#santiago garcia one shots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

magpiepills · 8 months ago

Text

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.”

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character smut #pedro pascal characters #bat writes #smut #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x santiago garcia #catfish morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia #pope Garcia #Frankie x Santi x you

219 notes · View notes

for-a-longlongtime · 3 months ago

Text

Little Beast

Written for @perotovar 's writing challenge 'An Offering of Frith'. The P Boys they had planned were already taken, so I asked for Santiago Garcia and got Fenrir assigned! Pairing: Santiago 'Pope' Garcia x Francisco 'Catfish' Morales Word count: 18.5K Warnings: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI. 🏳️‍🌈 (DDDNE) DARK fic, AU. Extreme angst from A to Z. Lots of violence (guns, knives, beating, kicking), swearing, hate crime, homophobia (repeated use of a slur), abuse, repeated assault and murder, kidnapping, many mentions of blood and injuries, raiding, (body) horror, nightmares, substance use/abuse (alcohol, cocaine), smoking, arms trafficking, sex work, mental health struggles, trauma. M/M pairing, frotting, masturbation. Norse mythology meets Santi + P Boys meets magic realism in Colombia in the early nineties (so: Narcos related references like Escobar, the Castaño brothers and the Cali cartel).

A/N's: Written in Second Person - not reader insert, but Santiago's POV (aka you are Santi). Not gonna lie, this one is A LOT; writing it turned into some out-of-body experience. More about the gods & characters (and thank you’s) in foot notes.

main masterlist | read on AO3

Bogota, Colombia.

You’re five years old and your name is Santiago. The house you share with your brothers and parents is small, deep in the comunas, and most people know where to find it. Lots of them will stop by, because of papi’s work, sometimes very early in the morning or really late at night. When you ask what kind of work he does, mama hushes you, and your brother Jay looks away. Your brother Joel however will quietly stare at your dad - too calm, while his eyes are so angry.

You’re seven years old and you still don’t know what your father’s job is. Not a teacher, or someone at the market. Not one of the guys who cleans up the trash on your corner. For a while you thought that maybe he was a butcher, because mami was often cleaning the blood from his clothes. “It stains so bad.” But you’d never seen him in the market, selling his wares.

Every few weeks he is gone for a long time, and often the police will visit the house, which always makes your mom cry.

Every now and then a new face will show at the house, asking to speak to your mother. The girls are always very pretty, dressed in bright colors. The guys often have shiny guns; some of them will let you hold it when mami isn’t in the room.

You see your father all the time when you’re waiting with her at the store. Often he’ll wear a funny looking hat, and sometimes his face looks different. But you know it’s him, always, by the smile and wink he gives you. When you tell mami, she never sees him and starts crying again, so you stop telling her about it.

Jay doesn’t come home often anymore. When you ask Joel if that is your fault, if you made him cry too, he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. You’re okay.”

You’re not sure if you are.

When it’s your eighth birthday, your father suddenly shows up with presents that make you the envy of your friends. Boxing gloves, a large pocket knife - that your mom right away tries to take away from you -, and you all eat so much dulce de leche cake.

You wake up in the middle of the night because you hear your father arguing. The loud bangs that follow are unmistakingly gun shots, and you find one of the casings the next morning near the front door. When you ask your mami about it, she gets so angry that you run away from home for the afternoon to hide, until it gets dark and she’s had the drinks that make her happier.

When you got the boxing gloves, you didn’t know that they would also give you more time with your father - but they do. He teaches you how to throw a punch, how to avoid an attack, read someone’s body language. When to attack someone if you need to defend yourself. Which parts of the body are most vulnerable, and where to stab somebody to make them bleed out quickly.

He’s proud, always, as he tells people about how good of a fighter you’re becoming. “Takes after me.” You don’t - not really, but you do your best to make him continue to believe that. Until you start to believe it too and knock out a guy who is twice your age.

When you’re ten, they try to burn down your house. You don’t know exactly who ‘they’ are, but you’ve heard the name El Gran Señor Lorenzano often enough to know that you should fear him.

The first time it happens, your dad is just in time to stop the fire from escalating. The second time, he’s not home, so you do put out the flames together with Joel.

The third time starts with a flaming bottle being thrown through a window, and as you all stare at the sight, the door gets knocked down and men with masks on their faces storm into the house

Your father runs away, seems to escape the men somehow. Your mom is hysterical and won’t listen to anyone, not even when the tall guy hits her in the face, and you want to beg her to not cry because you know it makes men more angry at her. Not even with your fight training do you stand any chance, and all you hear when somebody shoves a bag over your head and drags you outside and into a van, is your brother’s voice - Joel yelling at you to not fight the men and just protect yourself.

You’ve been away from home for almost a year when you turn eleven, to the point that you don’t think of it anymore as an actual place you can go to. You think you’re still in Bogota but you’re not sure. Sometimes they make you get in a truck again, or a car. Almost always you have to hide; you know that they don’t want people to see you. Sometimes there are other people, or even kids, and you’re pretty sure that you’ve seen at least a dozen dead bodies over the past months.

It’s when they send you to training camp that you realize there’s no way they’re ever going to let you go. The training unit is not the army, but it feels like a military group somehow. Maybe this is like the guerilla fighters you’ve heard about, defending your country.

This time you fight without the boxing gloves, using only your hands or sticks, just like the other kids your age are also being trained.

There are five of you, and Ramiro explains to each of you how to get to the location. The white powder isn’t heavy, tightly packaged in plastic, and every step of the way to your contact person you’re terrified of losing it somehow. You know the consequences - have seen the boys who were shot in the head, and the ones who weren’t lucky enough to die so quickly.

The man who is waiting for you is tall, fat and smells like grease and blood. You don’t remember much of what he says, your heart thumps so loud that it feels like it’s inside of your ears as you accept the package he hands you in return.

You’re one of the four boys who make it back.

Gustavo, the fifth boy, shows up two days later. His lifeless body is covered in bruises and blood, and when someone dares to ask what happened, the answer is that rats will be dealt with accordingly. “Exterminated.”

After three nights of solid nightmares and another mutilated body that’s found outside as a warning, you stop trying to think of ways to escape.

You’re almost twelve when you meet Francisco.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He’s quiet and keeps to himself, but he’s not shy. When some of the older boys mistake that for fear, deciding to taunt him, he doesn’t respond initially. Only once the biggest bully steps right up to him, a sneer on his face, does Francisco lift his eyes to him and stares him down - and you can feel the tension.

You see the twitch of Francisco’s jaw, and even before the other guy takes a swing you know this is not going to end well for the bully.

It’s impressive how fast the new kid tackles his attacker to the ground, blood streaming from the boy’s noise as he scrambles to get away. But Francisco’s hand closes around his throat, keeping him pinned down. In a flash you see a piece of glass held against the boy’s neck, and that’s when you know for sure Francisco learned to fight the way you did. Your father’s voice echoes in your head, “If you stab someone there, it’s all over.”

You want to be his friend.

Not because he’s a good fighter; he’s far from the only one around here. It’s because he seems to be one of the few kids who doesn’t want to fight, just like you.

By the time you’re twelve, you and Francisco - Frankie - have become inseparable. You know that he’s never known who his mother is and that his father was recently killed by Pero Tovar, one of Lorenzano’s most feared men.

While the other kids try to get their hands on cigarettes, or booze, Frankie is just interested in books.

You like watching him read. On the very rare occasion that nobody else is around, he’ll often read something out loud for you. Mark Twain. Something about going to heaven for the climate, and hell for the company.

The first time Frankie reads that aloud, you have your eyes closed while listening to his voice. It makes you think of the ‘business’ your dad would do, or the way Lorenzano’s men would refer to ‘the company’ and ‘the big boss’. Bullet casings and dried up blood, the smell of your mami cooking beans with pork, and how some nights you fell asleep listening to her cry when your father still hadn’t returned home.

The second time Frankie read those words to you, about a year or so later, you realize it isn’t about going to hell for the work you do. It’s about not being alone in hell since you’ve got someone by your side.

The runs you’re sent on to drop off the product are not that bad at first. It’s a relief to be able to walk the streets, not be holed up inside or be in training.

Most of the kids that work for the cartels still live with their families in the comunas. You, Frankie and the others don’t have that freedom.

There are curfews to follow, gun practice, different kinds of training. It’s not the army, but it might as well be.

There often is discussion about the ACCU, Autodefensas Campesinas de Córdoba y Urabá run by the Castaño brothers. But when one of the other boys mentions FARC, he’s immediately silenced with a hard slap to his face by the instructor. “Those fucking communists. They’re the problem, you understand me?”

Pablo Escobar, however, turns out to be one of the few topics that’s welcomed for discussion by your instructors. Sometimes you have to think of the prayer candle your grandmother would light at the small altar in her living room, the framed picture of Escobar on the wall almost as large as the one of your late grandfather.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Frankie is the only person you confide in, and you listen to the stories he tells you about his father. In return, you tell him about your brothers, Joel in particular - but the nightmares you have that night are enough to stop you from bringing them up again. It’s better not to think of your family; keep them locked away in small boxes in the back of your mind, where you can pretend they’re okay.

You’re both still not sure how you ended up here. When Frankie points out Tovar one time in passing, you recognize the man with the scar on his face as one of your dad’s frequent visitors. And the person who tried to kill him that night they took you away.

You’ve been getting some attention from the girls, but it’s nothing to the amount that is directed at Francisco - not just the girls in your group, but even during a drop-off in the brothels at times. That’s how you’re both urged to ‘take some time with a girl you like’ when you join Juan for a drop-off. While you’re fucking a brunette who is a few years older than you are, Frankie is getting busy with a pretty red head on the other side of the room. You try to sneak a peek every now and then, but you know you have to be careful. If anyone catches you looking, you’ll get your ass beaten up - but you still can’t keep your eyes off him.

The girl - Rosa? - under you moans, calls you ‘papi’ as she asks you to fuck her harder, and you do so. She’s tight and wet around your cock, and pretty, and you like her small tits, but your head is too focused on not openly looking at Frankie, making it hard to come. Once you do, Rosa kisses your cheek as she gets up, gives you a towel and she tells you she’s gonna clean up. Frankie finishes up not long after that.

When you’re both waiting in the dark alley out back for Juan to wrap up business inside, sharing a cigarette with Frankie, you can’t help but ask him. “Was it good?” You’re hoping he says no - that you’re not the only one who barely got off. Because maybe you’re not the weirdo if there’s at least one other person who feels the same, who isn’t thrilled like you know the other boys would be. “The girl.”

Frankie shrugs as he inhales the smoke, closing his eyes. “She was friendly. Nice.”

You wait for more words, but they don’t come from Frankie. So you try to force your own words out. “Yeah. Friendly.”

When Frankie opens his eyes again, he looks tired and conflicted. Unsure perhaps. He lifts the cigarette to his lips again, and your guard is down too much to stop your eyes from following that movement.

His mouth.

Fuck, now you’re really hard.

“We’re friends, right?” Frankie’s voice is hoarse, and somehow that sound makes your dick throb even more.

You nod, then clear your own throat when you realize it’s not really all that clear in this dark street. “Yeah, of course,” you manage, trying to remember how long it’s been since you two met. Four, five years?

More of Frankie’s lips around the cigarette, and more tiredness in his eyes. Perhaps the uncertainty in his expression is more like the fear you’ve had beating in your chest now for half an hour already.

“Good.” Frankie nods, and before you can ask him why, he pushes you back against the brick wall, covering your mouth with his. You groan softly, your breathing suddenly so fast as he kisses you in a way you’ve never experienced before - in a way that, until now, you’ve never wanted to kiss anyone.

The sigh that escapes from Frankie’s mouth into yours is quiet, but you can feel the relief in his body when you kiss him back, feel how he grabs your hips and presses closer against you. You’re so hard that for a moment you can’t think straight, not until you feel him grind his cock against you, and then everything just goes electric in your head, because he’s just as hard as you are, and there is no time, because anyone can walk in on you two right now. It’s such a fucking dumb thing to do here - or anywhere.

He whispers your name, making it sound like a question, and when you nod and suck on his tongue, his hands slip from your waist to your ass, grabbing you tight and oh - fuck. Fuuuck.

It’s not even a minute of desperate kissing, panting, the uncomfortable but so fucking good rub of his cock against yours through your clothes, and before you know it you’re whispering his name too, the word turning into a plea, because please, Francisco, please - and then it’s no longer just rubbing against each other, it’s Frankie actually fucking you against that wall, right through your clothes, neither of you breaking the kiss until you both come just like this. Right in your pants, not even having put a hand on each other’s dick, just pressed so closely together while you’re drowning in the taste of his mouth.

“Hey, assholes. You ready to go?”

Juan’s loud voice booms through the alley, and Frankie immediately lets go of you like he’s been burned by fire. He moves several steps away, nearly tripping over his own feet, and the fear in his eyes is as loud as the fear beating inside of your rib cage.

You drop down to one knee and tug at the laces of your sneakers, pretending you’re tying them, giving you just a few more seconds to catch your breath before you need to look Juan in the face, who seems completely oblivious about what he almost walked in on.

“Shithead. Took you long enough to keep us waiting.”

You’re both eighteen when someone catches the two of you. Your hands and mouth on Francisco in places they shouldn’t be, and his hands and mouth all over you. The fact that you’re both still fully clothed is probably the only thing that saves you from a much worse treatment.

You beg them not to hurt him, tell them to give you the beating twice, even swearing that you were the one forcing yourself on Francisco.

Somehow you manage to convince them, and it’s the comfort of knowing Frankie isn’t hurt that helps just a little against the abuse. Against the ringing in your ear which lasts for almost a week, the bruises on your ribs where they kicked you. You let it happen, know that it would be better if you didn’t fight back even though you could probably take out at least three of them. It would be one thing if it were just some guys bothering you - but a few of them are part of the leadership, and there’s no going around that.

You see the anger and helplessness in Frankie’s eyes, the way he balls his fists and looks like he’s ready any moment to tackle the guys. But you know there’s no point in letting him get in between them and you, because you know better than to show any sign of weakness.

It is only once the tallest and older guy grabs you by your jaw, his other hand undoing his dirty pants, that you fight back. In less time than it takes him to growl “let’s see how good you suck my dick”, you kick out another guy’s legs from under him and swipe his knife, knocking your assailant down in the same move.

“You want me on your dick?”, you yell as you grab him by his balls, jerking his pants down roughly so his dick and balls flop out. Your knife is against the base of his cock before he can even blink, and you stare him down, pressing the razor sharp blade against his skin and not caring if it draws blood. “Dare me,” you hiss at him as you spit into his face. “I’ll fuckin’ cut it off you right now.”

The other men jump you before you can slice into the man’s sweaty pale skin, just a hair away from cutting off his pathetic excuse for a dick and shoving it into his mouth to choke on. Frankie meanwhile has had enough, now launching himself at the biggest men who are holding you back - and if these were any normal circumstances, you’d welcome the help. Instead you just shake your head, begging for him to see that you’re dead serious about not wanting him to interfere.

“No,” you mouth wordlessly, then gasp out loud as you bite your lip until you taste blood, working hard to swallow your cries as someone pulls your arm behind you and breaks at least two of your fingers. There’s no way you’ll give them the satisfaction of hearing you cry, so you just stare at Frankie until you trust your voice to not crack. “Fish, get out. Go back. I’ll be-...”

“Fuckin’ fag.”

Someone’s steel toe boot lands in your stomach, startling you with the hit of pain, and this time you yell at Frankie as they drag you away - that it will be okay, that he has to lay low and look after himself. The same way Joel had yelled at you when they had ripped you from your home and thrown you in the back of a van.

“You need to be smarter.”

The voice is suddenly so close that it makes you wince. Especially after having been locked up in silence and darkness for two days, without anyone coming to let you out or even say a word to you. “Please, just stop, okay?”, you manage as you get up to your feet, leaning against the cement wall as your head won’t stop spinning. “I haven’t done anything since. Can you…”

“They feed you?”

You stare at the man who interrupted you, trying to focus on the vague outline of his body as you can see - no, feel - him move closer through the darkened cell. “What? Who are…”

“Esdras-... Ezra. I asked you something, boy.”

“No. They didn’t.” You raise your chin up in defiance, even if he can probably not even see it. “I’m fine.”

The stranger hums, pushing some food into your hand. “You need to stay strong. Get stronger, and smarter.”

You can’t help but shove it right into your mouth, and by the time you’ve swallowed all of it your stomach is already hurting. It was a stupid move, and you usually know better; small, slow bites are the best way to eat after having gone without for a while. But the hunger and loneliness had gnawed at you these past two days, making it hard to think straight.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You’re locked up for a week, but Ezra keeps showing up daily with food. With conversation, too, even if it’s mostly him talking. It remains unclear how he fits into the organization you’ve been with for years now. When he mentions ‘El Gran Señor’, you suddenly remember Lorenzano, the fires at the house, your father as a fading face in the crowd.

After they took you away, your father never showed up anywhere again for you. Not in your dreams either. You wonder if it’s because you failed him, because you didn’t fight well enough - even though Joel told you not to fight, keep yourself safe. Maybe if you’d been more like Jay, this wouldn’t have happened.

You only get a decent look at Esdras’ face once.

His eyes remind you of Francisco.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Once you’re finally released and sent back to the barracks, it takes just a few hours for you and Frankie to sneak off somewhere. When he kisses you, both of you pretend to not notice the tears that are flooding your eyes.

Out of that cell, his warm body under yours, it really sinks in what you’ve known deep inside already for months, despite knowing the risks and consequences.

