#santiago garcia x frankie morales

[jolalibrary]

sunrise

francisco morales x santiago garcia

GIF credit to @perotovar

summary: after mixed messages, pope asks frankie if he'll watch the sunrise with him.

wordcount: 1.1k warnings: none. jo doing jo things with words. just two boys, mixed messages and a bit of hope. an: happy pride. this fic is dedicated to the lovely, wonderful @perotovar who not only is a great friend, but also has never made me feel like i'm not part of pride. it's been a long time since I've written m/m, but erin, your kind words (and gif) filled me with joy. i hope this fills you with joy too.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz—

He doesn’t need to look, to smack his hand around the bedside table, Frankie knows where his phone is.

Retrieving it, pressing it to his ear—old sleep crusting in his eyes—Frankie lets out a soft groan, the weight of lingering thoughts still pushing heavily against his mind. With a reluctant sigh, he mumbles a tender hello, his voice heavy, gruff.

“Hey,” Pope says.

It elongates, stretches out like a fragile thread suspended between them—as though another word should have followed but isn’t spoken.

“You awake?”

“Am now.”

He doesn’t miss the chuckle that’s embedded into the breath. Nor, how it brushes down and through the phone. A sensation bubbling across his skin, his body remembering how it feels to have it against him.

“You’ve not been replying—in the group chat.”

He rubs his face, the motion all a hopeless attempt to awaken his mind, wishing the act would spur on words. Something. Anything to bridge the aching void between them.

It doesn’t.

It just adds to the other things churning inside him, layering over doubts and questions—the ones that linger unanswered, even when they are alone, haunting the spaces between their moments together.

Sliding the phone back against his cheek, he sighs. “Yeah, sorry. Just… wasn’t checking things.”

“Yeah, thought so.”

He hums, and then releases a heavy breath. Needing to fill the silence before it begins. Not wanting to find out if today it’s comfortable or the opposite.

“You busy?”

“At 3 in the morning?”

Pope laughs—and Frankie hates how much he likes the sound. Despises it, almost. Loathes it, like he detests how he feels.

“Didn’t know if you wanted to watch the sunrise with me.”

“I’m a whole flight from you, Pope.”

“Don’t have to be in the same location to watch the sun come up, Fish.”

“We fuckin’ do if it comes up at different times, cabrón.”

There’s a pause, then a chuckle. One that begins with Pope and then ends with him. It fills the air, the space, the area between them that they pretend not to notice or ask about whenever they come home.

Because home isn’t out there, where they’re adorned in layers that barrier against artillery and threats; home isn’t where they help the other free from it all in the comfort of a base room or a tent in the middle of nowhere. Home is real. It’s chosen paint on the walls and picked out bedding; it’s photographs filled with only the best and souvenirs that remind of good times.

And, right now, the only evidence of Pope here is the memories—

That first kiss. How fuelled it had been, how he’d done it purely to stop the tide of ifs and buts that Pope had been flinging, angrily darting in the hope to hit the bullseye and wound him further than his foolishness had.

And it’s not that Frankie wishes to hang up, it isn’t that he hopes to shove things further into his soul. He’s had his crisis—had it when he’d had Pope pressed against his spine, breath fanning out over his neck, making the hair curled from their earlier activities twitch and tickle.

But, he’s at least come to terms with the fact this isn’t a home thing. A thing which doesn’t exist when he steps on the plane to go back to a life where people call him Francisco. He’s made his peace with it, accepted it—as much as a person can.

He’s done the work to rationalise and reason. So, whatever this phone call is, it feels counterproductive. It feels like sinking, falling through those steps and nets he’s built until he’s drenched in the will-they-won’t-they he’s clambered far away from. The hopes seep into his skin, worming into his brain, threatening to paint shadows on the back of his eyelids at what the two of them could be—

“What are we doing, Pope?”

There’s an exhale. It’s likely a sigh, but it’s hard to assess without the facial expression. The way he wears his feelings in his body language.

“I‘m not sure.”

Frankie expects that, somehow. Yet it still stings, hurts—ripples out like a lashing he’s braced for. Rolling onto his side, he grinds his jaw. Staring at the gap in the curtains, the one that’ll allow light to bleed through in a few more hours, nostrils flaring as he shakes his head.

“I can’t watch the sunrise with you.”

“‘Cause of the time difference?”

Rolling his eyes, he blows out a harsh breath. “No. Because if we do, I’ll confess something that’ll make it hard for you to do that compartmentalising shit that you do about the fact you and I fuck.”

The silence that follows is painful, excruciating. It’s devoid and barren, dull and full of nothing. There’s no background noise to drown it out, the night too quiet, the hour too dormant—to the point it almost makes Frankie feel guilty for disturbing it.

“What if I told you I’m at the motel on 22nd—”

Frankie sits up. Bolt upright. The suddenness of it forces the sheet to fall from his neck to pool at his waist, the air cool flurrying over warm skin, heat blooming in his cheeks.

“—the one you talked about—”

His heart hammers. Pounds.

“—the one you go to when home is a bit too… home.”

“Pope…”

“Fish.”

Swinging his legs from under the sheets, elbow resting on the place above his knee, hand wiping down his face, awake, blood pounding in his ears.

“Por favor no bromees.”

Sighing, blowing it right into his ear. It’s far more soothing, rooting, than it has been before.

“Wanna watch the sunrise with me, Fish?”

Swallowing, fear threatens to poison the joy that is trying to fill his chest. His hand clamps around his knee for leverage, for strength. Squeezing, likely making his skin paler—it returning to colour when he releases as he tries to get his brain to calculate the percentage of how much of a good idea this is.

But then he hears his name. It whispered, with more of an infliction, a question to it.

And so he takes a breath. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’ll… get dressed now.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

A silence unfurls, one nicer, more bearable than any of the others before—

“Well hurry then, Fish.”

And then, as Frankie suspected, Pope ends the call.

tagging: @morallyinept (for your collection)

[romanarose]

How would Santi react if his thick, delicious thighs caused him to rip his best pair of jeans at the seams? He doesn't have to be at home but It's gotta be in front of his girl or in front of Morales.

Oh my god

He's PIIIISSSSSSSSEEEDDDDD

Those were his favorit! made his ass look so good!

this is YOUR fault feeding him such yummy food >:( how was he gonna say no!!!

If frankie is there, Frankie will tease him. Until Santi reminds him the button bust of his shirt last week. (if a m/m scenario this will lead to some HOT body worship sex)

Santi will IMMDIATLY be like im going on a diet!!!! bc he's dramatic af.

You and/or Frankie say absolutly not.. If he wants to eat better you'll support him but you will not let your sweet man go hunfry not on your watch!!!!

[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

Follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

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!!!

[magpie-to-the-morning]

Close - An Insatiable Extra

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x Frankie Morales x Reader

Word count: 2k

Tags: Edging, bondage, orgasm denial, Mean!Dom Santi vibes, a bit of inspection kink, choking if you squint, fingering, oral sex, PiV sex, fluff

Author’s Note: This oneshot only exists because of @radiowallet. My love. My pumpkin wife. Thank you for bringing me back to my boys. I genuinely wasn’t sure if I’d ever write for them again. 🥹

And a huge thank you to @acrossthesestars​ for beta-reading this filth, much of which I wrote in a haze at 4am 😅

Missed Part One? You can read it here. Which, if you’re not familiar with the worldbuilding and relationships in Insatiable, you may want to check out! This one does mostly stand on its own, other than a few references to the three of them being mates.

“Deseito, please.”

You lean into him, a half smile teasing your lips. “Please what, Frankie?”

Leather creaks as he leans helplessly towards you, his brown eyes large and pleading. 

“Let me touch you.”

You almost weaken at the sight of him straining against his bonds to get to you. It’s hard to resist him like this - his arms pinioned above him, his brow shining with sweat, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips as he drags his hungry gaze down your naked form. He’s mostly bare himself, only a rumpled sheet half-covering his lap. When his cock twitches beneath it, you groan and move towards him - only to be caught around the waist by a pair of strong arms. 

“What did I tell you, leoncita?”

A whimper catches in your throat. “But Santi, he’s so pretty when he begs.” You barely recognize your own voice, rasping with need and ending on a whine. His answering chuckle curls around you like smoke as you lean back against his chest, eyes locked on Frankie’s as they widen in desperation.

Santi’s lips trail down the side of your neck, making you shiver in his hold. When his teeth sink into the sensitive spot that meets your shoulder, you gasp and arch your back, one hand fisting in his wild curls. Frankie moans as your peaked nipples arch almost close enough for him to get his mouth on. You lean forward, encouraging him, craving him, but Santi draws you back with a smirk at the last moment. 

“You two need to learn how to behave.” 

He’s been edging the two of you for hours. It started as a game between him and Frankie - to see who could bring you closest to the edge without pushing you over. Santi hadn’t counted on how easily his partner caved to your pleas for release. If he hadn’t grabbed the other man by the jaw and hauled him from between your legs, Frankie would have made you cum on his tongue ages ago. But Santi, the competitive bastard, hadn’t wanted the game to end so soon. He’d lashed Frankie to the bed and given you both a choice. Stay in line and only cum at his say so, and he’d make your pleasure last for hours. Or, give in to temptation, cum quickly, and call it a night. 

It hadn’t been a choice at all. 

Still, he’s got the two of you wound tight enough to burst. Slick drips down your thighs and you press them together in a desperate search for friction. Frankie’s cock is swollen and aching, and both of you are breathing hard, half-dazed with desire and torn between need and obedience.

Santi knows it, too. Takes full advantage of how worked up the two of you are for him. He gets off on it - his two loves, following him to the razor’s edge and trusting him to keep them there. The enormity of that trust staggers him - but it doesn’t stop him being an absolute menace when he’s riled. 

His fingers dip between your legs, a lazy inspection of your velvet heat. He nudges your legs wider, putting on a show while Frankie looks hungrily on. You tip your head back and roll your hips, driving yourself against Santi’s hand. You know it won’t last, that Santi is only pouring fuel on the fire, but you let yourself savor it while you can, loving the feeling of his thick fingers gliding in slow, lingering circles, the effortless way he cups your sex, his fingertips just beginning to breach your dripping center.

“She’s so wet, Frank,” he murmurs. “You gotta feel this.”

The ferocity of the glare Frankie turns on him makes the other man sigh and relent. “Fine.” He rocks back on his heels, releasing you from his hold.

You whine when his hand slips away, chasing his touch. Frankie moans and strains toward you. There’s a creaking noise as he moves and even the solid headboard starts to lean. The thought of him being so close but still so far out of reach makes you whimper. 

“Shh, baby,” Santi soothes. “Go give our mate some love before he breaks something.”

“Asshole,” Frankie mutters, even as his mouth quirks up and he relaxes a fraction. 

Santi leans around you to slap him affectionately on the thigh. “Watch it,” he warns, “Or I’ll fuck her right here and leave you out of it.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” You toss him a smile over your shoulder, your heart skipping a beat at Santi’s roguish wink and the sight of him licking the taste of you from his fingers. It’s impossible to say which is hotter - that, or Frankie licking his lips in anticipation at your approach, and for the thousandth time, you feel a wave of gratitude for never having to choose between them. The three of you are a unit, the bond between you only growing stronger the longer you’re together.

Throwing a leg over that same spot that Santi had smacked, you lower yourself slowly onto Frankie’s thigh, taking pleasure in his sharp intake of breath as you do so. He’s so warm and solid beneath you, his muscles flexing at your touch, the movement bringing you into even more intimate contact with him. Hands on his shoulders, you grind down against him, savoring his heat and strength. 

“Hey, baby,” he grins up at you.

“Hey, love.” And then you’re kissing him. Unable to hold you, he hitches his thigh to draw you closer. His kisses are hungry, insistent, all tongue and teeth and ragged panting into your open mouth. You melt into him, one arm wound around his neck, the other dropping between you to grasp his cock. Frankie hisses at your touch, his swollen length twitching against your palm. 

“Fuck,” he groans, his forehead pressed to yours as he rolls his hips and fucks your fist. “You feel so fucking good.” 

“You too,” you gasp, your slick folds dragging against him. “Don’t stop.” 

He doesn’t.

You could finish this way. Skin to skin and mouth to mouth, shuddering and gasping as you roll together. Frankie knows it too. Feels it, that moment when your hips begin to stutter, your movements turning sloppy, desperate. His brows draw together and he starts to swear in low, rapid Spanish. You only catch a few words, a string of muttered pleas, or possibly curses. It’s sacred. Profane. Saints and sinners, heaven and hell, blood and soul. 

It’s everything. 

Santi’s at your back once more, his hands on your hips and a wicked smile pursing his lips. “You’ve got a hell of a mouth on you, Fish. Need me to fill it up?”

He lifts you up just far enough to push his cock between your sex and Frankie’s thigh. It’s slick and obscene and you think you could cum just from the sight of his swollen cock jutting between your thighs. You grind down, riding both of them, grip tightening around Frankie as his brows pinch at the sight, his tether clearly about to snap. 

Santi sees it too. 

“That’s enough.” When neither of you slow, he hauls you bodily apart. “Don’t make me tell you again.” Stern amusement tinges his voice but you know he means it.

“God damn it, Santi!” Every part of your body crackles with frustrated energy. You feel like a live wire casting off sparks, any one of them capable of setting off the wildfire building beneath your skin.

Frankie’s no better off. He’s fighting for control, unwilling to let either of you down, despite how badly he needs to cum. 

You’re not sure how much longer either of you can take this. 

This time, Santi doesn’t make you wait for his next move. He puts you where he wants you - on your knees in front of him, your ass in the air, eye level with Frankie’s cock. This time you don’t wait for permission, not from Santi. You lower your mouth onto Frankie, swallowing him eagerly, and nodding encouragement when his hips buck. 

“Baby,” he groans. You hum and swirl your tongue around his blunt tip. Salt and musk lay heavy on your tongue and when he bumps the back of your throat, you drool contentedly around him. 

Santi wraps a hand around your hip, steadying you as he pushes into your slick heat with a low moan. He chuckles approvingly when you push back against him.

“This what you needed?”

“Mmf-hmmm,” you mumble around Frankie’s cock, your nods pushing him even deeper down your throat. He gives a strangled groan and his hips jerk.

“Shit, I’m so close.”

Your skin feels tight, tingling, as you hang suspended between them, filled to the brim and so close to the bright edge of release. You can feel it barreling towards you as they move in tandem, white-hot pleasure building deep inside and threatening to burst behind your eyes. 

When your inner walls begin to flutter, Santi wraps a hand around your throat and growls “don’t you do it.” 

You close your eyes and breathe deeply not to cum just from that.

It’s only when you wrestle back control that you realize they’ve both gone still. Santi to prolong your torment, and Frankie because he knows if he so much as twitches, he’ll cum straight down your throat. Your cunt is throbbing with need and tears prick behind your eyes. You’re at the end of your rope, and Frankie’s fraying fast.

Carefully, you ease back and off of him and turn pleading eyes to your other mate.

“Santi, I love you, but if you don’t let us cum we might actually die.” 

He lays one hand on your cheek, eyes softening when you lean into his touch. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” 

Leaning in, he kisses you soft and slow, then nods towards Frankie’s bound hands. “Go on, then.” 

Before you can even reach for the belt, Frankie twists himself free, as if it weren’t leather restraining him, but only Santi’s word. He’s on you in a rush, scooping you onto his lap in grasping Santi’s shoulder to pull him closer in the same rough movement.

