#pope garcia

[dirbenaffleck]

OSCAR ISAAC as SANTIAGO "POPE" GARCIA TRIPLE FRONTIER ‧ 2019

[magpiepills]

Honor and Obey

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia x Santi’s wife! Reader

Word count: 3.9

Summary:you are Santi’s wife and when Frankie moves in, you have an idea that Santi helps you make a reality.

Warnings: SMUT! Threesome, sort of fucking, oral m and f receiving, m/m dynamics, sort of dom reader, sort of sub Frankie and Santi, Frankie is the Pussy Eating King, big dicks, teasing, flirting, mentions of alcohol, mentions of curls, fuck licking, cum shots, creampies, a little overstimulation, one spank, pwp, just porn. Possibly more, idk.

A word from the author: This is a repost! this has been rotting away in my WIPs for months. I am in a little slump working on Made Me Love You, so I decided to finish this to hopefully get things going again. It’s not my best work, and I may fix it up and post another version some other time. Maybe not. Who knows. Anyway, here it is.

Frankie knew exactly what he was getting into when he came to stay with his best friend and his new wife after his lady finally kicked him out. The lies and the coke and the abandonment for misguided jungle romps were finally too much for her.

When Santi offered the spare bedroom in the house they’d just bought, Frankie gladly accepted. How could he say no to a roof over his head, his best friend down the hall, and you?

It was so innocent at first that he felt like it was his fault. You’d left the door open when you showered. He didn’t mean to see you, naked and wet, patting your hair with a towel when he walked down the hall. He reluctantly looked away.

When the three of you lounged by the pool, he dove into the water when Santi untied your top and reapplied your sunscreen, then left you shiny, slick, and bare under the warm July sun. Frankie didn’t bother pretending not to look. You smiled at him and raised one knee, planting your foot on the lounge chair and letting it drop just enough to give Frankie something to think about later in his room alone, heavy cock in his fist.

Frankie couldn’t deny his attraction to you. Anyone who looked at you would fall for you. You were beautiful in an effortless way, warm and always interested in what others had to say, making everyone feel special and important. Your hair, your face, your body, your voice, Frankie knew exactly what had attracted his lovesick friend to you.

Once he understood what you wanted, he even let himself flirt with you a bit. He winked at you when your eyes met. He went commando under his gray sweatpants, settling them low on his waist, jutting his hips out just so while he stood at the foot of the couch while you read. He let his touch linger on your waist when he scooted between you and the counter in the kitchen, fingertip grazing the soft skin under your shirt, light enough that you might believe it was an accident.

•••••••••••••••••

Weeks went by, glances became stares, and brushes of bare skin became teasing touches. Frankie was in a constant state of sexual frustration. His mouth watered, his cock was half hard, he spilled his seed over his stomach every night as he thought of you. You bent over the couch, you on your knees, you sitting on his face and coming on his tongue. He imagined what you might sound like when you begged him to fuck you harder. It drove him mad.

•••••••••••••••

Your own patience was wearing thin. You weren’t sure how much longer you could restrain yourself, to play innocent, keep your hands to yourself. How many more ways could you temp him? You’d done your best to goad him into coming on to you, but he had never crossed the line from longful looks and lingering touches. Every day you wanted to push Frankie against a wall and drop to your knees taking his cock as far down your throat as you could. He just didn’t seem to be getting the message. Santi laughed at your failed seduction, he had tried to help, but couldn’t be mad at the restraint Frankie had shown with another man’s wife.

When you couldn’t wait any longer, Santiago had taken Frankie out for a drink and clapped him on the shoulder as he explained that he needed Frankie to stop being so respectful. It took several more drinks before Frankie was convinced it wasn’t a joke or a trick and that you actually wanted to fuck him and that Santi was not just ok with it, that you’d be fucking them both. His head spun, not just from the Stella.

••••••••••

Two nights later, it was time for your date as you’d taken to calling it. You had told Santi exactly what was to happen. “He’s going to be good, isn’t he Santi?” You asked him, nuzzling into his chest while you sat waiting with your husband for his best friend to get out of the shower. Santi never got tired of telling you how much he and his friend were going to enjoy sharing you. He hummed into your hair, thick arms around your waist. You let your mind drift to images of Frankie in the steamy stall, soaping his body, suds rolling down his broad chest to his soft belly. Images of his big hands sliding over his arms and to his cock. You knew it must be something special. You’d seen him in those sweatpants, knees spread wide on the couch. His bulge may as well have had a neon arrow pointing at it.

When Frankie emerged, warm and slightly damp, smelling like citrus and mint, hair damp and curling wildly, you pressed a drink into his hand and guided him to the couch next to Santiago while you took your seat in a chair across from them. Santi raises his own glass in silent, subtle greeting as you spoke, soft and sweet. There was no sense in wasting time.

“Touch him.”

Your command was gentle.

“Touch him?” Frankie asked, eyes wide and voice wavering.

You nod and smile patiently, your eyes never breaking his gaze as you sip from your glass before continuing. “Why don’t you help him out of his shirt?”

Frankie shifted up onto his knees and scooted closer to his friend, he had heard what you said too, and made room for Frankie between his legs. There was no hesitancy about him at all, just a buzz of desire and the smell of sweet cologne.

“Gotta do what she wants, Fish. Happy wife, happy life, right?” Santi’s gaze was steady and sure, leaving no room for second thoughts.

Kneeling between Santiago’s knees on the couch, he reached hesitantly for the hem, tongue slowly licking across his bottom lip as he pulled the t-shirt over his friend's head, making his thick, dark curls bounce.

Frankie tossed the shirt at your feet.

“Now yours. Let him take it off.” Your directions were cool and calm, but heat was building inside you, Santi had delivered on his promise to bring you your third and now it was time to see how he would behave for you.

Frankie kept his eyes on you as Santi leaned forward to drag the shirt up Frankie’s torso, finally revealing his strong, wide shoulders and a soft belly with a trail of dark hair leading down under his jeans.

He was perfect.

“I’d like Santi to kiss you, Frankie. Is that alright?”

Frankie nodded, but didn’t look back at his friend until Santi wrapped his warm hand around the back of his neck. Frankie let his eyes fall, glassy and half lidded, to Santi’s plush lips, then lifted them to meet the other man’s intense gaze. Frankie lifted his own hand and mirrored Santi’s grip on his neck before tilting his head slightly, just enough for Santi to catch his lips in a deep kiss.

Santi, of course, had left this part out. He had explained that his wife wanted to have sex with him, and that she wanted Santi to be there. Frankie assumed that this was some cuck kink they had and he was more than ok with that. It stroked his ego to give a woman what another man couldn’t. The prospect of Santi joining them changed the dynamic a little, but Frankie was game. Santi was handsome and flirtatious, the two men had toed the line of flirtation themselves for years. It shouldn’t have been a surprise.

••••••••••••••••

You looked on, feeling warmer by the minute, a dampness growing between your thighs as you watched two such masculine men, so powerful and strong making out for your enjoyment.

Santi’s hand drifted down Frankie’s back, and his other hand came to cup his cheek posessively. Again, Frankie mirrored his action and cradled Pope’s cheek in his hand, deepening the kiss.

“Take his pants off, Santiago.” You directed from your perch. You wanted to see who got hard first.

Santi broke the kiss, and guided Frankie to stand while he unbuttoned his jeans, drew the zipper downward, and pushed the soft denim off his narrow hips, leaving him in snug gray boxers, ones that you had picked out.

Frankie stepped out of his jeans and looked to you for approval or direction or anything, but it wasn’t necessary. The look on your face urged him on. He looped his index fingers through his friend's belt loops and pulled him closer to strip him of his pants as well, leaving him in a pair of matching underwear, just how you wanted them.

Nearly bare, the energy in the room thrummed. It felt warmer, more humid, felt as if the walls had closed in.

You didn't need to tell them what to do next, the two men, older, graying, battle scarred, no strangers to violence, held each other close and kissed with a passion that you hadn’t expected, Frankie leaned down to close the difference in their height, Santi kept a guiding hand on Frankie’s cheek.

“Alright Santiago, Francisco. I want to see you now. Both of you. All of you. Is he hard, Santi? Why don’t we find out” Santi grinned up at Frankie, and chuckled as he brought his hand to grip at the taller man’s half hard cock before hooking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pushing them down to the middle of his thighs.

“Tsk. I think you can do better than that, sweetheart. I need him hard. Help him out. Get on your knees for him.” Frankie’s head snapped to you, his eyes wide, unable to believe this is what you wanted. He only had to look at the way your chest heaved as you watched the men act out your fantasies to know you were serious. Santi, on the other hand, needed no confirmation. You were the boss. He had already dropped to his knees, cock in his hand, ready to show you exactly what you wanted to see.

With you in the chair soaking your panties and directing your own personal porno and Santi on the floor, tugging at his throbbing length, all of Frankie’s inhibitions evaporated. With no hesitation left, he threaded his thick fingers into Santi’s curls and pulled him close until his cheek was against his hip and his lips just inches from his quickly hardening length. “Do as she says, Pope. Suck.”

No sooner than the words left Frankie’s mouth, a shadow seemed to cross his best friend’s face and he huffed through his teeth, greedily taking Frankie’s cock into his mouth. His eyes were dark and dangerous as he stared up, groans rumbling deep in his chest as he worked the length into his throat, all for your pleasure. “That’s it. Take my cock down your throat. Suck it like you mean it.” As Frankie spoke he began to thrust his hips shallowly. He loved the power of having a strong man on his knees. Santi was a year or so younger, shorter but thick with muscle where Frankie was tall and lean. Santi’s beard grew in thicker but grayed sooner, making him look older where Frankie had maintained a bit of boyishness into his forties. Neither had ever wanted for the company of women.

“Don’t let him come.” Your words were sharp and cut through Frankie’s panting and murmuring and the squelching of his cock against the back of Santi’s throat. The men immediately stilled, and Frankie’s cock was left wet with saliva and his hands tight fists at his sides. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathed deeply, and willed himself back from the edge.

