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ohforficsakelibrary · 1 year ago

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The Margay: Chapter 1

There Was Bogotá That One Time

series masterlist / main masterlist

Summary: Santi ropes Frankie into a trial-run mission that doesn't go to plan but comes with one hell of a consolation prize.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC x Santiago Garcia in this part but only in this part because Bogotá was just the once. No age gap.

Word Count: 3.8K

Rating: Explicit 18+/ the beginnings of a threesome, Santi has a filthy mouth, oral over underwear bc Frankie’s a tease (f receiving) / Minors DNI

A/N: Hoooly cowww, thank you all so much for the love on Dominica as my first little foray into this world. And a special thank you to everyone who has liked and shared. Your comments (and tags!) have truly given me life.

OFC here is the reader from Dominica, although I may play with future side chapters where I flip to that pov again. No taglist, but I'll mark everything with #ohforficsake. I do hope you enjoy. Edited 11/3 - I've been asked so I will be doing a taglist, drop me a line if you're interested!

“Who the fuck else is out here, Pope?”

“No one,” Santiago sweeps the clearing in a quick circle, butt of his gun still dug into his shoulder, “no one else is supposed to be out here.”

Things hadn’t gone sideways and he hadn’t called anyone in.

And yet the mark stares back at him through lifeless eyes the same color as the leaflitter he threatens to stain red.

“Well,” Frankie gestures vaguely where he’s knelt down next to the still-warm body. “This ain’t local.”

The high-caliber bullet that blew out the back of the man’s skull is most assuredly not Nicaraguan-made.

“We have to move, Fish,” Santi says before letting out a sharp whistle. A signal to the men holding the perimeter to circle up.

“Nah, if whoever did this wanted us dead…” He lets the words hang in humid jungle air, propping the brim of his cap up just far enough to swipe damp hair from his forehead. “The angle of it’s weird though,” Frankie cants big dark eyes up into the trees even though that makes no goddamn sense.

The men have moved in by now and one of them lets out a low hiss.

“El Caucel.”

“Crees eso?” Santiago's gaze cuts towards him and then over at two other men nodding in agreement.

Two more from their team had departed towards the trucks the moment they saw the carnage.

Frankie stands upright with knitted brows before finding Santiago’s gaze.

He’s met with an imperceptible shake of the head.

And so he doesn’t open his mouth again until they’re back in their hotel room.

_____

“You got an explanation for that, Pope?”

“Not a good one.” Santi sits on the edge of a twin bed and unlaces his boots before toeing them off and flopping backwards.

Frankie stays standing, hands on his hips.

“Someone’s out there with high-caliber shit we didn’t even have as Deltas and that’s all you have to say.”

“That’s all I fuckin�� know, Fish. Look, at least we’re on the same side, ok? For now we’re on the same side. Fuck, I need a shower.”

He’s on his feet now. Clearly rattled.

“What’s El Caucel? A group? Where’d they get that kind of heat?”

“I don’t know, Fish. I don’t know if El Caucel is one guy or five…”

Santi doesn’t realize it but he’s pacing the room.

He’s useless like this.

“Go take a fuckin’ shower, Pope.”

“I need a fucking beer.”

_____

Frankie doesn’t speak again until they’re both perched on plastic chairs at the back of an open-air bar, cumbia blaring through tired but persistent speakers, waves lapping at the shore nearly on beat.

“I don’t like it, Pope," he mutters after a sip of beer. "I don’t like that people we don’t know, using shit that we don’t have, know the same things we do," each point punctuated by a finger stabbed into the table.

“They’re after the same people that we are, Fish. We were fifteen minutes late, more than likely that was our backup. I have a call out to my guy, but he’s out of pocket until tomorrow. Can we at least just leave it at that for the night?”

Somehow Santiago’s nerves aren’t as frayed as they were an hour ago.

“This isn’t what I signed up for, Pope.”

“You signed up to kill bad men and get paid, Fish. A bad man is dead today and I don’t know if you took a look at your bank account, but it’s $25K heavier than it was this morning.”

“We didn’t pull that trigger.”

“Take the fuckin’ win, Catfish.”

It's low out of Santiago's mouth. Like an order.

