baby blue
summary: frankie finds you and santi asleep together after a rough day at work, and you decide he needs a bit of stress relief.
pairing: francisco morales x santiago garcia x pregnant!reader
warnings: a bit of angst, fluff, pregnancy, extreme smut. very explicit M/M and F/M sex, female receiving oral, lactation kink if you squint, anal, probably other stuff i’m forgetting
word count: 8.4k
author’s note: this is my very first fic for any of the triple frontier boys but this is a pairing i am particularly obsessed with - throuples vibes only <3 please enjoy, leave feedback, and feel free to send me requests!!
Frankie - for all intents and purposes - has not had a great day.
His alarm hadn’t gone off in the morning, so he’d gotten up nearly a half hour late when Santi’s had finally gone off, and it had been a goddamn frenzy trying to get ready in time. Santi had tried to help, at least, by going downstairs to make coffee just the way Frankie liked it in his favorite travel cup, and Frankie gave him a kiss to express thank you, I love you, have a good day wordlessly before getting in his car and halfway to work before realizing that he forgot the damn coffee at home, anyway.
In the end, he was late. The customer he had at 8 on the dot threw a fit over the 10 minute delay in his car’s transmission being fixed, and then Frankie’s boss called him in and threatened to write him up, and the entire thing made him want to slam his head into his desk over and over.
He didn’t pack a lunch in his haste - his phone was dead after forgetting to charge it the night before - his favorite pen ran out of ink. The entire ordeal with his 8 o’clock customer threw off his schedule for the rest of the day, and he didn’t finish with his last until nearly 7, later than he ever wanted to stay at work, especially since you went on maternity leave and he became desperate to return home to you and Santi in a timely manner.
It feels like a weight being lifted off his shoulders when Frankie finally settles into his truck, slamming the door shut behind him. He would take the extra few minutes to simply rest his forehead on the steering wheel and collect his breathing if he didn’t want to see you and Santi so bad, where you’re probably wondering where he is considering he’ll be home over a full hour later than usual with absolutely no call or text due to his phone, absolutely void of battery all day, and of course he had left his charger in the truck all day -
He jams the charger into its port, watching the screen light up to announce that it’s charging, and he begins the trek home.
Winter has settled over Florida, and the drive home is almost pitch black and depressing. The radio croons softly but Frankie’s head is throbbing and he doesn’t want to turn the volume up, even if the silence of the drive is somehow worse than the possibility of music. He takes a glance at his phone resting on the center console to see the lockscreen alight with notifications from the group chat with him, you, and Santi - at a stop sign, he rests on the brake and reaches for the phone. He barely reads the messages as the shine of the headlights of another car appears in his rearview mirror, instead typing a quick ‘Be home soon’ message before resuming his ride home.
He makes it home at 7:30 - it’s an hour and a half later than usual, and even then, he had disobeyed a few minor traffic laws to ensure he didn’t get home any later. Santi’s car is in the driveway - yours, Frankie assumes, tucked within the closed garage, though you seldom drive it since your stomach got too big to sit comfortably in the seat and reach the pedals - and Frankie completes what is probably the absolute worst parking job of all time, pulling his truck dangerously close to Santi’s car in a way that he knows his lover will get mad at him over come tomorrow morning.
Lights off - keys grabbed - Frankie practically jogs up the walkway to the front door, shoving his key into the lock of the door. Sometimes this lock jams from the outside, and he suspects that if it jams today he’ll simply lay on the grass and accept his fate - but, luckily, whoever watches from above has decided that Frankie has been through enough today, and the lock opens easily.
The house is mostly silent - there’s muffled music coming from upstairs, soft and barely audible, but other than that, he doesn’t hear either you or Santi’s voices. Frankie had suspected you guys would be watching a movie downstairs, or waiting in the kitchen for him like you usually do when he’s a few minutes late and you’re both desperate for dinner.
(Granted, an hour and a half isn’t a few minutes late, but he had been holding out hope, anyway.)
He shucks off his boots at the entryway, hanging his coat up on the hook beside the door. A lingering smell of meat wafts from the kitchen, and he’s so hungry he’s sure he could devour whatever leftovers remain for him in a heartbeat -
But he’s more desperate to see you and Santi than he is to eat.
Frankie follows the sound of the soft Latin music coming from upstairs, feet carrying him with attempted gentle footsteps up the staircase. The door to the nursery the three of you have been working on is cracked open, and he takes a glimpse inside - him and Santi had finished painting the walls pale green two weeks ago, and their next goal is to finish building the crib and the changing table, but you’ve been more focused on setting up the closet and hanging decorations on the walls -
If he looks at the nursery for too long, he might start crying with the longing desire for you and Santi and the swell of your stomach that contains the baby, so he reaches to shut the door of the nursery and continues down the hall to where the doors to the bedroom the three of you share are drawn shut, the sound of music drifting from under the door.
When he opens it, he takes a second. Pauses in the doorway, eyes glazing over the scene laid out before him like a fucking still-life, so perfect and endearing that he wants to melt into a puddle on the floor.
