being a childe stan is hard on my phone storage:/
being a childe stan is hard on my phone storage:/
jericho_cruise- Day 1 of the Triple Whammy ✅ #JerichoCruise
There’s a reason why Polka hasn’t streamed a single Kirby game, it’s because she CANT! She knows that circus Kirby will just outshine her in every possible way in terms of entertainment. Pity, but who can blame her lol
UPDATED OCTOBER 2021
Updated/new series and one shots are in bold
Assume all stories are 18+ and contain smut (no minors). Review all author’s warnings prior to reading.
Caught On by @something-tofightfor - 1
Christmas in July: Baby It’s Cold Outside by @something-tofightfor- 1, 2, 3
Fix’er Upper by @givemethatgold - Series Masterlist Link (Ongoing)
More Than Words by @foli-vora - Series Masterlist Link (Complete)
Oblivius by @juletheghoul - Series Masterlist Link (Complete)
Quarantine AU: Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales by @mellowswriting - Series Masterlist Link (Complete)
Still of the Night by @foli-vora - Series Masterlist Link (Ongoing)
What Benny Doesn’t Know by @backtothefanfiction - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 (Complete)
Won’t Let You Go Down in My Dreams by @charnelhouse - 1, 2 (Complete)
A Good Start by @criticallyacclaimedstranger - Link
Catfish & Sunshine by @bookishofalder - Link
Distraction by @toomanystoriessolittletime - Link
Fly Me To The Moon by @pilothusband - Link
Heat Wave by @thirstworldproblemss and @astroboots - Link
It’s In My Honey, It’s In My Milk by @pilothusband - Link
Meddling Friends by @themand0lorian - Link
Of Cupcakes and Cupid by @asta-lily - Link
Roadtrip by @mylovelycomandante - Link
Roman Holiday by @frannyzooey - Link
Warm Ways by @clydesducktape - Link
Writer Wednesday contribution by @frannyzooey - Link
Check out my other Pedro character rec lists! Link
Pairing: Will Miller x F! Wife! Reader
Warnings: Domestic fluff
Triple Frontier Halloween Masterlist
Word Count: 599
Will unlocks the door to the apartment and takes stock of the situation. The mess is unbelievable even for a man who has seen the depths of hell and lived to tell about it. He slips off his shoes, silent, and follows the trail you’ve left behind. He’d trained you well, and he frowns when the path suddenly dies off before the bedroom door. The lights are off, but there is a strange orange glow emitting from under the door.
His hand hovers over the handle, letting out a relieved breath when there is no heat from the other side. The door lets out a loud creak when he twists the nod, holding his breath when he pushes the door open and sees the sight on the other side.
“Will?” you mumble, weakly, struggling to lift your head from the ground, “is that you?”
“Yeah, honey,” his voice is soft, and you reach a hand out for him, the head on your arm weighing you down. “What happened here?” he doesn’t reach back, putting his hands on his hips and glancing down at you.
“Too. Much. Candy,” your son, Thomas, moans, turning to his head in your chest.
“It was so yummy, daddy,” your daughter, Alexis, whines from your other side, “but the pain.”
The drama is strong between the twin five years old. They get this from their Uncle, you think to yourself and try not to giggle when Will bites his lip, attempting not to bust out laughing. “Your children got into the Halloween candy and decided to gorge themselves while I was in the shower washing off the makeup.”
“Why are they only my children when they get in trouble?” he asks with a chuckle, “and if it was just them, why are you on the floor?”
“I couldn’t let them suffer alone; I’m selfless, Will.”
“Obviously,” he laughs before sitting down on the ground beside Alexis; she instantly cuddles up beside him. “You okay, Princess?” he pushes her hair back and chuckles when she groans, her mouth covered in chocolate.
He unwraps a peanut butter cup at his side and takes a bite, the scent strong in the room. “I feel horrible,” she groans, glancing up at him, “how can you eat at a time like this? I’m suffering!”
You shake with the restrained laugh, threatening to spill out of your throat and Look over at your husband holding his little girl closer. “Oh sweetheart, I hope this is the worst you ever have to suffer. Come on guys, let’s get you some tums and brush your teeth and off to bed.”
The twins groan and gripe but get up and shuffle off to the bathroom, nearly bowled over with holding their stomachs. Will scoots over and hovers above you with a smile, “and how about you, mama? Will you survive?” The words are sucked out of your lungs when he bends down and kisses you, his tongue flicking out to lick the chocolate off your lips, “so sweet, honey.”
