18+ Currently obsessed with Oscar Isaac's perfect face
203 posts
Latest Posts by mysticalmoonb3ams - Page 5
I have no words. He's just pretty.
Omg that was so sweet and so, so, heartbreaking! You fully nailed him. He really hasn't had any affectionate touches for his whole life (BRB sobbing) and would be so slow to warm up even though it's what he desperately needs.
I confess, Steven has always been my favourite, but the absolute tragedy of Marc who doesn't think he deserves love is totally getting to me. He needs all the hugs!
If any of you lovely people would like to share some soft or fluffy or snuggly or comforting Poe/Marc/ Oscar boys thoughts, I wouldn't be, like, mad or anything... 🥺
Omg how is this so cute?? Love him just taking the opportunity to cook in someone else's kitchen and his prophesies are so cute. I'm dying of sugar overload 🧁🍩
You know, "oracles" in ancient times were just high and their "prophecies" were just drug trips. This is why the oracle in the Percy Jackson books is described as a hippie.
I bet Cecil would love a fun fact like that.
He would!
Prophecies
Cecil Dennis x gn!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •
Warnings: fluff, Cecil's high, kisses, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!
Word Count: 456
“So that kinda means all oracles were high off their heads when they made prophecies.” Cecil grins at you, his eyes a little glazed and red. He’s high, but not completely off his head. One of his many talents was the incredible threshold he’d developed, though he would call it more of a curse than a blessing. You’re pretty sure you could get a contact high just from standing too close to him.
You snort and take a sip from your drink. “You got any prophecies to share then? Preferably the lottery numbers?”
“Oh, seven for sure.” He nods sagely.
“Seven as in for the lottery numbers or seven prophecies?”
He pauses for a second longer than he needs too, stroking his stumble. “Erm… the second one.”
You chuckle again. When your friend had dragged you to this party you’d been planning on tapping out the second you could. It was her ex’s place, the original plan being to show up looking stunning and rub it in their face.
However, that had gone out of the window after about twenty five minutes, and now you were sure they were banging in the bedroom.
It had been a pleasant surprise when you saw Cecil was here, in the kitchen rummaging through the draws looking for a measuring jug and in the middle of making mac and cheese.
“Did you bring the ingredients with you?”
“Nah, found them here… I mean who has a party without mac and cheese?”
You couldn’t fault his logic.
You’d been sitting with him for the last few hours, talking intently about absolutely nothing.
“So what are these seven prophecies then?”
“Erm…” He thinks hard, looking around the room at the other people there for some sudden inspiration.
“The sun…” He says a little hesitantly, before nodding. “Will rise tomorrow.”
“I’ll hold you to that one.” You smile and tug softly on the curls at the nap of his neck.
He giggles, shying away from you before pressing closer again. “Okay.”
“Okay?” You pause, a little confused.
“Hold me to it.” He grins and rests his chin on your shoulder. “Or I’ll hold you.”
“And how are you gonna do that, huh?” You tease.
Cecil wraps his arms around you, snuggling closer and pressing a light kiss to your neck. He hums happily when you shiver at the scrape of his stubble.
“Cecil…” You turn your head closer to him and he uses the opportunity to his advantage. He lightly kisses your lips. It’s soft and heartbreakingly sweet. You sigh against his lips and Cecil whines quietly.
He strokes your cheek as he pulls back, his eyes are sharper now, vivid in their intensity. But lidded and gentle. “Can I kiss you again?”
Thank you for reading!
Taglist: 1
@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @whatthefishh
@romanarose @strangerhands @steven-grants-world @blushingrn @to-be-a-sunshine
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Let this be a prophetic dream! 🤞🤞🤞
I dreamt oscar isaac content was so scarces because they were filming moon knight s2 in secret 😭
100%! You see the vision!
He'd be such a mess if he finally let himself sink into a good hug instead of pushing it away or making a joke or something to create distance. I think he'd also become a hug fiend afterward, wanting that closeness and that release again and again. Snuggling too - I feel like once he let himself go a little he'd be just as snuggly as Steven or Poe would be. He's just gotta build up that trust first.
If any of you lovely people would like to share some soft or fluffy or snuggly or comforting Poe/Marc/ Oscar boys thoughts, I wouldn't be, like, mad or anything... 🥺
Okay, so I feel like Steven gives the best hugs and would be super supportive and loving when someone he cared about was going through it. Like, full-body squeeze so tight you can barely breathe hugs where you have no choice but to let go of all your stress - he just squishes it all out.
Marc I think wouldn't be as much of a hugger, but if he got one of those really tight hugs I think he'd just lose it, suddenly hugging back just as tight as he started shaking 'for no reason' as the tension dropped out of him in a big whoosh. He needs a hug, desperately.
Poe I think is one of those guys who is really touchy with his partner, not in a pushing the boundaries of PDA way but in a hand-holding, playing with their hair, hand in the small of their back sort of way. You know?
If any of you lovely people would like to share some soft or fluffy or snuggly or comforting Poe/Marc/ Oscar boys thoughts, I wouldn't be, like, mad or anything... 🥺
Just because
Going through my dash, I don't think I'm the only one who needs this...
Oh man this is excellent and hot and perfect! Of course Santi would get off on the idea of being overheard and get overwhelmed when it was his turn to be quiet.
One bed + "Let me warm you up" + Santi
SCREAMING!
Personal Heater
Santiago Pope Garcia x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •
Summary: It's absolutely fucking freezing, luckily Santi is here to warm you up.
A/N: Sorry this took so long!
Warnings: Swearing, kissing, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v sex, multiple orgasms, fingering, Santi kind of having a bit of an exhibition kink, overuse of italics, not beta read, please let me know if I've missed a warning.
Word Count: 2740
You’re sure Frankie is up to something by putting you and Santi in the same room. Certain of it. But even he couldn’t be blamed for the absolutely abysmal weather.