There’s no way you can ever give this up. Give him up. Not even if they try to beat it out of you.

When Ezra shows up one night, standing at the back of the communal dining area, Frankie tenses up in the seat next to you. He nudges your leg with his foot as he continues eating, then draws your attention to the other side of the room with a barely noticeable flick of his index finger.

Even when you tell him this is the guy who gave you food when you were locked up, he won’t take his eyes off Ezra. Frankie has always been taller than you, broader, and when Ezra passes your table you can tell by the way he sizes him up that Frankie has already considered at least three ways to take him out.

“Santiago. Tell your guard dog to stand down.”

Slowly you close your fist around the fork you’re holding, your anger right under the surface, but the smirk tugging at Ezra’s lips makes it clear that his words were a test rather than a challenge.

“I can train you. An hour every night. You’re good - but I can make you great.” Ezra nods at Frankie without taking his eyes off you. “If anyone besides him finds out, we’re done and they’ll probably take you away.”

“And do what?” Francisco is still staring at Ezra, and you’re sure he’s figured out at least one more way by now to take him out.

“Kill me,” you say, with zero doubt about that outcome, at the exact moment Ezra also says, “Kill him”.

Frankie’s eyes narrow immediately, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he tries to control himself. “What if he says no?”

“He won’t,” Ezra replies simply, at the same moment that you nod and tell him you’re in.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Ezra is a study in contrasts. He speaks like someone from Francisco’s books, with a slight accent that makes him stand out as much as his blond patch does, and often more candidly than most people are expecting. It’s only much later, when you hear him speak to an American guy, that you realize he’s likely not from Colombia.

“The origin of my story is fairly irrelevant, Santiago.” He waves off your question when you ask him about himself. “Besides, people are never quite so hard pressed to go find Parson on a map.”

He’s worked for Lorenzano for many years now, initially a mercenary who became one of the people highest up in the system. The nickname most people use for him is The Judge, or, if you are to believe the most wild stories about it, La Venganza - The One Who Brings Retribution.

Lorenzano and Tovar primarily run the organization, neither of them shy about the opulence and violence around them. But Ezra is a third pillar whose sober green-brown clothing often makes him blend in anywhere. Anything but quiet, but focused on other things than his two partners. He’s not keen on having a public face as he prefers to move quietly, getting both the impossible and the unspeakable done.

Most people fear him and it doesn’t take you long to figure out why. The man moves and fights like a killer, striking without hesitation, and you can’t help but wonder if he has had military training. He was right about what he had told you at the start - he did make you better and stronger, in physical combat as well as verbal expressiveness.

Frankie notices it too, even only a few weeks in. “When you get back here, you always look like you’ve been fed,” he remarks one night as you sit on the rooftop with him, gazing out over the thousands of city lights sparkling in the dark sky. “He said yet what he wants in return for all the teachings?”

You shake your head. “I’m sure that’ll come later.” And see, that’s something you still haven’t learned in all those years. It’s hard to look ahead when you don’t know what to expect and don’t have something specific to look forward to.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You’re still eighteen - or so you think, because it has become impossible to keep track of the days - when you realize that you actually love Francisco.

As you slice the throat of the guy who tries to attack him, you know that you would do anything for him. It doesn’t matter that it takes you hours that night to wash your blood soaked clothes.

Your mother was right all those years ago. Blood stains are hard to get out of fabric.

Once killing becomes a regular thing of your work for the syndicate, so do the nightmares. It’s not like you didn’t have them before; they’ve always been there, ever since Lorenzano’s men took you away from home. But this time you keep seeing the faces of the men you’ve killed; sometimes one by one, other times all of them together in a room.

They keep coming back, unwilling to let you rest.

Sometimes they try to speak to you, other times they can’t. Occasionally you need to kill them again, but their screams get drowned out by Frankie yelling for him - but you can never find him, see him.

You see your brother Joel every night that you dream of the people who died by your hand.

Half of him looks normal, even though he’s older now: a man instead of a boy, still several years ahead of you in age, and you wonder if this is really what he looks like now. The other half of his body he keeps out of your sight if he can help it, turned towards corpses or soon to be dead bodies that are bleeding out.

You know he tries to not show you that side of him because it scared you the first time; it was still Joel, but mostly just bones and muscles and tendons, someone who stands half in the world around you and half in the underworld. Worse than a ghost. But still Joel.

Every time you see him, he tells you to keep yourself safe. “It’s not your fault.” But unlike when you were little, he doesn’t try to tell you that you’re fine. You both know that you aren’t.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Others also notice how good you’ve become over the past year. How training exercises are a breeze for you, how much faster you are at tactical planning than most others. Now you’re eighteen, both you and Frankie are being watched carefully to see if you have potential to move up in the ranks - something Ezra had already mentioned and prepared you for.

“Beat them at their own game, little beast. You’re smarter than almost any of them.”

At first you hate the nickname, because it feels like he is mocking you. But that was not Ezra’s style; he is always upfront and open, at times to a fault. Too many years in this place have made you hyper vigilant and protective, quick to attack with bared teeth and intention to take the other person down. But around him that’s not necessary. So you reluctantly accept the nickname, work to do justice to it.

Once they start sending you off on serious engagements, you find that Ezra tends to be in charge of many of them - the raids, the more undercover missions, occasionally dealing with conflict among stakeholders rather than just being there to clean up a mess. It’s not surprising that you and Frankie work well together in the field whenever you’re teamed up; you both know each other so well, including limits and strength, to the point that you can easily anticipate each other’s moves, and that puts you front and center for effectiveness.

On the rare occasion the two of you are split up in different teams, Ezra is always assigned to Frankie’s group - something none of you comments on. They’re not exactly on friendly terms with each other, particularly to Frankie always being cautious, but then again they don’t need to be. The mutual respect is reassuring, especially because you’re sure Ezra knows there’s more going on between you and Frankie than the syndicate allows for.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next time you dream of Joel, there’s a black wolf cub playing at his feet, gentle and even tempered, playfully nipping at Joel’s fingers. When he sees you, he immediately bounces over to smell you, then happily paws at your legs - just like he’s just any other stray puppy, excited to get your attention and become familiar with your scent. His joy is contagious, and it’s not long until you’re sitting down on the ground to play with him, where eventually he falls asleep in your lap.

When something in the darkness catches your eye, the pup stirs almost immediately from his sleep, picking up on your body language. In the blink of an eye he’s put himself in front of you and Joel, suspiciously eyeing the wisps of smoke that curl from the darkness. He growls low, baring his small fangs as he tries to make himself bigger than he is to face the unknown.

Joel hushes it gently, assuringly. “Little Beast, you’re okay.” When both you and the cub simultaneously look at him, you wonder which one of you two he is talking to.

Even if the days have become more bearable and lighter since you met Francisco, you still don’t think you’re the one who is okay - and sometimes you wonder if you ever will be again.

Ezra fights dirty.

Knives, guns, hand-to-hand combat; he always has an extra card up his sleeve somehow. But it’s not the moves or weapon mastery you learn from him that make you better and faster.

It’s the resilience he teaches you. Clearing your mind, striking without hesitation. Thinking ten steps ahead and not giving away what your next move is. You’ve seen him out on the streets or during raids, and unlike Lorenzano and Tovar he tends to hang back, take a moment to take in the scene. While they go in guns blazing, often blasting an actual path through people to get what they want, Ezra is more deliberate. If he can take out just a single target to get the job done, he’ll opt for that - he knows that other syndicate members will deal with the rest of a DEA team, guerilla fighters or a competing cartel.

He’s also one of the few in leadership who makes calculated decisions regarding the location that he will take out a target. You’ve seen Gilberto kill more than a few sicarios by simply showing up at their houses - no regard for any wives, children or elderly people who either get into the crossfire or are witness to it. But Ezra will always opt for a much cleaner kill; out in the street, in a bar or at a roadstop when it’s least expected. If it didn’t all come down to the same thing - killing people and moving coke or arms -, you would almost call it more ethical.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

One night, you hear the pup whining before you see it - a low, unhappy sound that chills your blood. It takes too long to find him in the darkness, and you’re tripping over things in front of you, something telling you it’s probably for the best that you can’t quite see what or who they are.

You finally find the pup when his eyes open and look right at you, the golden pupils and white of his eyes a stark contrast to the darkness around you. As you kneel down to examine him, you see the golden cords wrapped around his fur, and a wave of terror washes over you. He didn’t just get tangled up in them; somebody deliberately put those bindings on him.

You hush him softly as your fingers slide over the cords, trying to find any knots or weak spots where you can start prying them off him. “I’ll help you, okay? We’ll get you out of this.” But as you do so, the wolf starts wriggling around, his sharp teeth snapping at the cords around until they all break and disappear into the darkness, along with the rest of your dream.

“I’m moving to Cali in a few weeks.”

Ezra offers you a cigarette, and you take it from him, your head working overtime as you digest the news dropped on you. “Shit. Alone?”

He shakes his head, sharing his lighter with you as he brings his own cigarette to his lips. “There are some relocations happening in the structure of - well. You’ve seen it out here,” he gestures at the city you’re overlooking from the hill you’re standing on. “The Army is withdrawing support from ACCU. Some new government people are acting surprised about the Field Workers Self-Defenders ties with the Castaños, which is bullshit. But dynamics are changing in Córdoba and Urabá, which also affects Cali.”

“Does that mean-...”

“Do you want to come along, Santiago?” Ezra blows out the smoke before he looks at you. “You can stay here, of course. Nothing much should change aside from my… influence.” You both know that means Lorenzano will make the decisions, and that without Ezra’s influence, life becomes a lot more unpredictable in the syndicate. “But Cali will give both of you the opportunity to move up. Be in charge of operations, eventually.”

You don’t miss the casual reference of ‘both’ that he uses, and you feel relieved that you don’t have to ask the question out loud - if Frankie would be able to join you, too. Part of you wants to say no, because leaving Bogota would also mean leaving behind the scraps of life you remember before the syndicate kidnapped you that night and roped you into their organization.

“Think about it,” Ezra interrupts your thoughts before you can respond. “Your choice to make, your consequences to bear. I know you never asked for all of this - neither of you did, of course. But owning your choices and what results from them makes all the difference.”

When you ask Frankie later that night, he doesn’t hesitate for a second. “I’m in.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The move to Cali is uneventful in a good way, and the new living space is both brighter and larger than Bogota. Some things don’t change though: there are still about ten of you per sleeping quarters, but at least the beds are better and the facilities aren’t as old.

It surprises you how it feels a little easier to breathe. You hadn’t expected it, but there’s a relief in just seeing the city as it is - not thinking about who had died on that corner, which house is a drop off spot or a brothel, or where you’d gotten beaten up. Even when you know it won’t last long.

The warmer weather means longer evenings outside, too. New spots that you and Frankie discover, where there’s just enough privacy to be together for a few minutes. You kiss him in new alleyways, let him press you against the wall behind a quiet church. Let your hands roam and grab when you’re on the rooftop and you’re sure that nobody is around.

It’s never enough, and the waiting in between opportunities is torturous. Sometimes it takes weeks until you can take him in your mouth again, have him slide inside of you, or when you can fuck him - rushed and hard and frantic -, leaving marks that were made within minutes but that last for days as dark bruises on your hips and shoulders and thighs.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Your nightmares remain the same in Cali as they were in Bogota. A constant every single night, at times in different settings than before, matching the buildings and streets of this new city.

You dread all of them, but Joel’s presence in those dreams makes it manageable. Even when he’s not around, the wolf cub is always there with you. Protective and affectionate, at times bigger than you - but never intimidating.

Part of you wants to tell Frankie about your dreams. Not just about the cub, but Joel too. You just don’t know where you’d even begin to explain it without sounding insane.

Ezra gives you more space those first couple of weeks in Cali, training only every other day with you, then informs you that you and Frankie will be joining him on an assignment out of town. You’ve done this before and know that lodging is always together with leadership in the same room. Except this time that seems to be different.

“It appears there has been a miscommunication. They didn’t have any rooms with two beds, only singles,” he informs you, his face uncharacteristically neutral as he hands you a room key. “You two are across the hallway from me and will have to share a bed.”

Your jaw nearly drops as you stare at him, and you can feel the disbelief radiating from Frankie, too. But Ezra pretends to not notice it as he turns away. “I trust there will be no disappearing, Little Beast. You know the fatal consequences of that.”

The room is shitty, there are only three channels that work on the tv, and there’s a concerning smell coming from the toilet if you don’t close the lid completely. The bed is a full size though instead of a twin, creaks every time you move, and has some threadbare sheets and two thin pillows.

It’s perfect.

It has never happened before that you and Francisco had more than half an hour of privacy to yourself in a locked room - let alone nine hours in one that also has a bed.

You fuck so, so very much that night.

It’s deliriously intoxicating, having each other in every possible way you can imagine - and a few more ways you hadn’t even considered before. By the time it’s 5:30 am, neither of you can move anymore. Sore, exhausted and beyond spent you fall asleep, curled up against each other.

For the first time in eight years you don’t have any dreams, let alone nightmares.

The newness of Cali lasts about three months. By then, the city has gained the same marks and blood all over it that you had left behind in Bogota; the drugs, fights, but this time there are also bombs.

It’s a lot more damage than you’re used to, the number of victims making your stomach turn when the news reports on it later those nights. Some of the other guys are thrilled when they see the result of their work on tv, bragging about it, but it sickens you every single time.

It’s bad for you, but it hits Frankie even harder. He has lost family and friends in the past because of bomb attacks, and you know that when he wakes up at night screaming, it often tends to be exactly that which replays in his mind.

You’re both used to helping each other through hard times, but you see his eyes become more distant as the weeks pass. You do what you can, from stupid jokes to trying to find him new books, but you can’t help but feel it’s your fault.

Maybe he wouldn’t be in such bad shape if you two had stayed in Bogota.

Maybe you did this all wrong.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Frankie is fast. Really fucking fast.

Not when it comes to running, although he does well if needed. But it’s when you see him behind the wheel of a truck, with Ezra, you and a handful of other guys, that you realize just how good he is. Driving a getaway car, chasing down another truck through the city, diversion techniques. You don’t know where he even learned them, because it’s not that often that any of you get to drive.

It’s Ezra who decides that this is going to be a regular thing for Frankie. “I want you as our transportation guy next time we venture out on an endeavor,” he says, eyes sharp as he observes Frankie switch gears, avoid a child who runs out into the road, then rev the engine to catch up with the other vehicle in your party. “Are you interested in cars?”

Frankie just nods affirmatively, his eyes locked on the terrain in front of him. You can’t help but chime in, also realizing this could mean that the two of you won’t be assigned to different teams anymore. “His uncle had a garage, so he grew up in it. Learned how to work on cars before he was eight,” you offer.

It earns you a warning look by Frankie, who is clearly not thrilled about you offering that information - but you know it only helps his case. Ezra only asks things for a reason, and you know it would not be to fuck Frankie over. “He really knows his shit.”

“Good. That will get you far.” Ezra pulls out two guns, checking the ammo, then suddenly looks at Frankie like he just got a bright idea. “Francisco. Did you ever fly a helicopter before?”

This time Frankie actually takes his eyes off the road, and you can tell by the twitch in his jaw that he’s very hard trying to not show his enthusiasm. You know him well though, and his eyes suddenly look more radiant than you’ve seen in a long time.

“Not yet. But I bet I can with some training.”

The first time they put you in charge of a raid, you end up puking behind a bush once everything is over. More than just a few bodies are scattered across the property that’s about to be set on fire, and that’s not new - but being the leader of a raid hits so much harder than any time you had to merely participate. The only relief you have is that you don’t need to deal directly with the losses, or gather the money and drugs.

When one of your men calls you over, he points his rifle at the three kids huddled against each other on the back porch, and you can only get yourself to look right at them once you feel Francisco’s hand on your back.

“Not worth the trouble,” you inform the guy who called you over, ignoring the way your stomach turns, and you turn back to the children once he has left. A six year old girl is the oldest of the kids, her eyes blank as she holds a baby in her lap and a four year old boy pressed against her side. Something about that look in her eyes reminds you of Joel - not the brother you grew up with, but the one in your dreams with that side he tries to show you as little as possible.

“Are they dead?”, she asks you, still not showing any emotion despite the crying boys clinging onto her, and you nod. Whether it’s her parents or someone else she’s referring to, none of the adults in the raided house are still alive.

She nods back at you, no sign of surprise on her face. “Please don’t hurt the boys,” she then says, sounding so much older than her age. “They didn’t–...”

“We won’t.”

You breathe in deeply when Francisco speaks for you, then reach for the wad of money that you had put into your pocket a few minutes earlier. Stealing from El Gran Senor always ended badly, but these raids were the only options you had to get your hands on anything of value.

The girl flinches when you reach for her, and once again it’s Frankie who reassures her. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”

“Do you know how to get to the village?”, you ask her as you put the money in her hand. She nods, and for a moment you could swear that you see a wolf cub staring at you from the trees. “Find someone to help you. Don’t show them the money.” You bite back the words of apology that are on your tongue, knowing that they won’t help or would even be believed. “You can do it. Be brave.”

“We have to go.” Francisco’s voice is tight but decisive, and you nod as you let him tug you along, back to the men who have loaded up their cars with all the valuables they could gather. Drugs, money, guns.

Like the next raid will be. And the next. And the next.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You exceeded expectations, little beast. A mission well planned and executed. Congratulations are in order.” The look on Ezra’s face is one of pride as you debrief him. As he scribbles down some more notes to wrap up his report, you hesitate for a moment, considering one last thing.