They fuck you between them, their cocks gliding in and out and together until you writhe as one in an eager, desperate rhythm. Your kisses grow sloppy as you gasp and cling, one set of teeth scraping over your jaw while another tongue plunders your open mouth. It’s slick and needy and then -

And then your breath catches, pleasure spiraling to a molten pinpoint, then exploding like a star. You shake and tremble in their arms, only their sweat-slick limbs propping your liquid body up as you dissolve between them. Frankie groans, nearly undone, and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, a look of martyred focus on his face, but Santi grasps the back of his head, keeping the other man’s gaze fixed on his.

“Do it,” he orders, eyes burning like coals. “Fucking cum.” 

As if from a great distance, you feel Frankie’s hold tighten as his spine stiffens, then a hot, pulsing rush as he cums. Even as his lips part on a ragged moan, his furrowed brow smooths, relief flooding him even as he fills you.

Only when both of you sag, finally, finally sated, does Santi find his own end, burying himself inside you with a satisfied grunt and spilling deep inside. 

The next several minutes pass in a haze. Frankie’s fingers intertwining with yours. Santi’s forehead dropping to your shoulder. Your lips brushing over their brows, noses, eyelids. Lingering, affectionate touches, meant to soothe and ground. Muscles trembling, and with breathy chuckles at your baby-deer limbs, the three of you somehow lower yourselves onto the mattress, legs still tangled and bodies draped over each other, unwilling or unable to let go just yet. 

Or maybe ever.

[writefightandflightclub]

Flight Instinct: (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x Francisco “Catfish” Morales)

Author’s note: this is a blurb request, and is a continuation of my poly!Triple Frontier fic, Captain of the Team. This could be read as a standalone I guess… but will make a hell of a lot more sense if you’ve read CotT and other blurbs which (chronologically precede this and) are connected to that ‘verse, i.e. Solid Ground, and Helicopter Guitar. 🧡

Screenshotting the request for this, which was sent in by the lovely @for-a-longlongtime 🧡 I’m sorry there’s no smut! But this is the scene that happened when I pressed the “play” button in my head. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks so much for the ask and your kind words about Solid Ground! I love this pairing and it was so fun to revisit them a little further down the line (though this is a little more of a rushed effort than the last one) 😀✨🙌

Pairing: Santi x Frankie centric for this blurb (Santi’s POV) but references to wider poly!relationship including Will and fem!reader.

Genre/warnings: m/m, early relationship, some angst and Santiago’s usual insecurities, smut references but only steam in the fic itself, some fluff.

Length: blurb, fairly short

Gif: by @pedrorascal 🧡

Santiago looks at the man - Francisco - reclined on his couch.

He looks beautiful. Unfathomably so. Long limbs stretched out, his dirty-pink Henley coordinated with the mauve lick of his plush, pouty lips. With the flush of exertion still held in his cheeks - from diligently sucking Santiago’s soul out of his dick less than half an hour ago. The garment rides up to reveal bare stomach. The dusting of his happy trail drawing Santiago’s gaze down to those tight, tapered hips. To his huge, powerful hands which nestle the paperback with care, dwarfing it in the broad span of his grip. He’s beautiful, his hawkish face tipping down towards the page, warm brown eyes soft and intent.

The fucking audacity, Santiago thinks. And the way he’s so casual about it too?

Still. Desire reliably twists a knot in Santiago’s belly, tightening like a fist even if he had been left very well-sated.

So then, Santiago tuts at him for the audacity of him daring to… for daring to…. Well. For something he can’t quite put his finger on yet. “Frank. What are you doing?”

Santiago sees Francisco’s eyes flutter closed in subtle aggravation. Maybe at the interruption. More than likely, though, at his harsh tone - completely uncalled for. And yet, calm and composed, he closes the book. “Okay,” he says with a finality. The straw that broke the camel’s back, apparently. “What’s going on with you tonight?”

“Nothing.” Well, that feels like a lie as soon as it’s out of his mouth. Francisco looks well aware of that fact though. Always was annoying like that. Seeing through his bullshit.

“So you always parade around the house like an aggravated chicken?” Immediately after asking his question, Francisco tilts his head, mentally answering it for himself. Often, actually.

That irks Santiago even more. So, he huffs and plants his hands on his wide hips, and meanwhile, Francisco rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand. Somehow that makes him look even more beautiful as the lamplight slips fluidly over the planes of his face. Mingles into his dense mass of curls like liquid gold.

Annoying.

“Oh no,” Francisco rumbles, a deep, slightly mocking lilt to his tone which makes Santiago’s skin thrum despite himself. “Not you sticking that cute little hip out.” Francisco’s cheek tugs up with a lopsided smile, even if Santiago’s own smile does not greet him in return.

Perturbed, for no legitimate reason he can fathom, he scoops his forefinger and thumb around his mouth, his stubble rasping. He taps his foot almost impatiently, as though frustrated that Francisco hasn’t yet given him the thing he needs but can’t even name yet.

It’s hard. Makes him feel uneasy. An instinctual rather than conscious thing. A buzz in his limbs. A flutter in his chest.

A desire to leave.

To leave the room.

Maybe the country.

Definitely his feelings.

But he doesn’t.

He remembers what Francisco had told him last time he’d pulled that shit -firmly, and in no uncertain terms. “If we’re doing this, this can’t continue to happen, you hear me? I need you to stay in the room. Be a dick if you want. Just stay in the fucking room. After all this fucking time, man. Show me you at least respect me enough to give me that courtesy.”

He does. He does respect Francisco. After all this time. So, he stays. Despite his base instincts - which flood his body with the urge to run. The activation of his flight instinct. Thankfully, he supposes, Francisco is a pilot. If there’s anyone who can navigate him back to solid ground, it’s this guy.

“Come on. Sit down.” Francisco swings his legs, planting his feet to the floor. Sits up and pats the space beside him on the couch.

Santiago sighs deeply first; but then he sits, even if he doesn’t relax into it, perching his ample ass on the couch edge. He can feel the tension contorting his expression into something surly. He can’t fix it, but he makes sure to at least look down at the carpet instead of directly at Francisco. Somewhere deep down he knows he doesn’t deserve to receive the full brunt of his mood.

“Is this… because of the engagement?” Francisco ventures.

“No!” Santiago snaps back indignantly. Well. That’s another lie, apparently. As soon as that thread is tugged on, Santiago feels there’s truth in it. You and Will announcing your engagement has him feeling a lot of feelings - even if he can’t fully admit that to himself yet. Even if he can’t name them all yet. Still, that’s not quite it. At least… it’s not all of it.

“Well. Good.” If Francisco has noticed the lie, he steps over it. Instead of pulling him up on it, his hand slides down Santiago’s back and, counterintuitively, the man stiffens against the bestowed comfort. “Because they said it won’t change anything and honestly I believe-“

“-It’s not about that,” Santiago bristles.

“Okay.” Francisco’s hand smoothing at his back almost melts him. Almost. Stubbornly, he resists it. Still can’t fully admit to all the ways the man can see right through him. “Then wh-

Abruptly, Santiago rises to standing. An unfathomable adrenaline piping through his limbs. It feels like fear; though with no physical source he can name. “-What are we even doing, Frank?”

Frankie’s coffee cup brown eyes fall warm on Santiago, not bitter, even as the man clearly struggles to follow his train of thought. Honestly, Santiago is struggling to follow it himself. All he knows is he’s feeling… feelings.

“I mean. Seriously. Those two are engaged and we’re… I mean.” His voice falters. He hates that. Doesn’t like to feel vulnerable. Doesn’t like the way Francisco is able to pour himself into every crack he can find, sticking him together like glue. “Why the fuck are you on my couch? On a Tuesday night?”

“Would Wednesday work better for you, or..?”

“Frank, I’m serious. What are we doing?”

Santiago shuffles from foot to foot. Curls his tongue around his lip. Wants to run. Wants to get away from here. Doesn’t want Francisco to see him all opened up. He’s seen him all opened up. All opened up for him. Opening him up; and he can’t let him crawl inside any deeper.

He wants to leave the room.

But he doesn’t.

He risks a look back at Francisco, his head hung and his hands clasped in his lap. Santiago sees exactly what he expected to see there. Sees disappointment.

But he’s trying. For Frank, he’s trying..

Goddamn. He can say the right thing when he has something to gain. But oh boy. It’s a different story altogether when he has something to lose, isn’t it?

Francisco doesn’t rise to it though. Instead, he looks up at Santiago levelly. He feels embarrassed when he does that. Like Francisco is a man and meanwhile he’s somehow behaving like a small child.

“Take a second,” Francisco soothes, rising to standing in front of Santiago. “What is it that you actually wanna say to me?”

Santiago sniffs. Still frantic despite Francisco’s calm.

Stay in the room.

Stay on the ground, pendejo.

“You come here to fuck me and now you’re reading.” His palm gestures towards the couch in frustration. “You’re just sat there…”

Francisco’s eyebrows jump up, gently - to his credit, really trying to interpret what’s going down here. “Reading.”

“Yeah. Like this is all some…” Santiago doesn’t know where he’s going with this tirade, honestly. But he’s damn sure going to let it out anyway. “We’re not fucking married.”

Ah. There it is.

A flood of emotion rides in on the crest of that realisation. “We’re just hooking-up.”

A swallow sinks down Francisco’s corded neck. His mouth scrunches up into a pout, but other than that, he doesn’t give much away. Not beyond a tiny, discernible fissure of sadness in his tone. “Oh. I hadn’t realised that’s what we were doing.”

It’s preposterous, really. Preposterous to think that 18 years of friendship - and now this - could be reduced to “hooking-up”. Like he hasn’t known Frank for longer than he’s had the goddamn couch he’s complaining about him laying on?

Still - because of course he does - Santiago doubles down. Even as Francisco’s arms fold across his chest, suddenly making Santiago feel more lonely than he has in months. He tries not to dwell on the realisation that the past few months have been the first time he hasn’t felt lonely in such a long time. “Frank. Be real for a second. Like I’m not just some pit stop? You know. Until you find a new Mom for Bella?”

He can’t stand to look at the anger which flashes in Francisco’s eyes when he says that.

In fact, Santiago wants to run from himself in that moment. From the way he can twist something good and turn it bad. From the way he always seems to have the power to make his worst fears become real. Because he just has to poke something over and over to test how real it is. But, now that he’s started? He can’t stop.

“Fuck. And then, Will and…” he trails off before he says your name. Can’t bear to say it. Pulls on that thread and suddenly it’s all connected. Him and Frankie and you and Will. All tied together in a web he can’t yet understand, let alone trust. It’s all linked to the same fear in the pit of him.

There is a beat, and Santiago chews some more words down.

“You think we’ll all leave you.” Frankie says plainly, struck by the epiphany. Finally slotting everything into place, and Santiago feels his face pinch and draw down. Feels his chest tighten.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Yeah. Yeah, Frank, that’s exactly it.

Santiago’s looking at the floor, but he can still see Frankie’s looming presence as he shuffles closer, mumbling idiota fondly under his breath.

Santiago is terrified that he will be angry. Expects it. Thinks he deserves it. But, instead, he feels Francisco’s strong arms wind around his middle. He feels the warm press of Frankie around him, muddling him closer. Still, although he wants to, he doesn’t yield to it yet. Not all the way.

“You’re the biggest flight risk around here, cariño.” Francisco chuckles warmly. “If any fucker was about to leave I’d have bets on it being you.“

“Fine!” Santiago snaps, irked by the mere suggestion even if he’s done it a hundred times before. “Maybe I will!”

“Oh. You will?”

He hadn’t expected Francisco to call his bluff, honestly. Hadn’t expected a lot of things when it came to him, to be fair. His next works are weaker. “I might.”

“Okay,” Francisco shrugs, before starting towards the doorway. Christ. Is this it? Has he fucked it already? Is this done?

“Where are you going?” He asks, his voice breaking.

“To the bedroom.”

“Why?”

“You’re coming, idiota.” Francisco doesn’t look “done”. Doesn’t look angry, even. Instead, he tilts his head -come on- and holds his hand out for Santiago.

“Why?” Santiago asks, even as he obliges.

Francisco leads him to his own bedroom then. Walks to the chest of drawers and pulls one of them open, lifting out piles of Santiago’s clothes and tossing them on to the bed.

“What are you doing?” Santiago’s eyes flit around the room in confusion. Embarrassment, as Francisco makes visible the exact upheaval he’s threatening.

“Well, see? That’s up to you. I’m either helping you pack, in case you wanna high tail it outta here - to get away from me reading so offensively on your couch. Or…” Francisco offers, matter-of-factly, “… I’m clearing myself a fucking drawer.”

“Huh? What for?”

Francisco turns towards him. Closes the gap between their bodies again. Presses his palm to Santiago’s face and rests the pad of his thumb on his shapely chin. “So that I have somewhere to put my stuff.” His gaze softens, and he presses a chaste kiss to the man’s lips. “When I stay over on Tuesdays.”

And with that, Francisco rests his case. Retrieves the book Santiago hadn’t even realised he’d stuffed into his back pocket before heading upstairs, and rounds the bed. Reclines himself on the clear side, looking all beautiful again.

Santiago sighs.

Santiago’s side of the bed, meanwhile, is covered in piles of his clothes. He can’t even lay down next to him. Not until he deals with this. Whatever “this” is.

Francisco is a clever fucker, alright.

Santiago saws his hand across his stubble as, meanwhile, Francisco disappears into his next chapter, not even looking up at him. “Your call, Santiago. Or, after 18 years, is a fucking drawer moving too fast for you?”

With Frank’s joke… it’s ridiculous, suddenly.

He feels ridiculous suddenly.

The situation and his anger and his fear feels… ludicrous.

He sees his situation better for what it is. It’s beautiful. Beautiful like Frank is.

Guess what? Santiago stayed in the room, and it all grew just a little less scary. In no small way thanks to his skilled pilot, who has spent so long learning his awkward, complex controls. Knows how to push all his buttons in just the right way.

His chest feels lighter. The knot in him unspools. An awed smile even cracks his face as he picks up a pile of boxers. “Well. You don’t need a whole drawer do you?”

“¡Ay, dios!” Frankie complains fondly.

“I mean. You don’t wear all that many clothes while you’re here, do you?” He raises an eyebrow suggestively - just in time for Francisco to clock it when he looks up, a smile chiselling itself from his strong features.

“Need extra hoodies, don’t I? You steal ‘em, pendejo.”

The two men lock eyes for a moment. Study one another, almost wistfully. Softer now. Full of feeling and affection.

Santiago knows it. Knows this is far more than hooking-up. And that’s it. That’s exactly what he’s so afraid of. He’s scared because it’s more than he’s ever felt. Deeper than he’s ever fell.

That’s the risk when you’re flying though, he supposes.

Still, there’s something about the soft light dancing in Francisco’s warm coffee cup eyes that makes him feel far less fearful. Makes him feel braver than he thought he could be.

“I’m sorry,” Santiago admits.

“I know you are.”

It’s okay. It’s okay to be scared, Francisco’s gaze tells him wordlessly. Just stay in the room. Just stay in the fucking room.

Santiago moves the final piles of clothes on to the top of the dresser and he crawls on to the bed beside Francisco. He nestles his cheek against the taller man’s chest. Curls his form around him and Francisco wraps him safely in his embrace. He feels the man’s heartbeat thud, pleasantly slow and steady, beneath his ear. He breathes in and out with the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the tension eke out of him.

“For the record?” Francisco begins, his voice striking a deep and robust note which shimmies right through him.

A divot notches in Santiago’s brow. “Yeah?”

“I’m not going anywhere. You got that?”

Francisco’s arms wrap him tighter, and meanwhile, Santiago’s eyes squeeze shut, fighting against hot, spiking tears of relief. He feels a warm, percussive kiss being planted at his hairline. Feels Francisco’s fingers raking impossibly gently through his curls.

“Better?”

