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wheresarizona · 2 years

Text

You Missed Me

summary: You knew you belonged with Frankie and Santi, but after the army, you’d gone in different directions, seeing each other when you could, the timing never right for you all to be together—It’d been over two years since you, Frankie, and Santi were last collectively in the same place. You had hardly heard from Santi since then, his focus on his work in Colombia, and now he was calling out of the blue to let you know he was coming to see you. You’ll, of course, drop everything to meet him; you’ll drop everything to be with them both again.

pairing: Frankie Morales/f!reader/Santiago Garcia

rating: E (18+!!! This is smut with plot. Polyamorous relationship, M/M/F, double penetration, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), anal sex (f receiving), oral sex (f & m receiving), vaginal fingering, anal fingering, creampie, (1) bite, praise, spit mention, the boys kissing, lots of kissing in general, pregnancy mention, feelings, language, mentions of PTSD)

word count: Almost 6k.

A/N: Hello there! This can be read as a standalone fic or as a sequel to Make It Fun; it works either way! I dedicate this to my dearest friend @perropascal who asked for more MIF literally the moment she read it and has kept asking for over a year. I’m sorry it took so long. 😘 Also, a shoutout to my bestie @juletheghoul, who is always by my side, my rock, and the person who keeps me going. I love you. And thank you to my beta @invisibleismyname who makes my work make sense, you are the best!

Masterlist

The only information you had for where you were supposed to be meeting, was an address and room number. You assumed a motel or maybe a hotel, but now you were staring at the towering beachfront building, double-checking the text message, and looking up the address to confirm that, yes, you were meeting at the Four Seasons here in Fort Lauderdale, a fucking luxury hotel.

You’re ridiculous, Santi.

You huffed out an amused breath as you made your way into the lobby.

It had been over two years since you’d last seen Santiago Garcia, which was a pretty long period you’d gone without seeing him in person, and it stung a little that he’d gotten so caught up in his work in South America that he hardly ever made contact. The last time you saw him was when he convinced you and Frankie to help with a reconnaissance job in Colombia—he needed you both as backup because he hadn’t trusted the local law enforcement. It had been a week where two days were spent doing the work that hadn’t panned out to anything, and the rest of the time holed up in the hotel room with the two men and no clothes.

You’d known them for over ten years, spending five being in Delta Force as the team sniper. The three of you had gravitated towards each other, became tight, and inseparable. Sure, you’d gone to high school and enlisted with Benny—the Miller boys treating you like the sister they never had—but with Frankie and Santi, it was different; there’d always been something between you that had life not gotten in the way, you were positive you would have been happily together.

But life had gotten in the way.

Santiago was doing his work in Colombia, Frankie was piloting helicopters in the private sector, and you worked for a defense technology company in town.

You were genuinely surprised when Santi had called out of the blue, telling you he needed to discuss something in person, only letting you talk enough to tell him where you were living, saying that he’d be there in three days, and to look out for a text with where he’d meet you.

Of course, you wanted to see him, and he was right to assume you’d drop whatever you were doing to meet—you’d left work early, it was a Friday, and you had personal time you could use.

The lobby was just as opulent as the outside of the building, decorated in earthy tones, and the people milling about looked like they were in a much higher tax bracket than yourself, which was most likely true. You were just glad you didn’t look too out of place in your slacks, yellow button-up shirt, and navy blazer.

You found the bay of elevators, and before you knew it, you were ascending to the floor you needed.

Your belly fluttered with excitement, your brain thinking about the last time you saw him, and all the things the three of you had done together; the tangle of limbs, and mouths always on each other, bringing each other pleasure over and over and over again. You squeezed your thighs together, feeling hot and achingly empty.

The ding of the elevator had you jolting from your thoughts, briskly walking out of it and quickly figuring out where you needed to go, until finally, you were standing in front of double doors. Your eyes narrowed, rechecking the text to make sure it was the correct number and comparing it to what was listed on the wall.

He got a fucking suite.

You put your phone away in your purse and rapped your knuckles against the door, and it opened seconds later to reveal a smiling Santi.

“Miss me, baby?” He asked.

He was standing there in jeans and a black t-shirt, the hair on his head and face greyer than the last time you’d seen him. He looked handsome, like always, the shirt clinging to his chest.

“Shut up, Santiago,” you replied, smiling, stepping forward, and throwing your arms around his neck, leaning in to kiss him hard.

He laughed against your mouth, pulling you into the room and shutting the door.

He deepened the kiss, swallowing your moan as your tongues moved together, holding you tight against him, getting lost for the moment in being reunited.

You could go weeks, months, even years without seeing each other, and still, there was that spark, the way he excited you and made your body thrum with energy. It was the same with Frankie; these men made you feel things no one else ever had, and you could never get enough, cherishing whatever time you spent with them.

He kissed you until the need to breathe became too much, and he pulled back to look at you, breaths coming out heavy, his lips red and shiny.

“Yeah, you missed me,” he said with a cocky smile.

You laughed, hand playfully hitting his chest, and he grabbed it with his own, kissing your knuckles softly and making you melt.

“Of course, I fucking missed you,” you answered.

Your other hand moved down his back to grab a handful of his ass, making him chuckle.

“I missed you, too, Preciosa.” He kissed you quickly. “Missed you both,” he said a little louder, and that’s when you noticed the other man behind him.

You tilted your head to the side to look past Santi at Frankie, taking in the way the other man had his weight to one side, hand on his hip, wearing sand-colored work pants and a white henley, his signature Standard Oil hat on his head. He was smiling fondly, eyes soft and crinkled at the edges, Santi releasing you so you could walk over to him. Frankie’s hands came up, his big palms cupping your cheeks as he leaned down, pressing his lips against yours in a searing, toe-curling kiss.

Santiago came up behind you, pressing his front to your back as his hands moved to your front to unbutton your jacket, kissing your neck and any available skin he could find.

You let out a contented sigh, Frankie kissing the breath from your lungs, loving being between them as they surrounded you, and their hands started moving to strip you of your clothes. You weren’t surprised—this was how it always went when there was a reunion, and your body was responding, panties already wet, body heated, nipples tightening and pulse-quickening.

Frankie’s lips never left yours as Santi removed your purse and blazer, the man at your front quickly unbuttoning your shirt with deft fingers, the other pulling it off as soon as it was undone. Frankie’s large hands moved over your torso, palms trailing over your stomach and up your ribs, palming your bra-covered breasts as Santi worked on getting your pants undone.

There wasn’t any speaking, the men moving to get you out of your clothes as quickly as possible, making you toe-off your flats, so Santi could get your pants and underwear off, while Frankie removed your bra.

You were completely naked, Frankie massaging your bare breasts, feeling the weight of them, before ducking his head to pull a pebbled nipple into his mouth, making you moan at the sensitivity as the pleasure shot straight to your cunt, while Santi was kissing at your neck and shoulders, his hands moving to your front, one of them trailing down to the apex of your thighs, sliding two fingers through your slick.

“So fucking wet for us already, baby,” Santi said against your skin.

You were gasping out moans as Santi circled your clit, Frankie moving to your other breast, laving at your stiff peak. You felt like electricity was coursing through your body, letting them do whatever they wanted, your arousal dripping from your core.

You moaned loudly when Santi pushed two fingers inside you, his thumb working your clit, pumping the digits before crooking them, making you gasp when he rubbed against that soft spongy spot that made you tremble and your knees go weak, his other arm holding your body to his, and keeping you standing.

“Want you to come like this,” he said, nipping at your ear.

They were building you up, working together, Frankie licking and sucking at your sensitive nipples, moving from one to the other, ramping up your arousal with the way the pleasurable sensations shot straight to your core.

You could feel the tightening in your center, feel it going tighter and tighter, as Santi worked his fingers and Frankie used his mouth until finally, the tension snapped, and pleasure radiated through your body and limbs, loudly moaning as you clenched around Santi’s digits.

“Good girl,” he rasped in your ear, breath tickling you.

Frankie’s head came up, crashing his mouth against yours to kiss you as Santi worked you through your orgasm until you were coming down, the kissing becoming less fervent.

“What a welcome,” you breathed when Frankie’s lips left yours.

He chuckled.

“Hi, honey,” he said.

“Hey, babe. Long time, no see,” you winked, giving him a quick kiss. “Why am I always the first one naked?” You asked, moving to look between the two men.

“Because we enjoy stripping you,” Santi said. “It’s like unwrapping a present—you waited for fucking ever and can’t wait any longer.”

“Exactly,” Frankie added.

“Well, it means I’m naked—” you started walking towards the bedroom, looking over your shoulder. “And now I have to wait for you two to get undressed. You both better hurry; I’m feeling empty,” you pouted.

“Yes, ma'am,” they replied in unison.

You walked into the room, seeing the large king-sized bed, taking in the white blankets and furniture in tan tones, a cream-colored armchair in the corner by the floor-to-ceiling windows, hearing the men taking off their clothes. There was a black bench at the end of the mattress, and you stepped up onto it before crawling onto the bed, lying on your back in the middle. It was absurdly comfortable. You turned your head to look out the windows, seeing there was a balcony with a view of the ocean stretching out into the horizon.

“This room is nice, Santi,” you called, sitting up on your elbows.

“It better be, with how much I paid,” he said as he walked into the room naked, Frankie following and just as bare. “Wanted to treat you both.”

Your heart constricted as you looked at him, watching as he got onto the bed next to you.

“That’s really sweet,” you said.

Your eyes moved over his body, taking in the muscles in his arms from his years of work and the breadth of his chest. His six-pack wasn’t as defined as when you were in the service, but you didn’t mind and quite honestly liked it, his golden skin so beautiful under the light in the room, seeing the scars from old wounds long healed. You touched his belly, feeling his warm skin as his hand wrapped lightly around your throat, bending down to kiss you.

“More places for us to fuck, too,” he whispered.

You laughed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

Frankie was at the foot of the bed, kneeling on the bench, his hands rubbing along your calves. You looked at him, taking in his broad chest and softened tummy, and fuck, he looked good with the curling hair on his head and patchy beard, lips swollen from kissing.

“What are you doing down there?” You asked.

His lips moved into a crooked smile.

“Waiting to eat that pretty pussy of yours,” he rasped, and your cunt clenched, feeling arousal spike in your body.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “How long do we have here?”

“All weekend,” Santi replied.

“I’m going to be sore Monday.”

Frankie’s hands wrapped around your ankles and pulled you towards him, making you fall flat on your back.

“Just means we fucked you well, and you’ll have a reminder of us,” Frankie said, eyes hooded as he watched you.