“It’s your turn now, Frankie. Help Santiago. Get him close. Frankie’s heart pounded in his chest, suddenly unsure of his own abilities. Frankie knew exactly what to do for women, knew what to do for himself, knew how he liked to be touched, but he wasn’t sure how to touch his best friend to make him feel good and he really wasn’t sure what you wanted to see. He took a deep breath, and decided he would stick with what he knew.

Frankie pushed Santi backwards by his hips, smirking down at him before looking back to you. “He likes taking directions, doesn’t he? He likes being good.” Then turned back to Santi. “You’re going to be good aren’t you?” Not waiting for a response, he shoved him gently onto the couch, anchoring his hips with both hands and kissing down Santi’s woolly jaw, down his neck, across his scarred shoulder, then slowly back to suck dark marks across his throat. He could feel the vibration of the other man’s soft moans, it ignited something familiar in him, a need to take him apart, explore every piece, study and commit it all to memory, tuck it away for reference, become the expert on his needs. Not now, though. Now he just settled between Santi’s knees.

You crossed the room to sit on your knees next to your boyfriend, up close you could see the shine of saliva on his chest, hear his heavy breaths as Frankie took his twitching cock in hand and began to stroke him in long, firm movements. “You’re hard as a fuckin’ rock, Pope. You like this? Like letting your girl watch you suck my cock? Yeah. You like getting on your knees,too. Did good, Pope. Almost had me coming down your throat.” Santi whimpered at Frankie’s words, closing his eyes, furrowing his thick brows.

Licking his lips, Frankie moved slowly, lowering his head, licking a wide, slow stripe up the underside of Santi’s cock, mimicking the way he ate pussy, something he knew he excelled at.

Your eyes met Frankie’s as he continued licking and swirling his tongue over your boyfriend’s shaft. The sight sent a fresh wave of arousal to your already dripping core. You imagined him between your own legs, his expert tongue and wide hands working you to your release.

Santi’s whimpering and squirming brought you back to the moment, reminding you that this was for your pleasure, not theirs. You are in control, and they’ll do what you say. Breathlessly, you command Frankie to stop,and he sits back, panting and needy, but obedient. His hand splayed over your thigh, silently begging for you to give him his next command. You placed your hand over his, admiring the difference in size and texture, his much larger and rougher than your own, callused and rough with thick veins across the back, but his nails were blunt and clean. You squeezed his hand before turning your focus to Santi, who was watching how you looked at his friend. He recognized the lust in your eyes, recognized the same in himself. When he shifted closer to you, you reached for him, pulling him into a kiss.

You didn’t need to open your eyes to know Frankie was watching intently, canting his hips, searching for relief he wasn’t due. You simply held out your hand for him and he rose, planting his knees between yours and Santi’s so that he could straddle your legs at the same time before inviting himself into your kiss, licking at where your lips met, mouthing at you and his former squad mate, noses bumping.

Santi broke the kiss, pulling Frankie by his thick curls into a deep kiss of their own before guiding his face to the apex of your thighs.

“Show me what you can do, Frank. Santi’s been telling me you’ve got quite a reputation. I really want to see for myself what kind of skills you have. See if you really are “the pussy-eating king.”

How devious he looked, lips curling into a smirk at your challenge.

“Alright, cariño. I’ll show you, but don’t be disappointed when nobody ever does it good enough after this.”

He didn’t waste any more time. He pulled you down the couch so you were on the edge of the cushion, and lifted your knees. “Hold her knee, Santi.” The men worked as a team, it should have been no surprise. Santi’s familiar hand held your left knee up and out, giving Frankie unfettered access while he kissed you, licking into your mouth, grunting into you as you lazily stroked your husband’s cock.

Frankie rubbed over the soft skin of your thighs with his warm, rough hands. He squeezed and kneaded and worked his way down to your mound, covering it with one hand and gently sliding the heel of his hand to your clit, circling it, rolling it, making you groan into Santi’s mouth, your hand stilling on his cock.

Frankie’s left hand joined his right at your glistening pussy and he let his fingertips slip over your folds, smearing your slick from where it pooled up over your clit, rubbing with intention there before fluttering over your delicate inner folds. You gasped when he thumbed a wet stripe of your own slick over your pebbled nipple, and whined when Santi was quick to cover it with his mouth, tasting you there, cock twitching with need.

You were wetter than you could ever remember being. Almost embarrassingly so. Your pussy, Frankie’s fingers, down onto the couch you dripped, and when he pushed two thick fingers into you, the wet sounds were obscene. He twisted his wrist, licked and sucked your throbbing clit, groaning and humming against you as he worked you diligently toward your orgasm.

Santi’s eyes were locked to where Frankie devoured you, even as he kissed you and kneaded your tits, pinching and rolling your nipples, helping push you closer to the edge.

“Fuck. Doin so good do us, baby. Look at you. This what you wanted? Want him to make you come?”

You whimpered into Santi’s cheek, nodding, delirious with pleasure so many sensations overwhelmed you. “Close!” You managed finally. Frankie had taken his sweet time about your cunt, applying his tongue, his lips, his fingers with precision, easing you up to the apex of pleasure. With one last focused effort, he tongues your clit while he crooked his fingers against the spot inside you that he knew would finish you off.

You writhed, squeezing his head between your thighs while Santi kissed you messily, letting your climax wash over you until you were dazed and panting, too sensitive to move.

One of them handed you your drink and you sipped it as you came back to yourself, only then seeing the hungry way they looked at you. Santi ran his land through your hair and Frankie kissed your thigh and rubbed your knee.

“Frankie that was amazing. Santi, thank you.” You kissed Santi again, grateful that he was so willing and happy to let another man, his best friend eat you out to the best orgasm you’d ever gotten from oral, and possibly ever. But you knew that wasn’t where this would end. You placed your empty glass on the table and reached for Frankie, kissing him, unsure if that was crossing a boundary, but too deep into this dynamic to care. You pulled him onto the couch, sandwiching yourself between the men. Frankie leaned in to kiss you again, the force pushed you back into Santi’s warm chest and you felt his scratchy chin on your shoulder, voice soft, urging you onto Frankie’s lap.

“Don’t you want to show him how grateful you are? Why don’t you help him now, cariño?”

You turned to kiss Santi, but the moment was interrupted by Frankie’s hand landing a sharp smack on your ass. My turn.

You crawled onto his lap, whining when his cock brushed against your over-sensitive cunt. You settled happily with your arms around his neck, kissing him while he squeezed the plush round of your ass, letting him pull you up to bury his face between your tits, kissing and nipping at your soft skin, breathing deep to smell your sweat and perfume.

“Lift up. Want you to sit on this big cock.” You obeyed, raising enough for him to run the thick head of his cock through your slick folds and tease at your entrance, making you whine until Santi stopped you. “Uh uh. Not like that.” He pulled you to your feet and spun you around. “Like this.” He pushed your hips back and together he and Frankie guided you to sink down the thick length of Frankie’s cock. You squeezed your eyes shut and moved slowly, breathing deeply and adjusting to the full, throbbing, wanting ache of your pussy around him. When you felt ready to move, you opened them to find your husband between your wide open legs, staring darkly at the place where Frankie entered you. The delicate skin stretched so prettily over a big cock. He didn’t think he would ever get the image out of his mind. Neither the sight nor the sound of slapping skin, the harmony of your cries and Frankie’s grunts as he fucked up slowly into you. Not the smell of your arousal, covering all three of you now.

Frankie’s arms were around you, one across your stomach and one across your chest, giving him leverage to fuck your as he saw fit. Soft and crazy or hard and fast. He tried it all and you took it. You took his cock while Santi shifted on his knees, face mere inches from where you were speared on Frankie’s fat cock. He watched you rub your clit in small circles before he knocked your hand away. “Yeah. Look at that. Look at that pretty pussy. Look at how greedy. Think we could both fit?” Santi teased, before spitting onto your pussy. He watched it drip down past your clit before leaning in to lick it back up. He repeated the vulgar action, then sucked your swollen clit between his full lips.

You couldn’t help the pornographic moaning. Frankie cursed in Spanish under you as your clenched around him. When Santi relented, releasing your clit, they spoke strained, clipped sentences to each other in their native tongue. Frankie thrust deeper and Santi resumed his licking, fisting his own turgid member while thumbing at your puffy lips, licking up your slick, then tipping his head lower to press his tongue right over the place where Frankie entered you. He was wild, licking and mouthing as your cunt and Frankie’s cock, laving wet licks over his friend’s heavy balls until Frankie slammed into you one last time, filling you with his hot cum, fucking it deep. As Frankie covered you on the inside, Santi jerked himself to completion, shooting his load onto your cunt in thick white ribbons, lacing it over Frankie’s balls, the bottom of his cock. He admired his work for several moments, heart racing. He watched as Frankie’s cum began to leak out of you and dripped down fo mix with his own on Frankie’s cock.

When the three of you peeled yourselves apart, you relaxed a while on the desecrated sofa, Santi held you and you held Frankie. You ran your hands through his sweat damp curls, kissed his neck tenderly, told him how good he did. You gave Santi the same treatment, showering him with adoration and gratitude for agreeing to this and for helping you bring Frankie into the fold.

“Next time,” Santi suggested, “we should film it.”

[tropes-and-tales]

Fairy Godmother, Part II

(Santiago "Pope" Garcia x F!Reader)

CW:  Slight angst, fluff.

Word Count: 2757

AN:  This was originally requested by an anonymous person, and it is the sequel to this.

Christmas morning comes far later than Santi would have thought.  Sophie sleeps in—exhausted, he guesses, from all the excitement.  He wakes around six, makes his way to the kitchen and starts the coffee machine.

A beat later he hears the quick click of the guest room door, then the creak of floorboards as you make your way towards him.

“Morning,” you say behind him.

“Merry Christmas,” he replies.  He holds out an arm, and you pause for a second before you tuck yourself against him in a side hug.

“Kiddo’s still asleep?  I’m shocked.”

Santi jostles you against him.  “She’s wiped out.  Her favorite person came home yesterday and she was exhausted.”

“I’m hardly her favorite person,” you reply, and he hears the smile in your voice.  “Soph is a daddy’s girl through and through.”

“But I’m the guy who makes her brush her teeth and wear shoes when we go out.  You’re the woman who sends her fun gifts from faraway lands.”

“The faraway lands of airport duty free shops.”