“Mhmm,” Santiago agrees. “Yeah.” And, just for a moment, he allows himself to tug a little more forcefully on that thread. The one where you’re all connected. Him and Francisco, and Will and… you. For once, he tries to imagine the thread not as a web to tangle him up, but more like a… safety net. As something he could fall into, instead of run from. After a few moments of contemplating this, Santiago’s face splits in a tentative grin. “You know. She’s gonna look hot as all hell in a wedding dress.”

Frankie’s throaty chuckle, which sounds out, has to be his favourite sound in the whole world, and so, as he’s still laughing, Santiago opts to prop himself up on one elbow. Seeks out Fransisco’s gaze to meet with his own. He wants to tell him while he’s still laughing. Wants to believe this can all turn out happy.

“I love you.”

The words flow from Santiago’s chest so naturally, so freely and yet, immediately, a more solemn note chokes Francisco’s laughter. Weighs his smile down like a stone, until he is looking back at him with wet, shining eyes, his plush, mauve lips slightly parted in surprise.

He looks at Santiago as though he’s been waiting for him to figure that out.

He looks at him like he’s surprised, or like he never expected he’d live to hear those words out of his mouth.

Then, screw being on solid ground, Santiago thinks. As Francisco - after a dumbfounded beat - meets his revelation with a searing kiss, Santiago’s heart takes flight.

Francisco’s tongue curls tenderly into his mouth. His body rolls to shift Santiago beneath his weight, his knees falling open either side of his tight hips.

“I love you too,” Francisco says, voice revving with deep feeling as he braces on top of him. Then; “thank you”.

Santiago blinks. “For the drawer?!”

Francisco’s curse under his breath is nothing but fond. “Idiota. No. For trusting me enough to say that.”

Francisco’s tongue delves into his mouth once more, opening him up.

Frank, everywhere. All over him. With his tongue; his body; his heart.

Opening him up. Opening him up. Opening him up.

He’s opening him up, and what’s more… Santiago wants to let him in.

He wants to let Francisco into the deepest parts of him.

[for-a-longlongtime]

How writing is going on a Sunday morning

When you type "the sight of Frankie’s fingers all slick with pre-cum, wrapped around Pope's dick" - and just kind of mentally zone out for ten minutes because of that visual. Oops.

[millerscoffee]

⟡ frankie morales/santiago garcia masterlist ⟡

all i wanted was you series (frankie morales x santiago garcia x f!reader)

a queer friendly series

this is a series of different moments in the life of the reader's relationship with frankie morales and santiago garcia.

⟡ at my fingertips (2.3k): you, frankie, and santi are celebrating your one year anniversary in costa rica after everyone ignoring their feelings for each other for three years – though frankie and santi for way longer.

[for-a-longlongtime]

I..... wow. Just, wow. Fucking hell, @ozarkthedog, the way you write these two/three! I need to go for a walk and a smoke now, because that was intense as fuck and damn, am I glad that I came across your fics!

Throwing out another round of tags to @legendary-pink-dot @imalrightllama @magpiepills @morallyinept @sin-djarin @wannab-urs @gasolinerainbowpuddles

push & shove

𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢 “𝐏𝐨𝐩𝐞” 𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐚 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐞 “𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡” 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬

summary: after years of pining the three of you finally get together. it’s 95% smut with some love mixed in. like there is barely any plot.

warnings: smut. 18+ only. spit roasting. rough oral sex. dirty talk. choking. one face slap. degradation. praising. frankie has a big d. cariño - sweetheart. gatita - kitten. amor - love.

word count: 2.3k 

author’s note: this is filthy and i couldn’t be happier. first time writing for santi and frankie. please be nice. 🥺💙

This work has Adult Content. By clicking “Keep Reading” you have agreed that you are over the age of 18 and are willing to view such content. My work is not to be copied or translated onto any other platform.

☽ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ♁ 𝐎𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞'𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ☾

Frankie’s warm, weathered hands cradle your face keeping your head steady despite the rough, unyielding thrusts that plunge in and out of your swollen core. His long fingers frame your jaw with a delicacy you’ve rarely experienced. “Doing so good takin’ Santi’s cock. So fuckin’ good, Cariño.”

Keep reading

[flightlessangelwings]

Being inclusive with your reader insert fic is a kindness. It tells people of color (poc) that you are considering someone who does not look like you in your fic. It shows love and dedication to our craft. It tells poc that they belong here too and they can see themselves in your story.

Poc aren’t look for activism in fic, we know fandom isn’t that serious, but we should be able to have that same level of escapism when we turn to fic and fandom. We belong here too. This space is for everyone, not just one group of people.

Just to give a few examples of how simple it can be: say “skin warmed” instead of blushed, say “cradled your head” instead of running fingers through hair, say “angles yourself to kiss” instead of standing on tiptoes, use italics to indicate Spanish to take out a throwaway line of “you didn’t understand Spanish” things like that. Small changes that do not impact the fic at all but make a world of difference in inclusivity!

And for anything you can’t/don’t want to change, simply add warning in the beginning. Things like hair descriptors, anything reader might wear, some backstory for reader (especially involving family or where the story is set), readers job, things like that. A lot of times just having that heads up before the fic makes a world of difference!

And one example of kindness we as writers always worked to change: until recently (just a couple years ago) it wasn’t common to label the gender of the reader. But those who aren’t female asked writers to label it so they know which to read and which to avoid, and now it’s common to label the gender/pronouns of the reader. So it is possible! It just takes effort! And I’m a writer myself so I know it can be done!

We can pretend to be a bartender or a bounty hunter or an actress or anything else. But we shouldn’t have to imagine we’re a white one.

[luxurychristmaspudding]

listen

summary: you’ve been serving frankie and his friends at your bar for months. despite your wishing and wanting, the shy pilot doesn’t work up the nerve to ask you out before santi introduces you to his buddy, joel.

swept off your feet by the sweet southerner, and charmed by pope, the boys come together to show frankie exactly what it is he’s missing.

read part 2, watch, 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. softdom!joel, softdom!santi, sub!frankie, sub!reader, voyeurism, exhibitionism, maybe MFM?, sharing the luuuurve, praise kink, one (1) count of spitting in mouth, dirty talk, daddy kink (heavy, sorry lmao), oral (f&m receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it!), creampie, come eating, pussyjob?, so many orgasms i started to lose count, maybe a tiny bit of angst, m!masturbation, light choking, f!overstim, bad spanish, right okay we’re done.

wc: 14.7k. we aren't gonna talk about it.

an: this is fucking filthy. i’m sorry. don’t ask.

When you first started to hang out with them all, Will told you that Frankie was useless with women. What you didn’t expect was for him to be this fucking oblivious.

You had been bartending when you met him at a bar downtown - all industrial steel, burnished mirrors, and low light. Frankie and the boys would come in every so often, and you warmed to them immediately. It was hard not to. The four men were always respectful, always polite. They never overstayed their welcome, or their tolerance, and always asked how you were. 

Of course, it helped that they were also handsome, and you quickly fell into the trap you were sure they wove for all hospitality staff. The lingering glances from their table, the crooked smiles at the bar. The competition they seemed to enjoy amongst themselves of who could lather you with the most attention.

Will and Benny did particularly well. The elder brother saved a special, particularly mischievous smile and a wink for you every time he came to order, and saved a special, bruising elbow to the ribs for his brother every time he caught Benny staring. Benny was always a hoot considering his sore ribs, the air never seeming to have been knocked from him as he chatted away to you across the polished wood.

But it was the quieter two, Frankie and Santi, who piqued your curiosity. Santi - often cool, detached; who offered little information in the way of his life but seemed to want to be wrapped up in yours. Who would watch you over the rim of his glass of whisky, drop his eyes to your lips, dip his mouth in a smirk, and say he’d see you later. And Frankie, who could do almost nothing but watch you from his corner of their booth, his Standard Oil cap sunk low on his brow, both hands around his bottle. His deep swallow when you’d catch his eye. The blush that would crawl up his neck, threading through his cheeks when you smiled.

Over the months they came to the bar while you worked there, the five of you became friends of sorts. Once in a blue moon turned into once every two weeks, turned into every Saturday night. And you made sure you were always there, sacrificing the time you would have spent surfing social media on your sofa for time spent flirting with your favourite regulars. Enjoying their eyes on you. Enjoying Frankie’s blush when you called him sugar as you asked if he needed anything else. 

One day, you hoped he’d gather enough courage to give you the answer you hoped for.

You.

But he never did.

When the time came for you to move on from the bar, you made sure to let them know. Your new job further into the city was a step exactly in the direction you wanted to go, and though the men shared touching groans of disappointment, they congratulated you wholeheartedly. 

They also invited you to their Saturday night drinks. You gladly accepted. 

On your last shift, Will slid you Frankie’s mobile number, explaining that he was the most reliable member, the one most likely to know what was going on with the group at any given time. When you ribbed him about how he must always be on his phone, Frankie shyly admitted it was because he had a daughter. He was constantly on the lookout for updates, sweet little pictures and messages his ex would send over. They had a good relationship, and his kid - Lucia - was gorgeous. They just live a little far away, Frankie had admitted, a sad little frown glazing over his features. 

You had softened to him even more, asking him questions about his daughter over the bar while you poured his drinks, propping your chin in your hand and listening to him as he continued to talk after you were finished. You found yourself trying to make Frankie laugh, to hear his sweet chuckle, to brush a touch against his arm, see the sparkle in his eyes beneath his cap - similar, you imagined, to how your own eyes glittered back at him. 

The conversation only stalled when Benny called for him - Fish, where are those drinks? - earning himself a thump from Will, who muttered something about Frankie finally finding the courage and Benny’s big fuckin’ mouth. Frankie’s cheeks had heated, and he'd cleared his throat, thanking you before gathering all the drinks in his large hands and heading back to the booth.

What you had overheard heated the tips of your ears and rattled around your brain, looming in the back of your mind when you joined them the Saturday after. 

But Will's words must have just been a silly little joke, because no matter how hard you try, Frankie will not bend. No matter what you wear, no matter what you do, the curly haired pilot remains firmly out of reach.

And it’s not like you don’t have fun together. You join them on nights out. You’ve been invited over for poker games and parties. You share glances with Frankie, jokes, tales, hell, sometimes he even puts an arm around you. But it’s always the same. The end of the evening is always frustratingly uneventful. 

Crowded into sweaty bars and packed living rooms, you’re caught in a never ending circle of wanting and longing. Maybe that’s why, one night, you find yourself exchanging heated glances with Santi. 

Frankie never really touches you beyond a hug and a kiss on the cheek when you arrive, and remains a staunch gentleman no matter how much he drinks. Santi seems to strive to do the opposite. He finds you in the kitchen one night, trying to cool off after watching Frankie laugh and lean into another woman’s conversation, feeling foolish, immature, but trying to blink away tears anyway. 

He talks to you like you’re the only interesting person he’s ever met, standing a little too close for a friend, only moving away when you’re interrupted by one of Benny’s buddies searching for a beer. When you return to the living room, Frankie notices. Notices how Santi pulls you in close when you’re near, presses a kiss to your hair, places a casual hand on your knee when you’re sat next to each other. And how you let him do it. 

When Santi drops you off at your house, he looks at your lips for a long time. His eyes are burning as he tucks your hair behind your ear and wishes you a good night. But he doesn’t go further. 

It’s driving you fucking insane.

You were sure you hadn’t imagined the chemistry between the three of you before, so what was wrong now? Whose starting pistol were they waiting for? You can’t help your desperate huffs of frustration every time you close the door at the end of another night - alone, sopping wet, with only your hand to help.

Until one night, when you really believe, truly believe that it might end differently.

Frankie has been sat next to you in the booth all evening, laughing and chatting away. His arm is slung over your shoulder, his thigh against yours, your body pressed into his side. It feels good, it feels right, and he’s looking at you in such a way that you begin to teeter dangerously close to pressing your lips to his in the middle of the bar. 

You and Frankie take the opportunity to talk about anything and everything. Catching up on your jobs, how he’s re-received his licence, your families, future dreams and aspirations. It’s almost funny how perfectly everything seems to realign. You think this is the turning point - this is when you realise how perfect you are for each other, this is when you take the leap. The only hiccup seems to be when Frankie says he’ll be away for the next three weeks - working, and then visiting Lucia. Your heart crumbles a little - just a little - before you try to sweep away thoughts of him dying in a helicopter crash or falling back in love with his ex. It feels like you’ve waited so long for this moment that the universe might just try and be that cruel. Just for shits and giggles. 

But it won’t. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

Santi seems to notice. He’s quieter than usual, watching the two of you cosy up together. He looks pleased, if a little put out, and when he thinks you aren’t looking he exchanges a look with Frankie. A raised eyebrow, a dipped head. A fucking finally.

As you move to leave the bar at closing time, Frankie touches your arm.

‘Mind if I walk you home, querida?’ He asks, holding out your coat. You take it and swoop it on over your shoulders, grinning at him.

‘Thought you’d never ask.’ You say.

Frankie walks you home like a gentleman. 

Too much of a gentleman.

You bump shoulders every so often, but he doesn’t move to take your hand. And he’s all bashful smiles and throaty laughter, compliments and flirty asides, but you return them tenfold, wrapped up in a blinding smile.

You’re making it easy for him. Obvious. But he still isn’t taking the bait.

Maybe he doesn’t want you.

It’s an uncomfortable thought, but it bounces around your skull the whole way home. And it rumbles even louder when you get to your door and he pulls you in for a hug, a light hand barely lingering on your waist, before he wishes you goodnight. 

You stand there, a little dazed before your brain catches up and decides to deploy your last ditch attempt. Just to see. Just to find out. 

He’s halfway down your front path when you call out to him.

‘Frankie. Do you want to come in?’

He turns, limbs coming to a clumsy halt. His brows are high on his forehead, mouth a little ‘o’. Then he frowns.

Fuck. You’ve never felt like such an idiot in your life.

‘I - er,’ he starts, and you look down at the floor, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the concrete. ‘I have an early start tomorrow.’ He says. 

You look back up at him.

‘Sorry,’ he continues, ‘Any other time and I’d be - I’d be right there. Y’know. Just - timing, that’s all.’

You try to soften the bite that wants to creep into your words at his rejection, but barely manage it.

‘It’s cool,’ you say, trying to smile. ‘No worries. I just - I bought that film you said you watched the other day. Paddington 2? The one Lucia likes.’ A slow smile lights his eyes. ‘Just wondered whether you wanted to come in and watch it with a beer. But yeah. No worries,’ and then, because you just can’t help yourself, you add - ‘Wouldn’t have been any funny business, just so ya know.’ 

You force out a laugh, and Frankie drops his eyes. Disappointed, confused. You feel bad for a second, but then you remember how embarrassed you feel, how stupid. It makes your skin crawl. Nevermind.

You clear your throat.

‘Anyway. Get home safe, Frankie,’ you say, ‘See you soon.’ 

You rush in and close the door before he can reply.

---

Your phone buzzes with a text early the next day.

You open your eyes with a groan, clutching unseeingly at trinkets on your nightstand until your stomach lurches at the thought that it might be Frankie. You sit up to grab it.

It’s not Frankie. It’s an unknown number.

Hey. Do u want to head to the bar 2night?

You frown, confused, fingers dancing over possible replies before another text flies through.

Got a friend Id like u to meet.

And then another.

Its Santi btw. Cant remember if u have my no.

You breathe out, type a quick sure. Fuck it. What harm could another of Santi’s friends do to your pride? Your sex drive? What harm could a night with Santi do? You follow it up with -

Who else will be there? Are you setting me up?

You chew on your thumb anxiously, waiting for his reply.

