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potterandpromises · 10 months ago

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The Many Vortexes of Autumn: Chapter 3

Unbeknownst to the Time Team, a 20 year old David Rittenhouse catches a stray bullet on an otherwise average mission. When Lucy, Flynn, Rufus and Jiya return to 2018, they find Rittenhouse annulled along with all record of Lucy’s existence. Flynn goes home. Lucy tries to distance herself. Fate has other plans and three mouths later, so does Lorena.

{Chapter 1} {Chapter 2} Also on AO3

Lorena had a plan. The plan involved getting her ducks in a row and emotionally fulfilling sex. The plan did not involve a lighting strike obliterating a power pole.

“It looks like a snake trying to intimidate it’s enemies,” Iris observes from the porch, as if of an abstract painting. “Or like one of those things outside of car dealerships.”

Lorena keeps both hands firmly on her daughter's shoulders, in case she gets any bright ideas like her father, or she needs to shield her from an explosion. A scenario which seems highly unlikely, based on the lack of urgency from the first responders. One stands a dozen feet from the dancing blue, hands on hips. Lorena can’t be sure from this distance, but she thinks he’s shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.

“Come on,” she says. “It’s too cold and wet to stay outside in your pajamas.”

Iris could have satisfied her curiosity through the window. Lorena wouldn’t have let her open the door if she’d asked, but she didn’t ask, and Lucy was next to her, so she let her kid have those few extra steps beyond what made her comfortable.

Iris glances up at her, forlorn, and kicks halfheartedly at the concrete. “But I want to watch the firefighters.”

“You can watch from inside.”

“Fine.” Begrudgingly, Iris opens the door and stomps her unlaced sneakers on the front mat.

Maybe it’s perfectly reasonable to watch from this distance with no cover and she needn’t have given it a second thought. Half a dozen of their neighbors stand on their porches. One walks down the sidewalk welding a camera wrapped in a plastic bag. Perhaps her instincts are misaligned. There’s nothing like having your kid decide to run away— however temporarily intended— actually go through with it, and almost get shot to make one reconsider every little parenting decision.

Lucy stares ahead, too. Mentally elsewhere, she makes no move to follow Iris inside. She’d stayed out when Lorena and Garcia went upstairs, to check on Iris and change clothes respectively. Lorena taps her shoulder, finds her sleeve damp from blusters.

Lucy startles, a half-hop. Her fingers curl into themselves, and down her arms go, pinned to the sides of her ribcage. She looks up at Lorena, searches.

“Are you okay?” She keeps her tone light, causal.

“I��m fine, it’s just—” Lucy gestures with one hand, fingers splaying. Her other hand finds her collarbone. Her fist closes as if to hold a necklace she doesn’t have. “This isn’t normal, right?”

“It isn’t,” she agrees.

They step inside. Iris already stands by the kitchen window, as close to the action as the countertop allows.

“But it happened on our street, so I shouldn’t be surprised, right?” It’s a turn of phrase, nothing more. But she likes that word ‘our’ in Lucy’s mouth.

Something crosses her face. Discomfort. Lorena looked too long, maybe, too eagerly, or else Lucy noticed her own word choice and thinks she’s misspoken. Regardless, she looks away, looks at the floor.

Lorena reaches out, swipes her thumb over Lucy’s forearm. “I’m going to see about Garcia," she says. "I think we’re going to be down here for the night, or at least until he’s decompressed and Iris gets sleepy.” She hesitates. “You’re welcome to sit with us, if you’re staying up, but, um, change into dry clothes first.”

Through the window, emergency vehicles dimly light Lucy’s surprise. It’s a muted version of what’s so sharply familiar from those first few days after she got out of the hospital, when she needed a lot of help but seemed to expect none. Today, rather then unease, curiously is in her dark eyes.

“We would appreciate it," Lorena adds.

Is that, like, way too much? She doesn’t think it is. A weird thing to say, maybe, because there’s actually no evidence to suggest Garcia would appreciate it, based on his behavior tonight, anyway; although she knows for him Lucy’s proximity is like morphine for the recently impaled.

She turns towards the stairs, hindering Lucy's chance to reply, She moves quickly, misses one step in the dark, and doesn’t slow until she’s at the bedroom door.

Garcia sits on the edge of their bed, his hair ruffled, a small towel in hand. He’s changed into a burgundy turtleneck. Next to him, a flashlight illuminates the closet door.

“Iris?”

“She’s fine.” Lorena closes the door. “She’s downstairs with Lucy now. She was actually asleep when it happened. I found her sitting up in bed rubbing her eyes, wondering if she’d dreamed it.”

Instead of a bedtime, Iris has lights out. They made that decision a few years ago, in order to save their sanities, after she began to insist she didn't sleep, not ever, would only stare at the ceiling extremely bored until the sun rose. Never mind that Lorena woke her up for school every morning.

She told him that story, and others, on the drive home, caught him up on his life. Or, the life of his counterpart? She can’t always find the right language for all this.

“Are you feeling better?” As much as she hated it, she hopes the impulse— the danger, the water— helped him.

He balls up the towel and tosses it into his clothes hamper. “More or less.”

“Good.”

He's attracted to violence and danger. He's good at it, too, really truly good. War makes him feel helpful, so he's made that vocation his fate. The fact his vocation consistently leads him to make choices that harm himself has thus far been the hardest thing for her to accept within their marriage. It's harder then the post traumatic stress and the years of Iris’ childhood he lost to Rittenhouse. It's harder then when Iris was five and Lorena felt ready to suffer another pregnancy, and he told her he no longer felt any desire for a second child.

She has accepted it, has checked in again and again and found she still prefers being with him over not. But on their way home, she told him he'd gone back to his old profession for a while, and he scoffed, as if the update were about someone else entirely. She hopes that attitude will stick, this time. Of course—she couldn’t ever forget— that focused helpfulness is also what made her want him in the first place, so.

She crosses the flashlight’s beam and stands in front of him. He gives her his undivided, tired stare.

“Lucy needs to understand that she’s welcome to stay. Ideally she’d hear it from both of us, but I’ll talk to her about it regardless,” she pauses, “whenever we have electricity again and she looks less like a pitiful kitten.”

He nods once, in acceptance but not necessarily agreement.

She hesitates. “I’ll leave the romance out of it unless or until you’re okay with it.”

"I could have handled that a lot better.” He flicks his tongue, looks behind her, meets her eyes. “I'm sorry I didn't."

She hopes Lucy dismissed whatever heated Croatian she may have overheard, but that’s probably too much to ask.

"You were surprised.” She half shrugs, moves to sit next to him. “I thought it was best to make sure about her first, but I still could have told you the day I realized.”

“I’m not sure it would have made much of a difference.” With the flashlight between them, she watches their shadows alive on the closet door, watches him rub his face. “I’ll tell you,” he says, finally, “all the details. But I need us to be on the same page first.”

She leans back, observes the man she loves in profile, this man she thinks she knows so well. “Right now I want that more then anything else.”

He nods, takes a full breath. “Lucy and I never talked about before we were a team, the things I did to her, both intentionally and unintentionally.” He twists his wedding ring. “I was never sure if an apology was something she wanted or if I’d be doing it for me. I didn’t want to do it for me. Now I know I would be because I want to and she— she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to see me more then she has to.”

“I know this is a weird situation,” Lorena cuts in. “I know she relies on us for her needs to be met and there’s a certain power imbalance there. I have thought all this through. It might be a dealbreaker for her, but it might not be.”

“How about the part where she doesn’t like me as a person?” His mouth corks upward into a self-deprecating smile, his eyes a challenge. “Is that a definite dealbreaker?“

She narrows her eyes.

Lorena wants, from deep in her soul, to discredit him. The thing is, so much of her evidence against his viewpoint is based on what he told her about his and Lucy’s relationship before the world changed. It’s true that these days they don’t spend much time together. Most of their conversations, at least that she’s aware of, revolve around coordinating responsibilities with Iris. Maybe he’s correct now, and had previously exaggerated the degree of his and Lucy’s closeness. Maybe he loves Lucy and Lucy hates him and it’s just Lorena's misfortune to love them both.

“I don’t know how else to say it," she crosses her legs, "I just don’t see that. “

He’s unimpressed.

“You saw how much she didn’t want me to touch her.” His voice is low and strained. “You heard her scream when I tried.”

Involuntarily, she rolls her eyes. “That? she was overwhelmed, embarrassed. You know how she is. She thinks she should carry it all on her own. ”

A few days into her stay with them. Lucy, with an empty water glass in her hand, fell, or possibly fainted— Lorena never got a sure answer— and cut her palm open. Garcia went to her. She’d half screamed something, Lorena doesn’t remember what, but it sent her into the room and made Garcia step back. Lorena helped her up and into the bathroom, took care of the minor but bloody wound, and made sure Lucy hadn’t sat on any of the glass shards while Garcia swept up.

What's sharp in Lorena’s memory, is how Lucy made herself stop crying. It was almost immediate. Then she’d apologized, which Lorena ignored.

“She doesn’t want my help,” he says. “She hasn’t wanted my help in a long time. When she was recovering I saw how— how unhappy she looked every time I did anything for her, brought her a meal or clean laundry.”

“You think she wanted my help?" Lorena says. "It made her so uncomfortable, and not just the physical stuff. She hated the situation, she hated needing help.”

Lorena insisted on picking Lucy up from the hospital alone. She wanted to have a full conversation with this women who'd saved Iris' life, who she'd already agreed to let live in her home, and whom she did not know from Eve. Plus, she'd thought it better for Garcia to watch Iris alone sooner rather then later.

She brought Lucy a change of clothes, because most of what Lucy owned had been logged into an evidence locker somewhere and, not having an ID, she could not prove she was not actually a dozen armadillos in a well-made human costume and therefore could not get her possessions back. That had been awkward, particularly for Lucy. She'd clearly expected Garcia, not his wife who could barely be called an acquaintance. There was a rigidness to her exhaustion, a guarded quality that slipped away in the days that followed.

In a gas station parking lot, she tried to use her crutches and fell twice. The instruction she received at the hospital was insufficient and Lorena said as much.

An arm around her shoulders, a body to lean on; she needed a lot of physical help, more then Lucy was comfortable with.

She'd needed so much sleep, which, paradoxically, even the good hospitals barely allow. At home, Lorena let go of her a few feet from the bed, allowed her awkward descent onto the covers. Garcia left a bottle of water on her nightstand and they let her sleep through dinner.

She didn't see Lucy again until that evening. Mysteriously, she sat on the kitchen island, and looked like she was genuinely considering playing it cool. With a tight smile, Lorena repressed her laugh, and asked what she was doing.

"I wanted," Lucy bit her lip, "to take a shower."

"And…?" Lorena prompted, gesturing at her choice in seating.

And she'd been told she should first wrap her bandage in plastic to keep it from getting wet. Instead of asking for help, she had, naturally, decided to hobble out of the bedroom, across the living room, and into the kitchen. She'd figured out the plastic wrap was stored in the top shelf of the pantry, out of her reach on a good day. She then, naturally, decided to climb up onto the island in order to try and reach it.

It did not work out the way she had intended.

And it must have been excessively painful.

Had anyone explained to her how to wrap her leg? No, they hadn't. Well, years ago in what Lorena would have once described as another life, before that term took on a sharper meaning, she had been a nurse. It was easier to just show Lucy what to do then it was to explain it.

Obviously, she could not get off the island by herself without a searing jolt of pain. To gentle the landing, Lorena placed her hands on Lucy’s waist and lowered her to the floor.

Her eyes were shut.

‘Alright?’ she'd asked, and Lucy nodded. The pain hadn't come.

Heavily, Lucy leaned on her. Together, they hobbled to the bathroom. Lorena had her sit on the rim of the tub. She got the plastic wrap from the kitchen while Lucy pulled down her sweatpants.

She wants to think, as she scrutinizes her words, her memories, that when she came back into the bathroom, Lucy looked nervous. She didn't. She looked scared. Not of Lorena, specifically, or at least she doesn't think so. No, it was like Lucy didn’t expect to be treated well.

Because they were, at best, acquaintances, she offered to get Garcia instead. Lucy, with something adjacent to a chuckle, said no. Lorena suspected her answer would have been different if Garcia were again a widower, or if it had been someone else asking. Then again, maybe not, because they were both women and that was how these things tended to go. She did not read too much into it, thank you very much.

She tried to make it as normal as possible, tried to present genuine care as normal. What happened to Lucy, and what certain people failed at, Lorena has her guesses, her leads, although she tries not to assume. She knelt, wrapped Lucy’s thigh in plastic, and Lucy said she didn't have to. But, she did. She told her as much. She should have said more. Maybe that would have helped.

"She was very thankful, though," Lorena muses. "Resistant, but thankful."

“We used to share a bed.” It isn’t news to her. She snaps to attention anyway. “She used to let me comfort her. She used to let me in.”

“But now I’m here.”

He grimaces, closes his eyes.

She knows the reminder of her own death is painful, so she doesn’t point out that he doesn’t have a comeback. “You said it yourself: she was in a similar situation before and the guy didn’t treat her well, so she wanted space.”

“I just don’t think that’s all it is. I can’t think that anymore.” He rubs his temple. “We would have adjusted by now if it was just awkward or a little painful, but we haven’t.”

“Don’t you think I would see it, if it were so much worse then all that? I am biased and I don’t know the full story but neither do you because” —she pokes her index finger into his chest— “you won’t ask her how she feels.”

"Lucy's had a hard year and a worse couple of months.” Garcia takes her hand in his, squeezes it, and lowers it onto the bed. “I don’t want to make things worse for her.” His eyes flick to hers. “Tell me you won’t make it worse by bringing up what I’m going to tell you.”

“I know she’s had a hard time.” It comes out almost a whisper, although she doesn’t intend it. His jaw tightens slightly. “Of course I’m going to be careful with her feelings. And, by the way, if you don’t want her to be uncomfortable, you have a strange way of showing it.”

He flicks his tongue. The little crease in the south-east corner of his forehead deepens. He has the audacity to be genuinely confused.

“When she was telling that story earlier, what was that conversation?”

If he were anyone else, she would think he was referencing some sensual encounter to tease Lucy. But, if such an encounter existed, he would have said by now.

She asked him, outside the motel, what his and Lucy's relationship was. He said he really didn't know how to answer. She asked if he slept with her. No, not in the way she meant. They had shared a bed some nights, not every night, and not because there weren’t enough beds, although there wasn’t enough beds. He made sure to emphasize that. He made sure to emphasize that there was an attraction there, one he’d never acted on, and he’d made sure to emphasize that it wasn’t because of her that he didn’t act.

Lucy didn’t feel the same way, he said. He'd wanted so very badly to be honest with Lorena, and had admitted, unprompted, that they’d never actually discussed it. How Lucy felt hadn’t been something Lorena particularly cared about at the time, so she hadn’t pressed him for how he came about the information.

“She left out some details for my sake,” he says. “I didn’t want her to do that.”

She narrows her eyes, shakes her head, doesn’t doubt it. It’s the kind of fucked up logic he uses sometimes.

(Yet, he’s so emotionally intelligent when he’s not in pain. Funny how that works.)

“Your self loathing isn’t helpful.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you could use the reminder.”

She could argue with him forever. It’s like arguing with herself. But it isn’t getting them downstairs. Sometimes people need a hug. Sometimes they need a shove.

“You know,” she stands up, in front of him, and crosses her arms, “If I believed everything I’d been told about you we’d have never gotten together and Iris would have never been born.”

He inhales sharply, rubs at a mark on his neck. That thought is almost unbearable. It's more unbearable then the knowledge that Iris was dead. It pains her to bring it up, but she needs him to see her side, to see how it's the possibility of joy, that love that become essential, which he’s lived without, that he now wants to say is impossible with Lucy, thus making it so.

“Maybe she won’t be interested, maybe she’ll be horrified at the idea," Lorena says. "But I know if I don’t say anything to her I will regret it. I don’t want to still regret it in 15 years, still think it’s too late.”

Garcia tugs on his turtleneck as if it were suffocating him. "I did something to risk that,” he says, “to risk Iris never being born.”

“What?”

He twists his wedding ring, squeezes his knuckle hard and looks up at her, his eyes full of remorse.

“Gabriel. I saved his life, and I knew the whole time I was planning it there was a chance it might make me disappear, or end up like Lucy is now, and I did it anyway.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I would never do that today. At the time it seemed—”

“Like the right thing to do?”

He loved his mother, did not want her to know the pain he suffered, the pain Lorena could only imagine. So he did the selfless thing, saved the child in front of him and she shouldn’t be angry. But she is.

She fidgets with the fabric of her nightdress, means to pace, to process this, steps forward and hugs him.

His hair is still damp under her fingers, against her chest.

They breathe together in rhythm. The weight is comfortable. She thinks only of this, their bodies, and her relief that this is where time and space ended up.

(Her relief that he did not end up like Lucy)

He stretches his fingers between her shoulder blades, pulls away slightly. “What you said before,” he starts softly, “this is nothing like that.”

She lets go, fingers uncurling in his hair, and steps back to look at his face. “I have no way of knowing.”