You’re both asleep, backs facing him - Santi plays the big spoon, curled against you, his arm tucked beneath your head, the other tossed over your torso. The room is dark, illuminated only by the streetlight shining through the window, but when his eyes adjust he can make out more of the details. How Santi’s hand rests on the swell of your belly - how he presses his stubble-covered cheek to the back of your head - how you have the comforter tugged up to your chest, because you haven’t been adjusting to the temperature change quite as well as them. Santi’s phone sits on the nightstand charging, clearly the source of the music playing, volume low and gentle. Frankie can see how Santi’s chest rises and falls, and he can picture how your legs are twisted together beneath the comforter, intertwined so deeply with each other that you can hardly tell which belongs to whom.
Frankie wants to cry, watching you two. More than that, he wants to feel you two.
He shuts the door gently behind him, desperate to make as little noise as possible because he knows how much you’ve been struggling to sleep and he doesn’t want to be the reason you wake from a much-needed nap. Slowly, he makes his way across the room until he’s standing at the side of the bed, peeling his jeans off until he’s clad in only his boxers and his work shirt, and then he lowers himself onto the bed on the other side of you.
Frankie’s hardly managed to get himself into position, sitting half-upright with his back against the headboard, when there’s a soft groan from one of the warm bodies in bed, and he lifts his eyes to meet Santi’s on the other side of you.
“Hey, baby,” Santi murmurs, and his voice is raspy and deep like it always is when he’s just waking up, hair mussed, and Frankie is so grateful to see him that he leans across your sleeping body, pressing his lips firm to his lover’s.
If it was biologically possible, Frankie is sure he would melt into the kiss. His hand grasps at Santi’s cheek, feeling the fineness of his stubble beneath his fingers - the other drops to your stomach in front of him, arm angled strangely to stroke you through the comforters, and his tongue slips into Santi’s mouth when he opens his mouth in a soft exclamation.
Santi’s hand reaches up to stroke through Frankie’s soft hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp until Frankie pulls away with a sharp inhale for breath and drops his head against Santi’s shoulder.
“You’re home late,” says Santi, pushing himself to sit up more, voice soft and tone cautious because he’s known Frankie for years, longer than anyone else, and knows exactly when Frankie’s had a shit day, and his fingernails still scratch against his scalp. “DId something happen?”
Frankie almost laughs into Santi’s shoulder, instead puckering his lips to kiss at his skin, completely bare from his lack of sleep shirt. “Had such a shit day, Pope.”
“I can tell,” is his lover’s response - he has such a way with words - and then Santi says, already pushing himself as if going to get up, “Do you want me to go heat you up some dinner? She made tacos.”
The she in question, meanwhile, stirs gently beneath their whispered conversation, and Santi and Frankie both drop their eyes to your sleeping figure when a soft whine emits from your throat. There’s a pause, both waiting for you to open your eyes and join the conversation, but you merely shift closer against Santi’s back, interrupted from his movement, and go still once more.
“I’ll get them in a little bit,” Frankie utters, tilting his face to press another soft kiss against the line of Santi’s throat - it’s something that would be dripping with horniness in any other context, but it’s mostly just a gentle desire for Frankie to be close to him. “It’s fine. Stay here, Pope.”
Santi pauses, then nods lightly and settles back into the bed, though sitting more upright than before. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, sounding a bit more awake, and Frankie doesn’t but he will, anyway, because Santi sounds like he wants to hear - to know - and Frankie would take a fucking star out of the sky if either of you implied you wanted one.
“Just - got into a thing with my first guy today because I was late. It turned into this whole ordeal with my boss - he threatened to write me up -” (at which point Santi mutters asshole, always an engaging audience) - “and I forgot to pack my lunch, and - I don’t know - some other stuff. Doesn’t matter now.”
“That sucks, Fish,” Santi murmurs, tilting his head to press a light kiss to the crown of Frankie’s forehead. “I’m sorry. Your boss is a douche.”
“My phone was dead, too. That’s why I wasn’t responding to you - or her.”
“I figured.”
Before Frankie can open his mouth to reply, you shift again between them, and when he looks down at you this time, your eyes are open - groggy, clearly, as you lift a hand to rub at them - and you blink a few times when you see both men looking down at you.
“Mornin’, baby,” Santi murmurs, brushing your messy hair off your face, and you exhale a soft laugh. “Look who’s home.”
Frankie shifts back into his position on the other side of you, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, and he can feel how you lean into the brush of his lips against your skin, like you’re desperate to feel more of him.
“What took you so long?” you ask him, voice broken with sleep, as he presses kiss after kiss after kiss to your clammy, sleep-chilled skin. “We fell asleep waiting for you.”
A smile tugs the corners of Frankie’s mouth upwards - the thought of you two waiting for him before settling in for a spooning nap is like food for his brain. “A few hang-ups at work,” he says in lieu of going into the whole story. He feels Santi’s eyes on him, willing Frankie to say more, but with the both of you awake he doesn’t want to dwell on his day much longer - would rather stay in the moment as much as he can. “How was your day?”
