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He needs to shoot something. Immediately. Or a stiff drink, maybe. Whichever comes first.
Heaving out a groan, Frank leans back in his chair, running his hands down his face as his mind swims with numbers cascading over columns and rows. Two fuckin’ months until First Day and he’s cooped up in his office doing fucking payroll (when he should be in the studio jamming) that Dorsey’s blood is too rich to handle, apparently.
Because apparently, if Frank’s the reason half their workforce is actually doing work because he’s got the right connections with the right people, apparently that makes them his responsibility. Apparently.
Don’t forget who got you here, Frank, he recalls with clarity. Just—just sort out whatever’s going on with the help. If they wanna be “paid a living wage” or whatever that’s supposed to fucking mean, they should’ve thought about that before becoming criminals.
He really should have decked him in his ugly mutt mug.
But Frank knows the game Lady Luck likes to play; dealing the best hands to the biggest and richest assholes. Doesn’t matter if Frank has watched more men bleed out and been in more fistfights than Aleksis could imagine in his puppy, pampered life, Frank isn’t about to beat out supernatural pieces of rock that lets someone toss people around like a sack of potatoes.
Fuckin’ scientists.
Next person who walks through the door, he thinks with enmity, is getting one between the eyes.
“Frank, you busy?”
His hand has always been faster than his brain, even running on fumes. So when Frank’s hand snaps to the piece at his side, it takes a long moment before his mind recognizes the cadence of the voice and the accompanying bootfalls interrupting his general cursing to the universe.
“Easy,” the voice says, as Frank’s eyes take in the man speaking, the loud and decorated brown leather, a LIMP-10 hanging off his belt, body language relaxed and open despite the threat of violence, a decanter and a couple of tumblers in hand, and a smile that's inhabited Frank's thoughts night and day for the past two years. "It’s just me, man.”
A man with Frank’s history, it should be embarrassing for him to relax so quickly around anyone. But Colt has always been exceptional.
“Should be more careful,” Frank mutters as Colt steps closer, taking his hand off his automatic to slick back a few stray locks into his pomp. “Almost shot you dead.”
“Eh, maybe—if I weren’t the only guy on this island who can take it just fine,” he says coyly, showing off his forearm where his slab sits atop the sleeve of his jacket.
Frank scoffs, though he tries to keep an air of levity as he says, “Don’t know why you keep using that thing; tossin’ people around like ragdolls, settin’ yourself on fire—shit gives me the creeps.”
“Uh huh," he says, pushing aside stacks of papers on Frank’s desk before setting down the decanter and glasses on the moderately cleared space. "You know if you just got one, maybe you'd be a little less antsy about 'em."
"Said it before, I'll say it again, I'm not gonna stick my fingers in… supernatural horse shit. I'm a man of the real, a man of the moment—"
"You're just worried that Wenjie's gonna give you a shitty slab," Colt deadpans. Frank gives him a not-quite-so-light-hearted punch in the arm.
"It ain't about that," Frank glowers while Colt just laughs, barely fazed by the assault. Unfortunately, Frank thinks, Colt isn’t actually off the mark. Kind of. Because while Colt isn't entirely wrong in his accusation, he also isn't quite right.
Despite the good doctor's claims—it's science, not "paranormal mysticism", she said, pointedly looking at her bespectacled counterpart behind them, pretending he hadn't just broken a knob off the console—Frank knows in his gut the personal part of the slabs ain't fuckin' science. No amount of test tubes and fancy tech could explain the lightning in a bottle of being real and alive, of being an entire fuckin' person against a world of shit. So, whatever the fuck was “personalizing” their abilities, it was something beyond the world of science and beyond the real.
And he is not about to subject himself to being read and blasted by some uncaring, supernatural force, no matter Harriet’s arguments. If the Great Beyond has something to say about him, it should keep it to its damned self.