You have a quiet moment in the dawn light.  Santi pours your coffee, pours his own, and just as he’s gearing up to perhaps ask you about Tom and his interference in your lives, there’s a shriek and a thump down the hallway.  A second later, Sophie’s bedroom door flies open, and Christmas morning starts in earnest.

-----

He can’t bring it up until that evening.  The day is a flurry of activity.  Sophie attacks the gifts under the tree like a rabid animal, and breakfast—chocolate chip pancakes courtesy of you—only amps her up further on sugar. 

Frankie and his wife and son stop by for a quick visit on their way to Frankie’s parents’ Christmas get-together, and Santi watches as Frankie gives you a big hug and welcomes you home.

“Thanks, Frankie,” you reply.  “It’s good to be back.”

“How long are you staying?”

“Just through the weekend.  Then I fly back.”

Frankie’s wife shakes her head.  “You can’t stay longer?  It’d be nice to have another women around here.”

You smile and glance between Frankie and Santi.  “They do get obnoxious when they’re all together, don’t they?”

Santi makes a noise of mock-outrage, but he notices that Frankie only smiles a bit, then tilts his head as he studies you.  He’s quiet for a moment before he replies, more seriously, “you know, you’d make a lot of people happy if you moved back here.”

You miss his meaning entirely.  You laugh lightly, wave him off.

“Oh, no,” you tell him.  “Sophie would get bored of me soon enough.”

It’s Frankie’s wife who glances between the two men, the three of them sharing a knowing look that you miss entirely too.  Santi lifts his eyebrows at them, lifts his shoulders faintly, as if to say, “I’ll fill you in later.”

By the time the Morales family leaves, it’s time for lunch.  Santi is no slouch in the kitchen, and with your help, you whip up a feast.  Which is largely lost on Sophie, who is so hyped on sugar and new toys and visitors that she’s unruly, in that space where she can’t focus and hears but doesn’t listen.  And Santi usually has endless patience, but he’s hyped up on things too, nervous and anxious, wanting to talk to you but afraid of how the conversation may turn.  He gets snappish with his daughter, which makes her cry, which makes you intervene, which makes Sophie wail, which makes Santi feel like a monster.

“It’s okay.”  You pull Sophie into your lap and let her cry.  You rub her back and rock her a bit, and you look at Santi.

“It’s okay,” you say softer.  “She’s just tired.”

Santi huffs.  He knows she’s tired.

“Maybe you’re just tired too,” you add.

Maybe.  He hasn’t slept well, pretty much since he knew you were coming to visit.  He worked, took care of Soph, then spent his nights and weekends cleaning, preparing for you.  He laid in bed awake, imagining how the visit may go.  He laid in bed and tossed and turned and remembered every single moment with you:  the long nights when Sophie was a colicky baby, the lazy days when you sat with Santi and took his mind off of Julie.  Every moment large and small, monumental and mundane.

“Why don’t I get her down for a  nap, and you lie down too?  I can clean up from lunch,” you continue.

Santi huff again.  “No way.  You’re a guest—”

“And I know where everything goes.  And you’re exhausted too.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Let me put Soph down.  You lie down too.”  A beat, and you grin at him, add, “unless you need tucked in with a story too.”

He smiles back; it feels just like before, just like before you left.  “Yes, please.”

You stand up with Sophie in your arms and turn towards the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.  “Go lie down, Santi.  I’ve got this.”

He stands up and follows you down the hallway, but he does as you say.  When you turn left into Sophie’s room, he keeps going until he’s at the end of the hallway in his own room.  He lies down on top of the comforter, and he thinks he’ll only rest his eyes, but as soon as he closes them, he’s almost immediately asleep.

He’s snoring softly twenty minutes later when you creep in the room and look down at him, a bemused smile on your face.  You take a folded blanket from the foot of the bed and shake it out, then place it over him.

“Sweet dreams,” you whisper, and you have no way of knowing it, but he’s dreaming of you, like he does many times when he sleeps.

-----

Santi doesn’t get to really talk to you until evening, then.

He wakes up from his nap grumpy:  too warm, his mouth dry, and with the general discombobulation that comes with sleeping too long off-schedule.

Not unlike how Sophie wakes up—a fact you tell him with glee when he stumbles out of his bedroom and finds you quietly reading on the couch.  Sophie is already awake, coloring just as quietly where she lies on her stomach on the floor.  A cartoon is on the TV, but the volume is low.

“You know, you never need a DNA test,” you tell him.  “Because you and the gremlin both kinda do this thing?”  Here you mime Santi and his daughter, rubbing your eyes messily and grumbling.  “You both do that when you wake up.” 

“Untrue,” he says, his voice husky from his dry throat.

“And your hair both gets messed up in the same way.”  You close your book and stand up, make your way over to him.  You gesture at his head.  “All corkscrewed bed-head.”

“Some women might find that charming.”

You snort.  “Some women might find that it gives you a mad scientist air.”

“How are you not tired?  You literally traveled here from halfway around the world.”

You shrug, then head into the kitchen.  Santi follows, and he watches as you pour him a glass of water and hand it to him.  He nods in thanks and drinks it down.

“It’s not that I’m not tired,” you reply.  You lean against the kitchen counter.  “I guess I’m just used to it.” 

Santi glances in the living room.  Sophie is still there, engrossed in her coloring, so he leans against the counter opposite where you stand.  “You ever think of giving it up?”

“The traveling in general or the job?”

“Both.  Either.”

“Eh.”  You move your eyes past him to look out the window over the sink.  It’s late afternoon, and the sun is lower in the sky.  Long shadows cross the backyard.  “I’ve never really thought of it.  It was fun at first.  I’ve been literally everywhere.”

“But it gets lonely.”  Your eyes slide back to his, and Santi gives you a knowing nod.  “I’ve been there.  Done that, sweetheart.”

“It does,” you concede.

“So why not give it up?  You could work anywhere.  Why not come back here?”

Your eyes move back to the view outside the window.  The lengthening shadows, the setting sun.  Golden hour, it’s called, but you told him once you found late afternoon a sad time of day.  The last gasp of daylight before night.  The time of day when people should be making their way home.

“Maybe for some people, loneliness is less a state of where they are,” you answer him, and your words come out slow, like you’re measuring the weight of them.  “Maybe it’s a part of who they are.”

It surprises Santi to hear you say that.  You never struck him as a lonely person, and he tells you so. 

You slouch a bit against the counter.  Your eyes find his, and he admits that he can see it there.  A loneliness.  A sadness.  You don’t say anything, and the moment stretches to the point where he can’t not bring it up.

“Have you…always felt this way?” he asks, and he says it slowly too, chooses his words with care.  “Or is it because of Tom?  What he said last year?”

The corners of your mouth turn up into a sardonic smile.  “Do you want the truth here?”

“Always.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“You don’t know that.”

You nod and take a breath.  Your eyes shift to the window again, but now it’s like you’re looking not at the landscape but back into time.  Back to a year ago, and even further than that.

“Tom wasn’t wrong,” you tell him softly.  “I mean, the underlying idea…he wasn’t wrong about that.  He was actually dead-on.  When Julie first took off, I felt so guilty, like I was responsible for her somehow because she was my best friend.  And I felt like I owed it to you and Soph, since I’m her godmother.  That’s kind of the point of a godmother, you know?  To step in when the parents aren’t around.  Julie wasn’t around, so I stepped in, and it was tough because I had, like, no idea how to deal with a baby, but it felt right to be here and help.”

You pause, shake your head faintly.  You take another breath.  “But it didn’t take long for it to start to feel like my life, you know?  Like, at the start, I was just stepping in to help, like a fairy godmother.  Popping in to help out in an emergency with the intention to pop back out once everything was square.  But it start to feel like it was my life, and you got your legs under you and didn’t really need me anymore, but I stuck around anyway.  Because I got used to pretending that Julie never happened, that Sophie was my own daughter and you...."  You trail off and shake your head again, harder.  “Well, you know.”

Santi’s throat is dry again, and he realizes that he’s been holding his breath.  He exhales heavily, says, “you never said anything, sweetheart.”

Your gaze finds him, and he can see the pain there.  “Of course I didn’t.  It was humiliating.  But I thought I was keeping it subtle until Tom pulled me aside.  I figured if that idiot could see it, it was only a matter of time before you saw it.  So I left.”

“I never saw it.  If I had—”

“I didn’t want to hear it from you, Santi.  I didn’t want to hear you let me down.  Because I knew you’d be so nice about it, all apologetic and sweet, and it felt like that would hurt more than you yelling at me and telling me to get out of—”

What can he possibly say to convince you?  How can he explain how he fell for you too, how he never said a word for basically the same reason you never did?  How he was afraid that you’d let him down gently, just as sweet?  How he imagined the pain in your eyes as you explained that you cared for him, as a friend, as only a friend, as your goddaughter’s father?

He can’t think of anything to say in the moment; he can rely on words later.  Now, he only cuts you off by bridging the distance between you, lunging really, and clumsily kissing you because you are talking, and he half-misses your mouth.  He cuts off your words by kissing half of your mouth, and his teeth click against yours, and you cry out in surprise and pain.

All told, it’s a terrible first kiss.

An awful first kiss:  you look at him in shock, and you lift your hand to your mouth.  When you move it away, there’s blood there—just a little, but for fuck’s sake, the first time he kisses you, he makes you bleed, so he moves to the sink and dampens a paper towel, hands it to you.  You press it to the inside of your lip.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you ask.  You keep your voice low for Sophie’s sake, but there’s more than one emotion in your tone.  Bemusement, bewilderment, both.

How can he begin to explain it?  “You got it all wrong,” he tells you.  “And so did I.”

“Which part?” 

“All of it.  Every bit of it, sweetheart.”

You smile at him, rueful.  You remove the paper towel, daub at your mouth again.  It looks like it was a little cut, and it looks like it’s stopped bleeding. 

“You’re insane,” you say.

“Probably.” 

“Oh, most definitely.”  You twist the paper towel in your hand, and your voice goes small on him.  “What are you trying to say, exactly?”

He could rehash the past.  He could talk about Julie, but his ex is so far in his rearview mirror that he rarely thinks of her.  He could call Tom an asshole or an idiot or both, but he can do all of that later.  For now, he goes with the simplest explanation.

