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In the scene your band was in, the playing at dusty old venues was frequent, the fights occurring in the mosh pit even more so, but your run-ins with My Chem were unnaturally frequent. Like, at almost every show, kind of frequent.
Every time you went up for a set, they would follow right after. Every time they went up for a set, your band was laying in wait to go the second after their time was over. It was odd, but not terrible. Especially since they ended up being quite kind and interesting, which was the bare minimum but in these parts? "Bare minimum" was the equivalent to running to the ends of the earth for someone.
Hence, the situation right now.
Your band and MCR, just chilling in the backyard of your bassist since it was by far the most spacious out of anyone there. There was beer, there was cigarettes, and there was pizza (or there was).
Everyone was either on rainbow colored lawn chairs or sitting on the lightly damp grass. It was rather chilly, but the sheer energy of the whole function kept the coldness to a minimum. No one was excluded, all people present had something to add to the conversation, a joke, a light quip— this was by far the most successful meet up yet and you could see a close friendship forming in the horizon, even closer than the bond you already share.
... Which meant that anyone could be the subject of a joke. Some harmless teasing between friends. Nothing devastating.
One member in particular, this guy named Frank, had shitty box-dyed surfer blond hair that contrasted with his very punk makeshift mohawk. His roots were clearly showing and starting to outgrow this, a sign of how shitty the job was. He was the most daring out of all of them; besides the unnatural mop atop his head, he also had some tats - including this one which was admittedly, very annoyingly hot since it was a sick looking scorpion that was etched into the skin of neck so high not even the most elevated of collars could possibly cover it.
Studded black earrings on his lobes, a nose ring hooked onto his left nostril, and a lip ring pulling at the right corner of his lip.
You had to admit, again, that he was hot.
His personality matched his looks, too, because boy, was he irritating.
Especially to you. What was his deal?
When he saw you coughing after taking a drag of your cigarette, he loudly started cackling to himself. You wanted to ignore it, but he was so obnoxious about it that you fell for his trap hook, line and sinker.
"What?" You questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Frank shrugged— how irritating— as he took an intentionally slow inhale of his own smoke, "Didn't know you still got choked up. Like a baby."
You were more mature than this. Or you should have been but god damn it, his tone and demeanour was the perfect whirlwind of all things annoying to force you to fall hook, line, and sinker for his antics and force a charged retort out of you.
"I saw you choking on your beer earlier. Does that mean you're a newb, too?"
For a second there, you thought you got him because he shut up for once in his life, but Frank just shrugged again, this one somehow more annoying than the last as he nonchalantly replied, "That wasn't even anything. The stuff dribbled down my chin and went into my shirt so I gasped 'cause it was cold as balls. You, however. I thought you'd suffocate to death, you were so loud! My comment came from a genuine place of worry."
Frank, with his lit cigarette weaved between his index and middle fingers, placed his hand atop his heart and did an incredibly scuffed making the Sign of the Cross. All you could think about, however, was how badly you wished that tiny flame would just set fire to his tight, women's sized shirt, but alas, no such luck.
"Whatever, just—" You tried to diffuse, but Frank interjected.
"Unless... can you prove it to me otherwise?"
You hated how that piqued your interest, "What the hell do you mean?"
"Dunno..." He said, despite clearly knowing from that mischievous glint in his eyes. "A classic bout of competition? Let's see who can hold in their smoke for the longest."
There was a more mature and adult-like way of handling this...
To hell with that!
Back up and what? Allow yourself to be bested? Not here, not now, and certainly not by Frank Iero. You wanted to wipe the floor with him, knock that smirk clean off his face.
So, you agreed and the loudness of this whole exchange made this little match everyone's business. The whole thing was comically dramatic, with the chairs being arranged so that you two would be facing one another directly while the rest stood around in a messy circle to watch as though this were an epic match between two gladiators in the Colosseum during ancient Rome and not a bout between two, half-drunk idiots to see who could jerk off their ego the most.
Your pre-lit cigs were put out on the heavily used ashtray and your new ones would be set aflame by your respective guitarists for theatrics purposes.
You and Frank sat parallel to each other, nearly interlocking knees with how close in proximity you were. Then, a countdown began— "three... two... one!" they shouted like it was New Years.
Both of you took hefty drags from the way your stomachs literally went concave and your chests puffed up. Directly after, your mouths sealed shut and your cheeks were bloated.