Santiago moved down to lay at your side, his hand cradling your cheek as he made you look at him.

“You’ve made Fish wait long enough. You want him to lick your pussy?”

“God, yes,” you nodded.

That was all the answer he needed. Frankie pushed your thighs apart, leaning down and using his fingers to spread open the lips of your sex.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Frankie rasped, voice deeper.

You felt the wad of spit land on your clit, followed by his hot, wet tongue, and Santi kissed you then, swallowing your moans. You tried not to squirm as Frankie ate you out like a starving man, but it was damn near impossible with how his tongue worked against your sensitive bundle of nerves. His arm held down your hips, Santiago’s tongue tangling with your own, moans falling from your throat as your orgasm built.

Frankie loved eating pussy just as much as he loved fucking it, and would take any opportunity he had to do either. This all meant he was exceptionally good with his mouth, knowing exactly how to lick and suck, and when he used his fingers, you came in record time. He’d moved off of your clit and was now lapping at you, getting all of your slick and teasing you, going close to where you wanted and moving away, until he finally gave it the attention it deserved. It all felt amazing, his tongue moving against your sensitive flesh in practiced movements, knowing what you liked to push you towards your release.

“Want to suck your dick,” you murmured against Santi’s mouth.

“Fuck, yes,” he said, quickly moving up your body and getting on his knees.

You pushed up on your elbows, mouth-watering as you watched him stroke his straining cock, flushed red, and dripping precum at the tip. He was long and not as thick as Frankie, but he still felt so fucking good inside of you, filling you nicely. He angled himself, and you leaned in, taking him into your mouth, relishing in the salty tang of his arousal on your tongue.

“Fuck,” Santi groaned. His hand landed on your head as you took him further into your mouth. “Missed your mouth, baby. Look at you sucking my dick while your pussy gets eaten.” You moaned around him, swirling your tongue around the tip and making him moan.

Frankie’s mouth came off of you, and you didn’t catch what he said, Santi moving above you to grab something off the bed and tossing it to the other man.

You quickly figured out what it was when Frankie’s mouth was back on your pussy while a thick, lubed finger circled your tight ring of muscle before he eased the digit inside, making you gasp around Santi’s dick.

You hollowed your cheeks, letting Santi guide your movements along his shaft with the hand on your head, praise falling from his lips at how good your mouth felt. Frankie worked in another finger, loosening you up and stretching you open while his tongue sucked on your clit, making your eyes roll back in your head. You found yourself tumbling over the edge and coming with a moan, your legs shaking as he worked you through it, your body awash with pleasure.

“Fuck,” Santi gasped. “Is she ready? I don’t want to come in her mouth.”

Frankie’s head came up, and you felt his fingers leave you.

“Yeah,” he replied. “She’s ready.”

Santi pulled you off of him.

“Who do you want in your ass?” He asked.

You were still feeling pleasantly floaty that thinking was difficult.

“Flip a coin?” Your voice came out breathy.

Santi looked over to Frankie.

“Tails,” he said.

Frankie chuckled.

“You always fucking choose tails.”

“You’ve never complained—I know how much you enjoy coming inside pussy.”

Frankie moved out from between your legs and up onto the bed, crawling up next to you and handing Santi the lube.

“This—” Frankie pressed his hand against your cunt. “Is the only pussy I like coming inside of,” he replied.

You looked over at him.

“You’re so romantic,” you said in an even tone.

Both men laughed.

Frankie’s arms wrapped around your torso, and suddenly, you found yourself being moved up the bed and onto your side facing him, feeling him hard and leaking against your stomach. He cupped your face kissing you tenderly, and you melted into it, a moan vibrating in your chest as you tasted yourself on his tongue.

“I think I’m pretty fucking romantic,” he said when his lips came off yours.

“Hey,” Santi said, pressing his body against your back, feeling the hard line of his cock against your ass. “I booked us an expensive fucking room for the weekend—I’m romantic.”

You turned your head, looking over your shoulder, moving your arm to touch your hand against the back of his head.

“It’s very romantic. Thank you, Santi,” you said, bringing him down in a misaligned kiss.

Your hand came off him when the kiss ended, and Frankie’s took its place, lightly tugging his hair as he leaned over you, pulling the other man towards him.

“Yeah. Thanks, Pope. This is nice,” he said, kissing Santi passionately.

You smiled.

“God, I’ve missed this,” you said with a happy sigh.

Both men looked at you, smiling.

Santi looked at Frankie, his hand grabbing a handful of your ass.

“Let’s fuck our girl.”

“She said she was empty. We better fill her up—make her come on our cocks.”

You moaned, cunt throbbing at the thought.

“Yeah, she wants that. Don’t you, baby?” Santi asked.

You nodded your head.

“Yes, please,” you said.

Santi squeezed your ass again.

“That’s our good girl, asking politely.”

Frankie grabbed your leg, setting it over his hip.

“I got you, baby,” he said, hand gripping his cock and rubbing it through your wetness. “You ready?” He asked.

“Yes,” you nodded.

He notched himself at your entrance and pushed in, making you both moan as his thickness stretched your walls.

“So fucking wet and tight,” he said in a strained voice, bottoming out. His hand held your face as he kissed you.

You heard the cap to the lube pop open and close after a second. A moment later, Santi was pressing the fat head of his dick against your tight hole.

“Here we go,” Santi said and slowly started pushing in, making all three of you moan as he filled you, inch by inch, ignoring the slight burn until his hips were finally flush against your ass.

You felt so fucking full it was almost overwhelming. It’d been so long since the three of you had been like this, and it felt so right having both of their bodies pressed against yours, their cocks filling you to the brim. You loved this, loved every fucking moment of being with them both at the same time, making you feel so good—it was perfect.

I love them so much.

“Move,” you moaned against Frankie’s mouth.

His hand held onto your thigh as he started to thrust slowly, Santi grabbing your hip and following, the two of them setting a rhythm that had one pushing in while the other pulled out, making your brain short-circuit as all the nerves in your body lit up in pleasure.

The men fucked like they fought—in unison and as a team. The years they’ve known each other made them intimately aware of what the other was thinking and instinctually knew what the other would do. Their movements were in sync, thrusting in and dragging out, pulling you apart from the inside and putting you back together again, making your body go boneless and limbs shake.

They picked up in pace, the room filled with grunts and moans, slapping hips, and the wet sounds between your legs, all of it obscene and loud.

Frankie started kissing you, his tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers dug into your flesh, Santi's lips on your back, peppering over any skin he could touch. All you could do was take what they gave you, entirely under their control, and they were building you up, making that coil wind tight in your belly, all of your muscles beginning to tense as your muscles fluttered around them.

“Such a good girl,” Santi said against you, feeling his lips. “Taking us so fucking well—you were made for us.”

Frankie’s mouth was working against yours, swallowing all of your moans with his answering groans, and you were almost at your peak, feeling it so close and within reach.

Santi’s hand moved to your front, sliding down to feel how Frankie was stretching you, groaning, before moving up to rub his fingers against your swollen clit.

“Come on, baby. Come for us. Give it to us,” he grunted.

It was all too much, everything coming to a head, and you found yourself careening into your orgasm, the coil snapping inside you, as you came with a loud moan, feeling your cunt clench and slick spill around Frankie’s cock. His rhythm stuttered, groaning loudly, as euphoria washed over your entire body, feeling like you were no longer tethered to earth but floating high above.

“Good fucking girl,” Santi panted.

His thrusts sped up, and Frankie joined, both men chasing their highs.

“Gonna come,” Frankie said against your mouth, hips moving erratically until he pushed in hard, coming with a guttural groan you could feel against your chest, his come painting your insides.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Santi chanted. “‘M coming.” He thrust his hips flush against your ass, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a strangled moan, making you whimper from the pleasurable pain, his cock jerking, filling you with his warm release.

The three of you were panting, Frankie languidly kissing you, while Santi kissed at your back, their hands rubbing along your body as you all came down from your highs, and you thought you might be in heaven—ecstacy still flowing through your veins, basking in the afterglow and their touches.

“Fuck, this is nice,” your words came out slurred, your eyes closed.

“It is,” Frankie answered, sounding just as wrecked.

“Fucking missed you two,” Santi added, not sounding any better.

You moved your arm at the awkward angle to rub at Santi’s hair, pushing your fingers through the thick strands. He turned his head to kiss your forearm.

“If you weren’t so busy in Colombia, we could do this all the time,” you said.

He sighed.

“I know,” he said softly, sadly. He reached his arm over you to Frankie, pulling you both closer to him, and the three of you were quiet as you stayed in the moment of being together again.

It was too soon that Frankie was pulling out of you with a hiss, Santi following, and the men moved you to lay on your back between them, laying on their sides, hands touching you and each other, you rubbing at them both, wanting to feel their warm skin, smiling at one another, and sharing soft kisses.

“Speaking of Colombia,” Santi finally said after some minutes, breaking the silence.

You both looked at him.

“Are you close to finishing down there?” You asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He sighed.

“That’s why I’m here.”

You frowned, and you knew Frankie shared your expression.

“You need us for a job,” Frankie guessed.

“Yeah, I do, and I know you both have your own shit now,” he said quickly. “I need to get the whole team together, and it’s guaranteed seventeen grand for a week of consulting—no action unless you want it.” He had a big smile on his face. “I fucking found him—I found Lorea, and we’re going to take him down. I’ve got word that he’s got seventy-five million in cash on him, and we get to keep twenty-five percent of what we seize; it’s just reconnaissance—a recce.”

He’s lying.

Your frown deepened.

“Cut the bullshit, Santiago,” Frankie said. “This is too good to be true, and you're a bad liar; tell us what’s really going on.”

You hated that he was trying to pull you both in with falsehoods. South America had changed him, which worried you a little; he was more desperate.

Santi frowned.

“Shit, fuck, okay. I did find Lorea, and I have good intel he does have the seventy-five mill in cash. We can take him out and take the money for ourselves.”

“With that kind of cash, he’ll have a fucking army guarding it,” Frankie said. “There’s five of us, Pope; what the fuck are we going to do against that kind of manpower?”

Santi’s brows furrowed.

“There’s six of us, and we do a recce, scope out the place; Lorea is very devout and sends his family with the majority of his guards to mass on Sunday mornings, leaving Lorea and three guards at the compound.”

“His family, Santi? His family lives with him?” You asked.

Is he putting children’s lives at risk? What are you thinking, Santi?

“As I said, they’re gone to mass, and that’s when we’d hit—no innocents in the crossfire.”

