Finding my way back to who I once was @dihra-vesa - Tumblr Blog

Oct 27, 2022

In the Air

Summary: 7 months later, Frankie and you haven't stopped thinking about your weekend in the woods with Marcus Moreno. But how do you take lightening in a bottle and keep it close forever? And what happens when three people try to decide they're ready for more? A direct follow-up to Like A River.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Female Reader x Marcus Moreno

WC: 9.1K

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. References to canonical type violence, military imagery, ptsd, grief, threesome, polyamorous relationship, yearning, cursing, drinking. M/M dynamics, M/F/M dynamics, dirty talk, anal play, P in V, masturbation, frottage adjacent, cum play. Look, this one is...filthy. Please, if I missed something let me know, and I will update.

Series Masterlist II Main Masterlist

It’s a dream. One that seems to start as a nightmare, and Frankie can’t seem to remember that neither one is real.

His rank is high. His uniform is crisp. His hair is short. His face is aged, the years pressed harshly into every wrinkle, each line. Behind him is a line of men. No. Boys. Gangly and wide-eyed and seconds from following him to their death. He wants to scream at them to run, order them away from whatever battle lies ahead, but his lips are sealed shut. A good soldier, through and through.

It’s wrong. It doesn’t fit. This is not where his story ends. It’s barely where it started.

He was a kid, just dreaming of a way out and up, eyes always trained on the sky above him. A head in the clouds and a heart too big, they would say. He didn’t fit, even when he tried, desperate to have the puzzle pieces fit together. But it only ended with the edges fraying, the mess growing inward, tangling up inside him, impossible to free. Parents – disappointed in a military son, wife – horrified as his pain grew into addiction, daughter – caught hopelessly in the middle.

Then suddenly the nightmare is different. It shifts and shapes around him, leaving him dizzy even in his sleep. And without warning he’s with you, the two of you wrapped together, your trembling lips pressed to his neck, icy fingers snaked beneath his coat, finding warmth just above his heart. Far too intimate for just a friend but still not nearly as much as he dared to admit.

Frankie knows this place. He hates this place.

He loves it too.

You’re cold, wet, the mountains of Colombia surrounding you, a tall cage blocking out everything. It felt hopeless then, just the same now, the fogginess of a dream keeping reality at bay. The road ahead is bleak, the trail behind not much better. A broken marriage waiting for him, another man’s ring for you, neither of you knowing how to settle but so unsure how to ask for more.

But then.

Your voice is clear, a sweet reprieve despite the rain, despite the dream, patiently calling his name.

I can’t marry him, Fish.

Why he asked.

He couldn’t see your eyes. Not then. Not now. Here in this dream. But he remembers your tears.

You didn’t tell him why. Not that night. Not for a while.

But then there was a kiss. Is a kiss.

And when it breaks the open air is beneath you both, bright blues melting into soft shades of white and grey, his grip firm around the throttle of his helo. Someone else sits behind you. Frankie knows who it is. He just needs to turn his head to check, and he knows he’ll see a smile, a dimple, a hero. But your voice is still steady in his ear, as patient as ever, asking him to keep his eyes on the sky.

It’s harder back on solid ground.

But even on his worst days. Even in his nightmares.

Frankie always feels safer in the sky.

“You’re still thinking about him.”

Your voice floats down to meet Frankie’s ears, your hand making a soothing path through his curls, his head cushioned on the soft pillow of your thigh as you both come down from the rise and fall of your orgasms. The statement sits in the air, mingling with your breath and the patter of rain against the window pane. He knows exactly who you’re talking about, and he knows it’s little use to deny. Both of you always seem to be thinking about him; a pair of brown eyes and plush lips, watching you from across a small tent, shy smiles mixed with gasps of pleasure.

“Yeah,” he hums, letting the tip of his finger trail up the inside of your leg, biting a grin to the inside of his cheek when the muscle tremors just barely beneath his light touch. After a beat, he asks, “You too?”

You answer back quietly, your voice steady with the confidence of no secrets. One more benefit to facing hell on earth with the woman you love.

“Me too.”

It should feel strange, Frankie thinks, lying in bed with you, your body pulled loose and so perfectly pliant, a sated fatigue covering you both, while thinking of another man. There had certainly been other people– that cute girl that used to tend bar down at Sam’s, a guy from that salsa club you had begged Frankie to take you to, Benny one night after too much tequila (of which you still tease each other about, a fond protective sort of care in regards to that night) – but none of them had ever lingered. Their presence was simply a ship in the night; an indulgence Frankie and you allowed yourselves from time to time but never feeling the need to discuss it further than just some harmless fun.

But that day–

Two days, Frankie corrects himself, allowing himself a smile as he sits in the memory of swimming in a river, the water cold, too cold, just like he had predicted. The three of you found warmth in each other’s arms after, pressing your bodies closer and closer, his lips finding his finding yours as you stroked each other to completion, just as comfortable and easy as it had been the night before.

Marcus had been quiet after, helping pack up camp with a focused silence, lost in his thoughts and hiding it poorly. Frankie hadn’t found the courage to ask until they were saying goodbye, awkward handshakes and an overly polite thank you that were all together too professional and nearly broke his heart in the process. By then it had been too late and the two of you watched as Marcus Moreno walked out of your hangar, head hanging low and fists balled tight.

“We should call him.”

It isn’t the first time you’ve suggested it. You both have over the past few months, usually in passing, when something or someone reminds you of Marcus Moreno. A new trendy coffee shop pops up that serves the drinks in camping mugs, one of Mia’s classmates is seen carrying a Heroics lunchbox, someone at the bar makes a joke about being afraid of heights. Without even trying, the man is ever-present. A ghost in their lives despite the fact that maybe he doesn’t have to be.