She waits a beat to see if he’ll tell now. He doesn’t. She doesn’t really want him to.

“Do you want to be near her?” He closes his eyes and the lines in his face deepen. He looks, momentarily, like he’ll cry.

"Do you want to go downstairs and sit with her? Because I told Lucy we’d be downstairs for the night, or for part of it at least, and I let her know she was welcome to...” she searches for a phrase that won’t make his eyebrows raise, “hang out, with us. You think she doesn’t want to be near you? Let’s see what she does. Maybe she’ll prove you wrong.”

That possibility sparks his interest. “Okay,” he says after a beat, “I’d like that very much.”

She touches his check, because she wants to, and because she’s happy as a clam. Even he can’t find fault with her sound logic, thank you very much. He covers her fingers with his and their hands puddle together on his cheek.

She moves towards the door. Her hand glides from his check. He follows.

“If she’s in her room when we get downstairs, you’ll say she was just tired and it doesn’t necessary mean anything,” Garcia points out.

She pauses by the door, looks at him over her shoulder. “And I’d be right.”

“Yes.” He gives her a bone-tired, rueful smile.

They trudge downstairs and the door to Lucy’s room latches shut. Disappointment twinges in Lorena's stomach. Still, there’s plenty of time. Lucy won’t disappear into thin air.

Iris sits in the leather chair, which she's taken and arranged to face the window. Her feet are flat against the kitchen cabinets. Lorena lets that go on account of her near certainty that this whole situation will literally never happen again.

Garcia walks over to her. “What do you think of all this, sweetheart?”

“Really weird, but kind of cool," Iris says. “I want to sleep here."

He looks back at Lorena. In the low light, she can just make out his raised eyebrows and the hint of a smile. Until now, Iris has only ever declared wanting to go to sleep on Christmas Eve. There’s a first for everything, she supposes.

“Just this once." For all it’s wired them up (pun absolutely intended) there is a beauty in the sparks outside their window. There’s a comfort in seeing the minor catastrophe be repaired. “And you have to scooch a little further back from the window.”

Iris does as instructed, pushes the chair back maybe a few inches. Garcia finishes the job, pulls Iris in the chair across the kitchen, nearly knocks the opposite wall. Lorena sits on the coach and tosses him a stray throw blanket, which he sets in Iris' lap.

Lucy opens her bedroom door, comes out wearing a fresh sweater.

“Hi.” Lorena moves to one side of the couch, and grins at her. She doesn’t try to hide it; the half light will soften it.

Lucy smiles back, and joins her.

Garcia watches, doesn't say anything but slowly meanders towards them.

Lorena turns to Lucy, pride like a purring cat bubbling in her chest. “We should all go to the beach tomorrow.”

Garcia places his hands on the back on the couch, nods. "Just to walk around, get away from all this.”

“To relax,” Lorena agrees. "We could go first thing in the morning.”

“I’d like that,” Lucy says after a minute, “just maybe not the walking around part."

Her voice is steady, but she looks so burdened. Is it by her injury, or the fact her body isn't bulletproof?

“We could bring a picnic blanket and just sit for awhile."

"Just sit," Lucy echoes, and shifts to the middle of the couch.

“Are we going swimming?” Iris calls from across the room. Garcia smiles as he sits down on Lucy's other side. Lorena reminds herself to calculate all risks, to remember young ears are always listening.

“No, it’s too cold,” Garcia calls back.

Lorena twists around to look at Iris; her crossed arms and her straight stare out the window. “No swimming, but we might go to the beach tomorrow just to spend time in the sand.

“And look at the dead things that wash up there.”

Lucy's hand flies to her mouth, stifles a laugh.

“Look, but not touch,” Garcia says sternly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Iris says. “I know.”

In the half dark, his eyebrows raise like a flag, but they don't hold, and his expression quickly crumples into soft admiration. “That’s our kid," he says softly.

“That’s our kid,” she agrees.

Between them, Lucy leans back into the couch, tries to shrink herself.

Lorena reaches for Lucy's hand, rests her fingertips in the slight indent where hand and wrist meet.

Lucy does not relax into her touch. But without looking at her, she intertwines their fingers.

Delight sparks in Lorena's chest. The night air is heavy. Garcia makes no move of his own but his desire shows in his eyes, in the set of his jaw.

Lorena plays with Lucy’s hand, rubs circles in the soft skin of her palm, finds a dent in one fingernail. “Do you remember when we first me met?”

“How could I forget?" She stares straight ahead, expression unreadable. Garcia meanwhile, is made nervous.

"Do you remember going back to your motel room, when you and Garcia were ahead of me on the stairs?"

Lucy exhales. "Yeah."

"You lost your balance and he caught you," Lorena says quietly. "That mattered to me."

Lucy looks at her, searching. "Why?"

Lorena shifts her gaze to Garcia. "You told me about all the bad things you did." His voice had cracked when he said he didn’t know if it’d be right to go home to Iris, if it’d be selfish, if he could still be her father. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. "But you were so—" she searches for the right word and turns back to Lucy, "he was so attuned to you, so caring. That's not something to take for granted in a person. I took it as a sign."

In Lorena's experience, that level of attentiveness towards another human being is rare and not to be dismissed. Garcia had it for Lucy, even when he was staring at Lorena like she might not be real, even when he was in a fog, utterly bewildered she didn’t immediately believe his story.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

“Because I think I should have said it sooner.” She hadn't told Lucy how grateful she was to her. She'd been too focused on trying to alleviate Lucy's discomfort through pretending this was all normal.

Garcia leans into the couch, sighs.

Lucy turns and looks at him. Her hand shifts, and Lorena's fingers find her pulse point.

He offers a crooked smile. "No one should be alone in the dark, Lucy."

Lucy's heartbeat quickens. Her face is as unchanged as a statue's.

"Is that why you're here?"

His smile fails. Caught out, he says nothing. Lorena experiments, moves a little closer, doesn't quite press against her.

"I'm here because—" his voice cracks, softens. He turns to face Lucy more completely, his gaze briefly flicking to Lorena's. "You matter to me, and this matters to me."

Lucy exhales.

"I think we're building something really amazing." Lucy looks at Lorena, their faces inches apart. "What do you think?"

"I think," Lucy's voice is low, almost a challenge, "it could be better."

"I agree."

Lorena doesn’t want to be on the edge, sit on the fence, wait. She presses her hip against Lucy’s before she can second guess herself.

Lucy closes her eyes, opens them, and draws in a shaky breath. She leans back, tilts her head to look at Garcia. Something passes between them, some context Lorena isn't privy to, and the tension melts away.

She relaxes, rubs a reassuring circle into Lucy's thigh. She hears the firetruck drive away, watches the headlight-cast shadows grace the far wall. In the leather chair, Iris is still, her head angled to one side. Their breathing grows deep and even. There's no real reason they can't be together, Lorena decides. She considers how their necks will hurt in the morning.

"You were right," Lucy mummers, almost too softly to hear. For a moment, Lorena thinks it's directed to her, and feels validated.

#timeless #luciana #lorynn #garcy #lorena flynn #garcia flynn #lucy preston #fanfiction #my fanfic tag #Fic: The Many Vortexes of Autumn

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nevada-b-1780 · 5 months ago

Note

This is fab! ❤️

Flynn & Lucy + 10. Breathe Again

(it is a truth universally acknowledged that I will always be a little frothed at the mouth over Flynn/Lucy as antagonists to whatever the hell is going on by "The King of the Delta Blues".)

Lucy wondered, after the ringing in her ears subsided and her breath came easily again, if it was only that she wasn’t on speaking terms with many soldiers-of-fortune-turned-renegades that made Flynn’s fluency in the language of violence seem so exceptional, an easy knife up and under her ribs. All the luridness of H. H. Holmes’s murders distilled down to his purposes – if her conscience could not be leveraged, then her friends’ lives could: what wouldn’t you do, Lucy, to save your own friends – your family?

And, unbidden: someday she would, apparently of her own volition, hand Garcia Flynn a neat little atlas to history, with a promise that that he would not always be alone in this – this war of his. If she bent a little – allowed herself to help Flynn assassinate three men (three men she didn’t even like) and rewrite the twentieth century – would that be all of what she had meant, in the future? Flynn watched her consider all this neutrally – as though he already knew the answer.

Send me a number and two characters, and get a five sentence drabble!

#garcy #timeless #fanfiction #lucy preston #garcia flynn

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prxdk · 2 years ago

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#Timeless #Garcia Flynn #Lucy Preston #Garcy #Fanfiction #Lucy x Flynn

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the-girl-in-the-high-castle · 3 months ago

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For some reason, I stayed until 2am last night reading Timeless fanfiction.

*Screams in Garcy

#timeless #nbc timeless #i swear i thought i would get over this show because i didn't love it as much as some others #guess what bitch #of course i didn't get over it #garcy my beloved #the potential they had will never not make me scream #lucy preston #garcia flynn #garcy

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letmetellyouaboutmyfeels · 1 year ago

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Tag Game: Fandom Edition

I was tagged by both @mistmarauder and @princessfbi, presumably to expose me.

Current Hyperfixation: 911 (it's appalling how fast that came back) and my original blorbos

Previous Hyperfixation: Uh... probably Timeless? That show held me strong in its grip for two solid years but I don't think there was anything super strong before or - OH YEAH. REDDIE. HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN FALL OF 2019. A DIFFERENT TIME.

Top 5 Ships of All Time: Buddie (911), Phrack (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries), Spirk (Star Trek), Garcy/Garcyatt (Timeless), and Kastle (The Punisher - look I'm still mad, okay? I'm always gonna be mad. the scars run deep!!!)

Top 5 Ships at the Moment: Buddie (911), Xedgin (DND:HAT), House/Wilson/Cuddy (House M.D.), Dom/Brian (DO NOT JUDGE ME. LET HE WHO IS WITHOUT SIN CAST THE FIRST STONE, BITCHES), and Jisbon from The Mentalist

Top 5 Fandoms of All Time: I'm terrible at being "in" fandoms so this is a mix of fandoms I was active in and fandoms whose fic I devoured the most - 911, The Man From UNCLE, Star Trek, Timeless, IT

(Honorary mention to Castle - since I really was SO into that show - but it hasn't stood the test of time with me the way other fandoms such as Star Trek have.)

Favorite Female Character of All Time: Phryne Fisher

Favorite Minor Character of All Time: Xenk Yendar (he is, sadly, only in the film for about 15 minutes)

A Rarepair that you love: As the official captain of both Garcyatt and Jamy, I have to go with them

An OT3+ that you love: LOOK AT ALL OF US LOVING THE MAN FROM UNCLE THROUPLE WE'RE SO SEXY FOR THIS

Favorite Movie: The Man from UNCLE (the people who joined me post-Timeless and 911 have NO idea the insanity that movie inspired in me. NONE WHATSOEVER. @captainofthefallen KNOWS!!! SHE WAS THERE, GANDALF!!!)

Favorite TV Series: 9-1-1 and Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries

Favorite Book: Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

First Site you Ever Read Fanfiction on: I don't even remember the name. Um. Uh. It was a LotR site.

Where You Find Most of your Fanfiction Today: Ao3

Favorite Social Media Site for Fandom: Tumblr

Tagging: @captainofthefallen @givemeunicorns @lisbonsteresa @devilsbrokerank

#tagging thing #about lincoln #mistmarauder #princessfbi

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enbyprentiss · 4 years ago

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Risky Buisness

Genre: Smut and some fluff

Pairing: SubSpencer x Dom!Penelope

Warnings: exhibitionism, mommy kink, handjob, slight degradation and bimbofication, some praise, and i think that’s it but lmk if i missed anything!

a/n: this takes place in that one episode after Reid fucks up his knee and has to stay behind with Garcia, meaning Kevin doesn’t exist. Which is fine, I hate him.

Hotch tossed a file in front of Reid, who inspected it before picking it up.

“What’s this?”

“You told me you were clear to travel, you lied.”, Hotch stated simply.

“Naughty boy.”, Emily slyly commented before disappearing from the room.

“No, I didn’t. I am a doctor so technically it wasn’t a lie.”

“What was it then?”, Penelope mused, appearing in the doorway of the conference room.

“Um--second opinion?”, it wasn’t really a question but it certainly came off that way.

“Huh, you’re my bitch now.”, she smirked.

As if I’m not every day, Spencer thought as Morgan chuckled behind him. He picked up his crutches before following her back to her ‘bat cave’. Was he looking forward to getting to spend extra time with her? Absolutely. What he wasn’t looking forward to was being surrounded by screens all day. He couldn’t fathom how she works the miracles that she does, how she types at an alarmingly fast rate, practically piecing all the last pieces of every case together.

Penelope picked up JJ’s call, delivering details as she ripped one of her many desk toys from Spencer’s hand, which of course, made him pout. She hung up the call, picking up on Spencer’s signature puppy dog eyes.

“What’s the matter, baby?”, he muttered a small ‘Nothing.’, “Don’t lie to me, Spencer. I know you want to be out in the field, but we have to take care of our boy genius. You’re hurt, remember?”

He nodded, sticking his lip out slightly, “It’s alright, sweetheart. You’ll bounce back before you know it.”, she smiled and placed a kiss on his forehead, making him cheer up a bit.

Every second that they weren’t delving into file after file of victims and suspects, was spent messing with bright desk toys, sucking on lollipops (though that was mostly Spencer), and exchanging chaste kisses.

Spencer quickly grew into his role as assistant, even if it included interjecting Penelope’s words on calls. Of course, she loves seeing him do what he does best but that doesn’t stop her from shooting glares at him every once in a while.

“On it.”, they concluded the call while speaking at the same time. Penelope looked at him in disbelief.

“What?”, he returned her expression.

“Don’t you dare get sassy with me, Mister.”, she warned.

“Sorry, Mo--Penny.”, he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts before gently holding her hands in his, stroking his thumbs gently back and forth. And how could she ever resist her sweet boy? She lifted his hands and covered them in light kisses as he giggled.

They settled back into a comfortable silence before Penelope stole glace at her boy genius, “Dr. Reid, I know you are not typing like that!”

“What? What’s wrong with it?”

“You are only using your index fingers! That’s what’s slowing you down.”

“It’s not slowing me down!”

“Oh, you poor little anti-tech baby.”, Spencer blushed as Penelope placed her hands over his, guiding his fingers over the keyboard, “See that’s better, try on your own now.”

His tongue poked out slightly between his pluh pink lips in focus, wanting to impress the tech goddess herself, “Like that?”, he asked, shifting slightly to look up at her.

“Yup, just like that. I knew you could do it, you’re so smart, sweet boy.

Every once in a while, Penny would turn to make sure he kept up with typing correctly, and to her surprise he did. Sure, he’s a quick learner but when it comes to technology he’s mostly stuck to his ways (which secretly drives her insane).

It had been a long two days, but the case was slowly coming to an end. Rossi patched them both in on the call.

“Hey that kid--the uh, the smart one. I could use a little help.”, the other man on the line spoke.

Reid turned to Garcia, quietly whispering, “The smart one, that’s me.”

“Reid?”

“Reid here.”, Penelope rolled her eyes at his little smirk.

“Cross word question. 10 letters. Crater creator.”

“10 letters. Crater creator.”, he repeated, his eyebrows crunching together in thought.

“Arctangent.”, Penelope stated simply.

“Did you get that?”

“Damn, she’s smart.”, with that, he concluded the call.

“Mmhm.”, she nodded looking at Spencer with a sly smile, “Who’s the smart one now, lover boy?”

He crossed his arms and sulked, “You’re being so mean, Mommy.”

“What, you can’t take it all of a sudden? Because you seem to love it when you’re being such a little slut.”

His face turned a vibrant shade of pink before Penelope cupped his jaw, leaving a heated kiss on his lips. He quickly returned it, parting his lips to give her more access. Slowly, she moved down to his neck, sucking lightly but careful not to leave marks and trailing one of her hands down all the way to the growing bulge in his pants. He whimpered as she palmed over the fabric put pulled away when she went to undo her belt.

“Mommy!”, he gasped under his breath, “What if someone sees?”, they had kept their relationship under wraps and were planning to keep it that way for a while.

“So you don’t wanna cum?”

“No!”

“No, you don’t want to cum? Ok, that’s fine.”

“No, I do want to cum! Please?!”

“Come here, then.”, she patted on her lap. He scrambled his way over to her, it was a bit of an awkward fit considering how much longer his legs were than hers, but neither of them minded. She actually undid his belt this time and he lifted his hips up slightly to allow her to pull his slacks and boxers down just enough to expose his cock. As soon as she grazed her fingers across his flushed tip he moaned out shamelessly. He really did try to hold it back, but he couldn’t help it. He always fell apart at the slightest touch from her. She swiped her thumb over his slit to collect the peads of precum, pumping her hand up and down slowly.

“Mmf! Mommy!”

She hummed against his throat, “For someone who doesn’t want to get caught, you sure are being awfully loud, baby.”, she teased.