But Colt isn't a philosopher and Frank isn't keen to try and explain himself to him. So instead, he goes, "If I'm gonna be here it's gonna be by on my own fuckin' merits. Dorsey may have opened the door, but I can fight with the best of 'em with natural fuckin' talent: my own two hands and the gun at my side. Slabs, though? That shit ain't natural."
“More unnatural than living forever?” Colt raises a brow, looking around with comedic exaggeration. “Shit, what’re we doing all this for?”
“Hey, that's different,” Frank says, pointing to Colt. “Everyone wants a piece of immortality.”
“So, what’s wrong with mine?” Colt laughs. “It's the same thing. You’ve seen it in action, already.”
Frank remembers. He’s seen it once and only once.
The entire world slows and shrinks down to the hole in Colt’s chest in the wake of a smoking 50-50, the wild-eyed woman turning to fire on Frank, dread flooding his chest with cold water, a roar, raw and animalistic and the flash of gunfire from his automatic, pumping bullet after bullet even after she's dropped to the ground, she’s dead, she’s dead, he’s dead, he's fucking dead.
Then a hand at his shoulder, and he spins, almost unloading into—
Colt. Whole, smiling, laughing even, the bastard, unharmed, fucking alive—
“Ehh, yours is fine,” Frank says with a play-acted reluctance, brushing the memory away. He resettles in his chair and slicks back his hair reflexively. “I guess.”
"Knew you had a heart in there,” Colt deadpans back with humour as he moves to unstop the decanter he brought in.
“Suppose you wouldn’t mind acting as a stress reliever for me, if you’re gonna be so cavalier about it,” Frank grumbles as Colt begins to pour. “‘Bouta lose my fuckin’ mind in this payroll bullshit.”
“Hmm, not too keen on getting shot again today, but,” Colt says, offering a glass to Frank, and while Frank’s gotten better at reading Colt over the last couple years, he isn’t quite sure if the slight dip in his tone is sincere or jocular as he continues, “if you’ve got some other ideas for ‘relieving stress’, I'm all ears.”
However, the way Colt’s fingers linger slightly on Frank’s when he takes the offered glass is un-fucking-mistakable.
A year and a half ago, he wouldn’t have read too hard into an offered drink and a lingering touch, not with Colt. While Colt has never been a killjoy, he remembers when they first met, Colt played things much closer to the chest. Sure, the man was open to Frank’s brazen flirtations, bantering with Frank with far more joviality than a man who spent 5 years locked up in a psych ward should have.
However, his deflective nature stopped most of Frank’s advances at the door as efficiently and deftly as he squeezed off rounds into targets. At least at the start. In the… particular line of work they'd found themselves in together, a certain level of trust was a thing quickly built or never given at all, and he’s earned that privilege more than any other asshole on this island. As far as Colt seemed to dole out trust anyway.
Even still, it took 5 months of dancing around with flirtatious once-overs and not-at-all-subtle gun = dick innuendos before they feverishly pulled at each other’s clothing in the dark one night to get each other off. It was another 3 months before they’d actually fuck. Then another 6 before they’d do it without being fucking pissed halfway to the continent.
Fast-forward to now and a light tease and a lingering touch is all it takes and Frank is oh so graciously thankful for it.
So he turns up the charm, just enough. He leans back in his seat, his voice suggestive, but not laid on thick. “I’m sure I’ll think of somethin’. But I’m guessing you’re not here because you heard my silent plea for a coupla fingers of whiskey, are ya?”
“A man can't just drop by to visit a friend?” Colt fires back, taking up his own glass. "And I know you’re never gonna turn down the chance for a drink.”
“Like I’d ever turn down a hot piece like you, drink or not,” he says with a wink, lifting his glass up appreciatively towards Colt before knocking back the dark liquid. He winces at the slight burn. Not the smoothest going down, but he’ll take it after the shit day he’s had.