You start to push yourself to sit up more, and immediately Frankie and Santi jump into action like goddamn superheros to help you - at the beginning of your pregnancy, you scoffed at how keen they were to help you with every physical thing they possibly could, proclaiming that you were pregnant, not paralyzed, and the baby won’t come out with an extra head if I pick up a gallon of milk. At some point, though, as your stomach grew larger and your symptoms became more intense, you stopped joking about it - you’re too proud to admit that their help is almost needed, but Frankie can see it in how you start to smile at the feeling of them helping you to lean against the pile of pillows set up at the top of the bed. The comforter falls halfway down the swell of your belly and Frankie slides his hand beneath it, feeling the stretch of skin through your loose t-shirt, how the baby stirs gently as if shifting positions.
“Alright,” you tell him, but your tone betrays you, and Santi tuts like he knows you’re lying. “Had some pretty bad Hicks around lunchtime - I had to call Santi to convince me I wasn’t going into early labor but - well, obviously I wasn’t.”
There’s no ill-intention with your words but Frankie knows the hidden context - that, surely, you’d tried to call him, as well - and his heart stings at the thought of you desperate for him to reassure you in your panic only for him to not answer. Of course, Santi is practically the pregnancy expert between the three of you - you’re experiencing it but he’s consumed just about every ‘what to expect when you’re expecting’ book that Barnes and Noble offered whereas Frankie got too anxious trying to read one of them. It scared him, thinking about all the symptoms you’d be having and the pains you’d be experiencing, and he preferred hearing about everything from you or Santi rather than some book.
By all intents and purposes, Santi would be the ideal boyfriend of the two of them to decipher between Braxton Hicks and real contractions, but -
It’s just the principle of it that tugs at something in Frankie’s soul.
“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts, honey,” is all Frankie can think to tell you, squeezing his hand against your stomach. “My phone died - I - are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you say, reaching up to press your palm against the back of his neck, your hand cold against his warm skin. “Yeah, Frank, I’m fine. They stopped before Santi got home. Are you alright?”
Sometimes Frankie forgets how well you can read him.
“I had a rough day,” Frankie tells you, and then it feels like a dam has broken as he regales you both with the tales of the customer spat and how his boss called him into the office to reprimand him - it’s Santi’s second time getting the story, but he still exclaims asshole like it’s his first - and his pen and the coffee and the lunch, and how he had ended so much later and he was upset because he just wanted to fucking come home and see you both.
When he’s done, he feels like he’s just talked for hours - a glance at the alarm clock on Santi’s side of the bed shows that it’s hardly been twenty minutes since he got home in the first place. Frankie sighs, dropping his head back, and he feels suddenly too vulnerable, as though he’s embarrassed himself by unloading his emotions onto you and Santi, and he lets his eyes fall shut.
“At least you’re home now,” you say, and Frankie chuckles - for all its simplicity, it rings true. There’s nothing else to do other than be thankful for the fact that he’s with the two of you (or the three of you, really.) You reach for him, then, other hand going behind his neck until you’re tugging him down to you, letting him bury his head in your shoulder, inhaling the soft scent of your lotion and your shampoo as he presses a kiss to the side of your throat.
“I think you’ve been on edge recently, Frank,” Santi says, then. And Frankie, with all his pride, wants to scoff at the idea but it’s true, and he can’t do anything else but hum in agreement, feeling another hand on him, combing his hair back, and even if he didn’t know both of your hands were occupied, he can pick Santi’s rough palms and gentle touch out of a line-up any day. “You seem more stressed.”
(Frankie hopes that’s not Santi’s way of telling him that he’s been a douchebag recently, but he wouldn’t be surprised.)
Frankie thinks for a second and - yes, okay, perhaps he has been a bit more anxious as of late, though it isn’t surprising. You’ll be 36 weeks in a few days and that feels like the point where fucking anything could happen, and suddenly Frankie’s phone being dead at work means that he’s missed your call that you’re going into fucking labor. He’s more excited for the arrival of your daughter than he’s ever been for anything in his entire life, but, God, it’s nerve-wracking, the possibilities and the future fuck-ups and the thought that he’ll be a father to a little girl who needs him. Add work to that, with a boss that seems out to get Frankie after he requested leave for a month once the baby is born, and he feels like a goddamn ticking time bomb.
“I don’t know,” Frankie says in lieu of a thought-out response, voice muffled against your soft skin, and he squeezes his hand against the peak of your belly once more. “Maybe.”
You hum, smoothing your hands down his neck until they’re sliding beneath the collar of his shirt, cold palms running up and down the top of his back. It’s gentle more than anything, reassuring and kind, but Frankie’s so desperate for your touch that he pushes into it, wanting something more. “How can we help you, baby?” you ask, then, and his weary mind is still full of possibilities.
He doesn’t want to say it - doesn’t want to utter with words how much he wants to be inside of you or Santi because he isn’t sure he’d be able to even speak properly - and he prefers to be the one forcing either you or Santi to confess your desires rather than have to say them. So Frankie simply lifts his head, glancing between you and then Santi in the dimness of your bedroom, and then he leans in to kiss you.