Frankie wants to agree immediately, actually has to physically stop himself from sitting up and reaching for his phone, choosing instead to turn his face into your leg, breathing in the overwhelming scent of you, letting his nose sit directly in the still sticky mess of your orgasm.

They could call him. Should. But the time that has passed is enough to sow small seeds of doubt. Quiet on most days, loud on the worst.

Did Marcus think of them? Miss them? When he looked back on those days together was it with fondness? Regret? Is he content with an itch scratched or does he yearn for more? More love. More time. Just… more.

The hand in his curls tugs lightly, your other tapping his cheek three times to get his attention, until finally he’s forced to turn back up to face you, a somber smile meeting his eyes, and he’s reminded of the water you love so much, flowing around him, a steady beat that holds him up.

“What has you worried, Fish? You’re usually better at saying what you want.”

He breathes in slowly, trying to calm his nerves enough to speak but when the silence goes on a beat too long he looks away. Your teasing voice finds him anyway.

“The worst he can say is no.”

Frankie nods, eyes unable to rise from where they trace the patterns of the bedspread, again and again in a futile attempt to slow his racing heart, but it’s fruitless. The tears sting anyway.

“Exactly.”

Marcus leans back in his chair, letting his head lay against the black leather, eyes closed to the late afternoon sun blasting through the windows. He could get up and close the blinds. Maybe that would help kill the headache blooming at the base of his neck? The one he knows is going to follow him home, some terrible shadow hanging around through dinner and homework and the cooking show Missy had been begging him to watch. But he can’t seem to make his legs move. He’s preoccupied. Mind fixated on one, no, two other things.

Months. It’s been months. And still all he can think about is that weekend in the woods. Lightning in a bottle. Electricity tingling in the air that, if he had wanted, maybe he could have bottled to keep. The thoughts are constant; Your skin, Frankie’s laugh, your kiss. His eyes, your hands, his smile. The presence of you is constant, overwhelming in the best and worst ways. Two more ghosts to hover just behind him, haunting each step that takes him further and further away.

Selfishly he wonders, do you think about him too? Do the pair of you lay in bed together and remember that night? Do you talk about it? About him?

He leans forward, elbows braced on his desk, unblinking eyes barely focused on the computer screen in front of him. His cell phone buzzes beside him, but Marcus ignores it, instead turning his head to survey the pictures just to his right. Perfectly framed moments of his life, frozen in time, reminding him of everything he had. Has. Annie. Missy. His mom. He considers their smiling faces, and not for the first time today lets himself sink into the guilt of wanting more. It’s a slippery slope, and he’s quick to shake it away, instead focusing solely on Annie’s photo. It was taken the day after Missy was born, her hair tangled, shirt filthy, eyes tired.

She was so beautiful.

What would she have wanted for him?

Oh, I think you know.

Marcus barks out a laugh, rolling his head left to right before leaning back in his chair again. She would choose now to chime in, her teasing voice digging in his ear, reminding him exactly what he already knows.

He does know what he wants.

But what about them?

He reaches for his cell phone, remembering the message from earlier that he had stubbornly ignored, hoping work can, at the very least, be a helpful distraction. It’s probably something Heroics related. A news blurb. Or a problem in need of fixing. Ruffled feathers requiring smoothing.

It has him instantly exhausted.

He blinks the phone awake, only one text message waiting for him on the screen.

F: Drinks tonight? - 🐟🐦

The table is small, but Marcus thinks maybe you picked it on purpose. Something about the way you’re smiling behind the lip of your beer bottle as he and Frankie squish in around you, looking far too pleased at having their large shoulders pressed up against your own. When your hand lands on his knee, giving a gentle squeeze before resting there for good, he finds he’s pretty damn pleased too.

The conversation is tense, the three of you dancing around the elephant in the room, but it’s getting harder for Marcus by the second. He’s acutely aware of Frankie’s lips, how they wrap around his beer, head tipping back to drain the bottle, neck on display and the perfect angle for him to lean over and sink his teeth into. Your hand is still on his knee, not moving, not an inch, but the weight is present, a persistent reminder of what it felt like on his bare skin.

He bites at the inside of his cheek, thumb rubbing at the condensation on his own beer, the paper label peeling beneath his finger. He’s certain the whole bar can hear his depraved thoughts but at this point he doesn’t care. All he can think about is your hand on his leg- did it just move higher?- and Frankie’s lips - why aren’t they on his right now?- and suddenly this bar is too crowded, too loud, too everything and he doesn’t know what to say or do next.

“Hey,” your voice in his ear breaks Marcus out of his panic, and he clings to it, willing his heartbeat to slow and his mind to focus, but all he feels is unbearable heat, his cheeks suddenly too warm. He wishes he had worn his glasses, if only to have something to do with his hands, but his overactive mind told him that neither of you would recognize him with the black plastic hiding his face.

“Hey,” he parrots back, looking directly at you, then at Frankie, and without warning, the pilot says what all of them have to be thinking.

“This is fucking awkward.”

And just like that, the bubble bursts, all three of them laughing, shoulders and knees knocking as they lean in closer.

“It is awkward! Why?” You practically shout, before leaning your head onto Marcus’s shoulder, batting your eyelashes, implying you already know the answer and are anxious to hear him say it. You look so pretty beneath the dim bar lights that he can’t help but play along.

“I can think of a few reasons. How about you, Morales?”