Then Frank almost jumps in his seat when he feels more than sees Colt leaning in towards Frank, close enough that he swears he can feel the barest of breath against his cheek. Frank feels the air suspended with an electric anticipation. For a second, Frank almost turns his head to invite Colt to close the distance before—
"Caught wind of someone who's been trying to rock the boat,” Colt says barely above a whisper.
Frank’s eyes snap up to meet Colt's. He regards Frank seriously, but both Colt’s tone and body-language remains open and flirtatious as he reaches into his jacket to show the corner of a folio hidden underneath. It’s only then that Frank notices the blood spatters on Colt's sweater, barely visible against the dark maroon, but definitely there. And definitely still fresh.
“Seems to be handing out some kind of makeshift manifesto against the program or something,” he continues, his voice still quiet. “Interesting stuff, if you wanna take a look."
Colt’s voice repeats in his mind, not too keen on getting shot again today.
Of course Colt’s still on the job.
Frank is sure he can still swing this, though.
Reaching underneath the desk, Frank takes a moment to arm the security system, doors locked, sensors online, cameras ready. He gives Colt a knowing grin. “Don’t need anyone walking in to see anythin’ they ain’t supposed to, right?”
“Visionary eyes and ears only,” Colt says a little louder this time with a mock gravitas, setting the decanter and emptied tumblers on a side table before placing the folio on the desk for Frank’s perusal.
Frank’s eyes skim through. The document isn’t long and it’s cheesy at best, but it does manage to make a couple of points that might actually tug at the wrong heartstrings. Provided it got to the wrong people.
“You know who wrote it?”
“No; guy who might know killed me. Had to return the favour.”
“So, no leads,” Frank grumbles slightly.
“Not exactly,” Colt says, pulling another page out of the folio. “Guy had a note from someone in Updaam. Seems like they might be the one, but if they see me coming, I might scare ‘em off. Here’s the kicker though; they seem pretty big on a guy named Frank Spicer. Don’t know if you know him. Seems like he’s a big deal around here.”
Frank is quick to look back at Colt’s face as the jocular tone makes a reprise. Frank returns the teasing look he finds. Oh, so, it’s this ol’ song and dance.
“Sure do,” Frank says, his tone light. “Good friend of mine. Maybe I could introduce you, along with this apparent superfan of his.”
“It’d be a big help, for sure,” Colt returns, leaning in closer to plant a hand on the desk, bracketing one side of Frank. “Heard he’s a killer musician. Voice of an angel, the Baron of Baritone, they’ve called him.”
Immediately, Frank swivels his chair to face Colt, meeting the invasion of his space. “And you’re hoping his dulcet tones might lure them in, huh?”
“You know I don’t exactly have a silver tongue myself,” he says, shuffling closer ‘til he’s almost towering over Frank, close enough that Frank can feel the heat radiating off of Colt, close enough to breathe in the scent of him. “Like I said, I might scare them off.”
“Last I remember,” Frank drawls, spreading his legs just enough to make himself clear, “your tongue works just fine. But just to be sure...”
Finally, Colt cracks, his breath tickling at Frank’s cheek as he huffs out a laugh. “Man, if you want me to suck your dick,” he says before he leans in close to whisper the rest into Frank’s ear, “you can just ask.”
As Colt drops to his knees, Frank spreads his legs further to frame Colt between them, a grin spreading across his face. Colt’s hands are deft and quick as he unbuckles Frank’s belt and when Colt finally pulls his cock out from its fabric confines, Frank’s already half-hard. He lets out a breath as large, strong hands work to bring him to full hardness, Colt looking up to watch Frank’s face carefully before he leans in closer. He holds Frank’s gaze with burning, warm, brown eyes as he moves in to wrap soft lips the head of his cock, tongue swirling and prodding at the slit. Frank just barely holds back a groan at the sight. Fucking hell, man.
And Colt laughs around his cock before pulling off briefly to say, “You’re too fuckin’ easy, you know that?”
Shit, maybe he didn’t manage to hold it back.