It was hell. First of all, it was hot; hot enough to burn for a second. What came after that was somehow worse, though, because as the temperature faded, it took all the moisture from your mouth and throat with it since you were left feeling like the Sahara. Worst yet, your throat was frickin' scratchy. Like, the clawing sensation you would get while in the midst of falling victim to a cold. It made you want to cough so bad that tears formed from the edges of your eyes.
Frank was in rough shape, too, which brought you relief. He teared up before you and was currently shaking his head, his hands firmly on his knees as he couldn't even look at you.
There wasn't much for feeling cocky as now, your tastebuds were being viscously assaulted with the sickening taste of tobacco. This stuff was cheap— God knew that none of you could afford Malboro or Benson and Hedges— all you needed and wanted was that quick relief of toxic smog filling your lungs, so you got what you could get. Which meant absolute bitterness in taste. Which was okay when the smoke would be in your mouth for no more than a second, but in a competition like this? Hell.
As much as you would rather die than give Frank a shred of a boost to his already inflated confidence, you genuinely felt like there would be serious health consequences if you kept this up. A hole being burned through your esophagus, your throat somehow getting clogged up with all this exhaust— whatever it could be, you couldn't risk it since your career literally relied on your voice.
But right as you were about to tap out, a loud, visceral fit of hacks and coughs came from just in front of you.
You felt saliva fly onto your hand but you weren't disgusted. You were elated because that meant...
"Shit!"
Frank's face was red, tomato red and drooling as faint tears could still be seen hugging his waterline. You eventually burst, too, but your reaction was much more different.
Instead of distress, you pumped your fists into the air and exclaimed, "In your face!" Before also bursting into unpleasant sounding wheezes.
Both of you were suffering physically, but internally, Frank was in dismay while you were on cloud none. Besting Frank after he'd been so cocky? Amazing. Besting him at his own game on top of all of that? Fucking fantastic. Marvellous, even.
And thus, a series of "friendly" competitions began.
Whenever there was even a minute of downtime between you two, you just couldn't resist the urge to engage in some sort of contest. This would range from boardgames with complex rules like classic Monopoly or hell, even Apples to Apples, you were so bored, to simply skipping a rock across a river like you were children. Guitar Hero, Jenga, kickball, Uno, hide and seek, even tag— nothing was off the table.
The tally was as follows: six wins under Frank's belt, and an astounding ten under yours.
Safe to say, you were near consistently kicking his ass and it was getting under his skin just a tiny bit.
Okay, a lot.
Especially since as these went on, you got more confidence to be an absolute ass about it; making Frank get a taste of his own medicine, even making him wonder "was I this bad?"
But he was an adult and at the end of the day, this was all meant to be in good fun, right? No hard feelings. Just all good fun.
Frank was having a horrible day.
He barely got any sleep, which was horrible in of itself, but fate decided to be especially cruel that day because he messed up during a performance.
They were performing Our Lady of Sorrows— a fan favorite— and during the end part, where he would normally be shredding, he missed a chord. That made him do a double take and completely stop playing for well over five seconds as his brain just short-circuited or something, which just threw the whole song off. Ray's fingers jerked around from the surprise of no longer having a stable rhythm to back him up, Gerard fudged up the lyrics because of the guitars getting all janky, and Mikey was the only one who remained composed throughout the whole thing.
The crowd was not merciful about it, either. That last verse was the best in the whole song, and the part where the crowd got the rowdiest so the fact that he messed it up meant loud complaints and jeers being thrown his way.
Frank didn't let words get to him; if he did, then he'd probably be wallowing in his own insecurities because of the things he'd been called while dressed in skinny jeans and girl's shirts in a relatively small town. But this wasn't a jab towards his looks or his personality, it was a jab towards his guitar.
And it got to him. Even though it was slight, he was still wholly peeved.
The one saving grace was that the guys didn't blame him, saying it happens and that it wasn't the end of the world. They even took him out to a party after to cheer him up.
Frank wanted to refuse, but he didn't for some reason. Normally, he'd like this sort of thing because parties and ragers were basically a weekly occurrence for them, but not today. Instead of mingling and socializing, he decided to go out to the shed in the backyard all by his lonesome and solemnly sip some kind of alcohol concoction poured into one of those one-time-use red cups.
Somehow, though, you found him because of course you did and of course you'd be at the same function as he was.
"What're you doing out here all by yourself?" You asked, but it clearly didn't come from a place of worry with that tone of voice.
