#santi has absolutely no fucking control

[fettuccin-e]

Think About It

Kinktober Day 23: Dirty Talk

Tags: Santiago Garcia x Reader, talk of Frankie Morales x Reader x Santiago Garcia (ie. talk of threesome), unprotected piv (pls wrap it in real life I beg of you), dacryphilia, plenty of dirty talk like it's a lot, light degradation, breeding kink whoopsie, Santiago Garcia is a filthy motherfucker do Not blame me for this (w/c: 1.3K)

A/N: So this may have gotten out of hand a tad so do Not fucking look at me okay??? Santiago Garcia the man that you are I love you sm and also there are so many Frankie mentions in this fic so it could be a prelude to this fic I wrote earlier this month where they actually have a threesome (For Kinktober I have been using this list from flightlessangelwings!)

Santiago Garcia doesn’t get overwhelmed easily. He’s a soldier; he’s been conditioned to withstand the harshest conditions, brave horrible situations without breaking, without letting his hard exterior crack.

But fuck, when he’s with you like this, that exterior shatters like fragile glass, all over the floor in front of your shared bed.

You’re so fucking tight and wet around him as he keeps a hard grip on your hips, yanking you back on his cock, plunging himself as deep as he can fucking get.

“God damn it, baby, taking me so fucking good,” he grits, yanking your hips up further, your face pressed into the pillows as you scrabble at the sheets, clinging for purchase against Santi’s onslaught. “This pussy’s so goddamn wet, she’s fucking leaking around my cock, baby. Making a goddamn mess.”

“Santi,” you whine, “You can’t just-”

He lands a swift smack to your ass, watching as your skin recoils against him. It’s hypnotizing, makes him want to fuck you into these sheets for hours, just to watch your gorgeous body react to him over and over.

“What, baby?” He growls, leaning close and fucking into you hard enough that the headboard smacks against the wall. “Can’t what? Can’t tell you how fucking tight your little pussy is? Can’t tell you that she’s fucking sucking my cock in like you can’t get enough?”

You whine, loud and high-pitched, burying your face in the pillows. Santi snarls in return, pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail and yanking your head up until you’re gasping air into your lungs. He fucks you harder, slamming into you violent and fucking reckless. His careful control has burned to ashes before him, lost in the heat of your body.

“Look at you, fucking desperate slut just sobbing on my cock. It’s spreading you so wide, honey, ‘s gonna split you apart,” he snarls, and you hiccup over your moans. “Think this is enough for you baby? This needy pussy just needs more and more and more.”

Your hips will probably bruise under the strength of his grip, but God, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t think you do either, with the way you moan, high and wonton every time he buries himself so deep.

“Should get Frankie, fill you up even more, get you all fucked and loose on two cocks,” he grits, and Christ, the way your cunt clenches around him has him biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from busting inside of you right fucking now.

He chuckles darkly, and you squeak softly when he leans close to you, covering your back with his warm body. “Oh, you like that idea, don’t you?” he grins, and you shiver beneath him.

“Fuck, I don’t- I don’t know,” you whine, pushing yourself back and fucking yourself on Santi’s cock. 

“I do, baby. I know you want it,” he growls, leaning back up again to fuck into you hard enough that you scream. “Could get Fish and we could both fuck you so good, hermosa. Get him buried in this sweet little pussy while I,” he pulls your asscheeks apart to expose that little hole buried between. You jerk and moan when he brushes a finger over it. “I could take this sweet little ass.”

You sob into the sheets, humping involuntarily back into Santi’s harsh thrusts into your heaving body. Tears are dripping down your face and landing on the pillow below you.

Santi groans, fucking lost to it, rambling as he fucks into you like a man possessed.

He leans over you again, wrapping his strong arms around your body and pulling you up until you’re only pressed against him, your tits exposed to the air while he humps up into your cunt.

“I could eat your pretty cunt while Frankie fucks this mouth, show him what a good little cocksucker you are,” he murmurs into your ear, and you gasp his name.

He pulls his arms tighter around you, holding you so fucking tight as he gets so deep into your hot cunt. You’re dripping all over his thighs, his thrusts making lewd snapping noises when his thighs stick to yours every time he shoves his hips in, in, in.

“We talk about you, baby, me n' Frankie,” he mutters, and you can’t do anything but let your mouth gape open as he forces little moans out of your mouth. “Talk about how pretty you look, how good you fucking taste. Frankie needs a taste baby, wants to bury his tongue in this sweet pussy still you’re fucking drowning him.”

“Jesus, Santi, fuck- ah, oh my God,” you slur between labored breaths, and you can feel Santi’s cocky grin against your neck, before he bites sharply into it.

“My gorgeous fucking girl, can’t believe you’re fucking mine,” he snarls snapping his hips up, up up. You dig your nails into his forearms as he breaks you apart, jamming the thick head of his cock up into that little spot that makes you cry so beautiful for him.

“Gonna knock you up, just like this, baby, wouldn’t you like that?” he says, and you hiccup a little yes that has him growling, one of his hands coming down to clutch over your stomach, pawing at your skin.

“I’ll pump this sweet pussy full of my cum, make sure it fucking takes.” You sob like you’re dying, blinking fat tears from your eyes. “And if it doesn’t,” he continues, “I’ll keep fucking you, over and over, flood this cunt till you’re dripping everywhere, leaking down your fucking thighs.”

“Santi, I can’t, I can’t, I’m gonna-”

Santi talks like he can’t hear you, maybe he fucking can’t, too lost in the heat and wetness and the need to hold back his own orgasm brewing deep in his bones. “I’ll fuck this pussy everywhere, I’ll make sure that you have a baby, watch you so round and goddamn beautiful baby, you’ll fucking glow, I just know it. Shit, I’ll fuck you in the kitchen, the goddamn shower, keep you nice and full of me no matter what. I’ll make you nice and loose so you can take my cock all the time, no matter what, just give me the word, sweet girl, and I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll see stars.”

You scream, wordless and overwhelmed, when you cum, your pussy gushing all over Santi’s thighs even as he ruts into you like a goddamn animal. He growls, littering your neck with kisses and bites and licks. The guys will give him shit when you see them next, but he can already picture it: the way Frankie will eye the marks, his pupils blown wide, and Santi will fucking know.

“Please cum, Santi, please fill me up, give me a baby,” you whimper as you shake through your orgasm, and who is Santi to refuse you?

He groans, shoving himself hard into you, as deep as he can get, and floods your cunt with his cum. He hopes the first time will take, that he’ll be able to see the way you get rounder and rounder, carrying your beautiful baby.

When you’re both finally wrung dry, he keeps you hugged tight to him as he lowers you both to your sides. He keeps himself buried deep inside, not wanting a drop to slip out.

“Fucking Christ, Santi,” you mutter, running your hands over his forearms as he buries his face into your hair. He groans, but stays mostly quiet. “Gonna blow your knees out if you keep fucking me like that,” you giggle.

“Worth it,” he mutters, and grins into your hair. “But if I do, we can always call in Fish to keep you satisfied.”

“Shut up,” you chuckle, but Santi doesn’t miss the way you clench around his soft cock at the prospect.

He files the thought away for later.

[eldritch-spouse]

You were being chased by some demented mushroom chef but you were able to get into this “abandoned” part of the building and the chef randomly stoped chasing you. Unbeknownst to you this section of the building has been “abandoned” because Santi realized to late that he was going into a heat and his perfect match decided to cross the threshold into his “domain” but hey at least you aren’t being butchered by a mushroom.

[You know what this smells like? Apocalypse AU.]

TW: Death; Gore

You have no idea you're in the very epicenter of the entire infection. Aka, quite literally the worst place you could hope to be, though not for the reasons that you'd expect.

When Krulu first came down with an illness he himself could not control, it was anyone's guess what might happen. Most didn't expect planetary contamination. Most didn't even understand what was currently unfolding. On the verge of perishing, weirdly ambivalent to it all, Krulu grants to his workers, what he can't grant to himself- Immunity. The Clergy's Eye is the very building that spawned this life-devouring mess, but also the location where none can catch it. Krulu's carcass lies hidden in its bowels, where no one but his most devout chosen accompanied him to an untimely end.

You don't know any of this. You don't know that the only reason you were able to wander in to begin with is because the protective "curtains" Krulu had over the building all but popped out of existence the moment he ceased to live.

All you know is that this place is brimming with resources, and looks suspiciously well-kept, when everything else around it is dilapidated and covered in contamination agents.

Luck graced you initially. Many of the Clergy members spend a good part of their days entirely inactive, mostly to preserve energy as food runs ever more scarce. But one of these monsters who absolutely can't afford to stay inactive for long is Morell. He's the one organizing hunts, deciding when and where and how- Scraping dishes out of whatever's out there that's minimally edible.

He can't afford to lose any opportunities.

Having a pig walk right into his jaws is just the biggest blessing, so of course he's expending every ounce of energy he has to catch you. Snatch you, wrap his terrifying, shaking hand around one of your soft little joints and crack it to pieces so you'll stop running. He's going to make you last, he's going to take itty bitty pieces, everyone will get the most out of you, yes. He can make it work, you're a true god-send!

Which is why he damn near tears the elevator doors asunder when you manage to dart into it. You may think you'll be safer, but Morell knows you'll just have a less effective end. One of the others will get excited and gut you right then and there, will eat you whole, leave nothing for the others.

What he didn't expect, is that you might end up in the floors Santi has most dominion over. The guest rooms. Over there, could the faintest glimmer of hope be seen?

Santi sleeps in all the beds, particularly the ones he can still smell people on, the ones with traces of use, lying on them like a dragon in a nest of pillows. He subsists on the lust of his coworkers, whenever they're well-fed enough to even experience sexual urges, or when they're just so incredibly fucked up that they'll take any distraction offered to them. He's in a perpetual starved state not too dissimilar from his heats, but increasingly more unbearable.

His coworkers lock him in the guest floors with magical wards and powerful minerals when he becomes too much to handle, but Santi knows those locks aren't impenetrable, he knows they'll fail and flicker eventually, and no one can stop him then.

When he hears you, it feels like a dream. Like he finally croaked and his nightmare continues in whatever rotted afterlife his soul projects. Someone just wandering in, after so long, he spends way too much time stalking after you without doing a thing. It feels too good to be true, especially as you start succumbing to the few pheromones he still has enough energy to pump. To permeate these rooms with.

Malnourished as he is, whether or not you're anyone's match goes entirely unnoticed. You're already enough of a miracle for him. He has plans for you, and they're quite different from Morell's, yes. You won't end up on anyone's plate, but Santi will eat off you selfishly. And as he feeds enough, he'll protect you from the rest, surely.

He can keep you safe, so you'll listen to him, naturally. Otherwise it's certain death for you, love.

By the time you hear the door shut behind you, it's far too late, and Santi has trapped you in one of the guest rooms, looking wild and disheveled beneath a very flimsy attempt to look suave.

Would you sit down please, he'd coax, tracking your every motion when you jumped and shook, I'd like to have a talk with you.

[astroboots]

for HC request, please please can I request a role reversal where Santiago gets to be in charge of Frankie and Boa?!?! thank you!!! 😘

ROLE REVERSAL

Summary: Santiago is in charge for a night.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x female reader x Santiago Garcia

Content: Explicit up the whazoo. Santiago is a menace and a brat warning.

Homecoming Drabbles | Homecoming Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist

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Pope is a man with a plan. In their unit, he’d always mapped out every step in his head for every conceivable scenario.

Responsibility and control have become the duty and burden he’s taken on for himself in every facet of his life. It is why Frankie tries to give him one safe place where he doesn’t need to be any of those things.

In your bed, Santiago doesn’t need to be in control. In your bed, he can just lose himself. Frankie is happy to take charge in those moments, to give the man the thing he needs the most: a pause. With Santiago, Frankie takes control to let the man’s ever-churning mind turn off for a few moments. Offer him the very same refuge that you've given Frankie for as long as he's known you.

It works for the three of you. A merry go round of rock-paper-scissor dynamics that slots perfectly together.

But every now and then Santiago gets into a mood. He needles and coaxes you both into letting him take back the reins. Maybe he wants to test boundaries. Maybe he just wants to see if Frankie would let him. But the one time you two let him. The one time Frankie gives in. The first thing the bastard does is break out the zip ties. 

The three of you have barely polished off the second bottle of wine, and before he knows it, Frankie finds himself flat on his back. Manhandled by Santiago's enthusiasm until he's restrained to the bedpost, with the sharp edge of the plastic cable digging into his wrist with you seated on the thickness of his cock.

Can’t move, the only thing Frankie can do is lie back down and take whatever Santiago has in mind for him.

And try as you might to grind against him, to achieve that mind-numbing friction for you both, it's not enough. Pope’s being a little shit and holding you down and you can't properly ride Frankie the way you want to, the way that he knows you need to. Instead all you can do is keep whining at him to, "please, please Frankie baby, please move, move your hips, aaah, just like —" 

Never one to deny his wife, he does exactly that. You’re wet and warm and absolutely perfect around his cock— and just as Frankie rises to meet you, right where you need him—a blunt grip jams Frankie's hips. A forceful and efficient maneuver that has him flat back down on the mattress.

Pulling up his eyes, Santi’s firm gaze meets him halfway, raising a stern eyebrow at Frankie. "Behave."

Frankie can’t help the way his cock twitches inside of you at the command, because this is not their dynamic. This is not how it usually goes. Between the two of them, Frankie’s the one that usually issues commands and controls the situation. 

And fuck, Frankie can’t help but enjoy the role reversal, even if he knows that Santiago is getting much too smug and ahead of himself. 

He doesn’t get enough time to linger on that thought before Santiago nuzzles his nose against your neck, dragging it upwards until you are shivering from the touch. 

"Both of you" Santiago says rasped and low, and that tone makes you clench even tighter around Frankie.

This bastard slips his clever fingers to your slick folds. He touches, and coaxes and plays with your clit, drawing out your pleasure right where he wants you, until Frankie can feel the tell tale of your thighs trembling against him just as you’re about to come. Santiago leads you to the edge, then stops. 

He knows what is going to happen from here on out. Santiago is going to edge and edge and edge you, fingers plucking out your pleasure until you are drowning in it, tender and aching. Then he’s going to stop, only to start all over. 

Frankie can see you right in front of him. Can see Santi's fingers slowly circling around your clit, as you tremble at the touch. Hear every whimper and moan and see the way your eyes flutter as the sharp pleasure gets just on the side of too much, just like Frankie did last time alone from his hotel room. But this time, it's so much worse, because Frankie’s right there to feel you squeeze around his cock every time you get close.

Lightheaded and out of breath, he thinks he's about to pass out from the overstimulation of you clutched tightly around him. Santiago can definitely tell, because the man's grinning ever so widely, as he turns his attention to him. "You okay there Frank?"

Frankie doesn't even manage a weak, garbled attempt of ‘yes’. Before he gets a proper chance to try, Santi's thumb flicks over your clit and you clamp down on him so tight that whatever word he tries to form just turns into a strangled groan that doesn't even sound human to his own ears.

Fucking brat that he is, Santiago starts chuckling, hand drawing the curled, sweatslickened hair away from your cheeks as he brushes his lip far too tenderly against your hairline. 

"Sweetheart, you need to ease up on the old poor man. Look at how wound up you got him. I don't think he's going to last much longer, what do you think?"

Your eyes meet with Frankie’s and fuck he's almost a goner right there when he sees the dazed expression in your eyes, how far gone you are, absolutely cock-dumb from how you are filled up with him.

"Frank," at Santi's voice, Frankie's eyes snap up to the man. 

The mischief that was there a moment ago is nowhere to be found, replaced with stern command. A sharp thrill surges through him, from the base of his spine to the back of his neck as Santiago utters one single syllable. 

"Beg."

A/N: I wrote and posted this over a year ago, and immediately thought of it with your request nonny! But then I couldn't find it anywhere in my archives. I hope you like it!!!

[im-an-anthusiast]

Discuss your OCs. Now 🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵

Ok so here is Thomas. Or well was. Here lies Thomas. Because while I wasn't looking he transed his gender. Or well. Gendher. This is the second OC this has happened to! Although, to be fair, Albion transed his gender retroactively - as in he was always male, he just swapped his AGAB. So, Tommy (?) here uh. Well. I haven't really written anything (good) about her. (I wrote two fluff romance pieces about her and Santi, her love interest, an OC whom I actually have written about!) I am in fact sitting on a half-finished familial trauma (my beloved) piece for Tommy. I keep getting stuck on a single word and closing the piece for another month.

So, what's up with Tommy? She's a very tall, for one. Has shaggy, dark grey hair, and is about 200 years old? 225 if I recall correctly? I might be getting that wrong. Her most prominent feature are her unnaturally bright - glowing, emerald green eyes. This is due to a part of one of my Magic Systems! She has a so-called Remnant Signature, which doesn't affect her Magic but affects her body. The special girl that she is, however, she also has another Signature. This one, however, is a regular Signature, and thusly affects her Magic. However, it borders on a Blank Signature with how large it's Stature is, meaning using Magic causes significant Maogic Recoil (better name pending). This is not at all helped with how she was forced into training Magic since young! This huge amount of Magic Recoil has given her the Magic-induced equivalent of very bad asthma (and other respiratory issues). Because I can't write a non-disabled character! I am also thinking about her having trouble seeing due to her own eyes projecting light... I think I love torturing my characters a bit too much. Oh also she's fucking BUILT.

Anyway, due to her respiratory issues, she has to use Magic Drugs. Which she deals, by the way. She controls a good ⅓ of the Magic Drug market. She, in particular, uses the inhaler form of a strong mix of Pollen Breaths, a kind of healing Drug(s) called Floral(s), which is/are made from the processed Flesh and Blood of Hexstarveds. In addition, it provides immediate respite from the effects of mind-affecting/altering Magic, which can be quite handy when striking deals with other Magi (plural of Magus, the colloquial name for a Mageblood Magic Channeller).

But that is neither here nor there. She also carries around a notebook simply for the sake of reading out Fun Facts™️ when none immediately come to mind. She also likes to take up regular professions, for the combined sake of enjoying studying, helping people, and needing a cover story for insane income and occupation. She's currently posing as a doctor, and let me tell you, she absolutely kills it in a labcoat! She also wears a lower-face gas mask (which is also her Tether (a tool for safer Magic channelling)) sometimes, though it is usually hanging off of her neck. This is because I cannot write a character without giving them an option/reason to cover up their face her second Signature, which I've already mentioned but not named, White Smoke, with the combination of the Discipline and Branch of Magic she uses - Creation Manifesting Magic - allows her to create smoke around herself. Which uh. Not only causes her respiratory issues, also worsens them. Obviously.

She is the daughter to two important Magic families, though I'd perhaps rather leave that to the piece which I want to sink my teeth deeper into that.

In addition, it is interesting to consider that Magebloods do not have extraordinary lifespans unless they have consumed raw Halfblood (A Mix of Mageblood and Hexstarved, often also referred to as an Unsated Mageblood) Flesh, or being hopelessly addicted and dependant on Iðuns, a special, extremely rare, insanely addictive and body destroying type of several Magic Drugs that slows the aging of or rejuvenates its victims consumers.

This has been yours truly, Felix Adustus, ranting about yet another OC. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did

[bluelolblue]

I present more Santino headcanons🍷

I love talking about him, I'm literally him :>

@evren-sadwrn you wanted more Santino headcanons AND I GIVE YOU MORE SANTINO HEADCANONS ‼️

I'm starting with sad/angst stuff bc I'm feeling like it but TRUST THE PROCESS

Santi started smoking as a teen, (like idk 16-17 years old) as a coping mechanism from all the stress that he's been going through, mostly bc of his father bullshit and that age was just rough for him

Vincent was kinda like his first boyfriend but that mf was very toxic with him. And Santino couldn't see that at first bc he was young and in love but later on he realized how he was actually being treated and just used, he broke up with him. I'm talking about how Vincent manipulated the shit out of him all the time and just used everything he told him against him. Even his traumatic experiences. Vincent used it against him in arguments to get what he wants

Santino learned how to control his emotions. He can switch up fast. But it's not a good thing. He literally goes into the bathroom while fighting back his tears, looks at himself and kinda just breaths through it and just smiles like he didn't want to scream and cry a second ago

He likes to sing (I can't remember if I mentioned it already?) but ONLY around people he trusts and can actually be himself around...so not often and not too many people

Speaking of people he trusts...he barely had any friends growing up. I mean, he was the Camorra's heir ofc it's gonna be a struggle to find true friends. However, Ares still remained loyal to him through years and that's something he values. Loyalty. (They had crushes on each other for some time)

Aahhh I always talk about him and John AND I WILL CONTINUE-

Santino was literally jealous of Helen. Because she hit the jackpot. John is everything Santino is looking for in a relationship. John is caring, loyal, romantic, helpful, careful, gentle...the list just keeps going

And that's something Santino needs.. he needs to heal

Thing about Santino is that...he knows he's broken on the inside, he can feel it yet sometimes he doesn't bother with trying to help himself. He just suffers in silence because he got used to it...but he kinda knows that's not right

Okay how about some positive stuff :D

Santino has a collection of some books he's into. Like...a full collection of A LOT of books that he ACTUALLY read.

Santino actually likes watching football (or soccer, so some of you don't get confused) but only when it's like World or Europe competition, not clubs. And he's gonna be screaming and cursing in Italian at the tv

I wrote this already but- his guilty pleasure is pizza, spaghetti and risotto and he likes all that in the most basic way. Like plain cheese pizza. But not the fucking frozen ones, he's gonna kill whoever offers him frozen pizza.

Santino discovered most of his kinks with John. Because John was up for anything, really:

"Choking? Alright but I'll be gentle."

"No, you don't have to be~"

"...Santino, we talked about this-"

John just doesn't want to hurt him, even if it's by accident

Not to mention the hair pulling UMNHH~ sorry, got a bit excited :3

Yeah he's very...VERY into the hair pulling

He also just likes the feeling of someone rubbing his head, like playing with his hair. When John discovered that, he did that to him every night while they were cuddling in bed until Santino fell asleep. It's such a comforting thing that Santino can't get enough of. *sighs* it has to do with the trauma...

Yes, he likes to tease and be very flirty with John. And he absolutely loves to wear his shirts in the morning after their sexy time- or when he's cold or can't find his shirt (*coughs* or it got ripped *coughs*), John is like: "You can have mine :)" and it's too big for Santino so it kinda looks funny but they both like it so it's fine. And Santino likes the way it smells like John

The fucking praises. He eats that shit up:

"You're such a good boy, Santi..."

"You're doing so good for me..."

Praises like that

And he doesn't mind when the dog joins them in bed before sleeping. If they're in um...flirty mood however, they just kinda give the dog some treats and lead it outside of the bedroom

I GOT CARRIED AWAY-

He smokes after sex most of the time

He has this mindset on: "I don't want to be like my father." But then keeps doing similar things his father did...like smoking and he often catches himself even acting like him- mostly when he snaps at someone and he regrets it

He loves spending time at the beach. Summer time, he's gonna be in Italy on the beaches (yk what? He even goes to Croatia during summer, when I catch him there) so he likes to get some tan and breathe in the scent of the sea and yeah go for a swim

John also took him there few times during nights so it's only them two and it was really romantic. At the beach during night, looking at the sky and how the moon reflects on the sea

He likes strawberries...and grapes...most of the fruits, bc why not

When he tries not to live a day on cigarettes and coffee, he actually eats some fruit as a snack

His breakfast is: Cappuccino or other type of coffee that he feels like having, black coffee when...when um...it gets rough or he is hangover and then a cigarette...on bad days, it's even worse

Someone give him some tiramisu, he loves it

Anyways- I'M HAPPY TO TALK ABOUT MY ITALIAN HUSBAND 😫 🇮🇹 ‼️

I will probably write more headcanons about him again...bc like, I stan him and he's my husband

Here are my first headcanons about him

[artemiseamoon]

Listen I love the TF guys an unhealthy amount. Still. To this day.

look at them

I love them. I will always be the absolute softest, full on fluffy and emotionally mushy for Will tho. I love them all, I’m obsessed with all of them. I need them all in my life - where are my 4 boyfriends? They are my dream reverse haram.

Just saying tho I’d hubby-up Will so fucking fast. IM SO SOFT AND WEAK FOR HIM! The others too, but Will first. Frankie is def husband #2.

Don’t get me started on Frankie just - the chokehold this man had on me - just take this in

Look at him, ahhhhhhhh

Now back to Will-

👏🏾 FUCKING HUSBAND MATERIAL👏🏾

And don’t get me started on my headcanons about how passionate Will can be in the bedroom. Yeah he’s in control and calm and level headed but in the bedroom - don’t let his calm demeanor fool you. To me, Will is very romantic, loving, attentive . Sweet observant hubby material 100%. He can be a soft lover but, to me, also down right filthy behind closed doors esp if he trusts you. His inner freak will come out. You know what they say about the quiet ones - No one has to agree, that’s the great thing about headcanons, this is how he comes off to me. Soft dom who can be harder when he’s feeling in the mood - those vibes - he has lots of secret kinks - lots of praise and body worship of his partner - next level aftercare - massages when you get home - CUDDLING IN BED (I’m getting emotional here)

Like, okay, my reverse harem fantasy. Hooking up with Benny and Santi immediately. On the spot. Just right to it. Individually or at the same time, I am happy with either.

I’d wait a little longer with Frankie just cause I’m a slut for angst/longing with Frankie. The build up x Frankie is just - it worksssss for me and the payoff would be *chefs kiss*

And Will, tho I’d of course want to jump his bones on sight, I’d also be in love so trying to wait for the perfect moment. Maybe shy. Maybe we can have a date or two before - let my self get romanced by this handsome m’f - oh my heart.

Anyway, late night thoughts. That’s all.

[toomanytookas]

This feels like being let loose in a wonderland that is offering me everything I could ever want and introducing me to the fact that stuff I think is hot can be brought to an even more heightened level. 🥵

First a bit of a silly story for you, Em: I tend to harvest quotes into a note right when I read them so I can construct my comment after while being reminded of what I liked the most. And I pasted this section into my little trapper keeper:

God, texting sucks. Maybe you should call. You should call, just to check, even though he stayed, even though he watched, even though he said yes, even with the text - But Frankie takes the decision from you with the next message, a voicenote minutes long

and was going to pair it with the moments when the reader is so gentle and affirming with Joel (I’ll get back to that later) and was ready to basically say, 'oh, look at their similar generosity and ability to read a partner’s anxieties and soothe them a bit'… and then I went back to reading and no lie actually dropped my phone on my face (I was reading this while lying on my back to try and relax my neck from bad phone posture lol) because I was so fucking shocked (delightfully so) at the reveal that it was an audio sext from Frankie.

And I should have taken that as an indication for the absolute TREAT I was in for, but every time you upped things to a new level, I was so wonderfully shocked and tongue-tied.

Ok back to the Joel thing before I get into the smut: how dare you (lovingly) be so nuanced and thoughtful and have such gentle notes while simultaneously presenting us with this all-out bacchanalia. I loved how validating the reader was of Joel and his potential facets of insecurity. This was so soft and wonderful and caring:

‘All of this is new. All of it. And if you want to talk about it, we’ll talk about it. But -’ you say, reaching to hold his other hand, too, ‘I want you to know none of it changes how I feel about you. You are enough for me. You will always be enough for me.’

I love that she has a caretaking side to her and that she is so conscious of what continuing this type of dynamic with the others could manifest for her and Joel's relationship together.

Now for the smut. I’m just gonna pick out two things that I really loved so I don’t turn this into a full on essay:

1. The way you describe desperation and rule breaking is so so so good.

Your depiction of that ruined orgasm felt so uncomfy and real in the best, best way. I so appreciated that tactile aftercare on the drive home, it was so grounding and soft. And then all the discomfort felt all the more worth it to get to eat up that just the tip moment. Hooooooooly fuck I loved that. This bit in particular:

His hands are like steel at your hips, keeping you in place. Frankie doesn’t want to disobey, doesn’t want to get in trouble. His grip speaks to that, his wide eyes, the sweat at his temple. But you can see on his face as you drip down him, the clutch of Joel’s control doesn’t hold nearly enough power when faced with what he truly wants.

Unfff. PLEASE AND THANK YOU. And then to have it followed up by lines like: 'Concentrate. I’m gonna sit down, and you are not going to come, okay?’ OMFG.

That actually does bring me to the second point, which is:

2. I loved how you created moments of switching for all of them that felt so natural and trusting and exciting.

I particularly loved how we saw the reader exercise so much authority with Frankie, and yet also be reduced to this delicious, delicious level of non-thought: You gasp, high little pants of uh- uh- as you jolt on him, pain mixing with pleasure as you call his name, Santi’s name, Joel’s name -

AND SANTI. HOLY HELL. I was SO on board for how domineering he was being but then for it to get flipped on him in those final moments.

This was so intense: Santi grins and pants against you, his hips faltering for a moment as he leans his neck further into the cradle of your hand. He nods quickly, eyes glazing and soft. You smile back at him, squeezing again, pleased.

Ok this ended up being so long I'm sorry, but that's what you get when you drop such a lengthy, meaty work of art. Bless you and your wonderful brain.

watch | JM x FM x SG x f!Reader

summary: after showing frankie what he was missing, something seems to have been awoken in you all. with joel away on a contract and santi called out of town, you're left in frankie's care. except one rule still stands - you can't touch.

read part 1, listen, here

grouping: f!reader x joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia

rating/warnings: 18+. MDNI. no outbreak (tlou) - but based after the tf mission. alright, buckle in. softdom!joel, softdom!santi, sub!frankie, sub!reader, lil bit of softdom!reader and bratty!reader as well hehe. drinking, pet names (inc. little/baby girl, baby boy). rules get broken (surprise!), praise kink, dirty talk, daddy kink, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it!), exhibitionism, voyeurism, public fingering, blowjobs (m receiving and giving), rimming, mutual masturbation, phone sex, use of toys (f&m), consensual somnophilia, cumplay, edging, facesitting, anal fingering (m), mfm, anal sex (m receiving), tiny bit of breath play (not reader), light bondage, brief gagging, very high sex drives but who can blame them, once again so many orgasms i lost count, and in the immortal words of @thatredheadwriter, 'so much fluid exchange I think a hasmat team should probably go in to clean it up' reader wears dresses and has hair, but has no other descriptions. no use of y/n.

wc: 25k (i know, i'm so sorry)

an: many many many thanks to the peeps who waited an age for this. you've all been so patient and kind and i hope you enjoy! for @schnarfer, @swiftispunk, @5oh5 and @janaispunk who, without their constant encouragement and recommendation, this may not have happened at all <3 dividers as always from the wonderful @saradika-graphics

In the weeks that follow, you wait for the ball to drop. 

You wait to feel weird about what the four of you did, for the kick of it, for Joel to reveal that he actually wasn’t that sold on it. You wait for a text or call from Frankie or Santi to say it was nice knowing you, but it was a little much, a little weird to see you around now. 

It doesn’t happen. 

You stay slotted into Joel’s life like you were always meant to be there. You stay over at his, he stays over at yours. You spend lazy Sunday mornings making waffles or pancakes and getting fucked dumb. He brings you flowers when work is hard, you rub his shoulders when he’s had a rough day on site. Your body is marked beneath your clothes with his bruises, the shape of his teeth, and his is marked by yours, the scratch of your nails traced delicately down his back. 

You spend your time orbiting around each other, close and safe in the bubble you’ve built, warm and soft in the afternoon sunlight that streams through the curtains on your days off, eating in and eating out. He becomes more familiar than anyone else has ever been with the inner workings of your mind, the inner workings of your body. He introduces you to his brother, Tommy, and his wife, Maria. He talks about you to Sarah, and she says she’d love to meet you next time she’s home from college. He makes space for your books on his shelves, and your clothes find a way into his wardrobe; his squeeze into your drawers, a spare toothbrush for him in your bathroom. He kisses you, hot and open mouthed when he drops you off at work, does the same when you find his truck waiting outside for you when you’re done. He asks how the boys are when you come home from drinks with them, listens with sparkling eyes when you tell him Benny’s latest hookup is from the bar you used to work at, the place where they first met you. He chuckles and tells you he's glad Santi introduced the two of you when he did, before any of the others swooped in and took you for themselves. 

Sometimes, you think he forgets about the night that Frankie asked you out, the conversations that followed. How close it could have been. 

But that's naive of you. Naive of you to think that he doesn’t see, doesn’t seek out the claim that Frankie and Santi have also made on you. Because he knows. In some infuriating, impossible way, he always knows. 

He shows you he knows one morning, when you have already been awake for what feels like hours, watching his broad chest rise and fall with deep, sleeping breaths.

You trace the curve of his nose with your eyes, the scruff of his beard, the way his curls have grown out. Luscious and thick, spattered with grey, curling down into the nape of his neck. His lips look so warm, so soft, that you’ve been challenging yourself, seeing how long you can go without kissing him awake. Seeing how long you can go with just remembering how they felt between your legs last night, wet with spit and your release as he soothed you through orgasm after orgasm, kissing your thighs, sucking marks into your soft flesh as he held you down with one thick palm braced against your belly, the other with its fingers gently pumping in and out of you. The deep timbre of his voice when you made yourself look at him, his praise, good girl, there she is, doin’ so good for me, sweet girl through your tears, as you begged him, begged him for something else, something more. More, daddy, you’d pleaded. You'd needed something thicker, something deeper. You always do.