“There were three kids.”

Ezra’s eyes flick up at you much faster than you expect, but then he shakes his head. “It appears that you are mistaken about this,” he says as he resolutely puts away his paper and pen.

“I saw them. I…”

“You’re exhausted.” Ezra’s voice cut you off sharply, the tension in his jaw suddenly clear and reminding you of Frankie. “I appreciate you doing the debrief at this late hour, but you should probably rest. There’s nothing more I need for the final report.”

You know when to take a hint; know that the walls have ears, too, so you take the dismissal in stride. The walk back to the barracks is short, and most of the other guys are already fast asleep as you get in.

Francisco’s bed is only a few feet away from yours, one of about a dozen in the room. The moonlight offers just a small stream of light into the room, and as you start to take your clothes off, you can feel Frankie’s eyes on you. You’re both showered and cleaned up hours earlier, but somehow you still feel the smoke in your lungs and ashes on your skin, like some kind of phantom feeling.

Frankie watches you quietly as you strip down to your underwear. He knows that you’re aware of him looking at you, and you swallow hard when you see him shift under the blanket - see his hand move down to touch himself.

There’s no privacy here - there never is, maybe even less so than there was in Bogota. But at least there’s this, knowing your bed is just a few feet away from his. Being able to see glimpses of him in the moonlight. His hand moving further down, still under that blanket, and when his eyes close momentarily you know he’s got his hand on his cock.

You get into bed and pull the sheets up over yourself, laying on your side so you can still see Frankie. When his eyes flutter open again, you slip your hand into your underwear to touch yourself too, and you see his eyes flick over your body as he realizes you’re joining him.

It’s hard to control your breathing, especially when it’s so quiet at night, but you’re both experts at this by now. Hungry eyes focused on eachother in the mostly dark sleeping quarters. You pretending your fingers are his - him pretending his fingers are yours. It’s not much, but it’s something; anything to make you feel alive during nights like these.

Frankie is in your dream.

And Joel is looking at him.

Right at him - both Joel’s living half as well as the one that is in decay. It chills you in a way that’s so startling that the fear grabs you by your throat out of nowhere.

This isn’t supposed to happen. Frankie isn’t supposed to be in any of your dreams that are also occupied by Joel. It happens all the time that you hear Frankie scream in your dreams, but it is always separate from where you are - like he’s in a different space and the sound just happens to carry.

Not now. At least he’s not screaming, but he and Joel are looking at each other from a distance, before Frankie’s glance meets yours. Full of questions.

You try to keep your voice calm, but you hear the trembling when you speak. “Don’t take him from me.”

You don’t know how you would do it; prevent Joel from taking Frankie with him the way he does with the other people, the other bodies. All you know is that it can’t happen.

“I never would.” Joel shakes his head. “Besides, he’s a warrior. And she wouldn’t allow me to. She’s the one who owns his head.”

“What does that even mean?”, you ask, suddenly noticing the woman behind Frankie. She’s taller than he is, dressed in a style that seems very out of place, not in the least because of the brown fur that’s a prominent part of the outfit. But something is familiar about her.

When she puts her hand on Frankie’s shoulder, he glances at it for a second before he brings his eyes back to you.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Joel says, and you shiver from the cold wind that blows past you.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the third raid you lead, you understand why Ezra assigns you to these missions. You’re good at planning, leading your team, getting the work done, taking down the people that need to be eliminated - but you’re pretty sure that it’s really about the children.

There never is any mention of them in the information you get beforehand; those reports are only about the adults, the snitches, dealers who don’t hold up their end of the deal, or the sicarios who have taken wrong steps. And you’ve seen what happens at other raids. Many of the others won’t hesitate to shoot a child, use them as collateral, and you don’t doubt that there are situations that end even worse than those two options.

You quickly develop the habit to let the others chase the targets while you - and most often Frankie too - will explore the premises to find any children. In some cases, they’re barely teenagers, the fear in their eyes clear enough to indicate that they are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Other times, they’re infants, toddlers, held close by siblings who are barely older than them.

Getting them out becomes a priority for you, particularly when after every mission you see Ezra’s relief when you make a subtle remark about any kids. There’s a lot he can’t say out loud, not just because of his position in the syndicate, but also because wiretaps have become frequent these days. So you keep it very brief, often will only mention it when the two of you are alone - a quick update on what happened to the kids.

“She was brought to her older sister.”

“They ended up at the neighbor's house.”

“Someone knows where her other relatives live.”

You always swipe money from raids when given the chance, stashing it away in an air vent in your sleeping quarters that only you and Frankie know about. But as the raids occur more often, each leaving behind an even bigger impact than the one prior, you start to put most of the money in the children’s pockets before whisking them off to safety.

It never stops feeling like you’re trying to fix a broken dam with a band-aid, but it feels like the best possible option. Especially when you think back of how you landed in this position, and how you’d been taken away from your home. In an ideal world, you could decide to defect – find a way out for you and Frankie, take the money and run. But throughout the years you’ve seen that almost every single person who attempts to get out of this world will end up dead; not just murdered, but tortured first, before it’s all inflicted on the people closest to them, too.

So you run the raids. Find a way to get the kids out. Have nightmares - then repeat. And repeat. And repeat some more.

The problem is that you’ve gotten really good at this.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next time you see the tall woman covered in furs, you’re not dreaming.

It’s the middle of a raid, and you and Frankie are chasing down a guy who is trying to escape from the rooftop. He jumps over to the next building, and Frankie is about to leap the same distance between the roofs, when you suddenly see that woman right next to him.

Calmly she puts her hand on his shoulder and Frankie stops abruptly, turning around to look behind him with a bewildered expression. “Santi, we-...”

A terrible scream sounds from the other roof, and when you look over, you see your target scrambling to hold onto something, while the roof shingles under his feet are slipping away. With a loud noise, the foundation of the roof falls apart, yanking the man’s body down with brute violence and you hear him scream more until a loud bang silences him.

“Fuck,” Frankie croaks, staring at the destruction, and you grab his untouched shoulder tightly, needing to feel him under your hands, that he’s really still here by the grace of not having made that same jump as the man did. “I think he’s impaled.”

The tall woman on his other side looks right at you, then nods as she steps away, disappearing into thin air in that same move.

These days, when Tovar and Lorenzano make a stop in Cali, it happens more often than not that one or both of them will talk to you; an extremely rare occurrence for somebody in your position.

Sometimes they’re there for a debriefing with Ezra, other times one of them will remark that bigger things are waiting for you in the near future. Trying to find a balance between doing the work that’s expected from you and keeping your head straight has become increasingly difficult, and you’re not the only one struggling with it.

Francisco oscillates between extremes most of the time. As a co-pilot, he’s mastered skills that very few in the syndicate actually have to offer, not to mention his skills when it comes to engineering and fixing up vehicles. Flying clears his head, grounds him in his body in the best possible way it seems. But once he’s back on the ground, especially when they need to go on raids and he’s dealing with anything but transportation, you often see him shut down and try to dissociate, something that’s hard to bring him back from. It gets even worse during moments when he decides to partake in the cocaine that’s always easily available.

A year later, you still haven’t figured out a way to get the two of you away from all of this. The money in your stash isn’t enough, and you know Lorenzano has men everywhere across the country - there was no way to make it anywhere without being shot in the head sooner or later. So you work. You learn from Ezra. You take the praise. And the nightmares - during the nights and during the days - keep getting worse.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Leaving Cali happens in a rush, with none of you expecting it - including Ezra. ‘Reassignment to a rural area’ is the official message, which in practice means a camp right in the middle of the jungle.

“We’re here to take out those fuckin’ communist guerillas,” was the more extended explanation that everybody who relocated from Cali to officially join ACCU. Also known as ‘Peasant Self-Defenders of Córdoba and Urabá’, the group had been founded by the Castaño brothers after their father was kidnapped and killed, in retaliation to the left-wing Marxist guerillas. ACCU was knee deep into the drug trade, and, as you had discovered years earlier, a lot of people fighting for them got here the same way you and Frankie had.

FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia known as the guerillas, stood out because they did employ tactics like kidnapping, but weren’t involved in the drug trade. Instead they fought for ‘social justice and the rights of the poor’, which in practice meant a whole lot of enemies.

“These aren’t the usual raids,” Ezra told you in the first couple of days on the ground, as he’d been filling you, Frankie and the others in on the different stations, people in charge, and what to expect. “This is a lot of combat, sometimes involving hostages.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

‘A lot of combat’ is an understatement, as you and Frankie find out right from the start. The amount of assault rifles was overwhelming, as were the number of casualties per week. No more flights for Frankie for the time being, now mostly driving trucks of various sizes. What perhaps is the worst of it all is the complete and utter lack of privacy, even by the low expectations you already had.

With all the communal areas even more exposed than in Cali, there barely was any opportunity to sneak off. Here, finding a good hiding spot meant doing so in the jungle, risking death, because the odds were too high that you’d run into FARC members.

At times there were reports coming in from the major cities. Whispers about a pact between the DEA and some narcos, competing cartels. American reports on what was happening in Colombia, which often had barely anything to do with what was really going on. Rumors about the commies having grown massively in numbers. Everything is urgent, all the time, but now with a constant threat of being hit severely worse than would be the case in the city.

Sometimes you wonder if you and Frankie should’ve stayed in Bogota all along.

The second time you dream of the wolf cub in bindings, you immediately notice something is wrong - even before it cries out for you. This time they look like proper chains, the metal scraping against the cub’s fur and skin, and your first thought is that these are going to be much harder to remove than the first ones.

They’re also not merely restraining the wolf; this time it has properly been captured, the chains secured to a palm tree like the ones you see every single day around you. The pup howls, clearly more agitated this time, and you hush it gently, petting his fur while examining the restraints. “What keeps happening here, buddy?”

“Trusting the wrong people has consequences.”

You look up when you think you hear Joel’s voice from nearby, except it’s not him - but your father leaning against another palm tree, his face solemn as he looks back at you.

Your FATHER?

The wolf cub growls, and this time it’s not the usual angry growl of caution that he tends to make — it’s more like a snarl, layers of rage and destruction underneath. It yanks hard at the chain that has him tethered to the tree, sharp teeth biting at it until the chain breaks, and before you can do anything, it bolts over to where your father is standing, leaping up to attack him viciously.

You wake up screaming so loudly that you wake up all the others in the sleeping quarters, only calming down somewhat once Frankie physically shakes you out of it.

Going back to sleep turns out to be impossible, and it’s only after you try to skip sleep for the next two nights that your body finally caves in, knocking you out into a deep sleep, while you’re exhausted and scared of the dreams that might come back to you.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Choices have never been an option with the syndicate. Either you do what you’re being told, or chances are that someone puts a bullet into you. That’s how you find yourself leading a team that is much bigger than you’re used to, not to mention with more challenging missions than you’ve done before.

Running drugs or arms in a city is pretty easy - even collecting it by force, or dealing with money. When raiding a building, there’s always a clear plan beforehand: assign people to specific spots, have a backup plan, keep the escape routes in mind, and make sure there’s enough ammunition.

Taking over a small FARC outpost is an entirely different thing. The unpredictability of the jungle, poorer communication methods, and with sightlines often being blocked, it’s not all that straightforward to take out a group of guerillas.

If it hadn’t been for Ezra’s training over the past years, you wouldn’t know where to start. But as always, you adjust - particularly with Frankie by your sight. The outpost gets conquered, another group of armed fighters elsewhere is taken down. But the guilt you were sort of able to remedy in Bogota and Cali, by helping to get some of the kids out, gnaws at you constantly here in the jungle. When twelve year olds are as heavily armed as you are, and even more eager to put a bullet in between your eyes, there’s not much of a chance to find some redemption.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Just because Ezra is a good killer doesn’t mean he’s comfortable with it, you’ve noticed. You can see it eating away at him, just as it does with you. He still talks plenty to you about everything, but you can tell the isolation out here in the jungle is getting to him as well.

“I did a lot of work as a freelancer, Little Beast,” he replies when you ask him one day while you’re training with him. “I’m a floater, and some might say a merch, but I’m not merely a hit man. To be completely candid, this situation out here has… proven to disappoint.”

You want to ask him if he’s ever thought about getting out, but you don’t dare to - not with the lack of privacy around you. It’s not like you expect him to just offer you a way out; you know it’s not that simple, but throughout the years you’ve considered every possible option. Being here in the jungle has led you to consider defecting and joining FARC’s side, but you’re not naive enough to believe that will be a solution in the long run.

The one thing you’ve been able to keep secret out here is the money you’ve saved throughout the years. You carry it on you most days, as there is no proper hiding spot out here, carefully folded into a small pocket bible as that’s the one thing that won’t get searched during inspection.

Sometimes you try to remember the prayers your mother would say as she’d ask for help and protection. Even when you’re pretty sure none of her saints would listen to you, after everything you’ve done.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Something snaps inside of you when you find Frankie doing coke.

He swears it’s not a common thing, that it has only happened ‘two or three times’, that one of the guys - that bastard David - just offered it to him to be able to make it through a mission he was dreading. You know Frankie has been struggling, has just as many nightmares as you do, and the complete lack of privacy here is making it so much harder to find moments to sneak away and find a moment of peace together. But you also know it always ends very badly when anyone starts doing coke to be able to make it through the days.

The next day it’s hard to control your anger - not at Francisco, but at everything regarding ACCU. You make him stay back in the camp, despite his protesting, leading your team on an afternoon attack, and the blind rage that takes hold of you in the heat of the battle is all consuming. It takes less time than expected to carry out the siege with your team, with more casualties due to wrongly estimating how many rebels you were attacking, and just when you shoot their leader you suddenly realize David is on your left, fighting someone else.

Fucking David who gave Francisco that coke.

You aim your gun without even thinking twice and shoot him straight through the head.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Tovar is not amused when he finds out David didn’t make it. “He was one of our best. What the fuck happened?”

“I’m not sure. Didn’t have eyes on him.” You calmly look at him, giving him an opportunity to respond, and you know that you’re too good of a liar to give anything away. When he doesn’t say anything, you continue with the rest of your briefing. News spreads fast through the camp, and by the time you catch up with Frankie that evening, you can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows. Of course he does. He’s the only one you’ve never been able to lie to.

Ezra also doesn’t ask you what happened.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When you were younger, running around with Joel and Jay in the neighborhood, your grandmother would always be the one to tell you boys to get home before dark. “It’s not that I don’t trust you - I don’t trust others to not get you into trouble,” she’d say.

You trust Frankie when he told you he wouldn’t take coke again. But now, you understand what your grandmother meant.

David’s buddy Arturo is the next person who offers some coke to Francisco, clearly hoping to make a deal. When Frankie turns it down, he keeps pushing, then eventually tries to persuade you.

You give it six days. Then, when you’re out in the field, you send him into a situation that you know is going to get him killed. He gets ambushed by two kids who take him out with their knives. Even though you could’ve taken down both of them with your rifle, you don’t shoot, and you see the relief in their eyes as they run away.

Arturo is still breathing when you check on him, but your own knife quickly deals with that before anyone else finds him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

This time when you dream, you don’t see the wolf cub in chains. It’s you who is tied up, and after struggling in disoriented panic, you realize that you are the wolf. Thick dark fur where there should be your arms and legs, claws instead of your fingers, but the overwhelming feeling are the bindings wrapped around all of your limbs and the rest of your body - so thin that you can barely see the golden shimmer, but so sharp that it feels like it’s made from razors, pressing into your skin.

You can’t scream - or howl -, you can’t even move. And all you see in front of you are Lorenzano and Tovar, each heavily armed, dragging your human body along with them up a mountain, leaving a trail of blood on the rocks.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I want them all DEAD.” Tovar nearly spits the words out at the group of you, banging his hand on the table with the map that has several FARC camps drawn onto it. “All of them. I don’t know how the fuck they got their hands on the product, but if it doesn’t all come back here…”

He’s terrifying like this, especially because you know he won’t hesitate to act on his threats. Somehow FARC had gotten a hold of internal intel, it seemed, not only being able to avoid being attacked for almost a week now but also having confiscated a massive amount of Lorenzano’s cocaine that was being packed and processed at a nearby facility.

The first two missions that week are done from the sky, and unsurprisingly Frankie is the co-pilot. You have a select team that goes up in the air with you and Ezra, two of your crew each armed with a M60E4 machine gun and one person with a Mk 153 SMAW launcher. It’s not your first time running an attack with this kind of artillery from the sky, but it still makes your stomach turn to see the damage that’s inflicted, the only small relief being that at least it’s not happening up close like would be the case with a ground attack.

On the third day, it’s back to the ground with your team, and you manage to overtake a building that holds at least half of the missing cocaine. At least half of the FARC fighters that are assassinated are still practically kids, who had been repackaging the drugs in the building. You and Frankie, as always, try to focus on the adults rather than the young teens, and at the end of the day you see Ezra’s expression is similar to how you feel: not just empty, but hollowed out.

Whether it’s the exhaustion setting in or bad strategizing, you’re not sure, but on day four the mission goes awry, and your team barely manages to pull through. Tovar is with the group though and aggressively moves in on the remaining cocaine that someone finds, but seeing how a large amount of it got shot up during the attack makes him absolutely furious. Eventually, he splits the team, sending half of your crew back to your camp with the repossessed drugs, while you have to do another sweep of the premises to make sure everything got covered.