“It’s fucking freezing.” You grumble, failing to suppress a shiver as you enter the bedroom. Your day clothes are in your arms, bundled up into a ball you can quickly shove into your suitcase. Part of you thinks you should have just lugged your bag into the bathroom to change.
You’re dressed in a long sleeved pyjama top, and have tucked your jogging bottoms into your socks to try to stave off the cool air.
“Come here, I’ll warm you up.” Santi’s already in the bed, the covers bundled around himself protectively. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and you’re almost tempted to throw the clothes you were wearing at his head. But he would probably like that.
You settle for a cheery, “Fuck off.” as you put your clothes away.
“I’m serious,” He grins, “nice and warm in here.”
“That’s because you’re hogging all the blankets,” you tut, but there’s no heat in it. You climb on the bed and yank the duvet away from him.
“Nooo, you’re letting all the warm air out.” He's a little tipsy, you know that. He’d had two too many glasses of that fancy Japanese whiskey Will had brought, not drunk, just pleasantly buzzed and a little less guarded than he would usually be.
He grabs your arm lightning fast and somehow flips you perfectly into the bed and on your side. Before you can even get a word out he’s pulling the covers back over you both and snuggling up to you, his chest pressing against your back. How is this idiot so warm when he’s only wearing boxers?
You stiffen, you really should protest or at least tell him to not wrap his arm so securely around your waist. But, fuck, if he isn’t warm. Like a little personal heater blasting the icy air away. And despite the uncertainty ringing in your head, you relax into his embrace. It was just to help with the temperature. That was all.
Somehow he inches closer, breathing hot onto the back of your neck. “Hmm, you smell nice.” He mutters, as if that was a completely normal thing to say to a friend who you were sharing a bed with.
“I’m not going to sleep with you Santi.”
“But that’s what beds are for?” You can hear the cheeky smile in his voice.
“You know what I mean.”
“No?” He’s enjoying this far, far too much.
“I’m not going to fuck you. There, happy?”
“No and why?”
You shift a little, turning so you can look at him over your shoulder. “What?”
“No, I’m not happy,” he grins, “and why won’t you fuck me?”
He speaks too quickly for you to get a word in edgeways.
“Tired? I’ll fuck you if you want, you don’t need to lift a finger.”
“Santi,” You really do try to put a firm, commanding tone in your voice, but it doesn’t come out very convincing at all.
“We fucked on Monday, you liked that.”
“Santi-”
“And three times on Sunday, so-”
“Santi.”
He tries to bite back his smile, pressing closer to you. “I like it when you get all authoritative.”
You give him a look and he lightly bites at your shoulder. Your relationship with Santi was… god you didn’t want to say complicated. Unconventional. Friends with benefits was too casual, but you weren’t dating. And you haven’t told anyone, even though he was regularly blowing your back out several times a week.
“I know you want to… if you really don’t, tell me now, but I think there’s something else going on here.” He stares at you with those stupidly large eyes, the ones you’re sure he reserves for mental manipulation of the highest order.
You want to say something back, something smart to put him in his place. But you can’t think of a god damned thing. So you stare at him, with a slowly weakening frown while his own small smile spreads.
“I think,” he shuffles a little higher, so he can press his lips to the shell of your ear and grind the semi hard outline of his cock against the swell of your ass. “That if I,” he thumbs at your waistband, snapping it softly before he slowly slips his fingers underneath, “just touch here,” he glides down brushing against your clit and the edge of your folds, “fuck.” He swallows, his hips bucking instinctively. “God, you’re so wet. Did you make yourself come in the bathroom?”
Heat floods your veins and he groans, his eyes rolling back at the thought.
“That desperate not to be seduced by me?” He teases, lightly biting your ear and sinking his fingers in deeper.
You gasp, arching towards his touch and the thick stretch of his fingers. He kisses your neck greedily as he gives you what you want, moving so that he can slip further inside and stoke while his thumb rubs rhythmically against your clit.
You squirm under his touch, trying to hold back your moans. Santi hooks his free hand under your pyjamas and pulls them down to your thighs.
“Tell me why? Hmm?” He purrs, his voice heavy. “Why-”
“I don’t want the others to hear us.” You whisper, insecurity twisting in your chest even as pleasure grows in your stomach.
“Oh, baby,” he purrs, kissing along your jaw to your lips and licking into your mouth when you moan. “I didn’t take you as shy?”
He presses firmly on your walls, a spot he has memorised, and your eyes roll back. “Santi,” you swallow, trying to keep your voice down.
“You are a bit of a screamer with me though,” he teases, his voice controlled despite the rapid, desperate beat of his heart. He easily manoeuvres you onto your back. “I don’t want to give the other guys a complex,” he increases his speed a fraction, biting his lip at the sound of your slick and placing the palm of his free hand over your mouth.
He leans closer. “Don’t want to make them ashamed that they can’t make someone come as hard as I can.”
You moan desperately against his hand, your eyes closed tight. You miss his love sick expression as he watches you, how his mouth parts as you tense.
“God baby, please.” He harshly whispers, groaning as you grind down on his fingers. “Let me see you come.”
You’re more than thankful for the hand against your lips as your pleasure crests and drags you down into bliss. Your thighs shake, back arching as your orgasm is dragged from you and then snaps like elastic.
You breathe hard, spaced out and a little dazed until you feel Santi completely yanking off your pyjama bottoms and burying his face between your legs. He moans headily, loudly, too high off your pleasure to stop himself as he sinks his tongue inside and drinks down your release.
His hands squeeze your thighs, encouraging you to practically suffocate him as he licks and swirls. You bite your lip and grab hold of the back of his head as you buck into the heat of his mouth.
He ruts against the mattress, trying to relieve the smallest fraction of the painful ache between his legs.
“Santi,” you manage not to scream. “Please,” you gasp, pleasure burning along your veins, your previous orgasm hardly dying down before it was ignited again.