The first brush of your lips together has Frankie practically whining, your fingertips still dragging trails across his back, and he can hear Santi exhale a soft chuckle, his fingertips tightening in Frankie’s locks, but he doesn’t care. Can’t think about anything but how your lips part for him, submissive and letting him control the reins, his tongue sliding into your mouth and swallowing the soft moan that escapes you. It’s slow but chock full of passion, Frankie reaching up to grasp the side of your face, angling you just the way he needs, the way he wants, and when he pulls away it’s for no other reason than needing a gasp of air.
“God, querido,” Santi murmurs, and when Frankie turns to look at him, his lips are turned slightly upwards in a smile because Santi is nothing if not a voyeur at heart. “You’re a fiend.”
Shut up, Frankie wants to tell him in response, but words won’t come to him so he channels it through the kiss he smacks against Santi’s lips. It’s faster than the one with you, his hand reaching for Santi’s throat instead of his cheek, rough rather than gentle - his palm curves around the side of his neck, just holding instead of squeezing, though Frankie knows his lover wouldn’t be opposed to the latter. Santi’s a goddamn freak, maybe more than Frankie, maybe even more than you, if such a thing is even possible. He feels your hands pull out of his shirt, one of them shifting up to his hair, and judging from the hiss that pours from the man he’s kissing, he’s sure your other one is tugging at Santi’s curls, too.
“How do you want us, Frank?” you ask when the two men have pulled away from each other. Your lips press soft against the side of Frankie’s cheek, and he tries to think - tries to imagine what he wants, if he wants to be inside you or inside Santi or have Santi inside him or bury his face in your cunt - and he doesn’t fucking know. He wants it all, but then Santi is leaning back towards him, pressing a biting kiss against his jaw, and Frankie needs to fucking feel him too bad to even think, his brain just flatlining.
He doesn’t want to speak, still, feeling mildly vulnerable and a bit embarrassed so he tries to simply descend down your body, to wordlessly communicate with you, but Santi’s shaking his head and nibbling against Frankie’s jawline again.
“Tell us, Frank,” Santi says, and it’s beyond attractive to watch him take over the dominating position that typically belongs to Frankie when he’s not in this space - his voice is soft yet firm, like a reprimanding teacher or a father, and Frankie’s dick jumps in his boxers.
“Wanna eat your cunt, baby,” Frankie says to you, then, the hand tucked against your stomach grabbing at the comforter, pulling it down your body - he can see chills erupt on your skin as the cool bedroom air pierces your body, and he would feel bad if he didn’t have an eyeful of your bare legs trailing up to the junction of your thighs, covered only by the oversized fabric of your shirt and a pair of virginal white panties. “And - Pope - want you -”
“What, baby?” asks Santi, pulling away from Frankie to press their foreheads together in a way that would be soft and gentle if it wasn’t in this goddamn context. “Want to fuck me?”
And - yeah, he does want that, but not right now.
“Want you to fuck me,” Frankie corrects him, feeling heat flush up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears but you both leave him no room for embarrassment - a soft moan escapes you at the words, your legs shifting apart almost involuntarily, and Santi grins, practically plunging forward to jam his mouth against Frankie’s in a quick, heated kiss that concludes before he even has a chance to kiss back.
There’s a moment of shuffling - you push yourself down from where you’d been seated upright, upper torso supported by the mountain of pillows Santi hastily creates for your comfort. Santi rolls over to dig through the nightstand on his side of the bed, shuffling through everything stuffed in his drawers, and Frankie slots himself overtop of you. Your legs fall open around him, both hands grasping at the sides of his cheeks as he leans down to kiss you. It’s desperate, dripping out passion and need with every slide of his tongue into your mouth, and you’re practically grinding against him, hips jutting up into the bulge of his cock tenting out against his boxers. Frankie wants to lean closer to you, to press his body tight against yours until he can feel your skin against every inch of his, but the bulge of your stomach prevents it and - well - he’s not complaining.
Santi rolls back over, a small bottle of lube clutched tightly in his hand, and Frankie pulls away from your lips reluctantly. Santi pauses, lying next to where you and Frankie are tangled together, and then he leans over to press a kiss to your lips - it’s gentle, not heated like yours and Frankie’s had been - and Frankie wants to push the two of you together, make it desperate and teeth clashing, but it isn’t like that now - yet.
You move into the kiss, though, eyes falling shut as Santi trails his hand down your body, grabbing the hem of the oversized shirt and tugging it up your body, and Frankie shifts himself further away from you to take in what Santi exposed - the skin of your stomach is stretched with its roundness and Frankie can’t help but place his hands on either side of it, simply feeling, loving, before his eyes continue trailing upwards to your chest. Your tits are half covered by the shirt, Santi’s grip still iron-clad on the fabric, but Frankie can see them and he wants to feel them, so he moves one hand up your belly until it’s sliding over your chest, squeezing one of your boobs lightly in his calloused palm.
You hiss at the contact, breaking your lips from Santi’s and dropping your head against your pillow - Santi kisses your neck, pulling your shirt further up until it exposes your entire chest, smiling at Frankie’s hand on you.