“Less talkin’, more stress relieving,” Frank rasps out, placing a hand at the back of Colt’s head firmly, but not forcefully.
Colt only laughs again, the asshole, but gets back to work, taking Frank’s length back in deeper this time, wrapping a hand around whatever won’t fit, pumping and bobbing in tandem, slick noises floating up to fill Frank’s ears. It takes criminally little time for Frank to lose himself in wet heat, transforming into putty in Colt’s hands and he scrabbles at Colt’s hair but finds no purchase in the thin curls.
It is fucking unfair how good Colt’s gotten at this, considering he’d never done it before he met Frank. Unless Colt was bullshitting, which was just as likely. Or, more indulgently, maybe he’s just gotten to know his way around Frank really. That thought alone makes his cock twitch against the wet tongue pressed against his length as he bends over Colt.
“Fuuuuck, Colt,” he bites out and Colt seems to take it as encouragement and goes for it, taking Frank’s cock almost up to the base, humming amusedly at Frank’s strangled noises as Frank feels that familiar, building coil like the moments before squeezing the trigger—
Zwoosh. “You couldn’t have turned off your fuckin’ security, you paranoid motherf—WHAT THE SHIT.”
Two guns are trained toward the door before Frank’s eyes can even catch up. When they do, they find a figure clad in a large overcoat and a worn-out beanie, his hand thrown up in defence. At least, that’s what Frank assumes before he realizes the guy is actually trying to look at Frank while specifically trying to blot out the bottom half.
Trust Charlie to act like a fuckin’ juvenile about this.
How the fuck did you get in? Frank almost says until a flash catches his eye; geometric pieces erratically shifting over Charlie’s arm, blinking his form in and out of existence every few seconds as he tries to compose himself.
Mother. Fuckin’. Slabs.
Out of the corner of Frank’s vision, he sees Colt holster his weapon and move to stand, the awkward moment apparently stretching out a little too long, until Frank stops him with a hand, a look, and a smirk that says, “Trust me; this’ll be hilarious.”
Colt returns it with a quirked eyebrow and an acquiescent shrug, letting Frank take the floor. When Frank’s gaze returns to Charlie, he schools his features into a careful, blasé look, as though he hadn’t literally been caught with his dick out.
“Need somethin’, lover boy?” he drawls, his gun still trained directly at the other man.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding m—you fuckin’—you asked me to come here, asshole!” he sputters, still comically trying to both look and not look at Frank at the same time. “For that… that thing that you were gonna help me with.”
Oh. Shit. Was that today? Must’ve slipped his mind.
“Well, you can probably see I’m otherwise preoccupied with our head of security here,” he says, inclining his head toward Colt slightly. “So, if it ain’t important, fuck off before I shoot out your kneecaps.”
“You can’t fucking—I’m—Colt is—” he stutters for all of half a second with indignant rage, his face blazened red before he spins on a dime, middle fingers raised behind him. “Y’know what, fuuuuuck this.”
And then he’s gone in a flash of purple. Seems he can’t get away fast enough even with his damned slab.
“We’ve gotta get you a better security system, man,” he hears Colt mutter with mirth from the floor, “or at least a desk with a concealed front.”
“Eh, let ‘em get an eyeful,” he dismisses, looking back down to Colt, raising a brow suggestively. “We’re the handsomest bastards on this fuckin’ rock; they’d be lucky to get a show.”
“Mmm, that’s a thought,” Colt hums before moving up from his knees to lean over Frank again, bracketing him with an arm on either side of Frank. “But I think I’d rather keep you to myself.”
And suddenly Frank is reminded of the not insubstantial size difference between the two of them and immediately his desire to be handled good and proper jumps to the top of his priority list. “Well, I’m aaall yours, baby,” he says languidly, reaching up a hand to trace a finger at the stubble along Colt’s jaw. “What do you wanna do with me?”