Just the 3 of us. Might be ;)

You snort at his reply, shooting back -

God. Am I really such a charity case?

 - before getting out of bed to make breakfast. Halfway through your pancakes, you get a text back.

Nah. Just cant stand seein a good girl like u go to waste.

You put your phone back down on the table, slowing your chewing. Good girl. The two words send a lick of heat curling up your spine. A good girl like you going to waste. 

A slow, smug smile spreads across your lips. You pick up your phone again and begin to tap out a reply. A risky move, one which would surely harm your chances with Frankie, but fuck it - 

If you don’t want me to go to waste, you could always have me to yourself.

You stare at the blinking cursor for a second before deleting the message, instead asking him for a time. No need to be hasty. 

You don’t know what his friend looks like yet, anyway.

As it turns out, Santi’s friend might be exactly who you need to forget about Frankie.

Joel Miller is older, in his fifties. Greying, tall, broad, gorgeous, and a true southern gentleman to boot. The kind of guy - you imagine - who would drive you to work the next day if you couldn’t walk after seeing him the night before.

And it’s going well. Really well.

You, Joel, and Santi chat easily around your little table, swapping jokes, telling stories, brushing touches to each other here and there. Joel works in construction - runs his own company with his brother, Tommy - and has a grown up daughter called Sarah. He’s worked on Santi’s house - actually knows most of the group - but is usually too busy (or too tired, he tells you) to come out and join them. You think about how unlucky it is that he hadn’t come around before you made such a fool of yourself last night. And then you vow not to think of Frankie again for the rest of the evening.

Joel is easy to be around - warm, safe - earthy and masculine. And maybe it’s something to do with the way his chocolate brown eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, but you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You can’t seem to stop thinking about what it would be like to run your fingers through his curls, feel the scrape of his stubble between your thighs, what his arms look like beneath his flannel, what his fingers - what his cock - would feel like inside of you. Something about the man is making your toes curl in your seat, and he hasn’t done anything more innocuous than thumb the charm hanging from your necklace. It’s agonising. 

And to make it worse, Santi knows. You don’t know how, but he does. Maybe you’re just that easy to read. 

In the blur of Joel leaving to go to the bathroom and get more drinks, Santi leans over to you.

‘What do you think?’ He asks.

You shrug, trying your absolute hardest to play it cool.

‘He’s nice. I like him. You should bring him out more often.’ 

Santi’s eyes glint with something molten, something teasing and knowing and sharp.

‘You want to take him home.’

You baulk at his words, cheeks flaming in response. You open and close your mouth as he leans in and laughs.

‘I never said that -’ you splutter, but Santi takes your hand.

‘You don’t need to, querida,’ he says, ‘I can see it written all over your face.’ 

You groan, forehead falling to his shoulder. 

‘If it helps,’ he continues, ‘I think he wants to take you home, too.’ 

You look up from his shoulder into his eyes, and they glimmer back at you. You bite your lip.

‘Ya think?’ You ask.

‘Yeah, baby,’ he teases, ‘I do.’

You hum against him before tilting your face further back.

‘You know…’ you say, lips loosened by the alcohol. Santi tips his head to the side, waiting for you to continue. ‘'S not quite how I imagined the night would end.’

His lips quirk in a smile again. Ah, fuck.

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. I kinda thought you’d take me home instead.’

Santi chuckles and looks away around the room. When his eyes settle back on you, they’re black and burning.

‘I’ve thought about it,’ he says, scratching his beard, ‘A lot. But I guessed you were too caught up on Frankie.’

You freeze at his words and sit up straight, clearing your throat.

‘I don’t -’ but Santi shakes his head at you, cutting you off. He says your name softly.

‘I know about last night,’ he says quietly. Your cheeks begin to burn again, but this time for a completely different reason. ‘He told me about it after he walked you home. And I told him he was the biggest fuckin’ idiot I know.’ 

Despite yourself, you smile.

‘I’m not gonna take you home, baby,’ Santi continues as you watch him, curious, ‘Not right now, anyway. My shit is complicated enough -’ Santi cuts himself off with a sigh, and your brows bunch together.

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask, your voice low and kind despite the fire sparking at his words.

Santi looks at you again, and whatever’s in his eyes looks too complex to divulge. He thumbs your knuckles, swirling patterns onto your hand.

‘Nothing,’ he says, but you frown at him again. ‘Just… stuff. Stuff to do with Frankie. It’s - complicated. I’ll tell you about it some other time. But what I wanted to say was - I wanted you to meet Joel. Because I think you’d be great for each other.’ 

Your jaw drops again, but before you can ask any questions, anything about his stuff with Frankie, Joel reappears with new drinks for the three of you. Santi gives you a tight-lipped smile, squeezing your hand before picking up his bottle. But you drop his gaze when Joel places a hand at the top of your back as he sits down.

‘Everything okay, baby?’ He asks. 

Santi doesn’t leave early, but he doesn’t leave late, either. He stays long enough to know exactly where this thing with you and Joel is going, and then bails when he knows he should. Even if you still kinda wish he’d stay. 

Even if you didn’t get the chance to ask him more about Frankie.

You and Joel linger for an hour longer, the ache in your core and the wetness in your underwear in response to him now almost impossible to ignore. Joel keeps a hand on your thigh. He sweeps a palm down your arm, tucks your hair behind your ear. And when the bell for closing rings out, he takes your hand and leads you out into the night.

He keeps a hold of your hand the whole way to your door. 

When you get home, you turn to him on your doorstep. He smiles at you, taking you in through his eyelashes. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

You grip your keys tightly in your fist, the metal leaving marks and almost drawing blood as he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You forget to breathe as his scent crowds your senses, as the scruff of his beard scratches your cheek. You want to lick his neck, find out if he tastes as good as he smells, want to know what it feels like to have him pressed against you, on top of you, under you, behind you -

Joel cuts through your thoughts with a low chuckle against your ear.

‘Breathe, darlin’.’ He murmurs.

You open your eyes, take a deep breath, and sigh a laugh as you look down at your feet. 

He is still unbearably close, and you know, you know you shouldn’t, but you don’t know if you’ll ever see this man again, and everything Santi said at the bar, and the fact that you feel like Joel could make you come with just a flick of his wrist is likely what sparks your tongue to stutter out - 

‘Do you want to come in?’

Joel looks down at you again, a fire alight in his eyes. The heat sends a shiver down your spine.

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just pushes your front door open, takes your wrist, and pulls you inside.

---

Being with Joel is great.

It’s amazing. It’s like you finally have someone who can keep up with you. Your brain, your days, your plans. It’s like someone plopped Joel Miller on earth with a little note saying he was yours.

In the three weeks after you first meet him, you share countless breakfasts and dinners and spend your weekends wrapped up in sheets watching reruns of Golden Girls. It’s so simple to spend time with someone who is so easy to be around, someone who just gets you. 

Joel makes you laugh, makes you feel important, wanted.

And the sex is incredible.

Like nothing you’ve ever had with anyone else. He seems to know what to do, exactly how you want it done, every time - it’s effortless. And somehow, you seem to do the same for him. In fact, the only problems you seem to have found are his size (because he’s huge) and the fact that you can’t be inside each other all the time.

Which is why it takes so much effort for you to peel yourself away from him when Santi asks if you’d like to join him and the guys for drinks on Saturday. You give him an affirmative before promptly being distracted by Joel coming out of the shower.

You see his reply forty minutes later.

Frankie will b there. That OK?

You type back a quick -

Of course :)

 - before getting on with your day.

Drinks are almost the same as usual. It’s surprisingly easy to slot right back into where you were. Laughing, chatting, joking with Will and Benny. What they’ve been up to, who they’ve been with. Questions you manage to dodge with only a knowing smirk from Santi to remind you he knows exactly who you’ve been doing. 

Frankie joins in from across the table. He couldn’t meet your eye when you first arrived, but over the course of the evening and a few drinks, he seems to have relaxed enough to look at you. Really look at you.

Which is unfortunate, because you can still feel Joel’s come from earlier in the day seeping into your underwear.

At some point in the evening, Benny and Will make their excuses - they have a family get together tomorrow they can’t be too hungover for - and it’s just you, Frankie, and Santi left. 

It’s easy for the most part. Santi bridging the gap so effortlessly that it begins to feel like nothing happened between you and Frankie at all. And it didn’t, you remind yourself. Nothing happened. And then you met Joel.

So why are you still thinking about it?

You try to distract yourself, lose yourself in the conversation taking place between the two men. Something about Star Wars, new castings they’ve chosen for a series coming out later in the year. You try to contribute as much as you can, but fail miserably, earning yourself a brief history of the franchise from Santi. Eventually you get him to ease off with a hand to his chest, laughing until he starts to giggle, too. He uses the interlude to get up to use the bathroom and get more drinks, leaving you with Frankie and his soft, brown eyes.

You peer at each other nervously from across the table. You watch as his tongue darts out to wet his lip, as he chews the inside of his cheek before taking a deep breath and meeting your eye. 

You feel your jaw clench.

‘About the other night, a few weeks back,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was a fuckin’ moron -’ he pauses for a moment, sweeps a hand over his face. ‘I’m real rusty at this. The whole dating thing. I don’t think I even realised what it was you were sayin’ to me.’ Frankie huffs a laugh. A horrible, anxious feeling starts to work its way up your throat. ‘But I -’

He’s interrupted as a bartender floats by your booth, sweeping up some of the empty glasses. You smile up at her and thank her sweetly. 

Maybe you can stall whatever Frankie has to say.

She swats at the air with her free hand.

‘Not at all, sugar,’ she says, ‘Can’t let a thing like empties get in the way of a date like this.’

You smile at her and bite your tongue, feeling hot. A blush begins to claw up your cheeks as she winks at you both and swings away. Had she not seen Santi? And - fuck - now how do you brush this off with Frankie? How do you stop where this is going?

You turn your eyes back to him, and he hasn’t even flushed at the insinuation. Instead, he bites his lip, something which sends a jolt of heat to the space between your thighs. He scratches the back of his neck, and rushes out in a lowered voice that even though he’s busy with work at the moment, he’d like to make it right -

‘I’d really love to take you out this weekend.’

Your stomach plummets to your feet. Fuck. 

Tears of frustration prickle in your eyes. A lump of panic settles in your throat, and you almost feel like you could run out of the bar. Why is he doing this now?

You take a deep breath and try to form the kindest smile, the most apologetic furrow in your brows that you can.

‘Frankie,’ you breathe, and already his face begins to fall. You lean across the table and take one of his massive hands. ‘I’d have loved to, but -’

He shakes his head quickly, trying to draw his hand back.

‘It’s okay,’ he begins, ‘Fuck, I’m sorry. I must have just misread - I didn’t mean - I don’t want you to feel -’

But his interruption only serves to further spark the surge of irritation. You squeeze his hand tighter so he can’t rip it away and utter his name harshly. He stops immediately, his eyes whipping back to yours. Something stirs in you at his immediate obedience.

‘Listen to me,’ you say, shaking off your traitorous thoughts. ‘I’d have loved to. But I - I literally just started seeing someone, and I -’ you break off, groaning in frustration, ‘I don’t know if it’s serious, or if it’s exclusive, but he’s great, and I don’t want anyone - especially you - to get hurt by me being selfish or not knowing where things are at.’ You huff out a breath and meet his eye. He looks disappointed, upset even - but worst of all he looks understanding, almost grateful that you don’t want him to get caught up in this complex knot of wanting. 

‘Frankie,’ you say softly, and try to smile, ‘I mean this in the least… damaging way. If you had asked me three weeks ago, when we were here last, I’d have said yes. In a heartbeat.’

Maybe it does make you an asshole. Maybe it does make you selfish. But it feels important in this moment to make sure that Frankie understands - you like him. You wanted him.

It’s just timing. 

Frankie grimaces.

‘Fuck.’ He hisses. And when he tries to withdraw his hand this time, you let him. But you don’t look away. 

A low light flickers in his eye. Something close to anger, you think - at himself, or at you, you’re not sure.

‘Is it -’ he begins, ‘Is it Pope?’

‘Pope?’ You ask, confused. Frankie shakes his head.

‘Santi. Is it Santi?’

You bark a laugh. You can’t help it.

‘Santi? Your Santi?’ you ask, bewildered. Frankie’s cheeks heat again. You want to put a pin in that, the flush at your, but your brain is suddenly so riddled with dredged up questions you can hardly order them.

‘What do you mean, Frankie?’ you ask, exasperated.

Frankie shakes his head again, realising his mistake, but you are beyond dropping the topic.

‘Frankie,’ you say, stern this time. ‘What do you mean?’

Frankie whips his cap off, runs an agitated hand through his hair, shifts his gaze around the bar for the other man.

‘He - he likes you, too,’ he says. ‘I was worried - worried he’d beat me to it ‘cos I didn’t ask before I went away. He said it was taking me too long to do - to gather the confidence to ask you -’ Now Frankie barks a laugh. ‘But it looks like we were both too late.’

You shake your head, the cogs in your brain turning slowly. How Santi looked at you was no secret. But if what Frankie was saying about how Santi felt was true, why had he introduced you to Joel? And if that was true, had you misunderstood what Santi said about him and Frankie? You feel your mouth open and close, but Frankie takes your silence to ask you another question.

‘Who is it?’

‘What?’

‘Who is it?’

You splutter over your answer, hesitating, stalling -

‘Frankie, how the fuck would you know?’

Because he would. And, rightly or wrongly, that panics you a little.

‘Is it someo-’

You cut him off, holding up your palm.

‘Frankie -’ you press a hand to your throat, feeling your rapid pulse. Fuck it. ‘I thought - I thought Santi was interested in you.’

Frankie chokes on his breath.

He stares at you, calculating something, breathing heavily.

‘It’s not - we’re not -’ he fumbles. You slouch back in your seat. Frankie’s eyes flutter closed. ‘We fuck around sometimes. And sometimes - sometimes other people -’ You groan, your head tipping back against the leather. Your head is spinning. ‘But we wouldn’t - I wouldn’t - fuck. I don’t want you to think that that’s what this is about -’ Frankie splays his hands in front of you. ‘God,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to explain any of this.’

The room suddenly feels too warm. You cradle your head in your hands, and stare at the way the table swims beneath you. What the fuck is happening?

You glance up at Frankie, but he’s watching you so intensely, so much concern and panic and want in his eyes that it makes you feel claustrophobic.

‘I need some air.’ You mumble across the table, and stumble out of the booth on unsteady legs. From the corner of your eye, you see Santi begin to cross the floor to return to the booth with drinks in his hands, see him watch you trip across the bar. In the back of your brain, you hear him call your name, but your hands are already on the handle of the front door, pushing it open and feeling the cool night air hit your clammy skin.

What the fuck is going on?

You fumble in your pocket for your phone and find Joel’s contact. You want to go home, and you want his help to forget about this. And, you think, you should probably ask whether he had any idea about Santi, or Frankie, or Santi and Frankie. 

The call with Joel is quick, and he sounds appropriately concerned without needing to hear any details. He tells you to stay in view of the bar and to not move a muscle, and that he’ll be there in 10. You hope he can make it in five.

He’s too slow. After seven minutes, Frankie bursts out of the bar, Santi quickly following him.

‘Fish -’ Santi’s calling, but he catches himself when he sees you still standing there. Frankie screeches to a halt, too.

The three of you stare between each other, eyes wide, like you’re waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Frankie says your name before you shake your head - rushing out a not now, Frankie just as Joel’s pickup peels into the parking lot.

Frankie can’t see him with his back turned, but he sure does when Joel comes striding from behind the two men to stand at your side.

‘Everything okay, baby?’ he asks in his low, southern drawl, and you instinctively lift your mouth for a kiss before realising how cruel that would be.