“Can’t help it.”, he whined, “Feels t--too good!”, he yelped as she picked up the pace, just to be a little more wicked. Spencer ducked his head down, burying his face into her cleavage in an attempt to drown out his noises. She moved one of her hands to pull down the hem of her dress to give him more access. And feeling his hot breath, and vibrations of his moans against her skin was enough to have her soaking.

“God, you’re such a good boy, Spencer.”, he bucked his hips up into her hand at the praise, “Do you want to cum now?”

He nodded frantically against her, “Words please, baby.”

“Yes! Please, please, let me cum!”

“Go ahead, sweetheart.”

“Oh, oh, oh! Mommy!”, he moaned out desperately, coating her hand in thick white ropes. Penelope put her fingers up to her mouth, sucking them clean and giving Spencer another sweet kiss.

“Thank you, Penny.”, he smiled shyly.

“You are oh-so very welcome, honey. You’ve been such a good boy these past days, helping me out.”

“Love you.”, he muttered.

“I love you too, Spence.”

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psychedelic-ink · 2 years ago

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Watercolor Eyes ║ Santiago "Pope" Garcia

a/n: this fic is directly inspired by @prolix-yuy 's absolutely gorgeous series something new I can't recommend this series enough it was such a joy to read, and after reading her headcanons about the other sw! triple frontier boys I couldn't stop thinking of santi <33 thank you so much for allowing me to be a part of this world and write for it! I hope you enjoy 💕

and special thank to my bby @inklore who supports me always and beta'd this fic for me, ilysm 💖

pairing: santiago "pope" garcia x fem!reader

genre: smut with little plot, minors dni

word count: 7k

summary: after another day of lack of customers and loneliness, you come across a flyer that might grant you a night of relief and pleasure.

warnings: sex worker!santi, oral (receiving & first time), dirty talking, bdsm dynamics, soft dom!santi, sub!reader, reader showing brat tendencies, brat tamer!santi, piv, use of a condom, squirting, the use of sir, swearing, orgasm denial/cumming on command, soft bondage, dry humping, teasing, begging, aftercare

Watercolor Eyes Masterlist

The neon letters shine loud and bright within the night: Cafe Watercolor. Seeing the pink sign used to make you smile, it was a sign that represented your dreams, your hopes, your future. Now it only symbolizes the harsh truth of reality. You’re a failure. Unable to get your small bakery cafe off the ground. You sit behind the counter, head propped up with your elbow as you look outside with a bored gaze. The air conditioning hisses, mixing with the coffee shop playlist you prepared the day before you opened up your little cafe. The tunes of a melancholic piano overlaps the sound of the air conditioner, the vocals of “The head and the heart” filling the small space.

Summers in Florida consist of humidity, rain and the burning sun. To you, it’s hell on heart. But as someone who always felt more focused with the pitter patters of raindrops, it wasn’t that bad. With a broken sigh, you watch a couple, hand in hand, soaked to the marrow, running to the bus stop. The pouring rain should’ve been any coffee shop owners bread and butter, people searched for shelter, the scent of coffee and sweets was always enticing enough to beckon them inside. Sadly, they either ran past the shop, much similarly to the couple from before, or took shelter at the coffee shop right across from you. It was brighter, bigger, and had all of those fancy new drinks. Right now your menu is limited, you focus on the baking aspect more, there lays your true passion, but you enjoyed a good cup of coffee as well so you threw that into the mix too.

And you know it’s good coffee. Those who bothered to enter would be astounded by the rich flavors and the free baked goods you threw in. You just need them to take one bite. After that they came again and again.

But a couple of regulars isn’t enough to keep your business afloat, not in this economy.

You could only hire two baristas, and since they were underpaid grad students, you didn’t blame them for not wanting to stick their neck out for the small shop. They were already juggling two other jobs.

Your family warned you; Don’t do it, they had said, You didn’t waste years of study just to open a coffee shop. Since you were a kid they wanted you to delve into the cruel world of academia. You studied archaeology, it was fun. Obviously. Who wouldn’t like to dig and unravel the remnants of a ruined civilization? But your heart always ached for something else. You didn’t want to waste your life competing with friends and others, you didn’t enjoy your classmates viewing you as a threat just because you got a good grade. You hated always having to look over your shoulder, worrying if the person that smiled at you genuinely meant it or not. It was chaotic, stress inducing. The job itself was fun, but the backstage wasn’t.

So you quit right after finishing grad school. Sure, maybe you should’ve stuck it to your parents and quit sooner, but you assumed if you actually finished studying they would finally let you go.

Of course they didn’t.

Shaking your head, you force yourself to stand up. You might as well close up shop. You don’t need your electricity bill to get even higher. Heart broken, you walk to the large window, the day's special baked goods written on the window. You almost cry when you wipe it off the board, you worked really hard on those croissants, you will have to take them home, again. At least your neighbors were happy about the free desserts.

The rain had stopped. Lonely water drops sliding down the glass, you see that the couple is still waiting for their bus. When the guy leaned in for a kiss, laughing and wet, your heart breaks a little. How long has it been since your last date? When has anyone ever looked at you like that? No one, that’s who. You had one lousy boyfriend and a couple of bad dates, after graduating your whole love and effort had gone into the shop. Needless to say you didn’t have much time to scroll the endless fuckboys of Tinder.

Tearing your gaze away from the couple’s private moment, you turn off the neon light, and push back the misplaced chairs. The silver lining is that you don’t have to do much in terms of cleaning. You’ll wipe the counter, pull out the plugs just in case, and that’ll be it. You already left the kitchen spotless after baking, which you’re glad for since now you can just go home.

Your chest heaves as you pick off the tray of croissants and package them to take to your neighbors. It's like this every night, your need to cry doubling tenfold whenever you take something you make home. You know they’re good. You just need people to give you a chance. You grab the last croissant for yourself and bite into it, dinner is settled. As you chew you moan at the taste of vanilla custard and the berry glaze, the flaky pastry crumbles, it gets on your clothes, sticks to the roof of your mouth. With the back of your hand you wipe your mouth and pat yourself down. Now you can leave.

Before leaving you take one last look, the passing cars casted their light inside, moving along and leaving the shop in darkness once more. Just like you. But it won’t last like this for long. It can’t. You won’t allow it.

Locking, and checking by rattling the door, you stuff the keys into your pockets and head home. The rain has faded but it’s still quite windy. The leaves of palm trees echoe and you see the remnants of flyers ghosting across the pavement. You see the silhouette of your bus, your steps pick up and when you realize you’re about to miss it, you run–

You’ve barely taken a couple of long strides before something sticks to your face, you collapse on the wet ground, mud and water seeping into your clothes as pain spreads across your chest.

Immediately upon getting up you see that the bus is gone, disappeared into the wind.

“Shit!” ignoring the state of your clothes you stomp your feet like a child throwing a tantrum. You viciously tear the piece of paper that led to your demise and glare at it. “Fucking– I’m going to curse the company who made this damn…flyer,”

Your eyebrows rise with curiosity. Looking down, you see a glossy flyer between your fingertips, or rather the remnants of it. The half bottom rips and falls to the concrete with a loud splat. However, the thing that piques your interest is that this particular flyer doesn’t belong to a company. It’s for a very specific service provided for lonely people like you. You drag your gaze across the men that decorate the poster, all of them looking very very handsome. It’s been a while since the color had faded from the flyer but you assume it’s from the sudden rain pour.

You should really just throw the poster away, walk your sweet ass to the bus stop and head home.

Instead, your eyes gaze at the number written in a bold font. Lucky you that the number was written on the top part of the flyer and not the bottom. Before the other bus arrives, you hurriedly pull out your phone, also soaked from the fall, and type the number, cursing every time your phone gets the number confused due to your wet fingers.

When you finally succeed in putting the numbers in, you shove the flyer into your bag to throw out for later and very carefully make your way to the bus stop.

You’ve been staring at your phone for about an hour.

You’d taken a brisk shower, gave the rest of the croissants to your neighbors, in which they thanked you, inviting you in and after dodging that bullet, you finally managed to relax on the couch.

However, what you’re doing isn’t really relaxing.

The black written numbers start to shake, your eyes stinging from staring at the screen for too long. Are you really going to do this? Are you really so lonely that you need to pay someone to spend time with you? Well yes actually, you are. It’s not like you’re shameful about asking for a service, a couple of your friends had done it, it’s just that you didn’t really know what to say when you called. Did you just say what you want? Do you need to ask for a specific man? Will it be safe? What if you get an STD among everything else?

With a loud groan, you throw your head back and let your hand fall to your lap. This is iditoic. You’re idiotic. It’s just a simple call. If whoever is on the other line sounds shady you can just hang up and pretend this never happened. Yeah. That’s it. It’s just a phone call. They can’t see you. Or force you to continue to talk. You have the power of the red button, you’ll be alright.

With a sudden surge of bravery, you raise your head and make the call. You quickly put it on speaker and anxiously listen to it ring. It feels like an eternity until someone finally picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

Oh shit. Shit shit shit– The voice that comes from the other line actually sounds good, honestly you were expecting it to be a pervert heavily breathing down the line but this is a very pleasant surprise.

When the honey-like voice speaks again, he sounds amused, as if you’re the funniest thing that happened to him all day.

“I can hear you breathing, you know? I won’t bite, promise,” he chuckles, breathy and airy. “I mean, unless that’s what you’re asking for,”

“Y-Yeah sorry,” you stumble with your words. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember the name of the place. “Is…this Pope’s?”

“It is and I’m Santiago, but since you sound so sweet you can just call me Santi,”

Your body heats up at his words, this is probably the most flirtatious thing anyone has said to you in months, even if technically he’s just saying that because you’re a potential customer. Your thumb rubs the corner of the smooth surface of the phone, you don’t know what to say next.

“Sorry, I don’t really know what to say,”

“That’s alright, I have all the time in the world,”

You relax at the playful tint of his voice, a soft smile ghosts across your lips.

“Do you really?”

“Well no, but you can still take your time. I can also ask you some questions to ease you in?”

“Sure?”

You hate how unsure you sound of yourself, but also you don’t think you can hide it. You genuinely feel lost, mind wandering about how others acted during these calls, you bet they knew what they wanted. They most certainly aren’t like you, causing problems by being shy and calling without looking up what to say beforehand. Damn, you really should’ve googled it first. You’re positive you can find a wikihow article about this.

“Okay let’s start out easy then, why did you call Pope’s?”

“For…company,”

“Just for that?”

You can see his smile through his voice, you bet he has an amazing one. You suck in a breath, chest puffing up as you ponder over what your next sentence should be.

“No, I would like…you know,” closing your eyes, you swallow. “Sex,”

You half expect him to laugh but he doesn’t, a soft hum echoes and he follows up with another question.

“Alright, the follow up questions might be a bit awkward but I need to ask–”

“Awkward?”

Your panicked tone seeps through the line and reaches Santi’s ear drums.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be holding your hand through it all, cariño. They’re mostly questions about your medical history,”

You nod then remembering he can’t see you quickly add, “Of course, thank you, Santi,”

When the questions are done, you check your phone only to see that an hour has already passed, much to your surprise, it felt shorter than that. Santi had asked you everything. Even things you never would’ve thought about asking a partner. And honestly it relieved you that he was so detailed with the background checks, just by his voice you can tell that he cares about what he does and for both parties concerned. It was nice. It reminds you a bit about yourself and your own work ethics.

“Okay I think that’s everything,” he states. “Do you want to continue with this?”

The uncertainty you feel comes rushing back, an encore, if you will.

“Yeah, I do. I-If everything's good,”

“Everything’s perfect,” you hear the gentle tapping of a pen. “And I think I already have the perfect match for you. Where are you? An otel?”

“Uh…” you look around your apartment. “I’m actually at my apartment…will that be a problem?”

“If it’s not a problem for you it’s not a problem for us,” he answers, voice a bit more timid than before. “But I will need an address, but if that’s going to be an issue I can look up nearby motels if you tell me which part of the city you’re in?”

“N-No, it’s fine,”

As you give out your address the red alarms in your brain screeches at you. It’s loud and mind numbing. Rightfully so. Santi tells you that it’ll take about half an hour for them to arrive and he hangs up, when he does, what you’ve just done dawns on you. You gave your address… to a stranger on the phone. And not just any address, your home address. You really are fucking stupid.

You could’ve at least taken up Santi’s offer to find you a motel nearby, this is your fucking home.

“Okay, you’ll get through this. Just deep breaths, take deep breaths…”

Placing a hand on your chest, you inhale and exhale about five to ten times. Your chest rises under your palm, you can feel your heartbeat. Everything will be alright. You have a pan that’s perfect for smacking people, better yet you have rolling pins of all sizes. You’ll be fine. You’ll be okay.

You get up and head to the bedroom, it’s a mess, sadly your home didn’t get the same squeaky treatment as your shop.

Everything will be okay.

The doorbell rings and your heart nearly jumps out of your throat. After tidying up your room, and yourself; you shaved with hurry, then put on a bra and underwear that matched in color. It’s the little things. You had a couple of toys you enjoyed, if he failed the two of you could always use those. A single woman has needs after all, and after checking the batteries you placed them into the drawer of your bedside table.

Another ring follows and you hurry to the door. You might be wearing matching underwear but other than that you hadn’t put on anything fancy; your favorite oversize shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants.

Clearing your throat, you call out to the person waiting on the other side.

“Who is it?”

“Pope’s,”

This is actually happening. He’s actually here, and not a minute late, or early.

You open the door with trembling hands, the man on the other side doesn’t move an inch as you observe him, he only smiles, shooting you a quick nod and a playful wink. He stays there until you fully open the door, even then he doesn’t budge, he waits patiently while your curious gaze rakes his body. His eyes are as rich as the coffee you brew, lashes long, soft looking. You see a bit of gray mixed in his dark hair, the corners of his eyes creasing as he smiles at you, lips lush, made for kissing and pleasuring another. For a moment you want to reach out and drag your fingers across his jawline, you wonder if it can actually cut into your skin. His five o’clock shadow will definitely chafe between your thighs and the phantom of the feeling is enough to have your insides clench. The veins peeking above his skin meanders down into his black fitted shirt, you want to see more.

He clears his throat, smile widening into a grin.

“Can I come in?”

You know that voice, how could you not when you gave very detailed information about your sex life to that same smooth baritone.

“Santi?”

You might be imagining it, but you think his eyes sparkle when you recognize him. His excitement makes your lips break out into a smile.

“The one and only,”

Heart thrumming madly in your chest, you move out of the way. He continues to wait, an eyebrow raised as he chews on his bottom lip, he looks you up and down. What was he waiting for? Tilting your head, you answer his gleaming gaze with your confused one. As an answer, he raises both eyebrows, smiles and tilts his head to the other side.

Oh. OH.

He’s waiting for you to verbally invite him in.

“C-Come in,”

His smile never fading, he takes one long stride into your apartment. It’s elegant, graceful, and you can’t stop staring.

Santi quickly does a once over of your home as he toes off his shoes. Oddly enough, it feels like him being there completes a picture. Maybe it’s because you’ve been lonely for so long but it just seems like he belongs. You push the door as he turns to look at you, if he smiles at you any longer you might melt into a puddle.

“Should we…” your gaze falls to the floor, and with that see his socked feet; black with colorful polka dots. “Nice socks,”

“Thanks,” he grins. “It was a gift from a close friend,”

“You must really like socks then,”

“Among other things,”

His lashes flutter, eyes soft like clouds. It takes every ounce of your self control not to swoon, he feels like he ripped a whole out of your dreams and escaped.

“So, bedroom?”

Your voice gives away how nervous you are, you almost breathe out a sigh of relief when Santi shakes his head. You still have no idea what to do. And you already feel vulnerable as it is, you’d probably bust a vein if you also stripped in front of him.

“Loving the enthusiasm but maybe we should talk a bit first,” his eyes linger on the couch. “I still don’t know what you want yet,”

He sits and you follow his trail, sitting on the armchair across from the couch.

“I thought I already said it on the phone,” you whine, thoughts swirling. “Please don’t make me say it again, I’m already plenty embarrassed,”

“Don’t be,” his stern tone takes you by surprise, he leans, arms resting above his knees as he stares you directly in the eyes. “There’s no reason for you to be embarrassed, it’s completely normal,”

“Really?”

Santi grins, eyes sparkling.

“If it wasn’t Pope’s would be closed already,”

“I guess you’re right,” a faint chuckle falls from your lips and upon hearing the sound he leans back, getting more comfortable. “So what do you want to know?”

“Things you enjoy during intercourse,” he thoughtfully rubs his chin. “Kinks, fetishes, anything you can think of. If you want to roleplay or not, anything,”

“Anything?”

“Well, there are a couple of things I say no to but I don’t think you’re going to say any of them, but if you do I’ll let you know,”

He winks and your lungs nearly explode. You rapidly blink at him, lowering your gaze, you think about his question. In terms of kinks you actually hadn’t tried out many, you’re curious about a lot of things but never knew how to ask for them. Exhaling, you fiddle with your fingers and look up, your cheeks aflame.

“I always wanted to try…BDSM stuff but I don’t know if I’ll actually like it,”

This seems to spike his interest, the curve of his eyebrow reaches all the way to his hairline, lips curling mischievously.