Frankie doesn’t run like this. Not with unknown eyes on them. And he doesn’t take money for jobs he didn’t finish. He agreed not to ask who was bankrolling this little excursion, he trusted Santi’s judgment enough for that, but things were starting to fall out of alignment.

The last time that happened they lost someone.

He doesn’t like how fucking cool Santi is right now either.

And Santiago pipes up as though he can hear the gears in Fish's head gnashing against one another. “Look, Fish. You’ve got a cold beer, the Caribbean fuckin’ Ocean right there, you’re in a beautiful tropical country instead of freezing your balls off in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere in February..."

"...There are hot girls in this bar.”

“Pope.”

“Do you trust me, Fish?”

Dark eyes lock over the table, Frankie searching for something Santi won’t give away. It takes at least a minute for the tight line of Fish’s mouth to soften into his usual pout.

“It’s a sea.”

“What?” Santi swallows a mouthful of beer.

“The Caribbean Sea.”

“Right, fuckin’, okay.” Santi grins. “The goddamn Caribbean Sea. Just enjoy it, Catfish.”

It’s not a good enough explanation, not by a fucking long shot, but he hates admitting that Santi is right. For the next few hours, there’s nothing they can do.

And for a moment, Corona and lime on his tongue and the thought of $25K in his bank account makes him ignore the insistent scratching in the back of his brain.

Dark eyes sail over Santi’s shoulder and happen to land on a woman reading in the corner, all brown skin and black curls that skim the tops of her shoulders. He can't help but notice the way she's left a few buttons on her linen shirt open.

Can't help but notice the way it allows the curve of one breast to peek out when she reaches for her drink.

“I saw her first.” Santi knows exactly where he’s looking.

“I wouldn’t, actually,” Frankie attempts to clarify, but his half-hard cock says otherwise.

“I would.”

“We’re sharing a room, Pope.”

“I’ll put a sock on the doorknob. Plus there was Bogotá that one time,” Santi arches a brow and grins before draining the rest of his beer.

Bogotá that one time and a blonde between the two of them.

There’s more space than you'd think on a twin bed.

“With $25K you can get your own goddamn room.” Fish quips.

Bogotá was before his girl. Before his kid.

“So could you. Honestly. I think you need it, Francisco. Come on, what happens in Nicaragua…”

“Nah, I’m…”

“Yeah, you need it. I’m doin’ it.”

Pope is out of his chair before Fish can bite back.

"Fuckin’ idiot," Frankie mutters under his breath and directs his gaze out to sea.

“Excuse me, miss?” Santiago purrs in Spanish, leaning over the woman’s table, his most disarming smile playing on his lips.

She angles huge green eyes up from her book and waits for Santi to continue.

“My friend over there,” Santi nods his head in Frankie’s direction. “Thinks you look like you could use a refill.”

“Your friend, or you?” She answers in the same tongue.

Santi’s teeth catch on his bottom lip.

“Myee, my uh, my friend.” Santi slips in English. “Mi amigo.”

Freud would have loved that one.

The woman sets her book aside and reaches for a packet of cigarettes, eyes cutting over to Frankie as she taps the top of the box on the table. He's lit up by red and yellow light and staring out across sand.

Plush lips wrapped around the mouth of his beer bottle, wishing the ocean would come crashing through this fuckin’ bar.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Freddie.”

“Tell Freddie I’ll take a gin and soda with lime, but only if he does his dirty work himself and sits down here with me.” She lights up a cigarette. “I suppose you can stay too.”

Santi lets out a sharp whistle that has Frankie on higher alert than he’d care to admit.

“Gin and soda,” Santi calls over his shoulder. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Arabela,” she tosses the packet on top of her book.

“Sam,” Santi offers his hand and she takes it, surprised when Santi presses his lips to her knuckles.

Surprised in a turned-off way.

"What are you reading?"

She lifts the packet of Parliaments so he can glance at the title.

The Living Daylights.

"You like spy novels?"

"I think they're funny."

Frankie appears at last, two fresh beers, one gin, and three shots of tequila balanced easily between two massive hands.

The tequila was an impulse but he needs something stronger than Corona if this is Bogotá Round Two.