You breathed out a sigh of relief.

There were things you’d all done in the past you wished you could forget—orders given that would have violated the Geneva Convention, but orders had to be obeyed, and many times, it was life or death situations. There was still a lot of fucked up shit you’d all been through that you knew haunted the three of you—had helped each other through the aftermath and nightmares, comforting one another.

“So, we scope out the place,” Frankie said. “Figure out a plan. I don’t know, Santi. This seems like too much of a risk.”

“Seventy-five million, Francisco,” Santi said quickly. “Think of how this will change all of our lives. You’re the most talented pilot I know, working for the fucking Sheriff’s department for less than a hundred grand a year, you're,” he looked at you, confusion on his face. “Baby, what do you do?”

You scoffed.

“If you made an effort to reach out in the last two years, you’d know I’m working for a defense company.”

He grimaced.

“I’m sorry I’ve been MIA, but as I was saying, you’re both not making what you’re worth; Redfly can’t send his kids to college, Benny is getting the shit beat out of him for a living, and Will is a fucking glorified motivational speaker. This money would take care of us all for life.”

“You’ve been gone all these years because you said you wanted to empower your mother’s homeland to police themselves,” Frankie said. “You were trying to right all of your wrongs and the shit we’ve done, and now all you care about is money?”

“It’s not just the money,” Santi said. “Lorea is a bad fucking man, and if we take him out, we do a lot of good—the money is a bonus.”

“You’re pretty fucking stuck on it, though,” Frankie replied. “This is all too dangerous.”

“This is my last job,” Santi said. “I do this, and I can come home to both of you, we can all finally be together, and with that kind of cash, we could fuck off to anywhere in the world.”

Your heart clenched at the thought of it.

That’s always been our dream.

You and Frankie shared a look, knowing what the other was thinking.

“Please,” Santi pleaded as you both looked at him. “I want to come home.”

Frankie sighed.

“I’d have to talk it out with my lady,” he said. “She doesn’t like me doing this shit anymore.”

Santi’s eyes went wide.

“Your lady?” He breathed. “What? We—”

“And I’d have to discuss it with my boyfriend,” you said.

Santi’s mouth fell open.

“Boyfriend?” He croaked, color draining from his face. “You both have? But we just,” Santi was at a loss for words. “How could you….”

After you’d gotten out of the military, the three of you had agreed that it was okay to see other people—if you met someone, go for it. The thing was, before Santiago had gone on his crusade to South America, the three of you met up regularly, or you’d see one or the other if you happened to be near them or they, you, at most going a month without seeing either of them and you hadn’t needed anyone else. But Santi left and broke up the regularity.

You’d been three people at differing stages in your lives, who when together, things were perfect, and everything was right in the world, but the timing never worked, and you couldn’t all be together, and it’d been hard living without the other pieces of your heart.

You looked at Frankie.

“Do you want to do it, babe?” You asked.

He smiled at you.

“I don’t know, honey; we’ve got a lot going on with fixing up the house.”

Santi gasped, the realization hitting him hard.

“Wait, hold the fucking phone,” he said. “You two?” Pointing between you.

You looked at him.

“If you made an effort,” you said.

“How long?” He asked.

“Since we got back from Colombia,” you said.

“Two years…” He said.

“Two years and seven months,” you replied. “Santi, you really thought we’d live in the same fucking city and not be together? I thought you were smart.”

“I didn’t know you’d been here that long! I thought you getting work out here was new! You’d been doing all that freelancing shit around the world.”

“And I ended up finding a job that paid decently near Frankie, so we kinda just moved in together.”

While Santi had been away, you and Frankie kept up the regular visits. You loved being with him, but you both missed your other person, and after Colombia and the week together, the two of you took the plunge, and it’d been the best decision you’d ever made.

Santi smiled.

“Well, I’m fucking happy for you guys!” His smile fell as he scratched at the back of his neck. “I mean, I’d understand if you wanted it to just be the two of you—”

“Santiago Garcia,” you said, interrupting him. “We dropped everything to see you, your come is literally dripping out of me, and you think we wouldn’t want you to be with us? Santi, we fucking love you, and we both figured if we could be together, we should, and just wait until you could come back to us. Our door will always be open for you.”

His eyes got misty, clearing his throat as he looked away.

“I love you, too,” he said, voice a little rougher.

He looked back at the two of you.

“Does this mean you’ll do it?” He asked, sounding hopeful.

You frowned, looking over at Frankie and back at Santi.

“It’d be the five of us guys,” Frankie said.

Santi’s eyebrows knit together, looking at you pointedly.

“Why just the guys?”

Frankie’s broad palm rested on your stomach.

“Because I’m three months pregnant,” you said.

Santi’s face dropped.

“You’re… You’re pregnant?”

“Yes,” you nodded.

“With Frankie’s baby?”

Your eyes narrowed.

“No, it’s the second coming of Christ—yes, Santiago, it’s Frankie’s. We’re monogamous, well polyamorous with you, but until today, we’ve only been with each other.”

“I… Fuck,” he looked away. “You guys are living together and having a baby, and you still want me to be with you?”

“Si, cabrón (yes, dumbass),” Frankie said. “Te queremos pase lo que pase (we love you no matter what).”

Santi looked at him.

“¿Dónde quepo yo en todo esto (Where do I fit in all this)?”

Frankie jolted like he’d been slapped.

“No entiendo (I don’t understand). What the fuck are you talking about, man? Where do you fit? By our sides, and if you want to, raising this kid with us. The three of us should have been together a long fucking time ago, and yeah, we never talked about the future, but I sure as fuck always saw you both in it once we’d figured all of our shit out. We,” Frankie pointed between the two of you. “Just happened to get it together before you and have been waiting.”

“You want me to help raise the baby?” Santi asked with disbelief in his voice.

“If you want, Santi,” you said. “Everything that Frankie said is how I feel.”

He was quiet for a second as he processed.

“Fuck, I’m going to be a dad?”

You smiled.

“Only if it’s something you want,” you reassured. “If you just want to only be with us, that’s fine, too.”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I’d always wanted kids, just didn’t think I’d have a chance,” he smiled. “I’m so fucking happy. Think of what this money could do for the baby!”

It’s all about the money.

You felt your stomach churn with nerves. The whole thing was risky, but if they did the reconnaissance, and it was too dangerous, you had no doubt that Frankie wouldn’t go through with it; you just hoped that Santi would see sense.

“Yeah,” you said. “It’d be life-changing.”

“It’s going to be a hard sell to the guys,” Frankie added.

Santi thought it over.

“That’s why I think I should go in with my original offer—present the guaranteed seventeen thousand for a week of consulting and the recce, and after we’ve done it, and if it’s doable, tell them the plan.”

“Whose paying the seventeen?” You asked.

Santi sighed.

“Me.”

“You want to get this guy that bad?” Frankie asked.

“I’ve spent the last three years down there trying to make a difference—put it above living my fucking life, and being happy, and it’s gotten me fucking nowhere, all because of fucking Lorea. I get him, I take him out, these years won’t have been wasted, and I can finally come home to the people I love.”

“Fuck it,” Frankie said. “I’m in. I’ll help you convince the guys. I’ve got paid time off I can use—was saving it for when the baby comes, but I can use a week of it.”

Santi grinned, pulling Frankie towards him for a kiss.

“Thank you,” he murmured against his lips.

They pulled apart, and Santi put his hand over Frankie’s on your stomach, leaning down to kiss you.

“And thank you. I’m so fucking excited.”

“When will you leave?” You asked.

Santi looked between you both.

“Fish and I can go to Will’s thing Monday? Start with him. Benny invited me to his fight Tuesday.”

“Yeah, we got that invite, too. Do they know you’re stateside?” You asked.

Santi laughed.

“No, only you two are aware. Benny invites me to all of his fights. I’ll text the guys the offer, and then we can meet them in person to really sell it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Frankie said with a nod. “We were planning on going to the fight already.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Never miss them, even when the smell of sweat and blood made me queasy as fuck. Thankfully, the morning sickness has died down.”

“Now she’s just horny all the time,” Frankie added.

You playfully slapped his chest as you gasped.

“Shut up! You love it!”

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss you.

“I sure fucking do, baby.”

“Does that mean you’re up for round two? I want heads this time,” Santi said.

You both laughed as Frankie moved, your hands grabbing onto Santi’s shoulders to pull him down for a kiss.

This was how it was supposed to be, the three of you together. One more job, and it would all be permanent.

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

Tagging: @daddydindjarin @absurdthirst @kirsteng42 @littlemisspascal @athalien @thevoiceinyourheadx @elegantduckturtle @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @mswarriorbabe80 @spanishmossmagnolia @star017 @javier-penas-wife @artsymaddie @hansolosleftbuttcheek @deadhumourist @pretty-brown-eyess @hotchlover @lalalalemonade11 @eternallyvenus @allfoolsinluv @eppy816 @katareyoudrilling @babykangaemoji @punkerthanpascal @breezythesimp @grimeysociety @bruxasolta @peachyaeger @din-jarhead @lovesbiggerthanpride @loonymagizoologist @pinebeam @spacenerdpascal @padbrookcottage @karlawithacapitalk @trickstersp8 @that-friend-in-the-corner @just-here-for-the-moment @bluejones @quica-quica-quica

#frankie morales x reader #Santiago Garcia x reader #frankie morales x reader x Santiago Garcia #pedro pascal #oscar isaac #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #wheresarizona writes

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moonlight-prose · 4 months

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🌹🌹💖!

Hello babes!! This is from my winter fic with Frankie and Santi! The threesome fic that is making me yearn to read poetry to someone while drunk off wine.

“Is this the poet you like?”

He couldn’t remember the name, couldn’t even see the cover of the book, but he’d heard these words before once or twice in his life. They remained seared into his subconscious like a picture he refused to let fade. He could recall the first time being in a college English course. The professor had assigned it and he had ignored it—along with nearly everyone else. That is until you offered to read it to the rest of the class, too enamored by the poem itself to let it go unnoticed by a class of sophomores.

That was the first time he figured out what the word love meant.

The second time you recited it over too much wine, stomachs full of pasta. Your eyes were glazed, smiles drunk on the high of being one week away from graduating. And you began to speak it over a half empty glass of merlot, your fingers slowly inching across his shoulder until they wound into his curls.

