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theewokingdead · 9 days ago

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No Pretty Angels - Santiago Garcia x f!Reader

Pairing: Rock Singer Santiago Garcia x Bartender f!Reader POV: 1st person present Rating: Explicit Summary: I was just trying to help a friend on my night off, but when Santiago Garcia stepped into the spotlight, the room suddenly shifted. I should’ve known better than to get pulled in by a voice like that, a stare like his. But when the music stopped, he didn’t walk away. He came for me. Word Count: 4.3k+ Warnings: Language. Sexual Content. Watch me pretend I understand bartending and bar concerts. A/N: My first Santi fic AHHHH!!!! It's about time I branch away from Frankie and Benny. I've been thinking about this for years and finally got around to writing it. The song Santi sings in the fic is "Bath Salts" by Highly Suspect. I will not apologize if this is all you think about every time you now hear the song.

{Masterlist}

I’m not supposed to be here tonight, but Kyle sounded borderline panicked when he called earlier, saying one of his bartenders bailed at the last minute.

“It’s a show night,” he’d said. “We’re expecting a full house. Please.”

I owe him way too many favors, so I tossed my hair into a ponytail, pulled on a black tank top with a peek of lace showing, and got to work.

Though this isn’t my typical gig, I’m no stranger to bartending. I’ve handled plenty of rowdy crowds, spilled drinks, and flirty regulars. I know how to keep a cool head, how to hustle through a slammed shift with a smile that looks real even when it isn’t. But this? This is different. The energy feels amplified, electric in a way that buzzes beneath your skin. The air’s thicker, the noise sharper, and the stakes feel higher somehow. I’ve never worked a night like this.

Something tells me I won’t forget it.

I’ve heard Kyle talk about the band performing before. Hell, I’ve heard everyone talk about them. They’re local legends, the kind of act that always packs the place wall to wall with regulars, strangers, and the occasional wannabe groupie pretending not to be one. But I’d never seen them play before.I’ll probably be too busy to see much of the show, but from the way everyone’s buzzing, I can’t help but feel a little excited. If they’re even half as good as people say, just listening might be enough to make the chaos worth it.

According to numerous girls and guys loitering by the bar, the band isn’t just talented - they’re incredibly hot. Benny’s the one with the arms that make you rethink every bad decision you’ve ever made. Frankie’s got those soulful eyes that look like they’ve seen way too much and still manage to be soft. And Santi? Santi has a smolder that makes people forget their own names when he so much as looks their way. I don’t usually fall for the hype, but I have to admit, I’m a little curious.

The lights dim and something shifts. It’s as if the air itself cracks open. The crowd roads as they emerge: Frankie on bass, Benny behind the drums, the energy around them already on fire. But it’s the man at center stage who steals the breath from my lungs. Santiago Garcia. Santi. Frontman and lead guitarist. He steps into the spotlight like he was born for it, like it doesn’t just shine on him, it follows him.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. Tousled dark curls, strong jaw, dark eyes that seem to burn right through the haze of lights and noise. He looks like trouble and poetry at the same time.

My eyes catch on his hands as the first chord tears through the room. He strums, fluid and practiced, commanding that guitar as if it’s an extension of himself. Long fingers, rough palms, a kind of effortless confidence that makes it impossible not to imagine what else those hands can do.

And when he finally opens his mouth and starts to sing…

My God.

His voice is smoke and gravel and old whiskey. Somehow it scrapes against everything soft inside me.

I pour a round of shots, pretending not to care about what’s going on onstage. But every time I look up, every time his voice hits a certain note, I catch myself stealing looks at Santi. A glance here, a heartbeat there. I can’t stop looking.

One time, I swear, he looks back. His eyes sweep over the crowd, then pause, locking, as if they’ve landed on me. But I must be imagining it. Between the glare of the spotlights and the crush of bodies, he can’t possibly see a thing. And in a room full of people practically worshipping him, why would he look at me?

I keep moving behind the bar, my body swaying subtly to the rhythm as I work. The music thrums in my chest, easy to sink into, like it’s rewiring my heartbeat. Song after song spills from the band, all grit and soul, and I catch myself mouthing lyrics I’ve never heard before—like they’ve been waiting in my bones this whole time. Then one starts that cuts deeper, speaking to me in a way I don’t understand.