Frank honestly didn't have the energy to deal with you, so he kept his answers short, "Just feeling it."
"What, did you get rejected by a girl or something?"
"What?" He immediately snapped.
You feigned innocence, "I don't see why else you'd be here sulking."
"I'm not 'sulking'."
You gestured to the cup, as well as the shed he was leaning against, and the entirety of the backyard which only had two people in it— you and him.
"Just leave me the hell alone."
"Why're you so rude to me, Frankie? Is it 'cause I keep kicking your sorry ass at every game we play?"
Oh, you were so good at irking him. You'd gotten even better at it ever since you met and these little bets picked up steam. It was entertaining when you bantered, but horribly pestersome otherwise.
Don't even get him started on that godforsaken nickname, too.
"Frankie". One might have seen it as playful, he just saw it as a nuisance to be referred to in such a way.
Yes, he was being dramatic because he was pissy, so what?
You continued to toy with him, though, even trailing your finger down his shoulder in a way that was almost flirtatious, "There's an ongoing game of beer pong inside..." You got in close and whispered. "Wanna take a crack at it?"
You backed away, hands behind your back and smiling like the devil himself.
"Fine." Frank agreed begrudgingly.
His reasoning? Maybe he'd feel better if he could crush you. Sure, he'd been on a devastating losing streak, but his adrenaline made him confident in believing that he could best you in this one and what Frank wanted more than anything was an outlet to let his anger out on, so away he went.
You grabbed his wrist and guided him inside, leading the way.
Back facing him, Frank could see your thong strings poking out above your low-cut jeans. It was the latest fashion, he'd seen dozens of girls flounce around with this sort of thing and he found it incredibly hot to see. This was your first time wearing something as bold as this, or at least Frank's first time seeing you in this getup.
It was hot, he had to admit. You'd become aggravating, but you were hot and there was a natural sway to your hips as you walked. Frank swore that one wrong tug would just expose your bare ass to the world because he doubted that skimpy, hot pink thong would cover anything.
No time to think about that, however, as you finally arrived at the destination - a long foldable table with two sets of five cups arranged in a triangle format on either end, a neon orange ping pong ball resting in the middle. Some people were around, namely Ray and your guitarists who greeted you two.
Frank forced a smile as he took his place on one end while you drifted to the other.
"Ready to be pummelled?" You asked, smirking while you gripped the edges of the table.
"Just shut up and play."
You went first because of course you did and by some ungodly miracle, it went in.
Of course, you had to be obnoxious about it, "Holy shit, I'm a frickin' prodigy!"
Frank grumbled as he took his punishment. The beer was good, at least. It was sweet.
During his turn, the ball just bounced right off the edge of the table and rolled away, much to your entertainment. You missed, too, but it wasn't as drastic as Frank's sorry attempt. He missed again, and it was back to you.
You were taking this way too seriously, going so far as to bend down like this was an intense game of pool and actual money was on the line. Since Frank was standing in front of you, just a few feet away, he could see your entire back as it laid flat, hovering above your cups.
That thong was so visible, so erotic. Your ass curved so nicely, too in those tight ass jeans.
"Yes!"
Whatever he was thinking was cut short when you somehow, against everything good in this world, got another in. Effectively making the score two for you, none for him.
Zero. Zip. Nada.
"Oh, drink up, Frankie! Drink it the hell up."
Frank did so. You cooed.
The grip he had on the cup tightened, making the plastic bend under his crushing fingers.
Frank flubbed the next shot.
"Holy hell, you suck!"
His blood pressure was rising.
After you went and failed, he finally got one in but he didn't have the energy to rub it in your face. Of course, you took notice of this and slyly asked before chugging your beer, "Too scared for taunting, hm? Is it because you know I'll win?"
What possessed you to behave this way today of all days? You were always taunting him, but never was it as visceral as in this moment. It wasn't only the things you said— though your comments were easily driving him up the wall— it was also your tone. So high-pitched, so patronizing.
It made him wonder how good it would feel to put you in your place.
Not by beating you at some stupid game, by really sticking it to you.
Frank imagined dragging you away to an empty bedroom or even a bathroom, to throw onto the ground or against a surface. Believe it or not, Frank liked being soft during sex and he was actually quite the gentle lover; that didn't mean he couldn't behave otherwise, though. And a girl like you didn't deserve sweetness or lovemaking, you deserved to be fucked.