“I’m trying to say, I miss you.  I’ve missed you since you left.  I want you to come home because I love you.”  He watches your face as he says it, studies how his words hit you, and it’s like watching the sunrise—the way the light spreads over everything.  He also sees the way you try to school it, how you try to temper what you’re hearing versus that loneliness you feel—

“And this is all independent of Sophie,” he adds.  “She loves you too, but I’m speaking for just me here.  I love you, for you.  Not for what you do for my daughter or how she feels about you.  For you alone.”

“Santi—”

“And I’m sorry I fucked up kissing you.”

You start to smile, start to reply, but there’s a small gasp nearby, and you both turn to see Sophie standing there, staring in dread.

“Daddy said a bad word,” she whispers in horrified awe.

You glance at Santi then turn to Soph.  You hold out your hand and she takes it, her wide eyes fixed on her father’s face like he might be struck down by a vengeful god for saying “fucked.”

“He did, didn’t he?” you ask. 

Sophie nods gravely.

“Think he should be punished?”

Another nod.

“Maybe some time in the time-out chair?”

“Five minutes,” Sophie whispers. 

You nod seriously, then turn to Santi.  “Five minutes in time out,” you tell him.  “So you can think about what you’ve done.”

“Fair,” he replies, just as seriously.

Five minutes is enough time to pull himself together.  To calm his hammering heart, to will his blood to cool a fraction.  Because he’s amped, twitchy with nerves and excitement, and the next time he kisses you, he wants to get it right and not make you bleed.

Five minutes is plenty of time.  When he’s done with his time out, he helps you pull together leftovers for dinner.  The two of you work in tandem in the kitchen, an orchestrated movement of reheating dishes, doling them out, pouring drinks, gathering silverware.  But once Sophie has her plate in front of her, you and Santi both return to the kitchen for your own plates, and that’s when he kisses you the second time, and it goes better.  It goes so much better, because you see him coming this time, and your eyes go soft as you meet him halfway and kiss him back.

[pedroacrossthestreet]

I am 100% convinced that francisco morales is the youngest sibling. definitely the only boy. he’s got at least three older sisters and they always tease him for being a mummy’s boy. he gets away with everything cause he’s the baby and the golden son.

but his sisters don’t let him forget that he answers to them.

they spent their childhood playing dress up with him, treating their baby brother like a doll. and as he grew older they taught him to respect women, would smack him round the head if he ever talked back, and would drag him home by the ear if he ever got too cocky around his friends.

and they helped to shape him into a sweet preteen who visited his abuela on weekends and helped his mum in the kitchen. they encouraged him to pursue his curiosities and nurtured the sensitive soul he always had.

but it all changed when he was 14 and his father passed unexpectedly. suddenly he was stood in an ill fitting suit, accepting handshakes from relatives he didn’t even know existed, trying to stop his bottom lip from quivering every time they told him what a good man his father was. he’d winced the first few times when the male relatives would slap him on the back, the side of his face, holding him with a ferocity that he wasn’t used to, insisting that he was the man of the house now. he had to take care of his mother, and his sisters, even though they were more grown than him.

and he signed up for the military as soon as he was of legal age. his sisters had begged him not to. told him that just because he was interested in engineering he didn’t have to go and get himself killed to prove himself.

but the army gave him the opportunity to support his mother financially, even if it meant she would be alone in the family home with him gone. the army gave him a chance to be the man he thought he needed to be for his family. the army gave him the male influence he was told he’d missed out on as the only boy.

and it scared him shitless.

until he met pope. then he realised what it was like to have a brother.

[the-purity-pen]

Lights Out

Santiago Garcia x AFAB!Reader (no y/n)

rating: EXPLICIT (NO MINORS)

warnings: oral (afab receiving), fluff and feels (be warned)

words: 2.9k

a/n: this comes from a request from my lovely bestie @flightlessangelwings. it uh... well it got away from me a bit and therefore is a full fic. talk about coming back to tumblr fanfic writing with a vengence. sorry not sorry.

The storm outside was loud. So loud that every boom of thunder felt like it was shaking your entire house. You held your cat on your lap while on the couch, curled up with your favorite blanket, and the television turned on to the romance movie you had started earlier in the week. The plus side to working for the small town bar was that your boss, your best friend, didn’t force you to come in during storms.

The unexpected night off meant you got comfy in a large oversized t-shirt and soft cotton sleep shorts. Which was the call for the blanket as the temperature outside cooled down more than you were expecting. Your calico Ellie also helped keep you warm as she purred on your lap.

The lights flickered, but nothing else seemed affected, so you ignored it and returned to watching the movie. After months of built-up flirting, the male protagonist had just gotten the nerve to kiss the female protagonist. His hand on her chin made goosebumps rise along your skin. You were hopelessly romantic and loved all those movies and seeing the characters kiss for the first time. It was electric, and you always dreamed of having that for yourself.

The lights flickered three more times in rapid succession before everything went dark. Even though your heart rate elevated with anxiety, you managed a breath before muttering, “Damn it,” and getting up from your comfortable spot. Ellie gave a soft chirping meow to let you know that she didn’t like being moved, but she managed to get to the other end of the couch and curl back up to sleep. You shook your head at her before heading to the kitchen. In one of the drawers, you dug through the piles of receipts and take-out menus, rubber bands, and scotch tape until you found the little purple sparkly flashlight.

Just as you pull it out to turn it on, a loud knock at your door makes you jump—your heart races as you try to steady your breathing. You get the flashlight turned on just before you reach your front door. You peeked out the top window from your tiptoes just enough to see the top of a head covered in onyx-colored curls. You opened the door to find Santiago, your neighbor, soaked to the bone and panting.

“Santi,” you sighed as you lowered the flashlight and stepped back to allow him inside. His head is lowered as he steps in but remains on the indoor welcome mat, seemingly trying not to drip water all over your hardwood floor. You closed the door, rushed to the oven to grab the hand towel, and handed it to him. He offered a soft “thanks” while drying his face and arms.

“Well, I see you’re out of power too,” Santi mentions as he stands up straighter and looks around your living room with a soft chuckle, then back to you.

“Just lost it. Interrupted my movie too,” you offer with a soft laugh; turning off the flashlight as the moon glows from outside is enough to see Santi as you converse.

After an awkward silence, Santi hands the now-damp towel back to you, and you put it on the counter beside you.

“Didn’t know if you and Ellie needed anything,” he finally spoke after clearing his throat. His brows lifted as he looked at you. Even in the dark, there was no denying how handsome Santi was. Add in how wonderful of a neighbor he had been over the last year since you moved in, and he was pretty accurately the perfect man.

He had helped change the spark plugs in your car, repaired the front gutter, helped build your back deck, and replaced the upstairs bath’s faucet. All for free. He never asked for anything in return except for some free pastries when he’d stop by your bakery. You couldn’t say no. His sweet tooth was like no other, and for the rugged man he appeared to be, knowing he had a soft spot for your cupcakes and brownies made you just that little bit mushier.

“It’s fine. We’ve survived worse,” you commented, a wry laugh being pulled from you. The words and meanings were heavier than you intended them to be. Santi seemed to catch on as he stared after you, watching you move further into the kitchen.

“Did you want some water?” you offered as you reached into the cupboard for two glasses. The fridge, thankfully, still worked for a few minutes after a power outage. You knew it would eventually run out of the reserved energy to keep things cold, but at least you had the water jug in there.

“Sure,” Santi answered, wiping his feet before venturing toward you over at the sink. But as he waited, he did so very close to the side of the fridge. You turned after filling the first glass and bumped into him with your elbow, causing the cold water to splash onto you, eliciting a shriek.

“Oh! Shit, I’m so sorry,” Santi started apologizing and immediately grabbed the towel from the counter you had let him use. He started patting you down with it, but the dampness of the towel from his usage and the cold water already absorbing into your shirt caused you to shiver and shake your head. You set the glass on the counter by the fridge and mumbled to him that you were okay. He handed you the towel but stood dumbfounded as he watched you.

“Are you sure? Can I get you something else? Where are your other towels?” he asked rapidly before hurrying around the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets to find something else to dry you off.

“Santi,” you said with a laugh. “I’m good. Let me get changed. Help yourself to the water, though. I’ll be right back.”

You disappeared around the corner and down the hall. Stripping off the T-shirt once in your bedroom, you opened your wardrobe to find... nothing else in the comfort level to be worn. Your dirty laundry was still in the washer in the basement, and you hadn’t switched it over to the dryer before the storm. You mentally and physically facepalmed. “Great,” you muttered before closing the drawer and moving to your closet. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but it would have to do.

Walking back out toward the kitchen, fiddling with the buttons on your ex’s dress shirt, you didn’t notice Santi had moved, and you ran head-first into his solid chest. “Whoa,” he laughed, his arms coming out to steady your shoulders. His hands were warm on your cold skin, even through the shirt's material.

You swallowed thickly as you looked up at him. The moment was fleeting, but it was there, and you swore you saw the sparkle in his deep brown eyes. But perhaps that was just the lights flickering back on. You heard all the machines in your kitchen turn on, and it must have cleared Santi’s mind because he, too, backed away and cleared his throat.

“Well, look at that,” he said and nodded slowly, looking around to see everything turn back on - including the television. The movie must have paused when the power went out because it picked right back up where it had left off. The two main characters were getting into their kissing, and the music was swelling, indicating which direction things were going in.

“Oh!” you shouted as the moans from the actors started to fill the room and romantic close-ups of their bodies began to show on the screen. You practically fumbled and ran from Santi to find the remote. The moaning and panting got louder, and you swore the remote was on the couch. You bent in strange ways, trying to see it, lifting the blanket from where it had crumpled, and felt your heart racing faster and faster with each passing moment.

Santi looked on, bemused, a smirk on his lips, taking a mental note of what kind of movies you enjoyed. Was it because he wanted to know you a bit better? Yes. Was it also because the noises from the tv sounded erotic and affected him? Also yes. And how you bent over at one certain angle, perhaps giving him the slightest hint of the bottom of your backside? Absolutely yes.