The opening riff hits like a live wire. It jolts through the crowd, something more primal than reaction. I swear the walls tremble. Santi’s voice drops lower, rougher, something raw unraveling inside him with every word. Suddenly, I’m not just listening. I’m feeling it, all of it, as if he’s singing straight through me.

“Watch this,” Kyle yells over the noise sometime during the second verse, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

I furrow my brows in confusion, but before I can ask him what he means, the line comes - sharp and casual. It’s almost as if Santi’s having a conversation in the middle of a song.

“So why don’t you pour me another one, Kyle?”

Kyle lifts a bottle of whiskey and tips it in Santi’s direction, whopping and hollering like a banshee before energetically pouring it into a glass on the bar.

“Fucker always does that to me!” he shouts over the crowd.

I laugh and shake my head. I had no idea he’s on a first name basis with the lead singer.

Kyle slides the glass toward me with a grin that can only mean trouble. “Take it to him.”

“What? Me?” I blink, already feeling my pulse kick up a notch.

He arches a brow. “Yeah, you. You’ve been pretending not to stare at him all night, and I’m tired of watching you fail.”

“I have not-” I start to protest, but Kyle’s already turning away, smug and victorious.

The glass is cool in my hand, but my skin feels hot. The stage lights catch in Santi’s hair as he leans into the mic, his voice wrapping around the notes like they belong to him. I hesitate for a beat too long, then exhale and step out from behind the bar.

Slowly, I weave through people as if I’ve done it a thousand times. The lights cast everything in gold and crimson. When I reach the edge of the stage, I hover, drink in hand, my pulse skipping like a stone. Santi's fingers blur over the strings, his hair falling into his eyes. He glances over, shooting me a quick wink - or maybe I’m just drunk on the moment.

The music slows and Santi stops strumming. “Nothing flashed before my eyes,” he sings. His body turns, eyes landing on me like he's been looking for me the whole time. “No pretty angels, no bright lights.”

That stare. It nails me in place, makes the crowd disappear. Something raw passes between us. Maybe it’s just the moment, the music… or maybe it’s something more.

“All I saw was the devil’s soul…”

His voice trails off, low and haunted. He moves toward the side of the stage, his gaze locking onto mine. Guitar slung low, he stretches out a hand. His eyes hold me with such intensity it's as if we're the only ones in the room. A momentary stillness grips me, before my arm acts on its own, offering the drink. Our fingers brush, and my mind empties. He lifts the glass, the amber liquid catching the light, and in one smooth motion, tilts it back, swallowing as if parched for days.

“Thanks,” he mouths over the din, a ghost of a grin breaking across his face.

The crowd is a wall behind me, but I feel exposed, like he’s stripped away everything but this moment.

Santi turns back to the mic and continues where he’d left off.

“And it looked a hell of a lot like my own.”

Finally, he rips into the final chords, raw, unfiltered, like he’s tearing something straight out of his chest. Fingers a blur on the strings, his voice rises in a growl that feels more confession than chorus.

The crowd surges with it, hands in the air, bodies moving like they’re possessed. But me? I don’t move. I just watch him, entranced, rooted to the spot, like if I blink, I’ll miss something sacred.

Like if he looks at me again, I might not survive it.

It’s only when the song ends that I finally remember how to move.

-Top of Form

Bottom of Form

The show ends in a swirl of cheers and buzzing, the air still vibrating from the last chord. A pulse seems to linger in the walls. Kyle and I slip into the familiar cleanup dance, collecting glasses, wiping counters, and dodging drunk compliments and spilled regrets.

As I’m scrubbing the stickiness off the counter, I hear Kyle bellow across the bar, “If you don’t work here, if you don’t sleep here, or if you don’t sleep with someone who does, get the fuck out!”

I snort, shaking my head, the echo of Kyle’s voice still ringing above the chatter of the remaining stragglers. The usual end-of-night chaos hums around me, stumbling footsteps, clinking bottles, laughter that’s a little too loud. I reach for another glass when I feel it, that shift in the air. Like the volume dips, just for a second.

Then, I see him.

Santi’s walking toward the bar, sweat still clinging to his temples, curls damp and wild under the stage lights that haven’t quite cooled. He’s ditched his guitar but not the swagger, moving like someone who knows the room still belongs to him. His gaze scans the space once, then lands right on me, steady, direct. Like I’m not just someone he might’ve seen in passing, but someone he came looking for.