Which apparently it became the moment Frankie stood up from his seat.

“Freddie, this is Arabela.”

“Mucho gusto.” Frankie’s hand is shy.

All of Frankie is shy.

“I do speak English, if that’s more comfortable.”

“An American.” Santi perks up. “Where are you from, sweetheart?”

“Florida.”

“Ahh, Texas,” he jabs a thumb towards Frankie and then his own chest “and Miami. What part of Florida?”

“Orlando.”

Jesus this is boring.

_____

She actually just showed up here for dinner and a buzz because it was five minutes down the beach from her hotel. A function of convenience, nothing more.

And now with dinner over, she finds herself in need of another gin.

She’s up at the bar when two more men wander in. Not locals but not uncomfortable here either. Military, past or present, from the sound of their boots on the wood planks.

She quickly steals a glance over her shoulder. Military boys aren’t uncommon down here, and frankly not particularly interesting, but these two aren’t standard issue.

One of them looks like a good time and the other looks like trouble.

Trouble slips into a plastic chair at a table in the corner, choosing the seat that allows him to face the door. Good Time on the other hand is skating dark eyes over her bare legs.

She runs the top of one foot over her calf just for kicks as the bartender hands over fresh gin, and turns to leave the very moment that Good Time sidles up.

God it’s too easy.

She’s not here for this tonight.

But it’s been three, or was it four, months and she’s not opposed to it either.

Trouble is heated about something when his friend returns with beers.

He’s cute.

Not in a classically handsome way, his friend has that in spades.

Cocksure, chiseled jaw, perfectly coiffed hair.

No, Trouble is cute in a wound spring kind of way.

The kind of way that looks absolutely beautiful coming wildly undone.

What the fuck is in this gin tonight.

Ten minutes later when Good Time struts over, she decides she definitely isn't opposed.

_____

“What are you doing down here, baby girl?”

“Vacation. Just needed a break from work, I guess.”

Her phone buzzes face-down on the table and Santi Sam laughs.

“I like your phone case,” he grins as he pulls an identical one from his pocket.

Jesus Christ its a regular fucking Amazon phone case, how do we move this along.

“So what are you boys up to?”

He’s probably going to say something stupid like…

“Just appreciating the scenery.”

Yeah.

She checks her watch. It’s barely gone 19:30, she could still have a perfectly enjoyable night on her own.

Nope.

“Look,” she leans over the table as Good Time leans in and Trouble leans back, “I’m sure that works on someone else, but today’s not your day.”

Santi braces for the crash.

“You didn’t come over here just to chat and I’m more than happy to save all of us the grief. What’s on the table?”

“Both of us.”

No one at the table was expecting Frankie to be the one to speak up.

Pope shoots Frankie a look that swims with ‘hadn’t expected but not opposed...’

“If that’s what you want.” Frankie rumbles, arm draped over the back of his chair.

Trouble.

Something searing and unspoken in a language that Pope doesn’t understand passes between them.

“What’s your word, sweetheart?” He continues with the barest nod of his head in her direction, eyes dark. And starved.

“Bogotá.”

She hadn’t overheard them. There’s no way she could have with the music in this place.

And Frankie throws back his tequila because Frankie's not a man to question the Universe when it hands him something.

“Close the tabs,” a firm hand squeezes Santi’s shoulder as Fish stands. “Hers and ours. You. With me.”

Her with him finds them both outside, her back against the wall of the bar, cigarette nestled between her fingers, Frankie close enough that the heat coming off of him sets her nerves tingling.

He hasn’t laid a hand on her yet. One’s braced on the wall near her head, the other on his hip.

He’s angled such that she has room to slip away.

“Are you sure you want this? You can leave right now and I’ll get him out of here and we’ll pretend we never met.”

Dark eyes track the fingers that bring the cigarette to her lips.

“Is that what you want?”

“I didn’t ask about me,” he rumbles, shifting slightly closer and answering her question with his form.

“Right now,” she tilts her head to blow smoke away from him, “there’s nothing I want more.”

Frankie reaches for her cigarette, freely offered, taking a puff before he dashes it out. His fingers move to trail feather-light across her collarbone and over the buttons of her shirt nudging it open a hair.