In desperation, you hastily grab a pillow and shove it over your face. Your lungs fill with the scent of fresh linen, your fingers digging into the material as your back arches.
He laps at your folds greedily, the sound echoing around the room in time with the squeak of the bed springs. Gently, he presses two fingers inside, stroking again at the same spot that had made you fall apart only moments ago.
This time his touch is lighter, slow and steady as he rubs, a sharp juxtaposition to the quick and firm movements of his eager tongue.
You gasp, the air catching in your lungs and Santi groans. The syrupy sound of his enjoyment is what throws you over the edge. You come hard, your muscles shaking as you spasm and scream into the pillow. Your vision whites out as pleasure explodes along your nerves, robbing you of thought and strength for gloriously long seconds.
He works you through it, slowing his movements as you relax.
Languidly, he sits up and pulls the pillow off your face. He’s grinning, far, far too pleased with himself.
You pretend to smack him in the side with the pillow, stopping before you make contact, and he flinches, giggling.
The bottom half of his face is wet, your cum shining against his stubble. He lays down next to you on his side, his head propped up on his elbow.
His left hand traces patterns along your stomach. “Love how quick you can come after you already have.” For a moment you think about teasing him a little, but instead, you give his hand a little squeeze. “Only ever done that with you.”
“Fuck,” He buries his face into the pillow under your head, groaning as his cock throbs, “don’t give me a bigger ego here.”
You snort, and it quickly turns into a giggle as he presses light, tickly kisses along your neck. He grins, moving closer as you try to squirm away. “Thought you liked my kisses?”
You shift, biting back your laughter, and your hip brushes against his aching erection.
Santi moans low in his chest, his throat bobbing.
“Shh,” You giggle again, playfully clapping your hand over his mouth, “I’m gonna have to be the one to keep you quiet.”
You mean it as a tease, nothing more. But he shivers, his eyebrows pinching together as he presses his face into your palm and whines.
Heat stirs in your stomach. You bite your lip. “Maybe you’d like that?” You whisper, your voice barely audible. “Maybe you want to just…”
His eyes are hazy when he opens them, dark and pleading. He nods softly, keeping his mouth firmly against your hand. As he swallows, his throat bobs, his fingers tightening on your hip.
“Lay down.” You say softly and he moves without hesitation, the words barely out of your mouth before he’s flat on his back against the mattress.
He tucks his hands under the pillow, hooking his fingers around the edge of the headboard. You don’t give him a chance to give you a nervous look, to get all in his head about asking for something he wants.
You pull his boxers down to his knees and Santi raises his hips, wriggling a little to help you slide them off. His cock bounces free, hard and leaking as it snaps back against his stomach, looking practically painful with how aroused he is.
You place one hand back onto his mouth while you kneed his balls with the other. His reaction is instantaneous, his back arches as his moan vibrates against your palm, his eyes screwed up tight.
You bite back a smile as you run your fingers up higher, languidly tracing the underside of his length as he twitches under you.
Santi’s fingers tighten around the bottom of the headboard, his knuckles paling as he bucks up into your hand.
He moves his face to the side slightly, just enough so that he can speak clearly, “Please can you, can you sit on me and come again?”
You go to pull your hand away from his mouth completely, but he shakes his head and presses his lips back to your palm before looking up at you with sweet eyes. Okay, he still wanted that.
You give him a soft look and kiss the tip of his nose, making the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles before you sit on his lap and line yourself up with him. He’s warm under your hand, hard and thick, and when he starts to sink inside he lets out a long, deep groan.
For a moment, you’re almost sure he’s taking the piss, purposefully being as loud as possible. But his eyes have rolled back, his body tense and shaking. And you are very sure none of this is for show.
He stretches you wide as you ease down, your body singing as he slips deeper and deeper. You drop your hips a little faster, revelling in the whine and moan Santi rewards you with. When he’s finally completely sheathed you lean forward, turning his chin ever so slightly to the side so that you can whisper in his ear.
“Fuck Santi,” you put on a bit of a voice, just to rile him up.
He moans again and you giggle.
“You like this don’t you?” You mutter as you start to slowly roll your hips against him. “Got a bit of a thing for being heard?”
He shakes his head, but you can see the glean in his eyes. He most definitely did.
“Want everyone to know you’re getting your brains fucked out?”
He groans loudly, his muscles flexing as he fights the urge to thrust up rabidly. Instead, he rocks slowly with you, more than happy to let you control the pace.
Pleasure flows and pulses along your skin, twisting a turning as you move your hips. It starts to set deeper, pulling at your bones and demanding you to give in and fully chase the sensation. You lean up slightly, taking your palm off his mouth so that you can prop yourself up with both hands on either side of his head.
“Oh fuck, baby, please,” he groans, panting. There’s no fucking way that the room next door can’t hear him. “Fuck, yes.”
He spreads his legs, making you dip forward and practically growling as he thrusts up into your tight, wet heat.
“Santi,” you hiss, gasping for air as he robs you of it. Spiking the pleasure in your blood to dizzying levels.
“Fuck, yes, yes, yes,” he swallows, pulling one hand away from the headboard so that he can press against the small of your back, pushing your clit against his pubic bone so that he can buck and roll and hit just right every single time.
You gasp and he groans, whining as you pant and share oxygen. He leans up so he can kiss you roughly, all tongue and teeth and moans. His fingers tighten over your skin, his breathing hitching.
The bed springs creak, the headboard smacking against the wall with every bounce. And still Santi manages to be louder than all of them.
The head of his cock brushes deliciously deep across your walls and you tense, your pace faltering as pleasure presses along your nerves, so close that you’re ready to burst.
“Fuck,” he bites his lip, pulling back a fraction so that he can stare up at you, and angles his hips to hit there again.
Your thighs shake, the pleasure so close and intense you forget how to breathe.