Harsh and brutal, with your legs draped over his shoulders as he went inside you, as deep as he could go while you screamed. The only thing that would be coming out of your mouth were either cries or the whorish moaning of his name.
Frank's eyes flickered up, you were bending down again as though this dumb game was so serious. This time, he fixated on your chest. Your breasts were visible in that flimsy little tank top you'd dawned on yourself and he saw the lacy bra you wore underneath, matching vibrant colors with your thong. It would be so easy to just rip them both off your body while he ruined you thoroughly. Mascara running, drool pooling, tears sliding—
You got another one in.
Four-to-one.
"Hey, Frankie, are you even trying?"
What were you, a taunting video game character?
Couldn't you just shut the hell up?
"Not gonna answer me?" You went on, either not knowing when to stop or not having the tact to chill out. Frank didn't know which was worse.
That fourth beer was hitting, though. These cups were filled to the brim, they were practically overflowing. Instead of the alcohol mellowing him out, though, it just made everything so much worse. It was making his face uncomfortably hot, making his throat thorny from the carbonation, and making his ego be whittled down to nothing because he was only forcing these down his hole because of you.
All of this was your fault.
Frank didn't even care anymore. He was so ticked off that he just threw the ping pong ball all willy nilly and it got in on a whim.
Four-to-two.
Yeah, it was hopeless.
Few turns later, Frank was barely clinging onto his sanity. His mind was a cesspool of two very different emotions and urges— being royally pissed off and also wanting to dick you down.
He didn't know how much more of this he could take, especially when you would inevitably win because the universe adored you while it despised him for some reason.
Then, he watched the ping pong ball bounce across the table, its trajectory perfect and set to dunk into his final cup to officially declare you the winner of this whole moronic situation. Frank saw your eyes lighting up, mouth opening to a wide smile as though you were locked and loaded with the perfect response after beating him yet again.
Even thinking about it was making him so mad his fists were clenching.
Frank wouldn't have it. Being at his wit's end, he just shoved the table forward, making the ball wobble then eventually roll off as the beer spilled over.
You were utterly appalled, way too appalled for something like this.
"Hey! What the actual hell?! What are you—"
Frank didn't know what drove him to do it, but he just strode over to you and forced you away from the scene, yanking you off and snaking through the crowd like they were blades of grass in a field. You tried to fight him and go free while yelling all sorts of obscenities, but ended up getting hauled into a spare room neither of you even knew existed until this moment.
Miraculously, it wasn't occupied by a drunk couple having sex or sloppily making out so Frank considered it his.
He slammed you against the door, which he locked without you even noticing.
Of course, you jumped at the chance to run your mouth off at him, still infuriated, "You! I can't believe you! Did the thought of losing again make you that mad? I can't believe you would sabotage the game like some kind of loser! What happened to sportsmanship?" You complained endlessly, your whole argument ironic considering your behavior for the past twenty minutes.
"Jesus, will you just shut up?" He snapped.
Surprisingly, you stopped your incessant babbling.
The peace and quiet was nice, really nice since your voice was starting to sound like nails on a chalkboard.
Frank stared at your lips, they were shiny and glittery from lip gloss. Then his eyes peaked down your shirt. You noticed this.
"You're acting weird." You said, quiet, trying not to blush because you suddenly realized how strangely intimate this whole situation was.
Frank was so close to you, practically touching foreheads and you swore he was drifting closer, little by little... no, he definitely was getting closer. The door you were shoved against now felt like a piece of life support as you pressed your back against it as far as it could go. This was odd. Strange. Frank being like this, staring at you like this, his hand crawling up your thigh like this—
"Frankie—"
Your lips were captured, Frank grabbed the base of your jaw and swirled his tongue inside your mouth which had been in the midst of saying his name, granting easy access. It was hot, literally, his breath was hot and heavy as he kept going up for air before repeatedly diving right back in. His lip ring felt cold against your gasping lips.
Also, it was hot in... another way.
Frank held you so possessively, so desperately, his free hand tugging at your clothes and groping all over your body, particularly fixating on your hips which you began grinding into him as you wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him closer. You could feel his erection against your inner thigh. However, Frank just forced you to stay still as now both of his hands were firmly around your waist, pinning it against the door.
You whined in protest, to which he just groaned, "Shut the hell up." in response.
Finally, he pulled apart and your lips felt a little swollen because at certain times, you didn't know if he was trying to eat you alive or make out.