He knew he loved you then, with his lips messily pressed to yours, shared breaths mixed over lost words of a poem he couldn’t remember. The glass had fallen to the floor, shattering on contact. Cleaning it up would have been the smart thing, but you were too lost in the taste of one another to give a shit. More focused on getting him inside you, the gasp of his name permanently seared on your tongue, mixing beautifully with his wine stained kiss.

send in a 🌹 for a piece of one of my wips

#witch aunt responds #jess darling💕#this was supposed to be a december fic #but i've been shit at posting these past two months #so it'll be a january thing now #frankie morales x reader #santiago garcia x reader #frankie morales x reader x santiago garcia

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nervoushottee · 5 months

Text

I’m thinking of either finishing my threesome fic with Santi and Frankie or make a new one with Steve and Eddie…..

#frankie morales x reader x santiago garcia #steddie x reader imagine #steddie smut

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flightlessangelwings · 6 months

Text

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.

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luxurychristmaspudding · 4 months

Text

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.’

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia x reader #joel miller x frankie morales x reader

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pedge-page · 5 months

Text

Happy Hour

Part 1 to the Sharing is Caring series

Frankie Morales x F!reader free-use with the triple frontier boys

Summary: Frankie loves using and abusing his free-use pass with you. He’s got no problem introducing it to the rest of the guys.

Warnings: Exhibitionism, Voyuerism, Cucking, free use, unprotected sex, male masturbation, oral m-receiving, assisted masturbation, using beer bottles as dildos, indirect pussy eating (?), slight breeding kink, language

18+ ONLY

- - - -

Frankie invited the boys over for the summer kickoff Barbecue in your backyard. You spent all day preparing snacks and side dishes, setting up yard games and helping clean the pool, all the while getting praises by Frankie who found every opportunity to wrap you up in his arms and kiss you all over.

"You get enough beer for tonight?" He asks, nuzzling his nose against your neck, pressing kisses over your shoulder.

"Yup. I almost cleared out the shelf. You boys gonna have a good time, I’ll take care of everything else.” You lay your hand over top his which were caressing your lower tummy affectionately.

With how busy things had been getting recently, you wanted Frankie to get together with his friends again. He had thrown you such a wonderful girls night-in when you had your girl friends over last month, so making sure he and his buds were well taken care of tonight was your top priority.

“I think you'll have some fun too."

Frankie continues to nip at your exposed skin, his hand drafting up to the exposure of your off-shoulder frilly blouse, tugging it down with one finger. "Frankie, stop, I'm still cooking."

He ignores you, slipping his hand inside the elastic band and palming your breast, his hips pinning yours to the counter as he rubbed his hard-on against your ass. "Gonna do everything I ask of you tonight, aren't you?" His breathes huskily into your ear.

You remained tight lipped, unsure of what he had planned tonight, but having some ideas as to the sexual acts he'll want to get away with. You felt heat pool in your lower stomach at the idea of fucking in the powder room while the boys were outside, or having him finger you under the table while they ate. He's been pushing his free-use license further and further, making you simultaneously nervous and excited at how far he intends to use you for his pleasure.

"They'll...be here... any minute..." you whine, your body caving in to his touches as you breathe heavier. You feel his fat fingers dip below your naval, through the lining of your skirt and down your panties, fingering your clit softly to work your arousal.

"Nothing they haven't seen before, baby mamma," he groans. He removed his hand from between your thighs, bringing its stickiness up to dance on your lips. Your mouth happily parts at the intrusion and suck your arousal from his digits. He lifts your skirt above your hips, splaying your panty-clad ass on display, his lips never leaving your neck or cheek.

"Not a baby mamma yet, that's your job to make happen remember?" You smile, turning your head to lock your lips together. You feel a tap on your thigh and lift your leg to aid in his removal of your panties. He stuffs them into the back pocket of his jeans.

"I'm keeping these, need you nice and wet for us tonight."

The doorbell rings, and Frankie backs away from you abruptly, leaving you wide eyed, back now cold. The faint breeze from the open window whistling under your skirt and between your damp, exposed pussy. "Us?"

- - - -

Frankie greets each of the guys with a long awaited hug as they enter your home together. You tried to act like you're not dripping between your thighs as you kiss and cautiously hug each of them. It was Benny who scooped you up in his arms and twirled you around, your skirt lifting enough to show the lower half of your bare ass.

Santi bit his lip at the sight. “Keeping Fish good company I hope?” He asks as Benny set you down with a fat kiss to your cheek.

You hastily bring your skirt lower, tugging it down. “It’s been pretty smooth sailing since the wedding, hasn’t it?”

Frankie's hand skims the back of your rear, hand lifting your skirt back up over the side of your thigh, pulling you in to him like a little prize, fully well knowing everyone got a good look at you. “It’s been more than great,” he says. You could help but blush at the way he beamed at you with adoration. "Beer anyone?"

They pile into the backyard, sorting through the cooler of assorted bottles and cans while you sift through the kitchen drawers for an opener. You could overhear indistinguishable chatter from the group, their occasional glances back towards you in the house.

"Found it!" You call out, skipping out to the yard. "Let me," you offer, grabbing each beer from their hand and popping off the lid.

"Sweet of you, baby, thank you." Frankie kisses the side of your head. Then his voice changes an octave lower, whispering lowly into your ear: "Go sit on the chair right there and put your heels on the seat."

You shiver, pulling away to stare back at him incredulously. His face told you he wasn't playing, that this was the first of many things he'd be asking of you tonight. You gulp and did as he said, settling uncomfortably in the plastic lawn chair and bringing your knees up to your chest, desperate to keep your ankles together and closed so everyone couldn't see right your bare pussy behind your ankles.

Frankie leans next to you, bottle in hand. "Don't be shy. Spread 'em."

Your face felt hot red as Benny, Will, Santi and Frankie eyes bore down on your anxious figure. You muster up your courage and boldly spread your legs wide, skirt falling from your thighs entirely to your hip, glittering cunt now open wide for the entire backyard.

Benny whistles lowly. "Never gonna get tired of that pretty view. Damn. Lucky bastard.”

Frankie grimaces proudly, his hand cupping your jaw affectionately like a pet. "Keep 'em spread for us, okay babygirl?"

You nod, clit twitching at his praise, not even noticing when he hitches the rim of his bottle at your entrance. Your brows furrow, never breaking eye contact with his beautiful brown eyes as he pushed the bottles neck into your pussy, your arousal making it easy for the object to slide right through.

"Holy fuck," Will coughs, watching the way you cunt greedily swallows the tip with ease.

Frankie thrusts it in a bit, making you stutter your breaths with the increased fullness pressing inside, hands fisting the chair's armrests. He was coating the bottle and its contents inside with your juices, fucking you like it was a toy. He notices the resistance when your walls squeezed around its neck, smirking to himself, knowing you were comfortable and enjoying this with him.

Too soon, he slips it out of you, your hips slightly canter forward to chase the object that was just buried inside you. You felt empty, needy, denied.

Frankie smirks at your helpless state ad he brought the beer to his lips and titled back, chugging the new flavor of alcohol. "Tastes better like that," he says, licking his lips clean of your taste.

----

Frankie watches as you eagerly spread your legs further, leaning back in your chair with confidence so that your cunt hangs out in the open off the edge as each of the guys line up to coat their drinks in your pussy. The way your breath quickens, with each intrusion, how you lick your lips and look down at the sight of it disappearing into you, the mix of gentleness and roughness that came with each boy’s individuality—it drove him crazy how much you let him do this.

Santi rubs your cheek soothingly, very passionately fucking his bottle into you while never breaking your eye contact. You giggle along with him, rocking your hips with his steady thrusts until he pulls out and takes a long sip.

Will is far more gentle, rubbing the inside of your thigh with the pad of his thumb. He nudges your pearly clit with the rip, only swirling the top at the most shallow base of your walls. He likes the way you whine, wanting more, but his hand on your thigh is quick to keep you in your place. He slips the edge of the bottle along your folds to gather your dripping juices before retreat, giving you a little wink.

Benny dropsy to his knees, excited to have you so open for him.

“Be nice, Ben. That’s my wife you got there,” Frankie warns.

Benny rolls his eyes, pouting as his visible excitement tones down. You cup his face, knowing Frankie’s threat is a load of BS. “Don’t worry, Benny, you have your taste the way you like it.” You spread your legs even further, ankles now dangling over the arm rest, the cool breeze of the backyard swooshing through your folds.

Benny pushes his beer in as far as he can, making you gasp. You grab his shoulder to steady yourself as you rock your hips back and forth, letting his hands remain where it is while you fucked your exposed pussy on the neck of the bottle. He rams further inside, the body of the bottle beginning to stretch your cunt.

Benny’s eyes were wide, unsure if he wanted to watch your facial expressions or the scene between your legs. After a few more playful dips, he pulls out, immediately mouthing around the bottle and suckling every drop of your juices around the neck, with little interest of the actual liquid in the bottle.

The boys spend the evening standing around the grill, all taking turns to use you like a glorified bottle opener. Frankie keeps your panties tucked in the back of his pockets the entire time. He occasionally checks in on your reactions, making sure you’re still laughing and accepting their actions.

They came back after each sip, some taking extra care to fuck you with the bottle, hoping to get you to cum, other times just to get a fresh coating. Frankie watches your expressions each time, the way your jaw hangs open slightly, biting your tongue, quiet moans making their way to his ears. And each time, he forces the boys to stop, leaving your clenching around nothing, frustrated but wet beyond belief. He wanted you dripping, needy all night so they could get the most out of your gushing cunt.

At one point, you had to get up to serve their food, making them all sit around the rounded patio table and dishing their plates one at a time. Frankie helps place the portions on each plate as you take it to the table before sitting down himself. His hand runs up along your smooth thigh, skirt lifting with his wrist as he inches high and higher, before squeezing your ass possessively, looking up at you. You pinch his nose and move around the table, making sure all the guys have filled drinks.

You didn’t have your own “seat” at the table, instead going around to each of the guy’s laps and eating bits off their plate. While they ate with one hand, the other held a bottle, thrusting in and out of your spread thighs over their leg.

You currently had your arm draped over Will’s shoulder, spread open next to the table as he bounced you in his lap, his bottle nudging the sweet spot inside you. He split his attention evenly between Frankie and you.

The copious amount of alcohol in everyone’s system, including Frankie’s, made the rules of your use a little more lax. That—and they were all so pussy drunk off your juices mingling on their tongues, they couldn’t keep their hands off you.

You kissed along Will’s cheek, nipping his jawline and tracing patterns on his throat with your tongue as he fucked you on his beer. His languid thrusts making you feel hazy. The man had an exceptional talent at knowing the exact pace and pristine jolts to hold you on edge forever. He gave you soft smiles with sincere eye contact that made you flutter. “You’re so pretty like this,” he whispers in your ear.