It’s when Frankie pulls open a side door that seems to have been overlooked, and you step in with your gun ready, that you stumble into her. She’s young, younger than you, bruised and bloodied, but what stands out the most is that she’s pregnant - and very far along, it seems. It’s extremely unusual to come across someone in her position, here out in the jungle, because you all know that FARC does not exactly allow any of their fighters to start a family.

You see the hysteria on her face as she realizes that she’s been discovered, know she’s about to scream and fight, so you move on instinct, putting your gun behind you as you hush her and urge her to not yell. “You’re okay, you’re okay- I’m not gonna hurt you, alright? We’re not…”

She stares at the both of you with wide eyes as she nods, and you hear Frankie curse behind you. “Fuck, Santi, no – they’re gonna fucking see her, man. This place is going to get torched in five minutes from now.”

“Please, don’t hurt my baby, I’ll do anything.” She’s sobbing, on her knees now, and you turn to face Frankie as your head is working overtime.

“But we can’t– she’s pregnant,” you say to him, and he nods sadly, his jaw clenching as you can see him think. You curse, peering outside to check if anybody is watching, then close your eyes as you say a quick prayer. Please let this work. Not for me, but for her. “You need to get to the others and tell them it’s clear,” you tell Frankie as you nod to the front of the building. “I’ll get her out of here and to the back of the premises. Just tell them… something, okay? I’ll join you soon.”

“I don’t fucking like this.” But Frankie nods and disappears back outside, while you help the girl to her feet and explain to her how you’re gonna get her out.

“You can’t make a sound. You can’t trip. If they catch us, we’re both dead, okay?”

She nods as tears are rolling down her face, then tries to take a few deep breaths to calm herself. Meanwhile you listen closely to what’s happening outside, hear Frankie’s voice louder than usual - but not exaggerated - as he’s calling out to some of the team members. There’s no time to overthink matters, so you grab the young woman’s hand as you tug her outside, making sure to keep her covered with your own body as you rush her towards the trees that are at a small distance from the building.

Your heart is thumping so loudly that you feel like everybody in the vicinity must be able to hear it - but finally you get her there, pushing her behind a palm tree as you press the handle of a small knife in her hand. “Stay out of sight until we’re gone. Not a fucking sound,” you hiss at her, and she nods again at you, tears brimming in her eyes. She mouths a silent thank you before you turn around, and you don’t look back as you rush back to the property.

Somehow you manage to make it back to the front without raising any questions. Tovar is directing some people around, distributing gasoline, and mere minutes later the whole place is on fire. You’re exhausted, and not fully aware of how you all get back to the base camp, where you do a quick briefing with Ezra, then go find your sleeping spot in the tent to pass out even though it’s still early.

You wake up by Frankie sitting down on your makeshift bed, his hand on your back briefly as he hands you a plate with food. “Told them you got hurt getting back here and needed to rest,” he says, and you’re so grateful that you could almost cry. “Good job.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next two days Ezra puts you, Frankie and the team on rest, giving you the opportunity to catch up on sleep and deal with the bruises and injuries most of you have. Then there is patrol duty, and you’re separated into pairs to guard between your camp and the other ACCU location. It’s hot, as always, but the vegetation mostly offers some shade which makes it more bearable.

Once you’re at least twenty minutes away from your camp, you tug Frankie behind a large tree and kiss him, unable to go on any longer without feeling him against you. You can feel him sigh in relief as he returns your kiss, his tongue eager as he takes over your kiss and presses you against the tree trunk.

“I thought this week was gonna fuckin’ kill us,” he whispers, and you nod as you brush his curls back, twirling a few around your index finger. You want him, in each and every way, but at the same time you feel so utterly drained that you can’t even imagine doing more than kissing and letting your hands roam for now - and you can tell he feels the same way.

You stay like that for a few minutes, just kissing each other, glad to have the slightest bit of time together. The tiredness ebbs away eventually, comforted by the touch of his body against yours, and just when you start to feel his hands drift lower, you realize that you need to stop this now before it gets to the point that neither of you can dial it down anymore.

“We gotta get going,” you make yourself say, and he groans softly, not happy about it, but he lets go after giving you one more deep kiss.

The path to the other camp is mostly easy to follow as you’ve walked it so many times before, a few tree trunks in the way here and there, and eventually the scenery around you changes, going up a hill to higher ground. Francisco talks about the helicopter maintenance that’s scheduled later this week, and you’re glad that they’re keen on keeping him in that aviation position - he really is good at it and still enjoying it, a welcome change from most of the field work.

You halt when you suddenly hear a sound that isn’t common around these parts, and you look around at you try to locate the sound. “Did you hear that?”

Frankie shakes his head. “What?”

“I heard a… Almost like some kind of howling.” You stop abruptly at the edge of the path, grabbing Frankie’s arm as you stare at the sight thirty, forty - maybe fifty - feet away from you, at the bottom of a steep slope. Surrounded by the lush rainforest vegetation stands a large adult wolf, eyes locked on you but not showing any signs of intending to approach you. You blink repeatedly, for a moment wondering if you’re making things up. “You see that?”

You stop abruptly at the edge of the path, grabbing Frankie’s arm as you stare at the sight 30 or maybe 50 feet away from you, at the bottom of a steep slope. Surrounded by the lush rainforest vegetation stands a large adult wolf, eyes locked on you but not showing any signs of intending to approach you. “You see that?”

Francisco gives you a questioning look, then follows your line of sight. “No. Somebody there?”

“The wolf, Frankie.” You have a hard time taking your eyes off the animal; you’ve never before seen one in real life. Meanwhile Frankie is looking at you as if you’ve grown three heads.

“A wo-… Santi, there are no wolves in Colombia.”

“Yes there are, look.”

Frankie smacks the back of his hand against your cheek, the frown on his face growing deeper. “Oye, pendejo. There’s nothing over there. You sure you’re okay?”

“No,” you say absentmindedly as the wolf tilts his head, and for a moment you wonder if it will attack you. Then you hear it; the sound of branches breaking behind the two of you, several pairs of footsteps, and you realize the wolf is not a threat but a warning. And for some reason you can’t explain, you just know that one of the guys behind you will be Tovar.

You take a deep breath as you take one more look at Frankie, drinking in every detail of his face and presence next to you. You wish that you could kiss him one more time, but you don’t dare to risk it.

“Something is very wrong, go back and find Ezra,” you say quietly, and you see his eyes widen as he reaches for his gun, but you stop him immediately as you shake your head. “No. You can’t win this, I’m so sorry - I love you.” Then you shove him, hard, so he trips over the edge and falls down the slope of dirt and vegetation, towards where you saw the wolf moments earlier.

You turn around while you pull out your spare gun, shooting down the guy closest to you without even blinking, then aim at a second and third person. You’re determined to do as much damage as possible to give Frankie a chance to get away.

Tovar’s eyes are dark and furious when they meet yours, and within moments he has overpowered you, dragging you away from the edge of the slope as he bangs the metal of his gun against your fingers. The pain is so sharp and hard that it makes you scream, and you drop your guns involuntarily, blindly reaching for your knife.

“You son of a bitch,” he hisses at you, but your fingers close around the hilt of your knife and you sink it into his leg with all of your strength, before you get hit over the head and lose consciousness.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When you regain consciousness again, there’s arguing, loud banging against things, and yelling happening all around you. It takes effort to focus when you open your eyes, but finally you can make out some of the faces around you. Tovar, unsurprisingly, a gun in his hand as he’s leaning against the wall. Lorenzano, also armed. And surprisingly - Ezra. On the floor, half kneeling, and with Lorenzano’s gun pressed against his head.

“You made him this way!” Lorenzano practically spat at him, looking like he’s about to have an aneurism out of rage, but Ezra merely looks at him all calm. “You… you conspired. With those faggot boys. And now you’re trying to take me-…”

Tovar cleared his throat. “Us,” he said sharply.

“Yeah, and now you’re trying to take us down,” Lorenzano continued, moving the gun from Ezra’s temple to his forehead.

“I’m afraid I must interject. I did no such thing, boss. Neither did Sant–” Ezra’s words are cut off as Lorenzano hits him hard across his face, and you wince at the sound of what possibly is a broken nose.

“Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”

Ezra takes a moment to compose himself, then shakes his head again, wincing as it seems to hurt him. “I am not a greedy man. You of all people should know that after all this time.”

“Then how did those fuckin commies get their hands on that stash?” Tovar speaks up, looking irritated. “They clearly had intel. Not to mention that ambush the other day.” He wanders over to you, and you groan as you try to sit up on the floor, but your hands are cuffed behind your back and your ankles also tied together. “And you. You let that whore escape the other day. Did you really think you could get away with that?”, he sneers. “Did you deliver Esdras’ messages to her or something?”

Your head is spinning as you’re trying to follow the conversation even though the pain is making it hard to listen and speak. “I didn’t do — I never tried anything like that,” you manage, trying to keep your eyes open. “Please. You have to believe me. Ezra never…”

Tovar grabs you by your neck, pressing his gun up against your chin. “We found your money stash,” he hisses. “Do you know how many of your comrades were eager to speak about the shit you pulled in Cali and Bogota? Letting people get away from raids while they should’ve been six feet under?”

You fight the urge to argue that it wasn’t just people, that it was mostly children and some women, because you know that’s not gonna help your case. “I’ve done as I’ve been told to do. All of my missions. Every single one of them was successful and profitable…,” you wince when you hear Tovar take the safety off the gun, and you close your eyes as you speak faster, trying to focus more on convincing him. “Ezra was just training me so I would be better working for the syndicate. That’s all, I swear. He never… we wouldn’t.”

“What about your faggot boyfriend, huh?”

“What about him, gentle man?” Ezra speaks up before you can even begin to think of an answer. “He didn’t do anything. Neither of them did, nor did I. If we had, you’d have concrete evidence, my friend.”

Tovar ignores his words, and you feel the gun barrel press even harder into your chin. “Where is he? That pilot boy.”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. Clearly that’s not a good enough answer, because a moment later you’re kicked in the stomach and collapse, gasping for air. “God, I swear, I don’t…”

“Are you religious, Santiago?” Lorenzano walks over to you with slow, menacing steps. “Because you’d better pray to your god that they won’t carry you out of here in a body bag.”

Nausea rolls around your stomach, and you brace yourself for what you know is going to be another kick or punch. You manage to hang in there at first, but when another blow lands on your head, your dizziness quickly overtakes you while the sound of an electric tool whizzes in the background. You hear Ezra scream as the smell of burnt flesh fills the room, and then everything goes dark again.

It’s so dark.

You’re not sure where you are, but you know you haven’t been here before. It doesn’t feel like a dream either, not with the briny ocean air that you smell all around you.

Painfully slowly the darkness begins to clear eventually, showing that you’re standing somewhere high up on a cliff. There’s a man near the end of the cliff, his back turned to you, dripping wet like he just got out of the ocean.

It’s your brother Jay.

This is the first time you’ve ever seen him in a dream. You know it’s him, even from the back, and even if that looks nothing like how you remember him. When he turns around to face you, something wells inside of your chest and crowds your throat - tears of fear or relief, it’s hard to tell. You just know you’re exhausted, and in pain, and bleeding profusely.

Jay reaches out to you, seemingly offering something he’s holding, but when you take a step closer to him you see it move and realize it’s an animal. A snake, or - no, a sea serpent, biting its own tail, immersed in water that Jay is able to hold in his hands somehow.

“Brother. It is time. Come join me.” You hear Jay say the words, even though his lips don’t move, and you notice that his eyes are swirls of blue and white. Like waves in the ocean, or a stormy sky.

You know this is Jay, but none of it feels like when you’ve been seeing Joel in your dreams. Something is seriously wrong.

All of a sudden the choked up feeling in your throat turns into a sharp, blinding pain. It’s like someone jammed a knife into it, or a sword, that goes all the way up to the roof of your mouth. The taste of blood takes over your senses as an alarming amount of it begins to pool into your mouth.

“Were you not looking for me?” Jay’s voice grows louder while the serpent in his hands grows bigger, wriggling in the water. Again offers it to you, stepping even closer, and the ocean smell grows stronger. “Come. Take its tail out so he can breathe and live.”

The words are a bitter irony since you’re nearly choking on your own blood. You feel delirious, your head spinning as you’re already nauseous from the pain. Right when you’re about to reach out and grab the creature from Jay, you hear someone screaming behind you - loudly.

It’s Frankie. And it’s not even the screams that you would normally hear in your dreams with Joel. This is much, much worse. It reminds you of raids gone wrong, sicarios going after you, and that time the both of you almost died falling off a roof. It’s the kind of screaming that’s full of despair instead of just fear, only rivaled in intensity by the sudden sound of a helicopter that you can’t see. It’s so foreign in this setting that it shakes you out of your delirium, just long enough to see three men step out from behind Jay’s back.

Tovar. On the right. Teeth bared, the scar on his face looking an angry red color, a M16 in his hands that’s aimed at Jay’s head.

Lorenzano is standing behind Jay, the expression in his eyes dead and vacant as always, with a barely concealed sneer on his face. There’s a Beretta in his hand that’s aimed at the back of Jay’s head, and for some reason you know that if there’s anyone who wants to kill Jay - it’s gonna be Lorenzano.

“Little Beast.”

Your attention gets pulled to the left of your brother, where the third man stands: tall, a familiar shock of blond in his hair, green brown clothing. Ezra. Unarmed and chillingly calm in contrast to Lorenzano, Tovar and your brother, he extends his left hand to you.

"Every moment of our lives is filled with choices, Little Beast. Your choice and your consequence to bear."

“BROTHER.” Jay’s eyes flash in anger at you, the blue of his pupils turning almost black. “Do not ignore me. Come join me. Kill him as it has been prophesied in word and song.”

Somehow you know ‘him’ isn’t about the men on either side of him. It’s about Lorenzano, still behind Jay, now staring at you as his finger rests against the trigger of his handgun. But before you can respond to Jay, something soft pushes firmly against your leg, followed by the low warning growl of your wolf cub.

You can feel the bindings around the cub before you even look down. It’s like they’re chaining you too, the pressure thin and sharp around your chest and legs, feeling both impossibly delicate and permanent in how strong they are. For a second it shifts your focus of pain away from the blade that’s still lodged into your throat and mouth, but as the wolf cub looks up at you, you can tell that you’re not going to be able to help him with these bindings - and it feels like the biggest failure.

The cub isn’t deterred though, his eyes locked on Jay as he grows loudly at him, and you wince when you feel the wolf’s claws scrape over your leg - you know it doesn’t intend to hurt you, it just wants to protect and be close to you.

Jay furiously yells at you, the expression on his face asinine and enraged, and Lorenzano suddenly no longer standing behind him. So you don’t think - you just reach out for the hand Ezra is offering you, clutching on to him for dear life as you also swoop up the wolf pup in your other arm.

The screams of your brother turn into the roaring sound of the ocean, overtaking all the other sounds around you, and you watch in horror as water starts pouring from his mouth in excessive amounts, in the same way you feel blood pouring from yours.

Jay’s fingers wrap themselves around each side of the serpent, scraping over its scales as he pulls and pulls and pulls with all his might. It doesn’t work initially, nor the second time - but the third time proves to be a charm at last. He forcefully rips the snake’s tail out of its mouth, releasing a loud hissing sound from the creature as it contorts and starts to grow bigger.

Several claps of thunder sound in the air at the same time, and as Ezra’s hand closes around yours and pulls you over to him, you see the assault weapon in Tovar’s hand has turned into a massive hammer.

When the hammer hits Jay, the flash of lightning on impact is almost blinding, cracking his skull, and Jay screams as he throws the serpent at his attacker. The creature immediately wraps itself around his calves, and when its teeth sink deep into Tovar’s leg, it pulls a scream from him that rivals all the other deafening sounds around you.

Tovar stumbles away from Jay and the snake - four, five, six steps, and when his eyes meet yours, you feel another wave of nausea rolling through you.The rage in his eyes when he sees you with Ezra is terrifying, and his path abruptly changes and he moves towards you, one step followed by another. But as he takes one more step, he suddenly pales, grabbing at his leg where the serpent bit him moments earlier.

The creature still has its fangs sunk into Tovar’s leg, acidic looking venom now dripping out of the wound, and it seems like all of a sudden Tovar realizes that this is not something he can beat.

He is a tall, broad man, his right hand still gripping tight onto the large hammer - but when he falls, you can tell there is no way that man is getting up again. The massive hammer hits the ground, making everything shake as a crack forms into the ground, zipping from left to right as more additional cracks happen faster than you can even count.

Then, the tip of the cliff just… breaks off. A moment of complete destruction, happening much faster than seems possible, because within seconds it just plummets all the way down, dragging Tovar and Jay along with it. So fast that you don’t even hear them scream; the only sound you hear is the massive thud as everything crashes down into the ocean, being swallowed up whole by roaring waves that pull it down into its depths to never be seen again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

This time you're not sure that you are even fully conscious when the room around you comes into focus for a moment. The air smells metallic, like blood and burnt things, and the floor around you is red.

"Little Beast," you hear Ezra gasp, and you want to look at him, but the darkness pulls you under again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Everything around you turns red. Dripping with blood, which then turns into bright orange flames, leaping up to the sky like it was their only purpose in life. But the wolf cub is now taller than you, wrapping its tail around you and Ezra as he tosses you onto his back.

You scramble to hold onto his fur as you grab Ezra’s shirt, making sure he won’t slide off. But then you see his right arm is missing, he’s bleeding out all over the three of you - and you don’t know what to do.