“Will,” you reach a hand up to his hair and tug him back down, tangling your tongues together in a sweet kiss. The kids shout for you both from the other room, and you drop your head back down with a groan.
“Hold on!” Will shouts back, “I’m making sure Mommy’s taken care of first!”
“Are you now?” you giggle, biting your lip, “and how do you intend to do that, daddy?”
He smiles, leaning forward to kiss you again, “I got to make sure you’re all cleaned up, honey.”
“Well, get to it, Captain.”
366 - Triple Dip 56 - Mermaid Saga, PTSD Radio, The Silver Demon
Night 4 of October Extravaganza brings us to another Triple Dip! We’re checking out Mermaid Saga, PTSD Radio, and The Silver Demon! dakazu also read Siren Rebirth, a reboot of a manga adaptation of the horror video game series Siren!!!
Get it [here] and get updates on our podcast here! [RSS]
Check out our Website!
Subscribe to our YouTube channel Manga Mac TV!
Join our Discord server and come talk to us!
Buy us a Ko-fi!
00:00:00 - Intro Song: “The One Eyed Captain” by Ian Post, Opening, Introductions, Seamus and Fireworks
00:04:08 - Whatchu Been Reading: Transition Song: “Can’t Look Down” by Ty Simon, We recall the Hitler clone manga Neun
00:06:56 - dakazu thought Siren Rebirth failed to live up to the unsettling scares from the Siren video games
00:15:30 - Next Episode Preview and Rundown: One Shot on Sensor, We’ll be reviewing the latest Junji Ito’s book about terrifying events occurring around Mount Sengoku
00:19:06 - Main Segment Triple Dip: PTSD Radio/The Silver Demon/Mermaid Saga, Transition Song: “K.I.T.T. Vs. K.A.R.R” by Ian Post, We read the beginning of each manga for discussion and to see if we’d continue reading it before picking our favorite of the three, Including:
00:20:12 - PTSD Radio by Masaaki Nakayama
00:39:58 - The Silver Demon by Hiromi Saki
00:56:27 - Mermaid Saga by Rumiko Takahashi
01:12:17 - We wrap up our discussion and pick our favorite series
01:16:08 - Next Week’s Topic: Sensor, Social Media Rundown, Sign Off Song: “Ghost Waltz” by Ziv Moran
I know when media reports use phrases like “triple homicide” it’s just a shorthand for “three individual acts of homicide committed in a single incident or series of connected incidents”, but my brain always wants to parse it as a distinct and singular criminal act. Like, they killed that guy so hard they’re being charged with triple homicide. What on Earth did they do to that poor man.
The original art (aka The Prickle Posse) belongs to @solar-socks . I had decided to insert myself into this chaos. 😂
I drew myself in the movie style and this is the first time I had used my fourth design in any drawing. I'm really glad with how this turned out (besides the pants, they look too much of the same shade. Oof.)
Frankie fic coming tonight!!
DAY #2246 - 24102021 - der Schnee kann kommen
DAY #2245 - 23102021 - Im Puzzle System für den Winter verstaut
DAY #2244 - 22102021 - Bildungssystem
Triple Take is finally becoming ground loot again! As energy ammo? Wack. Bananas, I love it. My body is ready I cannot wait for it
Now to make a separate post serenading the G7 Scout--
Distribuidor telefónico modular triple RJ 11 2600944 al MEJOR PRECIO: ➡ https://bit.ly/3CcOvMu ⬅ ✅ ónico ña
Random Headcanons that I Think About
- When Jax was young he would pretend to fix his bicycle while his dad was fixing his bike. All Jax wanted was to be like his father
Summary: Santiago and you bring out a competitive streak in each other and Frankie is always caught in the middle. Inspired by 2021 Kinktober challenge: Deep Throat & Somnophilia. This story is set in the Homecoming-verse early into their relationship.
Pairing: Santiago x female reader (you) x Frankie
Warnings: Deep throat, somnophilia (they've been married for half a decade so there is pre-established consent in this even if it is not explicitly discussed), poly-relationship, really damned explicit M/M, cum play (cause I am a whore alright?) blink and miss it hint of voyeurism.
Wordcount: 4,500 words
[Series Masterlist] [Masterlist & Tag List]
The thing with you and Santi is that you both have a dumb competitive streak. Without fail you two always find a way to compete about something incredibly stupid. More often than not Frankie ends up being caught in the middle as the hapless referee.