He walked over after you seemed to be failing at locating the remote. “Can I help?” he asked, standing closer to the tv, the actors getting into the steamy sex scene now. You could barely hear him over the thumping in your ears from your heart. Where the fuck did that little remote go, and why was there so much moaning on the television now?

You turned and saw Santi watching the tv as the sex scene played. It was rather raunchy for being a romance film, but it was steamy and sexy, and you swallowed thickly. You cleared your throat, staring at how Santi watched the scene play out.

“What movie is this?” he asked before facing you and noticing you staring at him.

Caught off guard, you stumbled through an answer. “Oh, uh, it’s just some romance movie based on a book series.” Vague, yes. Keep it vague.

Santi’s smirk took over, and your knees would buckle if it were a romance movie like the one on your screen. He was so ruggedly handsome, and you were brought back to just a few minutes before when his hands were on you. The feeling had this moment of staring at each other, turning you into a puddle. Especially as Santi moved away from the tv and toward you, his head cocked to one side, seemingly studying you.

“Do you like romance novels? And movies?”

There was no judgment, no mocking in his tone. He was genuinely asking. You quickly ran through the scenarios of what a yes answer and a denying no answer could look like. You opted for honesty. After all, other than your crush on him, your neighborly friendship with him had always been honest and straightforward.

You nodded as he moved closer and now stood directly before you. His nod was much slower than yours, thoughtful, and you noticed all of the stubble along his jaw. That hadn’t been there the last time you had seen him. But it suited him. His hand gently came up in front of your chest but paused, his eyes searching yours. Your gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips and back as your head gently nodded.

His rough, calloused hand ghosted in front of your chest and to your jawline. The contrast of the feel of his hand against your jaw and your skin caused both of you to take shuddering breaths in. “So you enjoy the idea of being kissed… softly?” Santi asked, his soft, graveling tone sending a shiver down your body.

Your heart felt like it had jumped into your throat, making words hard to come out. Instead, you nodded and breathed in, holding it. Your gaze on Santi was soft but begging him to move even closer. You had wanted to feel his kiss for so long, but you didn’t know that he even had an inkling of romantic feelings toward you.

“May I?”

The question surprised you. Santi didn’t seem the type to ask. You had seen him with women at the neighborhood picnics and gatherings. He always seemed so in control and cocky. The first time you officially introduced yourself to him, his smirk nearly made you hate him because he looked so full of himself.

But it was becoming more apparent that that was a facade, and with that, you nodded and mumbled a soft “please” in answer. His look was pure contentment as he leaned in, his hand sliding over to hold your chin and lifting it ever so slightly. He leaned in, his lips nearly at yours before he spoke, causing you to whimper.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for six months.”

You blinked and looked up at him. Your face did a slight double take, blinking harder.

“What?”

“I came over to help you fix more stuff because I had this ridiculous fantasy of coming over sometime and finding you half-dressed. I’d take you on the couch and devour you, tasting all of you. Like some romance movie,” he admitted, and your entire body became alight with lust. You couldn’t even stop your hands as they lifted to his fitted t-shirt and gripped the front of it, pulling him to you so that his lips had no choice but to land on yours.

The groans he let out let you know that you had done something right in taking the first move. His free hand slid down the side of your body to your hip, where his rough fingertips dug into your flesh, crumpling the shirt. You took a step back, tugging him with you until your knees buckled at the couch, and you both landed, Santi’s knee on the left side of you on the sofa.

Your hands moved up to his face, cupping his scruffed jaw. His lips chased yours, but you had other plans as you held his face and moved your lips along his cheek and to the soft spot behind his ear. Your tongue played against it, licking him before moving to his jugular. His hand on your chin slid down to cup your breast through the shirt, and you moaned, arching your back into his touch.

“Oh, that’s what you like, hm?” he breathed out, moving his face down to echo the licking and nibbling at your neck that you had just done to him. His smirk could be felt against your skin as you mewled in pleasure.

Hands moved all over; mouths continued to explore the upper parts of your bodies until they were reunited again in a heavier, hotter, more passionate kiss. Santi’s hand trailed down your body to between your legs, where he found your moist center. He groaned, his thumb pressing gently against the sensitive button that had your hips wildly thrusting toward him. His hand continued to move but in such a teasing manner that it was starting to frustrate you. Just having his body on yours was better than anything, but having his hand at your most needed part was already better than all your nights with your toys.

His mouth ventured down, suckling at your breast through the shirt, moistening it before moving down until he was on his knees on the floor in front of the couch and you. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing the oversized shirt out of his way. He leaned in, kissing up one thigh, then, when he barely reached your apex, his mouth moved to the other, starting the trail north.

“God, Santi, please,” you murmured, a mumble. Your brain was working on overdrive that this man would do this to live out the fantasy he had admitted to you.

His hands worked down your shorts and panties in one fell swoop. A master at undressing you already. Either that, or you were just that needy and desperate. He leaned in the moment he saw the glistening of your sex. His tongue swiping along your slit, bottom to top, your hands nestled into his curls.

“Santi.” You breathed out his name in pants and moans, and he was done for. His mouth closed over your warm cunt, lapping at you before stiffening his tongue and pressing into you. The curl of the muscle of his tongue pushing into you had your breath catching in your throat. His mouth was magic, and you were sure to come undone quickly.

But just as your peak nearly hit, your hips pressing up against his face, he pulled back, his hands pushing your hips back down. “Oh, baby. Not yet. I want to see you crumble and hear you scream, but I want to keep tastin’ you. I want to know that I’m making you shudder and shiver from pleasure. Okay?”

You whine, but if the last few minutes were any indication, Santi had no plans to leave the space between your legs soon. His tongue gently licked at you, to which you shuddered from sensitivity. His hands worked in slow circles on your thighs, and when his mouth wasn’t against you, his eyes were studying his fingers played gently against your clit, watching the way you would tense and clench around nothing.

And you were right. Three orgasms from his lips and mouth alone later, Santi finally comes up for air, his scruff glistening with your wetness. You reach out for him and pull his head up to you so that you can lean forward and capture his lips against yours. You moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue and in his mouth as you deepen the kiss.

When you broke the kiss, Santi leaned his forehead against yours to catch his breath. “I.. am not done with you,” he grinned as he kissed you chastely and pulled back. Showing you the wicked grin on his lips and the devilish glint in his dark eyes. You laughed and shook your head.

“You really shouldn’t wait six months to kiss me next time,” you quipped. His chuckle seemed to rumble deep into his chest.

“Oh, so you’re sassy too, huh?” he laughed as his hands gently tickled your sides before sliding one up to hold your chin again to you could look directly into his eyes.

“I’m never waiting to kiss you ever again. Ever,” he told you sternly, the laughter dying off as his lips retook yours in a soft, gentle, but firm kiss.

[jakelockleysdoll]

I can’t get over how pretty santi is 🎀

[arcanefox207]

Gifs of Pedro/Oscar from the Wired Autocomplete Interview

A lot of these were too big for Tumblr, but you can get the complete collection over here.

I am also on Reddit (u/KetoKitsune) and Giphy (ArcaneFox). Please feel free to save and use the reaction gifs as you wish! More to come soon from this set. 💜

Please just give credit and do not alter them or remove my watermark if you repost my collection as I work very hard on making these for folks to enjoy.

[strawhbrrries]

Can't Shoot Whiskey

pairing: frankie morales x afab!garcia!reader

summary: you can’t shoot whiskey and somehow you end up in frankie’s room.

warnings: (shitty) smut, frankie doesn’t get off but reader does, fingerings and some oral (f receiving), mentions of alcohol, overly protective santi???, no use of y/n, not proofread

word count: 1753 words

author’s note: this is my first attempt at smut so i hope it’s not like horrible, if it is…kindly refrain from telling me or i’ll think about it for the rest of my life lol. this is also like a thousand words less than the joel fluff so i'm not entirely satisfied but please enjoy <3

The beer burned your throat, you were never a beer person and you never would be but you were hanging out with your older brother and his friends. Beer was your only option. You grimaced at the taste, if it had been up to you there would be a fruity cocktail in place of the brown bottle in your hand. Carrie Underwood may have bashed a woman who couldn’t shoot whiskey, yes you didn’t know how to either, but you quite preferred your fruity drinks.

“Yoohoo!” Frankie whistled, snapping his fingers in front of your face to try and bring you back to reality.

“What?” Your attention snapped to the man in front of you, of all your brother’s friends you always found Frankie to be the most attractive but you would never let any of them know.

“I asked you a question.” He relaxed back into the lawn chair and took a sip of his, oh so disgusting, beer.

“I- uh- what did you ask?” You replied sheepishly, a pink hue lighting up your cheeks. Mentally cursing yourself for thinking too much about Carrie Underwood and fruity drinks. “Quit reaching across an open flame, Frankie, that’s how you get caught on fire.” 

“Asked if you needed another beer or if you wanted Pope to get you something else from the store. Also, pretty girl, being caught on fire would not even make the list of worst injuries I’ve endured.” Frankie took another sip of his beer, spreading his legs to get more comfortable, and tipped his head toward your brother who was currently leaning on the door waiting for an answer.

“I mean if it’s not too much trouble, just something fruity that you think I'd like! Thanks Santi!” Maybe thinking about Carrie Underwood did pay off.

“Can’t shoot whiskey?” Benny teased, ruffling your hair as he walked past to sit in his seat. 

“Shut the fuck up Benny, you can barely drink the beer in your hand.” Frankie defended you, rolling his eyes at the man who was now staring at the beer in his hand. You squeezed your thighs a bit, the fact that he was coming to your defense was making him all that more attractive. 

“I’m going inside for a second, I’ll be right back.” You smiled to the bickering boys in front of you, getting up and smoothing out your dress before walking inside.

The house was empty of anybody except for yourself, this wasn’t a house you were particularly used to visiting as Frankie being a host was a once in a blue moon occasion. You had only visited the house previously once before and only for a few minutes, finding a bathroom to freshen up in was now going to be a bit of a problem. If you took too long, someone was going to come looking and what if you looked like a creep snooping around Frankie’s house. 