“Fuck, god, yes,” he hits there again and again and again, his lips parted and desperate. “God, keep squeezing me like that!” He gasps, convulsing as you bury your face into his neck and bite down to stifle your moans.
Your orgasm hits you in a rush, liquifying your brain as your body moves instinctively, pulling every single drop of pleasure it can.
Santi follows you seconds later, swearing and cursing and muttering praises as you milk his cock for all he’s worth. It’s like he can’t stop coming, can’t come down from the high as he spills himself inside you and floats on ecstasy.
He holds you close as you both recover, stroking your back soothingly.
“I think I lost brain cells.” He mutters.
You giggle, “What?”
“I genuinely think you fucked some of my brain out.” He repeats and you laugh harder.
There’s a pause before he speaks again. “You feeling warmer now?”
You tut and lift yourself up a little so you can give him a gentle, playful shove. He catches your wrist before you can and lightly bites the side of your hand.
“Oi,” You snort, “I’ll have to gag you.”
He groans and gives you a dark look, his softening cock twitching inside you. “Next time.”
Thank you for reading! Taglist 1:
@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @whatthefishh
@romanarose @strangerhands @steven-grants-world @blushingrn @to-be-a-sunshine
@angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @lunar-ghoulie @silvernight-m @autismsupermusicalassassin
@reallyrallyauthor @basicalyrandom @alwaysmicado @mangoslushcrush @marc-spectorr
@spxctorsslxt @novarosewood @pygmi-cygni @hammerhead96 @emma23
@sub-aro @killerdollz @maplemind @mwltwo @loonymagizoologist
@dameronshandholder @queerly-anxious @homuraak3mi @swiftiegirliepop
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This is so sweet! Marc deserves all the scalp massages and fancy conditioner in the world! What a gorgeous fic!
I'll Cry
Marc Spector x gn!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •
Summary: You wash Marc's hair.
A/N: For the anon that sent this ask.
Warnings: Marc showering, swearing, a little innuendo, not beta read, please let me know if I've missed a warning.
Word Count: 743
Marc grumbled as the warm water hit his back, the pressure was never quite right in Steven’s fucking awful shower.
Not that he would ever tell him that, Steven would give him an earful and then rant about how ‘if Marc cared so much, he should do something about it.’ And, in all honesty, Marc just couldn’t be bothered.
As he thought about it he almost tricked himself into thinking Steven was awake, so accurate was his mental impression. And this distraction was enough for him to drop the shampoo bottle.
It slid out of his grasp, seemingly in slow motion, and while he did manage to grab the end of it with his other hand, it quickly slipped free and smashed against the shower floor.
The sound was loud and god awful. Marc swore loudly when he released the cap had shattered in half on impact.
You knock on the bathroom door, “Marc, you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m- shit!” He nearly lost his balance as he leaned down to pick up the bottle, having purposefully forgone putting the mat down because he couldn’t be bothered.
You throw the door open in a panic and Marc freezes, staring at you for a second with wide eyes and clutching the titled wall.
He gives you a bashful grin and nods his chin towards the shampoo. “I dropped the bottle.”
You chuckle, “I thought you’d hurt yourself.”
“Just my pride,” he shrugs, standing. “Shampoo’s seen better days though.” He picks it up and holds it out to show you. “You thought I’d hurt myself?”
You nod.
“Sorry,” he swallows a little shyly. Only Marc could feel self conscious about causing a fuss while bare ass naked. Not that you hadn’t seen him without clothes plenty of times before.
“Why are you sorry?” You tut playfully and give his cheek a kiss. “Come, sit down.”
“Huh?” He stares at you with his large brown eyes.
“Sit that gorgeous ass down, before you fall down.” You pause. “And why don’t you have the bath mat down?”
He shrugs sheepishly, but turns and sits down. “I forgot.” He says quietly and you hum in a very ‘I don’t believe a word you’re saying’ way.
You gently take the shampoo bottle out of his hands, he hadn’t thought to put it down, and squeeze some into your palm before you begin to work it through his hair.
“You don’t have to…” He shivers, his eyes closing.
After a few moments, his shoulders slump a little, tension easing out of his muscles as you run your fingers along his scalp.
His head lolls a little, and for a second you think he’s fallen asleep. You lean a little to the side and see the small, sweet smile on his face. He looks so peaceful in that moment, content in a way he doesn’t usually let himself be.
You kiss his temple before you wash the suds out of his hair, careful to keep the soap away from his eyes.
He stays sitting obediently, soft and pliant in your hands. That is until you open your conditioner.
He breathes in deeply, “That’s yours? Mines-”
“Yours is awful,” you kiss the wet top of his head, his curls slicked back under the weight of the water. “I don’t think it even counts as a conditioner.”
He snorts. “It’s cheap.” He says it like that’s a positive.
“Using washing up liquid to clean your hair is cheap Marc, but I wouldn’t recommend or do that.”
“Hmmm, washing up liquid you say.” He giggles, his shoulder bouncing a little as he revels in teasing you.
“Don’t even.”
“I could use the lemon one, you like that one.”
“Jake would never let you.” You laugh.
“Oh, I don’t know, I think I could convince him… Steven would kick my ass though.” He lets out a content sigh as you work in the conditioner. There’s a small pause before he speaks again, “Yours is expensive, you shouldn’t be wasting it on me.”
“Don’t make me cry, Spector.” A line you used sparingly, but always hit home when said sincerely.
He shuts his mouth quickly and smiles sadly, his chest hurting from how much you care. “At least I’ll smell like you.”
“I would say that’s more of a negative than anything.” You tease.
“Don’t make me cry.” He takes hold of one of your hands, guiding you so that he can press a kiss to your wrist.