Joel tenses as you withdraw, finally taking in the other two men.

‘Pope,’ he says with a nod, and Santi smiles weakly back at him.

‘Frankie,’ Joel says a little softer, ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘Joel.’ Frankie says through his teeth, realisation burning in his eyes. 

‘How ya doin’, kid?’ Joel asks him, placing a hand on your lower back. Frankie juts out his chin.

‘Fine. Great.’ He says, ‘I was just leavin’, actually.’ Frankie whips his cap off, runs a hand through his hair. His jaw is set, angry. He shakes his head at the ground. ‘I’ll see you guys around.’ He says to no one in particular, turning on his heel and fleeing towards the car park. 

Santi and Joel meet each others’ eyes in some kind of understanding, and you look angrily between them. Being left out of the loop again was not feeling cute.

Joel sighs, wrapping his arm around your waist.

‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.’ He murmurs, but you lurch out of his grasp and turn on the two of them. They watch you, surprised.

‘No,’ you say, ‘Nu-uh. We aren’t going anywhere until one of you tells me what the fuck is going on.’

Joel and Santi look at each other, expressions unreadable. 

Santi shakes his head.

‘Come back inside,’ he says, turning back to the bar entrance, ‘We’re gonna need more beers for this.’

---

When you get down to the root of it, the truth isn’t even that complex. That’s the laughable part.

The long and short of it is this. One: Pope knew Frankie liked you. But he knew Frankie moved slow. And he’d gotten tired of watching, of knowing he’d be a dick if he made a play instead. And he cares about you, his friend. Wants to see you happy. Enter Joel. Two: Santi and Frankie fooled around while they were in Delta Force. It’s not a secret, but it’s never really been discussed. Sometimes they still fool around, but it’s been less frequent as they’ve gotten older. As they date other people. Three: Sometimes, when those other people they’re dating are willing, they bring them in, and they all have fun together. 

Something Santi would have been fine with if you were his. Something Frankie was less cool with doing if he’d made his move. 

Santi admits that he’s likely just been a dick throughout the whole thing. You make him promise to do better over another beer. He does. He also now knows not to cock block his best buddy with a mutual friend.

And Joel feels kinda bad about that. Not bad enough to pump the brakes with you, but uncomfortable, sure. He’s had Frankie round for barbecues, he likes the guy. He’s sorry he whisked you away from him. But not sorry enough.

Joel hasn’t been involved in any of Frankie and Santi’s adventures, but it’s something he’s played around with before. He’s had threesomes, but he doesn’t really volunteer more than that. The thought ignites something deep in your belly and you file it away for another day, a different conversation.

Once it’s all explained and you’re laughing together again, everything feels fine. Normal.

Except you don’t see Frankie for weeks afterwards.

You drop him a text every now and again, just wanting to know whether he’s okay, but you hear nothing back. Santi tries to assure you that you’ve done nothing wrong. There’s nothing for you to worry about.

But it still sits uneasy in your gut.

You see Joel almost every day. And Santi once a week. 

The three of you meet for beers in a different bar from the one Santi meets Frankie, Will and Benny in - your bar. And you have fun. 

It never goes beyond touches with Santi, though you find yourself wishing more and more often that it would. He rests a hand on your thigh under the table, his thumb swiping patterns over your flushed skin. Sometimes he has an arm flung around the back of your seat, sometimes rubbing the back of your neck, sometimes tucking hair behind your ear. He watches and stares and smiles and laughs at you and Joel, and you watch back with delighted curiosity. You like the way he makes you squirm while you sit next to the older man. And Joel loves to watch you squirm, too.

He loves getting you home and finding your panties soaked with arousal. He loves swiping two of his thick fingers through your folds with the front door barely closed, his hand shoved down the front of your jeans, your back arched already, a needy whine heavy in the back of your throat. He loves talking you through the things he’d like to watch Santi do to you, how good he knows you’d be for the two of them, how well behaved, how you’d take, take, take it, and how proud he’d be to show you off. My girl. He growls as he fucks into you at night. My girl.

And it suits you, how giving, how generous Joel is. 

Seems to suit Santi, too.

At some point ideas had been swapped between you and Joel - some thinly disguised remark dropped by him over dinner one night had led to you picking at the thread and grinding him down over three days, trying to get to the bottom of it. He liked to share, he’d said. He liked to watch. He liked the control, and the pride, and the possession of it all. And goddammit, you liked the sound of it, too. Because after serious discussion - serious boundaries, limits, run throughs of possible scenarios, you talked through people who you wouldn’t mind trying it with.

And there was obvious one name you both settled on.

Santi.

And well, given his history, it didn’t take too long for you to convince him to join you.

And if it hadn't been for Santi’s suggestion, his knowledge, his understanding of his best friend, there’s a chance Frankie’s name wouldn’t have come up at all. You’re not sure if you’d have dared, considering how things were left. But, lo and behold, it does, and along with it the chance for him to see exactly what he's missing out on. 

---

All the rules have been arranged for tonight, but the most important one, which you must remember, is that Frankie is not allowed to touch you.

At all. At any point. 

You and Joel head to the usual bar to meet Santi and Frankie for drinks. You make sure to wear a dress which clings to your curves, dips at your cleavage, and settles just high enough on your thigh to be bordering on acceptable. And it must be more than acceptable, because Joel threatens to fuck you out of it three times before you leave the house.

It must be acceptable, because Santi cannot keep his eyes or his hands off you when you arrive at the venue, and Frankie from across the table cannot regain control of his jaw.

They both look good - you all look good - Joel with his hair combed back, a deep green flannel on, Santi in all black - and suddenly all you want to do is call the drinks off now and just head back to Joel’s. But the patience, the build up is critical. It’s foreplay.

Instead, you lean back in your chair, sipping on your cocktail as you take in the three men.

The conversation flows easily after a while. Joel is a master at it, weaving questions in and out, making sure to put both you and Frankie at ease. Besides, it’s been a while since you last saw each other. Not that either of you were any less eager for him to be involved. He’d been very keen, according to Santi. 

He’s in dark jeans and a tight navy blue t-shirt tonight, his trademark cap confining his curls. He’s not dressed up, but he’s made an effort, and his shy looks across the table, his kind questions and easy jokes have begun healing the fractures of what happened weeks ago.

It doesn’t hurt that he and Santi had a good, long talk, and that you then shared a sweet phone call. 

All the same, he sits opposite you, unable to touch you for the rest of the night.

Instead, he just gets to watch as Joel presses kisses to your neck, pulls you into his chest, skates his hands over your thighs - anything he can get away with doing to turn you on. And Santi isn’t far behind. Holding your hand on top of the table, bringing your knuckles to his lips, keeping a hand on your knee almost the entire time.

Your brain is a hot, buzzing mess by the time Santi checks his phone.

‘It’s getting late.’ He says, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

‘Eager, no?’ You tease, trying - and failing - to cover the scent of your own desperate need.

‘Of course,’ Santi smirks over the rim of his glass, ‘But I’ll take my time with you.’

You try to laugh but fall back into Joel’s shoulder at his words, and the older man chuckles. He kisses your forehead tenderly. Frankie watches hungrily from across the table, the dark void of his eyes flicking towards his watch, desperate to leave. 

When you do, he walks at a distance behind the three of you. You smile to yourself and sway your hips a little more for his benefit. And you swear you get a low whine as your reward.

---

You’re quiet the whole way home, trying not to clench your thighs too hard or rock yourself against the seat. You're so desperate for friction, for relief, that it’s hard for you to concentrate on what’s going on in the car. Hard for you to think of anything beyond Joel’s warm, heavy hand on your thigh as he drives. 

He leans over to you halfway home, and whispers -

‘You’re quiet, baby. Everything okay?’

You flick a glance to him and find his eyes equal parts concerned and equal parts aflame. You smile.

‘I’m trying to be good,’ you murmur, ‘But you’re making it very difficult.’

Joel dips his chin in a smirk and squeezes your thigh, his fingers drifting dangerously close to your panties. You squirm a little in your seat, and it goads him to drift his hand further until it catches at the lace of the gusset. You gasp at the feeling, a tiny whimper making its way out from your lips, and all conversation in the back of the truck grinds to a halt. Your cheeks heat, and you turn to look out the window again, clamping your lip beneath your teeth.

No one says a word the rest of the way home.

Once you're all home, a silence settles around you. Everybody wide eyed, geared up, on edge. You’re not sure who to look at or what to say until Joel does it for you.

‘Upstairs.’ He commands, and everybody moves to follow him up the staircase. You keep your eyes on his broad back the whole way up, and once you reach the top, he holds his hand out behind him for you to grab. You do.

When you get to his bedroom door, Joel leads you in. You turn just as Santi crosses the threshold, as he pivots to Frankie behind him and says -

‘Kneel.’

Frankie glances at you, swallows, and returns his eyes to Santi. He drops down to his knees in the hallway.

‘Good,’ Santi murmurs, stepping forward to crouch down in front of him. ‘Do you remember the rules?’ He asks Frankie.

The younger man nods, his eyes dropping to the floor.

‘Yes.’

Santi nods once. 

‘Good. Listen. And do not leave this spot.’

Santi straightens, turning his back on Frankie. You can’t tear your eyes away from the sight of him on the floor - small, submissive - and you can’t help the little gasp you let out as Santi steps towards you and closes the door slowly behind him, leaving just enough of a gap so that Frankie can hear everything that happens but watch none of it. 

Joel skirts his fingers down your waist and presses a kiss just under your ear.

‘You ready, baby girl?’ he rumbles. You turn your face to look at him over your shoulder, finding his eyes dark, a familiar power behind them. You nod.

‘Yes.’ you say. He nods, pleased, twisting to kiss your mouth before guiding you towards Santi.

‘Good,’ he says. He turns and moves towards the armchair in the far corner of the room, sitting heavily in it.

Santi steps towards you and gently takes your face in his hands.

‘You okay?’ He asks quietly. You nod.

‘Yeah,’ you whisper, ‘Are you?’ 

Santi nods, his eyes searching yours for a hint of hesitation. You try to open up your mind to show him the excitement, the want you feel. Satisfied, he licks his lips.

‘Can I kiss you?’ He asks. You nod again, and Santi leans forwards, capturing your mouth in hard, slow movement.

Santi means to make a study of you, you think. His tongue is everywhere, his teeth grazing over your bottom lip, his hands gentle and then needy, already figuring out exactly what it is that makes you tick. And to make it even worse, every time you take a moment to catch your breath, he has that fucking smirk on his face. It’s infuriating, and you quickly need to find something  which will wipe it off.

So you begin to undo his belt.

Pope huffs a chuckle against your lips, but doesn’t stop the work your hands are doing. Instead, he matches it with his own fingers. 

With deft movements, he slips a hand under your dress and finds his way to your panties, touching you through the fabric. You groan against his mouth, and he smiles, ghosting over your folds. Not to be out done, you slip your hand into his jeans and palm him over his boxers. He hums against you.

‘Are we racing?’ He asks.

You cock your head to the side.

‘Thought you wanted to take your time?’ You quip back, and something flashes in his eyes. 

He steps back.

‘Take this off.’ He says, tugging at the hem of your dress, and you pout at him. 

‘Does that mean you take these off, too?’ You ask, tugging at his jeans. You’re pushing your luck, you know. But you think this might be easier if Santi undresses with you, if only to really see what you held in your hand. 

Santi raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ll see,’ he says, ‘But you go first.’

You step back from him and glance at Joel, assessing. He nods at you, encouraging, and you pull your dress up and over your head. You stand before them in only your panties, and Santi takes a deep breath, biting his lip, smiling again.

‘Gorgeous, baby.’ He says. And you feel it. The way this man looks at you makes you feel weak, giddy - like your core is on fire. 

Santi steps towards you to kiss you again, making sure his hand returns to where it had been, ghosting over your underwear. You groan into his mouth, impatient now, and his teeth scrape at your chin as he clicks his tongue. In answer, he sweeps your panties to the side, and grazes two digits along your slit. You moan loudly again, and Santi groans up at the ceiling.

‘Fuck, querida.’ He says, before stretching a thumb to your clit and sinking the two fingers deep inside you. You stumble against him as he begins to work you, breathing heavily against his clothed chest. You turn your face so your teeth can nip at his skin underneath.

‘Take - this - off.’ You hiss, and he laughs, slipping his fingers out of you with a groan to oblige. Santi removes his t-shirt quickly and chucks it somewhere across the room before pushing his jeans down and stepping out of them. He hurries to find purchase within your body once more, rocking you against him, curling his fingers deep inside you. His tongue returns to your mouth and you remember his hard cock in his boxers. You reach for it, but he blocks you with his arm. You whine.

‘Tan mojada ya, baby.’ He drawls. Santi removes his fingers from where they were curling inside of you and brings them to your mouth, tapping your lips. You open for him, and he presses them in, allowing you to swirl your tongue over them. You clean off the scent of your heady arousal as Santi watches you. He presses them hard, once, against your tongue, and you open your mouth wide for him. 

He retracts his fingers.

‘Good girl,’ he murmurs, and it goes straight to your cunt. You whimper a little, and he grins, stepping back and out of his boxers. ‘Take those off for me.’ He says, motioning at your soaked panties. You almost trip in your eagerness to do so. He retreats backwards until his calves hit the mattress, and he sits down before laying back, getting comfortable.

Santi watches you from the bed, laid out on his back. His lips curl as you rake your eyes over him - hands folded behind his head, his biceps rounding by his ears, his firm, strong torso spattered with dark hair, and his long, hard cock, bobbing and drooling as he takes you in.

‘Come here.’ He says. 

You begin a slow walk to the bed, hesitating only for a moment as you crawl onto it and towards him. He licks his lips as you come closer, and you bite your lip back.

You feel unsure without being given specific direction, but you know that Joel will put you right if you step a toe out of line. So you place a knee on either side of Santi’s hips, and sink your heat down onto him as he pulls you forward by the back of your neck, searching for your lips.

You start to move, to adjust to try and let him inside, before Joel’s voice cracks like a whip out of the corner.

‘Either of us tell you you could fuck him yet?’ He growls.

You try to draw your mouth away from Santi to give your response, but he clamps your bottom lip between his teeth so you can go no further. You whimper and shake your head.

‘So put your fuckin’ hips back down. Y’ain’t earned it yet.’

Santi lets your lip go and flops back against the sheets with a shit-eating grin. You lower your hips again and place both your palms on his stomach, pushing your tits together. He eyes them greedily, reaching out and flicking a thumb over each nipple. You feel your pout grow, your brows drawn tight together and your bottom lip swollen, jutting out almost comically. Santi catches a glimpse of your face, and puffs out a laugh.

‘Poor baby,’ he coos, ‘Just wanna get fucked, don’t ya?’ You nod pathetically, but don’t dare move. He is achingly hard beneath you, his thick length resting perfectly between your folds. Santi lowers his hands from your nipples until he has them on your hips, and like he’s read your fucking mind, he begins to rock you back and forth.

A wanton, needy moan drools out of your mouth as your pussy wets him, fresh slick leaking out of your clenching hole. You wonder how much of this Frankie can hear. 

Santi groans beneath you, watching the head of his cock disappear under you every time he slides you forwards. The pressure of him just against your lips is heady, and you watch as he guides you forwards just a little more, urges you to lean a little further forward until your clit catches on the head of his cock on every slide. You throw your head back, your fingers scratching at his torso, and he watches you. He whispers that you look so pretty like this, how he can feel you, look at how wet you’re making my cock, baby, can feel you twitchin’ on me already, angel. He guides you back and forth until you feel a heavy pressure begin to settle in your pussy, a burning beginning deep in your gut. Your moans become more frantic as you begin to plead with him, though you’re not sure what for.