Instead of asking, you did just what you were afraid of being caught doing…snooping. Logically the one hallway in the house was where the bathroom could be found, probably at the very end, but you wanted to take your time and make your acquaintance with the house. You could tell where every window and door is in Miller’s house, where every light switch is in Sant’s house, it was only fair you get to learn the layout of Frankie’s.

Frankie’s room was the first room on the right down the only hallway in the house, no decor (shocker) and simple gray bed sheets were the only really ‘noticeable’ things in the room. His bedroom was, conveniently, attached to a bathroom which was a lot cleaner than you expected for a single man who lived on his own. You were in the process of finger combing your hair when the sound of someone clearing their throat startled you.

“The guest bathroom isn’t in here. It’s by the kitchen, actually.” Frankie spoke, matter of factly. You don’t know if he had just shown up or if he had been following you, his position of leaning on the door hinted to the latter. 

You gave him a soft smile before going back to combing your hair, you didn’t really have a response that wasn’t a tad weird so you opted to avoid the whole interaction. 

“The Miller boys are leavin and Pope is caught up in some traffic, no clue how long he’ll be.”  Frankie tried his best to make conversation with you, truth be told he liked you quite a bit but he planned on taking that secret to the grave. Apparently, having a thing for your best friend's little sister is frowned upon or something like that. Not that he cared more than the next guy, just simply avoiding the arguments with Santi to save his sanity.

“You look like you have something else to say.” You took in his appearance, admiring how handsome he looked. His shirt was just the right fit, a tad tight around the biceps (your favorite), and his jeans hugging his thighs so deliciously. Turning around to face him and not the mirror, you had a mental struggle on whether or not to make the first move. You, kinda, did by tracing small figures on the arm he had hanging down by his side and looking up at him while you waited for a response.

“God, your brother is gonna kill me.” He mumbled, you could barely make out the words but the pained expression on his face told you everything. If you were the last person he kissed before he inevitably met his maker, at the hands of your brother, he would die a happy man.

“And why’s that?” The words to a bystander would mean anything, but between you two they were heavy. You squeezed his bicep softly, closing the small gap between your bodies.

“‘S pretty, just need to have ya.” His self control was waning and the way you were looking at him wasn’t helping, nor was it helping the ever growing problem in his jeans. He readjusted his cock, his attempt at being discreet failing. It did, however, cause you to smile and blush bright red which was a win in Frankie’s book.

“So have me, Francisco.” Your words were barely out of your mouth before his lips were on yours, it shocked you at first. Not because you thought he wasn’t going to kiss you, but because you didn’t expect it to be just the right amount of roughness. His mustache was scratching against you, it only fueled the desire you had for him.

“He is gonna kill me.” He reiterated, both of you knew if Santi found out there would be hell to pay. You didn’t care, both of you were adults and it wasn’t a crime to have fun with a man. Even if he was your brother’s best friend.

“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.” You whispered against his lips, breathing in the scent of the fire on his clothes and tasting the beer on his tongue. You decided you could tolerate the taste as long as it came from him. 

Frankie groaned in response, if your brother wasn’t the cause of his death you certainly would be. He turned his attention to trailing kisses down your neck and caressing your body to burn every curve into his memory. Your hands soon found themselves in his hair, holding onto it as if it was the only thing keeping you grounded on the earth. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled into your skin, “So soft, can I?” He asked softly, toying with the hem of your dress waiting for you to give him a clear yes. 

With the shake of your head Frankie was on his knees with half your dress pulled up enough for him to see your underwear, just a simple black pair as you hadn’t planned on being eaten out tonight. A whimper slipped past your lips as he moved your underwear to the side, gliding his index finger in between your folds and collecting your slick. He groaned again at the taste of you, sitting back on his heels to admire the sight of you that was once just a dream. 

“So wet, baby. Who did this?” He teased, gliding his finger between your folds and tapping your clit once while he waited on an answer.

“You did, Frankie.” Your words quiet, small whimpers escaping as he messed with your clit. 

He traced small circles around it, building you up before letting you come back down. To make up for his cruelty, he slowly slid a finger inside of you. Thrusting it ever so slowly.

“Frankie please.” 

“What, baby? use your words.” He inserted another finger along with the one already inside of you. He knew exactly what you wanted, he just wanted to hear you say it out loud. Help him convince himself this wasn’t a dream he was going to wake up from.

“Need more, please Frankie please.” 

Your wish was his command. He sped up the thrust of his fingers and leaned forward to attach his mouth to your clit, circling it with his tongue and occasionally sucking. Both of you knew your brother would be back anytime now, as much as you both wanted to savor the moment, you needed to be fast. Frankie continued his ministrations, taking hint from the moans leaving your mouth that you were getting close. 

The knot in your stomach was growing and you were so fucking close, so close you could grasp it, when you heard the front door open. Fuck. Your orgasm ripped through you, Frankie fucking you with his fingers all the way through, causing you to slap your hand over your mouth in fear of a single noise making its way out. 

“Did so good, pretty girl, so so good.” Frankie praised you, sliding your underwear back into place and letting your dress fall back into place. He got up off the floor and maneuvered past your body, which was slumped against the bathroom door, to wash his hands. 

“Sorry I can’t return the favor.” You apologized, resting your head back on the door to regain some strength. 

“Next time.” He smiled at you, placing a soft kiss to your lips and fixing the stray hairs that had gone wild.

“What the fuck?!” Santi yelled, standing in the doorway of Frankie’s bedroom, watching the entire exchange between you and his best friend go down.

[sushiwriterhere]

drive - part i

summary: "Despite your intensely professional appearance, you didn’t seem out of place in the slightest. And by god, you were breathtaking.”  rating: explicit for sexual content (18+ mdni) pairing: eventual frankie morales x f!reader  word count: 3.2k warnings: pseudo enemies-to-lovers, light sexism, author pretends they understand car terminology, potentially ooc!, no use of y/n, male masturbation.  notes: i love love frankie <3 thank you to @tremendum for beta'ing :') this is my first attempt at nsfw content – please feel free to tell me what you think!!!! tagging: @sebsxphia @magpie-to-the-morning - pls let me know if you'd like to be added/removed!

She was beautiful. ‘84? ‘85? Frankie couldn’t remember what the sheet Pope passed him had said when he’d looked over it briefly—just to make sure he was opening the hood of the right car. Besides, whatever was written there probably didn’t matter. In Frankie’s experience, the customers never really knew what was wrong or needed fixing. Sure, the type to waltz in with a vintage, manual BMW at least knew something beyond imitating the sound the engine would make when they’d try and go over 75 (“Look man, I just need her sounding right before I drive down to the Vineyard next weekend with the wife.”) but Frankie liked inspecting the cars himself. Pope had once told him he knew cars, helicopters—machinery better than people. 

Maybe he was right. Machinery always had a response, you could always figure out what was making it tick, what was making the wheel stick when you turned too hard to the right, why the brakes made that sound when it was about to rain. People were often the same, but that’s why Frankie liked cars more than people. They talked to him.

Honestly, he almost felt bad for the car in front of him–whichever asshole suit had picked her up clearly wasn’t treating her right. She desperately needed a new paint job and a really good work over with a clay bar. There was a ding in the front bumper that seemed like it had come from a bit of overzealous joyriding, and he had that feeling in his gut that shining a blacklight around the interior would reveal a shitty Jackson Pollock imitation. 

“Well, we’ll see what we can do. Frankie’s our best guy, he’ll take good care of her.” Pope’s voice rang throughout the shop, drifting into the back. 

“I appreciate it. One of the partners recommended you, so I have high hopes.” 

A woman’s voice. Frankie wondered whose wife or assistant that would be, they had regulars but none with that voice.  He turned around slightly, attempting to keep his gaze hidden behind the hood. And there you were. 

Pope was taller than you, but he could tell that what you lacked in height you made up for in aura. You were looking Pope directly in the eye, arms crossed loosely, one hip cocked. Despite your intensely professional appearance, you didn’t seem out of place in the slightest. And by god, you were breathtaking. 

Frankie never felt terribly insecure about his looks–he knew he was attractive; maybe not as suave as Pope, but women found him charming. Frankie had had a string of girlfriends and lovers since high school, some serious, some not. More than one had found cause to argue with him about the amount of women who pursued him even while he was in a relationship, but even still, that part never really made sense to him. But when he looked at you, he knew he was looking at someone who men would fall over themselves to hold your attention for even a moment. 

He felt his feet moving before he registered that it was happening, and realized he was making his way to the shop front. Frankie didn’t enjoy talking to customers, he told himself, but he wanted to know what your boss had done to bring him such a beautiful car in such condition. That was why he found himself pushing open the door that connected the shop to the workshop. 

“The man of the hour!” Pope exclaimed, clapping him on the back, “This is Frankie.”

“Nice to meet you, Frankie. I hope you’ll take good care of her, she’s treasured dearly.” Your voice was rich and velvety, and the brief smile that graced your lips made him feel like he was staring at the sun.

But he had to go and open his mouth. “I’ll certainly do my best. But I have to ask, what on earth did the owner do to put that ding in the bumper? I’m sure he was having fun but it’s gnarly.”

It was like a bucket of ice water being thrown over a campfire–you raised an eyebrow and pressed your lips into a flat line. Pope inhaled (or exhaled– Frankie couldn’t tell), all he could hear was the sound of him holding his breath. Fuck.

“Well, I don’t know exactly what the previous owner was up to, but I don’t plan on joyriding. I bought her secondhand.” 

“Oh right, of course. My apologies.” Frankie could feel the flush spread from the base of his neck to the tops of his ears and onto his face– leave it to him to stick his foot in his mouth in front of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. Universe: 1, Frankie: 0. 

Pope coughed lightly, clearly attempting to draw your attention away from Frankie and towards a stack of forms sitting on the counter. The moment had been broken, and Frankie at least had enough sense to quietly excuse himself back into the shop where he probably belonged. 

Okay, scratch everything he had ever said about having any sort of charm with women. Ever. At all. Every piece of attention he had ever received must’ve been a fluke because only someone without any sense at all would ever manage to put their foot in their mouth as hard as he just had. And it wasn’t the best thing to admit, but it was made all the worse by the fact that you were incredibly stunning. 

Maybe he’d just never speak again.