Thank you for reading! Taglist 1:
@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @whatthefishh
@romanarose @strangerhands @steven-grants-world @blushingrn @to-be-a-sunshine
@angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @lunar-ghoulie @silvernight-m @autismsupermusicalassassin
@reallyrallyauthor @basicalyrandom @alwaysmicado @mangoslushcrush @marc-spectorr
@spxctorsslxt @novarosewood @pygmi-cygni @hammerhead96 @emma23
@sub-aro @killerdollz @maplemind @mwltwo @loonymagizoologist
@dameronshandholder @queerly-anxious @homuraak3mi @swiftiegirliepop
@oscarssimp @milkypompon @eternallyvenus @lounilu @avengersinitiative2012
@pigeonmama @marcsb1tch @iolaussharpe-24 @chaithetics @DowBaStan
@faretheeoscar @lonelyisamyw-0love @queerponcho @twwcs @ingoldthewizard
If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here
Oscar Isaac and co-star Domhnall Gleeson stun on the red carpet!
I made one of these lists too. TA-DA!
FINISHED (maybe) RARRRRRHHHHHHH my beloved moon knight painting…. I immediately want to just do. More. Rn. Also I have so many unfinished WIPS maybe I can post a batch of those sometime in the future
I was heavily inspired by the moon knight artists bill sienkewicz, alex maleev and adi granov, CHECK THEM OUT they’re legendary
two man job
Pairing: Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia
Rating: Explicit. MDNI. This blog and its contents are 18+ always.
Word count: 4.1k
Summary: Santi has a new house and new plan to go alongside it. He needs Frankie’s assistance to start making it a home. But Frankie needs a helping hand, too.
Tags/warnings: Smut, kissing, frotting, Santi is a menace and Frankie is down incredibly bad. If I’ve missed anything let me know.
A/N: This has been gathering dust in my docs for months and my first time writing for these two so please, please be gentle with me. If this isn’t for you, that’s cool. Thank you to @for-a-longlongtime for betaing and for always being so kind to me. Attempt at dividers by yours truly. Further A/N at the end. Ily all. 💖
“Sound good?” Santiago asks the guys, perched on an old dining table like a king on the throne in a very shitty castle. He stretches his arms out wide, a wolfish grin spreading across his face - already patting himself on the back for a job well done though it hasn’t even gotten off the ground.
“Sure,” Will sighs and a piece of cracked plaster flakes from the wall he’s leaning against, landing on his shoulder.
“You’ll tell Benny, right? He better have a decent fuckin’ excuse for not being here.”
“Flu or something. He couldn’t even fight last night,” Will shrugs. “You know how he gets. Loves to act all tough in that ring but a runny nose turns him into a damn baby.”
“How about you, Fish?” Santi tips his head in Frankie’s direction.
Frankie shakes his own slightly before giving a half-assed answer. “Uh, yeah. I’m in.”
Santi’s brow knits together at Frankie’s less than enthusiastic response. “You sick too? Weren’t you with Benny two days ago?”
Frankie’s throat goes dry. Maybe he is sick. It would make sense. It would be the logical explanation for the heat brewing under his cap like his body trying to purge a fever. Sure, he saw Benny a few days back but it’s not the reason he’s finding it difficult to be excited about whatever new fast cash plan Santi has cooked up. But Santi has an infuriating habit of making things harder than they need to be. And right now, that includes Frankie’s dick.
Frankie drove an hour to Santi’s new place. His truck shuddered over and over as if every pothole in the world had come to be concentrated on the endless rocky driveway. It was downhill from there - he pulled up to a skeleton of an abandoned house that seemed like it should be condemned.
From what Frankie can see now, it’s all just scraps on the inside - a dining table but no chairs, windows but no blinds.
A month ago he endured Santi harping on about it. “Looks good,” he lied when Santi pulled up some pictures of the listing on his phone. They only showed the outside and maybe the realtors had taken off the “DO NOT ENTER” signs for appearances, but it didn’t stop Santi gloating about how much of a good deal it would be. Frankie thought it could have only been that cheap because it was so far removed from civilization that no sane person would buy it, but he didn’t speak it out loud.
No, he bit his tongue and just looked at how Santi’s eyes lit up when he read out the specs and fawned over the square footage. He even smiled along when Santi told him about wanting to plant some fruit trees on the land, “apples every summer, amigo.”
Frankie pinned his initial excitement on him being caught up in the idea of the whole thing, swept away by the final pretty picture with only the roughest of sketches to go by. He never thought Santi would actually put in a bid let alone follow through on a final sale but Santi acts first and thinks never and so here Frankie is, being roped into another half-baked money grab so Santi can afford furniture nevermind a pack of seeds.
Selfish.
The thought makes Frankie’s jaw clench so hard that he has to spit out another answer over the sound of his own molars grinding together.
“I’m fine,” he lies to Santi, throwing his head back to stare up at the ceiling beams. The angle forces a bead of sweat to break away from the curls at the nape of his neck and start to sting a hot path down his spine.
Since Frankie stepped over what remained of a threshold, he’s been hiding everything below his waist behind an old island in the kitchen. He should be listening out for any flaws in Santi’s blueprints but all he does is wonder - would it have really killed Santi to put some fucking trousers on?
This was probably one of those ideas that pieced itself together for him at 4am - that’s why Frankie and Will had woken up to the text that was nothing more than coordinates and a string of nonsensical emojis a couple of hours later.
Effectively summoned, Frankie is forced to distract himself at how polished Santi’s bronze skin looks against that scrub top mahogany table. But there’s almost nothing here, it’s a shell, and even if it was a palatial home or some grand estate, Frankie can’t shake the feeling that he’d end up marvelling Santi anyway.
So he does.
“Good. You can stick around and help me hook that thing up,” Santi points to his left.
A washing machine sits wrapped in cellophane waiting to be installed and Frankie didn’t notice it before. No, he’s much more taken with Santi’s crotch and how his quads ripple when he swings his legs off the edge of the table. The washer is new, shiny and looks out of place in this house - if you could call it a house. But maybe that’s the reason for Santi’s lack of clothes - they’re dirty. Maybe he just doesn’t care for Frankie’s welfare - likely.