You squirm beneath the sheets, pressing your thighs together. Try to think of anything else. The green of his bedroom walls, the boots you know will be at the end of the bed. His trinkets on the dresser - the watch Sarah bought (and fixed, many times) for him, the picture of him and his family at Tommy and Maria’s wedding, your clothes scattered about the floor, the chair in the corner of the room, the chair where he sat that night, as he watched, as he watched you -

You roll over onto your side to look away from it, squeezing your eyes shut, barely able to control your whimper. You’re slick between your thighs, too warm as your wetness mixes with the cum still drooling out of your cunt. You try and count his freckles instead, starting from his forehead to his cheekbones, down to his neck - his neck - his shoulder, the bite mark you left there as he spilled himself into you, the hand resting on his chest, his thick fingers, his fingers -

It’s no good. It’s no fucking good. He needs to rest, so you take a deep breath and steel yourself. Coffee. You’ll head downstairs, you’ll make coffee, and when he’s slept enough you’ll talk him through everything you’ve been thinking about, and he’ll make it better. Starting with his tongue.

You press your hands to the mattress as you start to raise your torso from the bed, and almost immediately at the shifting of your weight, Joel’s hand shoots out to grab you.

‘Where you goin’, pretty girl?’

You smile, smug. So he's awake. And you know, with his grip like this, you’ll get anything you want from him.

‘Coffee,’ you say, leaning over to press a lingering kiss to his soft lips. He returns it, eyes still shut, hand shifting from your forearm to your bicep, to your shoulder, to the back of your neck. He holds you there as he draws his tongue across the seam of your lips, and with a groan you let him in. The bristle of his moustache tickles as he licks into your mouth, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth as his free hand skates between the sheets to skim over your bare thigh. You shift against him, bringing your calf over both of his legs. The movement brings his hand forwards, dipping between your legs to trace two fingers up through your drenched cunt. You moan loudly against him, and Joel chuckles.

‘Last night not enough for you, little girl?’

You hum against him, shaking your head. He retracts his fingers.

‘Words, baby.’ He reminds you.

‘No, da-’ you start, but as soon as your lips part he has his fingers on your tongue. On instinct, your eyes flutter shut and you suck them, swirling your tongue over the thick digits, savouring the taste of you both.

‘Rude to talk with your mouthful, sweet pea,’ he murmurs, ‘Somebody oughta fuck some manners into ya.’

With his fingers still in your mouth, Joel turns you onto your back, bracing himself away from you to watch you continue to suckle on his fingers. He pushes them further back, further, further, only to watch you begin to gag around him.

‘Good girl,’ he says, withdrawing them, spit-slick, before bringing them back to your pussy. He watches your face as he pushes them easily inside, the crease between your brows, the way your jaw slackens, the way your eyes widen as he curls them into your sweet spot. He nods, pleased. ‘Think you’re wet enough to take me already, baby,’ he says, swiping them over your clit. You jolt, moaning again at the feeling. ‘What do you think?’

‘Yeah, daddy,’ you sigh, ‘Ready for you.’

Joel chuckles.

‘Always so ready f'me, isn’t she, princess?’ He says, lining himself up at your entrance, gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on him. He doesn’t expect an answer this time. ‘Yeah, always dripping for me, aren’t you? Poor baby girl. Poor baby girl and her messy little pussy.’ 

He feeds his cock to you slowly, so slowly. You whine and arch against him as he does, brain trickling away from you, already so given in to the sensation; mind deliciously blank, nails scratching at his forearms as he cages you in, thrusting deep, bottoming out. When he sees your eyes roll back, he picks up his pace smoothly, thrusting faster and harder, deeper. You moan out a long daddy, and he huffs in amusement.

‘Does daddy feel good, sweet girl?’

You gasp out a yes, fuck, daddy, and he hums in response.

'There she is,’ he says, ‘Didn’t need coffee, did ya, baby? Just wanted daddy. Just needed your daddy, hm?’ You nod furiously, tongue loosened by the heavy weight of him inside you, babbling away about how good he feels, how deep, how big he is. You lock your ankles around the bottom of his spine to pull him closer, and he groans, head dipping to yours. ‘Yeah,’ he breathes, ‘You take what you need, baby. Just wanna get fucked, huh? Woke up dreamin’ a me? Dreamin’ a me fuckin’ you full of my cum again, babygirl?’

You moan again, neck pulling taught as you arch further, pull him in deeper. The coil deep in your belly tightens, jaw clenching as you scratch at him, as you tug the hair at the nape of his neck.

‘Poor baby, can’t even get her words out,’ he coos, and like he wants to prove his point, he pushes even deeper, tip kissing your cervix, the bruising feeling making you gasp, making you plead, making you beg as you try and move your hips away from him. He brings his hand away from your face to your waist, keeping you in place.

‘Relax, sweetheart,’ he smiles, rocking in and out of you again, ‘I know you can take it, just relax f'me. That’s a good girl. I know it’s big but you can take it.’ 

You clench around him, painfully, try to mumble out how close you are, but you can’t even summon the words. In this room, he is all you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel. The slickness of it, the heat, the burning pleasure rising inside you as you writhe beneath him.

‘I know, baby, I know,’ he murmurs, ‘You’re close already, huh?’ You hum, body tight, so close, so close, head so empty. ‘Yeah, you are. Fuck, love when you get all stupid on me like this. You like getting fucked dumb on daddy’s cock, baby? Can you feel me all the way in here, sweetheart?’ he asks, moving the hand on your waist to press against your lower stomach. You clench harder as he presses down, the coil tightening, spiralling, and you’re right there - ‘Wish you could fuckin’ see yourself right now, baby. Wish you could see how pretty ya look getting fucked. You like being watched, don’t ya, darlin’? Yeah. Want Santi and Francisco to watch again, baby?’ You gasp at his words, surprised, vision blurring, hurtling towards your climax, the build up scorching, impossibly long. ‘Sure you do. Or d'you want Santi to fuck you again, make you scream his name while he’s inside you, huh?’

Fuck, okay. Okay -

‘Yes, daddy -’ you breathe, pussy fluttering around him, the beginnings of your orgasm.

‘Santi? Or is it Frankie, baby? You want his mouth on you, want to feel him stretch you open? He’s big, isn’t he? Wanna see how he feels, if he fits like me?’

He is, you remember, he is, and you could try. If you can take Joel, you can take Frankie, and oh, what a thought -

Your body pulls tighter, aching, painful, and you cry out.

‘Shit -’ you moan, ‘Shit, Joel, I’m -’ 

‘Come, babygirl,’ he tells you. ‘Come all over my cock, princess. Get it nice and wet, just how daddy likes it.’

You burst aflame beneath him with a shout, body jerking as you hiss and gasp, gripping him to you as he fucks you through it. You whimper with every thrust as he keeps talking through gritted teeth, thrusting harder.

‘Yeah, that’s it. So sweet, baby. Good fuckin’ girl. You want them again, darlin’? Want to play with 'em? Want to watch 'em play with your daddy?’

A needy whine slips past your lips as you picture it; Frankie on his knees, Santi on all fours, and you grow even wetter at the thought, the slick of your orgasm and Joel’s words making the prettiest noises.

‘She likes that,’ Joel says, almost to himself, ‘Yeah, she likes that. Dirty girl. Dirty girl, wanting all three of us, wanting to watch, hm? Wanna touch, baby? Wanna see how it feels?’ He looks so fucked out on top of you that even you’re not sure if he knows what he’s saying, what he’s asking you. But you gasp out a yes anyway, something warm and quick trickling up your spine, tightening your cunt again.

‘Another one,’ he grunts, ‘Another one, darlin’, and I’ll give you what you want.’ 

You don’t need to be told twice. Your second orgasm rips through you lightning fast and white-hot, so good that you hear ringing in your ears, so tight that Joel stutters inside of you, groaning, breathing your name as he pumps and spills and twitches. You’re both breathing so heavily that it’s all you can do to lie there, licking your lips as Joel pulls out with a moan and flops beside you. A breathless little giggle escapes your parted lips.

Joel reaches across your body and tugs you by the arm until you’re nestled into his side. Too hot, too breathless, but you breathe him in all the same, tracing patterns on his chest.

The room is quiet as you both come down from your highs, your eyes falling closed as Joel presses a kiss to your hairline. Your brain tries its best not to think, not to read into it, but even through the exhaustion, his words come back to you.

Watch, touch. 

You have to know. You have to ask, now, want to know, want it, want it, want it -

‘Do you - do you want to do it again?’ You stutter.

Joel puffs out a laugh to the ceiling.

‘You’re gonna have to give me at least ten minutes, baby.’

You laugh and nudge his side with your fist.

‘No,’ you smile, ‘No. The - the thing you said, about that night -’

He raises an eyebrow, and you bare your teeth awkwardly. 

'You know - that night.'

‘Mm?’ Tease.

You lean further onto his chest and take his skin gently between your teeth. You nip, and he relents. You lean back slightly to look at him.

Joel smiles at you, crooks his head so he can nibble at your ear lobe.

‘Baby, I’d love to.’

The sound that leaves your lips is obscene, and you don’t care. Fuck, the thought of it. The three of them together, the four of you together.

‘All we gotta do is send the text,’ he says, ‘Could send it now and they’d be here in the hour.’ He chuckles. One of his hands moves down to your thigh, hooking it over his hip before moving to your ass to rock you against him. You groan into his shoulder. Your next question leaves your lips before you can even stop it.

‘Did you - did you mean what you said, about you and Santi and Frankie?’ You ask. It sounds clumsy, almost like you shouldn’t be asking. Fuck, maybe you should have waited for him to bring it up. You tense, waiting for his reaction.

Joel opens his eyes again with a small smirk, peeking down at you down his aquiline nose. His movements still.

‘Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.’

You draw a quick breath and hold him closer. You won’t ask anymore questions. Try to push away thoughts of what Joel could do with his hands, his mouth, his cock, of what the two other men could do with theirs, what it would be like to watch, what it would be like to feel -

‘I’ve never… I’ve never done it before.’ Joel says, quietly. 

You pull back from his chest and watch him watch you. His dark eyes are honest, wary, and a question forms on your lips. He said he had been with multiple people in the past, it was something he’d done, something he was clear he had enjoyed -

‘With a man. I’ve never… done anything with a guy.’

Your stomach swoops at his nervousness. You feel your brow crease, a hand reaching up to touch his cheek.

‘That’s okay,’ you whisper, ‘That’s… I didn’t realise, that’s all. ‘M sorry if I pushed you.’

Joel shakes his head. He hums beneath you, a deep rumble in his chest. 

‘Y’didn’t. You ain’t.’ 

You stroke your thumb along the patches of his beard.

‘Do you… want to talk about it?’

Joel closes his eyes again, takes a deep breath. 

‘I’ve thought about it. For a while. Watching people, watching you. I’m… curious.’

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

‘That’s normal, baby,’ you whisper, ‘So normal.’

Your mind flashes back, back to how tender he was with you, with Frankie. His warmth towards Pope as the four of you cleaned up afterwards, as you dressed in the comfiest clothes you could find. The way his eyes lingered on your body, Santi’s body, Frankie’s, the curiosity you glimpsed as you snacked and rehydrated, the goodbyes as they slipped out the door.

It makes sense.

And it’s even better to know that all this time you’ve been imagining it, he has, too.

‘I’d like to try it,’ he says, blinking at you. ‘With them. With you. If that’s okay?’

You clutch his face tighter, tender, warmth blooming in your chest at his trust. You smile wide at him, and he visibly relaxes. Tears threaten in your eyes.

‘Yes,’ you breathe, ‘Yes. Of course it is. I… it’d be more than okay.’

He swallows.

‘You sure?’

You untangle yourself from him as much as possible, but he keeps an iron grip on your waist. You settle on your elbow.

‘Of course I’m sure, baby,’ you soothe, ‘Of course I am. I’m glad you told me. It’d be - it’d be an honour - it’s very brave of you to -’

Joel cuts you off with a snort, pulling you roughly back against him. He holds you tight within his grasp.

‘Very brave -’ he chuckles.

‘It is,’ you insist, muffled against his chest, ‘It is, and if there’s anything you want to try -’

He pulls you up so your face is level with his, and shuts you up with a firm kiss. And when you lick him a little while later, tongue pressed up, pressing in to his tight ring of muscle, you find that there is plenty he wants to try.

And plenty you want to help him with.

———

Will greets you first at the bar that evening, and you quickly lose yourself to the rhythm of the night.

The five of you are tucked back into your usual booth, bottles and glasses crowding the table, the noise of other patrons bringing you closer together, knees knocking, hands over forearms to claw yourself further into the conversation. You talk for hours, work tales being swapped, gossip about old friends, former lovers. Will and Benny seem particularly interested in your romance with Joel, and you happily fill them in, telling them about the barbeque you had round Tommy and Maria’s, how you’re meeting Sarah next time she’s home from college, and how Joel will be away on a contract next week. Frankie and Santi listen in with gleaming eyes, half-smiles of their own, sharing secrets across the table that only you are privy to. It makes your stomach tighten, your panties damp.

And the way Frankie watches you, it’s like he knows.

Seats are switched throughout the night after bathroom breaks and drinks collections, but Pope always finds a way to be close to you - a hand on your thigh, a squeeze of your palm, the press of his shoulder against yours. He stacks a small pile of peanuts on the table between the two of you, hidden behind a glass, and at any opportune moment you can, you take turns flicking them at Will or Benny. With every small, yellow projectile that smacks against their chests, arms, sometimes even faces, Frankie racks up a tally on a napkin. The game is all but lost when Benny looks at up the ceiling and asks in disbelief whether it’s raining fucking peanuts, and you and Santi collapse into fits of giggles. Benny stares at you in blank confusion, furthered by Will’s growing rumble of laughter - until he finally fixes stoic Frankie with a betrayed look, noticing the tally half-hidden by his palm, and cries out an accusatory -

‘Is that you?’ Which sends Frankie over the edge, too. 

When places switch again, Will makes sure to gather you in a headlock in his strong arms and grind his knuckles roughly into your scalp. You yelp with laughter, giggling against each other, sinking into the dirty leather as Will muses on how much of a bastard you are, wondering out loud how your skills as a former bartender allowed you to outsmart ex-Delta Force operators.

Frankie watches with his usual boyish charm, his eyes crinkling at the edges, warm and molten and wanting when they meet yours. Your tongue burns with the things you want to tell him, with what you and Joel had discussed, eventually in great detail, in bed at home. But you bite the words back, knowing what is and what isn't yours to share. Instead, you lean into Santi’s touch, scraping your nails along his jeans until he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, biting his lip in a wicked grin. He excuses himself soon after, and with his departure, Benny calls for a round of pool.

He’s already slipping out of the booth before you can protest, Will following closely behind. Frankie steps out, too, rounding your side and holding out a hand for you. You accept it, stepping out in front of him so you’re pressed chest to chest. He lifts his palm to your cheek, leaning in to press a kiss to your hairline. You press his bicep in thanks before turning back to the table, hinging at your hips to grab both his drink and yours, taking extra care to subtly grind your ass into his crotch. His palm comes to rest at the top of your thigh, holding you there for just a moment, before moving to your waist. You turn back to him.  He leans in close.

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do to us tonight, hermosa,’ he breathes into the conch of your ear, ‘But it’s working.’

You grin at him as he moves his hand from your waist to the plush flesh of your ass, squeezing gently before letting go. You take a sip from your beer, reaching up to take the cap from his curls and nestling it backwards on your own head. 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

His answering smile is dirty, thrilling, and he follows you as if on a leash to the pool table the brothers have secured.

Santi joins you soon afterwards, his cheeks a little flushed, a fresh drink in his hand. You’re split off into the most unfair teams possible; Will, Benny, and Frankie taking one cue, and you and Pope with the other. Frankie racks up the balls with swift, deft movements, taking the cue easily in his massive hands, the wood resting between his thick fingers. You feel your body warm as you watch him, still wearing his cap, trying to squeeze your thighs together inconspicuously. You bring your cool bottle to your neck as Pope winds an arm around you, letting his hand settle at your hip, stroking and pinching the flesh there. You don’t look at him, but you sigh deeply, and he lets his head knock against yours, pleased. With Frankie shooting first, there’s no great rush to grab your cue and be prepared. 

You watch as he pots ball after ball, mouth curving in a playful scowl as he shoots you a grin after each one, moving around the table with so much grace and ease that it starts to make you a little dizzy. Benny and Will cheer him on with loud hoots and shouts, and Pope makes sure the two of you boo him like a pantomime villain with every flick of his wrist. When he finally fails to sink a shot, Pope passes you the cue, and you take your time lowering yourself to press your chest to the green felt, inhaling deeply. You’re warm, relaxed, a little buzzed, more than a little horny. You wiggle your ass a little, and Will laughs, shouting something about how your distraction technique won’t work, and he’s right. It quickly backfires when Frankie sweeps around the table, pressing one half of his body over yours as he directs you on how to hold the cue, how to position it, how to cradle it in your fingers like he does. When he’s sure you’ve got it, he breathes into your ear for you to pull your elbow back with just the right amount of leverage, and you try to ignore the goosebumps that break out along your neck and shoulder.

‘You’re ready,’ he whispers, and just as you begin to snap your wrist forwards, he presses his firm cock into your thigh.

Your quick inhale stutters your movement, and you watch as the tip of the cue just catches the edge of the ball, sending it spinning off into a barren corner of the table. You stand and spin to Frankie.

‘You asshole!’ you cry, indignant and hot, pointing a finger at him as he snatches his cap back from your head and retreats. ‘You - jogged me!’ Frankie spreads his hands in front of him, pouting, his bulge only just covered by the front of his button up.

‘I tried my best.’ He grins.

‘Don’t worry about it, kid,’ Will calls from the other side of the table, ‘Fish is known for being good with his hands. Even when he uses them for evil.’ 

The men laugh as Frankie flushes, knocking his fist into Will’s belly. Despite yourself, you laugh with them, enjoying watching him flustered as Will gasps out his laughter. Pope leans in close to whisper in your ear.

‘Good with his mouth, too.’ And all the air is sucked from your lungs as you feel your own face heat. Santi laughs louder next to you, taking the cue from your hands so you can grasp your bottle instead. You watch as Benny misfires, then Pope, still giggling at his own joke, before Frankie takes over again, sinking each one until only the white remains. Not that you notice, finding yourself now caught up in the way he bites and wets his lips, how plush they look, how they’d feel pressed to your thighs, your tits, your clit -

Benny snaps his fingers in front of your eyes, waving you back to reality.

‘Ground control to Major Loser,’ he grins, ‘Frankie whooped your ass, in case you weren't paying attention. It’s your round.’ 

You scoff playfully at him, whirling on your heel back towards the bar, but not before catching Pope’s eye again as he smirks at you, leaning against the table next to Frankie.

You flip them off as you work your way through the crowd.

When Frankie parks his truck outside Joel’s, all the lights in the house are off. 

You unbuckle your seatbelt, and Frankie eyes the front door a little warily, eyes narrowing at the distance between. You giggle at him.

‘Frankie, baby, the boogeyman is not going to get me in the space between your truck and the door.’

He frowns at you all the same before unbuckling his own seatbelt and jumping out the driver’s side. You roll your eyes at him as he bounds round the front of the truck, swinging your door open and helping you out. He grins at you.

‘I know,’ he says, ‘I know, just - let me do it. Humour me.’

He swings your hands between you as you walk up the front yard, and you try to stifle your giggles as you slot the spare key into the lock. It’s unlike Joel to not wait up for you, but you’d made sure to tucker him out before you’d left. You’re glad he’s finally getting the rest he needed. 

The door swings open in front of you into yawning darkness, and Frankie gives your hip a squeeze. 

‘You’re sure Joel’s home?’ he asks. 

‘Yeah,’ you nod, flicking the hallway light on. ‘He’s probably just asleep. It’s late, and -’

‘You probably spent the first half of the day making him see God, I suppose.’ He finishes for you. You smack his chest when you see his shit-eating grin, but aren’t able to wipe your own from your lips. 

‘Obviously.’ You smirk.

Frankie laughs quietly as you shut the front door behind him, letting his hands wander from your hip to your waist, up and down the span of your back, pulling you towards him. You can still feel him, warm and half hard against you, and a soft moan slips from your mouth in response to his small grind. He smiles again, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull to his chest as he rocks you back and forth, letting you feel everything while having nothing. Your own hands clutch at his shirt, shifting it higher so you can splay your palms over his bare abdomen. He looks down at you with soft, lazy eyes, and for a moment, you’re sure you’re going to kiss him. And when he leans in to whisper in your ear, you’re sure you’re going to wake Joel up and beg for him to take the two of you now. But instead, Frankie asks in a whisper -

‘Do you think Joel’d mind if I used his bathroom?’

You snort a laugh, pushing yourself away from him, and he giggles back at you.

‘Of course not,’ you say, pointing off down the hallway. ‘Just up there. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’

He salutes as he backs away, almost knocking into the bannister of the stairs, and you have to clap your hands over your mouth to keep from laughing too loud. You step quietly into the kitchen to pour two glasses of water, but only get as far as reaching up into the cupboard when there are soft footsteps behind you. You grin, about to tease Frankie for not being able to find the bathroom on his own before warm, calloused hands are on you. Shameless, needy, groping up your top, tugging your bra down, cupping your breasts, tweaking your nipples.

Your body goes quickly liquid at the familiar touch, all smart quips dying in your throat as Joel ruts against you from behind, the weight of his hard cock hot and firm against your ass, barely disguised by his grey sweatpants. Your hands come to grip at the countertop, and you try to get the words out to tell him not now, Frankie’s here, but all that escapes is a moan. 

‘’M glad you’re home, baby,’ he growls in your ear, fingers making quick work of your button and zipper. ‘Missed you. Dreamed of you. Did ya miss me, too?’ as he tugs your jeans down to the tops of your thighs.

‘Joel -’ you breathe, but you’re too slow, unable to process anything beyond the fingers he dips into your panties. Usually you love him like this, swaddled in sleep, desperate to bury himself inside you, and you’d let him take you anywhere, but not right here, not right now. Your body continues to betray you, pulsing out more of the slick that has kept your underwear damp all night - the touches beneath the table, the pressure of Frankie’s cock against your thigh during pool, him pressed up against you in the doorway. Everything you’d done with Joel earlier in the day, the way he’d come apart with your tongue and your fingers, the way he’d eaten you to the point of tears, all coming together to show him how you glisten in the low light of the kitchen. The two of you are insatiable, and he groans against you, offering you his fingers to suckle as he pulls the waistband of your panties down to join your jeans. You try to mumble out around him again - Joel, wait - but he’s too fast as he sinks himself inside of you, and every thought, every word, is wiped from your brain. 

He sets a punishing pace from the off, and you take it easily, cheek pressed into the marble, head turned away from the door as you drool and whimper around him. The thick, heavy slide of his cock, covered in your slick, the wet sounds, the soft moans and pants that ricochet around the kitchen, and when he swirls a finger around your clit, your own sharp gasp heaves you to life.

‘Joel, wait - Frankie - Frankie’s here -’

But it’s too late, far too late, you realise, when you turn your head to the other side to find Frankie already stood in the entryway, leant against the frame like he’s been silently engaging you in casual conversation. Except he looks ravenous.

Joel groans from above you, tip kissing your cervix as he pumps in and out, fingers twitching over your clit to feel you tighten around him.

‘I know, baby,’ he groans, ‘He’s watchin’. See how he’s watchin’ you?’

It’s almost impossible to look, to watch Frankie take you in. The throb of Joel’s cock inside you, his fingers, the tightening knot that threatens to burst already, it’s making it hard to keep your eyes open.

‘That what you want, hermosa?’ Frankie asks.

You nod furiously against the marble, biting back a sob as your knees begin to give way, as you tighten, tighten, tighten, as your core locks down, your pussy growing hotter and wetter. Fuck, all that thinking, all that teasing means the build up has happened so impossibly fast, and you stumble towards the edge of the cliff already, aching for the fall.

‘Just like we said, huh?’ Joel hums. ‘You wanna be watched, don’t ya, baby girl?’ 

‘Yes - daddy -’ you choke out, and he hums again, this time speaking to Frankie.

‘Hear that? Want you to watch. Be a good boy, and watch.’ 

Frankie nods quickly, every bit the soldier; his jaw set, eyes black, curls peeking out from under his cap. In this moment, he doesn’t look like your Frankie. He looks cool, almost detached if not for the burning of his eyes. And he watches every movement, every part of your skin Joel touches, everything that is revealed to him, like he’s trying to commit it to absolute memory. The sounds, the way Joel’s cock glistens as it stretches out of you, the breath that is punched from your lungs as he pushes back in. It’s like it’s the first time he’s seen this happen.

But then, you realise, it is. 

This is the quiet, obedient Frankie who kneeled behind the door. The Frankie who didn’t move an inch, the Frankie who could do nothing but listen as the three of you fucked each other. The Frankie who curled himself over your hand as he came, hot shocks of arousal and humiliation rocking his body. And now, he gets to watch. 

But oh, how you wish he could touch. How you wish he’d come closer, away from the doorframe, how you wish he’d run his hands over your body, undress you, hold you, lick and suck and kiss you, how he could fuck your mouth as Joel fucked your tight cunt until your throat was raw, how you’d take him so deep, as deep as you could, until there would be nothing left, nothing more for you to feel or think about than what went on beyond the two men and you. You watch as his eyes rake over Joel, over you. How they track every movement, the curl of Joel’s fingers against your clit, how you gasp and choke, how Joel grits his teeth as he pounds into you, getting close now, feeling you tighten and leak and flutter around him, bunching your shirt up your back so he can press a hot kiss to your spine.

‘Give it to me,’ he groans, ‘Give it to me, baby, come on. You’ve got it, you can do it. Come for me.’

You heave a broken, high pitched whine at his words, and Frankie’s eyes snap to yours. His lips part in a breath, his only visible reaction, but it’s enough. Like the command has slipped from his lips too, your vision whitens and your back arches, fingers scrabbling against the smooth surface beneath you as you constrict so tightly around Joel you can feel the way you have to stretch again to take him in.

‘Good girl,’ he groans, ‘Such a good girl. So pretty, baby, so good. Now, tell me - tell me where you want it -’

You moan again, eyes flicking back to Frankie when they roll from the back of your skull. The thought crosses your mind, but you can’t find the words, can’t feel your legs, only the grip of Joel's fingers as he changes tack - ‘Tell me, or I’ll decide.’

You gasp out a fuck, forehead pressed against the counter, trying to decide whether you’re brave enough to say it, brave enough to ask -

‘Please -’

But it doesn’t come from you. You roll your head on the marble to find Frankie stepping slowly into the kitchen, cheeks pink, chest rising and falling quickly. 

‘I can - let me help -’ Fuck. Fuck. You try to twist to gauge Joel's reaction, but his mind is made up so quickly you only get the chance to feel desperately empty before he tells Frankie to kneel.

The younger man drops to his knees beside you m, in front of Joel, chest heaving now, tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously - and you want to kiss him. You want to kiss him so bad, but the thought is quickly whisked away as Joel steps closer, fisting his thick cock in his hand.

‘You want this?’ He grits. Frankie nods eagerly, transfixed by the man above him, eyes flicking between Joel’s and the swollen head of his cock, soaked with your slick and cum, dribbling the precursor of Joel’s own release. ‘Show me.’

Frankie’s mouth falls open instantly, his tongue sliding past his lips to welcome the tip of Joel’s cock. You moan, knees finally giving out, landing next to Frankie. He doesn’t take his eyes off Joel.

The older man gasps out a curse at the sight, before ropes of thick, milky cum spurt from his tip onto Frankie’s tongue, filling his mouth, weaker pulses landing on his chin as Joel squeezes the last of his release out. You tear your eyes from Frankie to the man above you, the way he pants, eyes aflame, jaw slack.

‘Swallow.’

You whip back round to Frankie to see his throat bob as he follows the instruction, and he opens his mouth again to show Joel that he’s done exactly as he asked.

‘Good boy,’ he drawls, swiping a thumb against his chin to collect the remnants of his spend before offering it to you. You open your mouth just as eagerly, but Joel seems to think twice. He spreads it across one cheek, and then the other, painting you, before placing the digit firmly on your tongue, allowing your tongue to lathe the taste of him from the pad. Frankie leans towards you, and then you feel his tongue, warm and wet against your cheek, licking away at the cum that Joel spread there. Joel chuckles at him.

‘Desperate for more.’ 

Frankie hums against you, tongue now flicking at the corner of your lips. Joel raises an eyebrow at you.

‘What are you waiting for, sweetheart?’ he purrs, ‘Show Frankie how well he did.’

You twist your head to Frankie’s, one hand going to the back of his head, fisting his curls, the other tracing the waistband of his jeans, eager fingers feeling the warm skin there, trying to touch further, trying to reach him. You lick into his mouth, tongue grazing his teeth as you palm him over the denim, and he moans against you. You retract your hand from his curls and start at his fly before a sharp, trilling noise makes you flinch back. His phone rings in his back pocket.

‘Ignore it, don’t worry about it,’ he says, pulling you back towards him, his mouth soft and urgent against yours, your fingers clumsy at the front of his jeans, twisting in the material, against metal, and fuck -

‘Why do you have so many fucking buttons?’

He laughs, breathy, exasperated into your hair.

‘It’s the - it’s the fucking style - there’s no zipper, it’s just buttons -’

You giggle as well, the ringing of his phone chiming off as you hear Joel say ‘just buttons?’ from behind you.

You manage to get two undone before his phone begins to ring again, and this time he breaks the kiss to drag it out off his pocket and silence it. He glances at the screen, hisses a fuck, and bites his bottom lip. You stall your movements, frowning at him.

‘You okay?’

‘One sec -’

He declines the call, but you see he’s missed messages as well. His brow pulls tighter as he reads them, and he scrubs an irritated hand over his face before looking back at you, his eyes dark, apologetic, pissed off.

‘I gotta go,’ he says, forehead knocking against yours before he’s wobbling to his feet, breathless, ‘I gotta - it’s Benny, I don’t know - I don’t know what it is, but -’ His phone pings with another text, and he breathes out a fuck’s sake. ‘I’m sorry -’

‘Hey,’ Joel says softly, and you look back up at him. He still looks as wrecked as before, but he’s straightened himself out and his gaze is softened by concern. Without looking, he holds a hand out to pull you up off the floor, and you gratefully accept, pulling up your jeans. ‘It’s okay, really, it’s okay. Don’t be sorry - what’s happened?’

Frankie relaxes, exhales.

‘Bar fight. Benny and Will were still there when we left. Looks like Benny’s managed to piss the wrong people off.’ he pauses. ‘Again.’ 

Joel chuckles, lands a hand on his shoulder.

‘Got a little brother just like it. You want us to come with?’

Frankie looks from you to Joel, and shakes his head.

‘No,’ he smiles, ‘Thanks, that’s alright. Can’t be getting distracted on my way there. Won’t be much help in jail.’

You grin at him, straightening his shirt, his curls, and he lets you fuss. You swipe your thumb at the corner of his mouth, and he flushes. 

‘Are you sure?’ You ask.

He huffs a laugh, adjusting himself through his jeans, and you pout a little at his discomfort.

‘No,’ he admits, ‘But I’ll be alright. Honestly.’

‘Okay,’ you say, ‘Okay.’

He smiles again, dipping to kiss your cheek before shyly, hesitantly doing the same to Joel. You watch the smile that blooms across the older man’s lips before you find yourself mirroring it. 

‘I’ll walk you to your truck.’ Joel says. Frankie nods gratefully, and you hum as Joel squeezes your waist before heading towards the front door. 

‘See you next time, baby.’ You murmur to Frankie.

‘Next time.’ He whispers back, grinning and turning to follow Joel. He makes it to the open doorway before you remember.

‘Frankie -’ you call, and he turns, framed by the night behind him. You make a motion at your crotch, and he cocks his head at you. ‘Buttons.’ You stage-whisper, and he laughs as he adjusts himself, refastening the two you managed to get undone.

‘See you soon, hermosa,’ he says softly, and you smile as he follows Joel out to his truck.

You can’t sleep.

You’d bored quickly of tossing and turning, Joel dead to the world beside you, and had slunk downstairs for a glass of water. There’s a niggling feeling in your chest, something left unsatisfied. Guilty that, yet again, Frankie had not been given what he deserved, guilty that you hadn’t had time to see it through. And you just want to know if he’s okay, if he’s safe. You shoot him a text, leant against the marble he had watched you get fucked over less than two hours ago. Just a quick hey, are you okay?

You bite at your thumb, tap out another one - did you get home safe? He replies almost instantly.

Hey. I did. All good. I’m great. Had a great time

Then -

Thank you

You chew your lip a while, frowning, trying to work out if you believe him or not. God, texting sucks. Maybe you should call. You should call, just to check, even though he stayed, even though he watched, even though he said yes, even with the text -

But Frankie takes the decision from you with the next message, a voicenote minutes long. You wind yourself up for whatever it could possibly be, but nothing prepares you for the breathy moan that emanates loudly from your phone, so surprised that you almost drop the device. It’s followed by another, and the slick sound of what you can only assume to be Frankie’s fist fucking his cock, filtered through his quick, hot breaths. You close your eyes in rapt attention, dropping a hand to cup your sex as you listen to him whimper, as you listen to him whisper how good it feels, how he wants you, how he can still taste Joel in his mouth, how he’s about to come, how he���s coming - 

It takes you an embarrassingly short amount of time to follow him, chest heaving against the cool marble of the counter top, legs shaky as you stand up right.