“Last call?”

God damn that voice… Low, worn, velvet wrapped in smoke. It lingers even in silence, still echoing in the room. Still echoing in me. He looks at me with the same intensity he wore on stage, and I realize the performance hadn’t drained him. If anything, it lit something deeper. The stage wasn’t enough. Not tonight.

I’ve been hit on behind bars more times than I can count - some sweet, some sloppy, most forgettable. But this feels different. He’s barely said two words, and still, the air between us crackles like it’s waiting to catch fire.

“You don’t have to go home,” I say, flicking a towel over my shoulder as I turn away, pretending my heart isn’t about to beat out of my chest. “You just can’t stay here.”

He grins, lazy and charming. “Wasn’t planning on going home. Not alone, anyway.”

“Mm.” I gently put away some glasses, pretending to be uninterested. “Rockstars and their stamina. Must be exhausting carrying all that confidence around.”

Santi leans onto the bar on his forearms. “Confidence, huh? I was hoping you’d call it charm.”

“I’d call it ballsy. But hey, same thing if it works.”

He laughs, deep and genuine, and it lands somewhere low in my stomach.

“You always this mouthy after closing, or did I earn the full treatment?”

I arch a brow, fighting a smile. “The full treatment?” I chuckle. “Lucky for you, this is the mild version of me.”

He laughs again, slower this time. Like he’s tasting the moment. Like he’s not in a hurry. “I’m enjoying the mild version,” he says, voice low enough to make the space between us feel smaller. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing what happens when you stop holding back.”

I reach for a bottle someone forgot, twisting the cap and wiping the rim just to keep my hands busy. “Careful. I don’t play nice after midnight.”

Santi watches me, his gaze steady. “Neither do I.”

Santi's eyes flash, and my breath catches, the air suddenly thick and difficult to draw in. The atmosphere feels weighted, the unspoken tension a palpable storm we’re both ignoring. I flick a glance at Kyle, whose exaggerated focus on stacking glasses screams eavesdropper.

“Is this your usual post-show routine?” I question. “Hit on the bartender before she disappears into the dish pit?”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Usually, I crash. Smoke too much, drink too fast, sleep too hard. But tonight…”

He lets it hang there. I don’t ask him to finish it. The air between us is already thick with the rest of that sentence.

Instead, I lean my elbows on the bar, matching his posture, our faces closer now. “What makes tonight different?”

“You.” Flat. Direct. No chance of mistaking his meaning.

I swallow, feeling the weight of it settle between us. His expression shifts - less cocky, more intent. A dangerous kind of serious. The heat in his stare throws me off balance, and I drop my gaze before I can do something stupid.

“I saw you,” he says, voice low, almost amused. “All night. You kept looking.”

I look down at the bar for a beat longer, smiling despite myself. Our eyes meet as I say, “Maybe I just like a good show.”

Santi’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You can pretend all you want, but the way you looked at me? That wasn’t just about the music. I think you want something more.”

I look at him curiously. “Oh yeah? What exactly do you think I want?”

He leans closer, his voice low and wicked, that velvet-gravel tone curling around every word. “I think you want the part that comes after the lights go down. After the noise fades. The part where it’s just skin and heat and no one pretending anymore.”

My throat goes dry, but I manage to smile. “That’s an awfully confident read, rockstar.”

He grins, cocky and earnest all at once. “I can always feel when the whole room’s watching. But you…you stripped me bare with a single look. Don’t pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”

I open my mouth to respond but nothing clever comes out.

“Come with me,” he murmurs. “Let’s make the encore a private one.”

I blink, trying to remember if I’m supposed to say no. My mouth moves to answer, but Kyle’s voice barrels through the tension.

“You two done circling each other, or should I grab popcorn and let the show continue?” Kyle says, deadpan as he wipes down the counter. “Look, I’m trying to close up here. If you’re going to keep going, take it outside. I’ve done my part in playing matchmaker.”

Santi laughs, the spell broken. “Fucker’s kicked me out of my own gigs before,” he says, not bothering to lower his voice. “Not surprised he’s doing it again.”

“Can’t say he doesn’t have a point.” I straighten, toss Kyle a look that tells him I’ll deal with him later, then nod toward the door. “Let me grab my stuff.”