Frankie nods weakly in agreement - of course he’ll help. He always does. His eyes catch Santi’s for a millisecond before his gaze is drawn back to Santi’s thighs splayed wide, black boxers hugging them tight. The same two legs that have been wrapped around his hips more times than he can count, all brawn and chiseled from years of brutal training and idealised missions, but they have the ability to wreck him at the worst possible time.
He feels nothing short of pathetic, because even with Will in the room, he gets greedy and his eyes drift up to admire the curve of Santi’s bicep peeking from beneath his short sleeves. He probably buys a size smaller to save pennies on material and to flash inches of tempting skin at the same time.
Frankie’s next non-communal answer is good enough. Santi nods back once more and Frankie is glad, because if he were to take a stab at opening his mouth, he’s sure a whimper would have broken free.
Will asks for more details about the job; timescales, what kind of gear they’ll need but Frankie tunes out, choosing to curse himself under his breath at his own building desperation instead. Santi scratches the back of his neck in thought as he answers Will, making his bicep bulge and right now, Frankie would do anything for those arms to surround him. But what’s fucking new, he usually does anything Santi asks.
“Jump, Fish.”
“Sure. How high, Pope?
Frankie could carry on spiralling about how well they’d fit around his waist or their weight draped around his shoulders but that energetic voice pulls him from another bout of very wishful thinking.
“Make sure you tell Benny, okay? I’ll call him later to check in,” Santi urges Will before hopping off the table to usher him to the back door.
Frankie can’t do this. But he can’t turn away despite himself, so he studies every leisurely step Santi takes instead of saying goodbye to Will or waving him off. Turning his head as he strides, he locks onto the swell of Santi’s ass and the sway of his hips. It makes his fingers itchy at his sides, the way can he drool over every flex of muscle in Santi’s legs and thighs, but he can’t touch.
Aching, Frankie stares up at the ceiling again, praying the termite infested beams are going to chime in and solve all of his problems once Santi inevitably starts bossing him around but they don’t. Deep down Frankie knows the island can’t protect him forever. Santi’s farewell speech to Will has to come to an end.
Once it does and Santi returns, it’ll just be the two of them. He’ll have to ignore the throb of his cock in his jeans. He’ll have to act like he’s comfortable despite the damp spot in his underwear. Worst of all, he'll have to act like he’s not completely ignorant to the goddamned plan.
He’ll be exposed.
And then the door clicks shut and Frankie’s blood turns thick in his veins.
“Alright, let’s do this,” Santi says, drenched in determination.
Outside, the tyres on Will’s truck kick up gravel and Frankie wishes that it was him driving away, making a break for it, when Santi’s hand lands between his shoulder blades. A friendly gesture. No big deal if he doesn’t dwell on how the imprint lingers.
Santi saunters over to the machine and starts to tear off the clear plastic wrapping, snarling as he wrestles with it. Frankie should be springing into action to help, but his knees are weak - he’s seen that snarl before.
Above him. Behind him in a mirror. Santi’s hips snapping into his own. And then Frankie isn’t in this house, he’s in a hot, cramped one man cot with Santi mewling in his ears about how good he felt - how good they felt. But he’s torn from that daydream too soon by an order.
“There should be some screwdrivers in that drawer behind you,” Santi calls out and gestures vaguely to the other side of the room but Frankie knows what’s coming and he hangs on to hear the triumphant sigh as Santi makes quick work of the plastic. “Mind grabbing them for me?”
Frankie takes a look over his shoulder at where he’s been asked to go, but he’s rooted to the spot. He’s heard that kind of sigh before, too. Santi’s chest labours with exertion but his balmy forehead isn’t pressed into Frankie’s shoulder this time. There’s no delicious scratch of stubble over his jugular either.
“Francisco. Vamos,” Santi tuts, but his growing impatience only makes Frankie’s jeans tighter.
Frankie forces himself to turn on his heel. With his back to Santi and his bones feeling like they’ve been replaced with lead, he crosses the room to begin pulling at stiff cabinets with loose handles.
“Flathead or Phillips?” Frankie asks the drawer rather than Santi. If he’s not looking directly at him, this shouldn’t be a problem. He tries to convince himself that some distance is sure to buy him a couple more seconds of composure. But Frankie never mastered the art of persuasion quite like Santi - that’s why he’s here in the first place.
With one hand, he rummages through a mess of rusted tools, poking at mismatched washers and bolts. His other hand tugs at the taut material covering his crotch. Why? He doesn’t know, he’s still as hard as stone and it doesn’t make a damned bit of difference. He feels like a blind dog set loose in the woods.
This is hopeless.
“I don’t know, just bring everything,” Santi replies with a tinge of exasperation creeping into his voice.
Reluctantly, Frankie grabs a handful of metal. Whatever. Just get this over with, he tells himself. Go home. Take a shower. Wash whatever this is down the drain afterwards.
Frankie carries a couple of tools back to where Santi is focusing on the manual, keeping them at belt level to err on the side of caution. Though Santi’s eyes are narrowed at the pages, and he rakes a hand through his week-old beard as he mulls over the instructions. Frankie does all he can to ignore the familiar scraping sound of it and how it sounds identical to all those times Santi dragged his cheek along his inner thigh.
“Okay. Yeah - a flathead. Grab that pipe there,” Santi orders, pointing to the floor while he’s still absorbed in the booklet. Engrossed to the point his tongue is dragging absentmindedly back and forth over his bottom lip and Frankie has to seize an opportunity to find a new spot to hide his waist behind the machine. Easy.
Easy.
Like anything could ever slip past Santiago Garcia and Frankie can’t ever be that fucking lucky.
As if he can sniff out Frankie’s discomfort, Santi asks on cue, “Fish. Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”
“I’m good,” Frankie reassures him, offering up a screwdriver to Santi to placate him and shrug off his genuine concern.