He glances back up at her eyes and then her lips, plush and parted and waiting, and Frankie decides he can't wait any longer.

He slides the brim of his cap around backwards as his hand slides up her neck, thumb brushing her bottom lip before he replaces it with his mouth.

When Pope breezes through the door, Frankie nabs him by the back of the shirt, tongue never leaving her mouth. He pulls, slamming Santi against the wall before tearing himself away and taking a step back. His thumb comes up to brush the corner of his mouth, surveying them both.

Her dark hair is wild from his greedy fists, lips and chin reddened from his attention.

Santiago’s eyelids are heavy as he stares back.

“You started without me.” It’s restrained, darkly matter-of-fact. She reaches her hand over to wrap around the back of Pope’s neck and guides him to her, tasting his bottom lip and then his tongue. She slants half-closed eyes over to hold Frankie’s stare as she moans into Pope’s mouth.

Frankie nearly reaches out to rip her away.

“We gotta go,” is what he opts for instead.

_____

Not five minutes later, Santi’s back is pressed against the door to their hotel room. Her back is pressed to his chest. And Frankie is on his knees in front of her, nose pressed into the crotch of her cargo shorts.

Santi’s lips skate up the side of her neck as his hands splay across her stomach under her shirt, hips already searching for friction. She reaches back intending to slip her phone and card holder out of the back pockets of her shorts out of the need to feel Pope there unimpeded, pressed flush against her. He catches on, taking them both from her hands and placing them on the side table, fingertips bypassing two layers of cotton to slip just under the waistband of her underwear. He pulls her back against him by her hipbones, grinding the hardness in his jeans against the curve of her ass and she whimpers at the way it puts her just out of reach of Frankie's mouth.

Frankie pulls his shirt off up over his head, taking his backwards cap with it, and tossing them both over his shoulder into the room. He stands to occupy her mouth with his own while Pope unbuttons his shirt and lands it over the luggage rack. Santi meets Frankie’s eyes over her shoulder and nods. Fish breaks the kiss as Pope’s hands pull her against his chest once more.

She leaves one hand on Frankie’s cheek and reaches the other up to tangle in Santiago’s hair.

“We’re gonna take such good care of you, baby,” Santiago purrs into her ear. “So fucking beautiful,” he continues, mouth hot on her neck.

Frankie watches for a moment, taking in the way her plush lips are parted before he’s on his knees again.

He needs to be here. Needs to feel the heat of her on his face. Needs to get rid of this fucking fabric.

“I’m gonna hold you right here,” Santiago purrs, skating his nose over the shell of her ear, “and he’s gonna eat that pretty pussy of yours,” one hand rides further up her stomach under her shirt, “because that’s his favorite thing in the world.”

Frankie can feel goosebumps appear where he’s stroking his palms over her calves, lips tracing the chill up her thighs.

“Would you like that, pretty girl?” Santi voice is a heady whisper now, and her head falls back into the crook of his shoulder as she hums in approval.

“Need to hear you say it, baby,” Frankie murmurs against her skin.

“God, yes,” she moans and immediately Santi’s mouth finds hers, fingers making quick work of the button on her shorts. Frankie helps her out of her sandals and Pope unzips her, thumbs sliding the fabric down over her hips, passing the task off to Frankie’s fingers to take the rest of the way before moving to do the same with her underwear.

“Leave it,” Frankie bats Pope’s hands away, settling one of his own against the curve of her hip, running the other up over the back of one thigh before breathing heat against her mound. She reflexively cants her hips back against Pope’s and he hears the phone in his back pocket knock against the door before it’s tossed carelessly along with his wallet to join hers on the side table. She runs one hand over Frankie’s forearm, fingers of the other still wound in Santi’s hair.

Plush lips trace the seams of her underwear, falling everywhere but where she wants them.

And so she reaches both hands down, tangling fingers in his soft curls, short nails impatiently scraping at his scalp and she feels him smirk against her inner thigh.

Frankie hooks a hand around the back of her knee, guiding her leg over his shoulder.

“Hold her, Pope.”

Santi’s arm hooks firmly around her ribcage.