Our walk to my place is steeped in a knowing silence. The tension between us is a palpable hum, growing with every step, every shared touch. Our hands meet, a casual graze becoming a deliberate intertwining, a silent acknowledgment of what’s to come. The world fades as we reach my door, the moment suspended. Santi’s dark eyes smolder, holding a heavy, unspoken message. I can’t seem to look away.

The door barely clicks shut before he’s on me, pushing me against the hard wood. A small breath escapes me right before his lips find mine, the roughness of his stubble a surprising texture against my skin. I melt into his touch. Kissing Santi is like tasting everything I’d been missing - heat, hunger, connection. My hands find his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the hum still in his chest, like the stage hasn’t quite left him.

Chills break out over my skin as he kisses down my neck, then back up to my jaw.

“Santi, please,” I moan.

His mouth stills against my neck for half a second, like he needs to hear it again. Like the sound of my voice is anchoring him.

“What do you need, quierda?” he whispers, the words brushing hot against my skin, each syllable slow and deliberate.

“I-” My voice falters, breath hitching as his hand slides under the hem of my shirt, rough fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just above my waistband. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, and there’s nothing playful about his expression now. It’s reverent. Hungry. I’m the song he hasn’t figured out how to stop playing. “Dime.” I know just enough Spanish to understand, but I can’t tell him. Instead, I show him.

I pull him closer again, mouths colliding, kissing like we’ve been holding this in for years instead of hours. One of his hands cups the back of my neck, the other pressing into my lower back as he holds me to him, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of my body with his hands.

We move further into the room, stumbling and breathless, limbs tangled like we can’t bear to be separate for more than a second. Heat rolls off him in waves as his mouth finds mine again and again, greedy and insistent. The air between us is all friction and want. He falls onto the couch, pulling me with him so I’m straddling his lap. My knees hug his sides, pressing into the worn cushions.

But then, like a record catching on a scratch, something shifts. The fire doesn’t vanish - it just slows, deepens. His hands, still wrapped in my hair, pause as if remembering themselves. The urgency falters, giving way to something quieter, heavier. He untangles his fingers and glides them down to cradle my face with a tenderness that sends a shiver through me. His gaze meets mine, dark and unguarded. His breath hitches as his eyes flicker over my face, searching, almost as if he’s asking for permission, not just for this moment, but for everything that might follow.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes burning with an unspoken need.

My heart races, and for a split second, time stretches between us, just long enough for the weight of everything unspoken to settle. The chemistry is undeniable, and something about this moment feels different. It’s not just about desire. It’s about something more, something deeper.

I nod, barely a whisper of a movement. “I want this. I want you.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He surges up to kiss me again, harder this time. Mouths crash, teeth clash. There’s nothing careful left in it. His hands grip my hips like he’s anchoring himself, dragging me closer, grinding up against me with a low groan that vibrates straight through my chest. I gasp into his mouth as I feel the hard press of him through his jeans, and instinct takes over. My body rocks into his, needing friction, needing more.

Clothes come off in stuttering bursts - my shirt over my head, his fingers pulling at the clasp of my bra with a focused urgency. He curses softly when it gives way, and his gaze drops, dark and reverent, to my bare chest. His hands skim upward, palms warm and rough as they cradle me, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

I tug at his shirt, and he peels it off in one smooth motion, revealing the lean muscle and quiet scars. I let my fingers roam over them, and for a moment, everything stills. He lets me look, lets me see him.

I gently push myself off him and rise to my feet, body nearly vibrating with urgency. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans, and he mirrors me, undoing his belt with a low grunt. The sound does something to me, makes my fingers tremble as I shimmy out of the denim, kicking them aside. He watches me, gaze heavy-lidded, sweeping over every inch of newly bared skin like he’s memorizing it. His tongue peaks out of his mouth and licks his lower lip. Then, he lifts his hips and tugs off his jeans. When they hit the floor, for a heartbeat, we just look at each other. Vulnerable. Wanting. Like we both know something’s shifting and we’re standing right on the edge of it.

Then, I move.

Without breaking eye contact, I take a step forward and sink to my knees in front of him. The air between us hums. His breath catches when my hands find his hips, sliding up his thighs with slow, deliberate reverence. He’s already hard, straining toward me, and I feel the way his muscles tense beneath my touch.