“Fuck, Frankie,” you gasp as he kneads the soft skin - they’re bigger than they were, naturally, more for him to love and to hold, and he does. His thumb and forefinger pinch lightly at your peaked nipple, careful not to hurt you with his normally dexterous touch, and your chest arches into his hand. “God!”
“So sensitive, hmm?” Santi murmurs, and Frankie can see his tongue dart out to lick gently at your throat where his lips have just pulled away from. “Does it hurt, cariño?”
Frankie almost pauses when you nod slightly, but the second his movements hesitate you’re pushing your tits back up into his hands - urging if not begging him to continue, and he has to oblige you - it’s like his purpose in life.
“Feels good, Frank,” you insist, Santi’s hand sliding up to give attention to the other breast Frankie isn’t doting on. “Oh, god - don’t stop, been so sore recently.”
Frankie’s hips rock lightly against your cloth-covered cunt, and he feels like he might fucking cum just from playing with your tits and watching how Santi mouths kisses against your throat - it’s all so fucking sexy, how needy you are for them, and it makes him feel good. Makes him feel wanted, needed, and he hadn’t realized how goddamn great that would feel after the day he had.
Santi’s hand slides off your boob, and his body shifts slightly as he moves his hand down down down, past your stomach and towards where Frankie’s dry humping your pussy - Frankie lifts his hips slightly and Santi slides a hand down the front of your panties, sifting his fingers through your folds, and your eyes practically roll back in your head at the sight.
Frankie’s sure he might cum on the spot. He thinks Santi might, too, truthfully.
Santi’s hand emerges from your panties, index and middle finger glistening in the dim light from your juices coating his finger. Drops of it trickle down Santi’s digits and Frankie feels his cock twitch - you get so fucking wet, always have and even more so after they knocked you up. He can remember when Santi jokingly smacked your ass a month ago when you were making dinner and you had moaned, all strangled and needy, begging him to finger you and in the fluorescent light of the kitchen Frankie could see how your folds glistened when Santi obliged you.
You whine at the sight of Santi’s fingers - out of horniness or perhaps bashfulness at how wet you’d gotten from their ministrations, Frankie doesn’t know - and Santi looks conflicted for a moment, as if unsure what to do with his fingers covered in your arousal because there’s three mouths willing to lick them clean just to taste you.
In the end, Santi lifts his hand up to Frankie, and Frankie’s lips close around the digits, cheeks hollowing and tongue flicking like how it does when he’s sucking Santi off. It’s lewd, Santi moaning at the feeling of Frankie’s tongue, Frankie moaning at your taste and then you moaning at the mere sight, and when Frankie pulls his mouth away, there’s no more teasing to be found between the three of you - just desperation, your legs spreading wider for him.
Frankie gives himself a second to tug off his shirt as he slides down your body, leaving one soft kiss at the top of your stomach before he’s level with your cunt. He doesn’t want to start until Santi is ready so he busies himself, pressing gentle kisses against your inner thighs and this close he can smell your arousal, honeyed aroma piercing his nostrils and he wants to bury his mouth against it until you’re sobbing but he’ll wait.
Santi clambers off the bed - walks around to the front where Frankie is lying on his stomach - and Frankie swears he hears the sound of Santi’s boxers hitting the hardwood of their bedroom floor. It hadn’t even occurred to Frankie that he was still almost completely clothed except for his pants until Santi’s hands are trailing up the backs of his thighs, feather-light across his boxer-clad ass. He hooks a finger in the waistband of Frankie’s boxers, lifting it up and letting the elastic snap back down against his skin, and Frankie groans at the feeling.
“Take those off, Fish,” Santi says, and Frankie does, awkwardly manoeuvring them off of his legs before kicking them onto the ground. His cock, hard and aching and dripping with precum, drags across the comforter, and Frankie shakily exhales against your thigh. “Knees, cariño.”
Frankie obliges again, feeling heat burn in his face again as he shifts so his knees are planted against the mattress, ass in the air. He can’t remember the last time he bottomed for Santi - he’s almost always on top, pounding into Santi while he fucks you - but he remembers the first time he had. How embarrassed he had felt, how exposed, until Santi had dragged his finger across Frankie’s lower back and murmured how fuckin’ sexy you are, Frank.
He’s still feeling a bit exposed. It’s almost difficult not to try and trade positions with Santi, but he wants to feel him more than he wants to be inside of him now. But Santi -
Is not fucking him yet. He hasn’t even heard the click of the lube bottle opening yet, and he doesn’t want to have to wait - not now. Doesn’t want Santi to try to warm him up with his fingers because Frankie doesn’t want to have to wait for his cock, but he’s waiting anyway.
Then the mattress shifts behind Frankie, Santi hisses feebly as his bad knees hold the brunt of his weight against the bed, and then Santi dips his head down until it’s beside Frankie’s. Santi reaches up, hooking his finger in the crotch part of your panties and tugging them away - your arousal connects with stringy wetness to the fabric - before he’s burying his face in your cunt.
You practically sob out a moan, and, hell, Frankie does too.