Santi was a little cheekier, eagerly pulling you down on his lap. He taps the inside of your thigh, urging you to spread fast so he could get his drink between your legs. “This cunt is still so tight, hermosa. Frankie Papi not taking care of you enough?” he asks brow raising with a challenge towards Fish. Before you can deny him, he blows hot breath against your ear before biting the lobe, making you squeal quietly as he quickly thrusts his 11th bottle of the night into your waiting heat. He continues to dot his lips against your skin, nipping your collar bone. You can see Frankie’s eyes narrow on you two but he doesn’t say anything, letting his conversation with Will continue. His aligns his head perfectly over your top, peering down at your tits. He groans softly at the little jiggles of your supply mounds with each little thrust in to you.

You look over to Benny, who’s got no care to Will and Frankie’s convo and is instead anxiously bouncing his leg, dying to get you on him for his turn.

“Oop, I gotta take care of the baby boy,” you say quietly into Santi’s ear. He pouts briefly, rubs your clit with his thumb under the table so no one else can see. You bite your lips, wide eyed but aroused. He eventually lets you up.

Benny grabs your waist with strong hands and lifts you on to his muscular thigh.

“Eager?” You tease. You rub your hand over his strong abs and chest, grabbing his beef for him and putting right along your folds, waiting patiently for him to take charge. He doesn’t. “Want you to do it for me,” he says, smirking. You kiss his cheek and notch the beer into your cunt, moaning wantonly right in his ear. He shivers with arousal, bouncing the knee you’re perched on, the bottle neck slipping deeper inside you. His hand gropes your ass cheek, keeping you upright on him while his other arm feeds himself potato salad. he makes a poor attempt to shovel it in his mouth, dropping bits of it along your chest and down your tits.

“Making a mess on my girl, Benny,” Frankie chuckles.

Benny shrugs. Conveniently left with no more free hands, he dips his mouth down to your chest and licks a long stripe along the skin, slurping up the remnants of sticky food on you. You tilt back and laugh drunkly, fisting the bottle and shoving deep inside your cunt, panting breathlessly as your other hand messily rubs his blonde curls like a dog.

You suddenly glance back at Frankie, who is shaking his head at you in disapproval. Not from one of his buds eating food off your tit, but from your less than sneaky trial of trying to finally make yourself cum on the bottle. You pout, draw the neck out of your messy cunt, feeling your little nub twitch with remote. You’re making a big show of innocent eyes at your husband who’s been simultaneously ensuring you are both taken care of and neglected all night.

Frankie raises his hand and curls his finger at you in a come hither motion. You slide off of Benny’s lap guiltily, striding over to him in the sexiest walk you could muster. Chatter had died down as all eyes rested on you standing over Frankie.

He stares up at you, rolling your skirt over your ass so everyone could see. He presses a soft kiss to your throbbing clit, tasting a mixture of your sweet juices and the different brands and flavors of beer that have been inside you all night. You whine, trying not to flinch too hard at how desperate you need him to make you cum.

He pats your ass assertively. “You been good tonight so far.”

The power he possesses over you was something to behold: despite standing over him, and looking down upon him, his voice and eyes carried such a dominant force against you that it was clear to everyone else how much you not only submit to him, but how much you like doing so.

“Everyone else getting taken care of real good except me. That doesn’t seem right, does it, Querida?”

You shake your head. You knew the drill, knew the devious look in his eyes. His darkened expression points down to the ground only once.

Without missing a beat, you sink down to your knees on the grass, delicate hands immediately rubbings along his sturdy thighs in his khakis until you came upon the bulge in his pants. You rub your palm over, pressing your face to it, feeling the scratchiness of the material roll against your cheek. You give it a chaste kiss before unbuckling his belt and pulling the zipper down, freeing his erect cock.

When you finally push his tip past your tight lips, Frankie sighs relief before starting up the group’s conversation again. The boys shifted in their seats with their evident respective bulges pressing uncomfortably between their legs. They tried to respond respectfully to Fish, occasionally darting glances at you between his legs, working his length in and out of your skilled mouth. The little sucking noises from you interrupted his speech but he made no show of acknowledging you while you sucked his fat cock deep into your throat.

You could hear little coughs and grunts from the others, none of which sounded perturbed. They were all entranced by you, your obedience, submission to Frankie. Santi “dropped” his fork below the table, hunching over to get a good look at you with his mouth agape at the sight: resting back on your haunches, your glistening pussy dripping into the grass as you bobbed your head, hands resting on his knees to keep you from taking it all and choking on it.

He licks his lips and sits up, worried he took too long. Frankie catches his eye and mouths Does she look good?

Santi nods energetically.

Fish smirks, taking the opportunity to push the back of your head further onto his cock, making you gag loudly in surprise. Benny and Will’s voices go quiet as Frankie starts slowly forcing his cock deeper in your mouth, making you more verbal in your choking. When he releases the pressure, you pull up so that just the tip is suctioned between your lips, moaning obscenely. Your eyes are closed in bliss, taking him back down and returning your rhythmic bobbing.

After a few minutes, Frankie’s breaths are coming out short. He’s having a hard time paying attention to what the guys were saying. Just between the two of you, he gently caresses your jaw, letting his cock fall out of your mouth. You stare up at him, slightly teary eyed but full of lust and obsession. “My perfect little whore of a wife,” he mumbles affectionately. “Get up here and make me proud.”

You giddily climb to your feet and throw one leg over his strong thighs, sighing loudly as you straddling him. The texture of his pants feels heavenly against your neglected clit, rubbings your slick folds along his thighs with an arched back, ass peaking out for the boys to once again get a nice show.

Frankie taps your ass again, making you sit upright. He positions the swollen red tip of his member at your wet entrance. You sink down, taking his cock entirely in one motion. The hot, fat pressure of his cock stretching you fuller, deeper than any of the beer bottles could ever reach immediately has your eyes rolling, moaning out loud like a fucking whore as your body shakes, squeezing his dick tightly while your first powerful orgasm of the night washes over you.

He holds you tight as you spasm through it. “Oh shit—she just came,” Frankie laughs.

“Oh fuck. Didn’t even have to fuck that delicious cunt.”

“That’s hot, Fish. She was so desperate for it.”

“Fuck I’m jealous. I want me a wife like that.”

You continue to gently hump him, their praises falling deaf to your ear. His large, strong body felt good to relax in, putting your weight on top of him with no care as you chase your pleasure Hips swaying of their own accord as you whimper through the aftershocks, arms thrown wrapped over his shoulders.

He strokes your back soothingly. He wants you to settle from your much needed orgasm first. Frankie sits back a little bit, letting you lean forward. The guys are practically standing over the table, desperate to see the space where their friend’s well endowed cock is joined to his wife’s tight and pretty cunt.

He has the audacity to ask the guys if they’d seen the game this past Sunday, resuming their conversation as you continue to pickup pace. You roll your hips along his length, the delicious drag of his cock sliding in and out of you leaving you dumb on him, face pressed tight against his collar while he talks casually over your shoulder.

When Frankie starts to clench the meat of your hips and pull you down on his length a little harder, neither he nor anyone else at the table cares to talk anymore. He makes sure to fist your skirt over your waist as he drills his meaty girth up into you. They all stare, unblinking, at some point all having whipped their stiff cocks out and stroking furiously.

Frankie gets lost in your tight heat. You couldn’t care about the fact that the boys were jerking off to you and their best friend fucking—your focus was entirely on making your husband spill his sperm deep inside you.

The squelching sound of your pussy slapping down and your breathy moans can only be heard in your private backyard among your closets guests. He can feel the dampness seeping into his pants, darkening the fabric with each splatsplatsplat of your ass slamming down on his thighs.

“Did I tell ya’ll? We’re trying to get pregnant,” Frankie boasts proudly. He doesn’t stop the way his hips canter up overly excited to share that detail, hitting that spongy spot he had been purposely avoiding all night. A surprised yell escapes your lips, tightening around him in a vice grip. Soon after, you’re both cumming together, releasing long drawn out satisfied groans into each other’s open mouths as your sweet pussy milks him, the pulses of his member filling your womb with his milky seed.

The rest of the boys cum hardly a second later, pumping their veiny cocks furiously at the sight of Frankie’s pearly spend dripping from where the two of you are still connected. Through gritted teeth, they wring out the last dribbles of their cum before everyone is sitting back, panting hard, softened and relieved dicks resting against their full bellies.

- - - -

Notes: I just wanna say don’t fuck yourself with objects that aren’t specifically designed for sex, especially foods or alcohol, because you know… infections. That should be a given.

Permanent Taglist:

@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse

Please let me know if you would like to be added (or removed) from permanent taglist--which applies to any fic that I put more than 2 ounces of thought into.

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violentdelightsandviolentends · 5 months

Note

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.

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fettuccin-e · 6 months

Text

Think About It

Kinktober Day 23: Dirty Talk

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santi,” you whine, “You can’t just-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santi, I can’t, I can’t, I’m gonna-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He files the thought away for later.

#santi has absolutely no fucking control #feral man love him to death #santiago garcia x you #santiago garcia smut #santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales smut #triple frontier x you #triple frontier fic #triple frontier smut #triple frontier x reader

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intheorangebedroom · 1 month

Text

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡

Word count: 12.2k

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier

Make us come, baby. Make us come together.

These words are yours.

Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep.

He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body.

They’re yours, right?

Even if you don’t get to see him ever again.

—

It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles.

Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here.

It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.

Not today. Please. Not today.

Friday.

Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head.

Today is Friday.

You reject the obvious.

Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.

Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.

Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night.

You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons.

Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours.

Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping.

Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.

And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you.

You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet.

You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.

Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can.

You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine.

It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor.

—

On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body.

You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze.

You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste.

Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.

Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you.

If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be.

With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia.

You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste.

All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down.

Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums.

At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again.

All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.

Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.

You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black.

—

In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation.

You did want to get better.

You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities.

On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results.

But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality.

For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.

Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were.

Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear.

As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.

Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.

Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all.

And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.

—

The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places.

Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed.

Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…

Frankie.

You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?

“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”

Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through.

Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before.

He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel.

The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.

Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish.

There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.

So many cords. Too many sensors.

“Where’s my phone?” you mumble.

Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore.

“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed.

You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.

“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”

He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness.

“What day is it?” you try again.

“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”

The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”

You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you.

Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it.

“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.”

You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape.

Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”

“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.

It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.

Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most.

The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate.

“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”

“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week.

Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.

“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.

There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping.

“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”

So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known.