“It’s the consequences, Little Beast.” Ezra is calm as ever as he looks at you, the blond streak barely visible in his hair as it’s also covered in blood. “The choice was mine to make. Certain actions ferment the threat of appropriate reactions.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Somewhere there’s the sound of guns. There’s screaming, and then you hear a voice that you’d recognize anywhere.

Francisco.

“Is that…” Ezra’s voice is shaking, unable to talk without wincing and gasping from pain. “Fuck. Frankie?”

More gunshots sound and just when the door is slammed open, you once again lose consciousness, your head hurting so much that you wonder if this is the end of it all.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You’re cold.

Everything is white, but you can still smell the flames.

You know the fire is finally gone when the white begins to weigh heavy on you like snow.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When you open your eyes, brought back to consciousness by the sound of the wolf cub whimpering against you, there’s a large wolf standing across from you two. Not black, like your cub - brown, like the color of trees, and Frankie’s eyes and hair.

Francisco.

You black out again.

When you finally come to your senses again and open your eyes, there’s a small arctic fox standing next to the brown wolf in the snow. It raises its head when it sees you move, then looks at something behind it in the distance.

It’s only when you see the bloody knife in the crisp snow in front of you that you realize it’s no longer lodged into your throat, and that there’s no blood pooling in your mouth anymore.

Heaven for the climate, hell for the company.

“Frankie.” His name slips from your lips as you start to cry, and the wolf cub whines softly, now curled up against your chest. His paws are bloody, and you’re not sure if it’s his blood or yours, nor where the large piece of bloody meat came from that’s staining the snow between you and the brown wolf who is still standing in front of you.

Brown fur.

Brown curls.

The tall woman in front of you is covered in brown furs, keeping her warm against the snow. She kneels down in front of you as she picks up the piece of bloody meat and puts it in her pocket. Then she reaches out of you, and as you feel the wet brush of her hand on your forehead, pushing back your hair, you feel yourself starting to lose consciousness again.

“Oh.” Her voice is light, tingles like icicles, and she laughs softly, sounding surprised. “Yes. You really are his.”

There’s even more blood than before. Your hands, all the way up your forearms. In your mouth. Hair.

Frankie’s face. His legs. So much blood, and he’s crying.

Someone’s dismembered arm lays on the floor, not too far away from you. You try to figure out if it’s yours, but everything hurts too much - you’re just not sure.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You’re not sure how you make it to the truck, delirious from blood loss - you just know that somehow you do, Francisco’s hands on you almost the entire time. Once you’re in the vehicle, you promptly black out, coming to your senses later while Frankie drives the truck like he is possessed, several guns in the passenger seat next to him.

You want to ask him what happened - how he found you, and where Ezra is, but every time you think you’ve found the words to ask him that out loud, you black out again, and again, and again. Sometimes you wake up screaming, other times the pain throughout your entire body and head is almost too much to stand - but each and every time, there’s Frankie’s reassuring hand on you.

Somewhere between reality and dreams, or maybe even a worse place than that, you’re drowning in a river of foaming blood. The current is rough, making it incredibly hard to hold on anything as you try to hold onto rocks, a tree trunk, and anything else that’s near you.

The pain in your head is stabbing, overwhelming, and you can’t tell if the blood around you tastes the same as the blood in your mouth - whether it’s both yours, or if some of it is Frankie’s, or maybe even Ezra's.

After what seems like hours it starts to rain, while you’re still trying to stay afloat. At first you’re convinced it’s going to be the final push that’ll make you drown, but somehow as the rain mingles with the bloody river, it starts to dilute the thick red blood little by little, until eventually the blood has disappeared and there’s only water surrounding you, while the sun breaks through the clouds, warming your skin at last. You grit your teeth as you try to make it to the shore once again, and this time you’re successful, finally getting your body out of the water as you lay down into a wheat field, the wolf pup suddenly by your side.

You lurch up when the truck Frankie is driving comes to an abrupt stop, gasping for air as you’re jostled into consciousness for a moment. The wolf cub whines softly, licking your face, and you can’t figure out if you’re actually in the car or in that field next to the river. You hear voices somewhere nearby, and when somebody talks who is clearly not Frankie, the pup bolts up with his teeth bared.

That’s when you see the horse in front of you, just a few steps away, his dark brown coat looking almost black as it shines in the sun. You don’t understand how it’s possible, but you can swear that the horse smells like freshly baked bread and some grain alcohol - maybe it’s whiskey. The horse slowly starts to change shape, and eventually looks like a man wearing yellow aviators and tight jeans, standing there with a cocked hip and an expression somewhere in between annoyance and concern.

“Peña,” you hear Frankie say, but some part of your brain struggles to accept that name for the man.

“Freyr,” you mutter as you close your eyes again, burying your face against the soft fur of the wolf cub curled up against you. You’ve seen that man before, you just don’t remember where. Bogota? Medellin? Maybe talking to Ezra? Fuck - Ezra. Where is he? Is he still alive? “Esdr-...Tyr.” Your head hurts so much that it feels like it’s going to explode.

“Santiago. You’re going to be okay.”

Your eyes fly open when you recognize Joel’s voice, so nearby that for a moment it feels like he is right next to you. Until everything goes black again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Every time you dream of Joel, you ask him.

Every time you ask him, he has no answer for you.

“He’s not here, Santiago.”

“Please. You must be able to find out somehow.”

“I don’t know where Esdras is, hermano.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The medication that Javier and Frankie got for you makes it hard to focus on anything, but at least it keeps the pain away. It makes the nightmares worse though, so you find yourself desperately trying to stay awake.

This is what you understand:

You’re at the El Dorado airport in Bogota, with Francisco and Javier Peña, who is a DEA agent. The three of you are getting on a small plane that’s headed to the United States, but you’re not quite sure where. At some point, you’ll be testifying anonymously about Lorenzano, Tovar and the rest of the syndicate.

“Ezra set this up a year ago,” Javier tells the two of you as he hands you each a passport and some paperwork. “Residency and work permits. The rest will come.”

Francisco is staring at him, looking just as confused as you are feeling. “I don’t understand.”

“Ezra is an American citizen. Was.” Javier hesitates, and you can tell by his expression that the man genuinely doesn’t seem to know whether Ezra is still alive as he looks at you. “When Frankie found you two… well. He should tell you about that some time. But Ezra sent him to me, so I got things moving. Most of this was already set up.”

“Why?”, you manage to ask, and Javier sighs as he takes his yellow aviators off.

“Insurance policy. I know Ezra wanted out, but he didn’t quite seem to think that he would survive that,” he then says. “He figured that if shit hit the fan, at least you two could get out and start over.”

You close your eyes, trying to process the words, but it’s impossible to understand. The idea that Ezra is probably dead is just as unbearable as the thought of what state he might be in if he is still alive.

“Did he lose his arm?”, you ask, and you don’t recognize your own voice - but you can tell the words sound slightly hysterical. “Frankie, where…”

“You should rest. Both of you,” Javier gently but firmly interrupts you, then gives you some pills and a bottle of water. “These will help. You’re safe for now.”

The woman, Lydia, apologizes for the small apartment, saying that’s all she was able to arrange on such short notice. Javier and Francisco assure her it’s perfectly fine, and you can only nod, your tongue and brain still heavy from the medications.

Once Javier had checked all the entrances and exits, feeling good about how secure it is, he leaves you and Frankie alone, saying something about Lydia picking up groceries and clothes for you soon. Only when he’s gone, you’re able to take in the apartment. Lydia may have apologized for its size, but to you it feels like a palace - and you can tell by the expression on Frankie’s face that he feels the same way.

Somehow it reminds you of your childhood home, and when you two sit down at the small kitchen table, you suddenly don’t feel twenty-two anymore but only ten years old at the most. You’ve never had someone give you a place to call home, even if it would be temporary. Hell, you’re never even been in a place that had locks and was intended for only you and Frankie, with exception of that one motel night a long time ago.

You watch Frankie get up from the table and grab two glasses, filling them from a bottle of water in the fridge - the only thing that’s in there. As you drink from it, you take in his appearance. He looks as exhausted as you feel, some cuts and bruises on him, but not as many as you have fortunately.

He lets you look at him, the soft smile on his face indicating he understands you’re still loopy from the drugs, then touches your hand softly as he gets up. “This looks nice,” he says, gesturing around him, and you laugh without meaning to - because if there’s one thing Frankie normally doesn’t do, it’s small talk.

“Shut up, pendejo,” he says as he rolls his eyes at you, but you can tell that he doesn’t mean it. “I just mean - well, this is fucking huge.”

You shower together, mostly because you can’t stand up straight without swaying, but you realize that you quite like it. The water is hot and plentiful, neither of you having soap or anything, but just washing the dirt off your skin already feels like a blessing.

“I can walk,” you object when he seems inclined to help you to the bedroom, and you do so, ignoring when you almost fall twice. The sheets seem old but are so soft against your bare skin, and you drift off so fast while you hear Frankie moving around and letting someone inside the apartment. When he returns, it’s with a small pile of clothes and a bag with deliciously smelling food.

You’re both starving and eat mostly in silence, still trying to understand what happened in the past forty eight hours. When your eyes become too heavy, you curl up under the sheets and breathe a sigh of relief when Frankie does so as well. His naked body is so warm against yours as he wraps an arm around you, laying against your back, and you both fall asleep this way.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“America.” A smile tugs at Joel’s lips, and for a moment you’re not sure if you are actually dreaming. Everything indicates that you are, except for the way Joel looks. There is no decaying half to his face, or his body - he’s all in one piece, standing in front of you. Even looking relaxed, which is not exactly a characteristic you associate with him.

There are no dead bodies anywhere near the two of you.

Nobody is bleeding out on the ground, or screaming.

It should be comforting, a relief, but after so many years of always having dreamt of Joel one way, your brain is struggling to understand what’s happening.

“Are you okay?”, you ask Joel, feeling stupid asking the question when he’s clearly looking better than he has before. “I mean…”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Santiago.” The expression on Joel’s face softens further, looking almost wistful, and suddenly you know with alarming clarity that this is the last time you’re going to be dreaming about him like this. “You got out.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The footsteps down the hallway are firm and moving closer to the room where you and Frankie are seated. He gives you a short nod as you both get up from the chairs, standing straight as you wait for the door to swing open.

A tall blond man dressed in uniform enters the room, and you can tell that it takes him just a second to size up the two of you - make a quick judgment about what he sees too, probably.

He closes the door behind him, then walks over to shake your hands briefly. He gestures at the chairs you were seated earlier as he takes a seat of his own, behind the desk.

“Mr. Garcia, Mr. Morales. My name is Captain William Miller. What can I do for you?”

A/N II: I need to give a nod to @oliveksmoked’s incredible 'Nothing That We Need' (Narcos x Supernatural with Javi x OFC) and @ohforficsake’s The Margay' (Frankie x Audrey, POC OFC) which ended up influencing this fic a lot, and are both absolute must reads. Finally, thank you to @sin-djarin @lotusbxtch @qveerthe0ry @mountainsandmayhem and @magpiepills for all the support and feedback (and letting me cry when I needed to for many reasons). Dividers by @saradika!

Here’s a little overview of Santi + the PPCU characters in this fic, plus and the Norse Gods that Erin assigned to them. Click on their names to go read the other Frith stories written by some amazing writers! @perotovar, thank you so much once again for organizing this incredible event, love you so much!

Santiago Garcia → Fenrir. Most famous of all the wolves in Norse Mythology, bringer of Ragnarok a.k.a. the end of the world. Joel Miller/Santi’s brother → Hel. Goddess of death and guide to the underworld. Jay/Santi’s (oldest) brother -> Jormungand. The serpent banished to the ocean, will rise at the end of the world.

Francisco Morales → Skadi. Goddess of winter, skiing, bow-hunting, and mountains. Ezra / Esrads → Týr. God of victory, law, and justice.

Maxwell Lord/Lorenzano → Odin. The All-Father. God of wisdom, magic, war, death and trickery. Pero Tovar → Thor. God of thunder, lightning and the protection of humankind. Max Phillips/Santi’s father → Loki. The Trickster God of mischief and chaos. Javier Peña → Freyr. God of fertility, harvests, and peace. Rules over weather.

main masterlist | follow @longlongtime-updates for updates

#santiago garcia #oscar isaac #frankie morales #pedro pascal #triple frontier #frith challenge #joel miller #javier peña #maxwell lord #max lord #max phillips #pero tovar #ezra prospect #skadi #odin #thor #freyr #tyr

87 notes · View notes

writefightandflightclub · 11 months ago

Text

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter One (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genres: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings here. Please note this series is NSFW / 18+ and minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written. Posting schedule is here.

Author’s note: (If you read the original one-shot this slightly amended chapter will already be familiar to you, so I'm sorry for the initial lack of surprises. I promise though - there are many surprises from here!) Some of you may remember that this all started as an angsty smutty one shot, way back in 2020. Let’s just say, some of you really liked that story (thank you!) and a “part 2” was requested so that I could “fix” things for these two idiots (affectionate). Well, I guess part 2 took a while, because now it’s four years later, and I have written 87,000 words (ish). Oops. So, as you might infer through the accidental novel length spew, this series means rather a lot to me. It’s the longest piece of writing I have ever seen through to completion, and so, whilst it’s definitely not perfect, I am pretty proud of it! I hope with all of my little orange heart that you enjoy it, and if you do, any RBs, comments - or anything at all really - would mean the world. These two have lived in my head for four years and I will miss them, but I'm so excited to finally share them with you all! Honestly, I could say lots more, but for now I'll leave you with one more thought, which sums up this whole experience quite frankly: the characters made me do it.

Finally, I have to thank you all, lovely pocket friends, for being so supportive and encouraging the whole way. It means so much to me! Especially, I GOTTA thank the fabulous @astroboots, who has hyped this project from literally before the beginning and been so encouraging, and @foxilayde, who is an incredible cheerleader for all my hare-brained endeavours. ILY!

Word count: 9.7k for this part (it’s broken down into 3 sections, if you prefer to read in stints!).

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to the taglist if you are 18+ (or removed!). Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

You love your squad. You really do. However, if you are being honest, it can be tough being treated as “one of the boys”. You know it’s a good thing that they don’t treat you any differently - but sometimes, you have to admit you want to be seen as a woman first and a soldier second. Especially on evenings like this when testosterone and drinks are flowing freely. Evenings when you have an ache in between your thighs that, in your case, calls out for a man. Okay - calls out for Santiago “Pope” Garcia, to be specific.

“I hope you can handle something stiff going down your throat,” you announce crudely to the group, arriving to whoops of appreciation as you slide the tray of hard liquor and beers on to the lofty bar table.

The squad is celebrating a successful bust, and the relief and revelry in the air after the months-long operation is palpable.

“Cheers to that!” Frankie winks with a dumbass grin, rubbing his palms together with glee. “You’re a saviour – Pope’s taking far too long.”

Will helpfully conveys the shots and beers around the table, glasses and bottles clinking and jovial smiles rippling through the group as a direct result. Ready for a cold one, you bring the rim of your beer to your lips for an immediate swig, condensation pooling on your fingers and making you realise how close the air is in this buzzing but dingy place.

“Bottoms-up, boys,” Tom directs as he passes you a shot, earning a good-natured side-eye from you. “And bottoms-eth up-eth, Mi’ Lady,” he adds, along with a regal hand wave to match his faux Olde English tone.

“To busts!” you ‘cheers’, clinking your glasses in the centre of the table. The innuendo earns a throaty, gruff chuckle from Frankie who bumps shoulders with you, inviting you to share in the camaraderie. You give-in with a broad smile, unable -as ever- to resist Frankie’s tittering.

“Oh, hang on,” Frankie says, flitting quickly to a now unoccupied bar stool at an adjacent table (seats are in short supply tonight) and dragging it over to you.

“This for me, Catfish? How gallant.”

He grins. He knows you hate gallant. “It’s actually for Pope and his creaky knees… but you may as well make use of it while he’s pre-occupied,” Frankie chortles. You sit gratefully, your decision to wear heels after months in your beloved combat boots feeling like a definite mistake.

Speaking of mistakes...

“You fucking seeing this?” Tom asks, nodding his head over towards your squad mate, apparently simultaneously in awe of and amused by his current interaction at the bar; the very reason the drinks had been failing to materialise.

Twisting on your perch, you follow his gaze towards Santiago, eyes boring into the back of his head and his wash of grizzled curls. Involuntarily, your eyes trail over his form, the midnight blue button-down taut over his muscled shoulders as he casually props himself against the bar, jeans snug over that impossibly shapely rump. He has the barmaid rapt, eating out of his hand, all batting eyelashes and tongue slack in her mouth. Abandoned, a tray of shots sits unnoticed in front of Santiago as he lingers in conversation with her. All you can do is watch as, next, she leans over the bar brazenly, letting her thick, dark mane cascade across her ample, showcased cleavage. You can’t see Santiago’s expression as he -respectfully, you’re sure- admires her, but you can imagine it.

Occasionally, you are on the receiving end of those expressions too.

Unfortunately, Santiago has a raw talent for making… connections. Besides off-shore bank managers and corrupt lawyers, that also inevitably extends to hook-ups. He is never short of distractions. Or, apparently, you never can hold his attention for long. When you do, though? When he does notice you, he makes you feel like you are the only woman in the world, his focus so intent and unrelenting you feel like he is viewing you through a sniper scope. Like the attention might end you.

You bristle thinking about his selective interest, the dull ache between your legs intensifying.

“Never mind that deserter. Let’s celebrate without him,” you encourage to a ripple of agreement. You toss your shot back in-time with the boys and screw-up your face, shuddering in response as the spirit burns down your throat. You stick your tongue out with a “bleuch” as the aftertaste lingers.