“Have you tried anything before? Bondage, blindfold, or whatever?”

“Uh…not really,” you nervously chew your bottom lip, legs squeezing together. “I never really brought it up before and my ex, well, he didn’t seem to be that interested. He tried to finger me, well not really, just attempted to rub my clit from over…my underwear, it kinda hurt actually, hated it. It's fine when I do it but maybe I just don't like it when others do it. So I’m not sure if I’ll even like the things I think about,”

“Sounds like an asshole,”

Santi’s sudden change in demeanor takes you by surprise. He seems actually angry, but also, slightly surprised by your sudden burst of honesty. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. You didn’t want to overshare, or upset him. Before you can apologize he cuts you off.

“We can try the things you’re curious about, we’ll start slow, obviously, and establish a safeword,” he looks you up and down. “Do you know what a safeword is?”

“I do,”

“Good girl,”

Your heart skips a beat or two, a gasp parting your lips, you stare at him wide-eyed. He glows at your reaction, sucking in his bottom lip, he brings his perfect teeth on top of it.

“You like that?”

You nod.

“Alright, I’ll let you pick the safeword,”

“How about….” your eyes drag back to his feet. “Socks?”

He snorts, and you grin, “Socks? You’re unbelievable, how about the word for slowing down?”

“Curtain,”

Turning his head, he looks at the dark red curtains you own, then shrugs.

“Fine by me. Do you have any idea what you want to try?”

“Not really…sorry,”

“You don’t need to apologize,” his smile grows soft and it seems like he wants to reach out to you but decides against it at the last minute. “What is it that sparked your interest?”

You shrug, “I don’t know– I guess the idea of someone taking care of me, having control and knowing what’s best for me. I just, don’t really want to think, if that makes sense–”

“Loud and clear. I have a general idea of what you need, unless you have anything specific in mind?”

When he shoots you a questioning gaze, you shake your head and he nods.

“Okay then, we can get started, if you’re ready,”

When he gets up and extends a hand, you’re sweating buckets, beads of perspiration coating your skin. You look up to see his calm expression, a soft smile and adoring eyes, you take the offered limb and lead him to the bedroom.

Your stomach still churns with anxiety but as his fingers squeezes around yours, you know that he’s got you.

“Strip and lay on the bed,”

You didn’t expect the mood to change so suddenly. His harsh tone sends a shiver down your spine, wetness spreading between your legs. While he isn’t looking at you, Santi starts to unbutton his shirt, and when he notices you’re frozen with a slight tremor to your hands, he walks up to you and cups your cheeks. You lean into his touch, heart stammering as you close your eyes.

His lips find yours. It’s tender, soft and when he licks your mouth for permission, you greedily open wide for him. A moan seeps into the kiss, taking the opportunity your open mouth provides, he licks your tongue, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. Your heart swells. It’s been so long since you’ve been kissed, and it never felt like this. Santi pulls away, lips glistening and eyes full of understanding.

“Do you still want to do this?”

You breathe out, “Yes,”

“What’s your safe word?”

“Socks,”

He can’t help the way a giggle rattles his chest, the melody reaching your ears. Leaning in, Santi playfully rubs his nose against yours.

“Strip for me then,” he hums. “I need to rectify a wrong,”

You want to ask what he means by that, but deciding that you’ll find out soon enough, you head to the bed, leaving a trail of clothes in your wake. Still feeling a bit self conscious, you leave your underwear and bra on. You also have an ulterior motive, you secretly want him to be the one to remove the last articles of clothing. You seem to get your message across. He licks his lips, left only in his boxer shorts, he crawls between your legs.

You don’t know what to expect when he slides your underwear down your legs and throws it to the floor. You certainly don’t know what to expect when his mouth inches closer to your begging heat, wet and wanting.

You’ll never forget the moment his tongue languidly slides between your folds.

“Oh fuck–”

Your back arches, mind and body confused, your fingers clutch the sheets. His lips close around your folds, tongue deep inside as his hands steady your thrashing. You barely hear him letting out a satisfied hum, the vibrations shooting a jolt of pleasure throughout your body. It’s mind numbing. Amazing. His tongue is pure sin, soft and velvety. You’re lowkey pissed this is the first time you’re feeling so good. Santi relentlessly mouths at your core, lapping up every ounce of slick that makes its way out of you. Your finger finds the back of his head, pulling at the soft curls. He parts for you and you whine, hips wiggling up as you beg for him to go on.

Disapproving, Santi clicks his tongue. He peels your hand away from his head, and sends you a warnful gaze.

“Behave,”

“Y-Yes–” between your lustful haze you gasp out a word you don’t expect. “–Sir,”

You have no idea where that came from but he doesn’t question it, instead, when you pull your hand back up to your hip, he breathes out a kiss into your inner thigh. He sucks in your clit and flicks his tongue, you let out a sharp exhale, eyes squeezing shut. It’s only been what, ten minutes? You’re about to cum all over him.

He looks up at you with half lidded eyes, you feel him smiling as he flattens the wet muscle, dragging it around the sensitive bundle of nerves. However, nothing prepares you for his fingers. Your whole body jolts when he traces your entrance with two thick digits, playfully pushing only the tip in. Before you know it, your hand is buried deep in his hair once again.

This time Santi yanks it away, and before you know it his face is hovering an inch above from yours, both your hands pinned above your head, his lips damp and swollen. You swallow upon seeing the annoyance lingering in his eyes, legs trembling with heat building between them.

“Didn’t I just say to behave?” he snarls, pupils dilated.

Something mischievous rolls in your gut, with a sudden surge of bravery, you challenge his angry gaze with your own.

“So? What are you going to do about it?”

It’s so minimal, the flare you see in his eyes, slightly widening. If you’d blinked, you would’ve missed it.

“Don’t tempt me, cariño,” he leans closer, breath ghosting across your burning skin. “Are you sure you want to play this game?”

A moment of pause. He’s giving you a moment to object, to use the safeword. You don’t. Instead, you wiggle your arms, trying to peel away from his iron grasp. His lips twist into a devious smirk, the tip of his tongue darting out to touch the edge of his teeth.

“Alright, let’s play then,”

The air is forcibly pushed out of your lungs when you find yourself flipped over to your stomach. His hands moving across your body, you find your knees tucked under your thighs, hands held behind your back. He shifts behind you, holding your wrists with one hand, he leans off of the bed and scoops something off the floor. You feel the soft fabric of his shirt wrapping around your wrists, keeping them completely in place.

Santi’s chest is flushed against your back when he whispers in your ear.

“Look at you, all nicely wrapped, the perfect present,”

You struggle against the binds, a groan rattling in your chest as you figure you won’t be getting out of them anytime soon. With a huff, you bury your face into the pillows.

“Not fair,” your voice comes muffled. “It’s not my fault if it feels good, it’s my first time,”

He coos, and rubs the small of your back, “I know, baby. I know. And that’s precisely why I need you to stay put,”

His sinful mouth finds you again. Slurps and groans fill the bedroom. You feel incredibly self conscious as he parts your cheeks but it all fades away with his tongue plunging deep into your core. With two fingers, he draws quick, small circles around your clit, making your body sing with pleasure. Turning your head, you attempt to breathe in a bit of oxygen, but all of it leaves you at the same time when you moan out his name, again and again and again.

“Fuck– Fuck, Santi…” you whine, pushing into him. A warning growl rips from his throat. “S-Sorry it just feels,” you gasp. “It feels so good, I-I think I’m gonna actually cum,”

Spit dribbles from the corners of your lips and wets the pillow underneath. You want to look at him, watch him eat you out like a starved man but you can’t. The fog lifts only for a moment when he stops, only to press his lips into you again, the bed begins to sway, only a bit, a rocking sensation if you will. You attempt to mouth out a question, but cry out instead.

“Not yet,” he rasps into you, the rocking of the bed picks up. “Wait for me a bit more baby, just a bit more,”

Wait for him? What– Wait–

“Are you–” you’re cut off by your own moan caused by an especially harsh pinch on your abused clit. The pain makes you tingle with pleasure, eyes rolling back, you forget your question. You start to beg. “Please, sir, please let me cum– I need to cum, please please please,”

“Hold it in,”

The melodic tone of his voice only electrifies you. Tears build up in your eyes as your cunt flutters around him, slick dripping down your thighs. The pleasure buzzes in your ears, body screaming for you to cum, you’re trying to hold it back, you’re trying to be good, his good girl. Fuck–

“Cum. Now.”

Before you can even process the words, your body obeys.

It’s blinding. Breath stopping. Your body tenses, cunt gushing around his tongue and fingers. Your arms forces against the binds made of his shirt, cloth digging into your skin as your body starts to spasm. Both of your moans mix together, composing the most beautiful melody you’ve ever heard. Santi’s eccentric pace becomes slow, sensual. Tongue lazily lapping up everything you have to offer, he eases you down from the high of your ecstasy. You take heavy breaths, head spinning, You breathe out a languid moan, muscles still throbbing with the buzz of pleasure.

Santi pulls away and you drop to the side, luckily you’re too gone to actually feel embarrassed from falling. You hear his low hum of a chuckle as he crawls closer to you, he unties his shirt from your wrists and gently kneads your biceps.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-Yeah,”

You know that this is just service he provides, but you can’t help but reach out to him, he obliges with a smile and nestles between your arms, kissing your neck gently. A broken sigh falls from your damp lips, he huddles closer, body snug against your own. Mimicking him, you come closer too, your bare thigh grazing against his clothed cock. You still and he looks up to you, brows knitted together. His confusion grows when a grin spreads across your face.

“Did you cum?” you ask, eyes bright and shiny.

He clears his throat, lips curling up into an amused smile. Leaning in, he teases your earlobe with his tongue.

“I might’ve,”

“Never would have pegged you as someone to be this quick,” you tease, hand sliding between your bodies, you cup his cock, a subtle moan leaving you as you feel how wet he is. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s hot as hell,”

“Don’t get cocky,”

He crashes your lips together, large hands cupping your chest and pulling you even closer against the firm frame of his body. His fingers tease your nipples, rolling and pulling them. Your skin tingles, and you whine into the kiss, hips grinding against him. Santi’s lips never leave your own as he lifts himself and pulls you underneath. Your palm still snug against his length, you feel him hardening again.

Surprised, you break the kiss, a heavy laughter trembling in your chest. With a wide smile, he grins.

“Told you,”

“You’re full of surprises,”

“I am,” he stops for a moment, looking to the side, he looks back at you, seemingly unsure. “Do you want to continue? We can stop if you want to, or if you feel worn out, ”

“Oh, I’m definitely good for round two,” you purr, brushing your lips against his. “Make me feel whole again,”

“Fuck, alright– Let me go get a condom really quick,”

Santi gets up and you realize that you haven’t had the time to properly observe his temple of a body. His back muscles flex as he dips down and grabs his pants, hurriedly searching the pockets for that colorful piece of packaging. The boxers he wears hugs his ass, leaving little imagination to the eye, you’re certain Santi would look good in everything, but right now you think he looks the best naked. He turns on his heel, his chest firm, a bit of fat around his belly but still defined. Eyes going lower, you see his fully erect cock, the darkened tip peeking out of his waistband. You bite the inside of your cheek as you inside clench around nothing, you can’t wait for him to fill you up.

Before you know it, Santi’s between your legs again, rolling the condom down his impressive length. He’s so thick, thicker than you imagined he would be. Santi notices your gaze, lips playfully pulling up.

“You think you can take me baby girl? Where’s that confidence from before?”

“O-Oh…it’s still there just a bit,” you clear your throat. “Shocked,”

“Word?”

“Socks,”

“Good girl,”

Purring like a cat, you part your arms, allowing him to bury his face into the crook of your neck as he slants himself between your thighs. You adore feeling him this close, his warmth making your heart stutter. He nudges your entrance, slowly pushing in. Your whimpers spiral into moans and he drowns out the noises by claiming your lips. The stretch is addictive, the tingle of being spread wide by someone who knows what he’s doing makes your eyes roll back. Santi inhales you as he pulls back, eyes searching your face. You flutter around him, with the mere sensation of his cock, you grind your hips.

“You good?”

“Yeah,”

“Can I move?”

“Please, sir,”

He growls into your skin, the vibration seeping into your body, it makes you tremble as well. When Santi starts to move, all you can do is hold on to him, nails biting into his skin as he slides in and out of you with precision. He breathes raggedly into your flesh, cock hitting your deepest parts with every thrust. You feel as if you can’t control your body, it arches, bends, curls but your brain is completely mush, only pleasure ringing inside. With your moans and whines growing in volume, Santi starts to slam his hips, the sound of skin slapping against skin spurs you on further. You scream his name, breathing and panting curse words without knowing. Your heart swells, he makes you feel so good. His thrusts, deep, lasting. You can’t breathe, eyes squeezed shut as the bed rocks into the wall. Your cunt clenched around him, the coil inside you tightens, ready to burst but he’s still going. It feels like he can go on like this for hours. Fuck–

You hug him tighter, if possible, teeth finding his shoulder, you bite into him. You don’t even know where you are anymore. All you can feel is him. His scent, his body, his sounds. Nothing else.

“Fuck fuck– Santi– ‘Love you–”

Your eyes shoot wide open, you see him staring at you, he doesn’t look mad, or weirded out. But still, the panic overwhelms the pleasure, you flail, tears quickly building in your eyes.

“You love me?” he mutters, one eyebrow elegantly raised.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to– I didn’t–”

Santi doesn’t slow down, in fact his hips speed up. He sees your glossy eyes and leans to kiss them both, you feel the throb of his cock, and another moan quickly replaces your frantic apologies.

“It’s okay,” he reassures you, mouthing the words into your cheek. “It’s normal. Say whatever you want, it only means that I’m making you feel good. You’re not the only one,”

Your heart feels like it might stop at any moment, “I’m not?”

“No,” he leaves a trail of open mouthed kisses as he dips between your breasts. He mouths against them, tongue playfully licking the salt of your skin. “So just let go,”

And you do just that.

Letting your head fall back, you revel at the way he draws a stiff nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling around. Your chest heaves with his every shattering thrust, his hand slides between your wet bodies and finds your clit. He rolls the sensitive nub between his fingers. Hallowing his cheeks, he grazes his teeth around your nipple, you chant his name, a string of curses following right after. You have no idea what else you might be saying, you might’ve asked his hand in marriage at this point but you don’t care. You let go. You forget the shop, the insecurities, the loneliness and you just feel.

It doesn’t take Santi long to wind you up, dangling you off the edge, the heat builds and builds, so much so that it feels like it’s burning. Something besides pleasure swells inside you, something’s coming, you bite back your moans, and slap his back.

“What is it?” he pants, voice dripping with lust but still full of concern. “Do you want to use the safeword?”

You furiously shake your head, your lips part with a gasp.

“It’s– I’m going to cum but– It’s too much, I’m–”

He presses his lips into your ear, you listen to his breathing, steady and slow, the slide of his cock and move of his fingers rips another groan from you.

“Let go,”

Your cunt gushes around him like it never has before, it’s more intense than the first time, it makes you cry, beg. The squelching becomes louder, you’re still coming. He sings a moan into your skin, your cunt throbs at the sound of his voice, it reminds you of the caramel you make. Santi’s movements slow, fast thrust shifting into soft rolls of his hips. Your breath hitches every time his pelvis grazes against your sensitive clit. He pulls you from your dazed state with a soft kiss, both hands coming to lay on each side of your face, thumbs stroking lovingly.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you inhale a deep breath. “Did…did you?”

A soft chuckle vibrates across your lips, he nuzzles your nose. “I did,”

You fight the urge to call him back when he pulls away, you haven’t realized how secure you felt under his weight. However, you really need to initiate a war against your inner demons when he lifts himself off of the bed. Carefully removing the condom, he ties the end into a knot and turns to you.

“Bathroom?”

“First door on the left,”

You lay back down as he leaves, hands and arms sprawled above the sheets. Your mind begins to clear, kind of, closing your eyes you can still feel how he felt plowing into you. The fact this is a service is both a pro and a con. A con, because he can’t stay. A pro, because you can call him and ask him over anytime you want to. Well, not really. Maybe once a month, all your money goes to the shop and rent, you wouldn’t be able to hire him.

You’re surprised at his return, his right hand holding a wet washcloth and the other holding a glass of water. The bed dips under his weight and he grins at your confusion, the towel gently cleaning the mess between your legs.

“What? Did you think I just left?”

“I didn’t,” he gives you a look of disbelief and you giggle. “I didn’t really!”

“Good,” his eyes scan your body, observing every patch of skin. “Does anywhere particularly hurt? Aches?”

“No,”

“How do you feel? Mentally?”

“That’s good too, feel very light,”

You don’t miss the way he hisses out a breath of relief, “Great,” he checks the watch you hadn’t realized he’s been wearing. “We still have ten minutes,”

Suddenly you can hear the imaginary clock ticking, maybe you weren’t alright after all.

“Cuddle?”

His smile is wide, kind, soft. You swear you melt into the sheets. Letting the used towel fall to the floor, he lays next to you and pulls you into his chest. You listen to his heartbeat, steady, safe.