“One or two, Fullmetal,” Frankie chimes in, the nickname filling his belly with a pleasant flutter. The other man doesn’t miss his reaction, licking his lips and folding his large hands around his beer bottle, devastatingly distracting in how his thick fingers overlap. Things get a little easier from there.

“Did you have trouble finding the place?” Frankies asks, his knuckles knocking on the tabletop, his own anxieties betraying him with that one simple tick.

“No, it wasn’t bad. Just a little ways away from headquarters.”

The word headquarters seems to dig at both of them, Frankie’s knuckles knocking again on the wood, your grip going tight on his thigh for a beat before loosening again.

“Have you been back out…in the field, I mean…since…?”

The unspoken words sit heavy in the air, your voice tapering off, and Marcus finishes the questions for you, the ridiculously honest thought inside his head sitting on the tip of his tongue – since we fucked each other in that tent?

Instead he bites the inside of his cheek, taps his fingers an inch away from Frankie’s and says, “I have.”

“And you’re being safe?”

It’s Frankie that asks him, the tap of his knuckles close enough this time too graze Marcus’s fingers. He meets the other man’s eyes, tongue dry and eyes wet, jerking his head in time with his answer.

“As I can be.”

It’s reminiscent of Annie, the fear that would shine in her eyes echoed back at him now; the truth that this is what he does and this is who he is. A hero. There are days where it’s more dangerous than silly and here he is, tangling two more people in this world. Marcus takes a long sip of his beer, swallowing one, two, three times, to drown the guilt before it can rise up from inside him. He shakes his head, smiles, and changes the subject.

“How is Mia?”

“She’s starting Pre-K soon! Can you believe it?”

A second round of beers, a basket of pretzels, and endless pictures of the girls traded back and forth fill the rest of the evening. Your hand lingers along his thigh, never going any higher but the warmth of your touch is persistent, a perfect match to Frankie’s eyes, toffee brown beneath the dingy bar lights. He feels safe, protected, just enough that he sets the question he’s been carrying around in his heart free.

“So where do we go from here?”

Marcus wishes he could take the words back the minute they leave his mouth, the neediness in his tone filling him instantly with dread. He turns his eyes back to his beer bottle, wondering if it’s possible at the age of 40 to develop a new superpower. Maybe one that gives him the ability to sink deep, deep into the ground. But just like the text message he sent earlier, Frankie is there to save him from the spiraling disaster of his mind.

“We date.”

It’s said so plainly. The most obvious answer in the world but still it catches Marcus off-guard. It’s in this moment, this exact moment, that he realizes that’s what he wants. He doesn’t want just one more night or two. He doesn’t want to walk away again. He wants the chance at all the nights. Every night.

He wants the chance for more.

“We date,” he parrots back, a small grin cheating at the corner of his lips. Beneath the table he feels your hand squeeze his leg, your head still on his shoulder, your voice in his ear.

“We date.”

You sneak up behind Frankie and admire his shoulders, the bright blue button-up pulling tight across his wide back. He’s fussing with his curls, pushing them up and back and down again and you grin like a mad woman, wondering if this is how he was before your first date. All nerves and butterflies, hemming and hawing over what he wore or what flowers to bring.

It makes your already nervous stomach flip again, just the same as it did the night Francisco picked you up for your first official date, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his shaking hands, a reservation at a fancy restaurant that you definitely missed. It feels so similar that you can’t help but smile, knowing in your heart that can only mean you should stay the course.

You, of all people, knew what it felt like when that feeling was missing. It was palpable; a wound, gaping and exposed, barely beating with the hollow pain. It had taken you two years, a diamond ring on your finger, and the cold mountain terrain of Colombia for you to finally admit that’s what you had been settling for. First to yourself, then to Frankie, the two of you huddled for warmth and wondering if you’d even get to make it home to see any of it through.

Even now, it doesn’t feel like you’ve yet to make it to the other side.

But you’re getting closer.

You cough lightly, alerting Frankie of your presence before stepping behind him, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck, allowing yourself a moment to inhale the woodsy smell of his aftershave before you step back to meet his eyes in the mirror. He drops his hands and matches your smile, waiting patiently for you to speak first.

“Hoping to get lucky, Morales?”

He casts a glance over his shoulder, making a show of looking you up and down, honey-sweet eyes lingering where your sundress hits the tops of your thighs. You know he knows– Frankie always knows– that you aren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Could say the same to you, Bluebird.”

He turns back to the mirror, hands moving from his hair down to the collar of his shirt, tugging at it as if it’s choking him, a truly ridiculous notion with the top two buttons undone, giving you the perfect view of his chest, the smattering of freckles a perfect constellation trailing from his neck down. Finally you can take no more. You still his hands with your own, placing one more kiss, just a hair more pressure, to his pulse point.

Frankie does you one better, leaning down and capturing your lips, the kiss centering you both where you stand, bodies pressed together in the small confines of your bathroom. He holds you there, one hand cupped gently around the curve of your cheek, the other bunching in the fabric of your dress, dragging it up, the heat of his thigh pressing between your legs.

Heat sparks warm inside you, swirling low in your belly, his tongue slipping between your lips and curling sweetly around your own. It’s searing and insistent and when the kiss breaks, Frankie leaves a sigh on your tongue and a need in your chest.

Any other night you would both say fuck it, canceling any and all plans before leaning back in for another kiss and another and another, until the ground was falling out from beneath you.

But tonight–

“Let’s go Bird. He’ll be waiting.”

Frankie turns his truck carefully off the road, following the dirt path that’s been carved gradually over time. He can feel the shift of Marcus’s shoulder, moving down and away from his fingertips to look out the window, his hand flexing where it rests in an uneasy way across your knee.

He’s nervous.