There’s not a peep from upstairs. You decide to let Joel sleep this one out.

You’ll send him the audio in the morning.

———

Work is slow, and is only sped up by being, in Joel’s words, an insufferable tease.

You’d bounded around the bedroom this morning, still secretly thrilled with the voicenote from last night, not heeding Joel’s pleas to come back to bed as he watched you don his favourite matching set, stockings, a tight little pencil skirt and blouse, before pressing a deep, lingering kiss to his mouth and floating out the door to work. You made sure to send him a pretty little picture of your dripping cunt on your lunch break, quickly followed by Frankie’s voicenote, and to your delight, receive a video of him coming hard in return.

You bite your lip, squirming at your desk, sure you’ll soak through your skirt when he sends you a follow up message soon after.

You got plans tonight?

No? You shoot back.

Good. Stay free, baby

And oh, you don’t plan on being anything but before he leaves tomorrow.

———

When you get home from work, Joel is waiting. 

Waiting conspicuously in a pressed white dress shirt and slacks, a couple buttons undone so you’re greeted with the warm sight of his chest as he opens the door. He looks… divine. And he smells just as good, too. You press your lips to his quickly.

‘You look gorgeous,’ you smile, palm against his chest, one hand on his cheek to smooth the hair of his moustache. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘Come upstairs,’ he says, smiling. ‘I wanna show you something.’

You raise an eyebrow, all manner of possibilities flashing through your mind before you drop your bag in the hallway and take his outstretched hand.

With one hand on your hip and another over your eyes, Joel guides you towards the bed. His fingers are warm and clammy over your eyelids, and you giggle as you both stumble forwards, the shadow of a bitten laugh trickling into your ear from behind you. 

‘What are you doing?’ 

‘One more second, ‘n you’ll find out.’

Joel brings you to a gentle stop before positioning you at just the angle he wants before taking his hand away from your face. He chuckles to find your eyes still squeezed shut. 

‘Open your eyes, baby.’

You blink them open, taking a long moment to realise what it is he’s showing you.

Laid out on the bed is a beautiful short and silken black dress. 

A short breath bursts from your lips as you step forwards to take the hem delicately in your fingers. 

‘Joel…’ you whisper, accusatory. It feels like water, so luxurious beneath your fingertips that you want to scold him for buying it. But when you turn and find his eyes bright, excited, soft, the guilt dies easily in your chest. ‘It’s beautiful.’

He shrugs, trying to disguise how pleased he is with your reaction. 

You step back towards him, taking his face in your hands, pressing kisses anywhere you can. 

‘Thank you,’ you murmur, ‘Thank you, baby, thank you. You really didn’t have to, but thank you.’

He scoffs lightly against your lips, hands gripping your hips again. 

‘’Course I did,’ he grins. A dirty, secret little thing. ‘You needed something to wear for tonight.’

A worry tugs in your chest. Tonight? Have you forgotten something? Fuck - should you have bought him something, too? It can’t be the anniversary of anything, you haven’t even -

As though he’s read your thoughts, Joel pulls you closer, one hand drifting lower to palm your ass. 

‘We’re going on a date.’

‘A date?’

Mhm, he hums against your mouth. 

‘Surprise date.’

‘You bought this for a date?’

You give him your most serious look, head tilted, movements stilled. Pink flushes up from beneath his shirt collar. 

‘Yeah, darlin’. Special dress for a special girl.’

You frown a little. 

‘Where are we going where I’ll need to dress like that?’

Joel bites his lip. 

‘Nice restaurant. We’re all getting dressed up.’

‘All?’

Joel extracts himself from your fingers, moving to fix his slicked back hair.

‘Joel. All?’

He shrugs again, looks at you over his shoulder in the mirror. 

‘I had some help choosing the dress.’

Fuck. Fuck. Heat flashes between your thighs so quickly that you sit down heavily on the edge of the mattress. Joel smirks at you through the glass as you try and regulate your breathing. Your heart thrums in your chest as the thoughts clash through your head - Frankie on his knees behind the door, his wide, hungry eyes, Frankie on his knees in front of Joel, the drip of your cunt onto the floor, the full, overwhelming feeling of Joel claiming you after Santi, Santi’s fingers on your jaw, you look at your daddy when you come for me -

Joel squats down in front of you, his knees popping, two fingers lifting your chin. 

‘Need to get ready, sugar,’ he drawls, ‘Rude to keep the boys waiting.’

You suck in a hot breath, eyes glazed, body warm and fluid already. 

‘Are - are they coming back here?’

‘Not tonight,’ he murmurs. ‘Want you to myself before I head out in the morning.’

He stands as you blink up at him, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth

‘Soon, baby,’ he reassures, ‘You’ll have us soon.’

———

Joel holds your hand as you descend the marble steps into the sunken restaurant. It’s gorgeous - classy - maybe a little too much, but you can’t find the wherewithal to care when he leads you to your table. Frankie and Santi are already seated and looking equally as handsome. They stand as you approach, Frankie flushing as he takes you in, kissing your cheek, Pope letting out a low whistle as he does the same.

You talk over glasses of wine, nibbles of bread, and your starter course; conversation often interrupted by anecdotes and jokes and observations of other patrons that definitely could have waited til later. Joel fills the boys in on the contract he’ll be away on up in Tulsa until late next week, and Pope says he will be flying back to Colombia for a few days to straighten out a couple loose ends with his last contract. You frown at him, having not been aware of this most recent development, but he’s quick to assure you that it is just that. Paperwork and documents he needs to ensure can be sealed away, picking up a couple of things from the Embassy, catching up with a couple of old colleagues, and then heading home. The boys never really talk about exactly what went down those years ago when they lost Tom, and frankly you’re not sure if you want to know. From what they have said, it was rash, greedy, and all but fucked from the start. Not something you’re particularly keen on imagining. But you’re glad that, this time, he’ll be safe and keeping away from it.

Joel and Santi share a glance over your head, and you realise you should have known. Should have known they’d be plotting and scheming.

It doesn’t take as long as it did the first time to set out the rules.

With the older men away, you and Frankie are free to spend your time as you see fit. Neither of you need to be looked after, neither of you need to be kept an eye on, but Santi and Joel phrase the opportunity to spend time together as more of a challenge. To see how you can work each other up, how well you can behave without either of them there to tell you what to do and how to do it. You’re grinning into your wine as you imagine it, all of the things you can do without actually fucking, until Joel halts your train of thought.

‘There’s one rule,’ he says. You pause mid-sip. He spears a piece of asparagus with his fork, bringing it to his mouth. ‘You can’t touch each other.’

You swallow, confused, looking across to Frankie, who is suddenly unable to meet your eye, and then to Pope, who watches the two of you with a cruelly delighted smirk.

‘We - what?’ You ask, confused.

‘Can’t touch,’ Joel says again, ‘’s your only rule. Dinner, drinks, movies, hell, sleepin’ in the same bed is fine. You just can’t touch.’ 

You stare at him. This is it. He’s lost his damn mind. 

‘Little challenge for you, baby girl,’ he says, ‘I know Frankie can do it. This one’s for you.’

You open your mouth, about to protest how that can’t possibly be fair before snapping your jaw closed again. Joel watches, amused. This is not an argument you will win.

‘Fine.’ You say, even as Santi snickers at the fact that it’s evidently not. You decide on a change of tact. ‘And myself?’ Frankie finally looks up at you, eyes wide. Your lips curl in a pleased smile as Santi takes a steadying sip of his drink.

‘You can touch yourself, darlin’’ Joel says, unfazed, ‘Never said you couldn’t do that.’

You nod, gears turning. An idea forming, one you tamp down by resting your hand on Joel’s thigh.

‘Was Benny okay last night?’ You ask Frankie, changing the subject. Your fingers begin their slow and steady stroke up and down Joel’s thigh as you watch the younger man flush.

‘Yeah,’ he nods, ‘He was only arrested for starting a bar fight -’

Your hand pauses only briefly on Joel’s thigh.

‘He was arrested?’

Frankie grins.

‘Yep. Not the first time. One day he might learn his lesson.’

You chuckle along with Joel and Santi.

‘Was he okay?’

‘Always is,’ Frankie says, ‘Lucky motherfucker. You should see the other guy.’

You smile, scraping your nails along Joel’s pants now, pleased when he shifts in his seat. He leans in close to your ear.

‘Knock it off, princess. I know exactly what you’re tryna do.’

You raise an eyebrow at him.

‘Never said I couldn’t touch you, daddy.’

You turn back to face Frankie, and he eyes you suspiciously. 

‘Don’t miss those days,’ Joel says, and Frankie’s eyes flick to him. ‘Tommy straightened out once he met Maria. Think the worst time I had to bail him out was the night’a my 36th birthday. He near caused a riot at some bar downtown. They still won't let him back in.’

‘Can imagine Tommy raining hell down on ‘em,’ Pope says, beside you. ‘He and Benny would make a hell of a team.’

Joel chuckles.

‘Sure would,’ he says, and you slide your palm over to cup him through his pants. He’s rock hard, cock twitching at your touch. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. ‘She made him into a better man, my sister-in-law. Keeps him far outta trouble.’

His hand finds your own thigh beneath the table, squeezing as Santi begins to regale a story from his younger days with the boys. He starts the same ministrations as you, stroking, scraping, higher and higher, up to where you’re dripping, soaking yourself -

‘Joel.’ You whisper, something urgent in your voice. Why isn’t he stopping?

You’re suddenly nervous at the fact you’d decided to forego any underwear for the sake of the dress, before realising that is exactly what Joel had wanted. Like he knew you’d be running your hand up and down his thigh at the table, like he knew you’d be teasing him. Like he knew he could not only tease right back, but win the whole damn game. Smug bastard. He can read you like a book.

He leans in close to murmur into the conch of your ear.

‘Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby,’ as he pushes your dress higher to cup your sex. You clench your jaw as he chuckles underneath his breath, feeling how wet you are, how much more slick spills out at the pressure he applies. 

His fingers move up to circle your clit gently, and you let out a shaky breath. You watch him from the corner of your eye, his chin in his fist, eyes sparkling as he listens to and watches the two other men, as his movements against your cunt grow firmer, faster. You reach for your wine glass, eyes flicking to Frankie, only to find him looking at you, eyes bright with amusement. You narrow your eyes, and Joel leans in again.

‘Good girl, he says, ‘You’re gonna keep looking at Frankie, and I’m gonna make you come like this. And next time, you’re not gonna play any of your games in the middle of a restaurant.’

You grit your teeth against the whimper that fights to escape as quiet falls at the table, the conversation quickly forgotten as Frankie leans back in his chair, smirking, watching intensely. You don’t break eye contact as Santi’s hand drifts to the soft flesh of your thigh, drawing goosebumps as it nears Joel’s, as he traces the seam of your cunt, smearing the wetness around your skin. You don’t even look when Pope brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking the tips before releasing them with a lewd pop.

‘Good enough to eat.’

Your cunt throbs in response, breathing coming more laboured as Joel’s fingers work you tighter, tighter, slipping away to hook your thigh out wider, only to be replaced by Santi’s. Once he’s satisfied with your new position, he slips his hand beneath Pope’s, working the digits easily into your pussy, pumping in and out, curling to find that sweet spot within you. A small, desperate noise escapes you, and you set your glass down, your drink forgotten as you clutch at the napkin closest to you, body burning, buzzing, throbbing with pleasure. It’s too much, and it’s not enough.

You break eye contact with Frankie, holding your breath and biting your lip so hard you’re sure you’ll either pass out or draw blood.

‘No, baby,’ Joel rumbles into your hair, ‘Keep looking at Frankie. He’s gonna watch you come like this.’ You moan quietly again, meeting Frankie’s eyes, hot and close, so close.

Santi leans in so you can feel his hot breath against your cheek, goading, teasing -

‘Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.’

Your orgasm clatters through you, the tightly bound knot bursting as you lean forward onto the table, trying to stop your body from twitching. You feel yourself tighten and clench around Joel’s fingers, feel your thighs grow wetter, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as Pope looses a quiet groan. The fire and heat of it make it almost impossible to keep quiet, a moan slipping past your lips as Joel retracts his fingers too quickly to pat you on the back in some kind of misleading gesture. Santi keeps his fingers pressed to your clit for as long as possible, letting you ride it out, before circling it again.

A gasped fuck passes your lips, and you slam your fist down onto the table, clattering the silverware and glasses. The action draws a chuckle from Santi and Joel, and sharp looks from the two tables closest to you.

You cough a little, trying to affect the pretence of choking, spluttering, anything that doesn’t look like you just came in the middle of a restaurant. 

When you haul your body back to sit upright, Joel moves his hand to your thigh, and Santi follows suit. Their fingers are wet against you, and you try not to look, try not to feel it, but it’s impossible. The slick feeling, the heat, the pressure. You could go again.

But, god, your throat is so dry.

As if on cue, the waitress appears at your shoulder to refill your water. You try to clear your throat to express your gratitude before noticing the deep red flush clawing up her neck, her gaze drawn to each hand still splayed on your thigh, dress rucked a little higher than it should be. You smile sheepishly at her, finally whisper a thank you.

When she leaves the table, you heave a deep breath, your head in your hands.

‘Almost.’ Joel whispers in your ear.

You resist the urge to flip him off, and instead decide the best way to get a hold of yourself is to head to the bathroom. Clean yourself up, splash a little cold water on your face. 

‘Excuse me,’ you murmur, voice hoarse and strained, and Frankie can’t help the smile that reaches his eyes. Looking to Joel and Santi, it appears they feel the same way. You grin despite yourself as you stand on unsteady legs, Joel’s hands shooting out to steady you as you giggle at the three of them, enjoying their favourite game.

‘Fuck you guys,’ you laugh as you turn on your heel, and they mirror your chuckles.

You’re almost to the door of the restroom when your waitress catches your eye. You try to smile at her and glide past without drawing any more attention to yourself, but fail.

‘Ma’am,’ she calls softly, stepping just in front of you. Your stomach twists. Fuck, she knows. She knows, and she’s gonna kick you all out, you’re gonna get arrested - ‘Are you alright?’

You blink at her, surprised. And then it clicks. One woman, surrounded by three men. The hands on your thighs, your dress. Three men who have been talking intently, possessively, obviously, even if they can’t be heard. You exhale.

‘Oh no, it’s - yes. Thank you for checking. That’s - really kind of you. I’m fine. We’re friends - I mean - it’s complicated - but it’s nothing to worry about.’

It’s complicated? Why the fuck did you say that? You twist your fingers as you try and work out how to extricate yourself from the hole you’ve dug, but your mind draws a blank. You pray she missed your phrasing, her eyes searching your face as you give her your warmest smile. It’s only a moment before she returns it, even brighter.

‘Oh, like a - what is it - a polyamorous thing? That’s neat. You get it, cowgirl,’ she grins, before clapping a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh my god,’ she gasps, ‘I’m so sorry, that was so unprofessional -’

You laugh, somewhat relieved, placing a gentle hand on her arm - it soothes her.

‘No, please,’ you giggle, ‘It’s fine, really.’

She peels her fingers back from her lips nervously and massages her temples.

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she whispers, before meeting your eye again. ‘I’m sorry. But as long as you’re good. You know, taken care of.’ You watch as she cringes at herself. You reach out again to press her bicep.

‘Really, it’s fine,’ you say, glancing back to your table. You feel… warm as you look over at the three of them - relaxed, laughing. Warm at how easily you can all move back and forth in this dynamic. Warm at the feel of the slick around the tops of your legs. ‘I’m very well taken care of. And it’s really good of you to check.’

She smiles at you again as you step away towards the bathroom.

‘Oh, not at all,’ she says, bashful. ‘I’m glad. You guys have fun.’

The rest of the night passes easily, wrapped in conversation and good food. Jokes are whipped across the table so fast that the four of you cackle with laughter, the air sizzling with good humour and lightness. Joel has his hands on you whenever he can, and when you finally leave the restaurant just before closing time, Pope holds you tenderly, kisses both cheeks, and murmurs that he hopes you learned your lesson. You smack his arm and tell him to be safe in Colombia. Frankie does the same, but departs with a remark about how beautiful you looked instead - ‘especially when you come, hermosa’ he adds.

Joel makes sure you remember what he taught you at the table, taking the time to rock you through orgasm after orgasm in his bed until you’re in tears, until he’s sure the neighbours can hear you calling yes daddy, thank you daddy, I’m sorry daddy over the lawn.

He pulls you close afterwards, pressing kisses to any slither of skin he can, telling you how well you did, how proud you make him, how good you can be when you try. He only leaves to head through to the bathroom to turn on the shower, making you promise to join him when you can rouse yourself from the snuggly duvet. You don’t take much convincing.

Once you can hear him humming under the flow of water, you pad downstairs to the bag you’d left in the hallway yesterday. You root around in it before finding what you need, clutching it to your chest with a thrill before retreating back to Joel’s bedroom. You bury it in his suitcase, underneath at least a day’s worth of clothes, before stripping and joining him in the shower.

———

When you wake the next morning, Joel’s suitcase is already zipped shut, and the smell of coffee is drifting up the stairs.

You find him sat at the breakfast table, staring out into the weak morning sunshine, a steaming mug already set down for you across from him. You drift past him, a hand trailing from one shoulder, over his broad back, to the next, tracing the lines of your favourite plaid shirt, before pressing a kiss to his temple. 

You sit quietly in each other’s company, the silence slowly turning to low conversation. What route he’ll be taking, where he’ll be staying, what the job will involve, what the people are like. What your work week looks like, what the book you’re reading is about, what you’ll do with him gone. You settle your chin on your palm.

‘Any other rules I should know about?’

Joel looks back at you with amusement written all over his face.

‘No. Jus’ don’t try anything at dinner again. Or do. I’m always happy to remind you.’

You giggle, and he grins back, all white teeth and crinkly eyes.

‘You know, even the waitress asked if I was okay afterwards.’

He grunts, enough of a question in it for you to continue.

‘I mean, I don’t think she saw anything go down. But she saw me with you guys and asked if I was okay.’

Joel raises his eyebrows.

‘What do you mean?’ 

You falter.

‘I guess… you know. Me, with you guys. Just making sure nothing - weird was going on.’

‘Weird?’

‘Bad.’ You say. Joel’s eyes soften, but his brow furrows.

‘I said no, of course. That we’re all friends. I don’t know. I rambled. She asked - she asked whether it was a polyamorous thing,’ you shrug.

‘’N what did you say?’

Something about the way Joel asks the question catches you off guard. A little brusque, a little too quick off his tongue. Your eyes narrow slightly.

‘Nothing,’ you admit, ‘I didn’t want to get into the semantics of what we do with a stranger. And - I don’t know what to call it. I don’t know if that is what it is.’

‘It something you’re interested in?’

You blink at him. He’s not looking at you, his jaw set, body tense. You feel your own jaw clench.

‘Is it something you’re interested in?’

Joel chews the side of his cheek, brow knitted as he looks out to the garden into the morning sunlight.

‘I don’t know,’ he says, ‘Not really thought about it before.’

You soften at the way his body deflates. Remember this is just as fresh for him as it is for you. You nod, reach out to take his massive hand in yours. His eyes swing back to you, and you squeeze his fingers. 

‘You don’t have to think about it,’ you reassure him, ‘All of this is new. All of it. And if you want to talk about it, we’ll talk about it. But -’ you say, reaching to hold his other hand, too, ‘I want you to know none of it changes how I feel about you. You are enough for me. You will always be enough for me.’

Joel searches your face, quiet and serious. You lift his hands to your lips and press a tender kiss to his knuckles.

‘I love you.’ You say, softly.

There’s no sound through the quiet dawn of the world but a quiet intake of breath from Joel across the table. Your eyes flick up to him at the sound, to the brows slightly further up his tan forehead, his wide, surprised, brown eyes. And you realise that it’s slipped from you, aloud, for the first time. All that time spent thinking it, knowing it, feeling it, but those words in that order have been yet to pass either of your lips. In the conversations between sharing spaces, meeting families, spending time with friends, you’d forgotten to put into words what you’d assumed Joel already knew.

I love you.

You still, his hands unmoving before your lips, releasing a quiet exhale of your own.

‘I love you,’ you say again, even softer. And then, through heat rising in your chest - ‘You don’t have to say it back. If you’re not ready yet - you don’t have to ever say it back if you don’t want to -’

He grips your hands tight.

‘I love you.’ he says, gravelly and warm. And you believe him. See it in all its molten gold truth in his eyes. I love you.

You can’t help the delighted little laugh that falls from your lips. The same sound slips from Joel, and you sit, giggling and grinning at each other, in love, unaware of the minutes that tick by. You bite your lip.

‘Does that mean you’re my boyfriend now?’

Joel baulks at you, laughter frozen on his lips. Your heart squeezes, joy almost overtaken by nerves.

‘You mean - did I never ask you that?’

You shake your head slowly.

Joel sucks a breath in through his teeth. Something passes over his features; embarrassment, shame -

‘I’m sorry,’ he says lowly, a flush colouring his cheeks, ‘I’m sorry - I just - I assumed -’ he ducks his head away from you, ‘What an ass -’

You giggle at him, and he fixes you with his best puppy dog eyes.

‘Joel,’ you smile, ‘It’s okay, honestly -’

But he shakes his head.

‘No,’ he winces, ‘Sarah would be - so disappointed in me if she knew. She -’ he fixes you with an apologetic stare again, ‘She knew I loved you before you did. My God. And Tommy - Tommy would be wringing my neck, and my Momma - she raised me better than this -’

‘Joel,’ you laugh, standing from your chair to circle the table. Instinctively, he spreads his thighs for you to sit, and you settle down onto him, your legs perpendicular to his. You thread your arms around his neck, holding him close, and a warm palm comes to pet the small of your back. ‘Relax. Please don’t worry about it,’ you press a kiss to the patch in his beard, and he leans his head into you, eyes closed. ‘Besides. I kinda assumed it, too.’

His eyes open, so full of warmth, love.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘Do ya wanna be my girlfriend?’ 

You huff a laugh into his neck, resting on his shoulder.

‘Baby,’ you tease, ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

You spend a little while longer like that, curled up in his lap like a cat, sharing kisses and giggles, until Joel checks his watch and sighs. You clamber off him and follow him upstairs, leaning against the doorframe as he makes his final checks.

‘Joel,’ you call softly, hesitating. You cringe in the doorway. ‘Is it - seeing Frankie for dinner tonight, is that - is that still okay?’

He smiles and steps towards you, gathering you in his arms.

‘You know what the limits are,’ he says into your hair. ‘I trust you. ’F I didn’t want you to do something, you’d have known about it before dinner. ’Sides,’ he says, ‘You’ll look good together at that table. I’ll be thinkin’ bout it while I’m away.’

You snort and rest your forehead against his chest, breathing his scent in.

‘Just wanted to check.’ You mumble. Joel presses a kiss to your hair, rocking you side to side.

‘I love you.’ He says.

‘Love you too.’ You whisper.

Minutes later, you watch his truck peel away from the house, waving through the rays of sunlight now peeking out from the trees. He waves back, his arm out the driver’s side window, until the truck disappears from view. You swallow the lump in your throat, wash the coffee mugs, gather your clothes, and lock Joel’s front door behind you.

———

Joel calls you later in the afternoon to let you know he’s arrived safe. And Frankie texts to let you know he’s picking you up at seven.

When you get home from work, you busy yourself with a shower, with laundry you’ve held off, with tidying the house, and when you’re settled, ready, you call Joel again. Just to hear his voice, just to know he’s eaten. He chuckles a melody down the line at your fussing, but before he has to hang up, he lets slip that he misses you already, just as much. 

When seven rolls around, you feel warm, giddy, nerves fluttering in your stomach as you wait for the sound of tyres outside. 

Frankie greets you at your door, relaxed in a t-shirt that strains across his arms, his signature cap, and a beaming smile. You melt a little at the sight of him, so boyish, so bashful, so handsome, that you have to forcefully remind yourself of the rules. No touching, which must surely extend to no kissing. Still, as though he can’t help himself, he keeps a palm on the small of your back as he leads you into the small restaurant he’s chosen and plays with your fingers while you’re sat at your table.

You eat and talk, laughing and smiling like you always do. He asks about work, the projects you’re working on, and you fill him in on all the office gossip. How one of the line managers got fired last week, how Trisha from accounting is pregnant. He asks question after question until you laugh and remind him that you want to talk about him as well, and he flushes shyly. You ask about Lucia, about work, about flying again. He tells you about the places he’s been, the people he’s taken there, and one nightmare trip from last week where one woman refused to get in the helicopter, too scared to fly, until she had to be told that it was part of the proposal her boyfriend had planned. 

You order gelato for dessert and share it with two spoons, giggling as you feed it to each other. You both get a text from Santi, a selfie of him sipping a beer, looking warm and delicious. You get a text from Joel, too, a picture of him straight out of the shower which sets your cunt throbbing, hoping you’re having a good night.

Frankie insists on settling the check and walks you back to his truck with a warm palm still on your skin. He opens the door for you, waiting for you to settle in your seat before he shuts it and crosses to the driver’s side.

He drives you to a spot overlooking the city, and you stay in the cab, seatbelts unbuckled, turned towards each other, swapping stories like teenagers at a sleepover. You try not to think too hard as the night settles in around you. Try not to watch his hands, his thick fingers, the way his arms bunch and flex, how strong his thighs look, how good he smells. But it’s so hard, so hard when he’s right across from you, smiling, eyes trailing over your body, getting caught on your lips, watching the way your limbs are draped in his truck. The way he’s looking at you makes it hard to remember the rules, hard to resist leaning over the console and pressing your mouth to his, especially when he lowly confesses how badly he wants to kiss you.

You huff a breathless laugh, looking away from him out to the shimmering skyline outside the window screen. Try to distract yourself with how the distant lights of the city shimmer like moonlight on water, how the structures of the skyscrapers reach up to the night flights swooping over the horizon. Something as far away from your body as possible, so you don’t have to think about Frankie’s warm, broad chest, what he would sound like moaning against you. 

‘I wish you would,’ You whisper. When you turn back to look at Frankie, he is already watching you. Pressed against the driver’s side door, mouth slightly open, his eyes sparkling and dark. ‘You could kiss me.’

His mouth closes with a gentle snap of his teeth, and he shakes his head.

‘You know I can’t do that.’

You nod, eyes finding the skyline again.

‘I know. But I still wish you would.’

In the silence that follows, you can feel slick drooling and cooling from your cunt, soaking your panties. You shift in your seat, unsure whether you’re trying to ignore or resolve the discomfort. Frankie watches you still, and when you wriggle again, his own hips shift. You fix him with a stare, the air hot and thick between you. You curve your body towards him, one hand coming down gently to hold yourself over the console.

‘They wouldn’t know. If we kissed.’

Frankie continues to stare as you remain frozen, poised before him.

‘I know.’

‘Then let me kiss you.’

‘No, hermosa.’

You look back and forth between his eyes and his lips, watching his throat bob as he tries to keep his distance.

You slump backwards a little, trying not to feel any kind of acute rejection. You’re just hot, bothered, unbearably aroused in the cabin of his truck. His refusing to kiss you isn’t a mark on his desire, just his self control. Muscle memory of years of following instructions. Frankie turns his body, facing forward out the windscreen in his seat. He swipes his palms over the steering wheel, and your lips part, cunt burning when you imagine those hands on you again, huge palms sweeping down your curves, your thighs, up between your legs -

‘I’m not gonna kiss you, because then I’ll need to fuck you.’

Your gasp zips past your lips before you can stop it. Frankie keeps his eyes trained forwards as you stare at him. Your pussy clenches around nothing, needing something to sate it, a touch, a glance, anything -

‘Frankie -’

He shakes his head, grip tightening on the wheel.

‘Please, Frankie, I’ll be so good -’

‘Enough.’

You watch his nostrils flare, watch a muscle in his jaw tick. Watch a certain darkness sweep over his features, and you know, you know you’ve won.

He never stood a chance.

‘Tell me,’ you whisper, and he shakes his head, skull pressed into the headrest, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. ‘I want you to tell me. Tell me how you’d fuck me.’

Frankie closes his eyes slowly, his shoulders tensing, breath faltering. 

‘No,’ he whispers, ‘No, baby, I can’t do that -’

You whine, hands scrubbing down your bare thighs, trying to find something to grip, to hold, something that’s not him -

‘God - it hurts, Frankie,’ you mumble, wriggling in the seat, and his eyes flick back and forth over you; your pathetic attempts to grind into something, the heaving of your chest, the wild, desperate look in your eyes.

‘What, baby? What hurts?’ He breathes, and he’s leaning forwards over the centre console like he could pounce on you, like he could hold your hands in a tight, binding grip behind your back, like he could eat you here, devour you here -

You whimper by way of an answer, hands finally resting on the hem of your skirt, pushing it up, up to bunch at your hips. Frankie watches, eyes molten and black as you cup your sex, as you buck against your hand. He moans loudly at the sight.

‘There, hermosa?’

You shudder out a sigh, a hissed yes as you apply more pressure. His throat bobs as he considers, as he weighs his options.

‘Please, Frankie -’ you beg, though you’re not even sure what for. Rules, rules, but none of them seem to make sense anymore, none of them seem to matter as you lick your own lips at his growing bulge through his jeans. He breathes in harshly, swiping a palm across his mouth before he fixes you with a look that makes you feel dizzy. He swallows thickly.

‘Show me.’

Easy, so easy. You lift your hips from the seat and slide your thumbs under the waistband of your panties, pulling them down, down, watching him the whole time. He waits like he’s forgotten how to breathe, this starving, tortured look in his eyes like he’s on fire and water is just out of reach. You spread your legs for him and dip your fingers to your slit, gathering the slickness there before trailing the digits further up, spreading yourself in a v shape so he can see everything, see how you throb, how your clit twitches, how you leak down into the cleft of your ass. 

‘Need you, Frankie,’ you whine, ‘Need you to -’

He lurches back like he’s been shocked.

‘Don’t,’ he grits, ‘Don’t, you know I can’t touch you -’

‘Then watch,’ you breathe, ‘He said don’t touch. But you can watch. I can watch.’

‘Watch?’ he repeats, breathless, body shifting, open, and you nod, mewling against your palm. 

‘Yeah,’ you murmur, ‘Frankie, baby, let me watch you. Need to see you.’

He stares at you, something working behind his eyes.

‘Watch,’ he says again, nodding, ‘Yeah, please baby, is that okay? Can I watch?’

You nod, relishing the control that he shifts so easily to you. So easy. You trace the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading the glistening wetness so it catches every stream of moonlight bruising through the window. 

‘You, too. Wanna watch you, too.’

He nods quickly, mouth agape, unable to tear his eyes away from your core. He palms himself roughly over his jeans.

You trace your fingers back over your clit, swiping it in circles until your head falls back against the window, your brows pulling together as you loose a quiet cry. You bite your lip, looking down your nose at Frankie

‘How does it feel?’ he gasps, ‘Please - tell me - how does it feel?’

‘Good,’ you gasp, ‘So good, Frankie.’

He groans, his hands finding his button and zipper, undoing them before shifting his hips to pull his jeans down. He reaches inside his boxers to pull himself free, swollen and aching. 

He’s thick, and just as big as you knew he would be - but he’s so pretty as well. The same tan as his skin, pink flush at his tip, skin silken and veins throbbing beneath the surface.  You moan, wanton and crooning, sinking a finger into yourself as he grips his base, squeezing at the sight of your digit disappearing up to the knuckle. 

His hips lift as he fucks himself slowly into his fist, lips wet and eyes blown, his other hand coming away from scratching at the denim of his thigh to squeezing and cupping his balls. You go slow for him as he watches, working your bud in agonisingly slow circles, pumping your finger in and out gently until you remove it completely, Frankie’s eyes drawn to the strand of slick suspended from your finger. He moans, a sick, feral sound, his head falling back against the seat to expose the straining tendons in his neck, the sweat that glimmers in the hollows before his clavicles. He jerks himself faster, tighter - tip ruddy now, beading with precum that he swipes down the length of his shaft, slick enough for you to imagine that it’s your spit, your wetness. A surge of arousal floods your fingers again, and you whimper.

‘Look at you, Frankie. So gorgeous.’

Frankie answers with his own choked growl as he watches you sink your finger into your heat again, but this time he grits his teeth, inhaling sharply before endowing you with an instruction -

‘Give yourself another finger, hermosa. Another. Wanna see you stretched out, baby.’

You comply, sinking in another easily, rocking your hips back and forth, the sound of it obscene, loud in the truck, and Frankie squeezes himself, breathless.

‘Fuck, hermosa, you’re so wet - so wet. Is it for me?’

You nod frantically, speeding up your movements until Frankie matches your rhythm, his body tense, his tip turning a cruel shade of crimson. You whimper again. This soft, sweet man, reduced to this savage across from you, fisting himself, reeling himself back from the edge just to wait to come with you. 

You watch as his eyes drop to your cunt again, as a grunt wrenches itself from his chest, and he begs you - more, one more, please, hermosa. You oblige, cramming three of your fingers into your dripping cunt just to catch a glimmer of what he’d feel like inside of you. Your orgasm flexes, tight and searing inside of you, and you whine.