However, your distraction doesn’t work for long, as your comrades seem determined to continue gossiping about the object of your desire.

“How does he do it?” Tom asks in disbelief, with more than a side of jealousy. He’d always given off the vibe of envying Santiago, you’d thought. “We’re all good-looking guys, man. But that little shit’s rolling in it.”

“I don’t know what it is. He’s not even tall,” Will snickers, knowing that Santiago hates being teased about his height.

Frankie interjects. “MaybeFrankie interjects. “Maybe it’s the big dick energy.”

No comment.

You’ve certainly never had any complaints about his stature. He is large enough to feel sturdy and surrounding, and small enough that you can take control of him when the mood strikes you. Oh, and you’ve certainly never had any qualms about his big dick energy… or his big dick for that matter.

Frankie chuckles again at the good-natured teasing and bumps you with his elbow. You are grateful for his easy, infectious laughter, acting like an umbrella against the moody, Santiago-shaped storm cloud which threatens above your head.

“For real though,” Tom interjects, leaning forward over the table as if he’s sharing classified intel. “Has he been getting frisky with the informant again?” His eyes travel around the table, meeting each squad member’s gaze in turn. “I feel like he’s definitely got something going on there too. Tell me I’m seeing things.”

“Luci?” Will asks, then whistles in surprise at Tom’s accusation, his brows converging. You’re not sure if he’s surprised by Santiago’s potentially compromising choices, or impressed by his unparalleled ability to pull. “That sly dog.” Perhaps it’s a little of both.

You tense. Santiago getting involved with an informant. A beautiful informant. Sounds entirely plausible, although Santiago has neglected to tell you if it is true. Besides building connections, another skillset of Santiago’s is his uncanny aptitude for mixing business with pleasure. Realistically, he can do whatever the hell he wants with whomever he wants - it is no business of yours - but, in truth, you are tired. Tired of being the one he only picks up when he has no-one else. Tired of going unnoticed the rest of the time.

“Actually,” Frankie leans forward to drop this juicy titbit of gossip into the conversation. “Luci broke it off. Requested a new contact.” He taps the side of his nose as if to indicate that he has his sources too, trying to drum up some air of mystery. “Coincidence? I think not,” he adds, tipping his head towards the continued scene at the bar.

You stiffen then in cold realisation. That’s why. That’s why he was noticing you earlier tonight. It wasn’t that he finally saw you. It wasn’t you in this dress. It wasn’t you. Yet again, he’d simply run out of distractions.

“Huh,” Tom says, looking a little too pleased with Santiago’s misfortune, swilling the dregs of his beer around absent-mindedly. “Well. He doesn’t seem devastated. It took him all of two minutes to get back on the horse.”

“Come on. You know Santi famously doesn’t get attached,” you snipe, partially serving the sentiment up as a reminder to yourself.

Santiago does have a... reputation. Honestly, you have no problem with that. There is no shame in having casual sex, after all. So long as it is safe and consensual, what does it matter? You’ve even acted as Santi’s “wing-woman” on a number of occasions. It had never been a problem; that is… it hadn’t been a problem until he started having casual sex with you.

Santiago is loyal almost to a fault in many other areas of his life. He is abundantly loyal to you, and there is no doubt in your mind that Santiago sees you as a friend first. As a soldier second. You know he respects you deeply for your sharp-mind, your humour, your straight-talking, and your lethality in equal measure. And, you also know that Santiago desires you. Or, at least, he does when it suits him. When he is paying attention. These various roles never seem to converge, though. As a friend? You and Santiago go way back. As a soldier? You’ve been on his squad longer than anyone has, since decades before you all went freelance. As a lover, though? Well, that is new. And he can’t seem to reconcile this new role with the rest of the ways he knows you.

Yes. Sure. Sometimes, Santiago desires the soft parts of you. Sees you as something other than a friend or a soldier. But you wish he would notice all of you, all at once. He sees you in fragments, like shrapnel. You wish he would piece things together. You wish he would notice you consistently. Not only when you’ve been out in the field too long, spending days bunched into hot and confined spaces, too close for comfort. Not only when hails of bullets send him reeling, searching for any kind of foothold on feeling alive. Still, over and over, you let him. You let him dip you back, with urgency - on to a mattress or a roll-mat or simply down on to the jungle floor - to thrust himself into you.

Santiago “Pope” Garcia is the man you crave. He gives it to you good. He makes you feel like a woman. Of course, there is no one particular way to be or to feel like a woman. There are infinite ways. For you though, very specifically, it is simple. It feels like Santiago desiring the soft parts of you which lay secreted under your tactical gear and your tough façade. It feels like him kissing you, soft lips and abrasive stubble. Strong hands and that muscled body writhing in a mess of breath and flesh. In those moments, you are a soldier least of all. Free of any mission, you become unadulterated; reckless abandon. You cease to be clipped and tactical, precise and lethal, and instead you become a soft, fluid thing beneath him.

Every time you arrive back in the city though, distractions abound. Santiago apparently ceases to desire you. Notice you. You had wrongly believed that tonight felt different. Something about the cool but heady night air. The way he was looking at you in this dress during your walk to the bar to meet the rest of the group. The way his hand lingered on your back as he guided you over to the table. But it mustn’t have been so. It must have been wishful thinking, that’s all.

You’ve done an increasing amount of wishful thinking, lately, it seems.

Too much.

You sigh deeply. You don’t even realise you have zoned out from the group’s banter until Santiago arrives back with the tray of drinks -and no doubt one more phone number in his contacts- by which point, you are riled up enough to grab the shot of tequila right off the tray and down it without thinking, salt and lime be damned.

“Woah, cariño. Feeling spirited tonight? Not wanna wait for the rest of us?” His smile is broad and easy and annoying as hell and suddenly you are adrift.

“Nah, I’m done waiting, Santi,” you bite. He doesn’t catch the double-meaning in your words, because of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

Your skin flushes with instant heat as a result of his presence- definitely a recently acquired response. And so, you hastily dismiss your leather jacket, revealing a strappy, red, form-fitting dress beneath. Your appearance even earns a low whistle and murmur of approval from your buddies.

“Someone’s gonna get lucky in that cute little number,” Frankie says pointedly, even as he’s staring curiously at Santiago staring at you. Maybe he’s on to you two.

You smile, happy -as ever- to take a little flattery. Plus, you do find it hilarious to watch these guys squirm when they remember that you do, in fact, have a body concealed underneath all your tactical gear.

“Well I won’t get lucky if you chumps keep staring down every man who looks at me,” you complain, already having clocked the defensive perimeter which has formed around you, simply from the way they have positioned themselves.

The squad are protective of you, unnecessarily, and you simultaneously chide and love them for it.

“Big men protec’, chiquita,” Frankie teases, puffing out his biceps and chest like a gorilla. He says it knowing fine well you could take out any one of them if you wanted.

You hear the warm rumble of Santiago’s laugh next to you too, chiming in time with yours, his body closer than you’d realised as he dishes the remaining shots out. “Please!” he scoffs, casually slinging his arm around the back of your bar stool, the shot primed in his other hand. “You know damn well she doesn’t need protection!”

“She’s gonna need protection when she gets laid,” Will quips, causing Tom to almost snort beer out of his nose in amusement and Frankie to high-five him from across the table. You would scold him but you’re laughing too, even as you roll your eyes good-naturedly at their ‘bro’ humour.

You drop your head towards Santiago as the others continue snickering like a pack of hyenas, the alcohol clearly having gone to their heads already. That’s what they get for drinking on empty stomachs. You and Santiago’d had the foresight to hit up a first rate food truck on the route across town, like sensible people.

“Dance with me, Pope?” you ask, giving him a subtle yet seductive bat of your eyes.

“For the love of God, Pope. Leave some women for the rest of us,” Tom pleads -partially in jest, you’re sure- as Santiago curtly nods, not knowing quite what you’re up to but taking your hand anyway.

“Ok. I hear you. Let’s ditch these losers,” Santiago joshes, smiling as he gets a predictable rise out of his squad.

It isn’t so unusual for you two to dance together when you visit bars, so it doesn’t earn too much suspicion from the group (plus, you’re military - you two have been pretty damn good at hiding your hook-ups, covering your tracks). Dancing with you might undo the careful ground-work Santiago had laid with the barmaid just a moment ago, however. Even so, Santiago opts to follow you into the sweaty throng of people on the floor all the same, your fingers loosely twined with his as you lead him. You find a relatively private spot, away from the prying eyes of the squad, and come to a standstill.

You turn into Santiago at the last available moment, meaning he ends up disconcertingly close. Almost chest-to-chest with you.

“Put your hands on me,” you command, a little more throaty than intended. You sling your arms around his shoulders, fingertips brushing at the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck. Santiago hesitates, but following a search of your eyes he plants his hands firmly onto the small of your back. You instantly feel the broadness and the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your dress. Those lethal hands. The hands that have pulled triggers and grenade clips. Choked the life out of assailants. Those lethal hands that have traced gently down your back as you laid bare beside him, killing you softly.

You let his hands rove over your body, wherever he wants to put them. Apparently, he wants to put them everywhere he can, like it’s a compulsion to touch you. He trails his hands up and down your back, ghosts them over the globes of your ass, snakes them down to the lip of your dress where his fingertips brush against your bare thighs, tacky with heat. And, after wandering, his hands come to rest low-slung on your hips, exactly where he likes to grab you when he thrusts into you. He gives you a subtle squeeze there, and the feel of him floods back to you. You are reminded of the way, when you’re with him, your own lethal hands are finally occupied by something other than battle. Of the times when you relinquish any preoccupation with victory, in favour of reaching perfect surrender. The times when your heart throbbing in your throat feels like safety instead of danger.

His hands on you feel... natural. You move together symbiotically. Your bodies are always, easily in sync. On the battlefield, on the dance floor, in the bedroom. Always moving as a team. After so long side-by-side, it would be hard to exist in a manner to the contrary. It would be hard to exist without him at all.

Will be hard.

You let Santiago press against you as you sway together on the darkened dancefloor, gyrating and slinking your hips in time with the music. You feel him half-harden against you and his grip on your hips tightens, a feeble but gruff sound involuntarily escaping his lips and causing a coil to tighten in the pit of you.

You think Santiago looks into your eyes meaningfully then. With something deep and unspeakable. Though that must simply be the wishful thinking you’ve become so practised at, and so, you immediately dismiss the thought, even as you nestle your mouth closer to his ear in order to speak. As your breath fans over the corded column of his neck you could swear he engorges further. And, the ache between your legs becomes almost unbearable at the spike of his cologne in your nostrils, his familiar scent curling within you.

Santiago doesn’t smell like spice or musk or woodsmoke. Not to you. To you he smells like memories and possibilities - a heady paradox. Like your past and future. His scent inspires a quickening within you. Something under your skin is spurred into motion, tending toward collision. Yet at the same time, his scent curls in you and feels like… a stilling too. Like someone entirely arrived at a place so familiar that they forget ever having arrived at all and can’t imagine leaving.

You dismiss it. You try. You fracture the moment. You must, before you collide.

“I hear you’ve had some informant woes? I hope to God we got the intel.” You feel him tense instantly against you.

“Uh-huh. I got it.” Santiago‘s not really listening. Instead, he’s dropping his eyes to your body pressed up against his own, the heels of his hands now kneading into your hips. “You look good.” His voice is a husk in the shell of your ear as he leans into you, ensuring he can be heard over the music.

“Good for Luci, breaking it off though.” You dismiss his compliment, barely able to obscure the animosity in your tone despite all attempts to sound casual.

He snaps back from you an inch or so, enough to look you directly in the eyes. You think that maybe, he looks almost disappointed. “Jealous?” he probes, ticking-up one eyebrow.

He knows you far too well. Yet, despite his on-the-mark observation, the question makes you feel called-out and so, your next tack becomes unnecessarily cruel. Vengeful almost. “He’s getting there.”

“What?” Santiago asks in evident confusion, his hands slipping back-up to the neutral area of your back as the mood slips away too.

“The tall drink of water at 9 ‘o’ clock. Guy who’s been eyeing me all night. Doesn’t he look like he wants his hands on me instead of yours?” You know that you sound cruel, and petty, and the words feel bitter, like salt and lime in your mouth. You’ve said them all the same though. It’s already done.

Santiago’s jaw clenches, eyes flicking subtly over as he rotates you to get a better look at your target.

“He does,” he states, with a thin attempt at neutrality, his neck roped with tension as his eyes skim over the other man.

“Great. Then thanks for the dance, Wingman. You’re relieved.”

Santiago puffs out air, his jaw clenching and eyes darkening.

You tick an eyebrow up at him. “What’s wrong? You jealous, Santiago?”

Then, you saunter towards the bar, where the other man is stood. He very blatantly gives you the once over, evidently liking what he sees. You lean in with a flirty smile, letting the image of an aggrieved Santiago dissolve into the throng of people as you allow yourself to be entirely distracted.

You are done waiting.

You want to be noticed, and this handsome man in front of you is certainly providing you with his undivided attention.

***

Later, Santiago watches you prepare to leave with the other man, disgruntled and forlorn. He’s watched you all night via snatched glances through the crowd. Watched the man laugh at your jokes, watched him work up the courage to brush your arm. He watched you eventually move in for the kiss, your eyes turning hungry as you pulled away, teeth biting down on that delicious, pillowy lip of yours.

The bar having quietened down a little by now, Santiago sits in a booth opposite Tom and Frankie, Will having found his own company for the remainder of the night as well. Santiago’s head is propped on his elbow, a half-empty beer nestled in his other hand. His buddies’ eyes needle him as you toss a casual salute over to the table, your hook-up leading you out by the hand and your eyes shining gleefully.

“What?” Santiago hisses defensively, as Frankie continues to stare knowingly at him from the opposite side of the table.

Frankie’s head simply shakes in amusement. “Nothing. Only… when in the hell are you gonna figure out it’s her you really want, huh?”

“She’s just a friend,” Santiago bristles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, hunching in on himself.

“And a fuck-buddy,” Tom ventures.

Santiago looks down, taking a masking swig of his beer. “You know about that?”

“Didn’t until just now. But thanks a bunch for confirming,” Tom replies in a self-satisfied tone, earning a chuckle and a bump on the shoulder from Frankie.

“Well… fuck.” Santiago sighs, his face becoming pinched.

“I already knew,” Frankie states. “Christ. You’re loud enough, man. Hard to keep the secret that you’re nailing one of the squad when we’re camped out in, like, 3ft of jungle.”

Santiago absent-mindedly picks at the label on his bottle with his thumb. “Don’t talk about it like that, man. It’s not… Fuck.”

Frankie just looks across at him in sympathy, Santiago’s reaction revealing more than he probably cared to about the true extent of his predicament.

You’d risen through the ranks together. You’d been through a lot. Everyone on the squad knew Santiago was your ride or die and you his. You had each other’s backs. Had tended each other’s bullet wounds for Christ’s sake. Your friendship and the trust between you both -on the battlefield and off it- was deep and unshakeable.

“And you don’t want more than that?” Tom probes.

Despite being indoors, Santiago picks up his baseball cap from the seat and pulls it down over his eyes then, in an attempt to shield himself from this line of questioning.

“What ‘else’ is there? There’s not much time for romance in between a hail of bullets.”

“Maybe.” Tom tips his head, contemplatively. “But you’re not getting any younger, Pope. How many years do your Goddamn knees have left in them?” He lets that one simmer for a moment, before nodding pointedly towards the door through which you had retreated. “You could do a lot worse, you know.”

“She could do a lot better,” Frankie interjects, earning a snigger from Tom and causing Santiago to huff, expression turning surly. Frankie holds his hands up defensively then. “Look, you do you, man. I’m just saying... I’m sure you’re having a great time getting your dick wet all over the continent… but if you don’t step up soon? You might regret it.”

Santiago whips his eyes towards his buddy, gaze interrogative and piercing. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing in particular,” Frankie shrugs, searching Santiago’s eyes with equal vigour. Santiago drops his gaze first, feeling exposed.

Frankie kicks his buddy gently under the table. “Come on, hermano. Use your words. Share your feelings.”

Frankie’s words may sound mildly taunting, as ever, but Santiago recognises the invitation to open up is genuine. He purses his lips, brows knitting together as he resists it, picking through his choice of words carefully before he allows them out of his mouth. He massages his palm over his roughened jaw and it rasps like sandpaper. “I don’t even know if she wants more.”

“Are you kidding me, man?” Tom responds in amusement. “The guy who can get information out of a freakin’ stone, make any informant sing, ‘doesn’t know’ if she wants more? That’s what’s stopping you? A fucking intel issue?”

Frankie titters again, narrowing his eyes at Santiago and trying to figure him out. “He’s scared,” the man accuses, before his tone softens involuntarily. “That it?”

Santiago takes an idle swig of his beer, polishing off the dregs before shrugging his jacket on, jaw twitching in irritation.

“Oh shit, he’s moping! He’s moping now. Can’t handle the truth,” Tom mocks.

“Come on, Santiago,” Frankie reasons. “We just want things to work out for you. You two are a good match- any chump can see that. Heh. Except maybe you.”

Santiago doesn’t respond. Instead, he simply continues his silent preparations to leave, stuffing his wallet and keys into his jean pockets.

“Plus- there are a bunch of reasons we’d like you off the market,” Tom teases. “More women for the rest of us. Golden opportunity to tease you for being so whipped.” Tom flashes a shit-eating grin up at his friend.