Frankie can tell by the way his tongue is poking at his cheek, his brows pinched beneath his glasses– the ones that Frankie hadn’t been expecting when the front door opened. The ones that had sent all the blood in his brain south immediately, just from the perfectly innocent way they framed Marcus’s eyes.

He was dressed casually, a tan polo, just a shade darker than his skin, stretched across the width of his chest, only one shiny black button fastened, giving them both the perfect view of his neck, his adam’s apple bobbing as he looked them both up and down.

His eyes seemed to linger around the hem of your dress, a smirk tilting at the edge of his cheeks, and when he glanced at Frankie, it was with a knowing wink. You watched it all, your own smile wide, bouncing on the balls of your feet, a bouquet of yellow petals hugged tight to your chest. When you offered them to Marcus, his teasing grin softened, not an ounce of embarrassment painting his features as he brought the flowers to his nose, his whole body expanding as breathed in their sweet scent.

Your voice only waivered slightly when you explained their meaning.

“Daffodils are meant for new beginnings.”

The flowers sit in his lap now, Marcus refusing to let go of them, the hand not curled around your knee still clutched around their cellophane wrapped stems, the plastic crinkling in harmony with the sound of the truck tires on gravel. He leans further forward, the sunset catching in his eye line as he looks at the road ahead, but he doesn’t ask where they’re headed, trusting them to lead him the same way they did all those months ago.

It’s another 20 miles down the dirt path, the three of you quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the creak of the crickets. It’s a comfortable night, both windows rolled down, the wind lifting his curls and playing with the hem of your dress, cool enough to encourage your body to fit in closer to his, but not so much that you pull away from Marcus’s comforting grip. It’s easy to settle into, him and you and him, all pressed inside the cabin of Frankie’s old truck, as if the weathered bench seat was made with this exact night in mind.

The sun is mostly gone by the time he slows to a stop, throwing the gear shift into park and sliding out of the driver’s seat, his boots hitting the familiar patch of dirt, the grass worn away by years of tread. You and Marcus follow quietly, and without prompting you move to the bed of the truck, releasing the tailgate and climbing up, deviously intentional with the way you let your dress ride up, exposing your bare thighs to the open air. Somewhere behind him, Marcus makes a choked off noise, one that already has Frankie’s mouth watering.

“You boys gonna help or what?”

You’re standing now, the box at the far end of the truck bed kicked open, half the pillows and blankets stored inside already piled around your feet. The storage compartment is meant for tools, but Frankie learned long ago he could get most jobs done with what fit inside his toolbox, never feeling the need for anything extra. The pillows and blankets came in handy more often than any electric drill or saw ever could, and allowed Frankie the opportunity to keep you out beneath stars whenever the fancy found its way to his heart.

The three of you make quick work, spreading out layer after layer of blankets, old comforters, and hand knit throws, pillows piled around the walls of the truck bed, and two camping lanterns and a cooler set to the side to complete the set up. It’s been done a thousand nights in a thousand different ways, but the view still sends butterflies curling up inside Frankie’s belly, the feeling only screaming louder at the way Marcus takes it all in with quiet contemplation.

You're steady in all things, but especially now, pulling them both down into the make-shift nest, eyes sparkling brighter than the stars that have just begun to blink to life. Cheap beers are twisted open and passed around, a cold bite to parch dried throats, and giving all three of you a chance to gather your bearings.

“What is this place anyway?” Marcus asks, taking a small sip of his beer before setting it safely to the side. His eyes trace the skyline, the caramel of his irises flitting from star to star, losing himself in the wide open space laid out before them.

The sky is a melting cascade of dark blues that bleed to purple and pink, a smattering of trees in the distance, and hidden behind it, a small creek they take Mia to on the weekends. It’s as close to an oasis as Frankie knows, and he doesn’t really even know how to say it.

“We come out here to watch the stars. Probably at least once, twice a week,” Frankie admits, his thumb hooking through the loop of an old holiday blanket, the green and red faded to murky hues, the yarn soft between his fingers. “I brought Bluebird here…”

“On our first date,” you chime in, just a breath softer than Frankie, eyes never leaving Marcus, something caught between a challenge and a promise in your words.

Marcus stills, his brows pinched beneath his glasses, fists flexing at his sides, the levity of it all seeming to find him yet again. He looks at both of you before glancing back at the stars, and then, like a rubber band pulled too tight, he snaps.

He presses himself into you, lips smashed together, finesse sacrificed in the name of desperation, your bodies molding together in a tangle of limbs. He kisses you again and again, quick and insistent, your cheeks cradled between his hands. He can’t seem to stop now that he’s started, and it’s only when your hand curls around his wrist, thumb brushing gently along his pulse point does he settle into a more relaxed pace, lips parting for your tongue to taste.

Frankie watches, can’t help but, his jeans growing tighter with every sigh you pull from Marcus. He palms himself, feeling his cock harden beneath the barely there pressure, moaning in time with your own. It’s enough for him now, content to watch you move together, Marcus’s large frame crowding over you, a fire blooming to life in Frankie’s gut, his mouth going dry.

Marcus slots his leg between your own, one leg hitching up around his hip, the hem of your dress bunching up enough to give Frankie a view of your ass, goosebumps chasing the cold air across your bare skin. Your hand sneaks beneath Marcus’s shirt, and the change is obvious, his face crumpling in at the tender stroke of your hand along the small of his back, and he pulls you closer, somehow closer, breaking the kiss and burying his head into the curve of your neck.