‘Use your words, baby,’ Joel reminds you from his seat. ‘Ask Santi. Tell him what you need.’

You release a hot breath of air, biting your lip.

‘Gonna come, Santi,’ you tell him breathlessly, ‘Need to stop. Gonna come.’

But Santi just smiles sweetly up at you, his eyes heavy lidded. You pussy twitches, the knot pulling tighter. He reaches up with one hand and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

‘Why would I want you to stop, angel?’ He asks. You shake your head. You don’t know. ‘Talk to me, baby.’ He prompts.

‘I don’t know. Haven’t been - fuck - told -’ you whimper. He nods, swallows harshly.

‘I want you to come,’ he tells you, ‘I want you to come now, and then I’m going to make you come again, and then as many more times as I see fit, do you understand?’

You groan and nod.

‘Yes, Santi.’

‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘And when I’m done with you, I’m gonna give you back to your daddy, and he’s gonna make you come as many times as he sees fit, too. Okay, baby?’

You clench around nothing, painfully, moving faster over Santi’s cock of your own accord.

‘Fuck. Yes, Santi.’

Santi settles his head back against the bed again, running his hands all over your body, anywhere he can touch you.

‘Go on, baby,’ he says, ‘Use me.’

Fuck, you groan out, tilting your hips to allow your clit to scrape down the underside of his cock at every pass. Without thinking, you lean so far forward that you plant a hand around the base of Santi’s throat to keep yourself upright, tightening your fingers over his pulse point. He lets out a strangled moan, his eyes fluttering closed, and you feel the pressure in your core build heavier and heavier until the white hot heat snaps. You throw your head back, coming with gasps of his name and loud moans, still rocking yourself back and forth, still squeezing over his neck.

Your vision is fuzzy and your breathing still feverish when Santi grabs at your fingers and pries them away from him. You flush at your carelessness, an Imsosorry rushing out as you stare at your hand in his. He shushes you tenderly, breathing deeply.

‘S’okay, baby,’ he says, ‘I like it. Don’t have a problem with it.’ He squeezes your hand, and then fixes you with a wicked, cruel look. ‘Just don’t wanna come yet, that’s all. Only so much a man can stand when I can feel you falling apart on top of me.’

You flush even deeper, leaning forward to bury your face in his neck, laving hot, open mouthed kisses along the hard muscle there. He groans and chuckles against you, kneading your ass.

‘Want me to fuck you now, baby?’ He murmurs into your ear.

You whine against him, lick across his jaw.

‘Yes, Santi,’ you groan. ‘Please fuck me.’

Santi grips the hair at the base of your neck to pull you away from him, and you let yourself be led. He slides you off him, and rests on his knees before you. Your eyes dip hungrily to his bobbing cock, shining with your come, tip an angry red, precum dripping down its length. It twitches under your gaze, and you lick your lips. 

Santi chuckles again, his hand still buried in your hair.

‘Dirty fuckin’ girl.’ He murmurs as he manipulates your body. ‘Turn around,’ he says, ‘Hands and knees, baby.’ You follow his directions, turning on the bed towards Joel before planting your limbs and curving your spine, angling your ass in the air. You’re not sure where you should look until Santi releases your hair and leans over your back, a hand on your hip.

‘Look at your daddy,’ he says into your ear, gripping your chin softly to angle your head. You look at Joel through heavy lidded eyes, only to find his are similar. ‘Keep your eyes on him.’

Joel is still fully dressed in the chair, head heavy against the back of it. His legs are spread wide, a hand on either arm, fingers spread and clenched slightly against the fabric. His jaw is tense, and you can see how his jeans strain over his cock - fully hard by the looks of it. You moan into the sheets as you watch him watch you. Santi kneels behind you, running his hands over your soft skin, as he dips two fingers through your folds, swearing softly.

‘She’s so wet, Joel.’ He whispers, and Joel’s eyes leave yours momentarily to see Santi hold his fingers up to the light, coated in slick. Joel’s hips move slightly, bucking into nothing, and he barely manages to grunt out a response. You wonder again how much of this Frankie can hear behind the door, whether he’s straining in his jeans just as Joel is, whether his ear is pressed against the crack just so he can hear what Santi is whispering to you both.

Pope grips one of your hips, and uses his other hand to line himself up at your entrance. He uses his tip to spread your slick around a little more until you whine again, fisting the sheets.

‘Please, Santi, please -’

And he needs no more encouragement, sinking all the way in on the first thrust. You cry out into the mattress, your sounds coming out choked, overwhelmed as he sets a relentless pace.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he hisses out behind you, neither of you able to get more words out. 

You quickly lose yourself to the feel of him pumping in and out, every part of you wound up tight, hot. You can feel yourself squeezing him already, making his hips stutter. Joel notices, too. You wonder whether he remembers Frankie is outside, as well, because he manages to force out in a low grumble -

‘How does she feel?’

Santi gathers your hair up in a fist, bringing your face up from the sheets just so they can hear you better. He grits his teeth, tries to stutter out his answer -

‘So - fucking - good -’ and at this, a delicious smile sweeps across Joel’s face. He’s proud. You moan even louder and manage to garble out a daddy, which makes him positively grin.

‘Atta girl, baby,’ he says to you, before turning back to Santi, ‘Just good?’

You and Santi both hear the prod in his words, and it shoots another thrill through you to remember just how much control Joel has; how he wants him to tell him what he already knows, to prove that his worth.

‘Not just good,’ Santi groans, ‘Fuckin’ perfect. So tight. So warm. She’s clenchin’ me already, makin’ me feel like a fuckin’ teenager,’ he laughs around a puff of air, before leaning back into you. ‘Tómatelo con calma, hermosa - quiero que esto dure.’ You moan again at his words, as they spark the opposite of their desired effect.

‘Shit,’ Santi chuckles out, ‘God, Joel. Pussy like I’ve never felt. And so responsive, too.’ To prove his point Santi lands a firm smack on your ass and you yelp, pulsing around him, biting your lip. He moans behind you. ‘Don’t know how you ever get anything done,’ he bites out, ‘I’d never be able to leave her alone.’ 

You glow under Santi’s praise and Joel’s warming stare, and push yourself up loosely onto your elbows as Santi returns both of his hands to your hips. You push back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Santi gasps, before reaching around you to rub desperately at your clit. Your moans bounce off the walls, sharp gasps and whines melting into begging -

‘Please, Santi - fuck - oh my god, oh my god, please - ‘m so close. So close -’

‘Gonna come again, baby?’ He coos from above you. You nod furiously.

‘Yes,’ you gasp out, ‘God, please Santi, fuckin’ me so good -’

With a grunt, Santi hauls you upwards so your back is flush against his chest. He fucks into you harshly, fingers still working your clit, his other hand pinching and twisting a nipple as he kisses and bites his way along your neck, you shoulder, below your ear.

‘Good girl,’ he says, and your head dips back onto his shoulder, mouth open in a sob because he feels so good - 

Santi grips your chin again, yanking your face down and towards Joel.

‘Look at your daddy,’ he snaps at you, ‘You look at your daddy when you come for me.’

And you do. You can barely keep your eyes open as your body gives out, loud, broken moans escaping your mouth, Santi and daddy alternating somewhere in there as Santi fucks you through it, fingers still on your clit as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder -

‘Good - fucking - girl.’

And you see even Joel’s eyes close momentarily, his hands clenching to fists on the arms of the chair, a growl of desperation only you can hear tumbling out of his chest.

Santi is relentless as he chases his own release, but you’re so tight around him that he refocuses his efforts.

‘Again, baby,’ he orders, ‘Give me another. I can feel it. Come on. It’s right there. You gotta give it to me, hermosa -’

But you whine against him, twitching, trembling, sobbing through the overstimulation, unsure where the boundary between pleasure and pain is. You shake your head, try to catch your breath.

‘Too much, Santi, too much,’ you cry, ‘Can’t - don’t know -’

‘You can, baby,’ he breathes, voice like steel, and you whimper. That tone so similar to Joel’s, how he knows, how now Santi knows, that you can.

At his insistence, you tumble off the cliff again, weakly calling his name as a gush of arousal spills onto his lap, as you pulse and contract around his cock. He releases a strangled groan, his hips stuttering, his breathing heavy. He peers over your shoulder at Joel.

‘Where do you want it?’ he gasps.

‘Inside her.’ Joel growls, and you moan again as Santi sheathes himself to the hilt and comes and comes and comes. You feel him fill you, his dick pulsing and twitching deep in your pussy, and he sags as he begins to leak out. You both hit the mattress, Santi just about propping himself up on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you. You both breathe heavily for a second, until he moves your hair from your face and touches your cheek.

‘You okay?’ he rasps, throat dry. You chuckle breathily.

‘Yes.’ You sigh. Santi licks his lips and laughs quietly, too, shifting gently to slip out of you. You both groan, trying to catch your breath again. Your limbs are liquid, your body heavy, and somewhere in your dazed state you feel him dip a kiss to your shoulder blade before using his tongue to soothe the bite mark he’d left earlier.

You turn your face towards him as you feel his weight leave the bed. He smiles at you, muttering something about getting himself cleaned up before gesturing to the opposite way you're facing. You turn your head to find Joel, pulled to his full height, standing at the foot of the bed, still fully fucking clothed.

You slowly rise to your knees on the mattress, and Joel smiles at you, lifting a hand to settle against your cheek. You lean into it, turning your head to kiss his palm.

‘You okay, baby?’ he asks softly.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You breathe.

He nods, pleased.

‘Good. On your knees, on the floor for me, baby girl.’ He says.

You pull your languid limbs off the bed and settle on your knees on the floor, waiting patiently for him. You rest your palms on top of your thighs, tingling and relaxed, and wait for your instruction. It comes before Santi even leaves the bathroom. 

‘Mouth.’ Joel says, and you shuffle forward towards him, hungry hands grappling with his belt as he chuckles down at you. ‘My eager girl.’ And you shine a blinding smile up at him. 

You whip his belt off, launch it across the room, and make quick work of the button and zipper, pulling his jeans down his thighs so just his boxers are left. You lick your teeth at the sight of his barely contained cock, the front of his underwear stretched, the tip of his dick peeking from above his waistband, leaking and swollen. You rise up on your knees as you reach for the band, lifting your eyes to Joel’s as you pull his underwear down, smiling again as one of his big hands comes to rest at the back of your head, impatient already. 

His boxers and jeans pulled down, you take Joel into your hand, pumping him gently before pulling the tip to your mouth, blowing on it lightly before pressing a kiss to the weeping slit. Joel sucks a breath in through his teeth, and presses his hips forward, sinking his cock past your lips. You take him gratefully, opening as wide as you can, your tongue soft and firm against him, tracing and twirling as you hollow your cheeks.

‘So good t’me.’ Joel breathes out, pushing a little further, just to hit the back of your throat and hear you choke lightly. You moan around his length, your eyelids flickering shut as he begins to fuck your throat slowly, making sure to feel every inch you allow him access to.

Santi emerges from the bathroom, and he can’t help but grin as he takes in the sight of you on your knees before Joel, swiping a hand over his mouth to try and hide his mirth. You flutter your eyelashes at him, and he shakes his head before crossing the room to sit in the chair Joel was in before. He crosses an ankle over his knee, leaning back to watch you both. 

You hum around Joel and begin to bob up and down his length, using your fist to pump what you don’t have the patience to take in your mouth. Joel tangles his fingers in your hair and groans as he feels your tongue dip into his slit, slip over the sensitive spot on the underside of his head. 

‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he grunts, ‘Putting on a show for Santi, are we?’

You smile wickedly around his cock, before taking him all the way to the base on your own. You hold your head there as long as possible as Joel chokes out moan after moan, and from behind you Santi mumbles -

‘Fuck, Joel. She’s leaking all over the floor.’

Joel huffs out a breath, pulling you off his cock. He peers down at you, eyes dark.

‘Are you, baby?’ He asks.

You wiggle your ass to feel what even you hadn’t noticed, too caught up in sucking his dick. A small puddle of you and Santi has been dripping down onto the hardwood where you kneel. More slick pulses out of you at the realisation.

‘Yes, daddy,' you sigh, and Joel’s eyes roll up into his head. He yanks your hair roughly to bring you to your feet.

‘Get up,’ he snarls, ‘And get on the bed.’

Joel all but throws you back on to the mattress, and it happens in such a rush that you wonder if you’ve done something wrong. You wrack your brain as Joel undresses before you, his eyes scouring your body, taking in the marks, the bruises already forming, how your hair is wet with sweat at the roots, how your pussy still drips onto the sheets - 

And then you get it. Joel is getting off on it - on the thought of you being full, used, wanted, shown off -

Once he is down to just his skin, he crawls over you, lifting and pushing your hips to move you up the bed. He dips his head to lick and kiss and bite at your neck, and your hands flutter around him, touching him everywhere. His back, his arms, his neck, his face, scraping your nails down his exposed skin. He makes his way to your mouth, devouring you - all tongue and teeth until he rears back to look at you, sprawled and gorgeous below him. 

‘So beautiful, baby,’ he groans, ‘So perfect like this. Open your mouth for me.’ You do as he says, flattening your tongue out against your lower lip for good measure. He groans again, and then leans forward to spit in your mouth. You swallow it down hungrily.

‘Thank you, daddy.’ You say, and he leans back down to kiss you again before retracing down your neck, your collarbones, your breasts -

‘Such a good girl, rememberin’ your manners,’ he grumbles, ‘So good, takin’ Santi, look so good when you’re takin’ his cock.’ You whimper as he bites down on each of your nipples, soothing them with open-mouthed kisses. He kisses down your stomach, around your heat, nipping the inside of your thighs, making sure to leave marks, breathing hotly onto your skin.

‘But now you’ve made a mess, baby, haven’t you?’ He says. You mewl at the ceiling, clutching the sheets around you as Joel blows on your clit, hovering just above where you need him. ‘Words, baby.’ He reminds you, with a sharp slap to your thigh.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You cry.

‘And what do we do when we make a mess?’ He asks.

‘Clean it up, daddy.’ You pant.

‘Good girl,’ he coos, ‘Good girl.’ Before he licks a fat, hot stripe from your leaking hole up to your clit.

You gasp at the sensation, your back arching off the bed, the coil in your stomach already wound impossible tight, every part of your body still so sensitive. Joel works with abandon at your pussy, flattening his tongue to lap at you, tasting the mixture of you and Santi, slurping around your opening before focusing his efforts on your bundle of nerves, sharpening his tongue to work it in tight circles, then figure eights. Your hips buck strongly against him, and he secures a forearm against your lower belly to stop you struggling. He hums against you as your hand winds its way into his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp.

‘Daddy, daddy, daddy, so good - fuck - so good - tongue feels so good, baby -’ You babble to him, to yourself, and Joel lowers his mouth, working his tongue inside you, grinding his nose against your clit. Your shoulders shoot off the bed, and you pull his hair now, biting a curse between your teeth. Joel doesn’t let up for a second, just moves his forearm so he can force your upper body back down onto the bed. Your fingers loosen their grip on his hair, coming up instead to scrub at your face as moan after moan escapes you.

A groan echoes from the chair, and you flick your gaze behind you to see Santi watching greedily, palming himself through his boxers. The sight only serves to work you up more, your core tightening and tightening and tightening, an unbearable heat settling where Joel’s tongue is, but you need him deeper -

‘You close, baby?’ He mumbles against you.

‘Y-es.’ You force out, as he pinches your clit between his lips.

‘What do you need?’ He asks.