“I think,” Colt murmurs, leaning in ‘til his lips are almost brushing against Frank’s, slipping a hand under the soft fabric of his button up and Frank can’t help the hitch in his breathing as Colt practically growls his next words, “I wanna fuck you against this desk ‘til the legs snap.”
Oh, fuck yes.
“Come on, then,” he breathes into Colt’s mouth, curling his lip lecherously, “Gimme your best—”
And then Frank’s world spins as Colt grabs at his side to push Frank against the desk. He feels Colt crowding in behind him ‘til he’s nearly on top of Frank, stealing what little breath hadn’t already been knocked out of him. Colt rucks up Frank’s shirt to skate gun-calloused hands against the planes of his chest, pressing his lips to his nape.
“You got any lube in here?” he rumbles between kisses and sucks at Frank’s neck, just below the ears where he's real sensitive. Frank pushes his hips back to feel Colt's cock, already hard underneath the canvas fabric of his fatigues, against his ass. Fuck, he needs to feel Colt in him fuckin' yesterday.
"Frank, come on," Colt says before—fucking hell, he fucking bit him.
The pain-pleasure mix fires into his brain like lightning and Frank sucks in a breath so fast, something catches in his throat when he tries to respond, “Drawer—hrk!”
He takes a moment to try to clear it, but his attempt quickly devolves into a series of wet coughs that eventually stretch out into the longer and more uncomfortable side. Colt is patient and doesn’t move, a hand at Frank’s hip holding him steady, but Frank is acutely aware of every moment as they pass. It seems an eternity before the fit finally subsides, but when it does, his voice is breathy and raw as he continues, “Left side.”
Colt doesn't move for a long beat before he leans to the left and spends a minute rummaging through the desk quietly. And when he speaks again, his voice is softer, missing its coy edge. Careful. “You sure you’re good?”
Frank’s scowl is hidden away from the gaze he can feel Colt burning into the back of his head. Pity isn't something Frank wants or needs. He’s made of tougher shit than that and anyone with the gall to try and beat him down would be fuckin’ eating their own fists. But he also knows Colt isn’t a pity peddler himself, not after the kind of insane shit he’s been through.
He brushes it aside all the same.
“Fuckin’ aces,” he says, switching on the classic Spicer charm, “We gonna get this show on the road or are you gonna blue-ball me here?”
Colt only pauses for a second, seemingly debating whether to back off or not—don't you fucking dare—but the moment passes as he feels Colt lean in again to speak against the nape of his neck, just barely above a whisper, "Alright—since you want it so bad."
A sudden, firm slap to Frank's rear has him letting out a yelp (but fuck if it doesn't go straight to his cock) and Colt chuckles before he leans back to tug at Frank's slacks to knead at the flesh underneath. After a moment, Frank hears the distinct sound of a cap being opened and—
When Colt's finger circles at his entrance, the cold lube nearly makes him jump outta his skin.
"Fuckin' hell, Colt," Frank bites out as the thick digit pushes in. "Warm it up or warn me, asshole."
"Shit, sorry," he says, and he even has the decency to sound genuinely apologetic for once even as he thrusts the digit in and out. Frank arches at the stretch, bracing his forearms on the table.
"Hang on," Colt says, "Don't wiggle around so much—"
Frank feels Colt pressing his other hand to the small of Frank's back, holding Frank in place. Carefully, Colt works up from one finger to two, stretching him out with meticulous care. Colt seems to enjoy taking his sweet time with it too, trying to wring as much noise from Frank as possible as he laughs softly at every strangled sound that manages to slip past Frank’s lips.
It's when his fingers just barely graze at that spot that Frank can't stop a frustrated growl, bucking against the hand pushing him down on the desk. "C'mon, let's fuckin' go already."
"Aw, what happened to all that classy charm?" Colt's voice teases from behind, pushing a little further in and punching a long fuuuuuuck out from Frank as he hits at his prostate more deliberately.
"That's the idea, I think," Colt says with mirth as he pulls his fingers out and Frank lets out a different kind of groan.