It’s fucking primal as Santi practically devours your pussy, mouth locked over your slit, and Frankie can’t see what he’s doing but it has you bucking your hips up into his lips. It’s so hot Frankie thinks he must be dreaming, his stomach tightening and skin feeling hot, and Santi’s eyes shut like he’s entranced by your cunt, which - might be true. Frankie wouldn’t doubt it - can’t lie and say he doesn’t feel the same way when he’s eating you out.
It lasts all of 15 seconds before Santi’s pulling away. You whine at the loss of feeling, your hand coming down to tug at Frankie’s curls, and Santi lifts his head up - strokes his thumb against your clit as if admiring it - before he spits, letting it drip down your puffy folds, and then rises back up onto his knees.
Frankie’s fucking lightheaded. He shifts back into the middle of your thighs, holding your panties apart from your cunt where they had started inching back into place, your thighs practically squeezing his head in your desperation for more.
“Please -” your voice is high pitched, a desperate whine that has Santi chuckling from behind Frankie - and, now, Frankie hears the click of the bottle of lube opening and closing, and then the head of Santi’s cock is nudging incessantly against the tight ring of Frankie’s ass. “Please, Frank -”
Frankie’s lips lock over your clit just as Santi presses forward, the tip of his cock slick with lube as he slides into Frankie’s ass. The three of you moan in harmony - Frankie’s is strangled, muffled against your cunt, and yours is more of a cry - and it feels so good to be full of Santi that Frankie’s limbs feel like they’re going to go limp with it.
“Oh - fuck,” Santi stutters out through a groan, pushing forward until he’s bottomed out in the tight ring of Frankie’s hole, hips pressed flush against his ass. Frankie feels Santi’s hand grab at his hip like how he always grabs at yours when he fucks you, and then Santi’s pulling out, leaving just the tip in before pushing back in. “God, Frank, you’re so fuckin’ tight.”
Frankie wants to smile at that, or perhaps tease Santi for his clear desperation, but he can’t with how tight his face is pressed against your pussy. His tongue trails up and down your folds, practically slurping up your wetness mixed with Santi’s saliva, and the mixture of tastes on his tongue feels like fucking heaven. You reach down for him, then. Your fingers thread in his hair, tugging at the strands so hard it practically hurts but it stings so good, and he flickers his eyes up to your face, hardly visible above your stomach - your eyes are rolled back in your head, mouth dropped open in a silent scream, your breathing coming out erratic and needy with every fitful rise and fall of your chest.
“How does that feel, baby?” Santi grunts from behind Frankie, using his grasp on his hips as leverage to increase his pace - pulling his cock almost completely out before slamming back in, filling Frankie over and over, and the force of it has Frankie gripping your thighs to keep his upper body steady for you. “Tell me, querida - fuck - how it feels.”
Santi’s voice cracks with need, his fingertips surely digging bruises into the meat of Frankie’s hips, and you can barely talk. When you open your mouth to speak Frankie drags his teeth along your clit and your legs fucking spasm, thighs jamming against his ears as your muscles tense, and a moan that’s practically a shout leaves your lips.
Frankie’s hearing is muffled with your thighs against his ears until your legs relax just a bit, and he lifts a hand to grab at your right calf, pulling it apart from his face. GIves him more room to work - and to hear.
“Feels so - God, so good,” your voice bubbles out, tone high pitched and strained, and Frankie laps a thick stripe up your sopping folds because he likes this, how he can reduce you to what practically accounts for wordlessness, every syllable sounding desperate and purposeful. “I’m - I’m gonna cum.”
Your voice breaks like it’s some shameful secret but Frankie likes it, feeling his cock swell somehow more than it is, and so does Santi, judging from the soft growl-mixed-with-a-moan that escapes his throat as his pace picks up against Frankie.
Frankie might fucking cum, too, just from the entire situation but he doesn’t want to cum rutting his hips into the folds of the comforter like a teenager - he wants to be inside of you, now, fucking into you while Santi fucks into him -
But first - you cum. You have to cum first.
He isn’t fucking around anymore - not that he really was - but gone is Frankie’s desire to prolong eating you out because his cock has different needs. He forces your thigh further away from his head, hearing you hiss softly at the stretch in your muscles, and then he moves his other hand up, forearm splayed across your left thigh, pointer and middle finger resting lightly on your clit. It’s the calm before the storm as Frankie stiffens his tongue, sliding it through your folds before fucking you with it, fingers rubbing hard and fast circles against the sensitive nub, and the new sensation has you gushing into his mouth.
“Oh - my god,” and your words are hardly audible, gasped and throttled with emotion, and he can tell how close you are to the edge because you’ve gone practically mute with need. “Please don’t stop - m’gonna - gonna cum -”
“Cum on his fuckin’ tongue, baby,” Frankie hears Santi groan, his lover’s pace slowing just slightly, fucking into him more leisurely to get the full view Frankie’s ministrations - “Look at him go, hmm?”