‘Fuck - your fingers, Joel, please -’ 

Joel obliges, slipping one, and then two digits into your cunt easily, fucking them in and out as he licks again at your nub, swirling and sucking and lapping -

‘Come on, baby,’ he groans, ‘Give me what I want.’

The forearm he has braced against your middle barely keeps your back on the bed as you come, hard and loud against his tongue. Your whole body twitches, so warm, as he laps and laps and laps at you, as you beg him to stop, to let you breathe for just a second - but he doesn’t, he never does, just eats until he’s had his fill, until he’s satisfied. 

When he lifts his head from between your thighs, his beard and cheeks are glistening with your come. He releases his grip on you and begins to crawl upwards again, and you clamp your thighs shut to stop him from provoking anymore overstimulation. He laughs down at you, kneeling back to yank your legs back open with his strong hands.

‘We’re not done with you, yet, baby,’ he coos, ‘I ain’t had all my fun.’

You shake your head at him, pitiful, your lower lip jutting out. He pouts back at you.

‘You don’t want daddy’s cock, darlin’?’ He asks. You can’t even find it in you to hesitate.

‘I do,’ you cry, ‘Just don’t wanna be touched anymore.’

Joel nods at your words, strokes your cheek, kisses your forehead.

‘It’s okay, baby girl,’ he murmurs, ‘I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. Won’t make you come again if you don’t want to.’ Liar. He knows just as well as you do what his cock does to you. But still, he pauses, makes sure you’re looking at him. ‘Can I still have this pussy, angel?’

You blink up at him. Something warm curls in your stomach. Relief, you think, that he’s heard you, understands - that you know - even with Santi and Frankie here - you could stop this at any time.

‘Yes, daddy.’ You say. 

He smiles, wraps you up in a tender kiss.

‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ He murmurs as he lines himself up at your entrance, and begins to sink in.

Joel tugs at the backs of your thighs, hitching them to your chest so he can watch as he splits you open. His eyes flick from your cunt to your face, the glistening slit stretching to accommodate him and the way your jaw falls loose in a silent ‘o’, your brows brunched, your eyes rolling and falling shut. The slip of him is sinful tonight - your orgasms leaving your body like jelly, Santi’s cock preparing you for Joel’s thickness. But he still moves toe-curlingly slow, inch after inch after inch providing a delicious stretch. He groans as he feels you flutter and tense and contract around him, still unable to breathe, unable to speak. Only he can get you like this - not a babble slipping past your lips, unable to do anything but feel him. Joel pants, moaning again as he bottoms out, tip kissing your cervix. He runs a finger over your cheek, letting you adjust further.

‘Talk to me, baby,’ he urges.

He rocks his hips back and forth, no more than an inch, but it punches out the breath you were holding.

‘Fuck, Joel,’ the whisper all you can get out. He smiles at you.

‘Yeah, angel?’

‘So big.’ you breathe, shifting your hips so he can sink even further in.

‘There she is,’ he huffs, pulling out again, ‘There’s my girl.’

Joel rocks forward again, and you cry out around him, the noise setting him off into a languid pace which allows him to hit every single spot inside you. You can’t bear to touch your own body, frightened of sending yourself into the void, but you do touch Joel. You clutch at his biceps, his tight forearms, nails leaving little crescent moons wherever you grip. You tangle your fingers in his salt and pepper curls, swipe the lines on his forehead, the stubble on his cheeks. He twists his head to kiss and suck at your thumb, and you mewl at him, eyes wide and glassy, so full of him you don’t know what to do.

You’re barely aware, even, of the slick sound of skin and Santi’s soft groans as he works his cock in the chair, caught up in the intensity of you and Joel fucking, his chest flushed and shining with sweat. 

There’s still not a noise, not a peep from the other side of the door.

All you can hear is Joel; his deep breathing, low grunts and moans, his whispered praises, and the startlingly wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you. You can’t stop the contractions that build inside you, and every time one ripples through your pussy Joel’s head drops a little lower towards your chest. 

Your orgasm feels deafeningly close and impossibly strong, brought on by every shift of Joel’s dick. You try to breathe through it, your moans getting louder, soaking the room with sound, but it’s hopeless. 

Joel dips his head to kiss you softly, swallowing your sounds for just a minute. When he pulls away, you teeter on the edge, everything feeling heavy and blurred and blazingly good.

‘Joel.’ You whisper urgently.

‘I know, baby,’ he says, ‘I can feel it. You’re taking it so well, sweet girl. So good f’me. I know it feels good. You can let go. You can do it. Come on.’

You all but scream against him, your orgasm ripping through your body, every muscle on fire. Your legs shake and your arms tighten around his neck as you shiver and twitch around him, and he moans, long and loud, like you’ve never heard him do before. 

As he fucks you through it, the relief, the pleasure catches up with you, and tears swell and pour out of your eyes.

‘So good,’ you sob, ‘So good daddy, God -’

Joel coos back at you. ‘Atta girl, baby. Knew you could do it. Knew you could give me one more. And it was so pretty, baby.’ he grins at you, before picking up his pace. You whine beneath him.

‘’S okay,’ he promises, ‘Where do you want me, darlin’?’ and you huff at him, as if you could ever give a different answer.

‘Inside. Come inside me.’ You say. And Joel crowds you out, pushing all the way in so you’re moaning again, pumping in the deepest part of you as his hips flex against yours, his head in your shoulder. You stroke his curls, breathing deeply as he relaxes. 

‘Jesus Christ,’ he mumbles against your skin. He pulls his head away, blinking. You giggle up at him.

‘Y’alright?’ you ask, and he smiles back.

‘Fuckin’ more’n alright,’ he laughs, ‘Are you?’

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘Real good.’

Joel slides himself out of you, both grunting at the loss, and he flicks a look over your shoulder.

‘You good, Pope?’ He asks, grinning at the other man. You twist your head to look at him too, giggling again when you take in his fucked out face, exhausted in the corner, his stomach covered in come. Santi can’t help but grin back.

‘Yeah, great.’ he answers wryly, and you giggle even more.

Joel laughs with you, rolling onto his back and pulling you against his shoulder, kissing your hair.

‘Did so good, baby.’ he reminds you again as you feel him begin to dribble out of you.

Santi stands with a groan, and makes his way back towards the bathroom, muttering something about having to clean himself up again. 

You press your face to Joel’s neck with a smile, leaving soft kisses, only coming away when you hear the jingle of a belt buckle. Santi is dressing at the end of the bed, just short of pulling his top on. You frown at him.

‘You’re leaving?’ you ask. He looks up, smirking again.

‘Not yet, querida,’ he says, ‘Just cold. Besides, there’s still someone we need to look after.’ 

You watch him as he buckles his belt with baited breath, curious as to how this will play out. You aren’t sure what exactly will happen next - whether Frankie will come in, or who will… deal with him. Your breath hitches in your throat before Joel answers your questions for you.

‘Go check on Frankie, baby girl,’ he murmurs, stroking your hair back. You bury your face in his chest again, and breathe in deeply. You scrunch the sheets at his waist in your fist, and Santi chuckles at your reluctance to leave the bed. You plant a kiss to Joel’s exposed skin before pulling yourself away to sit up on the bed. Planting your feet and gathering your strength before standing. You pick up Joel’s flannel from the floor and slip your arms into it, bundling yourself against the chill you now also feel as you pad towards the door. You feel Joel and Santi’s eyes on you, silent, assessing.

When you reach the bedroom door, you touch it gingerly, breathing deeply. You feel… nervous. How would Frankie react to everything he’d heard? You knew he’d done things like it before, but you knew you would be so… angry. Jealous and frustrated. You bite your lip, and slowly pull the door back.

Frankie is exactly where Santi left him, on his knees a step back from the threshold. Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in.

At some point during it all, he'd removed his cap. It’s tossed on the floor a few feet away, and his hair is… fucked. Strands stick out on all sides, his curls mussed and frazzled. Sweat is gathered at his temples, and his skin has a warm, glossy sheen to it. All across his face, right down to the hollow of his throat peeking above his t-shirt. His lips are swollen and bitten, wet with spit as his tongue pokes out to lick them again at the sight of you, and his eyes… Eyes so dark they’re almost black, pupils blown so wide they just sparkle back at you. Deep, dangerous, and hungry. 

He’s ravenous as he looks you up and down - your smooth skin, naked thighs, bare pussy - still dripping with come - up to your exposed tits, bitten and bruised, your neck, your face… totally fucked out, swollen lips, smudged makeup, your own blown out eyes. He moans as he takes you in, and you go weak at the knees at the sight of his hands raking up and down his jean-clad thighs. His dick is straining against the denim, against the claw of his zipper, and as you look closer, you see a wet patch much larger than just precum darkening the fabric. Your cheeks flush at the sight, at the knowledge - Frankie had come in his pants just listening to the three of you.

You breathe out shakily and get to your knees, so close to him you're almost touching. You reach a hand out to cup his cheek, and he leans into it, breathing in and out deeply, closing his eyes.

‘You okay, baby?’ You ask him softly, voice low. Frankie groans again.

‘Yes.’ He croaks out. 

You don’t know if you’re allowed, but you figure you’ll find out soon enough. You lean forward, tits spilling out of Joel’s shirt, and place your hands on his thighs. His breathing sputters, and his head drops forward, but not before you can catch his lips in a sweet, soft kiss. Just like you’ve wanted to, for so long. 

He sighs against you, lips seeking yours. But he seems so exhausted, so on edge, that he can hardly pour any fire into it. His tongue searches your mouth, almost like a plea. 

Please. Please.

As though he hears it too, Joel says quietly from the bed -

‘Help him, baby.’

You pull away from Frankie’s kiss and lean your forehead to his.

‘What do you need?’ You whisper. 

He looses a ragged sigh, too turned on to even know himself.

‘Can I touch you?’ He breathes.

You nod, and he reaches out his hands - carefully, gently - to skirt over and up your waist, to touch your stomach, to skate over your tits. You wince, once, as he traces over one of your nipples, and he freezes. You smile shyly at him.

‘It’s okay,’ you whisper, ‘’M just sore.’ He nods, and continues to touch, caressing your neck, thumbing your jaw, your cheekbone, stroking your brow. He’s so tender, so Frankie, that you feel tears well behind your eyelids. As though he can sense it, tell the gravity of the moment, he drops his hands, skirting them along your thighs, drifting towards your hips, thumbs rubbing the sides of your tummy, before creeping towards your heat.

‘Is this okay?’ He asks.

‘Yes.’ You sigh, this time against his mouth, drawing his lips back to yours. 

When Frankie dips one of his hands to sweep through your folds, you both moan. Low and long against each other. 

‘Fuck,’ he breathes against you, stalling. Slowly, slowly, he brings his coated fingers to his mouth, so close to you that you can smell it, the mix of you and Joel and Santi, and he slips the digits between his lips. He holds your eye the whole time, devouring, tongue swiping over every knuckle, every valley, until they’re clean. He releases them with a pop. You groan, wanting him, impossibly, and you ask again.

‘What do you need, Frankie?’

‘You.’ He says. Frankie swoops forward again to kiss you, one hand now at the back of your head, one back between your legs, gathering the mess between your thighs. You rock against his hand as he parts you, feels you, and you reach forward for his belt, his button, his zipper, undoing all three in record time. You slip a hand into his jeans, under his boxers, impatient to feel him, all of him, and he gasps against you, stilling his movements. He groans your name, almost in warning. 

‘It’s okay,’ you tell him, stroking his hair soothingly, ‘You’ve waited so long, Frankie. It’s okay.’

You take your hand out from his pants, and join his at your pussy, just for a moment, just to collect what’s left and what’s already pooling from you again, before returning your hand to his cock, using the combined juices to move your hand easily up and down. Frankie moans brokenly against you, his body slumping forwards. 

You can’t see him like this, but you can feel him - and Frankie is big. Not quite as big as Joel, but thicker and pulsing against your palm, already wet from his come and what you have just provided him. You swipe your thumb over his tip, collecting his precum to spread down his length, and he jerks against you at the movement. 

‘Fuck, baby,’ he whispers, ‘I can’t, I’m not gonna last, hermosa -’

You shush him again, kissing at his temple, his brow, his cheek, before nudging to his lips.

‘It’s okay, Frankie,’ you say again. ‘I want you to come. You deserve to come. You’ve been so good for us.’ 

And it’s all Frankie needs as he moans loudly against your lips, body seizing and relaxing harshly against yours as he spills himself over your fist, over his jeans, over your thighs and the top of your mound. There is so much of him it’s almost comical, and you laugh softly as he finally starts to relax.

He looks up at you shyly, questioningly.

‘Look at you, Frankie,’ you breathe, and he flushes right to the tops of his ears. ‘So good.’ You murmur.

‘All for you,’ he whispers so only you can hear. He holds your gaze, trying to communicate everything he’s been thinking behind that door. ‘All for you.’

You lean forward and kiss him again. Try to forget, for now, the scratch of those unanswered questions, what it could all mean. Later.

‘Come on,’ you say, taking his hand and rising from the floor. He follows and returns your smile. ‘Let's get you cleaned up.’

[astroboots]

Homecoming Drabbles Masterlist

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Homecoming series Masterlist

Miscelleaneous drabbles written by requests.

Girl and boy interrupted | How one half of the Miller bros finds out about you and Santiago (and Frankie). 🔞

Down on my knees | 🔞Santiago gets on his knees for Frankie.

Behind Enemy Lines | Santiago is on a mission to take out your army of freakishly ugly mutant toys that you keep placing on his desk.

Happy Birthday |🔞 What would Santiago and Frankie do if your friends forgot your birthday

Celebrity Crush | Santiago's reaction to your celebrity crush

Terms of endearment | Santiago's nicknames for Frankie

Striptease | 🔞 You strip for your boys

Send Nudes | Santiago and Frankie are left to their own devices when you’re out of town and get up to some road shenanigans. 

Two against one |🔞 You play ping pong against Santiago and Frankie

Control |🔞 Frankie likes it when you're in control

Discipline | 🔞You discipline Santiago

Differences | There are differences in your relationship with Santiago and Frankie

McRim™ |🔞 Frankie rims Santiago

Food Thief | Santiago steals your icecream

Thick as Thieves | Santiago and you compete about who can get Frankie the most riled up.

This is unfair |🔞 Santiago finds himself between you and Frankie and god the two of you don't play fair.

Movie Night |🔞 Movie nights in your household are always a battle.

Peeping |🔞 Santiago peeps at Frankie when he does garden work and you catch him in the act.

Good morning | Santiago gets manhandled by Frankie in the morning.

Just a taste |🔞 Santiago makes a mess in the kitchen.| 1.3k words

Something just like this |🔞 Santiago gets pegged (that’s it that’s the summary) | 1,165 words

The Bet | 🔞 You and Santi make a bet.​ | 940 words.

Choking | 🔞 Santiago takes on more than he can swallow. | 1.2k words

Take me apart | 🔞 Santiago learns to let go for you and Frankie. (…or something?— I’m terrible at descriptions). | 2k words

[for-a-longlongtime]

I checked my messages while I was cooking dinner and of course almost burnt the food as I went to look it up quickly 😂

@laurfilijames @itspdameronthings, pretty sure Anon looking for Captain Of The Team written by the fabulous Luna @writefightandflightclub !! 💜💜💜

Link: https://www.tumblr.com/writefightandflightclub/667310703424749568/aka-santis-a-dom-unless-wills-in-the-room

That’s the one, right? I feel like I’ve read pretty much all the Pope fic out there, and this is the only one that really matches that description! 😂

Please make sure to also check out the rest of her master list, because she has a lot of Triple Frontier stuff - Santi girlies (gn) unite 🙌 - and the sequels to the original fic are fantastic!