It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.

There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute.

“Polly’s not old,” is your answer.

“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”

“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”

“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.

The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt.

“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”

You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline.

He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small.

“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”

The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence.

“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation?

You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out.

You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show.

Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology.

“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!”

He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine.

“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.

“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink.

And he’s gone.

Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping.

Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse.

The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location.

Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.

Is this how it ends?

Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close.

You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday.

Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.

The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.

Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE.

The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case.

Your heart rate slows down.

Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.

—

The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you.

You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.

On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation.

Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed.

You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.

You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.

After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.

One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you.

You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.

Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.

Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.

Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week.

In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak.

You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid.

Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.

You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours.

You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it.

On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in.

She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child.

While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse.

True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material.

At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”

So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image.

“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”

As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.

Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC.

That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood.

You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted.

You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.

“Fuck it.”

You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic.

The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour.

It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut.

Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper.

As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor.

You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.

Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks.

That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.

You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity.

Is this how it ends?

Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here.

Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours.

The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes.

Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar.

“Good evening,” you start with a tight smile. “I—“

A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again.

“I come in every week?”

Jesus.

“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”

“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”

You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.

“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”

“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”

“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”

“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund. Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“

“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”

Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long?

If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will.

“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”

The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe.

“Do you want to book it?”

You shake your head slowly.

“No. Thank you.”

Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot.

He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding.

You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you.

You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.

All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years.

The before and the after him.

He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him.

Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story.

The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed.

That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel.

“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan.

His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob.

It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind.

Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.

“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers.

“What?”

His smile drops when you take a step back.

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“

Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall.

He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.

“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.

“What happened to you?”

The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms.

“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper.

“Did he do that to you?”

“What?”

“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.

“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”

“How did you fall?” he presses.

He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to.

The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own.

“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”

“I’m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze.

“You can barely stand.”

However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.

“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.”

“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”

“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”

He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.

The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all.

“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.

“Wanna bet?”

You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could.

“Listen,” he begins with a sigh.

“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“

“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.

His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness.

“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”

Our minds.

He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control.

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Yes, ok.”

He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”

—

The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you.

What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?

On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing.

You hate yourself for that, too.

After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard.

Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual.

The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it.

“Hey. You ok there?”

In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate.

“C’mere.”

The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his.

The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer.

You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart.

“I’m not married.”

“Ok.”

The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it.

“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”

“Ok.”

The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit.

“And I really fell.”

He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist.

“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”

You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened.

He tightens his embrace.

“That when you hurt your head?”

“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”

“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”

“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”

You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”

How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again?

“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.

If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks.

“No,” you lie.

“Mmh. And for real?”

You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.

“A little. I’ll be fine.”

The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines.

Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.

“He wouldn’t hit me.”

“Ok.”

“That’s not what he does.”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“What does he do?”

You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason.

“He makes me doubt.”

“Him?”

“Myself. And him too.”

Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel.

The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights.

His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist.

Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber.

“You ok? Want me to close the window?”

His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness.

“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”

Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy.

—

When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare.

Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone.

You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin.

At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light.

You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there.

Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then.

You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh.

“Wait. I need to talk to you.”

His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will.

You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him.

“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes.

Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest.

“I understand.”

“I imagine you can’t be here either.”

No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always.

“No, I can’t.”

The following week, either. But you don’t share that.

This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.

Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.

In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you?

Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket.

“Kiss me, Frankie, please.”

“Yes.”

His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips.

All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his.

Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else.

His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too.

You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness.

Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire.

There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent.

He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.

Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles.

“Want me to make you come, baby?”

He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration.

“No, I want you inside me.”

“Shit, you sure?”

“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.”

You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth.

“You think I don’t know that?”

So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back.

Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.

“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.”

It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place.

“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans.

“I know you can.”

When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair.

It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.

You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside.

In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes.

He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart.

Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue.

Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.

Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.

“You ok?”

His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff.

His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.

Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it.

He stays like that for a while.

Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes.

“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”

“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”

You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts?

“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.

But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him.

Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”

You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within.

“I want you.”

His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion.

He doesn’t.

He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling.

Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named.

You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice.

“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt.

The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties.

You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face.

He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest.

The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale.

Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you.

“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”

He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.

“Fuck you’re tight.”

“Please, Frankie–”

His frame tenses up under your palms.

“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”

“No!”

That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out.

“I can—“ You trip over your words.

“What?”

“I can sit on it.”

Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles.

“Yea. Yea you can.”

He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal.

“Spit on it,” he says.

You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.

“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”

Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed.

His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours.

“Sit on it, now.”

His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look.

“Yes,” you pant.

Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.

Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing.

The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel.

Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back.

You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help.

You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically.

His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs.

“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”

You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.

A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.

You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats.

His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit.

And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall.

“Too much?”

“Oh god yes.”

You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.

“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”

His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind.

You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.”

He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire.

His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.

“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?”

You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are?

“Say it again, please.”

“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you.

“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”

“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.”

He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon.

You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already.

He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk.

You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave.

And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss.

****

218 notes · View notes

astroboots · 7 months

Note

Hmmm ok maybe the three of them going on holiday and making good use of a hotel room and balcony 😉

STRIP POKER

Summary: The trio goes on a beach holiday only to get trapped in their hotel room and you end up playing strip poker.

Rating: Explicit, DP with Frankie's giant cock which needs a warning of itself.

Warning: Writer has no fucking clue about poker (or any card games) and it fucking shows. She did research and friends and family tried to explain it to her but that only confused her more.

Pairing: Frankie x female reader (you) x Santiago

Word Count: 5k

Homecoming Universe | Astroboot’s Masterlist

It's raining outside.

A violent smattering of rain so aggressive it sounds like the window panes are getting the beating of its life.

Frankie sighs. $250 a night for a hotel room with a seaside view and it's just fucking pouring down.

He is standing outside on the balcony, still within safe shelter from the rain. Leaning his elbow against the balcony rail, he peers down at the perfect aquamarine water that glitters like a precious gem underneath, out of reach.

It's his first proper holiday from work in years, and he'd thought it'd be nice to splurge a bit. Big king-sized bed. Hotel Spa. Beach access.

It would have been perfect. And at first it seemed to be. Gorgeous sun as far as the eye could see when the plane touched ground on the tarmac. Then it started raining, and it just didn't stop. Torrential -- there's a typhoon warning on the weather forecast that everyone is recommended to stay inside -- kind of rain.

He throws a glance behind his shoulder, back at the hotel room where Santiago is draped across the large king sized bed with a thick novel he picked up from the airport. Santiago is about three quarters in, which means there's an hour, maybe less, before he's finished.

After that there will be nothing to distract the man and it's only a matter of time before Santiago will get restless. God knows what he'll get up to then.

For once, Frankie won't blame him.

Stuck in a small room with nothing but reruns of telemundo and shitty overpriced hotel service club sandwiches to keep everyone distracted. Frankie's pretty sure that he's going to follow suit with a case of cabin fever not long after Santiago.

From the corner of his eyes, he spots you stomp over to the bed where Santiago is lying. He can't hear what you're saying, but you're waving your hands around animatedly. Santiago immediately puts his novel face-down against the mattress, then he shakes his head adamantly at whatever it is you are saying.

Out of the three of you it looks like your patience was the first to snap.

Your arms cross across your chest, feet stomping down in dismay. Then you turn in the direction of the balcony and Santiago is immediately shooting to his feet to preempt you. He outruns you across the room and flings open the balcony door.

"Frank! Tell your wife it's a bad idea!"

Frankie rolls his eyes at the dramatic outburst. Oh it's his wife now that you have a bad idea, is it?

Cocking his head to the side, Frankie looks to you over Santiago's shoulder. "What's a bad idea baby?"

"Let's go out!" You announce. "So what if it's raining? We can go for a quick swim anyhow. It'll still be warm."

Frankie blinks. He casts his eyes over the cascade of rain that has turned the once white sand into grey sludge. Catches sight of the parasols on the beach that has been uprooted by the winds and are flying wildly, a scene straight out of that 'Twister' movie with Helen Hunt he saw as a kid.

There aren't many occasions in your life together that Frankie has ever said no to you. This though might be one of those rare ones.

"Baby," he starts, voice soft as to cajole you. "That's a bad idea."

You throw your hands out in a dramatic gesture as you stalk your way back inside the room. Frankie barely catches the tail end of your sentence but he hears the string of swears to understand the sentiment of it.

Frankie's left with only Santiago for company on the balcony. The man calmly walks up to the end next to him, leaning out against the railing to assess the weather outside.

To Frankie's surprise, Santiago doesn't say anything. Seemingly content with the companionable silence and the sound of rain smattering all around them. There are no bratty complaints about paying hundreds of dollars only to watch rain. No witty snark.

"You're being uncharacteristically well behaved," Frankie says.

Santiago grins. "I've had a lifetime of experience sitting out shitty weather with nothing to do during missions, Frank. At least this time, I don't have to listen to Firefly's snores."

Frankie snorts at the memory.

"There's much worse things in life than having you and Boa cooped up with me in a fancy hotel room."

There's something soft in Santiago's eyes as he says it. A sentimentality in his voice that Frankie has a hard time placing, because he can't quite recall when Santiago has ever used it with him before.

Before Frankie has a chance to recuperate from blanking out and think of something to say back, Santiago is already leaning away from the balcony to step back inside the room towards you.

"Come on sweetheart. Stop being a brat," he says and playfully swats your backside with a gentle tap that makes you jump.

Santiago leans over the desk and opens a drawer to pull out a pack of cards that he cracks open and your eyes light up at the sight of it.

"If you're bored, let's play a game, yeah?"

In his own humble opinion, Frankie's never been particularly good at poker. He's got the poker face part down, but he never had an interest for gambling and the rules of the game never quite made sense to him.

Santiago on the other hand is a master of it. He's the undefeated champion during their military days and he regularly cleaned out everyone's savings on any given night.

As for you. Competitive as you are, as with every game that you've played more than twice -- you got good at it with practice, but the poker face bit of it is something you are still struggling severely with, because it's always written as plain as day on your face if you have a good or bad hand.

So in a game of strip poker, it's a bit surprising that two hours in, Santiago is the one sat in his underwear, while you and Frankie are still fully clothed.

Frankie's down to his t-shirt and briefs, whereas you have only lost your right sock.