It always ends in one of two ways. Either you lose, Santi wins, and the man will be unbearably smug about it. His insufferableness increasing tenfold. Or you win, Santi loses, and he will do the manly adult's version of sulking.
And you? Normally you take wins and losses with equal grace, but there's something about Santi that brings out your inner five year old, and if you do not immediately descend to his level, Santi will be sure to needle you until you do.
One would think that after so many years, Santi would know to concede a loss when he sees one coming. But it is like throwing a mongoose and a cobra into a boxing ring. You’d think the snake would learn after the first time and go:
'Shit, it’s that weirdly mean rodent that keeps handing me my ass, maybe I should not engage this time.'
But no, every single time there’s a chance to compete, no matter how innocuous— a game of pool, a disagreement about an obscure World War II event, Benny asking about who J.Lo is dating now— like clockwork, Santi will raise one perfectly arched brow at you. That lightning bolt of competitiveness will flash across your eyes and off you two go.
Frankie knows all of this and yet for some godforsaken reason decided to come along with the two of you tonight, even though he knows that Thursdays at O’Learys is Quiz Night.
It started out well enough. You won the movie round, Santi won on music trivia. The point it started derailing was when it became evident that the two of you were closely matched in points and that every single answer would make or break the game.
And now Frankie’s sitting here, half an hour after the quiz actually ended. He’s tucked away in the corner booth, sipping lukewarm beer. A shitty microbrew that tasted watery and sticky sweet at the same time.
Pulling his cap down with a weary sigh, he watches the two of you arguing with the quizmaster on the answer for the largest desert on earth.
Santi thinks it’s the Sahara.
You think it’s the Antarctic desert.
Frankie thinks he is tired and would like to go home and take a nap.
In the midst of the crowded bar, Santi’s voice cuts through, measured and stern. His palms bracing each side of the mahogany counter in that familiar stance Frankie used to see when the man would be standing over blueprints before a recon, planning out his strategy with unwavering confidence. “Antarctica is not a desert. There is no sand,” Santi says.
You don’t back down from his idiocy, equally passionate with your submission. “A desert doesn’t have to have sand. It’s defined by the level of precipitation in an area. Look it up on Wikipedia.”
“Since when is Wikipedia considered a reliable source for citations?”
Frankie swears that the only person in this bar that is more done with this than he is, is the quiz master, a mammoth of a man with a tribal ink tattoo sleeve on his bulging forearm. He looks like he’s praying to the gods above for a meteorshower to rain down on this bar just to spare him from this conversation. It’s almost impressive, how your combined persistence is enough to wear down a seasoned quiz master.
The man is at a complete loss in deciding who should be the rightful winner, and that’s the problem. It’s not really about who wins. It’s about the thrill of the competition in itself. If Frankie let you, the two of you could very well stay here and hold the man hostage for weeks on end.
In the end you get a point each, ending it with another draw. And that’s the worst outcome of all. Because Frankie knows the two of you are going to take all that unresolved dog-eat-dog energy home and make it his problem somehow.
He's proven right, of course. No surprise there. Frankie knows you both so well--better than the back of his hand or the flight control system system of a Sikorsky UH-60. Loves you both too, though God only knows why.
The two of you don't even make it to his truck before you are already at it again. Battle axes drawn. Going over every single question of the night, to find technicalities to claim a pointless moral victory over the other.
For people who don’t know the two of you well enough, this might come off as bickering. For complete bystanders, who don’t have context, from the volume of your voices, they’d think you were shouting and arguing with each other. Except that’s not it at all. You’re both elated, brimming so bright with excitement it practically lights up the unlit parking lot.
You’re speaking a mile a minute. There’s a soft glow to your cheeks, eyes crinkled with your uninterrupted smile as you’re listing out to Santi all the reasons that he is wrong.
Glancing back at the rearview window, Frankie catches the small tug of a smile on Santi’s lips that he is barely able to hide. The raw delight in his eyes as that smart mouth of his defies you at every turn.
This is what Santi loves the most, to have someone go head to head with. You’re the only one that will never tire of rising to the occasion to meet him, step by step along the entire way.
Santi’s gaze locks with the rearview mirror and he’s looking straight at Frankie. “Fish help me out here.”
Of course, that stupid idiot is going to try to get him involved in this. Frankie pretends not to hear Santi and busies himself with the panel of the car, switching radio stations.