You wiped his saliva from around your mouth, "What was that?" You panted. "Is that why you were so off today? You just couldn't wait to get your hands all over me?"
"You just don't know when to quit, do you?"
No, you didn't. And that would be your undoing, which could be a good or bad thing depending on how you looked at it.
"Whatever do you mean, Frankie?"
That would be the last time you would call him that. Frank grabbed you again, with more fervor than the first time. You were brought to the bed and slammed onto the mattress, which creaked under the force of the impact. Frank wasted no time, he stripped off his shirt and started fumbling around with his belt to get those worn baggy jeans off as quick as possible. It was common courtesy to undress while your partner did so, but you decided to just lay there, still and smirking.
Frank noticed this as he pulled his pants completely off and you whistled when you saw his black briefs.
"Are you waiting for me to strip you?"
"Hm... dunno."
Frank's hand lurched out at you, firmly constricting your throat as he pushed you into the bed. This somehow wasn't enough to wipe your smirk off your face, you just stared at him, challenging as ever even though you were clearly faltering from the lack of air flowing into your lungs.
You were completely at his mercy, but you were still acting like a brat.
Frank grabbed the string of your exposed thong, pulling it far before letting it go, laughing as the elastic snapped against your hip bone with a loud crack and you yelped like a dog getting its tail stepped on.
"Bitch!" You hissed.
Frank ignored you and unbuttoned your jeans, tugging them just past your ass to expose your underwear, which could barely even be considered that.
What it was, was just a bunch of strings with a lacy triangular part in the middle. Frank didn't know how the hell you wore something like this, just go commando since it looked like it was barely containing your folds. The one good thing about this was that it was giving him a major hard-on.
Frank started pulling at the strings again, threatening to pull them down, "You just want any guy to fuck you, don't you? Wearing something like this..."
His grip got a little tighter.
"No," You choked, squirming. "No, fuck y—"
"—Or did you wear this specifically for me? Did you want me to fuck you that bad?"
You were about to tell him to eat a dick, but because of that stupid hand of his with its stupid strength, all you got out was a wheeze. Your expression was utterly wiped of that smarmy smirk, now replaced with your mouth agape as your face turned red.
"Tell me the truth." Frank warned.
Then, he dipped down and whispered so close to your ear you would have giggled if you weren't being suffocated, "Tell me how badly you wanted this to happen."
You couldn't take it anymore, you just nodded and he let your neck go slightly as you sputtered, "I-I wanted you to fuck me. That's why I wore this— shit!"
Frank flipped you around to your stomach before you could even finish your sentence. At least your neck was spared now, and your rubbed it while choking, trying to catch your breath; while you were struggling, he roughly tore your bottoms off, but kept the thong on.
"I knew it," He laughed, and you regretted so badly bending to his will because he just sounded so proud of himself. "You could have just told me from the beginning."
"Eat a dick." You finally let out, voice hoarse but still packing venom.
Frank didn't like that, "Still gonna be like this?"
"Eat. A. Dick."
Frank slapped your ass, hard. It stung like death and left a stinging sensation behind right after. Then, he tugged one of your flimsy little string to the side to expose your pussy, it was practically glistening with how wet it was.
In a gentle motion which starkly contrasted his behavior up until that point, Frank started massaging you, in between your folds, against your clit. Three of his fingers were squirming against you, not yet inside but threatening to be.
"Oh..." You moaned, wanting to die at how easily you did so.
Maybe it was because he was a guitarist, but Frank's fingers were unbelievable - better than anyone you had before, by a long shot, but you would take that little tidbit to the grave. When they finally stretched you out, he was so quick and relentless, and the noises were grossly loud. Constant squelching, you were so wet he could go right in at that moment and it'd probably be fine.
"You hear that?" Frank grunted, making a point to start rapidly swishing his fingers back and forth along your clithood, much to your dismay as you practically shrieked out a moan from pleasure. "So wet, all of this just for me. You're prepping yourself for my cock, you want it that bad, is that right?"
You didn't know why, but you just agreed, "Yeah, that's why..." As though you were brainwashed. How humiliating.
What was even more humiliating, though, was your whimpering. You couldn't help it. Your pussy was being fingered by the devil himself, and he was utterly unforgiving.
"Shit, shit, s-shit, Frankie— Frank. Oh, god, oh, wait, wait!"