In all honesty, Frankie doesn't quite understand it. Because right now you're sitting across Santiago, a grin so wide you are going to end up with muscle soreness in your cheeks. It's a sign the size of a massive billboard on Time Square lit up in neon and flashing lights that the hand you've been dealt with is good as gold. Yet, despite all the clear signs pointing to only one very clear and undeniable conclusion, for some unfathomable reason, Santiago still refuses to fold.

He tips his chin up in challenge towards you. "What you got sweetheart?"

That grin of yours grow impossibly wider as you set down your cards, revealing them one by one on the wooden floor where you're sat.

First a diamond 8. Then a ace of heart. Then an ace of diamond. Santiago's defiant features fall, pearly white teeth sinking into that pouty lip as he watches you put down a club ace. And as you put down the final card: An ace of spade. Santiago groans in defeat.

"You're cheating," he mumbles indignantly. But his fingers are already dragging his sole remaining garment down over his hips to the sound of your cackling laugh.

If Frankie's eyes linger for a little longer than they should at the round ample curve of Santiago's ass, you don't notice over your absolute glee in defeating the man.

You're already hooting with joy as Santiago demands another round, metaphorically kicking the man when he's already down.

"And what exactly are you going to gamble with for the re-match? You're butt fucking naked Santiago!"

"We'll do different stakes," Santiago shoots back.

"Like what?"

"I'll do whatever you say."

It's like a pin drops in the space between you. Your laughter stops.

"Whatever?" you repeat.

There's a glint in your eye that even Frankie can tell is dangerous, and only an idiot (a competitive idiot) would still go ahead when met with that look on your face.

Santiago is seemingly that idiot.

"Whatever," he confirms. "Carte blanch. Nothing's off the table."

The devious smile on your lips doesn't wane for even a second. You take the deck of cards back into your hands and shuffle them.

"You're on."

Tense is an understatement to describe the next half hour that unfolds in the hotel room.

For a game that was meant to be a fun distraction from the rain outside, it's now turned into something else entirely.

Rundown gambling dens by the border of Colombia are less intimidating than what is going on between you and Santiago right now.

"Antique markets every Sunday at 6am for a month," you threaten him. Santiago practically twitches at the scene you're painting. His fingers grip on tighter on his hand of cards.

You grin at the sign of weakness.

"Oh and you're calling Martina about that time you blamed her for stealing booze from your mom but it was really you."

"What?" Santiago pipes up in alarm, with no trace of his trademark coolness that he usually has for these games. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Whatever I say," you remind him. "Those were the terms."

Santiago seethes. Gritting his teeth as he shakes his head and sits back down firmly on the ground. "Sure," he mumbles like a petulant child. "Whatever. Show your hand already."

You scoot closer to Santiago, cards tucked close to your chest with a smile so wide it lights up the whole room with it.

The first card that comes down is a club of 9. The next is a 10 in the same suit.

Frankie can already see the small muscle in Santiago's cut jaw flex before the man drags his hand over it in a tell-tale sign of displeasure that both you and Frankie recognize all too well.

Normally Frankie would say that with that look on your face, Santiago is in a whole world of trouble.

Normally.

The face of Jack is staring up at the three of you from the floor, and before you even put down the final two cards, Santiago and Frankie both already knows that it is going to be a Queen and a King dressed in black club.

You fling down the duo triumphantly and you're already listing out loud every embarrassing act you are going to force Santiago to endure. There are threats of toilet scrubbing. Brunches with Frankie's mom. Attending a taxidermy class with you.

It lasts for several minutes before you lean down to start gathering the cards to put them away.

"Sweetheart, slow down."

Santiago reaches over. His free hand that's not holding the cards, cupping over yours to stop you. There's a slow and almost gentle smile that spreads across his lips.

Then Santiago finally drops the act.

"I haven't shown my cards yet have I?" he says.

From the way that your smile fades. The way the bright light in your eyes dim, you know it too. The bastard played you. Has been playing you this whole evening, right into his conniving and clever hands.

Frankie suspected as much.

After all, Santiago is brilliant at poker. Undefeated for as long as he's known the man.

As good as you may have gotten with practice, there was no way your long and uninterrupted winning streak of this entire evening was from sheer luck. Especially not when Santiago has not shown his hand a single time this evening.

10 of hearts. Jack of Hearts. Queen and King dotted with red hearts above their crown. Then finally an Ace in the shape of hearts.

A royal flush.

"Soooo," Santiago starts with a slow and meaningful drawl as he grins back at you.

"Whatever I say huh?"

Frankie should probably put a stop to this.

Because you look like you're about to kill someone.

You're kneeling on the floor, tucked between Frankie's legs, as Santiago is right behind you, plastered closely to your back.

The man can't resist the urge to tease you, even if it is under imminent threat to his life. Santiago's nimble fingers tuck a loose curl of your hair behind your ear before pressing a kiss to it.

"You're scaring poor Frankie," he tuts. "It's not good manners to stare daggers at a man when you're inches from his cock, sweetheart."

That comment doesn't make you look any less like a murderess to be.

"Frank," Santiago calls out. "Take out your cock."

Frankie sighs as he reaches for his belt to unbuckle. One hand reaches underneath his boxers as he pulls himself out. He doesn't know why he lets either of you constantly rope you into these situations.

God he feels fucking ridiculous.

"Look at how nice and obedient our husband is being," Santiago goads as his hand comes to your jaw, bridging the span of it. Then he gently tilts you downwards to guide your face forward until you're lips are mere inches from Frankie's cock.

As if by instinct, without further instructions, your mouth already parts for him. Just the sight of your glistening tongue makes the entirety of Frank's back tingle.

He can't help it. It's sense memory at this point.

The tip of your tongue darts out, but before you make any physical contact, Santiago stops you.

"Not yet," he says.

His arm curls around the front of your chest, pulling you back again with an expression of pure schadenfreude.

"I'm gonna have to have you ask nicely for it, sweetheart. Ask Frank to let you suck his cock."

Frankie nearly rolls his eyes at Santiago. The man just has to rub it in doesn't he? Insufferable brat.

If he was Santiago, he'd sleep with one eye open tonight.

Still for all his teasing, it could be so much worse. Not to defend Santiago and his idiocy. But in comparison to what you had in mind for the man, Santiago is going more than easy on you. This is mild for the man.

You must know it too, because you don't protest. Barely even hesitate as you gaze up at Frankie, through your thick lashes, dutifully and do as you're told.

"Please can I suck your cock, Francisco?"

Shit.

Excitement pings across his nerves at your words.

This is a ridiculous situation. Frankie shouldn't get turned on.

But he can't help himself. not when he feels the warmth of your breath exhale gently over his cock and the stupid thing immediately stirs into rapt attention.

Your hands reach over, fingers wrapping around his girth. Frankie doesn't even get a chance to savor it before Santiago is already grabbing for your wrists.

Cock-blocker.

"Nuh, uh," Santiago admonishes. "No hands".

You don't fight him on it. Your hands withdraw to your sides and you keep them there obediently, as you lean down the rest of the way, until your soft gorgeous lips press down against Frankie's quickly hardening cock.

Heat spears through his stomach at your touch.

Soft and almost chaste, your lips linger on his cock and it has Frankie immediately swelling to full hardness, until he can feel it twitching against your soft cheek.

Your tongue darts out, the pink tip gliding along a protruding vein as you pamper his cock with your full attention. Lapping, sucking and kissing at the spot with a quiet moan before you finally move along and slip the head of his cock between your lips.

Dizzying pleasure punches through him and for a brief second, even sat on the bed, Frankie thinks he might pass out from the overwhelming sensation. His mind is in the process of drifting and floating out of his body and away from the room. The only thing that still keeps him tethered to consciousness is Santiago's voice. The gentle mocking praise that spills from the man's filthy mouth.

"Isn't our sweet girl good?" Santiago asks him. "Doing such a good job isn't she?"

Frankie wants to say yes. But his tongue is heavy in his mouth, and he's gone dumb with pleasure to the point that he's forgotten how to speak.

In front of him, Santiago is having the time of his life (because of course the bastard is). There is a sly smile on his lips as that clever hand of his palms the small of your back. He traces the length of your spine until his hand disappears under the edge of your panties.

It doesn't take much detective work for Frankie to guess what Santiago is doing to you as you moan keenly around his cock.

"Look at her isn't she so pretty sucking your cock, Frank?"

For all that the man keeps coddling you with his words, cooing and hushing you with a soothing cadence, Santiago doesn't show you much leniency. His hand isn't stopping, even as you whimper and shake from his touch. He doesn't let up.

Even from Frankie's obscured view from the bed, he can see Santiago's fingers working into you. Finding every perfect angle that has tears stinging in the corner of your eyes until they gaze up pleadingly at Frankie with a wet glossy sheen.

Fuck, you're so fucking pretty like this.

"So fucking perfect for us. I think my only criticism is she gets so easily distracted", he teases as your hips cant up to chase his hand, for Santiago to give you more.

All Frankie can manage is a desperate groan in return. His head tilts back as the overwhelming sensation washes over him. Hips canting deeper into your mouth to have more of your lips, your tongue, more of… anything that you are willing to give him.

Your throat protests at the thick intrusion, swallowing in fits around Frankie. You whine, trying to pull back but Santiago is there pushing you forward with another encouraging string of praise.

Frankie can see the man work his fingers deeper into you and your body is wracked in another series of shivers, mouth parting until his cock slip out. You try to cover your mouth with your hand to stop a moan that breaks out, but Santiago's hand immediately shoot out to grab your wrist again to secure it to your side.

"That won't do. Put your pretty mouth back on Frank's big cock sweetheart."

"Santiago," you protest throwing him a menacing glare, a second away from telling him that it's his fault to begin with.

"Whatever I say," Santiago reminds you, parroting your own taunting words from before. "Those were the terms."

You bite your lip with a pout that is all too similar to Santiago.

In moments like this, Frankie is reminded of the closeness of the two of you. How inextricably intertwined you two are having grown up together. Two sides of the same stubborn, competitive coin. And god he loves both of you.

Swallowing your bruised pride, you bend over again, parting your lips to put your mouth back on his cock.

Heat spears through him until his eyes nearly roll into the back of his head. The last thing he sees before they do is Santiago's eyes gazing back at him.

Even behind closed eyes Frankie can't get away from it. Santiago's sweet and murmured praises as he talks about how good you are. How pretty you look. In the dark it's easy for the lines to be blurred enough that Frankie isn't entirely sure who Santiago is directing the praise at anymore. And that makes it even better.

When Frankie opens his eyes again, blinking away at the watery edges of his sanity, Santiago is right there.

One hand palming languidly at his own cock as he observes Frankie and you.