She spares a thought for the use of a call sign before suddenly there’s pressure and damp, open-mouthed heat breathed against the sodden cotton covering her core. The leg that’s still on the ground buckles, but Santiago holds her firm, grinning against her mouth.

They work well together, these two.

Frankie’s tongue traces the contours of her folds through the fabric, humming with pleasure at what little taste of her he’s able to get at. He can already tell from the feel of this alone that she’s bare below the cotton and his cock jumps at the thought.

And his cock jumps again at the thought of sharing the thought.

“Pretty girl?” Frankie rumbles, teeth catching gently against her mound as he angles his eyes up at her. “If I were to take these off…” he hooks a finger through the waistband of her panties and lets it snap against her flushed skin.

“I wouldn’t find anything under there, would I?”

He pauses and Santiago feels her grin against his mouth.

“I don’t think you would, Fish.”

“No, I think,” the bridge of his nose bumps against her clit just so and she groans against Santi’s lips. “I think you’re completely bare under here.” He inhales deep and her fingers tighten in his curls. “All of that smooth…soft…skin.” Each word punctuated by a kiss before he sucks, open mouthed against the core of her.

Pope has to hold her again.

Santi’s free hand skates up to palm her right shoulder where cream linen has fallen open before slipping his fingers under the strap of her bra, guiding it down her arm.

And Santiago’s not so much in control so much as he’s just the one they let speak.

“Is he good, princesa?” Santi asks against her lips in the lowest register of his voice. “Does his mouth feel good on you?” Santiago reaches down over her collarbone, under her shirt and bra to palm her breast, one arm still firmly locked around her ribcage.

“Fuck,” she gasps, “so good.”

Frankie hums his thanks and moves a little higher to flick his tongue over her clit. He dwells here a while, alternating light and fast with the tip of his tongue with slower, firmer strokes with the flat of it. The cotton of her thong is soaked from her slick and his mouth, and it’s not long before she turns her lips away from Santiago, panting and moaning in time with Frankie’s flicks.

“She’s close, Fish,” Pope breathes against her pulse.

“Mmm hmm,” he hums, the rumble of it causing her to buck her hips against him. Frankie lets go from where strong fingers have been digging into the thigh over his shoulder and brings his hand to her hip, both palms now holding her firm against Santi.

She can feel how hard he is through the denim that scratches against the curve of her ass. How it's taking all of Santiago's control not to grind against her there. Not to send her knocking against Fish's teeth.

Neither of these men have actually put skin against anything that matters, and yet she’s falling apart between them.

No sooner does the thought cross her mind than Frankie hooks a thumb into the crotch of her thong, pulling the gusset to the side.

He hums deep and low because he was right.

He’s just about to lick a stripe through her glistening folds when a clattering buzz rings out into the room.

All three of them startle.

Santi spares a glance down at the side table where the offending phone is casting blue light into the room.

His contact’s number.

“Fuuck,” he growls, “I gotta get this. Take her to bed, Fish.” Frankie lets her leg down from his shoulder, “and don’t you fucking dare make her come without me.”

“No promises,” he mumbles between kisses, allowing her to move him until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He sits and she straddles his hips and he bucks up against her, telegraphing what's on offer.

She presses her forehead against his as he fights to nip at her jaw, cursing softy at the feel of him before her fingers scramble to unzip his jeans.

Frankie grins, arm wrapping tight around her waist, and grinds his crotch against her heat as Santi picks up the phone.

“Hey honey, I uh...I can’t really talk right now,” Santi’s voice rings out from the hallway as if he wasn’t half naked and panting.

She props herself up briefly without breaking Frankie’s kisses in an effort to quiet the moans that he can’t seem to keep in his throat. He runs his palms down her sides to fit on her hips and pull but she’s strong.

“Santiago? Well, now that’s interesting.”

“How...how's that, babe, you called me?”

“Santiago, this isn’t your phone.”

And Santiago's blood runs cold.

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Shoot me a message @ohforficsake or comment under this post if you would like to be added to the taglist for updates! Thanks so much for reading.

#frankie morales #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #santiago garcia #frankie morales smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal #a toasty lil sandwich #ohforficsake #The Margay

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