“Baby?” you prompt, and shit, he’s definitely getting dragged into this.
Frankie takes a deep steadying breath to resist rolling his eyes like a catty teenager. There’s only one way to end this.
“The Antarctic is the largest desert in the world. It encompasses 5.5 million square miles compared to the Saraha desert that’s 3.5m—”
Santi opens his mouth in protest, but Frankie cuts him off before he starts. “And no, Pope, it doesn’t matter that the Antarctic Desert isn’t covered in sand. A desert just needs to have low precipitation and hostile conditions for animals and plants and shit.”
Your lips split into a radiant smile, the taunt ready on your tongue. “Satisfied, Santiago?”
Santi throws both his hands up in the air in a gesture of admitted defeat. “Fine, not going to fight Professor Pilot on this.”
"Why is it that you always argue with me about every single thing, but you'll swallow anything as long as it comes from Frankie?
Santi doesn’t respond with words, just gives a slow curl of his lips that rises into a smirk in line with one sly eyebrow at the innuendo. Frankie has to hide a grin. The man is surprisingly childish at times, but to be fair, your phrasing was practically begging for it.
“Really, Santiago? Are you proud of yourself?”
If you were aiming to come off as the adult in this situation, you’re failing miserably. From the pitched reflection of the passenger window, he catches your expression. Your eyes glitter with amusement and your voice is practically bubbling with laughter. The two of you are loving this.
By the time he pulls the truck into the familiar driveway of your home, Frankie's ready to be done for the night, but you are still going, pecking at each other from the garage into the living room.
The two of you appear to be unwittingly recreating the argument scene from Annie Get Your Gun, and Frankie presses a kiss to your hair, thwaps Santi on his ass, and leaves you to it.
As he's heading up the stairs, he only catches the tail end of the conversation as he hears Santi tell you, "Please, princesa. Anything you can do, I can do better."
And if Frankie wasn’t half asleep already, he’d be laughing at the hilarious stupidity of it all.
“Fine, you want to put your money where your mouth is?”
Instead, he shakes his head in amusement, as he gets ready for bed, the two of you will always find something to compete over.
He can still hear the two of you downstairs as his head hits the pillow. His eyes fluttering close as sleep claims him.
The first thing Frankie registers when he wakes is that he’s hard and aching.
His eyes flutter open and all he sees is the blank slate of a ceiling. Doesn’t even know where he is—just how good he feels.
Pleasure warms and spreads from his stomach outwards, until it settles on the base of his spine with a weight that won’t be ignored.
It takes him a while to make sense of where he is, content to linger in the haziness between sleep and wakefulness until another dizzying spell of pleasure spears through him. It has him scrambling, fingers gripping into the most nearby surface he can find to anchor himself. Cotton sheets, he realizes as he palms the soft material underneath— he’s in bed.
Christ, he feels so fucking good. In his sleep-drunk state, it takes him much too long to recognize why. Heat crackles down his thighs, and all he wants is to fist his own cock and thrust up for relief.
His hand trails downwards, but before he even gets close, his wrist is captured and pinned to the mattress. Then he hears the familiar honeyed tone of your voice, “morning baby,” followed by that sweet heat of a soft tongue dragging along the hard line of his cock, and he shivers into it.
Into your touch and your perfect mouth.
The moment of clarity lasts for all of two seconds before he hears Santi's voice coming from the same direction.
"Shit, my jaw is sore.” Santi rubs his thumb over his jaw as if to show you and garner your sympathy. “It’s like trying to swallow a goddamned beer can. How do you do this without your jaw cramping up?”
Drawing his eyes downwards, it takes Frankie’s brain several moments to process what he’s actually seeing. His cock is nestled between Santi and you, inches from your mouths, shiny and slick with saliva. He doesn’t know if it’s yours or Santi’s or both—fucking Christ, does he want it to be both.
Curling your fingers around the base of Frankie's cock, you shoot Santi a smug grin.
“With practice,” you say, then you wrap your plush lips around the sensitive tip of Frankie’s cock and slide down, taking him in with one long practiced glide.
Fuck you’re good at this. It has him moaning, hips lifting off of the mattress into your hot, wet mouth. The pleasure of it is white and blinding and so fucking perfect.
Any disapproval Frankie may have had in him at the unsexy allegory of his dick being compared to a fucking beer can (even if it is a compliment that makes him the tiniest bit smug) melts away into a quiet groan that sounds perilously close to a whine.