‘Close, so close, Frankie -’ you pant, and his eyes widen, fist working so furiously you wonder whether it hurts, whether he likes it like that. He groans deep in his throat.

‘Make yourself come, baby, please make yourself come. I have to see you come.’ And you seize, tight as a knot around your fingers, body curling in on itself as you come, teeth clenched to bite back your scream. Frankie falls slack in his seat, eyes glazed as his cock jerks in his grip, and you meet his eyes, gasping out -

‘Frankie - want you to come, come for me, baby boy -’ and he erupts over his hands, over the tops of his thighs and his belly with a choked growl, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. You watch his thick spend trickle over his knuckles, mouth watering at the sight, and your fingers twitch as you pull them from inside you. You are so close to reaching out and swiping it with your own fingertips to take to your lips, and it’s like Frankie’s read your mind -

‘I want to taste you. So bad.’ he gasps, gaze fixed on your shining fingers. You bring them to your mouth, tongue laving between your fingers at your own salty sweet taste. Frankie moans again, tugging his spent cock weakly if only to stop himself from reaching out to snatch your wrist to him.

‘I promise,’ you murmur between licks, ‘I promise - soon, baby - God, so soon -’

You suck your middle finger into your mouth, keeping your eyes locked with his, licking beneath your nail before releasing it with a lewd pop. Frankie looks physically pained.

‘Stop,’ he pants, ‘Just - stop. I need you to stop.’

You understand, whole body still at fever pitch despite your release. Your hands fall to your thighs. Frankie tucks himself back into his boxers and lifts his hips to fix his jeans before popping open the driver’s side door.

‘Just - give me a moment.’ He murmurs as he jumps out, leaving the door open behind him. You watch as he walks circles in the dirt beside the car, his hands on the back of his head, breathing like he’s run a marathon. It takes a minute for your own brain to catch up with you. You tug your panties back up and your skirt down, some kind of horrible anxiety, disappointment and desperation clawing up your throat. You swallow and pop your own door open, rounding the truck to find Frankie.

The air has done him good. His eyes are clearer, body more relaxed, and he watches you approach with an expression that softens at every step. He barely gets out a you oka- before you rush to him with open arms, crashing into his chest with a quiet mmph. Frankie wraps his arms around you just as quickly, rocking the two of you back and forth, swooping a palm down your back.

‘I’m sorry.’ You whisper. Frankie stops his swaying, gives your shoulder a little squeeze.

‘Why are you apologising, princesa?’ he asks, so sweet you have to swallow again before answering.

‘I don’t know,’ you murmur, ‘That was supposed to feel good, but I don’t - I don’t know how I feel -’

He holds you tighter as tears threaten in your eyes, and you will yourself not to blink, lest they fall.

‘S’okay,’ he whispers back, ‘Might be ‘cause you want it so bad,’ you feel the rumble of a chuckle ripple through his chest. ‘That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I still feel like I could rip my skin off.’

A sharp laugh bubbles out of your mouth, taking you by surprise. You blink and the tears begin to fall, and you laugh harder. The man might be right.

‘This is so weird,’ you chuckle against his chest, ‘I’ve never been so horny I’ve cried before.’

He laughs, pressing a sweet kiss to your head.

‘It’s okay,’ he says, ‘And it’s not weird. Feels like my brain will never work the same again.’

You laugh harder, sniffing as you pull away from him. He grins down at you, pinches your chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Home?’ he asks.

‘Yeah, Frankie,’ you smile, ‘Take me home.’

Frankie holds your hand over the centre console the whole way home. You’re too tired to think about the semantics of rules, too overwhelmed to wonder what Joel or Santi would say. You grant yourself a small mercy in the passenger seat, reminding yourself that this is okay. This is aftercare. It’s necessary, Joel grumbles in your ear, it doesn’t come with rules.

When Frankie pulls up outside your place, he hops out to make sure he can the truck door for you and help you down. He walks you to your front door like he’d done so many moons ago, ever the gentleman, and waits until the door is unlocked and you’ve flicked the hallway light on. 

You turn to face him, wrapping yourself around him again. He returns the hug.

‘Will you call me if you need anything?’

‘Yeah,’ you breathe, ‘Will you?’

‘’course,’ he swipes the back of his hand over your cheek, and dips to press a soft, firm kiss to your forehead. ‘See you tomorrow, baby.’ He says. You pinch his cheek as he pulls away, chuckling as he bounds back down the path.

You watch his truck peel away like a teenager, standing in the doorway smiling to yourself until his tail lights disappear around the corner.

———

When Joel calls not fifteen minutes later, you’re wearing one of his shirts, grinding your bare pussy into your pillow, fingers working steadily against your clit.

You fumble with your phone, taking longer than usual to swipe to answer the call, and if that hadn’t have given you away, your pants and whimpers do. Joel chuckles warmly down the line at you.

At his ‘how you doing, baby girl?’, your mouth curves in a shy smile, and a heat blossoms in your chest. Your ‘good, daddy’ is true, a kind of peace settling over your frazzled body and mind. You let out a cooing moan before you can ask how his day’s been, and his breath catches down the line.

‘And what are you doing, baby girl?’ he asks softly, so soft, and you smile even wider.

‘Thinkin’ bout you, daddy.’ You breathe, and he hums at your words.

‘Just me?’

‘Mostly.’ You confess, and he chuckles, a honeyed sound.

‘Mostly,’ he echoes, ‘And what are you using while you’re thinking about me, baby?’

You give a strong roll of your hips, grinding down as you answer him.

‘A pillow, daddy.’

‘Mhm. Just a pillow?’

You whine.

‘Fingers, too.’

‘Greedy fuckin’ girl,’ he chuckles. You moan loudly, and are rewarded with a low grunt in return. He listens to you breathe for a moment before you hear the crackle of him shifting, moving.

‘Stop now,’ he says, gently. ‘Need to ask you somethin’.’

You pull your fingers out of your cunt, whining as you do. You can picture his smirk so clearly that you tell him to knock it off.

‘Sorry baby.’ He apologises, so disingenuous. 

‘What’s the question?’

‘I found something. In my case,’ he says. ‘Don’t suppose you’d know who put it there?’

You bite your lip.

‘Hmmm. Depends. What is it?’

You hear Joel fumble with something before he speaks again.

‘Let’s see. One of ‘em… pocket pussy things.’

‘Huh. No idea. Must have been your other girlfriend.’

He laughs.

‘Motherfucker. You damn well I can’t handle another one of you.’

You grin at your reflection. If you had a cord phone, you’d be twirling the plastic around your finger right now. Girlfriend.

‘My bad. Must have been me, then.’

‘Causing trouble even from all the way over there, huh, angel?’

You roll your eyes, knowing he’s drawing it out.

‘Sure, daddy,’ you coo. There’s a beat. ‘Have you… tried it?’

He huffs, and you can see the frown in your mind. How you’d smooth your fingers over it.

‘Ain’t need it when I’ve got you.’

‘Even when you’re far away?’

There’s a pause as Joel considers his reply.

‘You feelin’ sorry for me or somethin’?’

You sigh, letting your fingers dip to your clit. He won’t know, so long as you’re quiet.

‘Couldn’t just - leave you out, daddy,’ you huff against the phone. 

A low chuckle rumbles through from the other end, and you bite your lip.

‘So this is - what? My consolation prize?’ 

‘No,’ you frown, ‘It’s better than that. Better than your hand.’

‘Better ‘n my hand?’

‘Yeah, daddy.’

‘Is it better than you, babygirl?’

You roll your hips at his question, biting back a whine.

‘No, daddy.’

He hums down the line.

‘Sounds like a consolation prize to me, honey.’

You sigh again, louder this time.

‘’S not a consolation prize,’ you groan. ‘Frankie isn’t even allowed to touch me.’

Joel chuckles at you properly this time.

‘You sound disappointed, baby.’

‘I am.’

He waits. He waits, because he knows. Of course he knows.

‘We watched each other, daddy,’ you breathe. Confessional, dirty. A heat flushes up your cheeks as you tug at your t-shirt, suddenly nervous.

‘Watched?’ he asks, a smile curling the word.

Mmhm.

‘Well done, baby,’ he says, ‘I’m impressed. Though a little disappointed it didn’t take you longer to figure out.’

You giggle, and he puffs out a breath before continuing.

‘Santi told me it wouldn't be so fast. Thought it’d take you guys a little while to -’

‘He thought it’d take Frankie longer to work out,’ you interject. Joel falls silent. ‘He knows Frankie, but not me so well. You should’ve known better.’ 

Joel laughs again.

‘You’re goddamn right, angel.’ 

You smile, smug. Hum in agreement.

Joel sighs.

‘Too eager for your own goddamn good,’ he murmurs, ‘Bet you can’t wait to know what his cock feels like inside you, huh? Can’t wait to be droolin’ and comin’ over him like you do me, hm?’

God, his mouth. You moan openly, rocking your hips again, ready. Ready to hear him moaning, too, ready to hear the slick sound of the toy on his dick, ready to hear him groaning your name as he comes.

‘Yes, daddy.’

Joel hums, pleased. His breathing comes a little ragged this time, making your core hotter, tighter, wetter.

‘Use it,’ you moan, ‘Please, daddy. Wanna hear you use it.’

‘I’ll use it,’ he grunts, ‘But you ain’t gonna touch yourself. Just gonna have to listen, sweetheart.’

‘Please -’ you whine, but he cuts you off with a harsh tut.

‘No. You’re gonna be good, you’re gonna listen to me first.’

You begin to groan out again but he says your name in such a tone that you feel your body shift into submission, acquiescing to his demand.

‘You’re gonna stay still,’ he tells you, ‘And you’re gonna leave that pretty pussy alone until I’m done, y’hear?’ Your eyes half close, head dipping forward.

‘Yes, daddy.’ 

‘Good girl.’

You listen closely to the pop of the cap on the bottle of lube you’d packed for him, his heavy breathing as you imagine him soaking the toy, his sharp inhale as he spreads the cool gel over himself. The pop sounds again, and you wait with baited breath.

You’re rewarded almost immediately with a groan that resonates right through your body, vibrating straight down to your cunt as though he had voiced it against your lips.

‘Gonna start with my hand, baby,’ he says, voice low and breathy, ‘Start nice and slow, just like you would if you were here, huh?’

You hum low in your throat and lick your lips.

‘Wouldn’t start like that, daddy.’ Your voice is husky, drenched in lust at the thought of Joel spread on the hotel bed stroking his cock.

‘Oh?’

‘Start with my mouth,’ you breathe, ‘I’d lick you. Get you nice and wet so I can suck on it.’

‘Yeah?’ he whispers, ‘That what you’d do, you’d suck on it?’

You ache and throb between your legs, your free hand scratching at the skin of your thigh to distract yourself. Your mouth waters at the thought.

‘Mhm, daddy. Nice and deep, how you like it. You could fuck my throat if you wanted to.’

A low, guttural sound answers you, the slick sounds of his moving fist getting faster.

‘I’d want you to hold me still while I take you, daddy. I’d want to dribble and gag and cry.’

Joel huffs.

‘Would you, baby? You’d be such a good girl for me?’

You nod, lip between your teeth, even though he can’t see you.

‘Yeah, daddy.’

‘And what if daddy wants to fuck your tight little pussy, baby girl? What would you do then?’

You moan, eyes fluttering shut, hips shifting of their own accord. You grip the hem of your t-shirt.

‘I’d let you.’ you answer, helplessly.

Joel chuckles darkly. 

‘Want me to tell you what I’d do?’ He asks, and you loose a pained little sound, brows pulling together. You’re sure you’re soaking the pillow at this point, dripping through to the other side. Joel laughs again. ‘I think I’d tie you up, baby,’ he says, so low, so deep, that the world starts to drift away from you. You’re barely aware of the fact that the noise of his hand has stopped until he moans wantonly into the phone, and your eyes fly open. ‘Fuck,’ he grits, and then he huffs a cruel little laugh. ‘Was gonna tell you how I’d tie you up and fuck you, baby,’ he growls, ‘But this toy feels good ‘nough that I might just make you watch me instead.’

You whine, chin tipped up to the ceiling, hushed little cries of no, daddy, please - falling from your lips.

‘Oh, sweetheart. You don’t like the sound ‘a that?’ he asks. You shake your head, mewling, ‘No, ‘course not,’ he murmurs ‘Just wanna be stuffed full ‘a daddy’s cock, huh? Wanna be creamin’ around it way you love to, all stretched out and used, yeah?’

God, yes you do. You moan breathlessly, cunt twitching and throbbing, and you wonder whether this is enough to just come hands free. If you concentrate hard enough, if you bear down enough -

‘Maybe I’d film it,’ he muses, ‘Film it so Santiago and Francisco could watch. See how you really like to be used, how cock dumb I can make you. Would you like that, angel?’

‘Fuck, daddy, yes -’

‘Mmm. So they can see how good you look when you beg, when you’re dripping with my cum, huh, baby girl? See how good you look when you cry, when you just take it for me?’

You can tell he’s getting closer, his breathing heavier and more ragged, longer pauses between his thoughts. You wriggle on the pillow, feeling yourself flutter around nothing at the pathetic stimulation. He moans again, broken and loud, and you puff against the speaker, seeing your opportunity -

‘Come for me, daddy,’ you pant, ‘Please - come for me. Need to hear you daddy, please -’

Joel’s breath catches raggedly, once, twice, before it cuts off with a deep growl. With every resounding moan you hear, you can imagine the spurts of cum bursting from his tip. You wriggle even more, cunt burning. 

‘Atta girl,’ Joel gasps, ‘Atta girl, helping your daddy out.’

‘Please,’ you moan, breathless, ‘Please, daddy, my turn, is it -’

‘Your turn,’ he says, so warm, so sweet, ‘Go ahead, baby. Long as it’s only yourself you’re touchin’.’ 

Your fingers flutter to your clit, swiping it gently, so sensitive, and you grit your teeth.

‘Only me.’ You repeat, and you can picture Joel’s answering smile. All teeth.

‘Just you, baby girl. No touchin’ no one else. Not even Frankie.’

You stay silent, moving your hips now to drag your soaked folds against the pillow. Your head falls to your shoulder, and you moan long and loud, wondering whether you can convince Frankie, whether you’ve got enough time together to film the two of you - watching each other, then Frankie stretching you out, filling you with his cum. Something you could send to Joel and Santi, a little treat, a little teaser. 

You’ve been quiet for too long. And Joel knows. He always knows.

‘You gonna break the rules, baby girl?’ He coos. 

You smile, as though he’s read your mind.

‘How much trouble will I be in if I do?’ You ask through a moan, biting your lip.

He chuckles down the line at you. 

‘I don’t know, sugar,’ he drawls, ‘But you could always find out.’

The line clicks and beeps as he hangs up, and you stare down at your phone in disbelief. The signal must have dropped. 

Just as you fumble to press the call button again, a text flies through.

Night, babygirl x

And then another - 

Try to be good. I know it’s hard for you

You huff a laugh as you drop the phone into your lap, hips curling again over the pillow beneath you. Sonofabitch. 

You’ll behave as badly as you damn well please.

———

You and Frankie make quick work of dinner the next evening. Your hands are clammy at the dinner table, pulse fast in your neck, a flush passing high over Frankie’s collar the whole time.

He makes even faster work of the drive back to yours, scraping through red lights as you pull your skirt higher, as you skate your fingers over your thighs, over your panties, watching him the whole time. There’s a wonderful thrill when you catch him looking, when his eyes meet yours and then drift to your hands, how dark they are in the passing streetlights, the white-knuckle grip of his hands on the wheel.

You can feel the heat of him behind you as you unlock the front door, the hunger of wanting his hands on you, pushing you through the doorway, the press of his chest against your back. But you can wait. You can be good.

You move through to your kitchen with him trailing behind you, and you’re grabbing two beers from your fridge before the question of do you want a drink? is even out. When you turn to face him again, Frankie is dangerously, dangerously close. You can smell the musk of his skin, see every changing fleck of colour in his eyes, and it’s too much. You’re pressing the bottle into his chest at the same time as you’re tipping your head for a kiss, eyelids fluttering closed. He takes both bottles from your hands and places then somewhere behind you before caging you in with his thick arms, his mouth in a tight, serious line. You arch your back subconsciously, but he seems to anticipate every movement of your body; somehow still always millimetres away, like the ghost of a man pressed up against you, a layer of film between you.

He leans in so close that you can taste the hot breath he’s pouring into your mouth, so close you can feel the air moving when he tells you, so softly -

‘Take your clothes off. And sit on the couch.’

You strip yourself as you watch him do the same, eyes blown wide by every stretch of bare skin that’s revealed to you. And it is not fair. So unfair that Frankie is finally naked in front of you - so gorgeous - long-limbed and tan, beautiful cock hard and heavy between his thick thighs - and you are unable to touch him.

You clench your jaw, sat back and stretched out like a cat at one end of the sofa, petting yourself as you watch him come towards you and lower himself onto the cushion next to you. 

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to fall back into the rhythm you found last night. It’s hypnotic. The movements, the sounds, the words. Watching Frankie is heady, intoxicating. It feels like you’re watching something happen outside of your own body, and you find yourself surprised as you move to kneel beside him, as you swing a leg over his legs so you’re straddling him. You’re so wet, so warm that you’re sure the night could pass for a summer’s day. Your skin is glimmering with sweat, same as Frankie’s. You search his eyes to find him staring back at you, just as fucked out, just as woozy. You moan, hot little pants dripping past your lips. He echoes you.

You sit back on his thighs, your fingers diving in and out of you as you watch his fist work furiously around his cock. Something warm and hot, greedy and possessive swells inside of you. He looks delicious like this, spread out in front of you, wanting and needy. His cock thick, swollen, dribbling. It twitches as you watch him, and you moan somewhere beyond your consciousness. Need, your body whispers. Need. You inch forwards, lifting your hips higher, higher, Frankie watching you like he’s somewhere outside his body. You take his hand from his cock, fingers slippery with his precum, and place it at your hip. You grind into your hand at the slick feeling, pulling your fingers out with a wet sound and hovering above him, gripping his cock so you can brush the swollen head of it against your clit. Frankie shudders, his body going slack, and you almost come from the sensation alone. You lower your hips just a little, bracing the mushroom of his tip at the tight ring of your entrance. 

You gonna break the rules, babygirl?

‘Hermosa -’ he breathes, suddenly unsure.

You huff against him, everything too tight, too heady. Need.

‘Shhh, it’s okay,’ you whisper. ‘It’s okay, just a little bit. Just wanna feel you a little bit.’

‘But -’ he’s cut off by his own loud whine, unable to protest as you fit his head just inside your pussy. You throb around him, at the stimulation it brings. You clutch at his shoulder, head falling forwards at the stretch. Fuck, you could absolutely come like this. You need him deeper, need him to to fill you, but -

Oh, he is so good. 

His hands are like steel at your hips, keeping you in place. Frankie doesn’t want to disobey, doesn’t want to get in trouble. His grip speaks to that, his wide eyes, the sweat at his temple. But you can see on his face as you drip down him, the clutch of Joel’s control doesn’t hold nearly enough power when faced with what he truly wants.

You move back and forth a little, still with his tip just inside, moaning brokenly at the feel of it, and his eyelids flutter closed as something like a prayer brushes past his lips.

Frankie is good, but you are so, so bad. 

You drop your hips down further, and his fingers flex against your skin as he gasps, a high, keening noise reverberating from his chest.

‘Jesus Christ -’ he groans.

‘Fucking - hell, Frankie -’

He’s a lot. You can feel yourself adjusting as you slide down his length, your promise quickly forgotten. Greedy fuckin’ girl. But you can’t help yourself, brain short circuiting, body molten as you take him in inch by inch. It’s too much, all consuming. There’s no space for another thought, any more consideration as he fills you, as you take what you need. 

He whimpers as you bottom out, grinding against the curls at his base, breathing heavily.

‘So good,’ you whisper, ‘So good, you know that?’

Your head hangs forward against his shoulder as you gulp down air, as you feel yourself clench and leak around him, as he twitches inside you. After moments in almost silence, you lean back to look down at him.

His eyes are glassy, fucked out as he looks back at you.

You lift your hips, and the moan he lets out is pained. Your skin is on fire, and you want his hands everywhere.

‘Frankie, touch me.’

‘I can’t -’

‘You can,’ you grit, ‘You can, because I told you to.’

He moans again, and suddenly he’s everywhere. He knows where you need to be touched like you’ve done this before, his fingertips scorching and cooling as he strokes your thighs, your neck, as he grips your ass. Encouraged, you continue to move, slowly rocking up and down on his cock, breathing raggedly. Every noise that escapes the two of you seems to come without being registered, something primal, starved. Already, the coil is tightening, your body racing towards where it needs to be, and you know it will be intense, all-consuming to come around him, so thick inside of you. You lean further forwards, and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to your sternum, licking the skin before turning his head to take a nipple in his mouth - hot and wet and sucking, lathing it with his tongue.

‘Fuck,’ you hiss, moving faster, chasing, chasing what is so close. You grip the hair at the back of his head, tugging and keeping him close to your breast, keening against him.

‘Like that,’ you gasp, ‘Yeah, like that baby, god, so good, you’re so good for me, feel so good baby boy, you have no idea -’

You can feel yourself tighten and tighten, and Frankie holds you harder, force that feels so delicious you don’t even care about the hurt, not until it turns to iron, not until he rips his mouth away from you -

‘I’m gonna come -’ he whimpers, gripping your hips so tight you couldn’t move if you wanted to. ‘Please, baby, please - stop - I can’t - I’ll come -’

Hot desperation claws up your chest. You are so close, so close, but he looks so wildly at you that you stop trying to move, try to force back tears of frustration as you lean forwards to kiss him as sweetly as you can. Spit-slick and swollen, you pull back and rest your forehead to his. Try to think straight, tell him what he needs to hear.

‘No you won’t,’ you coo, taking his face in your hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. You put everything into your gaze, all your warmth, all your care for him, try to make him see how good this is. He stares up at you, eyes wide, dark. Panicked. Panicked at the thought of disappointing you. ‘You won’t, Frankie. It’s okay, you’re not gonna come.’ You try to shift a little so you can settle on your thighs to soothe him, but he clenches his eyes shut at your movement and whimpers louder, his mouth screwing up. 

‘Please don’t move,’ he whispers, ‘Just wait, - just -’

You lean forward and press a kiss to his hairline, feeling his tip move slowly to a shallower part of you. Fuck.

‘Relax, baby boy,’ you murmur, and he sucks in a breath. ‘Concentrate. I’m gonna sit down, and you are not going to come, okay?’

You wait, but Frankie still has his eyes screwed shut, nostrils flaring, fingers bruising against your skin. The tense feeling in your chest swells again. 

‘Frankie.’ You say sharply, and he jumps out of himself, eyes flashing open to yours. ‘I’m gonna sit back down. Take a deep breath.’

Frankie watches you as he breathes in through his nose, and you move at the sound of his airflow. His hands slacken at your hips, and he moans, low and long. 

‘That’s it,’ you say, sinking all the way down, writhing helplessly at his base. You’re already both so close. ‘Good boy. How are you doing?’

Frankie breathes shallowly as you adjust around his cock. His cheeks are red, hair sweaty. His lips are bitten, bleeding through one crack of skin, eyes almost entirely black. You scratch at the curls at the nape of his neck, massaging the tendons there.

‘Okay,’ he croaks. You try not to think of how he feels inside you. How full you feel, how stretched out. He’s thick and nestled in deep - not as far as Joel - but the ache you feel around his girth is delicious. Fuck, this was a bad idea. You should have just hopped off him, let him slide out so you could both catch your breath. And now, instead, you’re managing to edge the two of you even further. 

You know you can’t last long, and you know, from the desperate look on Frankie’s face, that he won’t either, no matter what you do. It feels crueller to stop now than it does to keep going, to watch him deny himself like this, to feel you deny yourself, too. You can feel your pussy tightening and leaking around him at the thought, the ache, the need that’s just there -

‘I have to move, baby -’

‘No -’ he chokes, ‘Please, hermosa, just a minute -’

‘I have to, Frankie, I - you feel too good, baby, I need to move. Wanna come, wanna see you come, too -’

Frankie’s iron grip returns to your hips as they lift of their own accord, and he hisses, head bowed, at the movement. You moan hoarsely.

‘It’s okay,’ you pant, gripping his chin in one hand, lifting his face to yours. ‘Listen to me, it’s okay. Focus now.’ You begin to move up and down him again, the slow drag of his cock tightening your grip on his face but loosening the hold you have on your body. You whimper, pussy fluttering around him. Frankie groans, breathlessly whispers your name, a pleasepleaseplease -

‘I know you can last as long as I need you to, baby,’ you whisper. ‘You’ve done it before, haven’t you?’ Frankie whines, his eyes rolling back, mouth falling slightly open. You can’t stop the moan that bubbles up your throat - him edging himself as he watched you the night before, eyes stuck on your fingers, your pulses, your wetness. You feel him throb inside you as he nods drunkenly. ‘That’s it, good boy. I know it feels good, but you can last a little longer. I know you can, Frankie. You’re doing so well.’

His fingers clutch at the swell of your hips, weak, sweaty, and you clench so hard around him that it’s a challenge to drag his cock through your walls. You breathe shallowly, slowing the pace again, and Frankie watches you through heavy lidded eyes. He licks his bottom lip.

‘Come,’ he breathes, a hand leaving your hip so he can thumb your clit. You hiss, hips stuttering so hard you sink all the way down onto him, grinding his tip into your womb. Frankie grits his teeth. ‘Come, hermosa,’ he tells you again, and you can feel the savage heat, pussy winding tighter and tighter, your body about to burst. Quietly, with a command he’s not had in his voice until now, Frankie says your name. Come. Now.

Your orgasm is blinding. You cease to exist in the corporeal world for an indeterminate time, coming to only when Frankie pulls you to his chest, his hips pressing up into you as you milk him. You’re achingly aware of the way his cock jumps inside of you as he pumps you full of cum, of the way his fingers grip and bruise your body, of the way you sink your teeth into his shoulder as you continue to throb around him.

‘Fuck.’ you bite out, resting your forehead against his as you pant into each other’s mouths. Minutes tick by, Frankie’s harsh grip turning to soft caresses, and you press chaste kisses to his nose, his forehead, his lips, before you rest your head against his collar bone. He takes a deep breath.

‘Baby,’ he starts. You watch his throat bob as he swallows, searching for what he’s about to say. You squeeze his middle gently. ‘Joel -’

‘Is my problem,’ you breathe, ‘I did this. It’s on me. He knew I’d break the rules.’

He swallows, nods.

‘Okay.’

You press a kiss to his neck, and he visibly relaxes.

‘It’s okay,’ you murmur. ‘No one’s gonna be mad at you. No one’s gonna be mad, full stop.’ He makes a noise of appreciation somewhere in his throat. 

You bite your lip and lean back, fixing him with a wicked grin.

‘Besides, this is all part of the foreplay.’

‘The foreplay?’ He whispers, brow furrowing.

You nod, humming at the feeling of his cum slipping from the warmth of your cunt.

‘You really thought he’d just come in your mouth?’

His eyes darken, a huff slipping from his kiss-bitten lips. He brings your hand from his neck to his mouth and bites down on the flesh of your palm. You giggle again.

‘Mm, you like that, baby boy? Like the idea of daddy playing with you, too?’

‘Stop.’ He groans, ‘You keep talking like that, and -’

‘There’ll be a round two?’ you tease. ‘Doesn’t sound like a bad thing to me,’ you smile, feeling him twitch inside you. ‘In fact,’ you continue, ‘That sounds like something a very good boy would do.’

‘Stop talking,’ he growls, ‘And take me upstairs. I remember something about you promising to let me taste you.’

The smile that grows across your lips is impossible to hide.

———

Pope wasn’t fucking around when he told you Frankie was good with his mouth.

He wakes you the next morning with more of what he gave you last night, his tongue warm and wet against your cunt, lapping and kissing and sucking until you’re sweating and writhing above him, hands fisted in his hair.

He likes that.

Likes biting marks into your thighs, making you moan and cry and come again and again. Likes when you’re a little mean, when you tell him what to do, when you hold him afterwards, when you let him fill you and fuck you until you’re both whimpering and covered in cum and slick.

The three days that follow pass in a blur of not touching and definitely touching. Frankie quickly becomes accustomed to waking wrapped up in your bed, your arm thrown over his side, and you quickly become accustomed to the sweet praises that drip from his lips as he slots himself inside you - how tight and sweet you are, how he can’t believe he fits in so well. How he can’t wait to share you, properly this time.

He bends you over the kitchen table after you’ve finished eating dinner, licking into you before splitting you open, and you take him in your mouth on your knees in the shower, making sure to remind him of how pretty he is, how good he feels in your mouth. You work him open with your fingers, your tongue, curling them inside him just to watch him struggle not to come so fast. It’s gorgeous. And when you’re too sore and swollen to have each other again, you find yourself cradled between his thighs, your back to his chest as he circles your clit gently with two fingers, kissing your neck and grinding himself against you as you moan, as you remind him how you need to get to work.

‘I know, baby,’ he murmurs, ‘Just wanna watch you come again.’

It’s feverish, it’s risky. You try to be a good liar, but you’re sure Joel knows. Knows you well enough, anyway, to guess that it would happen at some point. Which just means he must have been planning what he’d do to you after finding out for some time, too. You try to be careful as the week goes on - planning to wash your sheets, to not have Frankie in the house when Pope or Joel return. To just try and make it look like you succeeded, that you listened. That you were good.

You’re on your elbows and knees, body weak, pussy swollen and dripping as Frankie spears you from behind when the text comes. It’s Santi.

I’ll be home 2morrow. Look forward to seeing u 2.

One more time, Frankie gasps. Once more like this, and then you can wait. 

The two of you can wait until tomorrow.

———

You wait all day for Santi.

And you try to be good, you really do. But Frankie’s mouth is just so convincing.

He’s not allowed to bite, not allowed to leave any marks. He has permission to make you come, and then he has to clean you up again like nothing ever happened. You’re not going to touch him, and he’s not going to touch himself. He’ll have to save it for when Pope gets here. Which, as it’s turned out, is much later than he said. But not late enough to miss the show.

‘Am I interrupting?’

Frankie lurches away from between your thighs like he’s been scorched, backing up towards the end of the bed. He looks so surprised, so worried, that you snort at him, still so caught up in the throes of pleasure to not be too worried about Pope’s reappearance.

He looks good. A healthy glow to his skin, tight black top, his curls perfectly framing his face. His mouth is twisted into its most alluring smirk, and you watch it deepen at the flush of Frankie’s cheeks and the way you snake a hand between your legs.

‘Not at all, baby,’ you coo, and his eyes darken, following the path of your hand. It’s ingrained into you now, how Pope touched you last. The memory rushes through you, and you moan softly, the noises your hand is making against your wet folds so obscene. Still watching, he peels his belt from its loops, curling it in his fist.

He jerks his chin at Frankie.

‘You at least make her beg for it?’

You huff a small laugh, thinking back on how not thirty minutes ago Frankie had been on his knees in front of you, begging for a taste, begging to lick your cunt. 

Santi’s eyes shoot to you and the amusement on your face, and he steps forward with a smile.

‘Should have known,’ he says gently, through a smile. His palm cups your cheek, and you nestle into his touch, forgetting that whatever punishment Joel might have thought up, Santi might share. He traces your skin down your jaw, your neck, across your clavicles and down the arm closest to him. He holds your wrist, and pulls it up to his mouth where he can kiss your knuckles in greeting. ‘Hello, querida.’

You look back at him with wide, lust-blown eyes. ‘Hey, Santiago.’ 

He takes you in greedily, eyes scouring over your bare body, scrutinising so intensely that you almost feel self-conscious. 

‘What do we have here?’ he purrs, his spare hand reaching over you, thumbing your nipple. You whine and arch against his touch, fingers moving faster, and he tuts, shaking his head. ‘This will never do, cielo.’ He squeezes your breast firmly before running his fingers down the length of your arm, gripping your other wrist to bring your wet fingers to his mouth. He parts his lips and presses them in gently, and you mewl, hips bucking, as he works his tongue over the digits. His eyes are dark, boring into you, only distracted by the heavy breath Frankie takes from the other end of the mattress. He releases your fingers quickly.

‘No.’ he barks at the other man, and you swing your head to look at Frankie, a hand frozen mid-pull on his cock, face flushing an even deeper shade of red. ‘Did I tell you you could touch yourself?’

Frankie shakes his head frantically, hands moving to his sides.

‘Did I?’

‘No.’ he whispers, breathless, apologetic. Pope jerks his head again, over his shoulder. 

‘Off the bed.’

Frankie unfurls his limbs to stand at the bedside, cock heavy and bobbing against his stomach as Santi easily joins your wrists with one hand. It takes you too long to work out what he’s doing - his belt already curled around your hands before you make a noise of protest, silenced by a hard look from him. He twists the leather around your hands twice before tying them to the bedframe above you, giving a sharp pull to test the give. Your chest heaves, something sparking inside you as he cups your cheek gently.

‘Good?’

‘Yes, Santi.’ You murmur, taking your cue from how he admonished Frankie.

He steps back, admiring his handiwork, looking pleased.

‘Maybe that’ll help you keep your hands to yourself.’ He says, half-turning to Frankie.

‘Down.’