"Still not as funny as you think it is," Frank says, rolling his eyes—before he finds himself being grabbed and flipped on the desk, scattering more of the cursed papers fluttering to the floor, 'til he's half-sitting, half-laying on the desk to face Colt, his expression smug.
"I'm fucking hilarious," he deadpans before tugging at Frank's slacks to pull them off completely. After they work together to shuck them off of Frank's legs, along with his balmorals, Colt peels off his jacket, draping it over the chair behind him before pulling at his sweater.
Frank takes a moment to let his eyes rove over Colt’s form appreciatively, skin shining sweat-slicked in the light, built like he could outlast a siege—and did, Frank recalls—but his gaze settles on the unmistakable outline of Colt's cock in his fatigues. As Colt tosses away his sweater, leaving him in just his undershirt, Frank leans forward to undo the buckle on his pants. He pushes back the layers of fabric to fish Colt’s cock out and Frank's not ashamed to say he practically salivates at the sight.
"C’mon, c’mon, c’mon," Frank mutters, arching against him to grind his cock against Colt's for a jolt of pleasured pressure before Colt suddenly grabs at Frank’s leg and slings it over his shoulder, putting Frank flat on his back in the process.
Somewhere in his mind, Frank has a snappy quip about Colt's manhandling that immediately fizzles out as he feels Colt lining himself up at his entrance before he slides home. It's not so fast that it hurts, but definitely too fast to say Colt hasn't lost his patience too. Still, there's barely any burn, no painful twinges, just the sweet fucking stretch around Colt's cock. Frank drops his head back with a thunk against the desk in pure fuckin' bliss. This is what he needed.
Colt seems to take a moment to enjoy it as well, a low groan floating to Frank’s ears like the sweetest bass riff he’s ever heard. He looks up at Colt, half-lidded eyes trained on Frank’s face, no doubt taking in Frank’s finely mussed appearance—flyaway hairs off his pomp, rumpled and rucked up shirt, lips parted with heady breaths—and Frank runs his tongue over his teeth lasciviously before grinding down, driving Colt in deeper to send a shock of shuddering pleasure up both their spines. Colt is quick to set a good pace after that, fucking into Frank with enough force to shake the desk.
“Come on,” Colt rumbles between thrusts, “make some noise for me, Frank.”
When Frank speaks, it’s more breathy, raspier than he’d like, but he curls his lip, challenging, “Heh, if you want me to sing, you're gonna have to try a lil’ harder than that.”
“Do you one better,” Colt shoots back with a grin before he leans in to whisper, “I can make you scream.”
And then Colt almost folds Frank in half, one hand holding Frank’s leg in place over his shoulder, the other braced on one side of Frank’s head before slamming into him. And Frank can’t stop the strangled cry being ripped from his throat as his vision lights up with fireworks, the new angle letting Colt fuck into him just right. Immediately, Colt sets a harsher pace, dead set on following through on his promise as he buries his face into Frank’s neck, biting hard enough to spill blood on his teeth and wrench another cry from Frank's lips. Frank latches onto Colt, hands scrabbling at his back in retaliation, ripping the thin, grey fabric ‘til his fingernails are scratching at his back to add to the plethora of scars littered across the surface.
"Fuck, Frank," Colt swears into Frank's neck at the lines of pain being clawed into him and drives into Frank even harder, knocking more papers and Frank's equipment to the ground with a series of clatters. It's enough to punch a litany of curses out of Frank—holy shit, Colt, nrgh, fucking FUCK—Colt's pace so relentless and mechanical that Frank thinks he might actually break his desk.