Santi groans too.
"What?" Santi says, unrepentant when you pause--Frankie's cock deep in your mouth--and shoot him a raised eyebrow. He reaches out to wipe the shiny line of drool that's escaping the corner of your mouth. "That was hot."
It’s close enough to pass for a sincere compliment from Santi. Enough to make you smile even as your lips are stretched full around Frankie’s cock. The sight of it is so fucking gorgeous, Frankie can’t help the way his cock twitches against your tongue.
And he’s pretty sure Pope feels the same. Because Frankie can see the muscles in his forearms flexing, as the man tightens his grip around his own cock, giving it a firm squeeze as he watches you.
Frankie's mouth is dry, his voice throaty when he tries to speak. He gets as far as "G'mor–ngh" before his air cuts off because fuck he can feel himself hitting the back of your throat.
Blinking up at him with big shiny eyes, you hold his gaze for a gorgeous second and then sink down a few inches more. He can feel the way you swallow around him, fighting down the inevitable gag reflex as you take him past your limits. Feels how his cock is enveloped by the blissful warmth of your mouth. How you stay there for so long Frankie forgets how to breathe. It's enough to make him want to flood your throat with his release.
It’s surprisingly affectionate when Santi reaches out and gently draws your hair away from your shoulders, gathering it in his fist and holding it in place for you. "Do that again," he murmurs, voice filled with something akin to awe, "swallow him all the way."
Santi is staring blatantly at you, at Frankie’s cock disappearing between your saliva slickened lips, like he’s unwilling or unable to look away. His eyes hungry for it. It’s the same look he had the first time he was in this bed with the two of you, and it sends fire streaking down Frankie's spine all over again.
Frankie's not an exhibitionist. Doesn't get off on the idea of being watched and finds the thought of "getting caught" stressful. But right now, having those dark brown eyes focused on him has every nerve in Frankie's body singing out with want. He wants Santi to watch. To never stop watching him.
Because it's Santiago. It's always been Santiago. The man just has that effect on him.
Then you pull back, pausing to curl your fingers around the girth of him before your lips leave his cock with a sloppy wet sound that has Frankie reeling. His back tingles.
Turning towards Santi, you flash him your most brilliant smile, all challenge as you tilt the throbbing length towards the man's mouth like it's a delicious treat you're offering to share with him. "Your turn."
Santi chuckles, a huffed out breathy laugh. "Don't know how I'm supposed to follow that act, cariño."
"Try, Santi," you say, kissing the underside of Frankie’s cock, and his stomach clenches at the brush of your soft plush lips. "I'll take what you can't handle. Isn’t that what you said?” you murmur lips dragging against the fine gritted stubble that Frankie can practically feel on his own lips through yours, the stinging prickle. “You can do anything I can but better right?”
The man can never back down from a challenge. But there's a second of pause, and something flickers in Santi's eyes. For once it's not his boundless competitive drive. Instead, it's a look Frankie's not used to seeing on Santi's face--something akin to hesitation.
Maybe you sense it too because you lean up until your mouth presses to Santi’s cheeks.
“Can’t you show me, honey? Show me how well you can suck Frankie’s cock.”
It’s an encouragement and a challenge all at once, and as ever it’s a testament to how well you know Santiago.
A sharp hiss of air escapes between Santi’s teeth, and Frankie can see that man’s pretty cock flushed red with impatience. The dark wet patch where Santi’s cock has been rubbing–dripping onto the sheets. The incriminating string of silvery thread connecting Santi’s cock to the spot.
Santi nods, an almost compliant gesture that makes Frankie that much more lightheaded. Then his head leans down, lips parted, and he fits his mouth over the fat tip of Frankie’s cock.
Fuck, is this even real?
Maybe Frankie died of a heart attack in his sleep and this is all a simulated version of heaven. Or maybe he caught pneumonia and this is all a feverish dream.
He scrambles for proof that this is in fact real, not just an illusion born from his depraved mind or one more questionable wet dream in the embarrassingly long series of explicit dreams he's had about this man. The only thing he can come up with is that Santi's lips are so fucking soft. So much softer than he ever imagined or dreamed they would be. Less practiced than he thought Santi would be too. The rhythm uneven as he tests his way forward, trying to gauge what Frankie likes the most. There’s something about the slightly hesitant movements of it that makes it even better.