Frankie drops to his knees at the command, and you moan, thighs clenching, arms straining above your head, tight to your eyes. Santi says something to you, muffled, and you try to relax again to hear him, a quiet hm? the only sound you can make.

He cocks his head at you, lips curled.

‘Lube, querida,’ he says, ‘Where do you keep it?’

You inhale sharply, mind buzzing. 

‘U-under the bed.’

Pope drops to his knees beside you, rifling around until he finds and pulls out a green box, ripping off the lid. His face splits in a dangerous, thrilled grin.

‘Now, what have we got in here?’

You watch with bated breath as Pope rummages through the box, your chest heaving, arms straining against the belt again. He throws the bottle of lube onto the bed before turning his attention back to your toys. He brings your wand into your line of sight, and you squeeze your eyes closed as he presses the button, the room filling with its buzzing sound. 

You flinch when he brings the vibrator into contact with your skin, tracing your nipples. Your eyes fly open to find him and Frankie watching you intently. 

‘Had a lot of time to think about this while I was away,’ Santi says, almost to himself, ‘But I’ve got much better ideas now.’

Pope licks his lips as he dips the wand lower, teasing it around the soft flesh of your thighs before resting it against your clit.

You yelp at the contact, body juddering.

‘Please, Santi,’ you cry, ‘Please -’ but he shushes you gently, stroking your hair as he lays the wand between your thighs, nestled in to where the feeling is most intense, most overwhelming. 

‘It’s okay, baby,’ he coos, ‘Just need you to hold that there, be a good girl.’ 

You whimper brokenly up at him, and he pouts at you, teasingly.

‘Listen to me,’ he says, and you hold your breath, ‘That’s gonna stay right there, against your pretty little pussy, and you’re not gonna come, are you, querida?’

Your brain buffers, jaw clenching against the heat rising through you, and Santi frowns at you.

‘Are you?’

The air bursts from your lungs as you moan out a no, rewarded with a smile.

‘Good girl.’ he says, dipping to pick something up from the floor. Your panties from where Frankie had stripped you of them earlier.

He taps your chin.

‘Open,’ your mouth falls open of its own accord, and Santi stuffs the lace in. ‘Something for you to bite down on.’

You huff, brow furrowing in concentration, desire, as Pope steps away again and moves towards Frankie.

Frankie, still on his knees, watching open mouthed, cock jumping as he takes you in - stretched out, bound and desperate. His eyes leave yours to watch Santi begin to strip himself of his clothes, and you join him, groaning at the slow show he gives you both. His smooth, tan skin, the muscles that ripple beneath. He unbuttons his jeans before stilling, eyes falling on Frankie.

‘Come here,’ Santi says, and Frankie shuffles forward instantly. ‘Good boy. Now take me out, and show our girl what else you can do with that mouth.’

Your eyes roll back into your skull, and your wrists tug at Santi’s belt. From behind the fabric in your mouth, Pope can hear your muffled fuck. He smirks down at Frankie.

‘Before she comes, hermano.’

‘Pope,’ Frankie breathes, shocked through his haze of arousal, confused, warning.

‘What?’ Santi says, cupping his cheek gently. ‘You don’t think I checked with Joel? Didn’t ask what you got up to before he left? Don’t worry, baby, I did. He just wants to know she’s being taken care of. The sooner you put me in your mouth, the sooner we can do just that.’

Frankie swallows visibly, flustered, eyes flicking to you before he reaches out to tug Santi’s jeans and boxers down, taking the other man’s hard cock in his hand, squeezing and pumping gently. He takes care to thumb over the precum that gathers at his tip, using it to ease the movement. Pope breathes out slowly before touching Frankie’s bottom lip with his thumb, parting his mouth. He joins Frankie’s hand at his base and taps the head of his cock where his thumb had just been, and Frankie opens wider, allowing space for Pope to slide in. He takes lazy thrusts as you watch with wide eyes, hips canting against the toy, cunt pulsing, body on fire - acutely aware that Frankie has a gag reflex to rival your own. The thought makes you giggle, a kind of pride blooming in your chest. So easy. Frankie stares up at his best friend with glassy eyes, cock leaking and untouched between his legs, palms resting, unflexed, atop his thighs. 

‘He’s a good toy, isn’t he, cielo?’ Pope hums, slowing the rhythm of his thrusts. ‘So good at just - taking it. Barely any fight in you, is there, baby boy?’

With his mouth full of Santi’s cock, Frankie can barely shake his head. The corners of Pope’s lips curl.

‘No. I’ll bet she hardly even had to ask you. Just a little while longer watching her and you’d have begged to feel her milk you yourself. Isn’t that right, Fish?’

Frankie moans beneath him, his cock dribbling and straining. You want so badly to have it on your tongue, in your hand, inside your pussy, that you whine again, louder. Santi’s eyes slide to you, mouth wide in a smirk. 

‘Quit whining, querida. We’ll be with you in a moment.’

You groan again as Pope twists his fingers in Frankie’s hair, cooing at him. 

‘Yeah, seems to you both thought to tell us how’d you’d watched, hm? It’s a pity you couldn’t wait to touch, though. Could have made this so much easier for yourselves.’ You wriggle your hips a little more, finding just the right angle, the right pressure. Oh, it’s so good. Too good. Your noises come louder, faster, and though Frankie’s eyes don’t leave Santi, his body twitches, finely attuned now, to how you sound before you come. As though he’s read Frankie’s mind, Pope’s eyes snap back to you.

‘Not yet.’ He bites. 

You breathe jagged, harsh breaths through your nose, eyes scrunching shut against the coil that’s tightening in your core. You’re so wet you can feel it dripping through your folds, straight onto the sheets, and you try to think of anything but the sound of Santi’s cock moving in Frankie’s throat. What groceries you need to buy, the post you need to hand to your neighbour, what you’ll wear to meet Sarah. Joel. Joel. Fuck, no. That makes it even worse.

You moan again, dangerously close to the edge, cracking open your eyes to see Frankie bobbing up and down Santi’s length, drool escaping the corners of his mouth. How his cheeks hollow, how he sinks down to the wiry hairs at the bottom, eyes fixed on Santi’s face, unwavering, swallowing; moving back up to kiss the tip, the spit that trails from his lips to Pope’s head, how Pope rocks his hips forward, chasing the sensation. How Santi groans for him, tan bueno, como eso, eso es todo, tan bonito -

Your hips stutter, now trying to move away from the vibrator as Pope’s hand finally grips Frankie’s curls, pulling him in closer, holding him still as he fucks his throat, and you try to get out a please, please, trying to back yourself down, trying so hard even though it would be so easy -

Santi’s gaze finds you, lost to the feeling of the other man’s mouth, and he smiles kindly.

‘Casi ahí, bebita.’

You shake your head, eyes pleading, desperate, teary, and he seems to take pity on you. He uses his grip on Frankie’s curls to ease him off slowly, marvelling at the way his cock emerges, glistening; at the way Frankies mouth still hangs open for him to fill. 

‘Should we help her out, baby?’ He asks softy.

Frankie looks to you, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. Please, you try to moan again.

‘Yes.’ He says, voice hoarse.

Pope holds a hand out to him to help him off the floor, and Frankie stands on shaky legs. You try to will them to move faster, teetering on the edge, breath leaving you in great puffs, your body straining away from the toy, arms aching with the effort of trying to pull yourself away.

‘You ready to come, princesa?’ Santi murmurs.

You gurgle an mhm, sniffling as his hand moves low, hovering over the vibrator. Frankie bends, his cock angry and red still, to press a kiss to your temple.

‘Did so well,’ he whispers, ‘It’s okay, hermosa.’

Pope takes that as his cue to take hold of the wand.

Your back arches as he presses it down, harder against you, roving it back and forth for extra friction. You start to beg through your panties, knowing you can’t hold back anymore as your pussy turns traitor, beginning to flutter. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes, and Santi smiles.

‘Now.’ he whispers.

Your body pulls impossibly tight, giving in to the rush of fire that has been simmering, your muscles clenching painfully as sound and sight evade you. You can feel your lungs working, feel the choked gasps leaving you, feel your arms pulling at Santi’s belt, but you are somewhere outside your body. A rush courses through your body, and you feel yourself gushing between your thighs.

When you come to, blinking, body slick with sweat and your cum seeping down your legs, Pope is untying your hands. You drop them above your head, and Frankie takes your wrists, massaging them soothingly with his thumbs. Santi presses a tender kiss to your stomach, moving the vibrator away as you shiver and jerk with overstimulation.

‘So good, bebita,’ he says, ‘Atta girl. Look how well you behaved there.’

He presses his fingers into your mouth to remove the lace, and your tongue works around your gums to alleviate the dryness the fabric left.

‘Can you move?’ He asks gently, and you nod weakly, cinching at the waist to haul yourself up. He brings his palms to your shoulder, rubbing your skin as Frankie sits behind you, pressing kisses to the nape of your neck. ‘Well done, princesa.’

He brings you further forward, cradling you to his chest as he tells Frankie to lay back behind you, then angles your shoulder to turn and face him. Frankie looks fucked. His bare skin untouched, his cock dribbling precum, pooling at his stomach as you watch. His jaw is clenched like he’s trying to stop himself from begging, and you reach out to touch his thigh, trying to offer comfort in any way you can. He whimpers at the warmth of your skin.

‘Should we help him, querida?’ Pope whispers in your ear, your back still to his chest.

‘Yes.’ You answer, throat dry. He kisses your cheek, and you feel his smile.

‘Use your mouth, bonita.’

You move from Pope to settle yourself between Frankie’s legs on all fours, breathing kisses into his inner thighs before touching him, trailing a finger down his soft shaft. He hisses at the sensation, and you pause, meeting his eye. He swallows, nods.

‘Keep going.’ He rasps.

You pull yourself further up, mouthing at his underside, pressing kisses to his leaking tip before laving your tongue up and down his length. When his hips buck at the sensation, you move a palm to cup his balls and take him fully into your mouth, sucking and hollowing your cheeks, humming with the salty taste of him. His hands quickly find the side of your head, and you move back up towards his tip, licking into his slit to drink down more, playing with his frenulum in a way you know drives him insane. He moans, deep and needy, puffing out a soft fuck as you take him down to the base again, nuzzling the hair there, breathing him in. His cock jumps in your throat, and he looses a needy whine, pulling on your hair, but you don’t budge.

‘Hermosa -’ he breathes, voice tight, and Santi speaks again from behind you.

‘Are you gonna last, hermano?’

Frankie looks up from watching you, unfocused, swaying his head. Pope makes an amused sound, and you feel his hands on you, positioning you, then the press of his tip against your slick hole.

‘Just a little longer, Fish. So much to do with you two.’

Santi glides inside of you easily, but it’s still enough to knock the breath from your lungs. You moan around Frankie’s sensitive dick, and he gasps, hands tightening in your hair.

‘Please -’ he warns, ‘Please -’ as Pope pulls out and thrusts back in again. You cry out, moving back up to Frankie’s tip, moving up and down the best you can as Pope dives in and out of your pussy, knocking you forward to take Frankie deeper with each thrust. ‘Santi -’ Frankie grits, and the other man chuckles behind you. 

‘Alright,’ he says, ‘Don’t want to spoil the fun.’ 

You whine and pout at the loss as he withdraws from you completely, turning your head to find that he’s stripped himself of his jeans and underwear. He winks at you before giving you a little push.

‘Ride it, querida.’

You push yourself up eagerly, coming to straddle Frankie’s hips before positioning him at your entrance. He looks up at you with blown, lust filled eyes, absolutely ruined. 

Despite the stretch, you sink down onto him without stopping. 

He feels so good. Just like the first time.

You writhe down at his base as his hands shoot out to grip your hips, his beautiful neck straining as his grits his teeth, his abs flexing as he attempts to hold you still. But it didn’t work the first time, and it won’t work now.

You take yourself slowly up, smiling at the wet sound of the movement before sinking down again, feeling him stretch you out, feeling him in your stomach. It’s a delicious ache. You wonder what Joel would say right now, watching you take him so easily, watching how he fills you. Bet you can’t wait to know what his cock feels like inside you, huh? Can’t wait to be droolin’ and comin’ over him like you do me, hm? You clench tight around Frankie at the thought, at the same time as a little ache settles in your chest. You miss him. You miss him, and you wonder what he’d be doing with his hands, his mouth, his cock -

‘Mira como ella tu toma, hermano.’

Santi’s voice brings you back as you bounce on Frankie’s lap, and you lift your head to look at the younger man, his eyes heavy-lidded, lip nipped between his teeth.

‘She gonna make you come like this, Francisco?’

At the use of his full name, all of the sounds Frankie has been trying to hold back break free from him. All of his pretty little gasps and moans, his whimpers, the way he pants your name as he clings to you, eyes never leaving where you’re joined as he pleads -

‘Can I? Can I come?’ 

You clench around him again, the knot in your belly snapping at his words, your orgasm blinding as it comes at you sideways. Frankie moans loudly, repeating your name. You gasp, high little pants of uh- uh- as you jolt on him, pain mixing with pleasure as you call his name, Santi’s name, Joel’s name -

‘Up. Off.’

Santi presses a palm to your backside to move you off of Frankie’s length, even as you still clench around him. 

‘Fuck,’ Frankie heaves, ‘Fuck, please, no -’ 

‘Quiet.’ Santi bites at him, and Frankie whines, his cock jumping between your folds at his tone. You close your eyes. 

‘Let him,’ you plead, ‘Please, let him, Pope.’

You wanted him to come, he deserved to come. You move your lips up and down his length, and Frankie chokes a moan, his body moving higher up the bed as Santi moves behind you, but you can’t work out why behind the darkness of your eyelids. Your eyes are still closed, body still quaking as Santi leans forward to press a kiss to the centre of your spine. You arch your back against his mouth and he chases you, pressing another slightly higher, scraping his teeth against your skin.

‘Querida,’ he says. You can only moan in response. You know it’s not what he wants, but your brain is so fuzzy it can’t comprehend anything beyond it.

‘Turn around,’ he says, and you whimper, eyelids fluttering as you scratch gently at Frankie’s chest. The man beneath you writhes at the feeling, head rolling, eyes closing, fingers flexing bruisingly on your hips. ‘Turn. Around.’ Santi grits, this time taking Frankie’s hands so he can prise them off you, gripping your waist in an effort to turn your body. 

There’s no graceful way to do it, but Frankie handles your limbs with gentle hands as you swing your legs around him. 

When you face Pope, the sight that greets you is even better than you could have imagined. 

He eyes you hungrily, carnally, his brow dark and hair curled more than you've ever seen. But your eyes are taken to where his fingers are sunk knuckle-deep into Frankie, pumping them slowly. You moan as he digs them in deeper before curling them, repeating the beckoning motion until Frankie’s belly twitches. At the tells of his orgasm, Pope removes the digits slowly, deaf to Frankie’s desperate begging. You watch, mute, as Pope then takes the bottle of lube from beside him, pouring it onto his cock with a quiet moan, jacking himself before pressing his tip to Frankie’s hole. You feel the man below you tense slightly, and you stroke his thighs, fallen open on either side of Santi, with soothing fingers. When he relaxes, one of Pope’s hands meets yours on his flesh, the other helping to guide himself in. You watch as his length is swallowed, breathing shallow, listening to any noise the pair make. Frankie’s ragged groan, the way he chants Pope, Jesus, fuck, his bruising grip back on your hips, Pope’s answering growl as his eyes roll to the ceiling before fluttering shut. When he bottoms out, you watch as his stomach flexes, eyes then drifting lower, where you can only see the coarse hair at the base of his cock, the rest of it buried inside Frankie. You feel your face crease as your stomach turns molten.

Your hips drop to the swell of Frankie’s stomach, searching for any kind of friction. It should be impossible to be this constantly turned on. You move your hips as Pope drags his cock in and out of Frankie once, twice, murmuring how tight he is, how pretty, how good, before his eyes find yours.

‘You want her to sit on your face, pretty boy?’ Santiago purrs at the man over your shoulder.

‘Oh, fuck, please.’ Frankie moans.

Pope jerks his chin at you, sending you shuffling clumsily backwards, blinded by how badly you need to feel something, eyes fixed again to where he thrusts in and out of the younger man, angling your hips above Frankie’s face. You only see his mouth open, tongue already out to lick a fat stripe through your folds, before he pulls you roughly down, moaning against you.

‘Jesus - fuck -’ you hiss, trying to jerk away. It’s too much, too soon, but Frankie is too strong, too desperate to taste you. Your hand flies out Santi’s chest, scratching his skin before trying to find purchase higher up. You take his neck between your thumb and fingers as Frankie eats at you, his mouth harsh and hungry as it sucks and licks. Santi stutters out a groan as you tilt his head at you and squeeze.

‘Make him come,’ you murmur, ‘Make him come, baby, and then you can show me what else you wanna do with us.’

Santi grins and pants against you, his hips faltering for a moment as he leans his neck further into the cradle of your hand. He nods quickly, eyes glazing and soft. You smile back at him, squeezing again, pleased.

‘Frankie always said you were a good soldier, Santiago,’ you coo. ‘Should have known what you really needed was to be told what to do.’

‘Fuck you.’ He grins against your lips.

You answer it with a pathetic, needy little whine.

‘Mm, yes please, baby.’

Frankie takes the moment to suck particularly hard at your clit, and you feel your face crumple - one hand scrabbling at the younger man’s belly, the one at Santi’s neck now gripping the shoulder of the man fucking him. Frankie works diligently at your cunt, anchoring your hips to him as he devours you ravenously, letting the tip of his nose rest just inside your entrance as he flicks your bud with his tongue, swirling it in circles as you grind against him. 

This orgasm comes slow, like wading through treacle. It drips down your spine as you curve over Frankie, gasping and shuddering, so breathless that even Pope slows down. Frankie must feel you jolt and twitch above him, lapping up the last of your cum before he releases you from his grip. You lift your hips quickly, needing reprieve, aftershocks still knocking through you as you pant against Santi’s chest.

‘So good,’ you breathe, loud enough for Frankie to hear, ‘So good to me, baby boy, aren’t you?’

Pope presses a kiss to your hair as you work a fist around Frankie’s cock, squeezing his base. He jumps beneath you, a heady, keening noise wailing from his now unoccupied mouth, and you squeeze him tighter, pumping him once, twice, his shaft slick with your juices and his precum.

‘You’ll make him come.’ Pope warns, and you hum against him, forehead just above his sternum. You’re too lost in the way his cock looks as it disappears into Frankie.

The door opens so quietly you don’t hear it, but Santi does. How he keeps his wits about him despite what’s happening is beyond you. He stills his movements inside Frankie, and you feel his damp breath against your forehead, head dipping as he nudges your cheek with his jaw, turning your face towards it. 

‘Look who’s home.’ He murmurs into your ear. 

Your stomach swoops.

Joel stands in the doorway. His nose and brow are rosy from working in the sun, your favourite flannel draped over his broad shoulders, a grin twisting his lips as he takes the scene in. His eyes dip from yours to your tits, to the way your body curls over Frankie’s. He takes in the man laying beneath you - his face shining with your cum, blissed and fucked out. The rise and fall of his tummy, the way his thighs are splayed to make room for Pope. The way Santi can’t help but flex inside him, earning a ragged groan from both of them, up the other man’s torso, his neck, to the dark eyes watching him back. It’s breathtaking. 

Joel cocks his head.

‘Don’t stop on my account,’ he drawls, ‘Y’all make such a pretty picture.’

You swallow loudly, letting your head fall back to Santi’s warm shoulder, panting before looking back at him. Something swirls in your gut, and you speak before even realising.

‘Come here,’ you whisper, voice cracking. ‘Come here and make it even prettier, daddy.’

The three of you watch as Joel steps towards you, letting the door fall shut behind him.

[psychedelic-ink]

fuck it I love you.

pairing: frankie "catfish" morales x fem!reader

genre: smut, hurt/comfort

word count: 4.3k

summary: pope's his best friend, he shouldn't get jealous when you talk to him– he really shouldn't. But how can he not when you've been turning a blind eye to all of his all the flirting he's been doing for the past month?

warnings: jealous!frankie, possessive!frankie, reader struggling with self worth, pov switch, cum eating/sharing, oral (receiving), piv, dirty talking, lots of praise, mutual pining, dumb misunderstandings, creampie, nicknames

a/n: this might be one of the filthiest things I've personally written, also this was requested by my beloved @inklore for the prompt "do you think you deserve this?" but since it ended up being longer then a drabble (I have no self control) decided to make it it's own post <3

requests open for pedro pascal characters, moon knight & peter parker 💌

masterlist | AO3

The music in the bar is pleasant, a nice cool breeze blowing from the small fans scattered all around the small, yet cozy, space. Frankie enjoyed coming here. He especially enjoyed it when the company was to his liking. The laughter, the conversations, all of it tickled the inside of his stomach in the most enjoyable way. 

Tonight, however, despite having the gang back together, plus you, he doesn’t feel that giddy. 

His back is snug against the leather of the booth, the rim of his comically large beer glass touching his bottom lip as he glares at you and Santi. Typically, Frankie isn’t the type to get jealous. He knew Pope was a flirt and that it meant absolutely nothing, being a chivalrous man was as natural to him as breathing. You, on the other hand, wasn’t the type to flirt just because. He isn’t even sure if you are flirting or not. The only thing he does know is that you’re laughing at his unfunny jokes and touching his arm whenever you can. It’s clear to him that you’re tipsy, in all his years of knowing you you had proven to be quite a light weight, but still the closeness the two share annoys him. 

It didn’t help that you were staying with them during your visit. Hotels were expensive so of course both him and Santi had offered you to stay. They did have an extra room after all, what’s the point of it if no one stays?

Frankie, unlike his flirtatious best friend, isn’t the best at sweeping someone off their feet but he isn’t the worst either. He’s somewhat aware that he’s easy on the eyes nonetheless he can’t just bat his eyelashes when he wants someone to approach him. 

He has… some moves– some of them which he had tried on you during your visit– the aforementioned “moves” consisted of compliments, some light touches here and there yet it was clear to him that you weren’t interested. You didn’t shy away from him but you didn’t exactly do anything either. He just gave up after a while, he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. 

Santi, of course, soaked up all of the awkwardness, teasing Frankie whenever the opportunity arose. The asshole even offered to give him lessons in how to woo a woman. Fucking smug bastard. 

So yeah, he’s positive Santi’s not actually trying to romanticize you. Sadly, he didn’t share the same confidence when it comes to you. 

The crease between his brows deepens when you burst out laughing and drop your head on Santi’s shoulder, your arm thrown around Benny’s neck. Santi briefly glances at Frankie, his lips parting with a chuckle despite the worry written in his eyes. Frankie huffs and lowers his glass back to the table. He needs to leave. Either he leaves or he’s raising hell and that wouldn’t do anything other than make an ass out of himself. 

Just as he’s getting up he hears your voice. His ass is left awkwardly hanging an inch up from the booth when he turns his gaze to you. 

“Are you leaving?” 

Fuck, the soft whine in your tone shoots right to his cock. He licks his lips and nods, trying to ignore the stirring in his lower abdomen. 

“Yeah, I’m feeling a bit…tired,” 

While sounds of disapproval rise from the rest of the group, Santi only raises an eyebrow. You lift your head up from his shoulder and clumsily get up from your seat, almost knocking one of the glasses over but thankfully Benny moves it just in time. 

“I should head back too, I wanna go to the farmers market early in the morning–” 

“Pope can drive you back,” 

The harshness in his tone not only surprises you but also him. The air stills for a moment, an uncomfortable silence consuming the group. Frankie ignores the way Santi frowns and only focuses on the way your bottom lip quivers, guess his plan about not making an ass of himself failed. Lifting his cap, he cards his hair back and places it back on, he clears his throat. 

“I–I need make a couple of stops before heading home, that’s why I–” 

You cut him off, your voice dripping with venom. 

“It’s okay, I get it if you don’t want me around,” 

If what Frankie said didn’t make the atmosphere uncomfortable, what you just said certainly did. His eyebrows disappear under the loose strands of his hair, eyes wide as his lips part in hopes to say anything that might ease the tension rising. Frankie has no idea why you said the thing that you said and he’s not sure if he wants to find you. 

In a last ditch effort to salvage the situation, he turns his gaze to Santi, their eyes meet and the other man playfully nudges you in the shoulder. 

“Come on cariño, he didn’t mean it like that. You should go,” 

Frankie takes a mental note to treat Pope for lunch later. 

When he turns back to you, you’re already staring at him, your lips a thin line. After exchanging glances, you nod and side shimmy out of the booth. Frankie groans as you say nothing and head straight for the door. 

“Man, that was brutal,” Benny chimes, a soft whistle accompanying his words. “Why did you even say that?” 

“Because he’s an idiot,” Santi adds with the roll of his eyes. “That excuse was weak, hermano. Where are you even going to go at this hour?” 

“Fuck me if I know. She looked really pissed too– What did she even mean by that? Why wouldn’t I want her around?” 

“Maybe because you avoid her like the plague when we’re home?” Santi replies with an amused glance and intoxicating curve of his lips. “If I were you I would start by saying sorry,” 

Frankie glances towards the door, the trail you left feels cold, his heart sinks into your chest. 

“Yeah, probably. Anyway–” 

He places his hand on Santi’s shoulder right before heading towards the door. 

“Don’t be late.” 

“Pope can drive you back,” 

The words still echo in your mind. He was such a slap in the face, you knew something was wrong. You fucking knew it. Even when Santi continuously told you everything was fine, you knew Frankie was angry at you. He had to be by the way he was avoiding you. 

And you damn well know why he was acting like that. It’s no secret that you had a minor infatuation with Frankie. You like him, he’s nice, funny and always by your side whenever you felt like the world was burning. The problem is that he sees you only as a friend and nothing more. Which is what you expect, no one ever sees you more than a friend. That’s your role in life. The one no one loves, at least, not in a romantical sense. And when Frankie got a whiff of your emotions, he pulled himself back. Typical. Soon he would outright just stop talking to you. It happened a million times before and it’ll happen a million times after. 

Looking up to the dark sky you sigh, the cold begins to seep into your skin, hugging yourself to stay warm you blink rapidly. You want to cry. It’s foolish of you but deep down you had hoped that Frankie would be different, that he would see you for you and love you for you. But you guess that was just a hopeless dream. 

A sudden warmth engulfs you and you jump, before you can turn Frankie is walking ahead of you, his jacket draped across your shoulders. 

“Let’s go,” he says, voice gruff. 

You stay in place for about a second, lips parted as you stare at him. You urge your legs to move but they stay glued to the concrete, your fingers come up to the jacket’s collar and tugs at it. Frankie’s scent files your nostrils, mint with a hint of cinnamon. Your pulse quickens and you take another languid breath of him, a soft moan parts your lips when you drag your attention back to Frankie. 

When he notices your lack of presence he turns and tilts his head. 

“You coming?” 

“Uh, yeah.” 

The drive back is awkward. You know it, he knows it. 

And just as you suspected, he didn’t have anywhere to go, he just wanted to avoid you. 

You don’t say a word as you move past him to go inside, you let your bag fall to the floor and kick off your shoes. When you hear the door closing behind you, you’re already made it halfway to your room. 

“Can we talk?” he calls out. “I know I pissed you off, at least let me explain,” 

With a broken sigh, you head back. He’s already removed his signature cap, which in return made you realize you still have his jacket across your shoulders. With a grown, you place it on the back of the couch and turn back to him. 

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” you say a bit sharper than you initially intended. “I know why you’re trying to avoid me,” 

“Avoid you?” he blinks. “This again, I’m not trying to–” 

You snort, arms crossed in front of you. 

“Yeah right, I’ve done this dance a million times, Frank. Whenever anyone gets a whiff that I like them they decide they want nothing to do with me anymore. I get it. I’m used to it.” 

Silence follows and you’re somewhat pleased to cut your losses without completely destroying your heart in the process. 

“Is that really what you think?” 

You meet his gaze, heart nearly leaping out of your throat at his tone. Anger, you quickly identify. You’ve never heard him like this, voice trembling, a hint of a growl at the end of his sentence. 

“I’ve been trying to let you know how I feel since you’ve got here. All you did was ignore me and drool over Pope. I am not the villain. You do not get to make me out to be one when I’ve been trying all this time.” 

“I never flirted with him,” you whisper, averting your eyes. “Look, I get it. I do. Really. It’s not your fault, I’m not easy to love but you don’t have to lie about having feelings for me. All you had to do was talk to me. You could’ve told me to back off and I would, I thought we were friends,” 

Your vision is blurry when Frankie walks up to you, his hands squeezing your upper arms as a sign that you should look up to him. His gaze is softer now but it’s not enough to heal you. You’re suffocating. You can’t breathe, think, or feel. All you want to do is hide from the world and remove yourself from this situation. 

“Listen to me,” he grits his teeth. “I. Am. Not. Lying– Stop selling yourself short. You always do this. Just breathe and think for a moment, why would I lie?” 

Wet eyelashes kiss the underside of your eyes, a tear slipping from between them. The world spins, leaving only him and you in the middle of a hurricane. His one hand slides up to cup your cheek, he swipes the tear away with the inside of his thumb. Your chest heaves. Frankie’s leaning in closer and closer, you only realize what his intention is when you feel the firm press of his lips, tenderly moving against yours. 

Frankie breathes you in, tongue licking your lips as a silent plea for more. Heart fluttering, you open yourself for him, he mimics your movement, opening his mouth wide while pressing his tongue against yours. His other hand comes up to your other cheek, holding your face tenderly. Tears roll down your cheeks and he kisses them away, his lips wet when they travel back down to meet your own. 

“Frankie,” you whisper into his open mouth. “Frankie, I need more,” 

He mouths at the underside of your jaw, nipping your skin as he grins. His hands slide down to cup your breast, squeezing them, he coaxes a moan out of you. 

“After everything you put me through tonight– After flirting all night in front of me– do you think you deserve it?

“I–I–” 

His grin widens at your loss for words, lips still moving across your skin. 

“I’m just kidding, mi vida. Thought some humor would lighten the mood,” 

The tension you’ve been building up for the past couple of days melts when you feel his lips once more. His open palms smooth over your curves, tongue deep in your mouth as he tastes the silent moans slipping from your lips. You’re unaware he’s leading you somewhere, your feet move without the knowledge of where to go. But you don’t care. Not when his fingers are viciously pulling at your shirt and tugging it over your head, giving you only a moment to breathe before crashing his lips against yours once more. 

You’re falling, surroundings nothing but a blur as he sucks you down into the pit of intoxicating lust. You can almost feel the wind grazing against your burning skin–  

Wait, you’re actually falling. 

A gasp rips from your throat when you find yourself sprawled across the softness of a bed. Despite the blurriness of your eyes, you quickly identify the room not belonging to Frankie but to Santi. Unlike Frankie’s room that smells airy and fresh, Santi’s space smells of smoke and the overwhelming scent of bergamot that belongs to his perfume. 

“Fran–shit,” 

You’re interrupted by your own moan that suddenly slips from your lips. Frankie’s looking down at you, eyes a shade darker with lust and want. Eyes linger on the thick outline of his cock, his lips curl up, he palms the bulge, slowly and accompanied by the delicious roll of his hips. 

“Do you have any idea–” he rasps, hand continuing to stroke his clothed cock. “––how many times I’ve dreamed of this? How I imagined your wet pussy wrapped around my cock, your legs spread wide as I fuck you? Do you know how many times I helplessly humped some pillow just to have some semblance of your presence?” 

You moan at his words, the wetness between your legs grows. Just the thought of him moaning and whining while grinding against a pillow, thinking of you, it makes you ache for him even more. 

“Does that turn you on?” he muses, undoing the button of your pants and tugging the fabric down. “Me, coming into my fist an ungodly amount of times just thinking of you? Dirty girl,” 

His name parts from your lips in the form of a whine. 

“Don’t wear out my name just yet, you’ll be screaming it a lot tonight,”

Frankie’s fingers trace the seam of your underwear, he watches the way your thighs tremble for him. He presses his fingers between your clothed folds, feeling the moisture dampening the tips of his fingers. 

“Already so wet, I’ve done nothing else other then talk,” 

His eyes meet yours, your heart stills at the exchange. 

“Do you want me to fuck you on top of Santi’s bed?” 

Fuck, you don’t want to answer that, it’s too embarrassing. But despite forcing your lips to stay shut, your body doesn’t get the memo. Heat spurs between your legs, the dark patch on your underwear spreading. He chuckles, eyes never leaving yours as he starts to draw slow circles around your clit– It feels like electricity surging across your body. The pressure builds and you can’t help but raise your hips off of the mattress, meeting the caress of his hand. 

“I want to hear it from you baby, say it.” 

“I do,” you breathe out. “Please fuck me right here right now,” 

“Your wish is my command, princesa. Turn over,” 

All thoughts desert you while you shuffle on top of thick sheets. You raise your ass into the air, effectively burying your face into the sheets that smell exactly like Santi. For a split second it confuses you, especially when Frankie’s scent is nowhere similar to his friend. 

“You’re perfect,” he hums, hand going up and down your back, feeling the dip of your waist. “So obedient, so generous, so beautiful– Fuck, how could you even think I would want to avoid such a pretty thing,” 

The sudden feeling of his cock between your wet folds makes you jump, but he quickly eases you with the tender touch of his lips between your shoulder blades. 

“Did you enjoy riling me up all night?” he murmurs. “Well it doesn’t matter. You belong to me don’t you?” 