Nodding gently, lips twisted in a pout and refusing to rise to it, Santiago tips his head towards his squad members. “Gentlemen,” he offers by way of farewell, before starting towards the door.

“Want me to walk you home safe, chiquito?” Frankie calls.

“I’m not going home.” Santiago turns and gives the two men an affectionate middle finger before beelining toward the exit.

“You’re not going over to her right now, are you? Pope? Santiago? That’s not what we... She’s gonna be pissed, man. Think this through!” Tom shouts after him, but it’s futile. Santiago has already swept out into the night, leaving Tom and Frankie to exchange helpless glances.

There is a beat.

Then: “I bet the bastard gets laid as well,” Frankie snorts.

“Right?” Tom hums softly in agreement. “If anyone can turn up to a girl’s apartment while she’s banging another guy and still end up getting down? It’s that little shit, no word of a lie.”

There is a moment of silence as the pair sip their drinks and contemplate what Santiago has, precisely, which causes women to become so enamoured with him.

“Maybe it’s his ass?” Tom offers, finally.

Frankie clicks his fingers. “Ah. You’re probably right. That ass won’t quit.”

Meanwhile, Santiago steps out into the fresh air, the slight bite of it taking the edge off his alcohol buzz.

His thoughts are overwhelmed with you. Have been overwhelmed with you. In truth, Santiago is finding it harder and harder to keep this up. Especially whenever it is just the two of you, he finds it harder and harder to resist you.

It is typically easier in the city, where there are plenty of distractions. He is grateful for it - other people he can tangle with to take his mind off of you. In the city, it is easier to push that side of you out of his mind and to fall back into the clear-cut ways. The way it used to be before the lines had become blurred. Easier to compartmentalise his feelings for you. A friend first. A soldier second. A lover, only intermittently.

Santiago was determined not to let everything bleed into one, because once those barriers, those delineations fell, he was convinced he would never be able to rebuild them.

Most of all, he was convinced he wouldn’t want to.

The thing is... the “distractions”? They never really worked for long. You are the only woman for him, in truth. And for all it might be crazy, he is headed towards your apartment right now to find out if you feel the same way. To find out if you want more. To find out if you see him as more than a friend and a soldier and a lover, or if you see him completely, and all at once.

To find out if he is everything to you, like you are to him.

***

There is a loud rap on your door and it tears you, regretfully, from the tangle of limbs you are in. When the knock becomes more insistent, you apologise to the man blissed out beneath you and extricate yourself from his embrace, hastily cloaking yourself in a sheet and traipsing through your temporary apartment – home for the time being. Adrenalin piqued, you peer through the spyhole, relief flooding you when you see who it is.

“Santi? What the fuck?” you ask, opening the door to him and pressing the sheet to you with your remaining hand.

“Hi,” he says casually, the brim of his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.

“I’m in the middle of something,” you bite, emphatically. “What in the hell do you want?” you hiss at him, keeping your volume low.

“You,” he says plainly.

Santiago looks you over; your flushed face, plumped lips and blatant post-orgasm glow. His jaw visibly clenches.

“What?!” you exclaim in confusion.

“I want you.”

You tear his blasted hat off to examine his eyes for sincerity, pushing it into his chest all bunched-up. He hastily stuffs it in his jacket pocket. Eyes narrowed, you appraise him a moment longer, clicking your tongue in disbelief at the nerve this man has before abruptly closing the door on him.

“Bye, Santi.”

“Wait!” he pleads, jamming his foot in the door and muscling through.

“What in the hell are you doing?!” you hiss again, backing-up and almost tripping over your sheet, which Santiago now has his mucky boots all over.

By this time, your hook-up for the night has heard the commotion and blustered through the dark apartment -in the nude- to ward off your supposed intruder. Your companion is bigger, sure, but he certainly shouldn’t mess with Santiago. He wouldn’t fare well at all.

You raise your hand to diffuse the situation. “It’s ok, he’s a friend. Sometimes,” you add with a tilt of your head.

Your companion’s face flashes with recognition as Santiago emerges from out of the shadows. “Oh. It’s you, from the bar. Here I was thinking we’d gotten rid of you already.”

Santiago simply glowers with bubbling aggravation at the man, who has the cheek to just stand there with his fucking schlong out, entirely undeterred. Santiago puffs his chest out, making himself larger.

“Please.” Santiago addresses you, tearing his eyes away from the man. “Can we talk?”

You sigh, unable to believe that you’re being stupid enough to agree to his demands. You turn back to the man you were enjoying being on top of until a moment ago. “Can you give us five minutes? I’m so sorry. I’ll be back.”

“Well - she might not be back,” Santiago suggests, and you glare at him, irritated.

The man looks between you and Santiago in disbelief before addressing you only. “Sure,” he says with a languid, sultry smile, ignoring Santiago entirely. “I’m willing to wait if we get to continue the fun we were having.”

“Oh he’s a cheeky fuck,” Santiago grates, his whole body tense, and you quickly grab his elbow to bundle him into the kitchen before he can do any further damage.

“You’re the cheeky fuck, Santiago.” Apparently that’s your type. You vaguely wonder why you keep subjecting yourself to this, but you certainly don’t wish to pull on that thread too hard. Not right now.

As you release his elbow, Santiago comes to face you in the narrow slip of a kitchen.

“Well? What in the hell are you doing here?” you rage whisper at him, folding your arms across yourself and tapping your foot impatiently on the tiled floor.

Santiago simply squares up to you, his expression formidable, unphased. His dark eyes trail over you again, snagging on the places where the sheet drapes over the contours of you. You are suddenly uncomfortably aware of how naked you are beneath it. “Told you. I want you.”

Normally, those words were enough. But not any longer. You scoff. “I know all about how you want me, Pope. Half-heartedly. You want me when it suits you. When you can’t have me. When there’s no-one else around for you to want.”

It is his turn to scoff now. “Casual is what you wanted. You gonna throw that back in my face now?”

You sigh, tiredly, refusing to get embroiled in this. This is all meaningless. He can twist things and make excuses all he likes, but Santiago is a man of action. If he wanted you? Really wanted you? He wouldn’t let a Goddamn technicality stand in the way.

You don’t have the energy for excuses. For this conversation. You’ve waited too long for Santiago to even realise there is anything worth talking about. So, instead of fighting back, you let it go.

“I’m done, Santi. I’m out.”

Your words feel like a relief to you, after bottling this up since you came to the decision. The relief extends through your body as you sag backward to lean up against the cold fridge door, that too relieving on your hot, sheening skin.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Santi dismisses your assertion instantly. He tended towards tunnel vision about some things. Just because he didn’t want out, he tended to assume that was true for everyone else. He was a connector, an enabler, and these factors combined meant the squad had stayed together a long time; far longer than it ever should have, like this time. He’d pulled his “retired” buddies back in, yet again.

“I’m for real, Santi,” you say in a small voice. “It’s already done.”

A veil of shock then betrayal passes over his face as the truth of your words sinks in. He takes a step back from you, as if he’s been sucker punched in the gut. His brows knit together and he looks down at the floor. “When?”

“Three weeks.” You figure you may as well rip the band-aid off in one go.

He turns his mouth down at the corners and slowly nods his head, doing an admirable job of containing whatever it is he is feeling, for the moment, while he gathers his intelligence. Mission above emotion, as ever. Santiago looks at the world through a scope sometimes, and he often forgets about the big picture. It always surprises you how a man so perceptive and attentive to detail -when he chooses to apply it- could fail to notice something right under his nose.

“Where?”

“Home. Desk-job, by the ocean. Private firm and a nice salary too. What’s not to love?” You add the extra information in an effort to detract from the thing you least wanted to face. Home is far. Far from him.

“Fuck,” Santiago breathes, finally looking up at you. “Because of me?”

You bristle again. “You arrogant piece of....” you sigh heavily, biting your lip and reminding yourself it isn’t worth it to grow aggravated. Plus, there’s a kernel of truth in his question, after all. You gather yourself before speaking again. “I stayed so long because of you, Santi. But I’m leaving for me. I’m tired of waiting.” Maybe he’ll notice you when you’re gone, you think. Maybe he’ll want you then.

“You can’t go. Someone with your skillset will be impossible to replace at short notice. How the hell am I supposed to keep the operation afloat without you?”

You shake your head softly, smiling in disbelief, his response confirming so many of your reasons behind going. Always focussed on the mission.

“Frankie’s looking into someone, actually. He knows a guy. He’s not as good as me, of course, but-”

“-You told Frankie?!” You can hear in his voice that the revelation hurts him. He has always been your confidant. But hey, things change, even if Santiago never does.

“Yeah, well,” you say thinly, through your teeth. “There’s plenty you don’t tell me, Santi.” You look at him pointedly. “Besides, I think you’ll manage. You always seem to find someone to meet your… needs. Don’t you?”

Santiago brings one arm up beside your head, leaning against the fridge with his palm, his dark eyes turbulent and boring into yours. “You’re the one who’s got some guy in there. What do you want from me, huh?”

He crowds you, but you can’t bring yourself to push him back. Instead, you languish more readily up against the fridge door, your grip on your sheet becoming less and less sure.

“Oh! That’s your fucking grand gesture? You came here to ask me what the hell I want from you?” Your passions rise, heart thrumming in your chest. You try and tell yourself it’s entirely from anger and nothing at all to do with his proximity. That it’s certainly not because of that look he’s giving you.

Speaking of proximity, Santiago’s now close enough to smell the other man’s scent on you. He’s leaning into you, breath ragged and desire clouding his eyes, even as you still bear the signs of being ravaged by another between your legs. Or perhaps… because of it.

Even as you stand here, like this, signs of another lover temporarily strewn over your person, it’s ludicrous to think another could claim you. You belong to Santiago. It’s Santiago who is indelibly written onto your body, the map of scars telling the story and you and him. The scar on your shoulder from a bullet wound, the scar on your calf from an off-road collision, the marks all over you serve as a reminder of the times Santiago has been there for you. Pressed his lethal hands to you to keep your lifeforce from ebbing away. He is your ride or die, and your body knows it.

Equally, as he stands there fully clothed, you know that his body similarly hosts a constellation of scars from all your shared moments; in the field, on missions, over continents. One of you could not hope to be read -to be understood- without the other. Your bodies would forever move through the world as a team, as a pair, even if you left his side.

You were each the key to cartographing each other’s lives. To imagine that the hickey on your neck or the slick between your legs could begin to compare to the way Santiago had marked you as his was almost comical.

“You really need a grand gesture to know I care about you?” You know what he’s asking. Is running into a hail of bullets for you not enough? Hasn’t he proven himself to you time and time again?��

“Santi. I don’t doubt you care about me. I could never. I just… I don’t feel like you know yet what you want from me. And I can’t wait anymore for you to make up your mind.” You shrug. “I don’t know. I just feel like… like sometimes you don’t even see me because I’ve always been right in front of you.”

Santiago looks at you, pained, expression weighted, as if he can’t find the words to tell the story of you. But your bodies are not stories. They are maps, and maps are to be understood through being travelled. That’s why, when his hand slips to you shoulder to slowly trace the scar there, it makes sense. It is understood without words as his fingers journey over your skin, a varied terrain of memories flashing through Santiago’s eyes. His touch retracing years in only moments.

“I see you,” he insists, his voice a husk, his calloused fingertips trailing over your smooth, delicate skin. Making you feel weak. Making you want to become a soft, fluid thing beneath him. Oh, he’s looking at you now. There’s that attention that feels like it might end you. You commune wordlessly, breath quickening, that pulse of desire tending toward collision, the stillness of having arrived home as he touches you.

“I see you,” he purrs, his hand moving to your sheet, gently tugging it away from your grasp and giving you ample opportunity to protest. But you don’t. You don’t protest. You are symbiotic with him. You move as a team, and you can’t help but want to merge. Maybe that’s why you let him tug the sheet from your grasp, fabric pooling at your feet. Maybe it’s the ache between your legs. Maybe it’s because you know he gives it to you good.

Santiago exposes you completely to him, eyes then hands hungrily trailing down over your contours. His fingers grip your hips firmly as his mouth sinks into your neck, his hot breath fanning over you as he speaks.

“I see you, baby.”

Your arms are still pinned to your sides as you pretend that somehow you can resist your urges, despite being naked and needy and oh so ready in front of him.

“Fuck you, Santiago,” you breathe, voice trembling, and you know exactly what he’s doing as his lips and his teeth snag angrily over your skin. Reclaiming you. Marking you as his. And instead of pushing him away, you pull him closer to you. Instead of recoiling you arch your body against him, breasts pushing up against him, the cold metal of his chain harsh against your skin. The sturdy mass and heat of him beneath his clothes only highlighting how exposed and vulnerable you feel, your desire entirely on display like a flare in the dark.

His mouth has already ravaged your neck, your collarbone, his stubble abrasive against you, leaving a pleasant burn in its wake. His cologne is the only scent enveloping you now. Then, his hands rove over you, everywhere, like he’d wished they could in the bar, your skin still cloying, tacky with sweat. He paws at every bit of you as if to reinstate his claim on you. Your breasts, your ass, your hips, your thighs. He isn’t gentle. His hands showing their strength in a way they haven’t with you before now. He tongues your salty skin and the way his mouth punishes you is bitter like lime, foreshadowing his words.

“Did he make you come?” he asks into your neck, his hand slipping between your legs and finding you wet and welcoming. “Did he?”

“Yes,” you breathe, his voice commanding enough that you want to answer. Your face contorting as if in pain as Santiago continues to grind two girthy fingers over your folds. Your companion had made you wet, but nothing like this. All he’s doing is feeling you, coating himself, and Santiago has you drenched already; you can feel it slick against your inner thighs as you tremble under the weight of yourself, suddenly so heavy with lust that you can barely stand.

Your arms wind around his neck to steady yourself and he pins you between him and the fridge, your fingers inching up through the buzzed hair at his neck, nails trailing over his scalp and up into his grizzled curls as you finally become molten against him. Your hands fist in his hair and you tug his head up towards your lips, earning a grunt from him as pain needles across his scalp. The sound is growled into your mouth as his snarled kiss crashes against yours.

He’s frustrated, and he’s jealous, and he wants to show you that you’re his. What’s more, you want him to show you. Oh, how you want him to.

You shudder against the sudden blunt pressure of two of Santiago’s fingers at your entrance, your need urgent and a tightness building so immediately in your core. He pushes himself more firmly up against you, pinning you between his taut body and the fridge. His tongue ravages your mouth and your pleas for him to touch you become incoherent sounds that you work into him in return. His kiss is rough, his teeth scathing you, lips on yours in a crush, stubble grating at your chin and cheeks as he opens himself up as if to devour you. Then, he sucks your bottom lip in between his own and clamps his teeth down until you howl against the sting of it, bucking your body against the pain as you cry into his mouth.

With the bucking of your hips, you grind yourself against his hand, and Santiago barely needs to move as you willingly spear yourself on his fingers. He leaves you wanting though, allowing you just an inch of him when he has so much more to give. Already, the ridges of him against you are providing divine friction, his fingers curling and scissoring inside you, but he leaves you begging for more. Begging him to plunge himself all the way in.

“Did you think about me when you took him? Did you use him and wish it was me between your legs?” Santiago’s voice is like gravel in the shell of your ear, and his words curl into the depths of you. With them, he thrusts his fingers angrily into your heat, driving himself in all the way to the knuckle. Your eyes practically roll back into your head as he thrusts harshly and asks you again, even more insistent. “Did you?”

“Yes,” you admit, in a broken voice, tugging him closer to you, crushing your lips onto the column of his neck, tugging the collar of his shirt aside until you can bite down into the meat of his shoulder, stifling your moans there as his pace intensifies. His fingers are curling relentlessly towards your sweet spot and your walls are already fluttering against him. The heel of his hand is rocking against your excruciatingly sensitive clit, applying steady rolls of pressure as his fingers delve into you. His watch strap digs into your pubic bone but for some reason it only adds to the heightened sensations coursing through you.

“Do I make you feel good? Do I make you feel better with my fingers than he could with his whole body, huh?”

His words practically make you sob into him. It’s dirtier than you’ve ever heard him talk. It’s more intimate and further from friendship than anything you’ve done with him so far. Yes, you’ve fucked but this… this is something else. This is you admitting you are entirely his. This feels simultaneously more like battle and more like surrender than it ever has. And you wholly surrender.

You moan. You moan out loud despite the fact you shouldn’t. Despite the fact there’s still another man in the apartment who you had underneath you only moments ago.

“Are you gonna come on my fingers – show me who you belong to?”

You agree. You agree wholeheartedly.

Santiago pulls back just to watch you. To see the pleasure play over your face, both the overabundance of it and dearth of it as every touch satisfies yet has you craving more. You see a prideful glow in his eyes that he has you this wrecked, mewling and writhing on him as he adds a third finger into your wetness and pumps himself hard in and out of you.

“Fuck,” he intones, his voice hollowed-out. “You’re fucking drenched. Wettest I’ve ever felt.” God. You can hear how wet you are.

In dire need of some relief himself, Santiago presses his clothed, hardened length against your hip as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you. Even through the substantial fabric of his jeans you can feel the thick, hard promise of him as he begins to grind himself against you, low and guttural moans escaping his sweet lips. The fact that he’s so fucking desperate for you, that you have made him hot enough to get off from only this has a knot tightening in the pit of you as you watch him start to unravel alongside you.

“Fuck, Santi,” you moan into the air, not even caring that there’s someone else in the apartment. Past caring about anything at all except your need for him to keep touching you, his fingers filling you up so well.