Then he’s sinking down, taking a page from your book and imitating what he saw from you. But Santi, for all his stubbornness and stubborn enthusiasm, doesn’t manage to get very far. Try as he might, he can’t seem to overcome his gag reflex. Frankie feels him struggle, can feel the tight resistance of Santi’s throat spasming around the head of his cock.
Santi can barely fit Frankie halfway in his mouth, but it doesn’t even matter, because fuck, this is Santiago. He’s wanted this for so many years and now that it’s here, it’s mind-numbingly good. Everything burns sweet within him and for several long moments he entirely forgets to breathe.
"Go slow, Santiago," you encourage him softly.
Your usual sharp competitiveness is nowhere to be found. The challenge in your tone has melted into something honeyed, and you murmur sweet nothings into Santi's ear, pressing a line of kisses along the sharp line of that gorgeous jaw as you encourage him to take Frankie deeper.
Then he does.
And fucking Christ, Santi's nearly there, the tip of his nose tickling at the sparse hair of the base of his cock.
“Stay, Santi,” you murmur, thumb tracing the whitened scar on the back of his neck. Not exerting any pressure, just a reminder and encouragement. “Frankie likes it that way. Stay as long as you can.”
Even from above, he can see Santiago shiver at the fine sensation of your touch. You lean closer, pressing your lips to those muscular shoulders with open-mouthed kisses. Kisses that make Santi's throat squeeze around him with something that might have been a moan if Frankie's cock wasn't in the way.
Sharp blinding heat settles against the base of Frankie's spine, and it's all he can do not to come down Santi’s throat, right there and then.
“You’re doing so good. Such a good boy, Santiago,” you praise as you press another kiss to the side of Santi’s hollowed cheek.
Your voice is soft and encouraging and Frankie wonders if the sight of Santi like this has made you forget about the flimsy pretense of any competition between you two.
Santi doesn't seem convinced that's the case. He pulls back far enough to make an indignant sound at your praise and sucks a desperate breath before plunging down again. It almost passes for a protest.
Because of course, he can’t just take the compliment. Of course, he has to put up some show that he doesn’t want to be condescended to. Has to pretend it doesn’t affect him. And maybe Frankie would buy it if it weren’t for the way that Santi’s hips are grinding against the mattress, more needy and desperate with each word you whisper into his ear.
Santi pulls off his cock, plush lips made even more swollen as he gulps air into his lungs like it burns him.
It’s Frankie’s turn to watch Santiago now. He watches Santi lean into your touch, as your fingers gently brush back the lock of hair that’s fallen into his eyes. Watches as the two of you share gentle intimate kisses that make his heart squeeze tight in his chest. Watches as you both turn back to him, and then Frankie's whole body lights up with pleasure, eyes nearly rolling back in his head. He fights it, forcing his eyes to stay focused so he can keep watching as the fat glistening tip of his cock emerge between both of your swollen lips.
It should be depraved, the wet sounds and saliva that shines slick against your tongues and lips, the connecting silvery thread from your plump mouths to his cock. But it’s also strangely tender, and sweet. Slow-paced and thorough as you both take your time like you are trying to draw out this moment for your own enjoyment and pleasure as much as it is for Frankie.
He doesn’t even know what’s sexier, the way that Santi’s eyes are closed with a determined focus as he sucks on his cock. Or the way your eyes never leave his, your hair sticks to your sweat-dampened forehead as you smile up at him with a playfulness that makes his head spin.
“How are you feeling baby?” you ask, “Santi's doing a good job isn't he? Tell Santiago how good he's making you feel."
“So good,” Frankie slurs, and he barely recognizes his own voice. He sounds drunk. Can’t find the words. "Shit, Pope. S'good. Feels so fuckin' good."
“Yeah baby?” you coo, your palm kneading his hip, at the sore muscle you find there and he arches into the pleasant touch, heat and pressure simmering in his guts in that all familiar tell.
“You think you’re close? Think you can come for us like this?”
He is. He’s going to if you don’t—
“Fuck, fuck, baby I— I–”
You don’t even let him finish. Lips trailing down the slope of his stomach. Your cheeks are soft and smooth against the inside of his thighs as you press overindulgent kisses over the sensitive flesh there. It’s all soft and sweetness in a way that drives him absolutely mad. White streaking pleasure and blind heat. He’s so fucking close he can taste it.
Then comes the sharp sting of your teeth biting down on the firm muscle. An edged pleasurable pain that spreads everywhere, burning sweetly up his spine—and Frankie is gone.