A hand, then two, reaches back for him, yours and Marcus’s. Frankie goes to them, his front to Marcus’s back, letting the hook of his nose trace his ear, delighting in the shiver that races up the smaller man’s spine. His cock is fully erect, the head practically popping past the waistline of his jeans, straining in the unforgiving fabric. It’s almost painful, and Frankie can’t help but lean in further, rutting his length into Marcus’s ass.

His body goes taut, caught between the two of you, and Frankie watches as Marcus sinks his teeth into your shoulder, his spit darkening the delicate strap of your dress caught in his bite. Your lips find Frankie’s jaw, a nip and a laugh pulling him, and he melts into your kiss, lightheaded at the fact that your lips still carry the taste of the Heroic. The three of you stay that way, tangled together on your knees, Marcus’s lips on your neck, Frankie’s lips on yours, fingertips just starting to sneak beneath layers of clothing.

“History loves repeating itself,” you murmur between broken kisses, your hand somehow undoing the last of the buttons on his shirt, fingers skating a trail down to the soft swell of his belly.

“In more ways than one,” he can’t help but tease back, his memory ensnared between two different nights. One years away, in the back of this very truck, your quivering form opening up for him to slip inside. And another, miles away, three instead of two, crowding inside a small tent, each touch less tentative than the last.

Between you, Frankie can feel Marcus take one deep breath in, the release shuddering through him, a ripple effect that starts with his shoulders and slides down the planes of his back. For a second it feels like the answer will have to be coaxed out of him with a soft touch or a gentle kiss, but without preamble he’s looking up, a cheeky smile catching the corner of his lips.

“I think we had our clothes off a lot faster the last time.”

It’s a challenge – one neither of you are willing to back down from, your dress is gone in the blink of an eye, Frankie’s shirt sliding off with a quick shrug of his shoulders. Marcus is about to follow suit, his fingers already curled around the hem of his shirt, but Frankie stops him, his palm cupping his cheek, his thumb pushing into the black plastic of his glasses.

“Next time,” he warns, “you’ll keep these on.”

The promise is enough to wipe the smirk from Marcus’s face, a blush slowly creeping upwards. Frankie makes the most of the opportunity, slipping the frames from his face, taking care to slip them safely through the open window of the cab of his truck.

“Next time?”

You’re behind him in a heartbeat, lips in his ear. “Next time.”

It’s a blur after that, clothes falling away, all three of you suddenly bare beneath the moonlight. Marcus is having trouble focusing, eyes drinking in the pair of you, fingers trembling as he maps inch after inch with his touch. Your breasts fit the curve of his hand, the weight of them wonderful, your smooth skin catching along his calloused palm. He takes care to stroke at the stiff peak of your nipples, catching your sweet sigh of pleasure in a kiss.

He feels Frankie move in closer, the three of you shifting until you’re on your back, both men hovering over you, your warm eyes tilted up towards the night sky. Marcus takes advantage, lips following the same path as his hands, a flick of his tongue at your nipple. He maps every inch of you, the luxury of time allowing him an opportunity not afforded last time. Each dimple and fold of your skin, every birthmark and scar. Not a trace of you is left untouched by his lips, and when he finally returns to capture your own in a kiss, you’re shaking beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re both so beautiful,” Frankie growls, his large hands just as frantic as Marcus’s, trailing from your ass to your hip to his cock to his neck and back again. He wants to soothe the other man, assure him there’s no rush, but he’s just as desperate, his cock hard, precum beading at the tip and smearing into your thigh. His hips ache, the urge to rut into your side growing with each pass of Frankie’s hand across his back.

“Scars,” Frankie murmurs into the turn of his shoulder, teeth sinking in with a thoughtful hum.

“I don’t usually,” Marcus feels the need to explain, his thumb finding another patch of scar tissue on your skin, raised flesh in the shape of the gunshot, a memory he wishes he could have kept from ever existing. Your hand covers his, pulling his touch up, just as Frankie’s fits over the beat of his heart.

And then, the lightest of touches, enough to send him into a tailspin, the tip of one thick finger trailing across his ass. Marcus arches his back, leaning back towards Frankie, just the smallest stroke between his cheeks stoking the already burning fire inside. He can feel the other man’s smile pressed into his temple, a chuckle and a small kiss following.

“Not out here, sweet boy,” he shushes. But even as he says it, he strokes a little harder, the tip of his finger pushing in, just barely.

“Shit,” Marcus bites out, fingers digging into your thigh, trying to ground himself through the onslaught of pleasure. It’s not entirely new. There’s a memory, fleeting, like a leaf in the wind, of Frankie touching him that way months ago, but he hadn’t lingered then. Not like he is now, the intent behind his touch much more obvious, the sensation like molten fire up his spine.

“Please…Frankie. Please.”

“No,” he says again. “I want to take my time. Want you in our bed. Open you up, nice and slow, baby.”

Your voice joins in, patient and sweet in his ear, matching the pace of Frankie’s finger where it continues to stroke his entrance gently. You start stroking his length, thumb slipping around the thick head of his cock with each pass.

“Francisco’s big, Marcus. So big. Need to take our time opening you up for him.”

“Need lube, baby,” Frankie whispers, his touch growing insistent. “Want you to feel all of it. Savor it. I want to hear you beg for me. Want you to come untouched, my cock in your ass.”

The thought alone has him moaning, another promise for the future sending his heart rate racing and his fingers grasping, turning and reaching for Frankie’s hip, pulling him as close as he possibly can. Sweat is already beading at his temple, the sensation mixing with the cool spring air, his body heaving out breath after breath, trapped in a fever he can’t shake off.

Why would he want to?

You’re still stroking him, the lightest touch up and down his shaft, kisses peppered across his neck, each one sweeter than the next.