He smiles at Frankie, holding the eye contact before he moves to position himself behind you, gripping at your hips. Cock lined up and nudging against the cleft of your ass, taking his sweet fucking time like he's putting on a show for Frankie's benefit to make sure he catches every single detail. Then he pushes forward, into you.

You gasp at the new intrusion, hands flying to Frankie's hips to keep yourself steady as Santiago thrusts forward. The momentum forces your entire body further onto Frankie's cock.

It's a struggle for you to keep your mouth on him and it's a maddening sensation for Frankie. The way your tongue darts out, desperately licking and sucking around the tip of him as best as you can. All the while the man is taunting you with unrestrained glee in his tone.

"It's not too much is it cariño? You can do it. You can take me and Frankie both can't you? Be our good girl, don't stop. Keep going."

And fuck, you don't stop. Your mouth envelops the length of his cock. inch by inch as Frankie watch in delirious fascination as the thick girth disappears between your lips.

You take in so much of him, Frankie has a momentary thought of how you even manage to fit it. Then he feels himself hit the back of your throat.

Christ, Frankie's not particularly religious but he's pretty sure he sees heaven as his cock nudges the back of your throat.

Still you continue, past your limits, eyes watering as you swallow desperately around him.

"Good girl. Such a good fucking girl," Santiago repeats, as he grinds his hips into you.

His hand rests on your back, sweeping your hair to one side until your neck is bare. Then he leans over, his chest pressed along your back and presses a kiss onto your nape.

It's such a sweet gesture, completely at odds with what the man is doing to you in this moment. Then his hips come to a still, an indicator that Santiago is well on his way to implement phase two of whatever devious plan he has for the three of you tonight.

Because Frankie knows Santiago. Better than you know Santiago sometimes, it seems. He knows him well enough that what has transpired so far is just the appetizer for what's to come.

That's just Santiago. Always a step ahead of everyone else. Always an opportunist to the core, his mind is always considering and assessing and re-evaluating the situation for changes.

It's where you lose to him. You get too honed in and narrow minded, your eyes too focused on the prize in front of you. Your mind always too occupied with thoughts of winning the battle while Santiago has his eye on the horizon to emerge victorious from the war.

In front of him, Santiago's hand comes to your cheek cupping you gently as he pulls you off Frankie's cock to your confusion.

"So good for us. You wanna claim your prize hmm?" Santiago murmurs in your ear ominously.

With one arm wrapped around your front, the man lifts you up and guides you to your feet. Then he's maneuvering you onto the bed, arranging you to his liking until you're sat in Frankie's lap.

He curls his fingers around Frankie's cock, like it's a trophy for you to claim and guides Frankie to your slick and waiting entrance, until the blunt tip is nudging against your wet clit.

That clever hand steady at the small of your back, in a steady but firm pace until the entirety of Frankie's cock is fully sheathed inside you.

Fuck.

You feel so fucking good. Warm, slick and so fucking perfect. Frankie thinks he's going to lose his mind with it.

His brain cells are melting with pleasure inside his skull and he can barely pay enough attention with the way you're clutched so tightly around his cock to register that Santiago isn't next to you anymore. He's gone off somewhere, fuck knows where, as Frankie palms the soft curves of your hips to press you firmly down on him, pushing as deep as he goes.

Frankie can't stop long enough to think much else, except for the sweet pace that you're rocking forward on his cock with. He's lost in it. Drunk and inebriated on the way you feel in his arms as he rocks you up and down on his cock that he barely even notices when Santiago's back again.

This time with a bottle of lube in his hand and a shit-eating grin on his face.

Of course, that's where the clever bastard went.

"San--" you start, but your voice is cut off at the long drag of Frankie's cock inside of you as he thrusts up again.

Santiago's smile spreads even wider, predatory. "What sweetheart? Don't you want your reward?"

Frankie can hear the click of the bottle, two seconds before he registers the way that Santiago's hand slips between your legs again, and then he fucking feels it. The pressure of Santiago's finger as he presses inside of you, and fuckfuck--shit! It knocks the fucking breath out of Frankie's lungs.

The sound you make is the sweetest fucking thing that Frankie's ever heard. It's needy and desperate. It echoes in his head and he never wants it to stop. Wants to record it so he can replay it a thousand times over.

"You did so well," Santiago says, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. He stills, allowing you to adjust to the new sensation.

"You won the game tonight. Fair and square. I'm just here to give you your hard-earned prize."

Even though Frankie can't see it, he can feel it. The rigid heat of Santiago's cock nudging at your ass, inches from Frankie's cock.

"This good cariño? You want me inside you too hmm? Tell me how you want it," Santiago demands.

But there's no way you can answer the man coherently.

You're an absolute trembling, shaking mess. Can barely form a word and much less a sentence. You just keep nodding, as you keep moving up and down on Frankie's cock with a stuttering "ye-yes."

And that's not enough for the bastard

"Yes what, sweetheart?" Santiago teases.

You sob, knowing fully well you won't be able to give Santiago what he wants in this state.

But he doesn't ease up. "Try again," he says.

"Both," you try, struggling. The word panting and out of breath. "I want-- f-fuck!" It's such a high pitched sound, you practically sound like a damned squeaky to. "Please, please," you cry, tears brimming in your eyes.

That smug bastard likes that, smiling and humming as he rubs the side of his jaw along the back of your neck, scraping his prickly five o' clock shadow against your soft skin until goose bumps form in its wake.

"Ple--please, San--I want--"

"Greedy girl," Santiago rasps out. He moves back for a brief moment, and you squeak in alarm that he's gonna leave. Instead he thrusts forward and fuck, fuckFUCK!

Shit. Frankie can't breathe.

There are bright sparks in his vision. Blood rushes to his head and for a moment Frankie isn't sure if he's going blind or having a seizure.

It's electrifying, a sweet burn that zips through Frankie's spine.

The blood thrashes and swirls inside his ears. It makes every noise around him distorted, like he's under water and drowning in you.

In the far off distance, he thinks he can hear Santiago groan brokenly against your skin. Whatever bravado was there before is all but gone in his voice now.

You're so fucking tight. He can feel Santiago through you. Can feel the way your perfect cunt is clutching onto every inch of his cock... and Santiago's not even all the way inside yet.

He doesn't know if you can fit more. Everything feels tight and overwrought and so so so much. His brain is so overloaded on sensation, it takes him a second to register that both him and Santiago have stopped moving.

None of you are speaking, and Santiago isn't teasing anymore, seemingly at loss of words now.

Santiago hisses out a breath between gritted teeth. His fingers gripping into your hips until it dents the soft flesh as the man tries to hold on by his literal fingernails.

"Fuck sweetheart, you're so tight. Relax for me okay?"

And you're trying to. Frankie can tell that much. You really are. It's not like you're doing this on purpose. It's real fucking easy for Santiago to ask you to relax when Santiago's never had to try to fit two cocks inside his body.

On top of that, while Frankie's never liked to brag, he's self-aware enough to know his own size and how he's a lot to take.

Frankie's hand comes to the small of your back, stroking it to provide you with comfort in the best way he can manage in the circumstances.

"It's ok baby, it's okay. We got you," Frankie murmurs against your skin.

Behind you, Santiago's eyes are squeezed tightly shut. An expression of bliss and torture all blended together. "I'll go slow," he chokes out. "I always do don't I? Let me open you up and make you feel good,"

His voice has gone sweet and indulgent. There's nothing mocking about it now. Just pure unadulterated fondness.

Whatever game he was playing before has ended now. Frankie knows that all Santiago wants in this moment is for you to feel good.

But you're too out of it to notice Santiago's defeat and your own outright victory.

You crane your head back towards Santiago with an indignant glare, no doubt to start off what will be a round of bickering between you and the man.

And that's the last thing Frankie wants in this moment, for either of you.

And maybe Frankie's an opportunist too. Maybe he's just as bad as Santiago. Because he quickly cups your cheek, guiding you back towards his lips to cut off any words you might have for Santiago.

His other hand, moves down to the front of your stomach, sliding his palm down along the inside of your thighs until his fingers can draw along the wetness of your folds, pressing light circles against your clit.

You try to escape it, oversensitive and overstimulated. You try to press back only to be met by Santiago's firm chest caging you in, pushing you forward and back into Frankie hand.

You shake and spasm in between them. Tears brimming in the wet sheen of your eyes.

Frankie's barely done anything to you and, god you're already close somehow.

He can feel it. The rise in the pace of your breathing, the thrum of your heart beating against your chest like your very heart is trying to escape from your ribcage as your impending climax builds and builds and builds from within you.

You come with a defeated whimper into his mouth. To Santiago's rasped groan in your ear and Frankie's low moan into your mouth. Your orgasm cascades over you as you shiver in his arms and squeeze tightly around them both.

Everything is a pleasant buzz thrumming in his veins as he can sense how all of you are unwinding. Your body melting in his arms, pressed between him and Santiago as you are.

They let you recover. Let you calm down. The only movement between them, is Santiago lips dragging against your hairline fondly as if to console you.

"That good baby? Think you ready for us now?" Frankie asks.

You're still swimming in the afterwaves of your pleasure, but you nod drowsily in reply.

Santiago continues to press open mouth kisses against your cheek and jaw, before he moves back to give you space.

You whine, a little bit panicked at the sudden movement. Your hand clings onto Santiago's wrist and the man immediately stills for you.

"Stay," you plead.

"Not going anywhere sweetheart," Santiago says, there's no hint of teasing this time. No lingering bluster of pride or a need to one up you.

"I'm staying right here."

It's soft and loving.

The very same tone in his voice he held when he was gazing out at the rain on the balcony.

Frankie had a hard time placing it when he heard it the first time, but he recognizes it for what it is now.

Contentment... It's a tone so foreign on Santiago but it suits him so well. If he can, then for the rest of his life Frankie wants to make sure the man gets to keep it.

Raising one hand to the back of Santiago's neck, Frankie cups his hand over the old-worn surgery scar as he reels the man closer and seals his mouth over Santiago's.

His lips are soft and pliant against Frankie's own. Then his mouth parts with a sweet little hum that sounds all too similar to the gorgeous whines you've been making all evening.

Outside the rain doesn't stop. It rains for the whole of that week.

But Santiago was right. There are worse things in the world than being cooped up in a room with the two people you love the most.

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Author's note: We're baaaaaaaack! I know it's been a hot minute since we got some proper porn with these three! It's also the first time in months I've written proper porn so I may be rusty. Thank you for your patience everyone while I was off lusting for tall spidermen.

#pedro pascal #oscar isaac #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader x frankie morales

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