You were a babbling mess, he was stretching you out so good and you didn't even have time to catch your breath in between each wave of pleasure his plunging fingers sent through your shivering body. Your thong was utterly soaked with your fluids since Frank was stubborn in leaving it on; making you think that even if you washed it, you probably couldn't wear it again because of the connotations it would have after this event.
With your face buried into the mattress, leaving drool stains embedded in the silk, you arched your back and came all over Frank's fingers with a loud sigh and exasperated scream.
The orgasm felt like your soul was being sucked right out of your body. Your energy was quickly zapped out and you were left on your stomach, twitching every so often, still feeling the aftershocks of cumming like that. Your pussy was still unbelievably wet, even more so now considering... yeah.
Frank didn't waste this opportunity, roughly grabbing you by the hair, specifically in a way to tug at your scalp for maximum pain, "Don't fall asleep on me yet."
Like you were just luggage or perhaps a dead body if we were being grim, Frank manhandled you to your feet by the hair, heaving you forward until you landed on the floor in front of a full length mirror. There, you were faced with your own mess of a reflection.
Lip gloss smeared, mascara slightly runny, and hair an absolute bird's nest.
You attempted to look away, but Frank forced your chin to face straight ahead.
"You're gonna look at yourself while I make a mess out of you."
Hiccuping, you just nodded against his hand, your body and brain too tired to fight him on this. Plus, you were getting turned on.
Frank positioned himself so that he was directly behind you, both of you on your knees and able to see yourselves in this poor, poor mirror. His cock, leaking precum and harder than a rock was sliding against your thigh, his hands fumbling around to line it up with your pussy.
Before he could put it in, though, he asked, "Give me a word to stop this."
Your brain was a haze, and honestly, you just wanted him to break you already, but you quietly just answered, "Red."
"Alright, 'red', it is."
Then, Frank harshly grabbed your hips and held you as close as he could as he thrusted himself into you. He must have put on a condom while you were out of it, because the slippery rubber was a distinct feeling in your insides. Not that it mattered, though, since your brain short-circuited for a moment as he penetrated you.
"Oh, Jesus, oh, Frank!" You screamed, tears springing at the corners of your eyes.
It was true what they said about short guys— big things come in small packages.
And in Frank's case, you could feel his cock all the way in your throat, it was so big. You were sure that if you looked down, your stomach would be bulging slightly from it.
His pace here was the same as his fingering, ruthless and relentless. You didn't know how he did it, how Frank could consistently ram his hips against your ass over and over again, with as much vigor as all the times before it. Unmistakably lewd sounds of skin slapping filled the room, so did the pungent smell of sex, the taste of sweat, and the feeling of your eyes stinging from the mascara and eyeshadow leaking into them as you sobbed.
"Look at yourself, look at how much of a mess you've become. Where are your big words now? Where's all the teasing? huh?" Frank hissed, holding your jaw and making your cheeks dig into your teeth. Averting gaze was deemed impossible.
"I can't, I can't, I can't, Frank, I-I feel like you're breaking me." You whimpered through sobs even though that had nothing to do with what he was talking about.
"You can and you will." Frank delivered a particularly harsh slamming of his hips. Your eyes blew wide as you lost strength in your body completely for a moment from how dizzyingly brutal it was.
Frank's arm possessively snaked around your waist and he pressed his lips into the crook of your neck, both breathing in your scent and leaving a trail of wet, sloppy kisses around. It was purposeful the way he etched hickeys into your skin; dark purples and pinks in places that were an absolute bitch to cover up. Take that.
God, but pettiness aside, your pussy was squeezing him like a damn boa constrictor. Frank couldn't get enough, he couldn't stop moving, he couldn't stop ramming himself into you savagely,
"Frank! Frank!"
The fantasies were becoming a reality. Putting you in your place until the only things coming from those lips were his name and his name only.
Frank's movements sputtered, he was going even faster than normal one second then the next, he was a trembling mess who was so god damn close to the best orgasm of his sorry life.
Finally, he looked you directly in the eyes, your wrecked state— eyes rolling to the back of your head, hickeys covering your neck, his own handprint still visible as well— and used that to finish inside the condom. Frank shot absolute ropes; he was sure even though he'd seen none of it. That was just how satisfying putting you down like this was.
Frank pulled out. The second he let you go, you collapsed to the floor in a heap of your own tiredness.
There were many things Frank could have done— he could have left you, for one, just laying in this stranger's bedroom in nothing at all— but instead, he just laid down next to you, his cock slowly shrinking in on itself again as he drew the condom off.