“What do you want?” He asks them both, the words strangled in time with the grip of your fingers, the urgency to repay their touch with one of his own welling up inside him.

Frankie’s teeth scrap along his jaw, followed by a tender kiss, a soft press of lips to the hinge of his bone. “Want to watch you fuck her.”

He moans, wanton and needy, already picturing the feel of your tight heat clenched around him. Your touch pauses where it’s still wrapped around him, his cock pulsing in your hand.

“Is that what you want, Marcus?”

He looks down at you, letting his eyes focus on your soft curves, bright eyes brighter still beneath the open sky, and he groans again, an unrestrained sound sitting at the back of his throat, his heart thumping a wild staccato in his chest.

It’s such an easy question. Is that what he wants? Of course. All of this, every last bit of it, has been all he’s wanted for months now, and it’s being given in ways he couldn’t have ever dreamed. But at the back of his mind he can hear a traitorous thought sinking it claws in and dragging itself forward in to steal the light.

There hasn’t been any one night stands, any wild nights out, any half-formed connections that lead to the sheets between his bed.

In the three years since losing Annie there’s only been the two of you, and that night, while filled with so many firsts, never found its way here.

“I…shit— is that okay?”

“Of course,” Frankie whispers, the tip of his finger pressing deeper inside him. Marcus gasps, falling forward, his forearms braced on either side of your head, your neck craned to meet his lips in a mismatched kiss.

“There hasn’t been a-anyone…else…” he murmurs, the pressure of Frankie’s thick finger stealing his breath away.

“It’d be okay if there had been, baby,” you coo, smoothing back his hair where it’s started to curl over his forehead.

“No, no,” he rushes out, a messy kiss pressed to your lips between his words. “It’s just been you…the two of you…since…”

He’s saying it all wrong. He wants them to know, to understand how important this is, even when the words won’t come, the blinding pleasure of your lips and Frankie’s fingers searing hot iron into his blood.

Behind him Frankie nods, his curls tickling at the back of Marcus’s neck. He slips his finger out of him, shushing the whine that parts his lips, petting softly at the small of his back. They stay that way far longer than they should, only the crickets keeping time with their breathing, the levity of the night catching up with them.

Finally, your voice breaks the silence, both men curling in closer to hear you.

“We all have scars, Marcus.”

He nods, then laughs, leaning in to kiss you, slotting his lips along your own, savoring the taste of you on his tongue. Frankie is moving around behind the two of you, and before either of you can ask what he’s doing there’s the sound of foil tearing open.

“I need to get you ready. I…I need…,” he tries to argue, fingers already slipping down your body to dip between your folds. He groans, greedy in his touch, pushing in deeper, already addicted to the slick heat of your arousal. You’re soaked, practically dripping, and Marcus licks his lips at the phantom memory of you, suddenly desperate to bury his face between your legs.

“You’re so wet, fuck- so wet for me already.”

You’re scrambling, grabbing at his hand where it’s still buried between the wet folds of your pussy. Marcus only pushes in further, groaning at the way you squeeze around his finger, the pad of his thumb settling heavy on your clit, eliciting a deep moan from the back of your throat. You spread your legs wide, giving him a better view of your soaked center, his finger disappearing and reappearing as he softly fucks it into you. It’s Frankie’s hand that grabs at his next, a growl in his ear to stop.

“She likes the stretch. Likes to feel it.”

Below them you’re nodding frantically, eyes fever-bright, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“I do,” you agree, even as you cant your hips up, your fingers knuckle-white where they grip at the blankets beneath you.

“You’re thicker than me,” Frankie teases, his free hand wrapping around Marcus’s cock where it juts out, precum glistening, pearly white and beading at his tip. Frankie wipes it away with his thumb, bringing it to Marcus’s lips, watching with quiet eyes as he sucks the taste of himself off the other man.

“I want to watch you stretch her pretty pussy open.”

“Please, Marcus…” You beg, voice candy-sweet as it tapers into a gasp as he pulls his finger out of you and up to his lips. He hums, letting the flavor of you mingle with his own, Frankie’s exacting touch gentle as he rolls the condom down his aching length.

There’s little flourish as he guides Marcus down to your entrance, the head of his cock notching just inside, pulling another one of those breathy moans out of you. He slides into you slowly, inch by inch, watching with rapt attention as your eyelids flutter, your lips parting, looking at him as if he hung the very moon that floats above them. Frankie’s hands find his waist and hold him steady just his hips as are flush with your own.

His eyes pinch shut, the feeling of you clenched tight around him bursting sparks into his vision. He reaches back with one hand, holding as hard as he can to Frankie’s forearm, the other finding the curved lip of his truck bed, the metal crumpling in his grasp like a piece of paper. He can hardly breathe, the both of you wrapped around him, surrounding him, so much the same and so different from what he remembers. It’s overwhelming in the best way and Marcus can only cry out, your name and Frankie’s mixing together.

“Marcus,” you whisper, a glance of your fingers on his cheeks encouraging him to open his eyes.

At first he refuses, shaking his head and biting his lip, terrified to move, to take, knowing once he starts he’ll be hard pressed to stop. You persist, your stubborn touch more insistent, thumb and forefinger pinching at his jaw. Your legs snake around his thighs, pulling him impossibly closer, Frankie’s tongue in his ear.

“Move, baby.”

His pace is bordering on frantic, his hips slamming into you again and again, the slick of your arousal helping him jam his thick cock deep inside. Again and again, he spears inside you, your hips rising to meet his pace head on, the truck rocking in time with his thrusts. Your hands wrap around his neck, his head falling down, forehead pressed into your own, hot breath traded back and forth in strangled groans.