-

“¿Qué pasó, hermano? What the hell were you thinking?” Pope’s voice echoed throughout the shop, reaching Frankie even though he’d attempted to tuck himself away under the Ferrari that he had to service every six months. “Best looking woman I’ve seen in months and you manage to say the stupidest shit within 30 seconds of seeing her face.”

Frankie tried to keep himself hidden without responding, but failed to remember that Pope could find him any place he attempted to hide in the shop. 

Never a moment of peace, even in mortification, Frankie thought bitterly to himself. 

“Hey.” There was Pope’s face, inches away from his own, his eyes alight with mirth, clearly taking plenty of joy from Frankie’s embarrassment. 

He prickled at the close scrutiny–under a car was supposed to be a safe space for Frankie, and yet. He ignored Pope for the moment, unwilling to face exactly what he’d done. It wasn’t like he had burnt down the shop or permanently ruined its reputation but there was a particularly bad sting about embarrassing himself in front of a beautiful woman. 

Pope stood, clearly not looking to spend as long as it took to get Frankie’s attention hunched to one side. He rapped his knuckles on the side of the car twice, indicating he was deep in thought despite Frankie’s determined silence. Frankie maintained a straight face and tried to bring himself back to the headspace where rubbing the dirt from the nooks and crannies of a stupidly expensive car was the most interesting thing in the world. Perfection, til it shined, til he could eat off of–

“I honestly don’t think it was that bad. I think there’s hope for you yet, Fish.” Pope’s face was back. 

“I basically told her to get back into the kitchen.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be so dramatic.” Pope had rounded the Ferrari and was tugging on the leg of Frankie’s overalls, slowly pulling him into the light, “Besides, you’re the one who knows what he’s doing. Regardless, she’ll have to play nice when she picks it up, and you can make your move then.”

Frankie felt his eyebrows touch his hairline, “Make my move? Pope, be serious.”

“I am serious.” The smile that was threatening to split his face in half said otherwise. Asshole. 

A beat passed as Frankie held eye contact, hoping the incredibly unimpressed look on his face would convey exactly what he thought of the situation. Pope broke first, bursting into laughter, the kind that shook his whole body and would make him complain of a sore stomach later. 

“Oh god, Fish, I think the last time I’ve seen a woman look at you like that was when that one girl at the bar thought you were cat-calling her instead of Benny.” Pope finally finished laughing, sucking in a shaky breath and wiping the tears from his eyes. “Look, I apologized to her once and explained the whole wives-slash-assistants situation, and she just rolled her eyes and said she ‘got it’. Just call her yourself and apologize, offer to walk her through the inspection when you’re done.”

In all honesty, that wasn’t the worst plan he had ever come up with (no, really, Frankie had PTSD from not just one of the others).  At the very least Frankie could do a little groveling, and hope you didn’t think he was the type to tell you you belonged in a kitchen. Plus, it would mean that if you said yes, talking about cars was one of the things in life Frankie really knew, so you could see he wasn’t a complete bumbling fool. Wishful thinking made his mind wander to the thought of you actually impressed. Hey, if you loved cars you clearly cared.

-

By the time he got home, Frankie felt like he’d been through the wringer emotionally and physically. He hated to admit it, but spending all those years in the military, and then all those years afterwards contorting himself so he could work on cars was really taking a toll on his body. Sure, it was rewarding and he thought he understood a bit what doctors felt like with their diagnoses and treatments and whatnot, but at the same time there were so many days where he thought he might just give up and ask Pope for a spot behind the desk. Maybe a title like Manager. He knew the second he asked, he would get it, without all the usual ribbing. They all needed a goddamn break, and despite his jovial demeanor Pope really cared about their little group. The door was always open to Benny when he decided fighting wasn’t for him anymore, and they made good enough money that Frankie could afford to relax a little bit. But he was just Type A enough that the thought of a desk job made him want to scream. So he kept at it. 

Going through the motions of his evening routine, Frankie thanked him from Sunday for having the foresight to pack away leftovers, and himself from that morning for making the bed so he would be able to slide into neatly tucked covers. Some habits from the military died hard, others much easier. 

After a quiet dinner and a much needed shower, Frankie decided there was no point staying up with a beer or trying to exercise his mind by reading and called it a night. But despite the exhaustion from the day, his mind was racing. He kept replaying the mere thirty-second interaction he’d had with you, changing what he said each time to try and imagine a different reaction, a different outcome. What if he’d been smooth and made a joke about your car, would you have laughed? What did your laugh sound like?

It was at that moment that he realized he knew very little about you. He’d gone back and read the file that accompanied your keys– referred by someone from the law firm that constantly sent them new customers. It was then that it had hit him, likely exactly who he’d suggested was a mere assistant. Frankie didn’t know a lot about the law, but he suspected that having enough money to throw around to purchase a vintage BMW (even if not for joyriding) meant that you were senior enough for it to matter.

Frankie always knew he had a thing for women with power. When a high school girlfriend bossed him around a little in bed a few months into their young relationship after a bad fight about some nonsense, he’d felt his head get a little floaty. It was really hammered home during Basic when a female sergeant had laid into him and a group of his buddies at the time. He didn’t remember much about the incident, just that he wasn’t really involved. In his ever quiet, ever observant demeanor he’d just managed to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. But that doesn’t really matter when you’re in the military. You’re part of the group. Your individualism is systematically taken away from you– the haircuts, the uniforms, the orders. 

So when he stood in a line with these eight other knuckleheads, arms clasped tightly behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, the bead of sweat that had run down his back wasn’t really about the temperature in the room. The way he felt the need to swallow repeatedly from how dry his mouth was wasn’t about his lack of hydration in the twenty-four hours prior. 

Almost embarrassingly, he couldn’t even remember the woman’s face. She’d had her hair slicked back in a tight bun, military issue. She had a powerful voice but wasn’t yelling. The talking-to was stern, filled with exasperated threats and warnings of what would happen to them if there was a “next time”. 

But he remembered how she had made him feel. The way her voice commanded his presence–he’d felt the urge to drop to his knees and make the situation right however he could, however she might let him. He’d wanted to obey and continue obeying. 

And then there was you; the way you had commanded the space around you, looked Pope right in the eyes, not shying away. The images that floated to the front of his mind were unwitting, he definitely hadn’t invited himself to linger on what you looked like. The way you held yourself, the flow of your hair, the straight set of your shoulders as if you were trying to take up more space than you physically could. Your suit was perfectly ironed, crisp front folds in the slacks, the sleeves breaking just right over your slender wrists. Your eyes were piercing. 

They had women come into the shop all the time, but again, they were usually assistants or wives. It seemed like you knew that. And when Frankie had opened his stupid mouth, insinuating that your boss or your husband was the one who had hit the front bumper, the stare you had leveled him with felt like it had flayed him open. There again was that feeling bubbling to the surface, of wanting to be good, to obey, to make it right. The moment you opened your mouth it was over for him–the smooth lilt of your voice could read the morning news and he’d absorb every word, hang on every syllable. 

Frankie kicked his feet in the sheets a bit, willing himself to focus on falling asleep. But like most things in life, the more you tell yourself not to think about the forbidden fruit, the more it’ll be all that’s on your mind. And true to that, Frankie could see nothing in his mind’s eye but you. 

Something tugged in his gut, and he tried to ignore it. It wasn’t right, but he couldn’t help himself. He could feel just how hard he was, and he knew that it didn’t matter if he ignored it, he wouldn’t be able to will this one away. Besides, it would just be one time, just to get these thoughts of you out of his system and then it would be fine. 

Slipping a hand into his sweatpants he grasped himself tightly. Fuck. If there was one benefit from working with your hands, Frankie had to admit the edge of roughness from his calluses while touching himself was definitely it. It was just on the right side of painful, and Frankie let his mind wander. 

Just this once.

He would apologize–he would be heartfelt and sincere, let you know how sorry he was. He’d call you and beg for forgiveness and you’d offer him a “we’ll see”, before hanging up. You’d arrive and watch him, unimpressed as he gave you the rundown. And inevitably, he’d mess up. 

“First making me out to be just someone’s wife, someone’s assistant, now you can’t even explain this to me? I wonder what Santiago keeps you around for.” You’d raise an eyebrow at him, expectant. 

And Frankie would show you, he’d show you exactly why people keep him around (maybe not Santiago, but)–because if there was one thing that Frankie loved, aside from cars and an ice cold beer, it was eating pussy. Never mind all the jokes during Basic about how big his dick was, what Frankie really took pleasure from was going down on women. The first time a girlfriend had let him, he thought he’d gone to heaven. 

Something tightened in his chest as Frankie thought about what it would be like to go down on you. He couldn’t help but imagine you in the backseat of that expensive car of yours, work slacks tossed somewhere in a haste to remove them, eyes wild and lips swollen from kissing. 

Stopping the movements of his hand momentarily, he reached into the drawer of his nightstand to pull out a well-loved bottle of lube. In his rush, he squeezed out a far-too-generous amount, and all of a sudden instead of the deliciously dry slide of his hand around his cock, everything was soaking wet. Sheets be damned, he tightened his grip and twisted his wrist just in that way he really liked.

Fuck, he would love to get his mouth on you, to hear the sounds you’d make as he ate you out for his own pleasure.  

He had to admit that beyond the part of him that wanted to submit to a powerful woman like you, there was also the part of him that knew he would revel in seeing you on your knees for him, cockdrunk and begging for more. You’d have that lipstick on, but it would be just on the right side of smudged from kissing him and licking your lips. Your mascara would have run just a bit, enough to make you look messy and fucked out, that if you looked in the mirror you’d flush from how unkempt, how unruly you looked. 

Before he could stop himself, an image flashed in his minds’ eye: you, bent over the back seat of your flashy car, legs on the ground on your tippy toes in a pair of high heels, skirt rucked up over your ass. He had one hand on the back of your neck, pressing your cheek into the worn leather seats as your head turned to the side to give your room to breathe, and more importantly, beg. Your panties were wet and sticking to you, and the inner parts of your thighs were shining with your arousal.

It was the thought of tucking your panties to the side and gently pushing into your tight, wet, heat that sent Frankie over the edge. He grunted as his cum shot up his chest and his mind filled with static. 