Hi, I am looking for a fic and was hoping you or one of your followers might know it? It was triple frontier smut with all of the guys except for Benny. Reader and Will were in a relationship and the whole story was told from santi's point of view I believe. It also had some Santi/Frankie elements as halfway through Santi sort of realised he was kinda also into being submissive and stuff. I am not doing a good job of explaining this but if you know which fic this is, I would be very grateful! Thanks!

Hiya!

I'm sorry but I have no idea! I'll put this out to @for-a-longlongtime and @itspdameronthings as they are big into Pope and might have an idea what it is or who might've written it!

I hope you find what you're looking for! 💗

[fettuccin-e]

Tag-Teaming

Kinktober Day 5: Threesome

Tags: Frankie "Catfish" Morales x Reader x Santiago "Pope" Garcia, afab!fem!reader, tag-teaming, unprotected piv (wrap it up gang dont be dumb), fingering and oral (f!recieving), Santi and Frankie both have filthy mouths how dare they (w/c: 1.1K)

A/N: I have been wanting to write a Santi x Frankie x Reader fic for forever okay and kinktober really gave me an excuse, but writing threesomes is so HARD (in more ways than one hehehe) so props to anyone who can write threesomes regularly because it's so difficult. Anyway these two can sandwich me between them anytime (I have been following prompts from this list by @flightlessangelwings!)

It shouldn’t surprise you how good they are together, how well they work. They’re a team. They've always been a team. Why would this be any different?

But fuck, it’s so much different experiencing it, not just seeing it in the field. Frankie plastered against your back, your legs braced over his thighs as he spreads you apart, spreading you so wide for Santiago. Fucking Santi, his cock pressed so deep inside you it’s like you can’t breathe, pressing kiss after kiss to your lips as he breaks you open around him.

“Fuck her harder Pope,” Frankie grumbles, pinching your aching clit between two wonderfully calloused fingers. “Fuck her like you goddamn mean it.” His voice in your ear, his filthy fucking mouth, make your cunt clench around Santi’s cock, and the man groans at both the feeling and Frankie’s command, pounding his cock into you hard.

Frankie rubs furiously at your clit, sending your back arching against his chest, gasping for air. “That’s it, baby, that’s it. Let yourself fuckin’ feel it. Santi’s cock feels so good, doesn’t it?”

“God, yes, oh my fucking God,” you whine. Santi chuckles, all smugness and delirious pleasure. He rocks into you at an angle that has him jamming into your sweet spot relentlessly. “He feels so fucking good, ‘s so fucking big.”

Santi leans forward again, capturing your lips with his. “You think I’m big, hermosa, I can’t wait to see how you take Frankie’s cock. He’s gonna split you apart, stretch this pussy so fuckin’ wide,” Santi mutters against your mouth.

The thought makes you moan, pressing back against the unmistakable length of Frankie's cock, hard and aching, pressed against your skin. You hear Frankie suck in a labored breath, his fingers pausing on your clit. “You wanna cum, sweetheart?" Santi says, his voice dark with promise. "Get all loose to take Frankie so deep in this little cunt?”

This time, Frankie groans from behind you, deep and rumbling. The sound is intoxicating, especially as his fingers start rubbing at your pussy all over again. An endless mantra of “please, please, please,” escapes from your lips, and Santi growls, fucking into you so hard it makes tears spring to your eyes. You claw at Santi’s back, into Frankie’s forearm, gripping onto them both for dear life.

“C’mon, baby, cum on Santi’s cock, bet you look so pretty when you do. Wanna feel this pretty pussy clench around his cock,” Frankie murmurs darkly in your ear. He snakes his other hand up for body, pinching one of your nipples between his fingers. “Don’t you want to see Santi cum, cariño? Won’t he look so pretty?” 

A look up at Santi, his curls drenched with sweat, flush high on his cheeks as his hips work between yours, has you nodding furiously at Frankie’s words, and fuck, you’re cumming at the sight of him, of Santi, so beautiful and debauched between your thighs. Your body locks up with it, your pussy clenching around his length still working into you, Frankie holding you tightly to his chest as Santi fucks you through it.

“Fuck, yes, that’s it,” Santi growls, pressing himself as deep into you as he can, his hips twitching as he fills you up. And God, Frankie was right, Santi is beautiful, twitching through his orgasm, jaw clenched and pupils blown wide. He leans forward to kiss you in a way that is fucking filthy, licking into your mouth desperately, swallowing your moans. You breathe together through it, and when you finally stop trembling, Santi pulls away from your mouth with a feral grin.

“Wanna give Fish a turn, baby?” he whispers, and you manage to mumble a yes, even though your brain has been turned to mush. Santi chuckles, the smug bastard, and slips out of you, the emptiness making you whimper.

“I know, bebita, I know,” Santi says, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Frankie’s gonna fill you up again, I promise.”

You lift your hips, turning  your head to press a kiss to Frankie’s lips as Santi grabs Frankie's cock, pressing the tip to your entrance. Fuck, it’s thick, popping past your entrance as you sink your hips down, down, stretching yourself around him. It seems fucking endless, how deep he reaches into your cunt.

“That’s it, baby, it’s so big, isn’t it?" Santi whispers, "Frankie fills you up so good, yeah? Treats this pretty pussy like it fucking deserves?”

“Santiago.” Frankie growls, his fingers digging into your thighs as you clench around him like a vice at Santi’s words. Fuck, he’s so close already. Watching Pope fuck you already had his cock throbbing beneath you, and now, in the hot clutch of your cunt, he feels like a goddamn virgin. And with Santiago whispering some of the filthiest shit he’s ever heard in his life between the three of you, there’s no way he can last very long.

He’ll make you cum first though. Of course he will.

You nearly scream as Frankie pumps his hips up beneath you, spearing you deep on his cock. He holds tight to your thighs as he pounds furiously in and out of you, ripping you to pieces on top of him. He’s so fucking warm against your back, Santi radiating heat against your front, and you swear to God that you could pass out then and there. Fuck, it’s so good, Frankie’s cock drags against your g-spot with every fucking thrust, unrelenting and utterly debilitating.

And then, Santi lays down on his front, eyes trained on where you and Frankie are connected, and sucks your clit into his hot mouth.

This time, you really do scream, your hands flying down to tangle in Santi’s hair while he licks feverishly at your clit, and you cum, Santi licking between your legs, Frankie pounding up into your cunt. You thrash between them, utterly lost in the feeling of it, hot tears leaking down your cheeks.

“Fuck yes, baby, that’s our good girl,” Frankie groans from behind you.

“Please, please cum Frankie, need you to fucking cum,” you cry, and Frankie has no choice but to follow your orders. He sinks deep inside, biting into your shoulder as he drowns your pussy in his cum. The thought of it mixing with Pope’s inside of you has him shaking through his orgasm.

“God, look at that,” Santi murmurs from between your legs, watching you clench around Frankie so tight he can barely move, cum leaking out around where Frankie is buried deep inside you. His cock twitches at the sight. Later, he thinks, later, we’ll do this again, over and over.

For now, he helps Fish guide you off of his lap, laying you between them. The three of you plaster yourselves against each other, breathing together. A unit, a team. 

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Sooooo…….how do you think Benny boi would handle being caught half-naked from out the shower by his darling?? He’s showering after winning his match-up she thought he was finished but to her surprise…….. this scenario has been stuck in my brain 💀💀

Adrenaline.

oh baby... thank you for this.

warnings - smut. cursing.

Masterlist. Inbox.

"Ben? You in here?"

You walk through the locker room, looking for your partner as you go. Eventually, when you reach the showers, you hear the water running.

"Babe?" Benny yells from behind the curtain. "That you?"

You pull it back and pop your head around, trying to keep your eyes on his.

"It's me. I'll just wait for you on the bench out here."

Before you can blink, a strong hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you into the shower, water drenching you immediately. You shriek, swatting at his chest to try and escape.

His palms find your hips, plastering your bodies together.

"Need you," he murmurs into your ear, brushing your hair away from your face. "Can't wait until we get home."

"I'm soaked," you whine.

"You will be."

"Asshole," you laugh, resting your forehead on his sternum. "I like this dress. Dry."

"Stop worrying," he soothes, rucking the material up and over your head, throwing it onto the tiled floor. "Let me take your mind off it, hmm?"

He pulls your underwear down your legs, chuckling when you step out of them willingly.

Benny places your hands on the wall, kicking your feet apart. Pressing kisses down your spine, he sighs softly, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he goes.

"Fuck, this is what I needed. You, all pretty and pliant for me. So good, baby. Such a good girl."

Benny lines himself up and slides home in one smooth movement, both of you gasping in unison.

"That's it," he coos. "Take it, baby. Like you know you can. Like you were made for it."

You drop your head onto your arm and let him mould you however he likes, clearly needing the outlet. He gets like this, after his fights. He vibrates with the energy of it, looking for a release in any way he can get it.

You've become his favourite solution.

"Ben," you whine. "Fuck, babe."

"Yeah, honey. Keep saying my name just like that, please."

Benny's rhythm is frantic, frazzled, rushed, but he still manages to hit exactly the right spots. He knows your body like the back of his hand, that much is clear.

"Close," you choke out, trying not to swallow the water that still beats down. "Benny."

"Come for me, pretty girl. Give me all you've got. Please. I want it baby, that's it."

His honeyed words send you over the edge, muscles tensing and eyes rolling back. Benny joins you, groaning lowly against the wet skin of your back.

You both try to catch your breath for a moment, Ben reaching over to turn off the water. You spin and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

"Better?"

"So much better," he chuckles.

You're about to respond when you hear the locker room door open, the sounds of multiple heavy footsteps filling the room.

"Benny! Champion! Where you at?"

You look at him with wide eyes, both of you realising the hilarity of the situation. Benny reaches out of the curtain to grab his dry shirt from the bench, tossing it to you and wrapping a towel around his waist. You throw it on and follow him out towards the boys sheepishly, knowing you're not about to get away with what you've just done.

"There you are!"

The boys look between you and Benny, putting the pieces together.

"You two are ridiculous," Frankie laughs.

Santiago winks at you as you bury your head in Benny's shoulder, laughter bouncing off the lockers around the room.

[for-a-longlongtime]

Hi!!! Looook I found a photo of Frankie and Santi having a lazy morning in bed 😘

@i-own-loki BABE

I fucking love it!!! Definitely saving this for a potential future mood board or something 😍

Thank you!! 🙏

[ohforficsake]

Ooof. This was. Lovely. 🫠

And a very happy belated birthday @for-a-longlongtime !

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @for-a-longlongtime 🎊🎈🎂

You are the best Tumblr friend anyone could ask for. I’m so grateful for you and your incredibly supportive (enabling) tendencies, your insanely beautiful fic writing brain, and the ear you always lend to me to vent to.

Also for the gif of Oscar Isaac’s Dick and Balls that you sent me earlier today that inspired me to write a little FishPope blurb 😌 This is my gift to you and I hope you enjoy 💕 Love you!!

Smush

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia Rating: 18+ mdni Warnings: bulge worship, cock worship, cock warming

Sometimes Frankie just gets a little restless. 

He wants to relax. After a long day of work, and whatever project Santi’s got him working on in their garage, and making and/or eating dinner, all he wants to do is relax. 

He grabs a shower, sometimes with Santi, sometimes alone. He’ll change into pajamas— now that it’s summer, pajamas consist of underwear and a baggy old shirt. Then he grabs an ice cold beer and settles on the couch for some mind-numbing television while Santi reads or scrolls on his phone. 

But sometimes not even the most outlandish reality show can’t settle his restless mind.

Usually Santi notices it even before he does himself. A ‘knock it off’ grumbled at him above his reading glasses cues him in on the way he’s bouncing his leg up and down. 

Tonight, he’s grinding his teeth to some unidentifiable rhythm in his head. He only notices because he pinches his cheek between his molars and winces. His jaw aches a bit, he must’ve been at it for a while. 

He glances over to Santi. He’s got a really boring looking book in his hands, nestled in the corner of the couch. 

His thick thighs are spread open, inviting. Almost as inviting as the soft bulge protruding from his tight gray boxer briefs. 

Frankie’s mouth starts to water, alleviating that little nick his teeth caused. 

He shifts slowly at first, inconspicuous, and Santi doesn’t notice. So he moves again, lying out on their couch, so his head rests on Santi’s leg. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Getting comfy.”

“Hmm.”

Santi lifts one hand away from his book to ruffle Frankie’s curls and god, he’s got magic hands, the way one simple touch has his mind going pleasantly empty. 

He’s staring at Santi’s bulge now, shamelessly, since the man’s obstructing his view with his book. 

He knows it’s a mouthful, even completely flaccid. God, he bets it’s so warm and smooth. He shifts a little closer and takes a slow but deep breath and fuck. 

He smells so good. Even freshly showered, there’s always a hint of Santi’s natural musk, something so malty and deep that seeps through the fancy, expensive body wash he likes. 

Frankie wonders if it makes him a freak, that he likes it so much. Not that he really cares.

He wants more of it. He wants the smell and feel and taste of him all at once, to overwhelm him and just shut his brain off. 

So he adjusts up onto an elbow, and cranes his neck a bit, and smushes his face right at the apex of Santi’s thighs. 

“The fuck, Fish?”

Frankie inhales a big breath and hums it out before responding. 

“‘M restless.” 

His voice is muffled by Santi’s bulge, twitching now as the hot air from Frankie’s breath engulfs it. 

“Shit, yeah?”

“Mmmhm.”

Frankie hears a book page turn, and then Santi’s hand is back on his head once more. His nails scrape his scalp before his fingers really tangle and twist. 

“Wanna keep it warm for me, papi?” 

Frankie’s prick pulses where it’s trapped between his stomach and the couch. He nods, which only grinds his face against Santi’s package. 

It feels good, the softness of his underwear gently scraping the soft skin of his nose and cheeks. There’s and impossible heat radiating off of him, and Frankie seeks more of it, nuzzling around, rearranging his dick and balls as his face rubs against them. 

Santi hums and tilts his hips, nearly crushing Frankie’s nose as he seeks more friction, but even that sting is good, great. 

“Take it out.”

The nonchalant, commanding tone makes Frankie shiver. He whimpers a little, gives Santi’s package one more good smush before the fingers in his hair tug in warning. 

Frankie gets his fingers around the waistband, and Santi lifts his hips to help. Frankie licks his lips at the sight of his balls resting over the elastic, all warm and loose. 

He nudges Santi’s half-hard cock out of the way to nose at the base and lick the pronounced seam of his sac, to take a deep breath and inhale his intoxicating scent that’s even stronger now. He groans and grinds his own cock into the cushion under him for the smallest amount of relief. 

“Put it in your mouth, Fish.”

And he can’t protest, not with the way he has to swallow all the drool that’s pooled just from rubbing his face all over him. 

He tastes familiar. It settles him more than he’ll ever admit to anyone. The stretch of his jaw, the weight of Santi’s cock on his tongue, the tickle in the back of his throat. The novelty has never worn off, it just eggs him on. 

He starts to bob his head. Santi’s grip on his hair tightens. 

“Stop. Just keep it there.”

And even though he’s still a bossy prick, Santi’s murmur is softer and sweeter and less domineering than normal. 

Even so, Frankie obeys. 

He settles his head back down on his thick, fuzzy thigh and rests there. 

He suckles, still. More reflex than anything else. His tongue lies heavy on Santi’s frenulum as he swallows now and then.

The noisy static in his brain fizzles out as Santi’s dick fully inflates. His jaw stretches slowly in a welcome ache, and the scent of him is so heady and overwhelming as he shuts his eyes, and Santi’s hand in his hair pets and smooths and everything is quiet. 

Santi can’t wait until the next time Frankie’s restless.