The warm weight of Santi’s hand leaves the curve of Frankie’s hip - then there’s a second hand burying itself in his hair, pushing him into your cunt with just enough force to hold him there, as if Frankie would ever dream of pulling his mouth off of you like this. His eyes close shut, quivering fingers increasing pace on your clit, dipping briefly into your folds to collect moisture to spread over the nub, and his head rocks against your pussy, drinking you down, milking you for everything you have -
Your legs tense - there’s a broken sob, high pitched and desperate - and then Frankie feels your entire body shudder like it’s going to shut down before a wave of arousal surges onto his tongue, and you’re fucking cumming.
Your hips jerk up against Frankie’s face, fingers squeezing at his hair so tightly he can practically feel strands disconnecting from his scalp - Santi’s hand stills against Frankie’s head in contrast, no longer pressing him into you, and his hips have practically slowed to a standstill because, surely, he’s just watching you, entranced by how you look when you cum and Frankie’s almost jealous that he can’t watch. Can’t see how your lips part, eyes rolling back into your head, fists gripping the comforter beneath you in a white-knuckle grasp -
Almost.
He helps you ride it out, slowing his laps at your cunt until you’re pushing his head away, hips grinding backwards into the bed at the overstimulation - Frankie pulls away, pressing one last kiss to your clit, breathing in a deep inhale of oxygen that he hadn’t realized he needed. He presses his cheek against your thigh, your cool skin helping how overheated he feels, and there’s a moment of reprieve before he remembers the weight of Santi’s cock, still bottomed out in his ass.
Santi is breathing so fucking heavy, he can hear it, and he moves his hand off of Frankie’s head, bringing it back up to grab at his hips.
“Wait,” Frankie manages, and Santi pauses - half pulled out of his ass by now - and your shaking fingers pause where they’re stroking through his hair in silent apology for how hard you’d tugged. “Wait - honey - can I - wanna -”
“Yeah,” you tell him with little hesitation considering you’d heard barely half of the request, but you know him more than anyone - know he doesn’t want to jerk himself off with two willing partners he can be buried in - even if one is presently occupied.
It takes a second to adjust - Santi pulls out with a groan and Frankie almost feels bad - could tell by the quiver in Santi’s breaths how close he was, how little he needed to topple over the edge into Frankie’s ass - but it doesn’t take long to get settled again.
Frankie settles on his knees before you, hands pushing your thighs wide apart until your soaked cunt is on display for him, folds slick as he runs an experimental finger through them. Santi reaches over both of you to grab at a pillow to shove beneath your hips and Frankie takes the extra second to simply stare at you in all your post-orgasm pleasure - your lips are wet where he knows you’d been biting them while cumming, eyes half-lidded in the aftershock of delirious pleasure, and your chest rises and falls in heaving breaths.
You lift your hips for Santi and he slides the pillow beneath, giving your ass a boost to meet Frankie’s cock - he had deemed it a necessary sex measure when you got pregnant and couldn’t be manhandled by him or Frankie anymore, pulled and pushed each and every way to fuck you silly. More humane measures had to be put in place.
Frankie slides into you first. It’s a relatively easy endeavor, your cunt wet and orgasm-prepped for the stretch of his cock, though he still pauses once he’s fully seated inside of you, his chest burning with the desire to fuck you senseless but he focuses on you. Your head drops back into the pillows, cunt fluttering around his cock, and while he waits for you to give the gentle nod to tell him to keep going, Santi lines the fat tip of his dick against Frankie’s ass, pushing inside with little resistance.
He moans at the feeling, and Frankie knows neither of them will last long before cumming.
It’s a fumble to get into a pace, as many times as the three of you have fucked in variants of this position - Frankie pulls out of you then ruts back in, and when he’s bottomed out again Santi does the same against his ass. The force of it, how Santi doesn’t make any attempt to try to go slow, just resumes his fierce pace - it feels like bliss dripping through Frankie’s spine, heated and almost violent, like Santi is trying to watch him break and he’ll probably succeed.
Your moans are like music to Frankie’s ears, and when he looks down at you your hands are splayed over your tits, eyes closed and fingers pinching at the peaked nipples, and Frankie groans.
It takes a few slow paces from Frankie to work into a faster rhythm - Santi jams his head into the crevice of Frankie’s neck and shoulder, pressing needy, open-mouthed kisses against the soft, sweaty skin. Frankie almost falls over at the feeling - delicate kisses making the veins in his neck jump against Santi’s lips pathetically - and, as it is, he leans over you, hand braced on the pile of pillows beneath your head, and the newfound position gives him more leverage to pound his hips into yours.