He lay there for just a moment, just letting the orgasm wash over him like a tidal wave. In the aftermath, there was the tipped over bottle of lube on the nightstand, a soiled t-shirt, and just enough guilt to make him want to call in sick.

Fuck.

[marshmallow--3]

Does anybody still have access to Netflix, or remember what song Pope is playing at the start of Triple Frontier when the helicopter is setting down?

[its-a-show-stoppin-number]

Can someone please write a Frankie Morales x reader fanfic that’s like a New Girl au?

With like Frankie as Nick (obviously), the reader as Jess, Benny as Schmidt, Santi as Winston, and Will as Coach

[madlittlecriminal]

Santiago "Pope" Garcia Masterlist

(*) ➞contains sexual innuendos/light smut

(**) ➞contains smut

(▾) ➞contains angst/trigger warning(s)

(°) ➞authors personal favorites

(…) ➞request

(•) ➞holiday themed

(§) ➞alternate universe (AU)

(≈) ➞headcanons (HC)

(۵) ➞prompts

(❅) ➞blurbs

-Excuse Me?

[commander-writergirl]

So I’m rewatching Triple Frontier and I noticed something.

When Santi is talking with T*m, you can see the scar from his neck surgery 🥹

I’ve never noticed before.

[tropes-and-tales]

The Fourth Year

For the super-late Winter Prompts (2023 Edition)! The master list can be found here!

This one was requested by the lovely and supportive @justreblogginfics (I mean, honestly? Is there anyone more supportive than this lovely person?)

"From Under The Mistletoe prompts: #13 (snogging and not realizing other people are present) with Santiago Garcia"

CW:  Light angst (talk of Tom's death); pining (mutual); kissing; lot of typos.

Word Count:  1839

The Miller brothers put on the same party every December, a chaotic blend of their large and extended family and their friends.  Two disparate groups who somehow blend together seamlessly:  Tom and his wife have an easy friendship with a Miller sister and her husband.  Frankie, ridiculous as it seems, always falls in with a great-aunt, a crotchety old woman who has a soft spot for Frankie and his big brown eyes—and Frankie enjoys the benign flirting, the old woman’s stories, and most of all, her famous rum-laced chocolate cake in the shape of a Yule log.

Santiago?  He has his own benign flirting with you—a cousin of the Miller boys.  He sees you once a year at this party.  For three years now, he’s pined after you.  It’s the same cycle, over and over. 

November comes, and he realizes he’s a month away from seeing you again.  He hypes himself up.  He gives himself pep talks in the mirror, feels like an idiot afterwards, but he gasses himself.  Tells himself that he’s smart and funny and good-looking, that of course you’d love to go out with him sometime.

Three days before the party, he gets a haircut, gets his curls trimmed up. 

The day of, he feels a rare buoyant hope.  He showers, shaves.  He dresses and hopes he looks good but not like he is trying to look good.

The drive over, he plays his hype-playlist.  This is the year, he promises himself.  This is the year I get my shit together and make a move.

Three years of this cycle.  Three years of promising himself that he’ll make a play for you, and three years of that promise disintegrating the moment you see him and call out, “hey there, handsome!” as a greeting.  The moment he turns and sees you, every plan flows out of his brain and Santiago Garcia is struck dumb, his tongue clumsy and heavy in his mouth and unable to form coherent words.  You’re beautiful to him, and trolling your social media throughout the year can never prepare him for seeing you in person.

Smiling as you walk towards him.  Then the sudden feeling of you in his arms as you hug him, on your tiptoes as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him on the cheek.  The scent of you—your light perfume, your shampoo, maybe a bit of wine on your breath.  The lovely sound of your laughter as you joke around with him, then the feel of your hand on his arm, steering him deeper into the Miller home as you ask all about his year.

Three years of Santiago Garcia going chicken-shit and letting the moment pass him by.  His courage always fails him.  He always leaves with that sick feeling in his stomach, and he wakes in the morning with the depressing realization that he has to wait a whole year to see you again.

-----

This is the fourth year.  Santi could lie and say he finally has the courage he’s been missing, but the reality is that the driving emotion is sadder.

He’s not brave.  He’s just tired.

He’s tired of this game.  Tom is dead.  Frankie is in recovery.  He feels adrift in his own life; he takes contracts overseas, but only because he doesn’t feel like he has a home. 

The fourth year goes differently.  He skips his usual haircut, so his curls are a little longer, slightly unruly.  He feels less buoyant hope and more steely determination.  He drives to the Miller home in silence, the window down and his arm out the window as the warm Florida evening turns into night.

And the moment he crosses the threshold of the door, you’re there.  You’ve changed it up too:  you don’t shout “hey there, handsome!” 

Instead, your face lights up for a moment before you school your expression into something more somber.  You walk up to him, and you pull him into a hug—but this hug is tighter, longer.  And you whisper into his ear that you’re sorry about Tom, but you’re so glad he’s okay, and when Santi parts from you, he can see the way your eyes glitter with unshed tears.

“Don’t scare me like that again, okay?” you ask, and Santi wonders if his pining has been one-sided, as he always assumed.

-----

The fourth year.  Tom’s absence seems to take up some space.  The party is slightly subdued, less raucous than in years past.  Frankie settles in with Great-Aunt Roseanne and her boozy chocolate cake.  Benny and Will circulate with their sisters, all four of them in felt reindeer antlers.

Santi leans in the doorway between the living room and kitchen and just watches.  It’s the remainder of his found family, the Millers and Frankie.  He doesn’t want to lose the lesson in Tom’s death, which is that life goes on but can end in a blink.  Santi gets lost in his thoughts (those memories of South America, the slack, heavy weight of Tom’s body), and he startles when someone touches his arm.

He turns and sees that it’s you.  You smile at him, tentative, and ask if he’s okay.

“Yeah, great.”  He clears his throat from its roughness, then smiles back at you.  “How are you?”

You shrug, make a dismissive gesture with your hand.  If Santi roams the planet on contract work, you are the opposite.  You have a steady job, always in the same spot, and you have all the trappings of a stable life.  You have a home and a mortgage, a dog, a fish tank full of tetras, a garden where you grow four different types of tomatoes and six different types of hot peppers.  You belong to a hiking club, and you organize litter pickups with the local Girl Scout troop.

In other words, you have a full and robust life, and Santi yearns for even a tiny bit of space in it.  He feels like he could curl up at your feet like a dog and be happy just to be near you.

The two of you chat, and maybe this is the result of Tom’s death too:  you get a bit behind the surface-level chatting you usually do each year.  When you ask about his work, he’s honest:  he tells you it’s lonely and dangerous and how he wants to stay in the States. 

When he asks about your year, you admit that your parents divorced, and that it hit you harder than you thought it would.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you, and you do something you have never done in front of him:  you laugh, and it sounds bitter.

“Please, Santi.”  You roll your eyes and shake your head.  “I have a charmed life.  Whining about my parents divorcing, especially with me being an adult myself?  People have it worse.”

He’s never heard you sound like this, and he’s never heard you be self-deprecating.  He puts an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into a side hug, and a moment later you wind your arm around his waist.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t hurt too,” he chides you gently.  “Suffering isn’t an Olympic sport.”

You don’t reply.  You rest your head against him, and he likes the weight of it, the casual intimacy of holding you like this.  Maybe you like it too because you don’t pull away.  You keep your arm around him, and after a long moment, your head lolls to look up at him…but your gaze falls on something else.

“We’re under a bunch of mistletoe.”  Santi glances up and sees the sprig of silvery-green leaves and white berries, and then he glances down at your upturned face.  You’re smiling at him, and there’s a teasing quality there that is familiar from the previous three years.  It hits him that you aren’t just the gorgeous, teasing woman from years past.  You’re also someone who’s been hurt by your parents’ failed marriage, and someone who feels like you can’t really mourn it, and you’re far more complex—and human—than he ever realized.

It makes his superficial infatuation slide right off the cliff into wonderful, terrible love, just like that.

So Santi doesn’t tease you back.  He leans down towards your upturned face, and he moves slow enough to watch your reaction.  You don’t recoil or pull away.  Your eyes widen a bit, but you smile up at him…and you move towards him, meet him part way.

The first tentative press of his lips to yours, closed-mouth.  Quick.  Over before he realizes it.  But then a second kiss, bolder, lasting longer.  Closed mouths again, but the third is where you part your lips against his, where he breathes you in, and the awkward side hug ends as he turns you gently towards him and you lay your hands against the back of his neck.

Then the fourth kiss, and Santi stops counting them because he feels the soft press of your tongue against his, and you taste like the tart wine you like to sip and he hopes you don’t mind his own hoppy, yeasty beer-breath and you must not because you deepen the kiss, lick against the inside of his mouth.  Santi realizes that you’re actually the one leading this, not him, and he’s grateful that you are braver than he is.

The rest of the party fades away.  The low roar of laughter and music and conversation fades and Santi is left with just the roar of blood in his own ears, the barely audible whimper you make as his hands find your hips, as he pushes you gently backwards into the doorway—

“Pope, Jesus!” 

It’s Will…no, it’s Benny, and then it’s laughter and good-natured groans, and when Santi breaks away and turns to look in the room—startled out of his reverie of kissing you—Frankie raises his hands to his mouth, hooks his fingers there and lets out a piercing wolf-whistle that makes the Miller sisters clap and cheer at the show you and Santi have put on for them.

Only Will and Benny look peeved.  Will shakes his head, crosses his arms over his chest.  Benny calls out, “that’s my cousin, asshole,” which makes a wave of laughter rise and sweep towards where the two of you stand.

Santi turns and looks at you.  You look sheepish but not guilty, and you grin up at him, give him a shrug.

“Sorry,” you say.

“Don’t be.”

“I wanted to do that for, like, the last two years.”

He tries to play it cool, your admission.  It’ll hit him later, how he could be two years further along with you if he’d just been a bit braver, but Santiago Garcia will never be able to summon up much regret about it, in the end:  because now, in the fourth year of knowing you, you shrug again then take his arm in yours, lead him to a more private part of the home, and you kiss him again.

[bendro-pascarnes]

I wrote a thing yesterday. Please enjoy.

[ser-rctslcyer]

Happy 45th Birthday Oscar Isaac!!!