His cock throbs, flooding Santi’s mouth with his spend. Spilling in endless pulses across the man’s tongue. There's a choked cough, a sound of someone gasping for air, but Frankie barely registers it. He's so far gone that the only thing he knows is regret when the soft wet heat of Santi's mouth pulls away from his still throbbing cock.
Opening his eyes, Frankie sees a clear line of cum stripe across Santi's face and chin, then you take over, leaning in to wrap your lips around his cock with a happy hum and swallowing him down to take the rest of his release down your throat.
His fingers twist into the sheets, scrambling for an anchor to keep him there with the two of you as you’re still swallowing down every line and drop of cum he has to give you and—
Fuck he’s still coming.
You don’t stop even as the aching bliss pours from inside out to the point of the unbearable. Don’t stop until his raw groans melt into a moan and teeters into a staggered whimper, and Frankie is absolutely sure he cannot take anymore.
When you're done--after your lips finally pull off of his cock--you immediately reach for Santi. Before he has a chance to react, you grab the man by the back of his neck, fingers digging into his unruly curls, and pull him to your mouth. Dipping in between those swollen lips, letting Santi taste the spend that is still warm and bitter on your tongue.
Moaning gratuitously into your mouth, Santi brings a hand up to tilt your head further back so he can lick into your mouth properly. It’s a deep and indulgent kiss that gradually winds down into something a bit more playful, small bites and kisses. Then you pull away to kiss and lick at the traces of Frankie's cum still smeared across Santi's chin and cheek. The nub of your thumb reaches up to wipe the last remnant from Santi's cheek and slip it between his puff-swollen lips for one last taste.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Between the way Santi’s closing his eyes as if to savor it, and the quiet hum he makes, Frankie doesn’t think he can survive any of this. His entire face is burning, the base of his skull prickling with feverish heat. If he looked away or closed his eyes to ground himself, he could calm down but he can’t. Wouldn’t miss even a second of it for anything.
Your hand trails down between your bodies until that soft hand is tight around Santi's flushed cock. There’s a firm squeeze of your hand and Santi lurches into your fist, hips stuttering. You look at him with that challenging competitiveness in your eyes. "Say it.”
"Fuck," Santi growls, and the tone of it, deep with need, has arousal pool in Frankie's lower abdomen. His own cock is already giving a twitch of interest despite the adrenaline that is still rushing hot in his veins from the aftershocks of his orgasm.
"Christ, woman. Fine,” Santi concedes, and Frankie’s transfixed with the movement of Santiago’s throat as he swallows down his whole damn pride. “You're better at it."
“And?” you purr, goading him.
Santi grits his teeth. He’s putting on a show like the next words are the most painful thing he’s ever had to say in his adult life, but there’s that subtle tug near the corner of his lips, threatening a smile that lets Frankie know that’s all it is—a front. For once in his life, the competitive bastard doesn’t seem to mind losing.
“You win,” Santi finally bites out.
There's a victorious grin that splits your lips, and then you bend down, pressing a kiss to Santi’s navel and the muscles on his abdomen jump at the contact.
"Clever boy," you say, "that wasn't so hard was it?"
There’s no funny quip or smart remark from Santiago, he just concedes.
It does something funny to Frankie, to see the most stubborn man in the universe surrender to you. Something akin to pride for you simmering in his chest, because he knows better than anyone that Santiago Garcia never admits defeat.
But maybe defeat isn’t the right way to look at it, because when he eyes Santi, defeat is the farthest thing he sees there. The smile Santi gives you when you settle between his legs is careless. His dark eyes gone soft, and he’s gazing at you like you hung up the whole of the night sky, one star at a time.
Those soft lips of yours wrap around Santi’s cock. His head lulls back, baring the graceful line of his throat with parted lips and all that comes out is a defenseless moan.
A defeat and a win in the best of ways for the man.
Dedicated: as always to @thirstworldproblemss the m**** t**** l**** of my heart, who has gone through this with me three times because this whole thing was an absolute train wreck and she wrote so many of the best lines in this so that it even made any semblance of sense. I love you so much and I will never tire of embarrassing you for the world to see.
Also big big thank you to @songsformonkeys and @jazzelsaur who gave this a once and second glance-over and provided me with a good dose of talking down and also amazing advice and pointers—when I tried to yeet this out of the space airlock and hide the evidence it ever existed.