He continues to drag his cock, every time his length brushes the sensitive bundle of nerves you gasp, your body left shivering uncontrollably. His voice is dripping with sin, it’s like having the devil’s tongue licking your ear, you can’t fight it and you don’t want to. 

“You’re mine aren’t you?” 

“I am– I’m yours Frankie,” 

“Good,” 

You whine when the warmth of his lips disappear. He kneads the mounds of your ass, groaning at the way your drips across his cock, drenching it with your slick. Your breath is so stuttery that it’s basically just a string of short, sharp breaths. You want him. You need him. The illicit thrill of being fucked on top of Santi’s bed stirs you on, it makes you even more needy and desperate. All you can smell is the bergamot and the heavy scent of your slick. His nails rake across your back, the blunt tip of his cock teasing your entrance. 

“You’re shaking,” 

He leans in, mouth an inch away from your ear as soft whimpers fall from your lips. You’re on the verge of crying, you want him so bad that it physically hurts. 

“Tell me,” his breath ghosts over your damp skin, goosebumps erupting across your body. “Have you ever thought of me while fingering yourself? Did you imagine me fucking you just like this, right on top of my bestfriends bed– Or did you imagine me taking you in the kitchen, is that why you offer to cook everynight? To entice me with a good show of your behind?” 

Your defense is violently caught in your throat when he slams all of himself inside you without warning. The thickness of his cock walks the borderline of being painful and pleasurable, choked out breaths tears away from your lungs, the two feelings mixing into a mind numbing sensation. The way your pussy clutches tightly around him makes his hips stutter forward, pushing even deeper as he bites into your shoulder. 

“Fuck, baby– You’re gonna make me cum quick if you squeeze like that,” 

Mouth parting wide, you moan at his words, your insides fluttering around him. Spit dribbles out from the corner of your lips and wets the sheets underneath. Fuck, Santi was going to be pissed. 

“Mine,” he growls, straightening his back and holding your hips. “Mine, mine, mine–” 

Your eyes roll back when he starts to move his hips. Cock sliding nearly all the way out before he rocks back into you with full force. But despite all of that, he’s holding back. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch from where they dig into your hips. The sound of your guttural moans fills the air, a string of curses mixed with his name is screamed into the sheets. Your body is on fire. It turns into an object of desire, a tool for Frankie to use as a means for his own pleasure. 

You don’t mind, in fact you want him to take whatever he wants, you would be content with just this. Him, buried deep inside you, all the time. Not another thought lingering in your muddled mind. 

Frankie’s falling apart behind you, his own moans catching up to yours. He leans forward, clothed chest flushed against your naked back. You want to feel more of his skin but your pleas for it are nothing but incoherent whines. His arms coil tightly around you like a snake, pulling you even closer as he ruts into you like a wild animal. 

You can hear the silent whimpers of ‘mine’ being repeated to you again and again. 

Frankie’s about to explode. 

You’re squeezing him tight, a sheer coat of your slick forming a ring at the base of his cock. He’s somewhat aware you’re trying to ask for something, and if he wasn’t so far gone into his own pleasure he would tease you to speak up. But with the curve of your ass pressed against his pelvis, his cock coaxing all the sweet noises he wanted to hear since forever…he just can’t think anymore. 

He presses wet kisses into your skin. You’re making a mess out of Santi’s sheets, spit and slick dripping out of you like the most beautiful fountain he’s ever seen. In his mind, fucking you right here, on top of his best friend’s bed, solidifies the notion that you belong to him and only him. Fuck, he’s acting like a dog marking it’s territory. It was stupid but the way pleasure rings in his ears makes him think otherwise. 

“I’m about to cum,” he groans, the pace of his hips quickening. 

Frankie pulls you up with him, hand sprawled across your stomach while the other wraps around your throat. Another moan escapes him when you squeeze around him like some goddamn condiment. He’s surprised when you reach out and grab his wrist, the pressure is enough for him to slow down. 

“Frankie…I–I love you, you know that right?” 

His eyes widen, heart nearly beating out of his chest as he drags his lips across the column of your neck. He doesn’t want you to think anymore. He wants to fuck every thought out of your pretty head. 

Pulling back, Frankie slams his hips, he repeats it, again and again until you’re left a babbling mess. You tighten around him, moans and cries falling from your lips as his cock slides in and out. His lips are latched against your ear, his words practically a growl when he speaks. 

“Te amo, con todo, mi vida,” 

Your head falls over his shoulder, he mouths the underside of your jaw. He wants to ruin you, he wants to feel the way you convulse around him. His hand slides to your core, drawing quick, small circles around your aching clit. You cry out, panting as you gasp for air. 

“Con todo, todo,” 

Frankie nearly chokes when you come undone around him. Your tight pussy clenching and gushing while he continues to grind his cock deeper. He keens at the way you desperately throw your arms back and pull his head in a desperate attempt for a kiss. Finding it cute, he allows you to tug him close. He tastes the euphoria on your tongue, it makes his head spin. The pressure inside him builds with each stroke of your tongue, it builds and builds until he can’t take it anymore, every time he thrusts into you his eyes roll back– It takes him one more to follow in your footsteps and cum. 

His eyelids flutter as he moans into your open mouth, warmth builds around his cock, hips continuing to push forward while he fills you to the brim. He grits his teeth at the way your insides clamp around him, your moans filling the room. 

Frankie gently lays you down on your back. You're breathing heavily, chest heaving as you look up to him. He watches the way your legs part so he could nestle between them, but instead he eats up the sight of his cum dripping out of you. The sight makes his softening cock twitch with interest. A soft whimper falls from you when he presses his lips against the inside of your thigh, mouth leaving a wet trace of open mouthed kisses as it finds your wet core. 

Your eyes roll back when you feel the swipe of his tongue, he moans at his own taste, the vibrations making the dwindling rush of your orgasm spiking once again across your body. 

He looks up to you, observes the way your brows furrow with pleasure, lips parting in ecstasy as his tongue delves deeper. Gripping your thighs, he gently pushes them over his shoulder, pulling your pussy flush against his hungry lips. You writhe at the building pleasure, legs trembling while he licks you clean. 

Sucking more of himself into his mouth, Frankie slides up your body and crushes his lips against yours. When your lips part he pushes the cum into your mouth with his tongue, relishing in the way you moan for him, swallowing hungirly at what he has to offer. 

His cock is semi hard when you wrap your legs around his waist, he grins as he pulls back, a look of mischief glittering in his eyes. 

“Seems like someone’s eager for another round,” 

“It’s just,” you pant, rolling your hips against his cock. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long, I can’t help it. Also–” you fist at his shirt. “I don’t want anything between us, Frankie,” 

Just as he leans in to capture your lips, there’s a loud, almost violent, knock at the door. 

“You two better get that shit cleaned!” Santi pipes from the other side of the door. “Until then I’ll take the guest bedroom– For fuck’s sake, after all the trouble I’ve been through to get you guys together. Un-fucking-believable,” 

“Whoops,” Frankie mutters against your lips, his grin wide. “So where were we?” 

“We should–” 

“We’ll apologize to him tomorrow,” he cuts you off, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “You should focus on me, mocosa,”   

“Alright,” you whisper with a smile. “You’re all that matter to me, nothing else,” 

Frankie decorates your face with fleeting, soft kisses. His heart practically melts at the words– 

“Wait, did you just call me a brat?” 

[foxilayde]

“He throat fucks you while he eats you out by being on top in 69” he’s so aggressively hot AND FOR WHAT

And uhh thanks for that image. I need to take that to bed now. But also you’re absolutely right and you should write something about that in return for the horny you’ve caused! (Jk jk)

- santi anon

Don't You Dare [Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader]

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Filthy filth, the use of the honorific "daddy", Dom/sub dynamics, name calling (sexy name calling), threats (but sexy threats), throat fucking and all the warnings that come from throat fucking. just 3k of smut.

Summary: Have your cake and eat it too?? Not on Santiago Garcia's watch.

There’s a famous behavioral study on delayed gratification called the Stanford Marshmallow Study. All about the ability to resist the treat of one marshmallow right now, for the promise of two marshmallows later. For those who were able to resist eating the marshmallow right away, they were later discovered to be, for the most part, stalwart individuals stacked with mental fortitude. That is Santi all the way. He can withstand, he can get up for a run at 6am today for a healthier heart tomorrow, he can push the single-marshmallow plate away from himself without a thought. Because to him: two is better than one. But to you? You’re more of a ‘now is better than later’ kind of girl. Maybe it’s that very mentality that Santi tries to fuck out of you on a regular basis; that dessert-before-dinner aura that his hard militaristic edges are determined to scrape. You let him do it regularly, bending you over his knee, stringing you up by his belt, pulling you back by your hair. You love the way he bends and breaks you and fucking edges you like an unruly lawn. 

“Don’t you dare” Santiago warns you.

Santiago knows your body so well that he can read the pace of your rocking hips and the ever-crumpling expression on your face like a blaring warning sign that flashes, “I’m close. I’m close. I’m close.”

And what does he expect, really? The man has been edging you for what feels like fucking hours. Truly taking the name of the game to heart and escorting you to the precipice of your pleasure and back like he’s doing pacers at the overlook of the Grand fucking Canyon. And now he’s instructed you to ride him? Ride him while he’s seated on the couch? In the fucking angle he knows is a surefire cum-in-your-britches position? The hell was he expecting?

“Don’t you fucking dare, little girl. You can get yourself to the edge, but if you cum, you’re in trouble.”

You’re not listening. At all. Normally Santiago’s word is law to you, but your mind has taken a backseat to your body and all your body wants is to cum. And, fuck, he feels so fucking good like this, your clit is rubbing perfectly on him while you rock steadily on his cock. Your naked thighs on his naked thighs, nothing between you but heat and breath, sweat and slick. You’re taking it slow. You might be cock drunk, but you’re not stupid. Santiago knows what it looks like when you’re chasing your end and if he catches wind, he’s going to pull you off him and torture you for fuck-knows how long. You’re not galloping to an end; but racing there or not, even tiny measured steps will still take you over the edge of the canyon. Christ you want to leap, it’s all you want to do. The only thing tethering you to land is the solemn expression on Santi’s face. Fuck, he’s so pretty. Eyes a dark caution, woodenly curtained by an assessing stare. His teeth grit in a hiss when you push down on him slowly and, eyes locked with yours, he shakes his head with an admonition. 

“Don’t do it baby. I will make you pay.”

He can tell. He can feel it, the way you puuuush down on him with a trembling effort, you’re sure he can register it in his warm palms that hold your backside. But you don’t care. And you can hardly control it anyway. It’s fucking biology and his attentions to you for the past torturous hours have your cunt absolutely throbbing around him. You know what his instructions are, but they’re a faint whisper compared to the blaring pulsing call for relief at the center of you.

And with a subdued “oh,” you eat the marshmallow. In one bite. And because you’re trying to hide your malfeasance, you swallow it whole. You don’t let your body betray you, when you take what’s yours, tamping down the pleasure and forcing yourself to have a half-hearted orgasm. Yes your toes curl and your abdomen shakes, but you’ve been flexing and shaking for the better part of an hour with Santi already. It can’t be that obvious to him what is happening.

 You school your expression and bite your quivering lower lip, trying to disguise your long labored exhale, fighting against the need to slump against him and mouth at his warm neck. It’s a half-hearted o, a firework explosion that you close your eyes for. But it’s still powerful, the crack of it still vibrates through you, and you try not to break your steady pace on him, even as you fight against the sensitivity. Yes, it is “half”, but half of a ‘ton’ is still a fucking lot and in your fight against giving yourself away, you can stupidly feel your walls pulse and leak on his cock— making you slide hotter and easier on him than even before. 

Santi isn’t stupid. In fact, he might be the most observant man you’ve ever met. There is only the slimmest of next to zero chance that he didn’t catch you. You pray he was fighting his own urge at the exact right moment, thoughts consumed with baseball stats or MMA rankings to keep his peak at bay. He’s so fucking good at staving off when he needs to. 

There is no accusation in his eyes however, when you dare to meet them. They pull tight with question, with curiosity, he even tilts his head a bit, like a beagle. Cute fucker. You have to fight the urge to twist his thick greying curls in your fingers, to give him a dopey smile. But you can’t let him know how satiated you are. Instead you have to resume your crumpled expression and continue to rock on his cock like you didn’t just get the cum kicked out of you. 

His mouth parts with confusion, “Did you just..?”

A question.

So he’s got doubts. 

You shake your head as pitifully as you can. “No… no, just mmmm, just feels good.” You might actually pull this shit off because he nods. Santi fucking nods at you! And he’s tucking a lock behind your ear. Golden. Home stretch. Didn’t catch a thing!

And then-

He smiles.

Fuck. 

It’s not a good smile. Fuck your half-blissed mind for telling you that you could get away with this shit. Fuck your stupid cum-hungry horny lizard-brain!

He twists your nipple between his fingers softly, affectionately as he holds your gaze. “Is that right? What a good, good, good girl.” He says it as soft as his fingers on your nipple. It’s derogatory. Santi rarely uses that voice with you. If he truly believed you were a good girl his voice would be deep, gritty, he’d throw a couple affectionate ‘slut’s into the genuine praise. This however... he only coos placating at you like that for two reasons; when you’re crying, and when he’s pissed. And you aren’t sobbing right now, but you can guess you will be pretty fucking soon. 

You pull out your last line of defense, scratching your nails into his scalp and giving him a big wet kiss, rocking into him more deeply, more urgent and moaning into his hot lips, “feels so good, daddy.”

You don’t like that you had to pull out the big guns, but the name is your only line of defense. Santi can’t fucking resist the endearment and the way he moans against your lips makes the corner of your mouth curl up into a smile. Bingo. 

You’ve gotten away with it. Or, at least you think you have. Until Santi is lifting your ass off of his cock and setting you sweetly on the couch next to him. He strokes your cheek lovingly with his thumb and gives you that up-to-no-good smile.

“My sweet girl. My beautiful. good. girl.”

Oh you’re in for it now. Each word is punctuated like a candy coated dart aimed right for your fucking jugular.

He kisses your cheek, the stubble of his chin scrapes you with a slow bone-chilling drag as you fully come to terms with how fucked you are. He pulls back, licks his bottom lip and shakes his head at you with that fucking smile. He leans in, causing you to subconsciously shrink back slightly into the corner of the couch. You’re not ready for the consequences of your own actions, you’re ready to nuzzle him, to take a nap after everything, but the way his arms come to cage you into the corner of the couch picks up your heart rate. Resting is the furthest thing from Santi’s mind. His cock is still slick, hard and threatening. His lips travel from your cheek to your ear and he sighs sweetly with a tickling brush of his lips, “what am I going to do with you?”

Not replying is probably your best move in this case, don’t give him any more fuel, just look as pathetic as possible and hope he shows mercy. You widen your eyes as big as you can and stick out your bottom lip, and when he pulls back to examine your face he instinctively flicks your plump lower lip with his thumb. He purses his lips and swallows intentionally, shifting back and away from you, freeing you of his thick limbed cage.

“Lay down. On your back. On the floor. Now.” He tilts his chin towards the ground, in case you forgot where it was. His mouth is set in a hard line and you don’t even attempt to push back or protest, to state your case. You’re a little more clear headed now after your weak orgasm and you sink down to the floor with as much silent subservience as you can project. 

When you’re fully supine on the carpeted floor of your living room, Santi stands above you, feet on either side of your knees and strokes his dripping cock, squeezing the weeping uncut head in the circle of his thumb and forefinger. He bites his lower lip as he glares down at your pussy. 

“We both know what you did, little girl. And now daddy’s gotta teach your pussy a lesson about taking things that don’t belong to her. Do you agree?”

You nod quickly. You’d be a fucking idiot to not agree with him right now, standing above you, one hand on his hip the other pulling on his hard cock. Fuck. 

“Good. You also agree that that I need to teach your lying little mouth a fucking lesson too?”

Again, you nod. 

Santi cocks his head at you and its so much more menacing than the last time he did it. He walks up your body in two steps, and when he gets to your head he turns around, feet on either side of your face, giving you a stunning view of the underside of him, still pulling on his cock, heavy balls descending as he lowers himself to kneel over your face. What the hell does he have planned?

Santi rests on his shins on either side of your head and dips his balls in to your mouth. 

“Lick baby, that’s right.” 

You take one of the soft sacs into your mouth and lick him gently, sucking on the skin. If this is the punishment, you’ll take it. 

He caresses the bottom of your chin with his thumb, sill pulling on his cock with his other hand. 

“Daddy is going to use your throat now, baby. Teach that lying little mouth a lesson.” 

He raises up a bit, letting the sac pop out wetly from your slurping lips. You take in as much air as you can when you realize Santiago is about to fuck your throat. 

He tilts his hips just right and teases your lips open with the tip of his cock before you open up wide like a good girl, allowing him to sink all the way down onto your face. His curved cock slides easily down your throat in this position and your hands come up to caress his plump ass cheeks when he’s fully seated. Fuck, that was a smooth glide down your throat for something so fucking thick. His balls rest wet and warm, soft and heavy on your nose and your tongue caresses his fat cock as he puuuushes your head into the carpet with his hips, getting himself as deep as he physically can. Your breath comes out of your nose in a whine and you swallow around him out of instinct, your body trying in vain to get his hardness of your airway by sucking him deeper down your throat. 

“Aww good girl.” He coos. This time he means it. He slaps your pussy with an open palm. Your scream is muffled by the thick inches of him buried in your airway.

 “Good girl, bad little pussy. Best thing I can do for her is leave her alone. Make her think about what she’s done. Don’t you agree, baby?” 

He rocks his hips and fucks into your mouth and when he pulls out juuuust enough, you suck in as much air as you can before he’s pushing back into you. The squishing sound of his cock gliding into your throat is making you fucking feral and you, without thinking of course, tilt your hips in response. Santi slaps your wanton little pussy again. The sting of it doing fuck-all to alleviate your desire.

“Uh uh, bad girls don’t get to play. Isn’t that right, baby?” He pats your hollowed cheek as best he can. You give him your best nod considering the circumstances, attempting a little “mmmhmmm” of agreement around his thrusting cock. 

“Knew you would, baby. Knew you woouuuld, fuck!” He pushes down as deep as he can once more. Your hot exhale from your nose is caught in his testicles and its so fucking hard to breathe around him, next to impossible, but the lack of oxygen is somewhat pleasant, just like the way he cuts off your heartbeat sometimes when he’s fucking you, getting his hands on your throat. And as if he can read your mind or something, his hand travels up your belly and sternum where he rests his palm on your throat and squeezes. What the fuck is he—? And then he shifts his hips a little and your eyes widen in realization. He’s fucking jerking himself off, using your throat. 

His hand tightens, palm cupping the front of your neck and he, yep, he’s fucking squeezing his cock like this. He thrusts deeply into your mouth, knowing to pull back out every so often to give you a full fresh breath. You gasp frantically around his cock when he does so, spit stringing out, smacking your lips desperately in an attempt to get as much air into your lungs as you can before he’s back down your throat, fucking himself into your fucking neck as his balls suffocate your nose. Every chance you’re allowed to breath it’s the most pathetic sound imaginable. You’re fucking crying now, you cant help it, tears streaming out the sides of your eyes in a steady stream, the wetness matching the lower half of your face and all the gasping stringy spit you choke on each time you’re allowed to breathe. Tears cling to your lashes as spit clings and strings on his cock, your poor pussy is dripping somewhere far away and you can't help but think that all Santiago wants to do is melt you from solid to liquid.

Soon his thrusts get quicker, he gives you less air-breaks and you’re forced to get really fucking good at sucking in air when his hips rise up just enough, or you’re going to pass the fuck out. 

He fucks his cock down your throat one last time, pulsing his seed straight down into your belly, bypassing anything that might have tasted his cum. His moan is like a fucking roar and he bites your inner thigh as he rides it out, bucking softly down your throat, the heaviness of his ass making your jaw sore with every push down. His hand is off your neck now and shit, you had no idea where his head was at for most of this throat fucking adventure, your whole world was ass and balls and cock, just the way he wanted it, but that bite mark on your thigh is proof enough now where he was at. Somewhere in your nethers, staring at your naughty little pussy. Probably enjoying how much she dripped and clenched with every lewd and brutal act he took upon your throat. 

Santiago pulls out fully, finally, and you gasp like a drowning woman. He scoots back, your head between his knees and he bends over to give your swollen, spitty, gasping lips a sweet kiss. 

“You took that so well, baby, didn’t tap out once. Fucking proud of you, cariño.”

All you can do is nod weakly against his giving lips, your breathing returning to normal. 

“Mmmm you little shit, I still want to take you over my knee for lying to me like that.” He traces his fingertips lightly over your ribcage and the peaks of your nipples. 

“Did you really think you could get away with that, baby?”

“I wasn’t,” you gasp “thinking.”

Santiago smiles down at you and smooths your sweaty hair from your brow. "Lets get you cleaned up, princesa."

He carries you to the bathroom and bathes you lovingly with bubbles, candles, the whole epsom-salty mess.

And afterwards, at dinner, he gives you shit for ordering dessert first.

"You're going to spoil your appetite."

"You don't believe that, Santiago."

"Oh really?"

"No. If you did, you wouldn't always ask for a bite."

Your assessment makes him pause, fork laden with strawberry and buttercream halfway to his mouth.

He smiles and laughs at you before taking a bite, "You little shit," he accuses, mouth full of frosting.

"You love it."

[dameronscopilot]

Do you think Santi would be into you riding his thigh? do you think you could get him off without even taking off his pants as you worked yourself on him?!?!?!

Hah.

Oh.

Santi would be so fucking into that.

(excuse me while i spiral thanks!!!!!)

Thigh Riding with Santiago

Santiago “Pope” Garcia x f!reader

NSFW 18+ content below.

Picture this—you’re best friends with Santiago. And the sexual tension between you two? It’s through the fucking roof. You’ve been dancing on the edges of something for far too long, but neither of you quite knows how to jump.

One night, you’re both sitting on Santi’s couch playing video games, and as he somehow beats you at whatever game you’re playing yet again, you pitch toward him with intentions of wrestling the controller from his hands. As your limbs tangle together, when you try to right yourself, you end up straddling one of his thick, muscled thighs instead.

Though you could just pass the whole thing off as an accident and slip back onto the unoccupied cushion beside him, you remain firmly seated in his lap after you catch the way his eyes flick to your lips. What starts off as a hand on your jaw and your fingers in his curls quickly evolves into your mouths slotted together, his stubble grazing your chin. 

Though a pleasant warmth has already begun to settle in your gut, it flares white-hot when Santi adjusts his leg, and all the pressure from being seated there is directed right toward the apex of your thighs. While you try to be discreet at first, when Santi wraps a hand around the back of your head and deepens the kiss, you can’t hold back the shameless moan that escapes your lips as you eagerly roll your hips against his thigh. 

“Fuck,” Santi mutters under his breath, watching you with a hooded gaze.

And as you begin to outright ride his thigh, fuelled by the way his hands are tightly gripping your waist while he nips at your neck, your mouth lets out a chorus of breathy little sounds. By now, your panties are soaked with your arousal, and your folds slide through it as the stiff seam of your jeans presses against your clit.

--

You’re so goddamn wet there’s a dark patch forming on Santi’s jeans, and when he looks down at it as you continue to ride him, he starts to feel dizzy with arousal. His dick is so fucking hard it’s throbbing, and he’s two seconds from flipping you onto your back, but then the swell of your breasts begins to spill out from the tight, low-cut top you’re wearing. 

You throw your head back when Santi reaches up to cup one of your exposed tits, teasing your hard nipple. He groans, reaching down and roughly palming his erection. The sounds coming out of you are getting more filthy and desperate, and Santi can’t resist leaning forward to take one of your breasts in his mouth. As he laps at the supple skin, you whimper, one hand gripping his hair.

Suddenly, Santi’s not so sure if he’ll even last long enough to get his pants off, because you look absolutely debauched as you continue to use him to chase your climax. His cock is aching. At this point, he doesn’t even give a shit if he comes in his pants.

And when you decide to take two of his fingers into your mouth, eagerly sucking on them, that’s his undoing. He feels the moment your orgasm is about to hit you, your thighs clenching down tightly against his. Santi surges forward and kisses you hard, swallowing down your choked out sob of pleasure.

You then take his lower lip into your mouth, running it between your teeth as you reach down and grasp his shaft through his pants, and he bucks up into your hand as cum begins to gush from his cock, painting the inside of his boxers.

—

Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!

» OSCAR ISAAC MASTERLIST » SANTIAGO GARCIA MASTERLIST

[writefightandflightclub]

AHHHHHH THE SANTI SOCCER PLAYER FIC!!! It was so good!! One of my favorite fics ive read in a while, thank you very much 💙💙

Imagine playing soccer with santi and the boys and absolutely kicking their asses. I feel like santi might feel a certain way 👀 just food for thought

Ah thank you so much! I’m super happy you enjoyed it 😊

Since I’m now so into this pairing I HAD to write a little blurb with your idea! Here you go! It’s set prior to the last one, earlier in their relationship.

Kick around: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x Masc!Soccer Player!Reader

Summary: Santi watches you run circles around his squad, and it makes him feel some kinda way.

Genre: fluff but Santi is a horny bastard (no smut, not explicit.) He soff! He dopey in love!

Reader: masc!reader, he/him pronouns. No anatomical / physical descriptions. Reader takes shirt off on pitch.

Author’s note: I ship these two so hard 🥹

Gif by @thewaythisis

You’re the hottest person to have ever existed.

Santi is sure of it.

He’d invited the whole squad along to your traditional Sunday morning kick-around. They’d been pestering him to meet you and this -you’d agreed- seemed like a fun and low pressure way to get to know them a little. While you’re in your element.

But, watching you run circles around every single one of them, is making him feel some kind of way.

It’s basically 5-a-side (well, four of them) versus you, and you are a fucking machine.

The breath saws in and out of his lungs as he watches Frankie attempt to pass the ball to Will as though he’s never met a soccer ball in his life, the shot clearly jarring his leg - a fact Frankie quickly attempts to gloss over.

He watches you dance around Will, basically teasing him far more than you need to with you fancy footwork. Will’s chest is heaving, his body lurching all over the place. You make every one of his highly trained operatives look cumbersome and tired, and meanwhile you’re not even out of breath. Haven’t broken a sweat. Have a gorgeous shit-eating grin on your face.

Santi is fit enough to keep up for a while longer at least, even if his soccer skills are lacklustre. He’s fine with that, honestly. He knows he has plenty of other skills - but the boys are actually competing with you as though it’s a matter of personal pride. As through they stand a chance.

Santi dips off to the side of the pitch to refuel with water and to calm his shaky legs, but in truth he’s just enjoying watching you. He enjoys showing you off. He enjoys the fact that you’re completely kicking their asses. He very much enjoys how hot you look as you do it too. How in control you look. How poised. You’re so fucking competent. The way your body looks as you run circles around them. Your 100-watt smile which he can see shining from all the way over here.

And finally, he watches you approach Benny, the last line of defence between you and the goal.

Benny is the only one that maybe has any kind of shot at besting you. He’s in shape. He’s spry. He’s an athlete.

No wait. He’s… calling a time-out? He’s grabbing some water. He’s taking his shirt off and… damn, you follow suit, and as Santi continues to sip on his water he has to be careful it doesn’t drool from the corner of his mouth at the sight of you.

Still, when Benny is ready, you resume, and he puts in a good effort but he has no hope in hell. You run rings around him. Leave him in the dust. His only hope is a completely dirty tackle, and Santi had already warned him what the consequences of that would be.

Still, the bastard does it anyway. Tries to grab you and swipe the ball from out under you. You stop dead still, putting your arms in the air and scolding the man. “This isn’t MMA, Benjamin.” Santi chuckles to himself. God, he loves that you fit right in. Like you’ve always been here. Like he’s always known you.

Then, you let Benny retake his position and you fleet straight past him, socking a sweet shot right into the top corner of the net with precision.

The boys all congregate now, Frankie folded in half and looking like he’s begging for an end to this torment. You pat him on the back and run to get him a towel and an isotonic drink, and Santi’s eyes crease with fondness as he watches you take care of and banter with his squad as though they are your own.

It’s one of the many things that can make him imagine you being in his life for a very long time, and the thought causes a sort of tranquility to wash over him.

Eventually, you peel of, nodding your head in the direction of Santi and beelining over towards where he casually leans up against a tree, doing that little footballer run to get over to him.

“Hiiiii,” he says dreamily, his pupils replaced by hearts, he’s sure, as he melts into a puddle.

You look amused. “Having fun, baby?”

Santi simply blinks, batting his long-lashes at you.

“Hiiiii,” he repeats, giving you the once-over with his eyes and evidently liking what he sees.

“Hi,” you laugh bashfully, the rich sound bobbing in your throat, and meanwhile Santi pushes up off the tree and shimmies closer. He places his hands at your hips, where shorts meet bare skin, and you have the good sense to clamp your hands over his, as though he’d be ballsy enough to strip you right here. “Do you think the guys are having fun?”

“I don’t know,” Santi purrs. “I’ve forgotten all their names. Faces. There’s only you.” A blatant heat is brewing in his eyes, and his gaze trails like fire over you.

You drop your voice lower in your throat. “Oh, you liked that did you? Watching me run circles around your friends? Showing me off?”

Santi smiles dopily at you. He’s got nothing.“Hiiiii,” he repeats, and you slide your hands from where they rest and loop them around his neck.

“Well. You can show me how much I impressed you later. For now, we have brunch.”

“Skip brunch,” Santi grunts, like a Neanderthal.

“Baby!” you eyes search his for sense. “I promised to get to know your friends. It’s important for us, right?”

The fact you’d do that for him? The fact you said us? It’s just one of the many things that makes Santiago want you in his life for a very, very long time.

One of the things; but there are so many more.

[eldritch-spouse]

How would the TCE boys hold up in a zombie apocalypse?

Putting aside the fact that Krulu and Miara would never let that happen.

[A zombie apocalypse setting is very intriguing, because you have to ask yourself a series of questions here. Are there only human zombies or monster zombies too? What properties do monster zombies have in particular? What has started the apocalypse? How does it spread?? It'd take so incredibly long to piece this all together coherently. So I'm going to go with something quite generic.]

TW: Mild gore; Unsanitary acts; Mild angst.

Morell has a very unique skill in this bleak scenario. Provided the zombie isn't too old, Morell can probably cook it in a way that still provides some type of nourishment and doesn't infect you. Or maybe it does... Just a little bit at a time. Maybe that's why he's been a little more bloodthirsty and twitchy lately. Is that a dark patch spreading around his cap? Zombies have began to avoid him, perhaps because he's a freak even to them. A zombie that eats zombies...

Grimbly is not having fun. But for one reason only mostly. Undead blood doesn't taste good, and it hardly sustains him. Depending on the scope of the invasion, he may die of starvation, or simply have to target survivors. Otherwise, he'd likely have an easier time avoiding zombies due to his speed, and killing them likely isn't that big of a hassle either. Grimbly could make a living wiping out groups of zombies for people and getting paid in blood.

Gallon would move to water bodies and mostly remain there. Zombies are sluggish in water generally. Slimes can remove nutrients from a surprising amount of things, so his biggest fear Iis only getting distracted enough to get bitten, and that the infection starts rotting his slime too fast for him to regenerate in time. He's so alert he's going vastly insane and extremely murderous towards most.

Santi is... Existing. He fucked a few zombies, don't judge him! Some of them are entertaining and clean, others just kinda... Well. He doesn't really find them to be ideal meals. Especially when he has to crush their jaws and break limbs so they don't infect him during coitus. He doesn't exactly feel threatened, but he does feel lonely and always a tad hungry. He's waiting to attach himself to someone and gain a steady stream of food, preferably someone weaker so he can act as their guard dog. Please he's so tired of limp zombie dick and lumpy pussy. They can't even suck.

Vinnel is getting a little too silly with it. Zombies can't pierce his suit, it was made by a God, after all, no rotted teeth and claws can ruin it. So he just floats around, picks some of them up and performs for absolutely no one but himself. The jester has put clown makeup on at least five zombies. They have names and they're his best friends! Except Pogo, the little shit keeps tearing the tutu off. Ungrateful fuck. Not everyone has the privilege to look good during the apocalypse, Pogo. Vinnel is also always starving to a degree. He doesn't kill survivors anymore out of desperation for genuine conversation. Most people just run from him.

Nebul, as an undead, has nothing to worry about. He will actually weaponize large hordes of them using his abilities as a wraith. Nebul is a creature to be feared during an apocalypse. He's likely the mastermind behind organized zombie attacks. His goal? To establish control of sizable portions of land and inflict total submission on those living he comes across. It may devolve into an apocalyptic cult. He's having a grand old time really! You may find him walking around with several bare humans in leashes crawling by his side. Somehow, someway, Purpur can eat zombies and be perfectly fine.

Patches, likewise, is not a target. Except he's less preoccupied with domination and more so trying to fight his instincts to put the living dead back into their graves. It's strange, his dullahan instincts don't usually react like this to other undead... He's holed up somewhere like a hermit, trying to study the source of the infection and keeping Stitches from exhausting himself in an effort to kill all zombies. Curiously, the sound of his yelling as a dullahan causes great confusion and fear in these particular types of undead. He has succeeded in controlling at least one zombie, but killed it shortly afterwards.