“And you thought that you wouldn’t like it when others did it,” he chimes gleefully, quoting you when you opened up about your bad experience with your ex. “It looked like you enjoyed my fingers just fine,”

The soft baritone of his voice soothes you, your eyes flutter close, a pleased hum parting from your lips.

“I did,” you smile into his chest. “Thank you, this was just what I needed,”

“It was my pleasure, cariño. Literally.”

The last thing you feel is his hand slowly dragging across your body, fingers rubbing your worn out wrists.

Best money you’ve ever spent.

a/n: to be notified of future work follow @psychedeliclibrary and turn on notifs 💕

#santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #santiago pope gracia x you #santi x reader frankie #santiago garcia #sw!pope #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfiction #santiago garcia fanfiction #santiago garcis x fem!reader #triple frontier x reader #triple frontier fanfic #oscar isaac characters

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thismessymasterpiece · 3 years ago

Text

Oh My God, You Think They’re Pretty!

Summary - Spencer Reid can be debilitated by insecurities at times. Never once did he fear they would be because of the love of his life... until now.

Spencer Reid x Reader (she/they pronouns used!)

Category - Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with happy ending, Fluff

TW - Spencer having implied appearance insecurities, Spencer being heartbreakingly sad (apologies and therapy bills paid in advance <3)

Please let me know if I missed anything!

Contains - Spencer having a lot a bit of self-doubt (Yes, he cries. Yes, I am very sorry.), mention of Neville Longbottom from the Harry Potter series and the actor that plays him, Matthew Lewis, and Spencer being a sad lil' bean

Author’s Note - As always, please, please do not hesitate to leave me any helpful comments or provide any constructive criticism. All I hope to do is to improve my writing and hopefully spread some comfort to anyone who may find themselves needing it. Now, if you have been here for more than a hot second, you can imagine how thrilled I was to include two of my favorite fictionals in the same fic, even if Neville made Spencer a bit uncomfy... you'll see ;) I think I made it pretty hard with this one but enjoy <3

The agent consulting on a particularly trying case, retitled Ashley Seaver, was pretty good. She certainly didn't think so but she made for quite the helpful addition to the team. What she was also good for, however, was a couple of well-meaning jokes on the behalf of one favorite resident genius. Garcia was a top-notch perp when it came to the crime.

"...And that is the whole kit and kaboodle on each of your sixty-four suspects. Nothing really stands out, they're all pretty plain," Garcia told one such genius over the phone.

"That's pretty much the main issue we're gonna have here," Reid responded as he surveyed the files she was printing for him.

"Yeah, vanilla doesn't make your job any easier," Penny joked.

"No, it does not," Spencer confirmed.

"So, um, how's it going with the agent whose father was a... y'know?"

"How'd you know that?" An inquisitive tone came over him.

"...I might've looked into someone's hidden background."

At his disbelieving silence, Penelope felt the need to defend her actions, "What? I am not gonna let some strange, new person travel with my family and not find out who they are."

"I don't know, she seems fine," Spencer reassured, looking over to the agent of the hour who was viewing a file beside his girlfriend, Y/N.

"What is that in your voice?" Garcia asked, suddenly highly suspicious.

"What's what in my voice?" He clarified, brows meeting.

"Oh my god, you think she's pretty!" Penny exclaimed.

"What? I never said that!" Reid's voice must have jumped six octaves.

"Ho, ho, you totally do!" She couldn't help but laugh aloud, "P.G. out, Lover Boy!" Garcia reached to hang up the phone before the boy genius jumped to stop her.

"Garcia, Garcia, wait!" He practically yelled.

"Yes, my love?" She retreated.

"Um..." He sounded extremely anxious.

"What is it?" Garcia pressed.

"Don't- Do me a favor and don't say anything like that to, Y/N, okay?" He whispered.

"Reid," Garcia's voice changed to a degree that even Spencer's analytical mind couldn't decipher, "what are you asking me to do?"

"Just don't say anything like that to or in front of my girlfriend," He mumbled ashamedly.

"Because?" She pressured.

"Because it is not true and I love her and I think she is the most beautiful person in the world and I would never want to hurt her feelings by letting her think I thought anything different!" He exclaimed in a rush.

Penelope couldn't help the mischievous grin that broke out on her face.

"Oh, Boy Wonder, you are sweet but I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"Why do you say that?" He sounded suspicious again.

"Well, you can still think someone is pretty in a relationship,” She emphasized.

"No, you can't!" Spencer enthused, "That's cheating!"

"Oh, sweets," Garcia impassioned, "say what you will but if you think that when you watch the Harry Potter movies with Y/N, they are watching for the plot and not one particularly delicious Matthew Lewis, you must be crazier than an unsub."

Reid pouted, hurt.

"What do you mean?" He sounded defeated.

Garcia, sensing her mistake, backtracked.

"Oh, I've said too much... P.G. out, Lover Boy!" She called again and made sure to put on a spurt of speed he couldn't beat. The line disconnected.

So, it seemed, had Y/N's lover boy.

Throughout the rest of the case, he avoided her. He shied away from her at any opportunity and flinched every single time the consulting agent walked into the same room as them.

He had put so much distance between them that Y/N could not possibly just ignore it. Problem was, cases made it pretty dang easy for him to do just that.

On the jet home, Spencer had been reading a book in immense focus. When Y/N had suggested they settle back into their shared apartment with a nice Harry Potter marathon from bed, he broke away from his book to give her a betrayed look and moved seats.

Where he couldn't run away, luckily, was at their home.

"Spence, look, we gotta talk about this."

"What do you wanna talk about?" He asked, quickly losing his satchel at the door and walking away, entering the bedroom.

"I don't know what's bothering you lately but, I'm not gonna lie, you're worrying me."

"Nothing's bothering me, Y/N," the quiet of his voice was muffled almost silent as he changed his shirt in his closet.

"Spencer," Y/N stood in the doorway, blocking his exit when he looked about to make a run for it.

"What?" He asked, meeting her eyes for the first time in days.

"Tell me what's wrong, bubs?" She pleaded, "Please! I cannot help or make it better if you don't tell me."

He remained silent and lightly pushed past her in the doorway.

"What? You don't wanna be around me anymore? Am I annoying you? Bothering you? Are you ashamed of me? Don't think I'm pretty anymore? What?" Y/N fumed as he stormed over to the bed.

"No!" He yelled back.

"Then what?" Y/N screamed.

"Well, I could ask you all of those questions and I am pretty sure I know the answers. That's what's wrong!"

"Spence... what?" Y/N deflated, pausing for a moment and looking at a loss for words.

"I was talking to Garcia," Reid whispered, falling to the bed as the fight visibly drained out of him.

"Uh huh," Y/N encouraged, remaining at the foot of the bed, hesitant to touch him for fear of making his vulnerable state worse.

"Well, she kinda told me..." He hesitated, worsening Y/N's anxiety, "Do you still think I am pretty?"

"Oh my God, Spence, what is she telling you?"

"You just answered my question with another question," He sounded heartbroken.

"Spence," Y/N threw caution to the wind, sitting down on the bed beside him and grasping both his hands in hers, "of course I do."

"Are you sure?" He wouldn't meet her eye.

"Yes," Y/N emphasized as passionately as possible, "what is Penny telling you?"

"Are you ashamed of me?" He ignored her question.

"Now you're answering my questions with your own."

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"Are you going to answer mine?"

He turned away dejectedly.

"Spence, please, just tell me. Nothing can be this bad!"

"It is!" He turned back, tears flooding his eyes and breaking her heart, "It really hurt my feelings and I don't appreciate you invalidating that!"

His voice cracked and so did Y/N's disposition. They pulled him into a tight hug and he sobbed into her shoulder.

"I am so sorry, my love," They mumbled into his neck, "I want to help and I don't mean to hurt you worse but I need you to tell me how."

Pulling away, he wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand.

"She told me that you watch Harry Potter with me because you think Neville is pretty and I... I thought I was the only one," He frowned, tears brimming his eyes again.

"Oh, Spence," She brought a hand to his cheek, wiping a trail of tears with their thumb, "you are."

He looked away.

"Spence, does the sheer existence of broccoli make chocolate taste any worse?" Y/N changed tactics.

"Huh?" He asked, thoroughly baffled.

"Bear with me here, bubs, and answer the question."

"Well, no, of course not," He answered earnestly.

"Exactly," Y/N grinned at his sweet demeanor, "just because I think an actor or a character is pretty doesn't mean I think you any less pretty."

"Are you sure?" He mumbled.

"Of course, they're so pretty but so, very much so, are you."

He nudged his cheek closer to Y/N's hand, still resting on it. It was answer enough for her.

"What I do wanna know, Spence," they smiled up at him, "is why this conversation even spawned."

Y/N felt his cheek warm and he blushed a deep, pretty pink.

taglist, i suppose :)

@safespacespence

dividers courtesy of the lovely @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune <3

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romanarose · 2 years ago

Text

Leather and Lace: Chapter 10

Santiago "Pope" Garcia x fem! OC

Masterlist

Chapter 9: Chapter 11

Summary: This is mostly just fluff, smut and comfort. I just wanted to give them a day together <3

A/N so long. it's gonna go: smut, shower fluff and comfort, more fluff, more smut (idk what happened here I popped off), more comfort. There will be scenes cut into flashback of the night before, where Laci talks to Santi about what actually happened. These parts are potentially very triggering but I put them all in italics as I always do with flashbacks, so if you want to read but are concerned about that content, you can just skip over italics.

Also, to the anon who left this shitty ask, I assure you, people do care about this story, and they care about Laci. She is not a raped bitch, disgusting or an idiot. She's doing great.

WARNINGS: Usual fic warnings for rape, sex trafficking, abuse, etc. Rape while on substances, substance use, mentions of STD's, physical abuse and death, nightmares, smt, NSFW, fingering, handjob, masturbation, oral (f recieving and kinda m), cum eating, 69.... lmk if I miss anything.

Santiago Garcia was luckiest man on the fucking planet. He knew that, the guys knew that, and after showing her off all night at Benny’s fight all wrapped in his arms and leather jacket, the whole town would know it too. Gossip spread fast. Santi had money, and although he didn’t waste it on extravagance, he knew he had the privilege of comfort and security. He had three of the best friends a man could have, three men who would have his back through anything, call him out on his bullshit and take care of the woman he loved. He had the most adorable little goddaughter on the planet, and although most of his blood family was dead, the life he built in this suburban Florida town was a happiness he never thought he was deserving of. Comfort, friendship, family.

Oh, and he had the prettiest girl had ever seen in his entire life, wearing his sleep shorts and his oversized Metallica shirt, in his bed, grinding her wet cunt on his thigh.

Luckiest man on earth, that was for sure.

“Fuck, Lace, you’re something else you know that?” His grip on her hip was tight, but she didn’t seem to mind. His other hand was wrapped around the base of her neck, fingers entangled in her hair as they guided her head to his for a passionate kiss, Santi licking into her and Laci biting on his lip whenever she had a chance. His boxers had ridden up, and he could feel her wetting his thighs. Santi ran the hand on her hip up to her breast, palming her through the shirt. His shirt. "All those men at Benny's fight eyeing you, watching you, but they don't get you, they'll never get to touch you, right?”

Laci’s hands massaged into his scalp. “Never, only you, wore your jacket, wanted to show them I’m yours, wanna be yours, only yours.”

“You’re mine, beautiful. And I’m yours, you have me, body and soul”

Her fingers tugged at his hair needing something to hold in the intensity building in Laci’s stomach. “S-Santi…” She whined out, one of her hands going to grip his shoulder for stability. Laci angled herself further so that his leg nudged perfectly against her clit. “Need more, need a little more.” She begged.

Santi moved both hands down to her hips again, pressing her body heavier down onto him, eliciting a choked out sob as the electricity shot through her. “That better, Munequita?”

A high pitched ‘uh-huh’ was all she could manage other than a slurred “s’good”, eyebrows pinched together as her shaky breath signified how close she was.

“Can’t believe I get to have you here with me, only I get to see you like this huh? Unraveling just from fucking yourself on my thigh? Think you can give me one like this, sweet girl? Soak my shorts in your come?”

Laci, despite tightly closed eyes and rapidly accelerating heart threatening to beat out of her chest, rested her forehead on Santi’s and took one of his hands off her thigh. He watched her carefully. She was still moving on his, but he made sure this wasn’t a signal to stop.

With a thrill that shot through his achingly hard erection in her boxers, Laci slipped his hand between his leg and her. She planted a light kiss on his sweaty forehead. “I think that ship sailed, baby”

Baby such a simple pet name and it just took his breath away. “Fuck, your soaked. Can I make you come like this, then lick you clean until you come again?”

“Fuh, god, fuck, Santi, please” her left over mascara was smudged from sleep, and Santi made a mental note to get make-up remover wipes so he could take care of her face after they got dressed up. (And they would be getting dressed up again, Laci deserved nothing but the best) but right now, he enjoyed how fucked out and wrecked she looked for him.

“Gonna come on my leg, Lacina? Gonna use me, show me how I don’t even need my hands to get you off, drown those shorts so they always smell like you?”

“Santi, so close, don’t stop” Don’t stop any of it, the way he ground her hips down, the way his filthy mouth just kept talking…

Pope was happy to oblige. “Wouldn’t dream of it, baby, love having you here, love waking up to you, loving having you in my bed and finally getting to taste you, better than I ever imagined.”

“You, hm” She whimpered, face all scrunched up.”You thought of me?”

Santi couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course I thought of you, Lace, I fell asleep every other night with you on top of me, you think I could know how you feel and not think of you? Think I tasted your mouth, and didn’t imagine what you’re pretty little cunt tasted like?”

Laci kissed along his neck, her grip on his shoulders seeming to tight with every drag of her pussy up his thigh. He continued talking, the sound of his voice alone about having her spill over.

“Thought of you too, Santi” She muttered, breath hot against his ear.

Santi had woken up hard, how could he help it when such a pretty woman was in his arms. “Oh yeah? That right?”

“Y-yeah. Would put a pillow between my legs and ride it just like this, pretending it was you. Imagined your fat cock up in me, claiming me as yours”

“Fuck baby, jesus christ” He sputtered out, incomparibly turned on by the sound of his sweet, innocent acting girlfriend saying such dirty words.

“All those nights we kissed, I wanted you to take me right there on the couch, wanted to wiggle my way down your body take off those stupid sweats that leave nothing to the imagination and take you down my throat, choke on you as you feel me swallowing you down .”

“Fuck! Fuck Lace, shit” Santi kissed her pretty little mouth, licking into her. He wasn’t going to last, that was for damn sure. He knew she wasn’t ready for penetrative sex and blowjobs yet, and that was fine by him. Right now, he felt like he could be content with this forever, the stimulation of her thighs rubbing along his cock as she rode him being more than enough. “I know you don’t want hickies, but you can give them to me, if you want” He felt her smile against his neck before she began sucking into him. A high pitched wine escaped her mouth, and when her orgasm came, Laci bit down right where his shoulder and neck connected, and dug her fingers into the flesh of his shoulder. The beautiful sting of her teeth being enough to send him over the edge, his large hands gripped her hips far tighter than he meant. “Lace! Fuck!” He shouted as he felt his release, warmth filling his pant leg.

She collapsed on him, his strong arms catching her, gluing her still-clothed body to him, rubbing her back one hand, her neck with his other. “Fuck baby, you did so good, thank you.” He kissed her neck. “Thank you, Lace.” He buried his face in the crook of her neck, her hair tickling his face.

“Why are you thanking me?” She asked, still breathless from her orgasm and finally being with him.

“For trusting me with yourself”

“But… I haven’t even done that. You don’t even get to have all of me, I’m not-”

He held her tighter. “This is enough. More than enough.”

“Hm” Was all she replied as she snaked her hand down his stomach, ready to jerk him off like the night before, when his hand stopped her, prompting her to look at him.

“That’s uh, that’s already taken care off” He smiled at her lovingly.

She stared at him, confused for a moment until the realization dawned on her face. “Oh shit” She giggled out, reaching back to feel the wet spot in his pants, then grinning back at him. “All that just from me riding your thigh?”

“There was some stimulation from your leg rubbing on my dick, but yeah” She grinned back.

Laci carded her hands through his graying hair. “You get off without even being inside me? That’s… that’s insane” She laughed out again, bewildered at the idea.

“Lace” Santiago cupped her face, bringing her lips in for a kiss. “You have no idea how you make me feel, do you? No idea how special you are to me. Sometimes I think I could cum just from watching you bring me pizza rolls”

She kissed the tip of his nose. “Yeah, but you really like pizza rolls”

Santiago pressed him for head to hers, hands skirting up her sides “I do really like pizza rolls” he started tickling her, laying her giggling form back on the bed “but I also really like you”

They got up to take a shower before going to the park. Jana had woken them up this morning calling Santi (he was usually up by this hour, but last night's activities and the woman he loved finally in his arms made for a good sleep.) It was her and Rosie’s first day back in town, and she wanted Frankie to see Rosie. The agreement had been that Santi would accompany Frankie for the first meet up or two, so Jana could make sure he really was getting sober. One of the guys or Jana had to be with Frankie while he was with Rose until Jana felt safe that he wouldn’t relapse. Jana had of course invited Laci along, wanting to meet her finally. Santi himself hadn’t seen Jana since before Laci came into his life, but they had communicated through text when one was worried about Frankie. He always respected Jana for never trying to alienate Frankie from his daughter.