“I said flathead,” Santi chides, eyes darting between the Philips screwdriver in Frankie’s palm and the sweat soaked strands of hair plastered to his forehead beneath the bill of his baseball hat. Santi’s tongue follows the slope of his upper lip this time before it clicks against the roof of his mouth. “Come here.”
Frankie didn’t come here to be ordered around but he didn’t come for an argument either, so he pushes the wet smacking sound that came from Santi’s mouth to the back of mind. Instead, he pulls focus to the panic rising within him, the overwhelming kind that makes him search for a believable excuse and leaves him unmoving.
“Can we just get this over with? I have to—“
“What?” Santi prods further without letting him finish, tilting his head to the side. He’s eerily calm with it and Frankie feels see through, dissected by those brown eyes trying to seek out everything he’s trying so hard to hide. “What do you have to do?”
“Stuff.”
Santi drops the booklet and walks a small circle around to where Frankie stands, brown eyes never leaving Frankie’s frame that’s started to rattle along to his jagged breaths.
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Stuff,” Frankie repeats like a broken record, head bowing between his shoulders until his chin meets his chest.
Undeterred, Santi’s hand finds Frankie’s shoulder, urging him to turn towards him. He leans against the push, digging his heels into the floor so hard that it might collapse and send both of them falling through the cracks.
“Francisco. Digame.”
Santi purrs the command and his warm breath fans through the curls behind Frankie’s ear, breaking him out in a whole new veiling of sweat. But rather than stepping away and giving him room to explain, Santi inches closer to wait. The heat from his hand that’s keeping a firm grip on his shoulder quickly seeps into Frankie’s skin, and his heart slams into his sternum. So Frankie surrenders, weak when he twists his body to face him but certain that if he doesn’t, he might end up engulfed in flames.
When Santi meets Frankie’s gaze again, there’s a worry in it - something’s definitely up. Santi keeps going, letting his eyes skip the rest of the way down Frankie’s body, over the flimsy material of his grey T-shirt staining darker with sweat, until it comes to rest at his crotch. He chuckles in...delight? Amusement? Frankie can hardly tell left from right with him standing so close.
Santi is shameless in his glare at the obvious bulge in Frankie’s jeans. That concern he wore earlier is replaced by a wicked smile swooping across his face as he drinks in the clear outline of Frankie’s cock straining behind the washed out denim. Even clothed it looks thick and heavy, and his curious eyes track over and back and over and back while Frankie looks away at what should be the living room.
To put Frankie out of his self made misery, Santi reaches for the tools in Frankie’s clammy hand, placing them on top of the washer. His arm brushes Frankie’s as he moves and his teeth graze his lower lip when he clocks Frankie’s nostrils flaring at the barely there contact.
“Hmm. Looks like you’re the one that should be going home to do dirty laundry, Fish.” Santi can’t resist the taunt. Not even once. He can’t bite down on the smug smirk either, despite the veins in Frankie’s neck swelling to the point they look like they might snap underneath his flushing skin with the strain of trying to keep pumping blood to his brain rather than his dick. “Might need a little more than detergent to take care of this…stuff you keep talking about,” he coos, taking another glance downwards.
“Go fuck your–,” Frankie exhales deeply, realising he’s been holding his breath the entire time that he was being inspected.
“Ah,” Santi sticks out his bottom lip and shakes his head.
No.
“Jesus.”
“You should have told me,” Santi says, placing a bare knee between Frankie’s thighs and leans in to crowd him. “I would have sent him home sooner.”
Santi’s plump lips are inches away from his own and Frankie’s knuckles are turning white as he grasps the edge of the machine behind him to exercise some self restraint. It works until it crumbles the second Santi grinds his hips forward, forcing a groan to claw its way up from Frankie’s parched throat.
That’s all it takes for Frankie to let go and raise his hand to flip his hat backwards on his head and reach for the back of Santi’s neck.
Their lips meet and Santi’s mouth opens instantly, letting Frankie pour all of the moans he’s held inside across his tongue. He doesn’t care if he seems greedy, he’s wanted - needed - this for the last hour on top of a string of lonely nights with only his hand and some memories for company. Frankie yields further, arching his body into Santi and he’s rewarded when Santi kisses him back harder.
Frankie’s fingers thread themselves into a mass of curls at the crown of Santi’s head while Santi fumbles with Frankie’s stressed belt and buckle. Urgent kisses grow sloppy, turning into nips and hungry bites, all uncoordinated over the tug of buttons and a stubborn zipper, until Frankie’s jeans are open enough for Santi to slip a warm hand inside his underwear.
Santi breaks away, pulling his own swollen lips from Frankie’s as his fingers brush over the silky skin of Frankie’s cock.
“Fuck, Francisco,” he whispers. His fingertips trace the thick vein on the underside of Frankie’s dick until he makes a fist around the swollen head. He squeezes then, applying just the right amount of pressure to make Frankie draw in a sharp breath. Precum wells quickly at the tip, coating his fingers to make the next stroke effortless. His own cock stiffens in his underwear every time Frankie’s hips buck up in search for more. “All for me? Or has something else got you hot?”
“Mierda,” Frankie hisses on a downstroke of Santi’s wrist, and with his body ten steps ahead of what’s left of his right mind, he’s digging his fingers into Santi’s ass and yanking his body flush with his own until Santi is pinned against his thigh.
“Want me to take it out?”
Mierda. Mierda. Mierda.
“What do you want, Francisco?” Santi asks, firmer now.
Stupid fucking question.
“Anything. Whatever. Please,” Frankie rambles, abandoning his pride and doesn’t bother hiding the needy whine that falls from his lips or the strangled groan of his name; “Santiago.”
With Frankie pleading with him, Santi finds himself scrambling to scan the room for a suitable surface. That dining table will crack and splinter with the weight of two people. He doesn’t trust the integrity of the island either and Frankie would laugh in his face if he found out he slept on a paper thin mattress last night. Even the floor is a no-go with a fucked up neck and two shot knees. There really is nothing here. Frankie was probably right about the whole thing and even though he didn’t dare say a word or fight him on it, his silence was deafening now.