I glance up, lips parted, and the way he’s looking at me, like I’m the only thing holding him together, makes heat curl deep in my stomach.

My hands glide up, fingers wrapping around him with deliberate care, and he hisses through his teeth, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before they lock onto mine again. I stroke him slowly, savoring the feel of him, the weight, the heat. His hands hover at his sides like he’s not sure whether to grip the couch or bury them in my hair.

When I lean in, pressing a kiss just beneath the tip, he groans, low and raw, the sound dragged from somewhere deep. I take my time, teasing the sensitive skin with my lips, my tongue, until his hips twitch and he mutters my name like a prayer, like a warning.

His hand finally settles at the back of my head, not pushing, just grounding. “Jesus…” he rasps, and it’s the way he says it, like he’s never felt anything so good, like he’s barely holding on, that sends a thrill through me.

I look up again, and there’s that look, wrecked and reverent. I’ve undone him without even trying. And somehow, that nearly undoes me too.

He reaches down, fingers brushing along my jaw, urging me gently upward. “Come here,” he says, voice thick and wrecked. “I need you. All of you.”

I rise, my legs unsteady, and he pulls me into his lap again like he can’t bear to be without me. Skin against skin, nothing between us now, the heat is overwhelming. His hands roam my back, my hips, my thighs, like he’s learning the shape of something he never wants to forget. He mutters something against my lips, half a curse, half my name, and I don’t think either of us could stop now if we tried.

When I sink down onto him, we both gasp, like we didn’t expect it to feel this right. My fingers tangle in his hair, his mouth on my collarbone. His hands tighten on my hips, guiding me, before one slides down, grasping my bare ass firmly, anchoring me to him with a grip that sends sparks through my entire body. He groans into my skin, like the feel of me, all of me, has wrecked whatever control he had left.

We move together, a rhythm we find without even trying. Santi’s hands alternate between guiding and gripping, one palm spread over my lower back, the other squeezing, pulling me harder against him as I ride him, as we chase something neither of us could name even if we tried. It feels like we’re making music of our own, a song that only we can hear. Each sound he makes is a chord, vibrating through me, and I match him, every breath, every motion. It’s electric and alive. His eyes hold mine, dark and intent, and when he comes, it’s with a release that feels like it never ends. The sound of my name on his lips sends me over the edge, and I clutch at him, feeling myself unravel, feeling everything.

For a long moment, we just stay there, catching our breath, letting the world find us again. My head rests against his shoulder, and I can feel his heart pounding in his chest, a steady, wild beat. We’re a tangle of bare limbs, warm skin. I don’t want to move. I don’t know if I ever want to move.

Santi’s fingers trace idle circles against the small of my back as our breathing slows, syncing. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make me shiver. The night hums around us, thick with everything unsaid, everything just felt. Outside, the city moves on, but in here, time has narrowed to a still point.

I shift slightly, and he wraps his arms tighter, grounding me. “You okay?”

I nod against his shoulder. “Yeah,” I sigh. “More than okay.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, low and genuine. “Good,” he murmurs against my skin, voice low and wrecked. “Because that was just the mild version of me.”

I bark out a laugh, surprised and breathless, as I push against his chest and stare at him.

He grins up at me, cocky and disarming and still so goddamn beautiful. “Told you I don’t play nice after midnight.”

I lean down to kiss him again, and his hands are already roaming like he never stopped touching me. He’s insatiable, hungry like the first time wasn’t enough to satisfy whatever fire we’d lit between us. His mouth moves with purpose now, slower but more intense, like he’s savoring the fact that I’m still here, still wanting.

“We’re not sleeping tonight, are we?” I whisper against his lips.

Santi’s eyes darken, that wicked grin curling again. “Not a fucking chance.”

Then, without a word, he lifts me effortlessly and lays me down on the couch, eyes never leaving mine. He kneels between my legs, hands spreading along my thighs, and the look he gives me makes my breath catch.

“I’ve got more than a voice, cariño,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the inside of my knee. “Let me show you what else this mouth can do.”

And when he does, I realize that round one was only the opening act.

#santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #santi #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fic #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters #santiago garcia x reader #catie writes #finally i write for someone other than frankie or benny lmao

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