Laci and Santi had spent much of the night talking, Laci opening up about what had happened to her more and more.

“There was one guy, I don’t know where we were at the time, but it wasn’t where you found me. He was nicer. His name was Jaimie, younger than most of the others, younger than me. He was really nice most of the time.” Laci sat between Santi’s legs, he held each of her hands, squeezing the left, then the right, one after the other. “For a while I thought he was a safe person, we got along, he taught me some spanish. Snuck me food when the others were seeing how long I lasted without it. But when he kissed me, I tried to say no. In the end he was just like the others, he just didn’t beat me.” She tried to focus on the gentle squeeze of her hand. In therapy, if she was getting anxious or over whelmed, her therapist had a machine that Laci would hold two items in her hands and they would alternate vibrating. When Laci started to freeze while she tried to talk to him about what happened, she asked him to holder like this, to which he happily obliged, picking her up and plopping her in between his legs.

“That must be really difficult, thinking you had someone you could trust in all that, only for him to hurt you too” Santi tried to say enough to show he was listening, to show he cared, but to allow her all the talking she needed. He continued alternating squeezes.

“I think that’s why I was so hesitant when you guys found me. I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart, no.” He wanted to hug her, but he kept on his repetition movement. “You had no reason to trust us. You were right to have been on guard.”

Laci scoffed. “Maybe if I had been on guard, I wouldn’t have been in that position in the first fucking place. The investigator was right, I never should’ve crossed the border with someone I barely knew.”

“Laci, no-”

“Don’t say it. Don’t say it’s not my fault, just let me be miserable.”

Santi crossed their attached hands across her chest, turning her slightly to look at him. “You can be miserable if that’s how you feel, but baby, I will never hesitate to tell you it’s not your fault. Ever. Because it isn’t, none of it is. And I hope you know I don’t blame you, neither do any of the guys.”

“I know.”

Santi peppered her with kisses as he undressed her, kneeling down as he pulled down his shorts that barely hung to her barely-there hips, glancing over the scars that were sporadically litter across her skin, but pausing at the bruises.

She watched him trail the pads of his calloused fingers over them. “Santi, are you oka-”

He looked up at her. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no baby…” That was a lie. “You could never hurt me.”

He shook his head, going to stand up, but his knees wobbled a bit. Laci caught him and helped him up. He sighed, gently holding her face with one hand and trailing the neckline of his shirt on her. “I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful next time”

She stopped him, “Santi, don’t you dare apologize for anything that happened last night. You are perfect, last night was perfect. I’m going to bruise a bit, I’m pale and underweight.” Laci winced a bit at the mention of her weight, something that had plagued her long before she was taken, and something they never talked about. “And, baby, I like the bruises.” She kissed his softening features. “Reminds me it was real, that you’re real, not just another dream.”

Santi relaxed, smiling. “You dreamed about me?” He stripped off her shirt, taking her perfect body to him again, and he knew then that she’d never stop

A bright pink flushed her cheeks as she looked away. “Shush”

Not wanting to embarrass her further, he didn’t push it, only smiling as he started the shower and peeled off his sticky pants, leaving him bare. Santi reveled in the chance to care for her, using his shitty body shampoo and wondering if he still had some lotion he could rub on her afterwards so it didn��t dry out her skin. Laci keened into his every touch. So responsive for me… he thought to himself, and wondered what she’d feel like taking all of him… shit, fuck, not the time, not the time. Her back pressed against his chest, she rested her head back against him, melting into his touch. She reached for his shampoo, but Santi grabbed his hand.

“Can I take care of you?” Santi asked softly. I’m

“You always take care of me”

“And I never want to stop, muñequita”

Their peaceful moment was only briefly interrupted as Santi massaged her scalp, her short height making for easy access. Santiago inadvertently knocked over the almost-full shampoo bottle, causing a loud, echoing thud, Laci immediately turning to cling to him, her arms clutched to his chest as he wrapped his arms around her in turn. For a moment, she was shaking in his arms as Santi rubbed the skin exposed to him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I know that was loud, I’m here, you’re okay.”

She knew that, of course. He was her rock, her safety, her home. She signed. ‘I’m sorry’

“Hey, hey no, don’t be sorry.” He cradled her head as the warm shower fell on them. “Will and I can’t do fireworks, Benny is scared of dogs because he was attacked in his teens, nothing to be sorry for.” Santi looked down, she was still staring at the wall, looking vacant. “Hey, baby, come back to me.” Santi gently lifted her face up to him. “Do you want to talk about anything?”

“I met him at a bar” Laci focused on his hand squeezing hers. “I don’t remember exactly what I was on that night, not anything heavy, coke was the worst of it. Molly maybe? Or maybe it was just acid. Who knows. But he took me home that night.”

She felt Santi’s chest rise dramatically at that, knowing what had happened. She didn’t remember much as that night, just vague flashbacks to sweaty bodies.

“That should’ve been my warning. But that morning he held my hair as I threw up, bought me food. No one had really taken care of me since my brother died… I was between places at the time, so I stayed with him... I don’t really want to go into that relationship right now, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, Lace, whatever you’re comfortable with”

Still rested up against him, Laci made a gun with her hand.

“They shot guns around you?”

She motioned it shooting over her head and on either side of her head.

“Oh, they’d threaten you? Shoot them by you to scare you?” He held her tighter.

She nodded, then motioned loading a barrel, spinning it and firing.

“Russian roulette?”

She nodded again, sinking back into him.

Santi patted her hair down. “I’m sorry baby, that sounds horrible” He kissed the top of her head. “Do you want to talk more, or would you rather get ready to meet Frankie and Rosie.”

Nodding her head to the side, she cued to him that she was ready to get going. As Santiago and her dressed for the day, she seemed to have recovered from her flashback, starting to talk again in the little bits that she did when she would when she was gaining her voice back. Santi tried to act normal. Laci had opened up a lot the last few days. She had forgiven his mistakes, let him into her heart and body, and he knew it was very important to not let her notice. There was a familiar fury that was flowing with his blood, and he hoped to god she didn’t sense it, and if she did, he hoped she didn't think it was at her. But he couldn’t tell her what he was actually thinking.

Many times in these months, Santi had found himself glad that everyone in the house he found her in was dead. Sometimes, throughout his career, there were people he felt guilt over killing; Will remembered the exact number. But these men were the kind he didn’t feel bad for about, even going so far as feeling borderline pride. These were bad people who hurt women and children, the kind that beat, tortured, and raped them, and now they were dead, so that not only was Laci safe, but anyone else that came in their path.

But the boyfriend. Her boyfriend. The one that sold her into sexual slavery, he was still out there, and was likely still doing it to others.

He was going to have to leave her. Not now, and not for long. The guys would help. Benny had a lot of connections and Frankie was good at tracking people down.

They were going to find him, and Santi was going to kill him.

The afternoon was warm, gearing up for the hot, muggy Florida summer. Laci just had to break out shorts. She almost always wore dresses; pretty dresses that fluttered around her thighs, tempting him all these months. He never thought someone could look so, so good in just a pink tank top and white washed denim with white lace. She did seem to like lace… was that because of her name? Or was it just a physical representation of her soft femininity, going along with the pink and the pastel and the skirts…

And she just had to walk in front of him. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get her back home and bury his face between her thighs again.

“Despertarse, hermano” Frankie's voice broke him out of his daydream

“Sorry” Santiago was not sorry.

Jana and Laci were walking ahead, Jana allowing Frankie time with his daughter without feeling like he was under supervision. Santi wondered what they were talking about, nosy shit that he is. Laci started out so quiet, barely able to talk,it was nice to see her able to talk to people other than him, Frankie, Ben and Will. She was nervous in the beginning of course, wanting Jana to like her, since she spent so much time with her daughter.

“I’m so happy to meet you, you must think I’m so weird, always being with Rosie and you’ve never met me…” Laci started after Frankie introduced them.

But Jana is a warm person, greeting Laci like an old friend. “Would it be okay if I hugged you? You can say no, I just feel like I know you already”

Laci grinned and nodded, hugging Jana back.

Santi pushed the stroller, but Frankie was holding Rose, not wanting to be separated after so long apart and struggling with sobriety. As long as Frankie hadn’t gotten high behind their backs, he was two weeks sober.

“Ow! What the hell, Fish!” Santi exclaimed as Frankies free hand stopped him, turning his chin.

Laci turned around, a pointed glare at Santi “language!” She had a strict rule around swear around Rose.

Laughing, Jana patted her on her back. “You tell ‘em honey, glad Santi has someone to keep him in line” and stuck out her tongue. Fuck, those girls were going to be trouble. It occurred to him that although Laci had Ben, she didn’t have any female friends. He hoped Jana would be that for her. There was something powerful in feminine friendships, a set of shared experiences and understandings that Santi simply could not know.

They walked further ahead, allowing Frankie room to tease his best friend.

“You look like you took a vacuum cleaner to your throat” He said, referencing the litany of hickies on his neck.

Santi couldn’t help the shit-eating grin on his face. “Yeah, she didn’t want me to mark her, but boy, she didn’t mind giving them to me” They began to walk again, talking quieter.

“So that means you guys finally sealed the deal?”

“Uh, no, not quite.”

Frankie gave him a look to keep going.

“I don’t want to kiss and tell, but there was some mouth and hand stuff.”

Fish smacked his arm, laughing. “Mouth and hand stuff? Are you a fucking teenager?” Laci definitely can’t hear them, she would have chastised Frankie for swearing.

“I feel like one! This morning I came in my fucking pants just from her riding my thigh”

“Jesus" Frankie balked. “So, you guys haven’t had sex yet.”

“No, we almost did, but she’s not ready. Honestly, with some of the things she’s told me, I’m not sure she’ll ever be.” He watched his beautiful girlfriend, sun glowing on her golden hair that she parted into pigtails that reminded him of Bubbles from the Power Puff Girls, face slightly turned as she talked. She was smiling, she was happy. That’s all he needed.

“You gonna be okay with that?”

“Frankie…” Santi sighed out with a bit of a laugh. “If you experienced what I did last night and this morning, you’d be okay with that too.”

“The first place I went it was just one man, and it wasn’t the worst. I mean, it was awful, but compared to how things went later it just, I don’t know, I’m not mitigating it.”

“I know what you mean, sweetheart, it’s okay.”

“I don’t even know how many times I was sold, by the second person I just got… passed… It was multiple… well there was multiple people, I couldn’t really keep track of who owned me.”

Santi wanted to interrupt her, tell her they didn’t own her, no one ever owned her, but he knew that wasn’t the point. He wouldn’t get hung up on semantics, but he would do his best to help her reclaim her autonomy.

“I remember thinking, and this just… this a weird thought, what a weird thing to think.”

“It’s not weird, whatever it is”

“It was just… multiple men. I kept thinking ‘How do they not all have std’s?’ Well, turns out I was right about that. I thought ‘Oh my god, I’m going to die of syphilis like Al Capon’ which is just a strange dot to connect” Laci breathed out a small, nervous laugh. She had been put on antibiotics as soon as she had her initial exam at the doctor at the embassy. Everything cleared up fine, she was fine, but Santi knew she was humiliated on top of everything. “When it would happen, you just kinda… you go somewhere else. Just try not to exist in the moment, which probably sounds insane.”

Santi shook his head. “It’s not exactly the same, but in the military I’ve seen a lot of things and there’s some stuff you just… you can’t do anything about, you just have to get through it, so you go somewhere else mentally to get through it.”

She squeezed his hands back in reassurance.

Santi was knuckled deep in Laci, the moonlight shining and illuminating her skin, bare and open for him and he laid beside, grinding his erection against her soft, soft thigh. “You ever sat on someone's face?”

Laci burst out in a quick laugh, before realizing he wasn’t joking. “Oh. Uh, no. People actually do that?” She smiled nervously.

“Oh, people most definitely do.” He kissed into her neck. “Wanna try?”

“How do you breathe?”

Santi shrugged, grinning. “Suffocating between the legs of a beautiful woman is how I’ve always wanted to die, baby”

She smacked his chest with a blushing laugh. “I’m serious! I don’t want you to die, dummy.”

Slightly more serious, he reassured her. “I always do, Lace, I can breathe fine. We don’t have to, don’t worry.”

Laci seemed to be considering it for a moment. “Santi?”

He cupped her face gently, kissing the crease in the corner of her mouth. “Yes, Lacina?”

“What do you get out of this?”

The question caught him by surprise. “Out of you sitting on my face?” He pulled his fingers out of her wet pussy.

She shook her hand. “No… when you…” Laci squirmed a bit. “No, when you go down on me, I don’t see why you do it.”

Santiago sat on on his arm, still holding her close. “I know the people you’ve been with probably have been too full of shit to realize it, but you are a gift, Laci. The way you look, the way you laugh, the way you smile, fuck, the way you smell and the way you taste.” Santi brought the wet fingers to his lips, sucking them and really emphasizing the moan he couldn’t help but let out. “Fuck baby, you taste amazing, why wouldn’t I want eat you out?” He teased, and watched her smile, but continued. “I know you aren’t ready for sex, I don’t want you to worry about that for a second.”

“I don’t know when I will be…”

Santi kissed her deeply, nibbling a bit on her lower lip and dragging it out as he pulled away. “That’s okay, it’s okay if you never are. What we have now is all I need.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Now, will you sit on my face, or should I eat you like this?“

She grinned widely. “I’ll do it”

He wanted to make her say it. “Do what? Say it baby, say what you want?”

Despite being the only people in the house, Laci leaned in to whisper. “I want to sit on your face”

Without further ado, Santi lifted a squealling Laci up and over his head. “Don’t just hover, sit down.”

Laci complied, sitting down fully and nearly-automatically moaning at the feeling of his tongue attaching her cunt, his large nose nudging against her clit “Fuck, fuck Santi shiiiit!” She leaned over, bracing herself against his firm chest. Fuck, was he smiling under there? Smug bastard, he knew what he did to her. How had she gone this long without him? Now that she knew his touch, Laci couldn’t imagine being without it. “Santi, more, please?”

Happy to comply, Santi gripped her hips, albeit softly, pulling her down. Laci knew he was holding back, concerned about the bruises he left on her before. She placed her hands over his and forced him to grip the meat of her hips. When she let go, he did not, massaging along her thighs and he vigorously licked into her, lapping up every drop he milked out as she rocked her hips back and force for the stimulation she needed on her clit, his five o’clock shadow perfectly rubbing against her folds. Laci’s view from here was divine. Her eyes trailed over the body in front of her; strong arms, strong chest, brown skin and writhing legs. She remembered their night in the forest, Santi taking off his over shirt to give to her (fuck, he was thoughtful) she saw a peak of his stomach as the long sleeve pulled his t-shirt up, showing off a firm stomach. That had changed. He had definitely gained some weight alongside her, despite his mini home gym of weights and a treadmill he bought when she moved in. Laci was in love with the way he looked, his body was so fucking perfect, he was perfect, everything she ever wanted.

Very much noticeable, also, was his hard cock standing at attention, shit, she did all that to him? Just the taste of her got him that hard? Fuck, she wanted him in her mouth, she wondered if he’d taste as good as he thought she did… just a taste… Laci walked her hands down further, taking his cock in her hand as Santi’s mouth faltered. It looked so perfect, so pretty. A full blowjob with all 8 inches made her nervous, but she knew Santi would be okay with whatever she gave him, so she started with little kitten licks at the tip, tasting the pre-cum that was leaking out

She felt hip lift up her hips enough to talk. “Laci you don’t-”

“I know, Santiago, I want to. Can I take care of you?” She echoed the words he asked her in their shower this morning.

“You always take care of me.” He echoed her reply right back, and returned to his mission.

Fuck, he was good at what he did, that was sure. Santi moved her wherever she needed to be, depending if he wanted to suck on her clit or lick into her folds.

Santi was in fucking heaven. He tried his best to focus on her pleasure but if was hard when she was licking up and down his shaft, mouthing over him, sucking over the tip. Laci never fully put him in her mouth, he didn’t think she would, considering, but fuck if she didn’t feel amazing, and christ, the way she tasted. He never had a woman taste so sweet. Her ass was right in his eyeline, he wondered if she’d let him, move his mouth there, put a finger- you're getting ahead of yourself there Santi, put your fingers back in her cunt first.

A loud groan escaped her as she felt his large fingers reenter her. “Shit Santi, so close.” She sat back up, hearing a little whine escape him. “Touch yourself for me, Santiago, wanna see you come”

He loved hearing her say his full name; well, when they aren’t fighting anyway. It sounded so pretty rolling off her perfect pink lips. Santi did as he was told, fisting his cock tightly, hips bucking up at the feeling of her spit on his hand.