“You feel so good, M-Marcus….don’t stop…”

He falls in closer, only able to kiss you, tongue licking into the caverns of your mouth, swallowing your gasps of pleasure. All the while, he refuses to slow down, pumping the entire length of him in and out of you, drunk on your mewls of pleasure.

Frankie is a constant presence behind him, his hands on Marcus’s hips, his voice in his ear.

“--fucking her so good, baby. You look so good, too. Love watching you stretch her open. Does it feel good, Bird? Does Marcus fuck you good? Shit, what if we both tried to fit…stuff you full of us. Shit…–”

It’s a constant stream of filth pouring out of him, his cock hard and leaking where it rests along the small of Marcus’s back. It’s a tease, reminding him of the promise both of you made earlier in the night, and he’s suddenly feeling impossibly empty, even as he stuffs your pussy full. He can’t seem to help the challenge he tosses over his shoulder at the other man.

“Is this how you’ll fuck me, Fish? Split me open? Make me feel it?”

Frankie chuckles, the sound low and choked, and Marcus wonders how far he would have to push to break the gentle pilot’s sweet demeanor. Turns out he doesn’t have to wonder for long.

The larger man shifts behind him, his movements intentional, the fat head of his cock catching closer to Marcus’s ass.

“Our boy is greedy, Bird.”

Every muscle in his body is shaking, his hips still pounding into you, his fingers cramping where they cling still cling too tightly, the possessive tone in Frankie’s voice edging out the last of his coherent thoughts. And without warning, he begins to beg.

“Fuck, p-please…please…I need…I don’t know w-what…I just need you…both…”

Frankie can’t look away, his eyes glued to where you and Marcus join, the glow of the lanterns and the moon providing just enough light for him to see. Your face is twisted in ecstasy, your fingers twisting in Marcus’s curls, lips finding his between your gasps of pleasure. It’s beautiful and wretched and a million other things that barely come close to describing what he’s born lucky enough to witness. Your hips move together, over and over, legs tangled and lips begging. You’re close. Have been. But Frankie knows you’re waiting for both of them, desperate to have the three of you come together.

I just want us to share that, you had whispered to him the night before, your eyes distant, you heart beat steady.

His own cock is painful, hard and leaking, the tip resting on the small swell of Marcus’s backside. He considers again, wonders if there’s a bottle of lube hidden somewhere in the depths of his truck – in the glove box or beneath a seat– but the thought leaves him quickly. He couldn’t dare break away from either of you now.

Instead he fists his cock, moaning at the instant relief. He could come just like this, stroking himself while the two of you fuck right in front of him, letting his own release drip down Marcus’s backside and down to meet the sopping wet mess of your pussy. He moans again, head falling back, eyes to stars, as he pictures how beautiful Marcus’s ass will look with cum smeared into his tan skin.

But before he can let himself, another idea springs to life, filthy and half-formed, and he refuses to let it go. With little warning, Frankie forces himself even closer, his knee somehow fitting in between the tangle of your limbs. His cock in hand, he shifts his hips closer, forcing his girth between your bodies. The friction is intense, blinding white pleasure bursting in his vision. It’s constant pressure, the push and pull along his hard length driving him right up to the edge.

Below him the two of you are practically sobbing, the added weight of his cock between your bodies pushing you past your limits.

“Francisco…what…”

“I d-don’t know,” he grinds out in response to your broken question, his hands grasping wildly, finding purchase in the mismatched pile of blankets beneath you. “You both look so good. I just needed to feel it…feel you…shit-”

“I’m close…please, Pajarito, please tell me you’re close…” Marcus’s voice is strained, the tendons in his neck pulled taut from where he’s holding back, sweat beading at his temple, the dark of his eyes bleeding away all traces of brown. You can only nod, a pitiful whine leaving you, the heels of your feet pulling him in faster, harder.

They grind into each other, sobs wracking their bodies as their orgasms crash into them, almost simultaneously, Frankie feels crushed, the pressure almost too much on his cock, but he moans loudly, the feeling of Marcus and you convulsing around him enough to push him equally over the edge. He pulls out from between you just in time to shoot his cum down Marcus’s back, thick white ropes of it pooling in the small of his back and spilling down between his cheeks.

He moans wantonly, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his cock still buried in your cunt. He arches, needy, pathetic, into the mess, and Frankie can’t stop himself, a possessive beast roaring inside him. He takes his time, smearing his release down his ass and into the smaller man’s puckered entrance before dragging it further down to the swollen lips of your pussy, pushing his cum and the tip of his finger in next to Marcus’s softening cock.

All three of you whine, interest piqued but bodies spent, collapsing together in a heap.

Your smaller frame is sandwiched between both men, Marcus laying at your front, Frankie curled along your back. Another sigh breaks your lips when Marcus pulls out of you, his head finding the gentle slope of your shoulder, his lips unable to stop from giving one, two more kisses to your bare skin. Frankie is the last to join you, first reaching over to slide the condom away from Marcus, petting gently along his legs as he does, the muscles still shaking from it all.

It’s easy enough to curl around each other again, Frankie’s arms draped around your waist, Marcus’s just below, his fingers trading gentle circles between his and your hip.

“Pajarito?” You manage to ask between yawns, eyes already slipping shut, a smile playing at the swell of your cheek.

“Means birdie. Is that okay?” Marcus answers back, and when Frankie peeks down at him, he spots a bloom of pink rushing up his neck.

“‘Course it is,” you murmur, not bothering to open your eyes, instead following your words with a kiss to his temple.