Belo is devastated, like any angel ought to be watching the Earth get populated by corruption that Dorem ought to have fixed. He kills most zombies he comes across and cannot be infected as far as he knows. Zombies avoid him, actually. Belo spends his time finding groups of survivors and attempting to help them fortify their bases. After all, they're all that's left... Even if they're demons, anything is better than those rotting husks. In a way, Belo feels as if he's been abandoned a second time, his existence is vastly miserable.

Sybastian is having a strange time. The zombies that have a fainter sense of smell don't pick up on him when he mimics them, the rest do, forcing him to be very careful. He's not having an easy time considering his method of dispatching zombies is very physical and he could get bitten in zones of his body that he fails to harden. Sybastian has lost many a mimicling to the apocalypse and lives mostly to protect the remaining ones, who have managed to survive alongside him. He too wants to find a group, in spite of adult mimics not being pack species.

Fank-e is having a... Boring time, mostly. He's not a target, in fact, he's loud and grating enough to drive zombies away. He doesn't need food or water. But he does need maintenance, so it's imperative he finds someone who can work in robotics minimally well or he'll perish eventually. Truth of the matter is he can't exactly die from battery loss, he may just lie dormant collecting moss and dust until someone with enough resources finds him. It's just as likely that he'll get torn into pieces and reused as armor or plating for other important machinery.

[pascalscenarios]

CLUMSY (Frankie Morales x Reader)

CLUMSY

Inspired by the song “Clumsy” by Fergie 

Scenario Series

Frankie Morales X Reader

Summary: You’re a waitress at a bar. Frankie is clumsy and completely flustered around you. 

Words: 1600

Warning: Mentions of alcohol, accidental touching

Author's Note: No because clumsy Frankie sounds cute af - K

It was packed at Aces, the bar you waitressed at. Tonight was game night, meaning a big sporting event was airing live on TV. Everyone flooded to the bar to watch the game on the multiple flatscreens, drink a shit ton of beer and eat greasy, yet delicious food.

“Alright Mac, here’s your usual, a pint of beer and nachos” You take the beer off the tray first, then set the nachos down on to the small circular table.

“Thanks darlin” He smiles at you. He picks up the beer, taking a swig and turning his attention back to the game.

“Of course, let me know if you need anything else!” you say over the loud noise.

“Thanks!”

With that you hold your empty tray in your hand, weaving past tables and bodies and make your way over to the bar to pick up orders.

You set your tray on the bartop, picking up plates of foods and beers, placing them on your tray.

Your coworker Johnny rushes up to you “Could you cover the table in the back?” He says as he quickly piles up his tray with orders.“Sorry! I’m really falling behind with all these orders and they requested for you”

Johnny was a new hire, only been on the job for a couple weeks. This was his first night working with the bar packed like this. It could get overwhelming.

You look over to the back, four guys sitting at the table. It was The Miller brothers, Will and Benny, and their friends Santiago, and Frankie. The four guys were regulars at the bar, coming in every so often.

Frankie Morales was looking at you, but quickly averted his gaze away when you noticed him staring at you. A smile crept onto your face. Frankie was cute, and boy did you have a fat crush on him.

Frankie is always nervous around you. You’ve heard him talk to the guys or anyone else like it was nothing, but when it was you, he’d shut up real quick. He was selective with his words, sometimes even stuttering when he spoke.

Something always went wrong when he tried to talk to you. Countless of times he has tripped, slipped, stumbled and fumbled in your presence. He is an absolute clutz around you.

“Yeah, of course! Don’t worry, I got you!”

“Thank you! I owe one!” Johnny quickly takes his tray and rushes off into the room.

You quickly maneuver around the floor, dropping off beers and food to various tables before heading over to the table towards the back corner of the bar.

“Hey, boys!” you greeted him.

Benny shouts your name “...Our favorite Waitress!”

“How are you doing?” Will asks, leaning on his arms that were on the table.

“Good! It’s a busy night! I haven’t seen you guys around for a while” you hold the tray in your arms.

“We’ve been busy at work. Thought we should have a few beers, eat and watch the game” Santi says motioning to the TV.

“And besides, Frankie here wanted to see you” Benny tossing his arm around him. Frankies eyes widen.

You cock your eyebrow up. “Is that so?” The guys begin to snicker or try to hold in their laughs.

“What?- No, that’s not why we came here- I mean not that I don’t wanna see you- it’s good to see you-I” he begins to babble

You begin to giggle “It’s good to see you, Frankie”

Frankie wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He was turning red, embarrassed, and angry staring at Benny.

“I already know what you guys want, I’ll be back in a minute” you say before walking away.

Once you were a far distance away, the guys busted out laughing.

“God, Frankie what was that?!” Benny was hunched over from laughing.

Frankie rolled his eyes annoyed at his friends.

“The person you become when they’re around...it's unreal” Santi chimes in.

“You should ask them out already Frankie. You’ve been crushing on them for a while” Will encourages him.

“They probably think I’m fucking idiot” Frankie mumbles.

“You’re not an idiot. You’re just nervous, that's all. It’s normal to be nervous around someone you like. You’re too much in your head. Don’t try to control the situation, just let things happen. Let it play out” Will expresses his advice to Frankie.

“Alright, 20 bucks something is gonna go wrong tonight...I say pretty soon” Benny says.

“Frankie’s gonna be okay” Will glares at Benny and Santi. They weren’t even drunk yet, yet here they are being assholes.

“Something always happens though, but I think later on in the night” Santi gives them a knowing look, “You got yourself a bet” He leans across the table shaking hands with Benny. Will shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come out tonight” Frankie gets up from his chair. “I’m going home”

“Frankie, Come on man” Benny drags out.

“No, I’m out of here” Frankie whips around, accidentally bumps into the tray in your hands. One of the pints tip over on the tray spilling all over your body.

“Oh my god” You gasp, clutching the tray close to you, making sure the rest of the pints don’t spill on the ground. You quickly set the beer soaked tray on to their table. You look down at yourself. Your v neck shirt was drenched in beer, and dripping onto your jeans.

“I’m so sorry- here let me help you” Frankie picks up the napkins from the dispenser on the table.

Your eyes widen as he begins to dap your exposed chest with the napkin. You know he means well. You don’t even think he realised what he was doing. You were just caught off guard.

“Frankie!” Will shouts.

“What-OH! Shit” it clicks in his head where his hands were, and clearly they shouldn’t be here.

He quickly moves his hands away from your body, and stepping away from you “I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean- I swear I wasn’t trying to- I” He was a stuttering mess.

“It’s fine” You chuckled awkwardly “Uh, I’m gonna go change and bring you new beers...I’ll have someone clean up the spill, excuse me” You pick up the tray and head back over to the bar.

“Fuck” Frankie sat back down covering his face in embarrassment. He felt terrible for not only spilling the drinks on you, but for touching you.

“Pay up, Garcia” Benny holds out his hand for twenty dollars. “Ouch!” Bennt helps out as his older brother slaps him upside the head.

…

The rest of the night Frankie remained silent, limiting himself to a few words, hardly making any eye contact when you came around by the table.

The bars closing time inched closer. People in the bar started to leave sporadically.

The night was coming down to an end. The guys paid for their food and left a good tip for you like they always do. The guys got up, waved goodbye to you, and started to make their way towards the exit.

Frankie didn’t want to leave without apologizing to you. I would have messed with his conscience, keeping him awake until the wee hours of the morning.

“I’ll catch up with you guys outside, I’ll be a minute.”

You were behind the bar, wiping up glasses that you just cleaned.

Frankie's heart was pounding. There was no need to be nervous. You were always so sweet to him. He took a deep breath in, signing quickly. “Hey” Frankie said as he approached the counter top.

“Hi” you smile softly at him as you set the cup down on the counter, picking up another to wipe.

“Are you staying a bit longer?”

“The guys are waiting for me outside..I just wanted to talk to you. I just wanted to apologize earlier-”

“Frankie” you sighed, “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine”

“No, It wasn’t. I knocked a whole pint of beer on you, then proceeded to touch your chest, without consent-”

“Frankie, it was an accident. You were just trying to help me” you giggle. “Besides, I think it's cute when I make you all flustered”

Frankie started to blush. He scratches the back of his neck “You noticed that huh?”

“There’s no need to be nervous around me. I’m no one special”

“Well I mean you kinda are. I’ve had a crush on you for a while” Frankie cringed at what he said. “Wow I sound like such a fucking creep- I’m sorry. I’m really not good at these things and I-”

You quickly set down the glass and rag down on the counter. You leaned your body forward, grabbing a hold of Frankies shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. It was simple and sweet.

You pull away, biting your lip “Frankie you need to relax...I’ve had a crush on you for a while too.

“Really? After I made myself look like a clown in front of you countless of times?”

“Yes really. How about we go out on a date?” You asked him.

“O-okay. Yeah I’d like that…” 

“I’m off Friday night. Is that day okay?” 

“Yeah”

“Alright, here’s my number” You grab a pen from your apron, and write it down on a napkin. You hand him the napkin.

“Night Frankie”

“Goodnight”

Frankie heads out of the bar and finds the guys waiting around.

“What took you so long?” Benny complained 

“Looks like a got a date friday night” he smiles holding up the napkin with your number

“ATTA BOY FRANKIE!!” 

MT: @icanbeyourjedi @sara-alonso @greeneyedblondie44 @hb8301 1 @alberta-sunrise @spacenerdpascal @ryleyrooroo @reader-s-cantina @nikkixostan @mindidjarin

[charnelhouse]

Hi Charnie👋🏻 I want to start by saying WYS is amazing and better than a whole lot of published books out there. I’ve read it 3 times in the last month and I will probably end up reading it all a fourth time after the next part comes out. I should also say that I work in healthcare, every one in my family works in healthcare (yeah we’re those people) and most of my friends work in healthcare so thinking about medical things consumes 98% of my waking time.

That being said I think Will would have finished medical school and probably done a few years of residency. We don’t really let medical students touch the patients, let alone participate in the types of surgery that Will would have needed to get the skill set he has. If he finished medical school and started an orthopedic surgery residency, he would have spent a year with the general surgeons doing a bunch of abdominal surgeries and learned about how to work with internal organs then gone on to ortho where he would have learned things like amputations….which seems to be his specialty. A year or two of residency would have given him experience setting broken bones and popping in a dislocated finger or shoulder which is something I feel like happens to the boys and they’d probably prefer to take care of these things in-house rather than having an outsider help. I can also absolutely imagine control freak Santi having hacked into the hospitals computer system, looked at Will’s case logs, decided he’s gotten the experience Santi needs him to have, and then called him home.

Does this detail really matter? No. Is it going to change anything about the plot? Also no. Have I spent entirely to much time contemplating this? Yes. Do I want it to be canon so I can imagine smoking hot Will Miller walking around my hospital in a white coat like he owned the place? Abso-fucking-lutely. He would make my night shifts go by so much faster.

Haha in all honesty, i know jack shit about medical school so thank you for this. it's very enlightening and would make sense for Will!

[dameronology]

welcome to the jungle {frankie morales}

summary: after taking a job with the delta guys, you cross paths with frankie morales. even though you’re at each other’s throats at first, it proves to be the start of something beautiful.�� (for @what-the--curtains​ - i hope you enjoy!!) - 7k words

warnings: swearing, mentions of ptsd

this is kinda ambiguous in terms of the timeline of the film but i sort of hint to the first half being before the events of t.f and the second half being after -- with that said, you can take it as you would like :D

- jazz

Your brother had dog sat for a few days.

In exchange, you were flying out to Colombia in the middle of your work week. 

You believed in favours, but these two did not feel like they were equal. 

Still, you were a person of your word - and getting to fly to South America was exciting. The job itself was exciting, if not a little...eyebrow raising. His friend, an ex-Delta soldier, needed somebody to ID a body. That part didn’t bother you - you were a forensic archaeologist after all and it was quite literally your job description. The suspicious bit was the circumstances under which you were doing it; Santiago Garcia hadn’t been entirely clear on the phone, but he’d said something about witnesses and getting the government off of our backs. You’d met Santiago a few times and you knew what kind of work he did - military stuff. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that it was probably an under-the-radar kind of affair. But, you’d never been one to back down from a challenge. 

So, here you were on a warm Colombian Tuesday afternoon, suitcase trailing behind you as you trekked towards a dusty old air base. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on your back in a way that had initially been comforting, but was now just plain annoying. You didn’t know how long you were going to be here, but packing three jackets now felt like a stupid idea. The one one you’d worn on the plane over had been long discarded and tied around your waist, which only added to the struggle of dragging your case up the steep, sandy hill. In the distance, you could see an ATC tower glinting under the sun - the streams of light bounced right back off of it, causing you to shield your eyes with your forearm. The taxi you’d gotten from the international airport - not like this sandy little place - had only taken you so far. At least, of all things, the boots you’d opted to wear were built for this kind of thing. 

A few hundred meters up the road, you finally saw another sign of human life. A 4x4 was parked outside the abandoned terminal entrance, three men leaning against the side of it. You spotted Santiago standing a few metres away on his phone, thumbs tapping away. He didn’t look any different to the last time you saw him; dark and curly hair, a semi-friendly smile and stubble littering his chin. You hadn’t seen him since your brother’s birthday party a few months ago. 

‘Hey!’ The former soldier offered you a grin when he saw you, holding his arms open. ‘Long time, no see!’

‘Hey, Santi!’ You replied, giving him a pat on the back as he pulled you into a hug. ‘And yeah, it’s been a while. Then again, when was the last time you were in the country for more than five minutes?’

‘I’m in high demand.’ He shot back. 

Pulling back from the embrace, Santi pointed to his colleagues. There was Will and Benny, two blonde boys, both in military gear. It didn’t take much to figure out that they were brothers; same smirk, same stance, same eyes. Even if Santi hadn’t pointed it out, you would have figured as much. You were naturally deductive - came with the job. After the brothers, there was Frankie. He had dark eyes and hair, the latter of which was covered by his hat. Unlike the other three, he was wearing more casual clothes, just with a tac vest over the top. You kind of got the vibe that he didn’t want to be there - that was...comforting. 

‘What’s all this?’ Frankie asked, gesturing to the heavy metal suitcase behind you. 

‘Just...stuff. Tools.’ You replied. ‘Things I need to do my job, I guess.’

‘How heavy is it?’ 

‘Light enough that I was able to get them onto a commercial flight?’ You offered. 

‘The plane is already at max weight.’ He replied, brown eyes flickering up to meet yours. 

‘God, give ‘em a break, Fish!’ Santi slapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Remember last time you said it would be fine-’

‘- hey.’ He cut him off with a harsh look. ‘We don’t talk about that.’

‘So I can bring them?’ You raised your eyebrows. ‘Because I can’t do whatever it is you need to do unless I have them.’

‘Yeah, it’ll be fine.’ Santiago gave you a comforting smile. ‘Let’s head to the jet and we’ll talk about the job.’ 

Swinging your duffle bag back over your shoulder, you picked up your suitcase and began to follow the guys further up the hill. There wasn’t anybody else around -- just sand, sun and rusting old jets. There was one in particular that they seemed to be headed towards. It was only mildly less eroded than the damaged ones around you, but the engines were running and the cargo doors were open. Santiago took your bag from your hands as you approached it, tossing it in with the other luggage. 

‘Do not throw that one, Garcia!’ You demanded, flinching slightly as he took your suitcase. 

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He shot back. 

‘Sure thing.’ You rolled your eyes at him. ‘You brought a medkit right?’

‘No. Why?’

‘There’s one in my duffle bag.’ You replied. ‘Side pocket. Can you grab it?’

‘We don’t need one, we’ll be fine-’

‘- Santiago Garcia, do you want me to report back to my brother that you took his baby sibling on a jungle-wide expedition without the correct medical supplies?’ You challenged. 

Santi swallowed, mind briefly flashing back to the time he’d almost been decked by said brother for letting you walk home alone. ‘Fine.’

Your triumphant smile only lasted a split second; as soon as your eyes fell on the plane, you realised you still had to get on it. Fuck. 

The engines seemed to be working fine, but it was just...old. And eroding. And making a funny sound. You were by no means an engineer, but even just binging a few episodes of Air Crash Investigations made you feel qualified enough to know that this was not where it was at in terms of air safety. You could have taken it up with Frankie, but he didn’t seem entirely approachable. 

You did trust Santi, however - though sometimes that seemed a little against your better judgement. Every crazy story that your brother had relayed back to you from their time in the military involved him making questionable decisions. Hopefully, opting to fly this hunk of metal wouldn’t be one of them. Here’s to hoping it was aerodynamic. 

‘Are you getting in or…’ Frankie peered down at you from the stairs, eyebrows raised. 

‘Yeah, sorry.’ You blinked in surprise. ‘This thing is safe, right?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘What is it to me?’ You snorted. ‘Just, y’know, that I’m about to fly a few hundred thousand feet in the air and if it falls out of the sky I’ll die.’

‘I know what I’m doing.’ Frankie shut the door behind you as you climbed aboard, twisting the handle shut. ‘I’ve been flying for years.’

‘I’m not saying it’s you.’ You brushed past him, shoulders bumping as you did. ‘Captain fucking Sully couldn’t fly this thing.’

‘The guy from Monster’s Inc?’ 

‘No, the guy who landed the plane on the Hudson? They made a movie about it, with Tom Hanks-’

‘- you should sit down now.’ Frankie turned away from you. ‘We’re about to take off.’

Your mouth fell open in slight disbelief. What an asshole. 

Santi called your name, signalling for you to sit with him in the cockpit. The seats on the plane hardly looked comfortable, and your brain was mentally working out if it was safer to sit over the wing in a crash, or by the tail. You’d definitely seen it in a documentary once, but you couldn’t remember exactly what they said. Perhaps the best option was to just be less dramatic. 

Taking a seat between Frankie and Santi, you pulled your seatbelt on and shuffled awkwardly. This was fine. Absolutely fine. Frankie was a trained pilot (and a dickhead, but that didn’t take away from his flying skills) and you were going to be fine. Fiiiiine. Maybe if you said it once more, you’d believe yourself. You were going to be fine. Yeah, there we go. 

A few deep breaths and you were certain. Or, at least you’d convinced yourself to be certain. 

‘So.’ Your eyes momentarily flicked over to where Frankie was adjusting some controls. ‘What exactly am I doing here?’

‘A few months ago, the boys and I were involved in the shoot-out.’ Santi began. ‘Pretty standard for the type of operation we were on.’

‘Right. Standard office work.’ You muttered. ‘Do go on.’

‘We thought everyone who had witnessed it had been recorded.’ He continued. ‘And everyone who we spoke to verified that it was a justified shootout. No dirty work, no ulterior motive. All valid, from a legal perspective.’

You thinned your eyes. ‘I don’t think I like where this is going.’

‘We ID’d all the bodies at the time.’ He said. ‘Including a Ricky Martinez. Except now, a guy claiming to also be Ricky Martinez has come forward, claiming that his version of events is a little different. Like, different enough to incriminate us.’

‘He’s lying, right? You guys were the good ones?’ You urged. Santiago’s silence was anything but comforting. ‘Right?’

‘Morals are all a matter of perspective.’ He replied. ‘Our labs ID’d Martinez’ body twice but we need a third party opinion before we can completely dispel the guy pretending to be him.’

‘Guess that’s where I come in?’ You asked, leaning further back into the seat as the jet began to move. 

‘Exactamente.’ Santi nodded. 

That didn’t sound too bad. Between excavating the grave, running tests and returning the body, it would take a few days tops. You could manage that. 

The jet began to pick up speed, making its ascent towards the runway. Frankie did look like he knew what he was doing -- heck, the man looked bored, even.  He barely even had to look at the dash controls as it moved forward, hands moving freely and easily to manoeuvre the plane down the runway. 

‘What are you staring at?’ Frankie glanced over at you. 

‘N-nothing.’ You replied.  ‘Shouldn’t you be focusing on the road-’

‘- that’s a runway.’ He cut you off. 

‘Whatever.’

You were thrown backwards in your chair from the momentum of the take off. The plane angled upwards as it went up in the air, tilting sideways as it balanced out. You felt your stomach drop as the ground disappeared from beneath you, the push of the engines pulling you up higher into the sky. There was a clunk, signalling that the landing gear had retracted. 

Well, the plane had fulfilled its first purpose: taking off. That was a good sign. 

‘So,’ Benny peered over at you. ‘What’s your callsign gonna be?’

‘My name, presumably.’ You quirked a brow at him. 

‘We have Ironhead, Catfish and Pope.’ He continued. ‘But Will and I were talking, and we thought Barbie was gonna fit well.’ 

‘Oh, really?’ You sniffed. ‘And why might that be?’

‘Because you’re young, and pretty hot-’

‘- so your call sign is Benny, right?’ You cut him off. ‘Short for Benjamin? That’s really clever. Did you come up with it yourself?’

‘Maybe Eye Candy will be beter-’

Benny was cut off when you reached across, leaning over Santi to smack him in the chest with your balled up fist. All four of them jumped in surprise at your action - clearly, you weren’t somebody to be fucked with. You hadn’t worked your ass for years to get your degree to get discredited like that. 

‘Make a comment like that again and I’ll drop kick your ass out of this plane.’ You jabbed your finger towards him. 

Benny thinned his eyes at you. ‘Frankie wouldn’t let you do that. Right, Cat?’

‘You heard ‘em.’ Frankie’s eyes didn’t move from the clouds ahead. 

--

To give credit where credit was due, Frankie was good at landing planes. 

Specifically, he was good at landing planes in places where planes should not have been landed. Not that he’d had much of a choice when the engines gave in half way through the journey, a couple hundred miles over the thick Colombian jungle. 

In short, you’d been right the entire time. The damn thing wasn’t safe. Of course, you weren’t going to say I told you so right then, since it felt like a little bit of a sensitive subject. 

Now, the five of you were standing next to a pile of what-used-to-be-a-plane, defeat plastered over every one of your individual faces. You were lucky to all have made it out okay - just about. Santiago had taken a hit to the head, Benny had bitten his tongue pretty hard when you’d collided with the ground (fitting) and Frankie had split his head open. You and Will were the only ones who hadn’t sustained any injuries. He had proven to be much more tolerable than his brother. 

‘Okay, we just gotta…’ you looked around, eyes taking in the debris around you. ‘We just gotta stay calm-’

‘- stay calm?’ Frankie cut you off. ‘You’re the reason the fucking thing went down! If you hadn’t taken all that extra weight-’

‘- do you ever shut up, Morales?’ You snapped. ‘And I’m no genius but I don’t think the engines catching fire was anything to do with me bringing an extra bag onto the plane!’

‘I’m the pilot.’ He reminded you. ‘I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Maybe it was the weight of your ego that made it go down.’ You chided. 

‘Hey - Patrick, Spongebob!’ Will finally yelled. Both your heads snapped in his direction, eyes wide. ‘Can you keep it in your pants for two minutes so we can work out how to make it through the night?’

‘Right, sorry.’ You nodded. 

You glanced around the crash site, brain calculating for a minute as you took in what little was left. The plan had landed on its belly and skidded for a few hundred metres; consequently, most of the luggage had come out on the way. That left you with the one remaining bag, the medkit you’d scared Santi into bringing and the strewn camping kit that had been ditched in the back of the fuselage. 

Pulling your phone out your pocket, you sighed when you realised that you had no signal. What had you expected? Four bars in the middle of the jungle? Probably not realistic. You did, however, have a compass app. That was something. You thought for a moment, glancing between the app and the sun’s position in the sky. It was splintering through the trees, washing heat over you like a bucket of cold water. There was a small stream a few metres away, which was a source of water at least. 

‘It’s just gone four, maybe five in the afternoon.’ You announced. ‘So we have about three hours till the sun starts to set. The water in the stream runs that way so if we follow it, we’ll find the source. People are more likely to set up civilization around a source of water.’ 

All four of them looked at you like kids who had lost their parents in Walmart.  Were they really ex-military? 

‘So, what?’ Benny frowned. ‘We...set up a new civilisation?’

‘Oh my days.’ You muttered under your breath. ‘I am spoon-feeding this to you! It means that there will be a town with people.’ 

‘That’s smart.’ Santi nodded. 

‘But before we do that, we gotta sort this out. Will, d’you know how to check for concussion?’ You asked, to which he nodded. ‘Okay, you check Santi and I’ll clean up Frankie’s head. Then we gotta gather those camping supplies and head east. Best case scenario, we find a town before sundown. Worst case scenario, we camp out for the night.’

‘Who put you in charge?’ Frankie asked.

‘Me.’ You replied. 

Taking the medkit from Santi’s hands, you quietly thanked him and led Frankie over to some rocks. He didn’t seem all that pleased when you forced him to sit on one - and he was even less pleased when you pulled his hat off. It revealed a tangle of dark curls, some of which you had to push back to get to the mark on his head. Some may have debated the importance of mentioning such a detail, but you couldn’t help but notice how soft his hair was. 

You knelt down in front of him, pulling the supplies out of the little medical kit. There weren't many, but there was enough to give him something temporary till you got to a proper hospital. If you got a proper hospital. 

‘It’s not too deep.’ You observed, running your thumb over the creases of his forehead. ‘Just a couple stitches at worst.’

‘Don’t you normally stitch up bodies?’ Frankie asked. His brown eyes were glued to the floor, following the outlines of the boot-prints that you’d left. 

‘Yeah, it’s the same kinda principle though.’ You laughed slightly. ‘Despite your attitude, I’m not gonna give you Y-incision stitches.’

‘Thanks.’

‘At least not in a place people can see them.’

Frankie snorted, but it translated to a hiss of pain as you dabbed an alcohol wipe at his forehead. Despite everything, you had a slight admiration for him. He’d managed to land the plane safely as the situation allowed and despite a few minor injuries, things could have been much worse. You didn’t quite feel like vocalising that to him when you were still stranded in the middle of the jungle, but if you ever got out? You might get Santi to pass the message on. 

‘D’ you think it’ll scar?’ Frankie quietly asked. 

‘Maybe.’ You admitted. ‘Just take a deep breath.’

‘Where did you even learn to do this stuff?’ He asked, letting out another small grunt of discomfort. ‘The stitches and the compass shit.’

You shrugged. ‘I’ve been around the block a few times. You kinda learn to be prepared.’

‘Really? As a morgue worker?’

‘Not a morgue worker.’ You grumbled. ‘Then again, I am stabbing a needle through your skin so I suppose I’ll allow the discrepancy.’ 

‘What is it you do then?’

‘I’m a forensic archaeologist.’ You explained. ‘So it’s my job to retrospectively work out how people died, whether it be because their body was found a long time after they died or because they had to be exhumed from their original resting place.’

Gently pulling the needle back from Frankie’s forehead, you cut the thread and dabbed it again with an alcohol wipe. You brushed his hair back down and placed his hat back on his head, offering him a smile. For the first time since you’d met him, he returned the gesture. 

You dusted off your knees and took a place on the rock beside Frankie, examining your handy work. Considering you’d been in a plane crash not quite an hour ago, it wasn’t too bad. At least if it did scar, it was in a place his hair covered up. And in your defense, scarring wasn’t usually something you had to worry about with your other...patients. They usually went back in the ground not long after you dealt with them. 

‘You’ll wanna sit down for a minute.’ You replied. ‘D’you feel dizzy at all? Sick?’

‘I was just in a plane crash.’

‘Me too, funnily enough.’ You rolled your eyes at him. ‘I s’pose it’s the most interesting job I’ve worked in a while.’

‘Same here.’ Frankie said. ‘I normally work for a flight school, so this is...something else.’

‘It’ll make me grateful when I get back to the office.’ You agreed. ‘Because it has four walls, air conditioner and co-workers who don’t give me ridiculous nicknames.’

‘Right.’ He snorted. ‘Benny can be...Benny. He doesn’t mean to be an asshole.’ 

‘Benny wasn’t the asshole.’ You quipped, nudging him with your elbow.

At least Frankie had proven now that he could talk to you without being insufferable. You couldn’t work out if you’d warmed to him or if he’d warmed to you, but doing somebody’s stitches was unarguably one hell of an icebreaker. He was just a little closed off; quiet and reserved, you figured. You didn’t know what him and the Delta guys had been through, but Santi had mentioned a few things in passing that pointed to a heavy past. That was something you could relate to - your job was no walk in the park either 

‘It’s not...personal.’ Frankie glanced off into the distance. 

Will had managed to salvage the remaining bag from the jet, meaning that Santiago could use it as a seat. Benny was sitting with them, talking amongst themselves. You would have to move soon, in order to find a suitable place to camp before sundown, but taking a minute to recover from the last hour was also important. You’d barely stopped to sit down since the plane had gone down, and now you had, the shock had hit you. Your suspicions about safety had actually been correct. Not that it mattered now, but at least you had a plan to get everyone back to civilization as soon as possible. 

‘So you being an ice cold bitch isn’t to do with me? That’s a relief.’ You joked. Frankie smiled in response; his first genuine one since you’d met. 

‘The witness that you were going to ID was from the last job we all worked together.’ He explained ‘It went bad. Really bad.’

‘From what Santi said, it sure did sound like it.’ You replied. 

‘I hadn’t seen anything as bad as we did then since I was stationed out in the war zones.’ He continued. ‘So being back here, and being with the guys, has just put me on edge. I’m sorry if I was an asshole.’

‘You don’t have to say sorry.’ You shook your head. ‘I mean...actually, yeah, you were an asshole but I get it.’

‘You do?’

‘Forensic archeology is no walk in the park either.’ You replied. ‘It’s my job to work out how people have died. Most of my work is on crime scenes or in war zones so I’ve seen some...dark stuff.’

‘It sticks with you.’ Frankie quietly murmured. 

‘Yeah, it does.’ You said. ‘I know you might not think it on the surface, because it’s the usual sort of job that leaves stuff weighing on your shoulders-’

‘- doesn’t matter.’ He cut you off. ‘Trauma is trauma. Regardless of how you got it or where it came from, it’s valid.’

You gave him a small smile. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. 

---

Later that night -- and after a few hours of walking -- you and the guys had settled down into a makeshift campsite. It was just at the edge of a clearing, not too far from what looked to be a small town glinting in the distance. You did offer to keep going, but between the injuries the group had sustained, it was easier to stop for the night. You had enough of a combined skillset to find some fruit growing to snack on and to start a fire.

Santiago, Will and Benny had long passed out. It wasn’t until after they had done so that you realised there was absolutely no room left in the tent. It was only built for two people, let alone five. Where that left you in terms of sleeping arrangements, you didn’t know, but the chances of even getting to rest felt low. Your brain was on full overdrive, tired eyes darting constantly around the distance. How safe was this place? You’d managed to convince yourself that the plane was secure, and that had gone down like...well, like the fucking plane. 

You were sitting on a log, drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick. It was just something to keep your brain occupied as you fought off the tiredness. The jet-lag from your flight to Colombia had hit in full force and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into your bed -- the bed that wasn’t there. 

‘So, are you keeping a look-out?’ 

You jumped at the sound of Frankie’s voice, twisting around to face him. ‘Something like that.’

‘I can take over if you want.’ He offered. ‘You should get some rest. You’ve saved our asses like three times today.’

‘Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t fit into that tent.’ You replied. ‘I can hear them snoring from here.’

‘Is it worse than the alternative of me keeping you company?’ He softly smiled, taking a seat beside you. ‘I’ll promise not to be an asshole anymore.’

‘We spoke about this.’ You reminded him. ‘I get it. It’s okay.’

‘I still feel bad.’ He sighed. ‘Especially after you stitched me up and led us through the jungle. We woulda eaten something poisonous and died if you hadn’t stopped Benny going near those mushrooms.’

You chuckled. ‘Don’t feel bad, okay? You’ve had bad experiences before and it’s natural to be anxious.’

‘I shouldn’t have taken it out on you-’

‘- Frankie!’ You cut him off with a groan. ‘I’m about to be an asshole if you don’t stop saying sorry.’

‘So we’re good?’ 

‘We’re good.’ You smiled. ‘Thanks for keeping me company.’

‘Santiago, in no uncertain terms, made it clear that he would come for our kneecaps if we left you alone in the dark.’ Frankie admitted. ‘I think he likes you.’

You chuckled, shaking your head. ‘I think you have the wrong idea. Santi is only so protective of me because he’s one of my brother’s best friends, and I guess by extension, that kind of makes him my brother too. They go right back to high school, and then they did the academy together.’

‘That’s a long time.’ Frankie nodded. ‘So you and Santi, that’s...nothing, right?’

‘Absolutely not.’ You snorted derivatively. ‘And if it was, my brother would probably end him.’

‘So,’ He took a stick from the floor, joining in with random doodles you were carving into the ground. ‘Be honest: if these stitches scar, d’you think I’ll look rugged and handsome?’

You peered over at him, eyes creasing as your smile grew wider. ‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Ouch.’ He dramatically grabbed his heart, shaking his head. ‘The correct answer was no Frankie, you already look rugged and handsome.’

‘Okay, it would make you look more rugged and handsome.’ You rolled your eyes. ‘Better?’

‘Better.’ He grinned triumphantly. ‘When was the last time you stitched up a living, breathing human?’

‘College, I think.’ You replied. ‘My roommate got into a fight and didn’t have insurance, so I did some makeshift stitches with a cheap sewing kit we found at a 24/7 corner shop.’

‘We’ve all done it.’ He laughed. ‘I’m glad the stitches you gave me were actual, professional ones...right?’