The sigh of Santi jerking himself while eating her almost sent her over, but she wanted him to go first. “Come for me Santi, let me see your perfect cock come all over your hand.” Laci didn’t know where these words came from, she never talked during sex before but fuck if he didn’t bring it out of her, him and his dirty fucking mouth. His breath against her cunt was hot as he cried out, his white spend spilling out, covering his fist and painting his stomach in warm ropes. Fuck, he comes hard, that’s the kind that could easily get her preg- fuck fuck fuck, no, don’t go there. Too late. The idea of him spilling inside her and filling her up sent her over the edge, collapsing back over him and her orgasm washed through her, her face pressed against his cum covered belly. As Santi licked her up, she didn’t know what possessed her; Laci started licking his stomach. He cleaned her, she’d clean him.

When Santi felt her lick him, it took a moment for him to realize what she was doing. For a second, he thought she was just licking him. Alright, he’d roll with that, whatever she was into; certainly not the strangest place he’d been licked.

Then he realized what she was licking, and his cock began twitching back to life again. Santi pulled her off him, sitting her up as he joined her, looking at her face covered in his come from where she rested on his stomach. “Lace baby, your face looks so good like this…” Santi takes the hand that was inside her, using the same two fingers to wipe against her cheek, tapping on her lips for her to open and she obliged. Putting his come soaked fingers in her mouth and the taste of her on his lips, Santi attached to her face, sucking and licking his spend off of her, only pulling back when Laci was clean and removed his fingers muttering “See how good we taste together?”

Santi was woken up that night to Laci thrashing in his arms, whimpering as sweat dripped down her face. She was having a nightmare. Santiago gently shook her awake. “Laci, Laci it’s me baby, you’re having a night-” When her eyes shot open, she gasped awake and immediately clung to him, gripping onto his life a lifeboat, her rock in the storm.

“Light” She pleaded.

“Oh course.” Santi start to sit up to get the lights, only intending on moving away from her for a moment when she shouted no and glued herself to him. “Okay…” with one arms, she held onto her crying and shaking body, and his other arm awkwardly and slowly scooted towards the lamp to get her light.

He let her cry it out first, then, she spoke. “There were other women. I never saw them for very long, but there was one girl. She spoke Russian, but we became friends. She tried to escape and they beat her to death. They made me watch.”

“Jesus christ, Lace, that’s fucking horrible”

“I have a lot of nightmares, but tonight was about her. I think Jana reminded me of her.”

Santi was not happy by any means that she was suffering so badly, but he was glad she was opening up to him and could still talk. Overwhelming emotions usually resulted in her not talking, like earlier today, but she was able to speak, tell him what she was feeling.

“You have a lot of nightmares? Fuck, Laci, I’m sorry I didn’t know-”

“I didn’t tell you for a reason. That’s why I’d always sleep on the couch with the TV. You can’t fix this, this is just how I am, I’m sorry”

Santi brushed her short blonde hair away from her face. “It’s okay, Munequita, it’s okay. I’m here for you if you need to talk, or just be held, we can get a nightlight if that helps, or we can get a TV in here too. Or we can sleep on the couch? Any time you want. I want to help if I can but if you and the nightmares are a package deal, I’ll be here for you”

“I know” Laci snuggled up to him, already feeling sleep pull at her. “I know”

**********

Anyway I hope you guys liked it even though it was long! I put off doing my spanish for this so lets hope I can get the practice test done before midnight lol. This took hours to write.

Two chapters left! Next chapter I think will be shorter, Laci/Benny focused, as Santi has a *mission* lol, then chapter 12 is completely fluff/smut wrapping everything up! Then, I start on my Will story <3

Hope that last sex scene was good I've never written 69 before!

That last anon left me feeling really shitty for a while, I hope you guys actually do like this work as it means a lot to me, either way, i love writing it a lot

Would anyone be interested in my thoughts for laci and the boys love languages? What do you guys think is there love languages. I think Santi’s is touch primarily ☠️ comment below! I’d love to hear what you think!!

Finally, I'm looking to write a few winter fics! If y'all have any requests you'd like to see with Santi and the guys, please send them to my ask box! (which I will be widdling down more asks after this week, so if you have an ask in there, dont mind me lol) Ice skating, getting a christmas tree, sleding with the team, sex by a fire place etc, if you'd like to see a leather and lace specific winter short, send away! I know most of you probably know I am converting to Judaism, but! I was raised catholic, don't worry if you'd like to see christmas specific fics. The Millers were at least canonically raised in a semi-christian household, and since no one is canonically jewish, im totally cool writing christmas works, more religious based or just basic christmas.

Love you guys!

@littlenosoul @bensolosbluesaber @milkymoon2483 @gogh-with-the-flow @itspdameronthings @trinkets01 @p0edameronswife @welcometostayingawake @spxctorsslxt @username21mk @lucianadraven32 @sgt-morgan @xaestheticalien @howaboutcastiel

Please reblog to spread, and your comments mean the world!

And I knowwwwww the gif is bad bc blue is bad but my god it’s just so tender and she’s got the short blonde straight her just like laci it was perfect

#santiago garcia #santiago pope garci #santi garcia #santiago garcia hurt comfort #santi garcia fanction #santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #triple frontier fic #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #hurt/comfort #comfort #santiago garcia smut #santiago garcia comfort #santiago garcia fluff

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magnificentcowboypeanutpaper · 2 years ago

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Chapters: 13

Flynn hears some home truths and they’re nasty.

#garcy #garcy ff #garcy fanfic #garcy fanfiction #garcia flynn #lucy preston #it will be finished you have my word #i just need a hundred extra hours in the day to do it #or readers with a bucket load of patience

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potterandpromises · 2 years ago

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Penance Is Also Kneeling in a Bathtub

About two years ago I posted what would have been the prologue from a canon divergence fic I’d shelved, in which Flynn isn't arrested and reacts to Lucy's kidnapping. (It is not necessary to read that first, but nonetheless it can be found here.)

That was the only scene worth finishing, but @ununpredictableme suggested writing more fragments for that fic, and so I’ve been slowly and periodically working on this piece for (according to my notes) a year and a half. Enjoy the whumpy aftermath of the heroic rescue.

Content warnings: drugging, field surgery of sorts, general aftermath of violence/confinement, and so. much. blood.

Also on AO3

"I need a room.”

The young but clearly long-suffering motel desk clerk looks up from his phone. Fortunately, he isn't bothered by Flynn's disheveled appearance. If he was, Flynn would have to consider killing him, which he would like to avoid if at all possible.

“One bed?”

“Two.”

The other man taps away on an elderly keyboard. Flynn hands him 90 dollars, receives a keycard, and goes to retrieve Lucy from the bushes up the hill behind the building.

His black bomber jacket camouflages her at a distance. She could be a discarded carpet.

The hill erodes with every footfall. He slips, once, twice, three times, His graze wound packs with muck and tiny rock shards. He bites his cheek. Not urgent, but he’ll need to slow on the descent. He will not drop Lucy.

He unshrouds her, exposes her closed eyes, her blank face. He balls up the mudded garment and places it on her middle. She could be a corpse if she were a better actress. Elevated breathing and week throaty sounds give her away. They’re new; proof, maybe, that whatever they assaulted her with isn’t permanent or fatal, but rather an attempt at deception. They thought he’d do what is trained into his heart muscle and abandon what cannot be saved.

His lag stings like crazy and he struggles to carry her even as the ground evens out. It takes far longer then he’d like to reach the door. He balances her weight on his good side, fumbles with the keycard and prays to God no one sees them.

“You’re safe now Lucy.” It’s not true enough but it gets his point across.

He sets her down on the bed with a thud, tries to catch his breath, a plan. Her eyes are open. She stares at him, profoundly focused, her mouth agape like a fish inhaling water.

“Welcome back.” Relief rushes his lungs, and though it is canine and unnatural, he cracks a smile. “I need to check you for injuries, okay?”

She gives no indication of consent nor protest; because she can’t. Whatever they drugged her with must have made her muscles week. She cannot speak. Gravity weighs her head to the mattress. Flynn’s fingernails dig into his dirt-specked palms.

(Her own mother.)

If they wanted her dead, they wouldn’t have wasted a moment. If they wanted to kill her slowly? He can’t dwell on it. There are simpler, more cost effective ways to permanently fuck up a human body, namely with a large stick, which means it will wear off, and someday, somehow they’ll have justice. If justice is not possible, they’ll have revenge. She will have a future.

He should say something comforting, restate his intentions to give her the best chance at understanding him. But his mind is silent and it nauseates him to look at her like this. Everything is silent save her breathing and the cars passing a world away.

He runs his hands over her body, gently but firmly, palm flat. She tracks him with her gaze. If it hurts her, he can’t tell. But her bones rest at the correct angles and his fingers don’t sink into her flesh and blood does not spontaneously gush into her clothes. It’s enough. He notes an almost healed cut on her palm and numerous scratches on her arms. They’ll need to be cleaned but it can wait until she’s wholly conscious.

She gasps, heaves for air or speech. A moment of observation suggests she isn’t suffocating. Her eyes are wide into him and his stomach twists. He can’t help with this, not when he’s him.

He snatches his jacket off the bed and promptly leaves her.

With the bathroom door open, Flynn sits on the closed toilet seat and rolls up his pant leg. Clumps of dried mud plummet onto the yellow-gray laminate. Lucy’s already digging a trench in his mind’s eye, but for the first time in weeks, he feels like he has a minute. He takes in the burgundy walls and the stains on the celling. He’s glad he doesn’t have to— knock on wood— but this would be a good place to deal with a corpse.

He washes his leg in the tub and probes at it with soaped fingers. The wound is shallow. He assumed as much. It’s still bleeding, but it will heal with minimal intervention, because he said so.

He takes off his shirt. With his pocket knife, he cuts two strips and ties them around his leg.

The sink turns brown with his efforts to clean his jacket. He puts it on over what’s left of his shirt, lest Lucy misunderstand.

In his peripheral, she raises her right arm. Flynn yanks his pants up. “What’s wrong?”

Her arm drops. He stands over her and assesses. She turns her head, the effort viable, and stares into him. Her tongue squirms between her teeth. She manages a few incoherences. Their grip on her is breaking. At this rate, it’ll wear off before sunrise.

“I did enough damage.” Satisfaction brims his tone. “They won’t be able to regroup tonight. You can save your strength.”

She half screams, half sobs. There are so many reasons for it: grief, hatred, frustration, fear. He can’t guess which scorched through her throat. Regardless, "I can’t help you anymore.” To his own ears, his voice is non-threatening, and incapable. “You just have to wait for it to wear off, then we’ll talk.”

“Flynn.” Her face is wet. It comes out raspy, and he wonders if she’s spent a long time screaming.

“I’m here,” he ventures, and squeezes her hand. She tries to pull away. The movement isn’t right and he drops her hand like it burns him.

“I need you to” —she coughs and sputters: “take it out.”

He frowns down at her. “I don’t understand.”

“Look.” Her eye contact is vehement, despite the tears. He doesn’t know what to make of her fervor, so he waits. “Look,” she repeats, “on my back... my shoulder.”

As gently as possible (it isn’t very possible), he flips her onto her back. His fingers brush strands of dark hair, her cheek, her nose, as he makes sure the pillow doesn’t smother her.

He pulls her loose-fitting shirt as high as it will go. She isn’t wearing a bra, and there’s a small raised scab on her shoulder blade. Like with her arms, much of the surrounding skin is raked with half-healed scratches. “I’m going to touch that bump now, Lucy.”

To his surprise, she does not flinch.

And the blood does not drain from his face. Lucy needs him to be calm for this. He will not fail that. He will not fail her.

The lump under his index finger isn’t hers. It isn’t human. He probes the capsule from all directions, desperately hopes he’s wrong, confirms it.

“They’re tracking us?” He has to ask, cannot assume, keeps his tone flat.

Her head squirms in a way that resembles a nod.

“Lucy?”

“Yes.” She sounds so week, so unlike herself. “They... yeah.”

“Okay.” He repeats: “okay.”

It’s not okay. Things will not be okay, between them at least. Rittenhouse made sure of that.

He stumbles to the bathroom. The man in the mirror doesn’t recognize him. He washes his hands until they don’t shake. He washes his pocket knife, grabs a hand towel, joins Lucy on the bed.

He tries to ignore everything outside of his task: her fingers grasped into the bedsheets, his heightened breath, the fact that this body belongs to her.

“I don’t care if you cry.” He sits on her lower back, doesn’t want to crush her, redistributes his weight to his knees. “But don’t scream.”

The knife isn’t sharp enough. Her cry is muffled, he thinks deliberately. He checks again that he isn’t suffocating her.

Flynn wipes the blood away, creates a red dot on the towel. Not too big— he hasn’t hit anything important, of course that’s also the problem. He probes the fresh cut, first with his fingers then with the knife. He was off, he realizes, he’ll have to make a second cut. That needed stillness washes through his bloodstream again and he gets to work.

She’s quiet now, still breathing.

The device is small. He sew prototypes for something similar when he worked with the NSA. Flynn presses the towel to the bloody area and leaves it there. He stands up and leaves her there.

Before he can meet the inviting metal door, he has to scrub her blood off his hands, lest the good people of Wal-mart call the cops. He rinses the chip, too.

She’s crying again. He tries to ignore it, tries not to look at the figure on the bed. He left her shirt pulled up to her shoulders, it’s dehumanizing. He can’t fix it, not without feeling more then he can hide. Besides, the monster can’t comfort it’s victim, that would be wrong.

Tight in his fist, the rounded tip of the microchip digs into the callus under his wedding band. The night’s chill fills his lungs, gets through to him, shivers his shoulders. He quickens against it, embodies his role as an everyday man crossing an intersection for normal reasons at midnight.

Given the on-fire status of Rittenhouse’s woodland mansion, there’s probably no one to track the chip right now. Of course, he’s underestimated them before. Emma told them what she knew of his plan ahead of time. It’s entirely possible they have someone in a separate location, and it’s entirely possible their tech is at least as good at finding people as a damn smart phone. It may be that none of his efforts matter. It may be be that they see the half hour stop at the motel, suspect what he did, and kill everyone in that building.

He’s going to kill Emma.

To throw them off, the chip should cover as much ground as possible. They don’t have time for this. He put a knife in Lucy’s back and left her to bleed; quite the team.

In the parking lot, no one takes him as abnormal. There’s a man in a suit slouched against a full cart, speaking loudly and frustratedly into his phone. Flynn opens his palm over one of the man’s grocery bags as he enters the store.

He blinks. There’s a basket in his hand. He’s between two clothing racks and someone is staring at him.

He spins around. She steps back, frightful, lifts her basket as if it were a shield. Guilt aligns his lips into what he desperately hopes is a placative smile. She looks, horribly, like his mother did before Gabriel died, although she’s at least two decades older.

“Are you alright sir?”

The fact she doesn’t walk briskly away like she should startles him. So, at least to her, he reads as a little kooky and a little in need; good to know.

“Yes.” His own voice is unfamiliar, raw and deceitful. “I’m, ah, buying for a friend in the hospital. I’m not sure what she’d like” —he gestures at a random clothing rack and gets lucky with T-shirts— “and these sizes are something else.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s too odd, too earnest to be recognized as a lie, apparently. Her gaze flicks to his ruined pant lag. Not for the first time, based on her lack of surprise. He’d forgotten. At the reminder, the wound stings again, the physical equivalent of a bell ringing.

“Loose clothing would be comfortable.”

It takes an abysmally long time to contextualize the words. “Right, thank you.”

She smiles, warm and sympathetic. The fear and suspicion behind her eyes has dissolved entirely. Perhaps she thinks she knows the sort of relationship he has, or the disorder that comes with a night like this. Whatever her reason, it’s... pleasant.

“Good luck.” With that, she walks away.

That could have been worse. He managed not to hurt or somehow fail her, like he does half the people he interacts with. He doesn’t think she’ll call the cops, either. Everything is just fine, will be fine.

He picks out a couple shirts and pairs of laggings for Lucy, and a pair of respectable, non-ripped, non-blood stained khakis for himself, as well as a new shirt. Also, a hoodie for Lucy. It’s chilly outside and besides, from now on they should try and avoid being seen by the cameras Rittenhouse, Google, and various governments use to surveille the public.

With his head a little clearer, Flynn puts together a mental list: multiple boxes of snack bars, bottled water, a first aid kit, a small sewing kit, and a tube of skin glue, so all his bases are covered. Vague notations of scurvy cross his mind. He adds a few oranges and a backpack to carry it all.

What he can easily conceal, he does, and pays for the rest with the money he tucked into his belt clip before the mission, in case of a situation like this.

Outside the motel, an old man smokes a cigarette and a teenage girl encourages a small dog to do it’s business, The door to their room is still locked and intact. Hope bubbles in his chest. They could still get away with it all.

Lucy isn’t on the bed. There’s blood stains on the carpet, like a corpse was dragged. An inhuman whine leaks out of him. He finds her in agonizing seconds, slumped against the wall at the end of her trail, previously concealed by the open door. He swallows his relief. Their eyes meet. If looks could kill, well, she wouldn’t need him.