But the concern is chased away when Colt snakes a hand between them to take Frank’s cock in hand, stroking in time with his thrusts. Frank’s head drops back against the desk again, cries echoing out in his office and probably the hallway, but he’s so beyond fucking caring. Frank’s fucking swimming in ecstasy, the harsh thrusts nailing into him hard enough he knows he’ll be sore come tomorrow. The tongue laving at his neck to lap at Frank’s blood and sweat, the calloused hand squeezing at his reddened, weeping cock, the scent, the sound, the feeling of just Colt filling his senses, flesh pressing to flesh, heavy breaths against him, holding him, around him, in him, fucking everywhere—
When Frank comes, Colt fucks him through it, pumping at Frank’s length to send shock after shock through him, each painting another stripe on the front of his button up—shit, that’s gonna stain, something in his mind thinks, I really liked this one too—until he’s fucking boneless. His arms collapse to the side, breaths heaving out as Colt continues to chase his own finish, driving into Frank’s increasingly over-sensitive body.
Through his post-fuck haze, Frank almost tells him to let up and just let Frank jerk him off when finally, Colt buries himself in Frank, shuddering with orgasm as he spills inside before pulling out to jerk the rest onto Frank, adding to the mess already cooling there. Frank thinks distantly he should maybe be grossed out or even pissed at Colt, but it sends a shudder through Frank’s body instead, licks of arousal lapping at the edges of his nerves.
Then Colt collapses directly onto Frank, immediately extinguishing it. And despite the fact that Colt weighs enough to effectively crush a man, Frank cannot be fucked to care. Instead, they take a few minutes to recover, enjoying the afterglow, steadily breathing each other’s air, thoughts drifting to nowhere, skin buzzing as Frank's fingers trace at hidden scars like trying to map the winking stars.
That’s not too bad, actually, Frank thinks dimly. Could do something with that. Scars, stars, bars? Eh, something to workshop later.
Then Colt starts to move off of him, breaking the still air. “Hate to be a buzzkill,” he grunts with effort, “but we still gotta go do our jobs.”
And Frank lets out a groan, pushing himself up by his forearms. “You just gotta ruin a good thing, don’t ya?”
“What, you’re not excited to serenade some punk trying to build a miniature uprising on Blackreef?” Colt teases as he looks around.
Frank reaches into his breast pocket and offers Colt a kerchief to clean up, grumbling, “That’s fine, I'm all about that. I’m talking about,” and he gestures around at the accounting equipment and reams of papers that were knocked to the ground, “this fuckin’ mess. Both literally and figuratively.”
“You’re not still doing this for Aleksis, are you?” Colt questions as he takes the fabric, wiping himself down before handing it back.
Frank sighs, trying to wipe himself down in turn. “Yeah, well. Whatever, I’ll deal with it later. He can suck my cock if he wants it done so bad.”
“You want me to talk with him?” Colt raises a brow as he picks up his own clothes off the ground. “Y'know, I think I remember you saying he'd look a lot better with his face in a muzzle.”
“I’ve got it,” Frank says pointedly, growling when his clean-up attempt proves fruitless. Yeah, that shit is not fucking comin' off. “Just need a way of… levelling the playin’ field.”
“Unless you can find a way of stopping everyone from using their slabs…” Colt says, trailing off when Frank gives him a look that says to drop it. “Alright, alright, you got it. Let’s just get outta here, then, yeah?”
Although, Frank admits quietly, Colt’s idea isn’t a bad one. He vaguely recalls something Wenjie had mentioned that could effectively render everyone's slabs useless. If there were a way to make that apply to anyone…
He shelves the thought for later. Right now, he’s gotta get his hands dirty. After he gets clean.
“Lemme get a goddamn shower first,” he says, pulling his pants on for the walk back to his room. “Can’t be lookin’ like this for our potential guest tonight.”
“Alright if I join you?” Colt asks as he pulls his jacket back on before stepping into Frank’s space, a questioning hand at Frank’s hip stirring some interest somewhere in Frank again. “Got more than our blood to wash off myself.”
“And you call me insatiable,” Frank says, lip curling up, but tugs Colt closer by his belt loops all the same. “Maybe if we’re quick. We don’t wanna be late for our lil’ ménage à trois.”
Then it’ll be onto their bloody work.