‘Obviously!’ You exclaimed. ‘You’ll probably want to get them redone when we get back to...y’know, civilisation.’

‘Naturally.’ He nodded. ‘I appreciate you stitching me up. The others would not have been able to do that if it had been just us.’

You shrugged. ‘It’s nothing, really.’

‘What if - and feel free to blatantly reject me for my earlier actions - I took you out for a drink when we got back? Y’know, if we ever get back to civilisation.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ You smiled. 

Normally, Frankie wouldn’t have been that bold -- and you would have absolutely rejected someone who had made such a terrible first impression. But, said impression had changed. He’d been an asshole but you could see why; you could reason with it, even. God knew that you also had a tendency to become withdrawn and irritable when you were retracting back to the darker corners of your mind. Bad days on the job were hard to shake. They stuck with you for a long time. 

The conversation continued, though you couldn’t recall exactly what it was about. Nothing and everything. Growing up and going to college - or for Frankie, the military. You compared stories of Santiago; Frankie’s were better, but yours were pretty good. He told you about how he’d got his piloting license back, and you in return offered a tale of the time that your brother had gotten a DUI. 

Between the warmth of Frankie beside you and the crackling fire in front of you, it became harder and harder to fight off your exhaustion. You would have been tired enough if you were from this timezone, but your body clock was hours out of whack. With your eyelids getting heavier and the dark sky above you, it wasn’t long before you’d flopped into the pilot’s side with defeat. 

‘’M sorry.’ You murmured. 

‘It’s fine, you don’t have to apologise.’ Frankie replied. He moved his arm around your shoulders to support your weight from falling off the log - also to give a sign that he was more than okay with it. 

You rested your chin on his shoulder, peering up at him. Now that his cold facade had slipped away, you could admire him a little bit more. Warm chocolate eyes, a strong jawline, and a face that just felt kind, even despite initial impressions. The warm glow of the fire illuminated his face with a soft hue, making the lighter tones of his eyes a little more visible. 

You were both still lingering from the adrenaline of the plane crash, hearts pounding in your chests and brains wrestling with the idea that you’d both made it out with minor injuries. Was that what had made you bold? The sudden reminder of your mortality? Because you never would have kissed him if it had been a normal night.

He met you halfway, lips gently capturing yours in a soft kiss. They were a little chapped from the humidity of the jungle air, but intoxicating and enchanting all the same. He tasted very, very faintly of tobacco and a little bit of mint -- had the bastard had chewing gum this whole time? Not that it was relevant. Not that anything else in the world was relevant. Not when Frankie Morales was kissing you.

Neither of you said anything after; he simply pulled you into his chest, resting his head on top of yours. Between the mental exhaustion and emotional ping-pong game that you were partaking in, you wanted to sleep. 

And sleep, you did; tangled together on the dirt of the jungle floor, not a worry in the world. 

---

Time passed. 

It passed quickly and slowly all at once. 

Once you’d found a little town and got on a coach to Medellin, you did what you came to do: identified the body, cleared their names and closed the case. Your duties at your actual job called you back home and less than a day later, you were on a plane home. 

After that, everything was a blur. You tried to keep in contact with everyone, but life was demanding as ever. Thanks to a promotion at work, you were being kept busy 24/7. Santiago finally retired from active duty and moved back to your hometown, near to his parents and to the guys. Even with the group chat he’d made - affectionately titled Plane Pals - it was hard to constantly keep up with everyone. 

You and Frankie had texted for a while, but it sort of faded out. Whenever you were able to make it back home to see him and everyone else, he was busy. You’d both tried to make plans a few times but they’d never come to fruition. You still texted each other happy birthday every year, but that was it. Like that night in the jungle, he quickly became a thing of the past. A distant memory that sometimes felt like a dream. 

It made a good dinner table story, especially for first dates. You told it on many actually, actually -- only one ever went well. So well, in fact, that you’d ended up in a four-year-relationship. A marine biologist called Simon; not boring, but not necessarily exciting either. He was nice...enough. Nice enough that you didn’t find a reason to leave. 

Looking back, you probably had a million reasons to leave. He was an asshole, for one. The last time he’d treated you right had been your first anniversary - and for some reason, you’d stuck around to celebrate your second and third and fourth. Everyone around you was settling down, and you felt that pressure too. 

Even Santiago fucking Garcia, the biggest flirt and bachelor you knew, was getting married. You’d RSVP’d a plus one - Simon, obviously - but the week before you were due to fly home for the wedding, things had finally reached a bitter end. You weren’t sad about him; more sad that you’d wasted four years of your life on the Walmart equivalent to Ned Flanders. 

On the brightside, your brother’s respective relationship had also gone through a shitty demise, meaning you could move your seats at the reception next to one another. Like Santiago, he had also retired from the military and was living his best life - even though it had taken six months for him to start speaking to his friend again. He hadn’t taken well to the idea of Santiago taking you on a job that left you in the middle of the jungle. 

‘People are gonna ask where Simon is, aren’t they?’ You muttered. 

‘Cheer up.’ Your brother nudged you. ‘I know what’ll help - let’s make a bet.’

‘What?’ You groaned. 

You were standing outside the church, waiting to be called inside. You’d waved at Benny and Will as they came in. The latter had kids of his own now, but Benny was focusing on his boxing career. He hadn’t called you Barbie again though, so that was something. 

‘I bet you twenty bucks that Santiago is divorced by the end of the year.’ Your brother grinned. 

‘No! That’s horrible.’ You slapped his arm. 

‘Whatever. That’s $20 you’re missing out on.’

‘I hate that we’re related.’

‘Me too.’

‘Shut up!’

‘You said it first!’

The two of you were cut off by someone clearing their throats.

You almost did a double take when you saw Frankie Morales stood in front of you. He didn’t look that different to his six-year-old Whatsapp profile picture; he wasn’t wearing his hat, instead wearing his hair pushed back, and rather than his old tac vest, he had a suit and tie on. You had a sort of vision of him in your head from that night, but it didn’t do him justice. He was even better in person. 

‘Catfish!’ Your brother jeered. ‘Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!’ 

‘Says you!’ Frankie gave him a slap on the back. His eyes then fell to you, and his demeanour changed a little. ‘Hey.’

‘Frankie fucking Morales.’ You murmured. ‘How’re you?’

‘Thriving.’ He replied. ‘You?’

‘Also thriving.’ You smiled. 

‘I was sorry to hear about the divorce, man.’ Your brother, as clueless as ever, didn’t sense the sudden onset of tension. 

‘Divorce?’ You blinked in surprise. ‘Is that really something you should bring up-’

‘- you brought up your break up at dinner last week-’

‘- only because you brought up yours first-’

‘- guys!’ Frankie cut you off. ‘It’s fine, really. I appreciate you looking out for me but it was a while ago now. Besides, I’ve got Leya. She takes up all my time.’

‘Leya?’ your eyebrows shot up. ‘Is that your girl-’

You were interrupted by a bell ringing, signalling that it was time for the guests to enter the church. Did the universe hate you? What kind of fucking dreadful timing was that? 

‘I’ll see you guys at the reception, right?’ Frankie asked. 

‘Sure thing, dude.’ Your brother waved him off.

The pilot turned on his heel, giving you a smile as he headed for the church. He was the best man after all, and his presence probably was needed. 

‘You asshole!’ You have his shoulder another whack. ‘I was talking to him!’

‘Jesus, calm down! And why do you hit so hard?’ He huffed. ‘What’s so important?’

‘Who’s Leya?’

‘I dunno! Do I look like Gossip Girl?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re mean.’ He grabbed you by the arm, dragging you towards the church entrance. ‘And mum made me promise to make sure you wouldn’t play Doodle Jump during the vows.’

‘That was one time!’ You snapped. 

Thankfully, the actual ceremony passed quicker than you thought. Santiago’s new wife was beautiful -- you hadn’t met Yovanna before, but both her and Santi had greeted you with a bright smile as you entered the reception. It was in a large hotel room, decorated with strings of fairy lights and a large dance floor. A lot of thought had clearly got into it. 

It made you a little sad to think about. How many weddings had you been to in the last five years? How many times had people looked at you and your former boyfriend and said you’ll be next. You weren’t even sad about him. If anything, you were mad that you’d let yourself think about marrying him. You could do better. You were going to do better.

‘Is that girl over there eying me up?’ Your brother’s voice pulled you back to reality. ‘I swear she’s been giving me heart eyes since they brought dessert out.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one in the cute dress! Brown hair, dark eyes-’

‘- that’s Santi’s cousin.’ You rolled your eyes. 

‘And?’

‘Santi’s cousin who is a lesbian?’ You tried to suppress a laugh. ‘Who has been with her wife for 11 years and has three children?’

He groaned. ‘Why must you find such joy in my pain?’

‘It’s what siblings are for.’ You grinned. ‘I’m gonna get a drink. D’you want anything?’

He only let out another groan in response - you took that as a no, simply giving him a pat on the head as you stood up. 

You’d tried to ask around with a few mutual friends if they knew who Leya was -- either they hadn’t seen Frankie in a while, or they pushed to know why you were asking. You couldn’t exactly play that one as suave. Nobody took a casual interest in the personal life of somebody they barely knew -- even though you did know Frankie. Quite well, actually. He’d practically recounted his entire life story to you that night. Told you things that not even Santi knew. 

‘What can I get for you?’ The bartender asked. 

‘Uhhh…’ you glanced up at the menu. ‘Is it an open bar?’

‘If I had enough money for every time someone asked me that tonight, I’d be able to pay for all the drinks.’  She shot back. ‘So, no.’

‘Jeez.’ You muttered. ‘How much for a double rum?’

‘Fifteen bucks.’

‘Fifteen?!’ You spluttered. ‘How much is tap water?’

‘Y’know, I still owe you a drink.’

Like earlier, Frankie had suddenly appeared unannounced. You couldn’t help but grin when you saw him leaning against the bar beside you, a goofy smile plastered across his face and his undone tie wrapped around his left hand. Your eyes flickered up to his forehead, examining it for a minute. 

‘So the stitches didn’t scar?’ You asked. 

He pulled back his hair, shaking his head. ‘Nope.’ 

‘You lucky duck.’ You quipped. ‘So. About that drink?’

‘This shit is insanely overpriced.’ Frankie said. ‘I can steal us a bottle of wine if you’re willing to hide and drink it?

You glanced over at your brother, who was now crying to one of Santiago’s great aunts, piling cake into his mouth. 

‘Yeah. I’m down for that.’ 

--

Five minutes later, you and Frankie were out in the gardens of the hotel. It had been raining all day, but there was an undercover patio not too far from the main reception; the walls were made out of white wood, with red roses trailing up the side. The fairly lights tangled beside them illuminated the place in a gentle glow, blue evening sky providing a beautiful contrast. Even though the showers had stopped, you could still smell the rain in the fresh evening air. 

‘Wine?’ Frankie led you to a seat by the edge of the patio. ‘I stole it from the head table so it's the expensive shit.’

He tore the cork off, handing you the bottle. Neither of you had brought glasses, but you didn’t mind drinking from the same bottle. You’d kissed already - what was the point in formalities? 

‘I hate it to break it to you.’ You paused to wipe your mouth, recovering from the bitter taste. ‘But that’s champagne.’

‘Still alcohol, right?’ He took it from your hands, taking a swig. ‘And it’s free!’

‘You’re right.’ You chuckled. ‘So...I believe we have four years worth of catching up to do.’

‘D’you wanna go first?’ Frankie offered. ‘I heard you got a promotion.’

‘I did, yeah.’ You grinned. ‘It’s a thousand times more work but I get more control over what jobs I take, so that’s good.’

‘Anyone special in your life?’ He asked. 

‘Cut the shit, Frankie.’ You groaned. ‘I know that Santi updates you on every second of my life as it happens.’

‘You got me there. He mentioned a...Steven?’

‘A Simon.’ You corrected. ‘But Dickhead or Asshole works just as well.’

‘Damn, I’m sorry.’ Frankie gave your leg a light squeeze. ‘What happened?’

‘He didn’t deserve me and I stayed with him too long.’ You shrugged. ‘I didn’t think I had a reason to leave.’ 

‘Not having a reason to leave isn’t a reason to stay.’ He murmured. 

You didn’t know whether to bring up the D-Word. D-i-v-o-r-c-e. He hadn’t seemed that phase when your sibling had so eloquently and gently brought it up earlier, but you knew Frankie was good at putting on a front. It was why you’d clashed when you first met. 

‘Am I allowed to ask?’ You quietly said. 

‘It’s nothing bad.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean it is bad, terrible actually, but it was two years ago now. We only got married because she got pregnant and then left the minute our daughter was born.’

‘Leya.’ You didn’t mean to say the name out loud, but it made sense now. ‘Leya is your daughter.’

‘Yeah.’ Frankie warmly smiled. ‘I hate what happened but I’d do it all over again ten times if it meant having her in my life.’

He spent the next few minutes telling you about her. She was named Leya after a certain space princess, though Frankie had changed the spelling to make it less obvious (to which you had argued it was still quite obvious, but a cool name nonetheless). She was currently three years old, often got confused between Spanish and English words, and enjoyed Power Rangers. All in all, she sounded like a great kid. Above all, it was obvious how much she meant to Frankie. His whole face lit up when he spoke about her. Her mum was entirely out the picture, meaning he was doing the whole thing by himself. 

‘She sounds amazing.’ You beamed, peering down at the picture on his phone. ‘She looks so much like you.’

‘Thank God.’ Frankie murmured. ‘I dunno if it being a dad has made me more introspective, but I think about that night a lot.’

‘Me too.’ You replied. ‘Not the thing about being a dad. The other part.’

He laughed. ‘I got that.’

‘What do you think about?’

‘You, mostly.’ He admitted. ‘The fact I was an asshole. The fact you basically saved us all. The fact I never got to take you out for that drink.’

You took a swig of champagne, poking his arm. ‘We’re doing it now!’

‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘I just...I know it was only one night but we might not have been around to tell the story if you hadn't been there.’

‘You were the one who landed the plane safely.’

‘Which wouldn’t have mattered if you didn’t do all the stuff after.’ He reminded you. ‘The thing I think about most, though, is that kiss.’

You froze slightly, head slowly turning to look at him. He was peering down at you now, brown eyes intently gazing at you, not unlike they had the first time you’d been in this position. Now, you weren’t both beyond exhausted, or stuck in the middle of the jungle. You were safe and sound, right here with one another. 

‘It was a pretty good kiss.’ You edged slightly closer towards him. 

‘A very good kiss.’

‘Maybe we should do it-’

Frankie cut you off, meeting your demand before you could even finish it. He was just as you remembered; chapped-but-soft lips with a hint of mint. No tobacco this time. He gently placed a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you further up towards him. It was like you were both reliving the memory of that night in a dream - something you’d done many times. Your memory of it had faded over time but this? This was vivid and giddy and entirely consuming all at once. 

‘You know,’ Frankie pulled back for a moment, keeping his hand on the back of your neck and forehead pressed to yours. ‘I asked Santi about you a few years ago, pretty much the minute I realised I was ready to move on from...her.’ 

‘You did?’ You murmured. 

‘That’s when he said you’d been seeing Simon for a few weeks.’ He admitted. ‘I was gutted. Kept wishing I’d got there first.’

‘I wish you had got to me first.’ You lightly chuckled. ‘It would have saved me a lot of pain.’

‘If I were to ask out now, what would you say?’

‘Fuck yes, obviously.’

‘Good.’ He pressed a brief peck to your lips. ‘I admire the enthusiasm.’

That night - well, actually it had probably been the night in Colombia, depending on who you asked - marked the start of a fresh start for you both. What had initially started out as an attempt to seek solace in one another during a difficult time had led you to something more: something whole, something fulfilling. 

If someone had told you the first time you’d met Frankie Morales that the unfriendly pilot was going to become the best thing that ever happened to you, you probably would have slapped them. Or laughed, or cried, or all three. That night you met, you thought the emotions you were feeling were from the plane crash -- adrenaline and warmth and panic. 

As it would turn out, it was simply the feeling of knowing -- knowing that Frankie Morales was it.

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

pt. iii: tra i due litigante terzo gode ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 3.6k

warnings: mentions of animal death (canon-typical), clown on clown violence.

rating: m/t

notes: putting this little project of mine up on the internet for strangers to see was incredibly nerve-wracking, but i have been so lucky to be received so kindly by folks! thank you to everyone who reads, it really means the absolute most to me.

i don't know if i mentioned this before, but you can find translations for the (google-translated) italian at the bottom of each chapter on my ao3. i know it's a hassle, i'm sorry!! just can't find an easy place to put them here without spoiling what's going on in the chap ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

thank you as always to my lovely beta @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife; this could not be done at all without you. ♡ and to @belorage, who loves euphie enough to send me the cutest message that managed to kick my ass into gear to get this chapter edited!!

Two days after the engagement party, when Santino has finally made up for his delay and lateness, is when he ruins it all again.

Later, Euphemia will think that he can’t help it—he is destined to be a wrecker, a ruiner, even if it’s for himself. It’s not his fault, not really, she’ll say. Ignoring that he is a perfectly autonomous adult means that she can excuse his thoughtlessness and not call it selfishness.

One of Santi’s men tries to tell her that he’s busy as she strides through the museum, heels clipping the floor with a strict, stark cadence. The smell of the doctor’s office is still stuck in her palette. She feels a wad of anxiety, anticipation, coiling deep in the pit of her stomach, a black stone dropped there to torture her with its heaviness. Santino will be happy, she thinks absently, chewing the inside of her cheek as she moves. He’s always wanted this.

The man is keeping pace with her well enough, despite her long legs and the purpose with which she walks to one of the back rooms of the museum.

“Bella,” he says, reaching to stop her, “per favore, he is in a meeting.”

The words put a sour taste in her mouth. Busy, the man is trying to say, too busy for you, for this, right now.

“Trust me, Gianni,” she replies dryly, “he’ll want to make time for this.”

She takes two steps into the room past the other guards, who don’t bother trying to stop her. The room is marked primarily by a high ceiling, which allows all of the paintings to be hung in it in their varying degrees of size. Euphemia recognizes Santino sitting on the bench first, and then another man that he’s talking to. The man looks like he’s just come off of the streets, his hair dark and the scruff that she can see on the side of his face manicured enough to look like he just hasn’t bothered recently.

It takes Euphemia’s brain a few seconds to register the facial features of the man who turns to look at her over his shoulder. He would be nothing, mean nothing, to her if she didn’t see the way his expression flattened, his gaze sweeping over her—calculating. Measuring. Identifying.

He looks dirty, unshowered, covered in soot, and she thinks back to two nights ago when Santino showed up to their engagement party smelling like fire and gunpowder.

Santino stands abruptly. He might be angry, or perhaps worried; it’s hard to tell the difference with him. But she can’t look at him, anyway, her gaze fixed on the stranger who is not much of a stranger at all, who she knows because of the scary stories. The rest of the world may as well be melting down around her, some sick Van Gogh painting, and she can’t look away.

John Wick has dark eyes. Shark’s eyes, she thinks. Black, soulless. Like the glass eyes on a teddy bear. She feels her stomach lurch as fear washes over her in a slick, wet wave, reminding her that she’s already received one bout of stressful news this afternoon.

He watches her. She’s sure he’s sizing her up—that is what John Wick is made to do—but after a second, he glances to Santino, gauging his reaction. If he thinks she's any kind of a threat, he's not letting it show.

“I told you not to let anyone in,” Santi says angrily to Gianni, helpless behind her—because Gianni would have never dared to grab her arm to stop her, would have never thought it acceptable to handle her like street rabble.

“Santi,” Euphie says, feeling very small and very far away and somewhere that her body isn't, “who is that?”

She knows, but she wants to hear him say it.

He steps around the bench, excusing himself from his conversation with Wick and crossing the space between them to guide her out of the room with his hands on her arms. She lets him, not because she isn’t burning with rage but because if Santino doesn’t show her where to go, Euphemia will just stand there, fear driving icy-hot spears through her chest.

He takes her as far as around the corner of the room, maybe to put as much space between her and John Wick as he can afford, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She starts to shrug his hands off of her, and oh, there it is—the shrieking, panging fear, and fury, boiling inside of her. Venomous, indignant. Her mind is a mess of color and noise and she’s vaguely aware that maybe she should be working hard to keep her voice down, but it no longer matters.

A lot of things shouldn’t have happened that did. What’s one more?

“You brought him here?” She can feel her voice bordering on hysteria. “Are you a fucking idiot, Santi? What part of I don’t want John Wick near my life—”

“Euphie, Euphie, Euphie,” Santi says, trying his sweet-talk; condescending, like he’s speaking to a child. “Lower your voice, tesora, and we’ll talk about it.”

Her hand moves of its own accord, a knee-jerk reaction to Santi sweetly telling her to shut up, and she slaps him. Hard. As hard as she can manage. The second her palm connects with the side of his face, and the needles start stinging in her palm, she thinks that she regrets it: but all she can really think about is the pure fear and rage coursing through her body, pummeling adrenaline through her bloodstream until she feels like she’s going to be sick.

And, a little, too, a warmth blooming in her chest: satisfaction.

Santino's head doesn't turn back to her right away. There is a heartbeat of a moment where only silence reigns, where his fingers reach and touch the place her palm had made contact with, like he can't believe she did it. Maybe he can't, but then he'd be a bigger idiot than Euphemia thought.

He turns to face her again and holds up a hand—perhaps to call for a moment of inaction, or to be prepared for a second blow, she’s not sure and she doesn’t care. Santi begins, his voice a low threat, “Do not do anything else you're going to regret, Euphemia.”

Anything else you’re going to regret, he says, as though she will regret having done this.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, her voice rising in volume further yet. The poison reverberates on the high, smooth glass ceiling, bouncing off of the marble walls until it’s all echoing around them. “He knows what I look like, what—what I sound like, he knows my name, Santi, you—”

She's pushing him, hitting his chest; an impatient and weak battering. She wants both to get him away from her as much as possible and keep him close. Santi catches her wrists with bruising force, trapping her and making her look at him.

“Euphemia, basta—if you had waited,” he bites out, “then—”

“I’m pregnant!” The words leave her in a visceral, furious shout, her heart thundering in her chest, her flight or fight demanding one or the other. She rips her wrists from his grip. It feels like her entire body is vibrating. “You fucking idiot—I was late, I just got back from the doctor, and—and you’re not supposed to have him here anyway! You promised me, Santino D’Antonio, you promised me!”

There is a heartbeat of time, of space, where her fiance stares at her like he doesn’t quite think that she’s real. Red blooms on his cheek where her hand made contact and the dark of his pupils has all but swallowed up the beautiful green of his irises. Finally, something seems to kick the gears back into motion, and he plunges on, catching his footing.

“Euphie,” Santi says, reaching for her again, “Euphie, listen to me. John came to me, I didn’t—”

“I don’t need a fucking history lesson, Santino!” Euphemia spits, brushing his hand away from her arm. Blood is rushing through her head, louder and louder, demanding she raise her own volume to be heard over it. “I told you to leave him alone. You insisted, and I thought that was the end of it—you came late to the party that night because of him, isn’t that right? So why is he here, Santi? Why is John Wick near me and my baby?”

Santino stares at her. She can see the flex of his jaw when his teeth clench, trying to maintain what shred of control he has. He swallows, lifting a finger, to indicate one minute, and it takes all of her self-control not to scream at him that he doesn’t get any more minutes. But there is some pleasure in seeing him a little ruffled; to see the way his eyes dart over her face, trying to keep everything collected neatly in his mind, filed away for premium use. She wants to shake him until he is really rattled.

“It may have taken more persuasion than I anticipated,” Santi says finally, at last.

Euphemia makes a sound something like wrecking, like grief, because she knew this was going to happen and he told her it wouldn’t but here they are anyway. It’s a death knell, ringing in her ribcage, in the cavity of her chest. Dead, dead, dead, we’re all fucking dead now, don’t you see it? You, and me, and now our baby, dead like stones.

He continues quickly, over the sound of her agony, “But that doesn’t matter—cara mia, listen to me, it doesn’t matter because now John will do what I ask him to, and we don’t have to worry about anything else. Euphie, Euphie—come here, we'll talk about this.”

She’s going to be sick. The doctor’s words are still rolling around in her head; avoid stress, make sure you sleep and eat well. Can’t be worrying that baby, can we, Miss Volpe? Make sure your fiance does all the work, hm?

“It does matter. It matters the most, Santi, I—I told you to leave him be, I told you, and you said that you would only ask and that would be it—”

She’s grieving, now, lamenting the loss of her happiness, the hysteria taking a melancholic edge in her voice as the sorrow sweeps over her. Santi keeps reaching for her, to try and ground her back to him, and for the first time since she met him she just can’t stand to feel him touching her, saying her name, trying to sweet-talk her. His hands sweep her shoulders, coming up for his thumb to brush the nape of her neck; instinctively, her shoulders scrunch up to disembark them, arms shoving his off of her.

He says, “Tesora, we can talk about this—”

“You did exactly what I asked you not to,” she manages out, taking a step back from him. “I ask you for two things, Santi. Helping my mother, and not putting yourself at war with John Wick. I do not—you should not have asked him at all!”

“Euphie—”

By the time Santino reaches for her again, she’s turning and walking away, her steps unsteady. She’s sure that she’s sweating, or crying, or maybe both or neither and her body is just kicking into overdrive with gut-wrenching sweeps of grief rocking through her body now that she’s got Baba Yaga fifteen feet from her. From her and her baby.

“Euphie!” Santino’s voice echoes down the main hall of the museum, lighter now. Almost like they never argued at all. “We’ll talk when I get home, si? Mi amore?”

Euphemia is certain she’s never heard a sentence more infuriating in her entire life. It sparks something violent in her. It had been dormant, had stepped aside for her mourning, but it catches fire the second Santino says, we’ll talk when I get home.

Incensed, she turns and slides the engagement ring off of her finger, throwing it as hard as she can at him. Gianni had been trailing her, certainly at Santino's behest, and he tries to stop her—but it's too late, the fury inside of her forcing her to move more quickly than Gianni anticipates.

He catches her around the waist and she considers, briefly, the logistics of wrenching Gianni's arm off of her to go and slap Santino again; instead, she watches the expensive engagement ring bounce off of the front of Santino's jacket and clatter on the floor.

The way he tilts his head, as though expecting her to lob it at his face, and the irritated expression that comes over him is almost as good as actually having hit her original target of that pretty face of his.

Then, it’s pure, sheer, furious indignation that crosses Santi’s face, but she has no time to think about what that means for her.

“Fuck you, Santi,” she bites out venomously. “Fuck. You. Don’t fucking bother coming home.”

“Bella,” Gianni says, “we should get you back.”

Euphemia debates slapping Gianni, too, but it would be unfair; in his defense, he did try to keep her out of the room. She turns and marches her way out, the doors slamming shut behind her and the cold air of New York in the fall washing over her. As Gianni speaks on the phone and calls the driver around, she glances up at the sky; gray and soft as wedding silk, it stretches, endless, cut in pieces by the skyscrapers parsing it out.

A fool, she thinks. Santino has always made a fool out of me, and this is no one’s fault but my own.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Two hours later, Euphemia hears him enter the loft. He lets the door click shut softly behind him, not slamming it, not storming through. She expected no less; Santi so rarely lets the anger really take hold of him, so rarely lets himself scream or yell or throw something. I’m marrying a fucking sociopath, she thinks, but there’s no heat to the thought; only exhaustion, only a tiredness that goes bone-deep

Even now, she still thinks of it as present tense: she’s marrying a sociopath, as though she didn’t try to hit him in the face with the engagement ring he picked out for her just hours ago, as though in the end, she will still be his. She will.

“Are you calmed down?” Santino asks, in the way that only he could manage—condescending, and soft. Euphemia can’t withhold the vicious scoff that rolls out of her the second he talks.

“I told you not to come home,” she replies tartly, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You are apparently as deaf as you are stupid.”

“So no, then.”

“What do you want me to say, Santi?” Euphemia demands, looking at him now. She’s got a suitcase out but there’s nothing in it; she can’t bring herself to pack, to think about going back home to Tuscany where her mother is waiting, barely sober because she can only stay sober for about a month at a time before she falls back to her old habits. “Why don’t you invite our friend John Wick up for dinner, hm? I’m sure he’d like that, after you did whatever you did to make him show up here. Perhaps you took a page out of that idiot Iosef’s book and killed his new dog?”

“He owes me,” Santino insists, glossing over her needling, “and I will get what I am owed.”

She has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Do you know how fucking stupid you sound?” she asks, incredulous. “If I die before telling you how incredibly, disgustingly stupid you sound when you say that, then I will—”

Santino kisses her. He does it because he knows that she’s not expecting it, and it has its desired effect; she stills, all of the furious energy like bottled lightning capped again. He kisses her softly, with no rage, but she can feel it woven into the sinew of his posture.

She thinks about slapping him again. But he probably knows that, because he grabs her hands, gripping them in his; the pressure is more relaxing than it is infuriating, which almost drives her mad, but it does what Santino always does. It pulls her apart until all that’s left is the hurt, the fear, welling up inside of her like a tidal wave crashing into the shore.

“He’s doing what I asked,” he murmurs. “And then we’ll be done with John Wick. Mia piccola volpe, look at me.”

“No,” she says, trying to sound angry but it comes out an agonized sound; she’s crying before she can stop herself, tears burning the edges of her eyes and a big, wet gasping breath necessary for her to keep going. “No, I don’t want to look at you anymore, Santi—”

“He’s doing what I ask, and then I promise, you and I will be done with John Wick forever.” His voice is urgent and insistent. “The three of us, tesora. Isn’t that right? You weren’t just saying that to get back at me?”

She nods, numbly. They had been careful, because she’d said she wasn’t ready—but mistakes happened. Pills got forgotten. She wishes that she could have lied about it and kept it secret. Maybe he’d be acting differently now if she wasn’t carrying his child; maybe his face would be something else.

“Euphie,” he whispers, taking her face in his hands. “My perfect, gorgeous Euphie—my greatest piece of art.” He kisses her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “And the one with the most bite, too, even when you are so ungrateful for the things that I do. My face still hurts.”

“Good,” Euphemia manages out, her voice wobbling. “You deserve it. Idiota.”

“Maybe,” Santi replies. He tucks her against his chest and kisses her hair. “I never thought I would piss you off enough to get you to hit me—and you did cause quite a scene in front of Wick.”

“Stop.” Just the sound of that monster’s name makes her stomach churn. “Stress is bad for the baby.”

He laughs, the first real laugh in what feels like days since he’s decided on this path with John Wick. “Fine, I will not mention him again. But know that after this, it will be done. Permanently. Forever. Si? Tell me you understand, Euphie.”

She’s so tired. She’s so tired down into her core, the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with a nap or a cup of coffee. “Si,” she replies, closing her eyes. “Capisco, Santi.”

Somehow, Santi’s words that things will be done “permanently” with John Wick only manage to make her more uneasy.

She can’t remember what exactly carries her through the rest of the evening. She remembers calling her mother to check on her, to ask if she’s keeping up with her meetings. She can’t bring herself to come clean about the surprise pregnancy; it’s early, anyway, and her mother would only stress her out more.

“Sei la mia stella più preziosa,” her mother says. “Ti amo, Effie.”

“Yes, mama,” Euphie sighs, unable to say the words back. “Buona notte.”

She hits the red end call button on the phone screen, setting it face-down on the countertop and leaning her palms against the marble. God, she knows that she’d fucking kill a man for a drag of a cigarette—but she could never. Not now. Not when she has—

The sound of paper on the countertop stirs her from her half-bent position. Santino slides it across to her, setting a pen down next to her hand. It’s their marriage certificate. He’s already signed it, and while she stares at it numbly, he takes her left hand and puts the engagement ring back on her finger, but this time with the diamond wedding band he’d picked out as well.

“Santi,” she starts, but he tsks his tongue, quieting her. She’s too tired to be offended.

“Sign the certificate, amore,” he says. “Do not fuss. You’re going to stop throwing this ring at me, yes?”

There are a million reasons not to sign it: but the words that came out of her mouth are, “We don’t have the witnesses or the officiant.”

“Do we need a witness or officiant greater than God himself?” Santino replies. He leans against the counter from the other side, watching her. He is polished, pristine. Any remains of her earlier transgression against him are now completely gone, at least the physical marks. She’s sure that he won’t forget very soon that she raised a hand against him. “Sign it, Euphie, and be my wife.”

She stares at the paper. She feels like she’s melting; her life can’t be real anymore, not when John Wick was, just hours ago, feet away from her, and she’s pregnant, and now Santino is asking her to sign their marriage certificate right now.

The implications fill her with dread. What’s the rush? If nothing’s wrong, if they’ll be done with John Wick, what’s the rush?

“You said that you had nothing before me,” Santino says, breaking her out of her eerie, absent-minded disconnect. He brushes the hair from her face. “You will never have nothing again.”

Euphemia signs the certificate in a haze. It doesn’t feel any different after; she doesn’t feel different and neither does Santino in relation to her, and the realization that they had felt married for a few years now sinks down on her.

Santino rounds the counter to her, taking her face and kissing her; her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, the corner of her mouth and eventually just kissing her. His hand smooths over her stomach, admiring, and he brushes their noses together.

“Perfetto e tutto mio,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Isn’t that right, Euphemia?”

She replies, without thinking, “Si, sono tuo.”

Always, she thinks, always yours, whether I like it or not.