He fights his own smile. She regained enough strength to drag herself across the room. She’s going to be okay.

(It occurs to him she was trying to escape. He tucks the thought away for some less hectic night.)

(It hurts.)

“Hey.” What else is there to say? “I brought us some food and clean clothes.”

This news is of little consolation to her. Her eyes shift to his backpack; could be a roast dinner, could be a loaded pistol. He can’t tell if she wants to cry or yell or both.

He steps closer. There’s blood on her fingers, balled into fists. Her dark T-shirt clings to her shoulders. His stomach turns. She must have twisted, rolled herself onto the floor, dug at the depth of the wound, tried to stop the bleeding.

They could have made due tonight, for another couple of hours at least. He shouldn’t have left her alone. He’s not that much of a coward.

(But Rittenhouse, Rittenhouse, Rittenhouse.)

“Is the drug wearing off?” He already knows the answer.

“Yes.” Her voice is scraped raw. “It’s happened before.”

Flynn sucks in a breath. He’s going to kill them all.

She coughs and it reverberates throughout her body. Even with the help of the wall— he suspects she couldn’t sit up without it— she leans precariously to one side. He makes for her space, half a step. At her injured coyote glare, he stops himself.

“Do you need help?”

“No.” There’s a huff to her response, as if the mere suggestion he could possibly help her is absurd.

She may be right, but they’re the only ones left.

What he does tonight is going to matter for the rest of their alliance. Longer, if he gives himself the credit. He understands that, so maybe the quest isn’t hopeless.

“How about just a hand?”

Just as light envelops a room, anger lines every part of her face. It tightens her fists and shines her dark eyes.

So, he waits; smooths out his jacket, gets dry mud on his palms, and tries to present indifference. People who don’t care aren’t a threat.

It’s his turn to squirm under her judgement, to flick his tongue. He shifts side to side, but holds her gaze. Of course she doesn’t want him to touch her, but Rittenhouse took their choices, mutilated and murdered them. Lucy tried, but she couldn’t end that.

He chances a step forwards, holds out a hand. She takes it. Her fingers ink him with her blood he caused, and he gives half his attention to that. Somehow it feels respectful.

“What happens now?” She missteps and loses her balance. Flynn grips her tight, too tight. Like a miracle, she does not pull away. Their eyes meet and her fury is dim. She’s just a wrack.

“Water, for a start,” he says. “No future without it.”

Still balanced by him, but instead with her own hands on his arm, she achieves a skeptical look.

“I can walk you to the bed and bring you some?”

“I can walk myself.”

“Not well.”

At her scowl, he smiles ruefully. Will she ever be able to trust him again? It’s not a thought he can afford to indulge. He can live without forgiveness.

He’ll need to work, anyway, be intentional.

They make it to the bed. He gets her a water bottle and undoes the cap. She takes it in both hands, drinks.

“I’m sorry.”

Her gaze snaps to his. Apologies are suspect coming from him, he understands, but when he doesn’t pull out a gun and shoot her in the face, the adrenaline fades. She looks down, crinkles the near empty plastic between her palms.

“I bought a first aid kit.” She looks up with an indignant, tired glare, not fear; a good sign. “And glue.”

There it is: the face of abject horror. Just great. “It’s perfectly safe,” he reassures her, “doctors use it all the time.”

“But are you a doctor?”

“Clearly not,” Flynn says, against his non-existent better judgement. “Hippocratic Oath and all that.”

If it’s an olive branch, it lies broken on the ground, it’s carrier in the ditch being eaten by scavengers. Violence haunts the air between them. They stare at each other and he kneels, surprises himself and her. It’s instinct, almost involuntary, please.

“I promise I’m done hurting you.”

Tears prick her eyes. She looks away and he loses hope, because when has she ever turned away from him? Even surrounded by fire they stared at each other.

“What if...” He rubs his temple. He’ll find them a path forward. He will. “What if I were to clean and bandage your wound in front of the mirror in the bathroom?”

She turns back and there’s a rightness in being eye level. Water lingers on her cheek. Her mouth is a thin line. “I’m listening.”

“You could see what I’m doing before I actually do it.” He holds up both hands, as if his body isn’t a weapon to her. “No sudden movements.”

Her own movements give away only her searching his body, his face. For what exactly he could not guess. He wishes for her to find it, tries to pry himself wide and sincere, does not say there isn’t another option.

She nods once, a soldier’s nod. He offers his arm as a mobility aid. She squeezes his forearm as they hobble across the room, tests her own strength.

“It’s not like I didn’t ask you to do it.” He busies himself in the logistics of this wound tending, thinks only of the word bathtub. “I’ll get over it.”

Their gazes meet in the mirror. Flynn did not give his eyes permission. She blinks, looks vaguely towards the floor.

It’s not like someone can just decide not to be affected by something like this. He learned that years ago in therapy. Still, if she decides they’ll work together, they will. He feels no joy at the thought, just pressure lifting off his organs. Tonight it’s enough.

“Sit here. You should be able to see.”

She sits on the corner of the tub and leans into the wall, exhausted. “You feel stable? not like you’re about to fall over?”

“I’m fine.” It’s a silly thing to say, they both know it.

He turns to get the supplies. “Wait, what are you going to do?”

In the doorway, he pauses, wonders himself. “Clean it, for a start. I don’t know what else yet.” He takes the first aid kit out of the bag, wonders if he’ll be able to keep his hands steady. “Of course it’s not just my decision.”

She looks far too helpless— although he approves of her conserving energy, God knows she’ll need it in the coming days— but her eyes are hard. It’s a combination he’s seen in many bodies before. From her, it’s a sign she has become, will become, or has the will to become whatever is needed to stop Rittenhouse. That’s the only way they can win, the only way forwards. So why’s his throat so tight?

“The water might not warm up.”

Right, he feels bad for her.

“It’s fine.”

She’s curled in on herself, shoulders shaking, arms pressed stiff to her sides.

The washcloth is cold in his palm. It drips onto the floor, slow like blood. Fuck.

“It’s—” she hisses. He forgot to hide his face. “I’m not scared of you.”

It’s his stomach lurching. It’s her face growing red. “It’s the drug,” she says, breathes hard through her mouth. “This happens every time it wears off.”

He nods and anger settles into his core. It’s familiar, almost like having friends.

She presses her elbows into her ribs. It must hurt.

“Where are you going to stand?” she asks.

“In the tub.”

He controls every movement, every step, the way his breathes come as he gets behind her. He sets the kit down on the tub’s opposite corner, watches her watch him in the mirror, sees himself swallow.

Her shirt clings to the whole of her back.

(What has he done?)

“Would you lift your shirt up?”

She drags it up, the fabric reluctant, and reveals blood streaked skin.

It sticks just below the wound sight. “Do you mind if I—“

“Go ahead.”

Carefully, he pinches the fabric, a little stiff already, and exposes this thing he’s done.

It always looks like more then it is, he knows that. But her shoulder blade is covered in blood, as is most of her back. It streamed down and stained the curve of her spine. It’s wet and shiny in places, dry and caked in others. The wound is partly clotted, at least. He can probably take his time. He blinks at it, at her. “Flynn?”

“Can you hand me a piece of gauze from the first aid kit?” The rag slowly warms in his one hand, like antarctica melting, and he still holds her bloody shirt up in the other. Hers still shakes as she reaches across the rim of the tub. “This will probably sting.”

“Wait.”

He lets go, lets her shirt fall to her sides. She hands him the gauze and he crinkles, crushes the packet in his fist, presses his fingernails into his palm between tendons. He can’t kill the sight tremble, but she’s busy and doesn’t notice.

It takes him longer then it should to realize what she’s doing. For a split second, he considers making a joke about women undressing in front of him. He averts his gaze Instead, and faces the shower head, clumsy in the small space.

“Okay.”

She clutches the ruined fabric to her breasts.

In the mirror, Flynn catches himself from the corner of his eye, doesn’t look too hard, resembles an abusive husband. The thought is half silly. Whatever this is, whatever it will be, it isn’t a marriage.

He kneels, comes down too hard on his bad leg, stifles a groan. “Flynn?”

“It’s alright.” She twists around to get a better look at him. "You can still see me, can’t you?”

Although weary, her eyes are bright, curious, concerned. They flick down. He reaches, means to press on her wound, thinks better.

He drapes the wet cloth over her free arm. She blinks at it, detached. It’s almost cute, how she’s almost amused.

“We have limited resources,” a point that needs no reminder, “and we’re about to get that rag dirty.”

She shakes her head. “What do you want from me?”

He grimaces, wants inexplicably to lie to her again, brushes it off and reaches out, palm up.

“You were lying on the ground.” Something passes briefly over her face, pain or fear, not because of him. “Those scratches should be cleaned.” History, the world, all that they’ve been through and will go through and the sunlight she’s stood in is in her face, and something stirs within him again. “Let me.”

She shrugs. He washes her arm as gently as is practical, with a bar of motel soap that doesn’t lather. To her, it’s clearly not worthwhile, but she switches the hand that holds her modesty at his look.

The shadow of a smile presses his lips; quite the team.

She still bleeds when she moves. He still needs to make it stop.

He rinses the cloth thoroughly under the tap, soaks his pants and his makeshift bandage, rubs more five cent soap into the rag.

“Okay?”

In the mirror, she nods. She observes him as if he has nothing to do with her.

He presses firmly on her wound, accidentally pushes her forwards.

She inhales sharply. He pulls away, takes the cloth with him. Fresh blood trickles from her wound.

“Sorry.” His voice is calm, apologetic. Two drops flow in front of him down her back. His girls' blood is in front of him. She finds his gaze in the mirror and he doesn’t like the way it interests her. “I didn’t account for your lack of strength. I’ll be gentler.”

She scoffs. His frown deepens. “I wasn’t quite ready."

She straightens and stiffens her posture. As lightly as possible, he cleans the blood off her unbroken skin and the pink lines that divide it. He shifts more weight to his good leg to give his bad one a break from the excruciating surface, which makes that knee ache insistently even as it helps.

He murmurs a warning, and Lucy doesn’t cry out as he wipes away the old blood from his work. He’d prefer she did. In the mirror she bites her lip hard.

He considers reminding her of what he said before, how it’s okay to cry, but her moving would make this next part difficult, so he doesn’t.

He’s glad for the bruise he’ll have in the morning.

“Lean back a little.”

He rips open the gauze packet, lets the wrapper fall at his knees, presses the square into the wound with two fingers, and loses his balance.

Lucy jerks forwards. He fails to suppress his groan but catches himself with one hand.

“I was trying to get more pressure on the wound.” She’s twisted to look at him, alarmed... worried. He rights himself, sits on his legs.

“At least we have more of these.” He holds up the soaked gauze, half red, half pink.

“Are you okay?”

He lets her question, so sincere, hang in the air a moment too long. “Are you?” he says.

She scoffs again. It wasn’t a joke but it might as well have been, and he laughs a little, too.

“You’re still bleeding.” He says it so softly, so easily like he didn’t rip something from her body. He rips open a new packet and replaces the gauze, holds it to her shoulder blade. “I thought pressure alone might stop it but...”

“You and your glue.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

She reaches across the tub, plucks the tube of glue from behind the kit and hands it to him. He hands it right back. “You should read the instructions first, see it isn’t that bad.”

“I don’t really...”

“You don’t what?”

“... like to think about that sort of thing. The inside part.”

Despite the pain, he raises himself onto his knees, enough to meet her eyes in the mirror. He lifts his eyebrows.

She looks away, maybe embarrassed, sort of annoyed, almost smiling.

He chuckles. It feels sociopathic.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says. She still trembles, not as hard as when she first sat down. It’s cause could almost be mistaken for lack of food. “It’ll close on it’s own eventually, I just don’t want you bleeding through your new shirt.” Not to mention the scar.

“Whatever.” She runs her free hand through her hair. “I just want this to be over.”

“Is that a yes to the glue?”

She sighs, and Flynn’s struck with the realization that he doesn’t know her as well as he assumed. “It’s me telling you to do what needs to be done.”

“Okay then.”

She sits up straight, braces herself. The gauze dampens against his fingertips. He takes the glue from her, reads the instructions twice.

He’s ready.

Her resolve is cracking.

“It’s okay if you need a break.”

She shakes her head. Her face scrunches with unlet tears and she looks down into her lap, crosses her other arm over her chest and holds herself close. “Wyatt and Rufus are dead.”

“I’m sorry Lucy.”

She shudders, so different from the shaking the drug dealt, and a sob catches in her throat. “So it’s true then.”

“I did read about it, yes.” he confirms her agony. “It was an explosion at Mason Industries the same night they took you. Their own doing, obviously.”

“They showed me a newspaper.” He aches in a way he hasn’t in years, not for a living person. “Part of me thought that maybe it was fake.”

“Do you want...” He gets up on his knees, sets the glue down. She turns and they’re eye level. Her eyes shine. The words almost kill him but there’s no one else here and it’s what he’d wanted. “Do you want me to hug you?”

She nods, sniffles.

It’s an incredibly delicate arrangement. He keeps one hand on the gauze, she keeps a forearm pressed over the cloth on her breasts, and they twist to meet each other.

The fact she’s half naked registers too late.

She squeezes him hard with her free arm, a tiny act of revenge or just desperation for contact he can’t know. His own free hand finds the middle of her back and rests there, featherlight.

This might never happen again. He tells himself to enjoy it. He does.

The angle demands they part, so do his knees and the sting of his wound, but he waits until she’s ready.

He stands, still with one hand on the gauze, and tries to remember how he would have handled her grief three years ago. All he can think of is infection, all he remembers is fever.

“What is that?” She reaches out to touch his leg.

“Nothing to worry about.” He lets go of her for the first time in many minutes, turns on the tub faucet, soaks his shoes, scrubs his hands. In his peripheral, the bloody square plummets into uselessness.

Flynn dries his hands, reaches to dry her back of the blood droplets.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Ah.” His mind is empty of clever retorts. He’s left with mere honesty. “Minor gunshot wound— just a graze.”

She is, once again, thoroughly horrified. Clearly, he is not very good at reassurances.

Although her concern boggles his mind with the unfairness of it all, he is not that much of a hypocrite. He lets her fingers brush the edges of the ripped fabric.

“Just for you, I’ll cover it with a thick coat of glue.” Her light touch, something he’s never felt before, sends sparks into his core, nearly burns. “But, one thing at a time?”

She nods, releases him.

Flynn picks up the glue. He kneels and the ache growls within him. He welcomes it with a barely hidden grimace and a slight smile towards Lucy.

“That doesn’t hurt?”

“Not more then standing,” he lies, and half regrets both the lie and the position.

Lucy turns and straightens herself. The edges of her skin come a little closer together, even as blood leaks out. Flynn wipes it away. He covers that first regretful slice with a layer of glue, more comes out then he intends. With the second, deeper gash, it’s needed. “If I were a doctor, I’d tell you to sue me or at least file a complaint.”

She doesn’t respond. In the mirror her eyes are closed. It could be wishful thinking that he’d recognize it if she were on the verge of panic, but she looks restful. She’s fought alone for weeks and if there’s an end in sight to this war, they’re on the losing side of it. The tail end of this awful experience could be her last moment of relative peace for God knows how long.

She opens her eyes. “Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know.” He gives each cut a second layer. “My plan went to shit, Emma—”

“I know.”

He pauses, hand outstretched for the first aid kit.

She hugs the cloth closer to her chest, looks away from the mirror. “I couldn’t move, I couldn’t open my eyes, but I was awake the whole time.”

“Oh.”

Perhaps he should apologize for nearly dropping her several times.

Instead he lets the information hang in the air, lets himself imagine doing violent things to her mother and Emma and all the Rittenhouse members he saw but didn’t get a chance to shoot; and he places a protective bandage over her wound.

He does not let himself imagine how she felt: the fear and powerlessness and uncertainty. He thinks of a way out.

“I can call in some favors to get us out of the country while we regroup and find some allies, but there’s no telling what Rittenhouse will do with the Mothership in the meantime.”

"Agent Christopher,” Lucy starts. That name is in the journal, with cryptic references to her wife and kids. He'd also googled her, of course. “She helped us, and her name wasn't listed among the dead.”

“Will she throw me in prison?”

She looks at him over her bare shoulder, clear-eyed and alive with hope. “Not if it’s the only way to stop Rittenhouse.”

“Okay, I trust you.” He stands and feels all the choices he’s ever made and not made in his knees and in his wound. In metaphor however, he hasn’t been this light and free since the morning they were set to meet, before he told her to check for a trail, before she didn’t answer when he called again. “We’ll make our way to her house in the morning.”

He exits the tub, retrieves the bag with her clothing. “I’ll leave the room while you finish cleaning yourself up, but,” —he holds up two shirts— “burgundy or black?”

“Burgundy.”

#garcy #timeless #garcia flynn #lucy preston #fanfiction #my fanfic tag #Fic: Penance Is Also Kneeling in a Bathtub #it's not that i didn't try #but you get what you get in terms of medical accuracy #also assume rittenhouse has access to special drugs etc #my brain is mush #mush i tell you #i can't believe i'm finally posting this it's been 84 years

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