“Just don’t start calling me Pescar or something like that, please,” Frankie begs, only half-joking, burying his nose where your neck curves down and inhaling deep, already addicted to the way the three of you smell on each other’s skin.

“Lo prometo,” Marcus murmurs, his Spanish cloudy and his laughter thick with sleep. “Should we go…or…?”

“Just a few minutes,” Frankie hums, and even he doesn’t believe his own lie, the comfort of the open air too much to resist. Sleep finds him first, comforting shades of black swallowing him up, and when he dreams, he knows that’s all it really is.

The sun is barely starting to peak past the horizon when you blink your eyes open, the cool air warming just enough for morning dew to bead along the bedrail of Frankie’s trunk. Despite the early hour, you smile, eyes tracing the dip in the metal, suspiciously shaped like the grip of someone’s hand, the memory of that same hand bruised into the curve of your hip. It’s the weight of that hand that woke you, Marcus’s arm across your waist, Frankie’s right above it, a nose pressed to the hollow of your throat, lips resting on the crown of your head, two pairs of legs tangled with your own.

It isn’t often you wake up before Frankie. His time in the military had left him with more than a few unbreakable habits, just the same as you, but the early mornings had been the easiest for you to shake. He was always content to let you sleep in, a cup of coffee and kiss waiting for you when you finally emerged from the kitchen. It was, until this morning, your favorite way to start the day.

Marcus must share a similar taste for mornings as Catfish, the nose along your neck tracing the curve of it, his mustache tickling where he presses a soft kiss. When he speaks, his voice is still scratched with sleep.

“I think I missed this the most.”

“Us too,” you whisper, eyes still watching the horizon, letting the words breathe into the tilt of his forehead.

You feel the pull of sleep again, Marcus’s warm breath on your skin, Frankie’s arms around your waist, but his voice pulls you back, hushed in disbelief.

“You did?”

“We did.”

It’s Frankie who answers him, his lips pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his arms stretching just enough for the tips of his fingers to graze Marcus’s hip. There’s a finality to his statement, the same tone in his voice from the bar two nights ago, the word date declared with a soft intent and a heated promise.

A strangled sigh leaves Marcus at Frankie’s words, at his touch, and without warning his hips thrust forward, barely enough to push the tip of his hard length between your thighs. You gasp at the sensation, Frankie’s fingers digging into your hips to hold you in place, his own cock pressed along your backside. You can feel the ache of last night in your muscles, their release and yours still sticky between your legs, but it hardly matters. You’re hungry for more.

The thought sneaks up on you, and soon all you can think about is the two of them surrounding you, engulfing you, one single word on the tip of your tongue. You’re about to utter it, let yourself beg for it out here in an open field with the clouds passing above and the uncomfortable truck bed below, when something cold splashes on your cheek.

“Looks like we’ll have to wait, cariño,” Frankie murmurs, tongue and teeth scraping along the sensitive shell of your ear. “Storm’s rolling in.”

When you roll over to pout at him, his feral smirk lets you know that he could already see the filthy request rolling around inside your head. It’s probably for the best, you rationalize with yourself.

You want a bed the first time you take them both.

It’s a scramble to pack everything back up and get back in the truck before the skies fully open up, the three of you only half dressed as you slide across the bench seat. You hum in satisfaction, the twin heat of each man on either side of you, more than enough warmth to chase any chill from the rain. Frankie makes a point to roll the windows down, just enough for the sound of the rain to find your ears through the hum of the engine. He finds your hand and squeezes it one, two, three times– hey Bluebird– before lacing your fingers together and letting them rest on the weathered vinyl between your legs.

Marcus is quiet, but very much present, his arm resting along the back of the seat, his bicep firm beneath the bend in your neck, the tip of one finger tracing the neckline of Frankie’s t-shirt. The daffodils are resting in his lap again, the petals slightly wilted, but he traces their shape with reverence nonetheless.

“Not sure I’m ready to head home.”

You grip a little harder to Marcus’s thigh, hearing the last word he still seems reluctant to say out loud.

Alone.

Frankie nods, eyes shifting to his right briefly before flitting back to the road, the hand wrapped around the steering flexing in time with the wiper blades as they whisked away the rain. “How about we take the long way?”

“That sounds good,” Marcus is quick to agree, the smile in his voice beautifully clear, even with the pounding of the rain on the roof of the truck. You match his grin, leaning your head onto his shoulder, eyes pitched forward, watching for breaks in the rain, happy to catch glimpses of the road ahead. And as they come to the turn that will lead them towards the city, Frankie makes no move to slow, his hand steady and his eyes forward, taking you both forward into the open air.

Dedications

To my beloved @magpie-to-the-morning and @write-and-buried who have been listened to my unhinged horny screaming for weeks. This fic came to me in bits and pieces and my torture of both of you was slow and systematic, and I'm so thankful for both of you. Thank you for always supporting me!

To @astroboots Your love of these three idiots is so so special to me. And it's because of them that we started talking regularly and now I get the pleasure of screeching at you about any and everything. Thank you for loving this story, allowing me to bounce snippets off of you, and for supporting my insanity daily. Please accept this as an early birthday offering. 🖤

And to my dearest @jazzelsaur How do I even begin to thank you? For encouraging me to create this world, to continue with it, to write this sequel as slowly as it came. Your constant support and strength in my DM's has been more than I deserve and I don't know if I'll ever be able to properly say how much it means. Thank you for loving these three idiots and for loving me. I would be lost without you and your avocado hair.

dihra-vesa

Omg! Omg! OMG!!!

@radiowallet I haven't been here much the last few months, I open up tumblr and the first thing I see is this....