, then the other cuff, before he helped Frank tuck both hands against his chest. The wrists were chafed and red, and maybe Russo would feel the slightest pang of guilt, if that wasn’t such a good look on them. He knelt next to Castle on the mattress, using the washcloth to carefully clean the blood off his skin. Without immediate treatment, the deeper cuts might scar. Seeing how he was the only one around to help, Russo would make sure to take as much time as he pleased before even offering to patch Frank up.
He worked in silence, with the other soldier following his nonverbal directions with an almost boneless quality to his limbs. Only when he had cleaned the last cut, curving all the way across his stomach, Frank spoke up softly.
“Whatever happens, I don’t wanna end this. I—care. About you, Bill.”
Billy didn’t want to think about what this ‘whatever’ might imply. Instead, he focussed on the cuts layering his tanned skin.
Frank cared. Did he?
It didn’t matter, Billy decided, finally. Frank belonged to him, they were in this shitshow of a life together, and no one in the world would change that.
No one would change that he belonged to Frank, either.