A string of curses leaves your lips, and then your hands are grasping at Frankie’s face, pulling his lips against yours - his body feels contorted, stretching over your belly, but he kisses you like his goddamn life depends on it because it feels like it does. Your whimpers land in his mouth as your pussy clenches around his length, pulling him impossibly further into you, and a choked groan bites its way out of Frankie’s throat -
At the same time, Santi’s hips stutter in their vigorous pace, clapping against Frankie’s ass. Santi’s grip against his skin is so hard it nearly stings as he slams his hips into Frankie’s, and Frankie clenches around him -
“Fucking - yes, Frank, yes -”
Spurts of warmth fill Frankie’s ass - he can fucking feel it, he swears, like it’s spreading through every limb, every nerve, until he’s stuffed full of everything Santi has to give him. Santi, with his whimpered grunts, weak efforts to keep trying to thrust into Frankie to prolong it but it’s not worth the effort, his hand coming up and clapping back down against his ass, making Frankie gasp out against your mouth, and he can feel your lips upturning as if to giggle at him -
He increases his pace against you, pulling away to watch how your eyes widen and your mouth parts. Santi pulls out of him - the emptiness is almost painful, even if Frankie knows he certainly isn’t empty by anyone’s standards - and the mattress beside you dips as Santi collapses onto the bed. Frankie straightens himself up to get an eyeful of him and give himself a better position, and -
He looks - he looks a fucking sight and Frankie realizes he hasn’t gotten a good look at his boyfriend in what feels like far too long. His skin is flushed red, sweat beading at his hairline and all over his face, curls an absolute disaster, and you only serve to mess them up more as you slide your hands through them, pulling Santi’s lips to yours.
Frankie isn’t sure what finally pulls him over the edge - if it’s simply the prolonged stimulation of the entire evening, or how your pussy clenches like a goddamn vise as soon as you see Santi - but he suspects it’s the sight of you two beneath him. How you curl your arm around Santi’s neck, his hand reaching up to grasp at your forearm in a way that’s so tender even in such lewd conditions, other hand sliding down your stomach to stroke light circles against your clit. You murmur gasped words against Santi’s mouth that Frankie couldn’t possibly hear or make out - isn’t even sure if it’s real words of desperation and not need-wracked gibberish - but Santi is nodding like you’re reading him the fucking Bible, kissing you senseless, filthy yet romantic -
Frankie slams his hips into yours. Stills them, then, and your eyes flick back up to him as he cums ribbons deep inside you. His stomach tightens as he grapples for your thigh, fingernails surely leaving half-moon indents into the smooth skin there for him to admire when the morning comes. Your cunt spasms around him, and with a few more quick strums of Santi’s fingers against your clit you’re clenching around him again, second orgasm of the night racking through your body, and there’s nothing Frankie loves more than cumming with you and - fuck, Santi knows that, doesn’t he.
When Frankie’s milked both of your orgasms for everything they’re worth, he pulls out of you slowly. Lies himself on the bed on the other side of you, and for a moment, the bedroom is filled solely with the sounds of your mingled breathing - Santi’s the steadiest, yours and Frankie’s positively depraved with its erraticity - and the still-soft sounds of the music crooning out of Santi’s phone.
You break the faux-silence. “Lie between us, Frank.”
“Don’t wanna move.” Santi chuckles at that, and Frankie tilts his head to glance at the pair of you. “Can’t argue with that logic, hmm, cariño?”
You smile, shifting until you’re lying nearly flat in the bed - the fortress of pillows behind you lifts you in a permanent partial incline, and it isn’t a sustainable position by any means for you, but one of you will deal with it soon. “Frank -” you start, and then you pause as though carefully considering your words. “Did - did that help?”
Your question confuses him for a second. Frankie, truth be told, had almost forgotten what had even led to the session in the first place. When he thinks back on how his day had started and continued up until he had walked into the bedroom, until he had seen you both curled up together, it all feels so mundane and silly that he almost wants to laugh at how worked up he had gotten over it all. He doesn’t, though - you or Santi would admonish him if he made out like he was going to minimize his struggles, because it is something he tends to do often, and both of you hate it.
None of it matters. His boss and the customers and the pen - nothing matters except what’s beside him in bed, you and Santi and the baby, and the thought is oddly comforting to Frankie. He wants to wrap himself in it like a blanket, and then he realizes he can.
“Yeah, sweetie,” he tells you, voice soft and clearly already ridden with exhaustion. He’s sure it can’t be past 8:45, if that, yet he feels like it’s past midnight and he’s been awake for days on end - you and Santi had successfully tired him out, but he’s sure he would have collapsed into sleep with or without the sex. “It helped a lot. I can barely remember why I was so upset to begin with.”
You smile at that, and so does Santi, and Frankie drops his head back against the pillows.
Santi shuts off the lights in the next few minutes - adjusts the pillows beneath you, tugging them away until you’re lying in your most comfortable position, back no longer reclined upwards against the bed. An excess pillow is thrown across your body to Frankie and he shoves it beneath his head, practically sinking into its softness as you tilt your head up to press a gentle kiss to Santi’s puckered lips - it’s a soft, domestic peck, and Frankie smiles as he watches the two of you.
Frankie curls into your body on his side, then, in his preparations for bed - practically folds himself in half trying to feel as much of you as possible with your stomach in the way, and you face him on your side, arm curled beneath your head. Santi spoons against your back, positioning almost a complete mirror image of how Frankie had intercepted the two of you in bed before, and when Frankie reaches to rest his palm on your stomach, he’s met with the coolness of the back of Santi’s hand having the same idea.
Frankie grabs at it - holds - squeezes - and Santi squeezes back, and Frankie is positive neither of them let go until they doze off.