Fuck it.
Santi hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Frankie’s jeans, pulling them down enough to free his cock. Frankie matches the action, tearing at the cotton of Santi’s dark briefs to yank them down his legs until his fingers dig deep into the meat of Santi’s ass.
Santi chases his mouth at the touch, spurred on by Frankie’s two large hands pawing and groping mindlessly at him. Somehow, Santi manages to slide a hand between their heated bodies to grip both of their cocks in one hand. It moves easily, slick with precum. Under his long lashes, Santi stares down at the smoothness of his strokes and he chokes out a groan of his own that sounds like pure sex to Frankie.
“Feeling better yet?” Santi says hoarsely over another perfect pump. He knows Frankie passed the point of no return already. He can barely see those dilated pupils for the desire clouding them.
And none of this is new. Not Santi’s feigned mockery, not Frankie working himself up to the point he feels helpless. But Santi has always had a certain finesse when it comes to handling him - he knows how to touch Frankie just so. Santi could break him down and piece him back together - he has - but now Frankie just wants. And he gets, in spite of being peeled back to fragile gasps and quaking muscles by Santi’s fist.
It feels good. Too good. Too fast and Frankie is chomping at the bit for a head rush that’s so close he can almost taste it.
“Pope. Pope,” Frankie warns so breathlessly that his voice breaks beneath a sweep of Santi’s tongue across his Adam’s apple, but Santi refuses to relent with the rhythm of his wrist. He can’t - his own body is thrumming in time with Frankie’s now, both dialed into the same thrill. The salt of Frankie’s skin across his taste buds is addicting, the low moans that slip from between his lips when his thumb swirls over the head of their cocks is so sweet - he dove in head first and he’s plummeting as deep as his friend.
“I know, I know. Dámelo,” Santi murmurs into the hollow of Frankie’s throat, tightening his grip around their cocks. He’s aware now of the sweat peppering his hairline, his balls drawing tight and for once he doesn’t want to play the long game.
Frankie’s thighs tremble and his breathing stutters to the point his ribcage is having trouble keeping up. All that and a blazing heat pooling in his gut is spreading out his limbs. It builds against the tempo of Santi’s hand - precise, firm and maddening.
A cool breeze replaces the wet heat of Santi’s mouth on his neck. Through a heavy lidded gaze Frankie opens his eyes enough to find Santi staring back, pupils blown and brimming with lust. Though Santi’s own nerves are on fire and his brain is close to short circuiting, he manages to bark out one final order.
“Morales,” he growls. “Dámelo.”
Finally, Frankie obeys. That’s what he needs: his eyes fall shut and his cock pulses in Santi’s grip. The rough and commanding tone of his voice alone is enough to spark his orgasm. He marks Santi’s black T-shirt with pearl-white streaks, one after another. He shakes through the waves of it and what should be a satisfied cry comes out as a frustrated grunt that echoes off every single exposed brick in the house.
Seconds later, a surge of dopamine is firing through Santi’s nervous system and he’s shuddering, a fresh warmth coating his knuckles following it. He bends forward with the force of it, gritting his teeth against Frankie’s collarbone - just like before.
If Santi makes a sound, Frankie doesn’t hear it, his ears are still ringing from sheer relief.
Relief. That’s what usually happens when any blissful torture ends and it leaves them both completely spent against this fucking washing machine.
Silence creeps back in and chases the frenzied breaths away. It’s only interrupted by a steady drip, drip, drip, falling from Santi’s hand and fingers onto the grey stone flags between Frankie’s boots. Frankie's eyes flutter open and he becomes hypnotized by the drops forming a tiny puddle as his heart rate slows to stop bordering on critical.
Santi lifts his head and a rush of sated air leaves his lungs to break the quiet.
“It’s…this is a hell of a housewarming gift, Frank,” he tells him softly but it’s laced with seriousness. “I should have known you wouldn’t have come empty handed.”
Frankie swallows down the river of saliva that’s flooded his mouth. There’s still a tremor in his hand as he reaches up to turn his hat back the right way round, suddenly eager to cast a shadow over his burning cheeks to mask them from reddening any further. Santi meant what he said. An almost-thank you. Frankie thinks he’s the one that should be screaming out in gratitude, for making his suffering come to a blissful end.
“Do you think he’ll actually tell Benny? You know, about everything. About what you said. Earlier.”
Santi blinks slowly. “I don’t know but,” he breathes before flashing Frankie a sated grin. “The more I think about it, the more I think that it’s a two man job. I think we probably have it covered.”
A/N: If you made it to here, thank you for reading! Turns out you can draw inspo from anywhere - I got a new washing machine at the end of last year and well, this is the result 😂
i'm gonna tear up the fuckin' dance floor dude, check it out
ex machina, 2015 (dir. alex garland)
May I just hug him, please? OSCAR ISAAC as Steven Grant Moon Knight (2022) Episode 1: The Goldfish Problem
Oscar Isaac as Steven Grant in MOON KNIGHT | "The Goldfish Problem"
he just looks so torture-able . like it would be a disservice NOT to torture him.. . he WANTS to be tortured
More Moon Knight for the tl.
This one was a challenge, the face was complicated and the shadows were very strong which is a bit hard to do with tempera , and to top it all off i had the brilliant idea to paint it in my sketchbook which has pretty thin pages. So it was an adventure what can i say. I donno if i really caught his face that well but i tried my best.
This looked like fun, so...
what i look for in a guy:
dark curly hair
big brown eyes
cocky smile
strong brows
kind of short
kind of reckless
makes friends easily
looks good in orange
respects strong women
overly attached to droids
can fly anything
is poe dameron
poe dameron, i’m looking for poe dameron
exclusively