“That’s it, baby. Say my name, say you’re mine.”

Santiago is still grinding his clothed length against you, even as his fingers overflow with your essence. He dips his head into the crook of your neck and the growl he emits fans over your skin. Makes it sound as if he’s about to lose it too, simply from this. His spare hand dips down to collect one of your breasts and he lifts your nipple into his mouth, sucking and tonguing and biting the peak of you, squeezing you -not gently- as you topple towards your end.

He continues to grind against you, and the thought of him exploding in his pants for you tips you over the edge, his name tumbling from your lips over and over as you flutter and clench around his fingers. The feeling spreading outward through your body like an explosion, leaving you levelled, a resounding buzz reaching all the way to your extremities and whiting out your vision like a flashbang. Your fingers tangle in Santiago’s curls as you spasm against him, his fingers eking every last drop of pleasure from you - as though he knows his way around you better than anyone could.

At the feel and sound and sight of you coming undone, his hardened length grinds on you with renewed vigour, a wracked and disbelieving moan stuttering through him as he loses it without you having laid a finger on him. His body becomes stiff against you as he pulses his seed out beneath his clothes. Something about him being so lost in desire for you that he’d make a mess of himself like that has you clenching with deep, generous aftershocks, adrift with the thought of his hardened length pearling with his warm release.

Santiago’s head settles into the crook of your neck as you both come down together, even as his fingers continue to lazily pulse in and out of you - just to feel you. Your arms lovingly cradle his head, fingers tangling in his curls, your lips finding their way to his hairline to plant gentle kisses there. Your Santiago. In your arms.

You stay there a moment until your jagged breathing and thrumming heart settle, enjoying him languorously touching you. With a shiver of contentment, he withdraws from your heat, wrapping his unsullied hand around your waist to pull you closer.

For a moment, everything is in soft focus, like the break of day before an alarm. You close your eyes against his touch and breathe him in as he whispers lovingly into your neck, planting light kisses where a moment ago his puckered lips left angry bruises.

“Fuck. I love you. I love you. I adore you. I need you.”

When you don’t respond though, Santiago stills against you, lifting his head to look you dead in the eyes. He finds them tearing in the corners.

Your voice begins weakly. “You love me, Santi. But do you want a life with me? A life outside of the mission, outside of all of this?”

He brushes his thumb softly over your jawline. “I know I haven’t been all in. But I swear it to you, baby... you’re my end game. It’s just, we’re not there yet. We’re too deep in this shit. If we can get one more of Lorea’s deputies then maybe-”

“-Sure,” you say sadly, the word heavy and the intimacy of the moments prior dissipating quickly. You know fine well what “one more” means. You dip to collect your sheet from the floor and tighten it around yourself, using the motion in a vague attempt to distract both Santiago and yourself from the tears threatening more violently in your eyes now.

The footsteps you hear approaching the kitchen are a further welcome distraction, and you surreptitiously clean off Santiago’s hand on the already soiled sheet before your first companion of the evening (now fully clothed) pops his head around the doorframe.

“I’m just gonna leave,” he interjects awkwardly, and your cheeks flush in humiliation. You’re sure one day, far into the future, this may be a funny story you tell, but, right now? It feels more than a little mortifying.

“I’m so sorry. I…” You reach for a more robust apology but come up with nothing, far too aware that Santiago’s eyes continue to needle you. What are you going to do? Tell him it was fun? And so, since you opt to leave it hanging, your companion simply pumps his eyebrows once before striding smoothly out of your apartment. You jump slightly as you hear the door slamming shut behind him, evidently feeling a little on edge despite being wrung out so recently by bliss.

Your eyes linger on the doorframe a little too long, staring at nothing except the now vacated space. You’re not ready to turn your attention back to Santiago quite yet, and you’re much less ready to deal with what will follow.

It turns out, you don’t even have to look back at him, because your cowardice says it all for you. Instead, a small voice escapes him.

“You’re still gonna go, aren’t you?”

You look at him then, and you see a sadness blooming in his eyes which is so heart-breaking that you're half-glad when tears gather in your own, blurring-out the sight of him. His pain always was too much for you to look at.

Your gladness is short-lived however, as your own tears begin to spill out of you. You wipe the deluge away with the heel of your hand, but the tears are coming quicker than you can mop them up. Your chest shakes as you speak your next words.

“I love you, Santi. Believe me. I love you. But it’s always ‘just one more’.” One more woman. One more mission. One more way to break your heart. “You’re living like... like you can get to the end of the line and wish for one more fucking chance.”

“Don’t go. Please,” he pleads, moving close to you and wrapping his arms around you. His broad, warm hands at your back. “Please. I’m putting it on the line here. I want you. I love you.”

You smile thinly at him. You know he’s trying and God, you love him too. But this? For you, it’s too little, too late. For him, you guess you’re asking for too much, too soon. He’s not ready to leave this life. He’s not even ready to imagine leaving it. But, oh boy, you are. You are.

You sniffle and take a deep, steadying breath, giving it everything you have to stay firm, despite every fibre in you telling you to surrender. To just stay with him. It would be too easy to do.

“It’s a hard out, Santi.”

He senses the finality of your words and nods slowly, his eyes shining with tears, his whole face becoming taut with emotion. His silence is prolonged as he draws in ragged breaths. His hands slip away from your back and the moment slips away with them. You miss the warmth of them instantly.

“Okay,” he says in a small, curt voice. “Okay.”

He about turns, precise and efficient, swivelling towards the door and tracking along the hallway leading out of your apartment.

“Santi, wait!” you call, traipsing along after him, slowed by the material bundling at your feet. “Santiago Garcia, don’t you dare leave it like this,” you plead. “Not after everything.”

He turns his head back towards you as he swings open your front door. His eyes are cold, face set as he looks at you, his voice monotone. “I’m not the one leaving.”

An anger and a sadness erupt in you at the coldness, the cruelness of his words, and, apparently, not even the sight of the fresh batch of tears spilling down your cheeks can slow his retreat from your apartment.

Santiago “Pope” Garcia turns and swiftly walks out without looking back, leaving the door swinging violently on its hinges. The fucking nerve of this man.

You start after him; but he’s already making his way down the stairwell and you’re in no position to chase him. Your pain boiling over you yell, voice creaking under the weight of your emotion.

“I hope your fucking knees give out on the way down, you asshole.”

Your cruel, cheap words carry down the stairwell, yet an echo is all the response you get. Santiago is gone. He didn’t stop for a second.

He doesn’t know how to stop.

He’s mission over emotion. Near-death over living. He’s seemingly in this until it kills him, but you can’t be in it anymore. You have always been his ride or die, but now is the time for you to live, even if that means you can no longer be side-by-side with him.

He is the other half of you and no matter where you are to go, your bodies will move through the world as a team, one unable to be read without the other. Santiago is written all over you, and nothing can change that.

Besides, you know if he really wants to, he can always come find you. He has a map for loving you, if he would ever follow the route it was trying to take him. But he’s not there yet.

He just has one more mission to go.

And then the next.

And the next.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac

246 notes · View notes

romanarose · 10 months ago

Text

Ouch!

Santiago Garcia x fem!afab!reader

Join my tag list!

Triple Frontier Masterlist

Summery: You have really difficult periods, but Santi is there for you.

A one shot but takes place in the Santi period fic verse after Santi with a Reader on her Period and Gross Reality but also in the universe of Honest Mistake written with @missdictatorme

Warnings: Blood, period se, v painful periods, butthole cramps, tummy cramps, backaches, Santi's pretty fingers. mentions of breeding kink, accidentally cumming inside, mentions of plan B

Immersivity: reader can get periods, is fem, can be picked up.

This is my submission for Triple Frontier Write-a-Thon !!! come join in the fun and follow @triplefrontier-anniversary to find more fics!!!

840 words

***************

“OOOOOWWWWWW!” You wine on your stomach, Santi knelt behind you.

“I know baby, I know, you’re doing so, so good.”

You were lying on a heating pad, your cramps killing you. It fucking hurt. Santi was massaging your lower back, which also hurt.

“Shut up!” You snap, then immediately apologize. “I’m soooorrryyyyyy”

“It’s okay, it’s alright.” This had been going on all day. You felt bad for snapping at him when he was trying to help, but god today was awful.

Santi had to pick you up at work, bringing Ben to drive your car home because you felt so faint. After getting home, Santi wrapped an arm around you to make sure you didn’t pass out before getting you set up in bed. It. HURT. It hurt so bad everyone in your torso and you just cried half the day away. The only time you were off the heating pad was to cry and poop and maybe throw up a bit. This was not Santi’s first rodeo with your horrific periods, and he took good care of you. Luckily, things had eased a bit by this point, although still painful, it was not unbearable.

YOur voice is muffled from the pillow. “Santi, I need you to fuck me.”

This was not what he was expecting from his pained girlfriend, face down in the pillow unable to watch The Office he had put on just for her. Santi hated The Office, he was a Parks and Rec man himself.

“Oh. Like… with my dick?”

You lift your head off the pillow. “No, with a beer bottle- yes with your dick, Santi! I heard from Will’s wife that orgasms help periods.”

“You talk about sex with Lana?”

“Oh yeah, all the time. Did you know sometimes when he eats her out he’ll put his-”

Santi shoved your face back into the pillow.

Santi set it up after helping you get up to remove your period cup, placing a towel down on the bed. You came back without bottoms but your Star Wars t-shirt still on, which Santi understood. This was to help your cramps, not his pleasure. Wasn’t his fault you still looked sexy as hell with your grumpy little pouty face, giving him a boner. Santi tried to touch you, but you snapped back.

“I’m clearly already soaked, Garci.”

He swatted your ass. “The goal is to make you cum, carino not to shove my dick in the wettest hole.

You mocked his words in a high-pitched tone, layed back down on the heating pad. God this was awful. You needed to see a doctor about this, you couldn’t go on this way. Santi’s fingers were- ohfuckinghellowowowowowwww- they were fucking magical. You’d admit his pussy eating game was not where it could be, but honestly neither was your head game. It worked. What mattered was your pussy was gorilla grip and he had a massive shlong he knew how to use, and god DAMN his FINGERS. It wasn’t long before you were moaning, Santi sliding hot cock into your bleeding cunt, fucking your brains away. Fuck it felt nice. Your tummy still hurt.

“Owwwww” You moan.

He slowed. “You okay?”

“No I’m dying!”

He sighs. “You’re going to the gyno tomorrow, right?”

“UUUGGHHHH” you kick your feet. “Yes just fuck me!!”

You’re on the verge of cumming, Santi’s cock hitting nice and deep just the way you liked it when-

“OOOWW!!!!” You shout, clamping down hard as you had a butthole cramp “OW OW OW OW OW!!!!”

Santi mumbles some swear words, pulling out of you “Shit, baby are you okay?” His hands are warm on you, desperately looking if he hurt you.

“Yeah…” You mumble, rolling over onto your back. “I got a butthole cramp… Maybe this isn’t working.”

“Yeah, maybe not. I can still do it with these bad boys though!” Santi wiggles his blood covered fingers with a dopey grin on his face.

You laugh, sitting up to kiss him when you notice. His dick gone soft and although red, was leaking white. “Santi.” You give him a pointed look. “Did me yelling in pain make you cum inside me?”

His eyes are wide with panic. “NO! No that’s not it! You just-” He stopped himself, looking nervous so you give him a break and chuckle.

“I just what, baby?”

He groans loudly, but mutters when he speaks. “Just so tight.”

You tackle him, tickling Santi’s body, not caring that both of you are bloody. “You’re a 40 year old man, your pull out game is ASS!” You’re both laughing, rolling around on the bed and forgetting about your pain for a moment.

“I”LL BUY PLAN B!” Santiago picks you up, tossing you on the mattress and climbs on top as you bounce.

“YOU SHOULD’VE BOUGHT PLAN CONDOMS! YOU’RE GONNA NEED TO BUY PLAN BABY CARRIER IF YOU DON’T STOP!” You playfully bite his arm.

“OW!” He pinned you down. “Oh nooooo, breeding my beautiful girlfriend, whatever will I do!”

***************

thank you guys!!!! i really hope you take part in the write a thon, spread our love for triple frontier!!!! santi is my most special guy!

i did a poll today with what blorbo you associate me with and santi has ben the winner so far

anyway, this is just a starter for the write a thon bc i at LEAST want my santi x will fic an them something different, i really wanna branch out with something.... different. im not sure with what yet! also: part 2 of puzzle pieces with benny

lots coming in addition to my other works and a commsission.

anyway, love yall!

make sure to follow @romana-updates for more!

@fandxmslxt69 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @whatthefishh @k-ra @eyelessfaces @ivystoryweaver @steven-grants-world @campingwiththecharmings @ahookedheroespureheart @littlenosoul @miraclesabound @mikaelak @runa-falls @stevenandmarcslove @pikapuff-316 @scarletthefierce @faretheeoscar @del-ightfulling @boysddontcry @mrsoharaxx @pedge-page @vickie5446 @readingiskeepingmegoing @survivingandenduring

#triple frontier #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #fem reader #santiago garcia x fem!reader #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #santiago pope garcia #triple frontier anniversary #triple frontier write-a-thon #santiago garcia x reader smut #smut #santiago garcia smut #santi garcia #santiago pope garcia x reader

162 notes · View notes

my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 6 months ago

Text

Deal Breaker

Trans!Santiago Garcia X GN!Reader • Rating: PG Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? • ko-fi • request info •

A/N: Written for @romanarose's Oscar Issac/Pedro Pascal Fan Art and Fiction Pride Event 2024! (Super late, but this is for the 'coming out' theme, thank you for letting me post it so late💚) This is super self-indulgent and just like *dreamy sigh* what would be the nicest reaction someone would have to someone else telling them they're trans.

Summary: Santi has something to tell you.

Warnings: overuse of italics, swearing, Santi being anxious, typos, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 1014

Santi paced back and forth outside of your house, practically wearing a groove into the pavement. (And trying not to walk into the lamp post again.)

He’d been there for over ten minutes, trying his best to work up enough nerve to knock on your door.

You’d been on one date, a chill one. Just a drink and cake at a little coffee shop he’d recommended. (Or, more correctly, Will had recommended and Santi had taken credit for.) You’d both ended up staying there talking for almost four hours.

You've been messaging everyday, joking, sending voice notes, videos and pictures. Everything was going great. He liked you. A lot.

And now he was going to fuck it all up.

“Hi, just wanted to let you know…” He muttered under his breath, repeating what he was going to say, what he needed to say. “I just thought you should know… you know… before this gets any further, not that things have to get further, I mean… I want to say I like you and I’m… I’m…”

“Santi?”

He jumps, visibly jumps, his eyes wide like a rabbit startled by headlights.

You find it quite endearing the way he looks at you, a bright panic. You’d just been grabbing some last minute bits and pieces and your local corner shop for the meal you were making together tonight.

“Trans!” Santi says a little too loud.

“What?”

“Erm…”

“Trains?”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

He pauses, biting his bottom lip. Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck. “Trans.” He says very softly, closing his eyes for a second. This was not how it was meant to go. “I’m… I wanted to tell you before… I really like you and… you should know… I’m, I’m trans. I’m a trans man.”

He looks up at you, ready to see disgust. Rejection.

Instead you smile warmly and nod. “Okay, thank you for telling me.” You point to your front door, “you wanna go inside?”

He pauses, staring at you for a long moment as his brain tries to and two and two together but keeps getting minus seven. “I… erm… inside?”

“For the food, the meal date? We were gonna cook together?” You say politely, mistaking his confusion.

“You, you still want to… go out with me?” He doesn’t mean for the words to come out so softly, so small.

It’s your turn to pause and truly absorb what he said. Your eyes widening as realisation dawns. “Oh, of course! Santi, fuck, sorry,” you put you hand on his arm and squeeze reassuringly. “It’s not a problem for me that you're trans, no problem at all. Doesn’t affect anything. I really like you too.”

He gives you a brilliant smile, all of his nervous energy outpouring as relief washes over.

He nods and walks with you as you both move towards the door, taking your shopping bag for you as you fish out your keys.

“Do you, erm,” he pauses for a second to take off his shoes as you do the same, “do you have any… questions?”

You turn away just to shut the door before you look back at him. “Questions?”

“Yeah… about the trans stuff.” He shakes his head, trying to sound more assertive. Fuck, being shot at was always easier than this. “I mean, me being trans.”

“Do you usually get questions?”

He nods.

You pause, thinking it over for a second. “Do you want me to ask questions?” You say sincerely.

He smiles and rubs the back of his head. “You know, no one's ever asked that before.”

You smile back.

“Erm, yeah, yeah,” he nods, “questions would be good actually. Normal.”

You laugh good naturedly, “kay,” you make your way to the kitchen, pointing out the different rooms as you go.

“Your house is really nice.”

“Thank you.”

“And thank you for, well, being so… for being normal about how I blurted it out outside, usually I’m a bit more together.” He says, a touch of bashfulness in his tone.

“Are people usually not normal? Wait, that’s a numb as fuck question.”

Santi laughs as you pull a face. “A lot of people are very normal about it,” he smiles, “but I don’t tell a lot of people.”

You nod as you start to unpack your bag, Santi jumps in to help. “So, when did you transition?”

“Well,” he takes a deep breath. “I know it’s a cliche but I kind of always knew, you know?”

“Not cliche, just a common experience.” You smile and nudge your shoulder into his.

He grins. “Started ‘dressing like a boy’ when I was 15, but it wasn’t until I was 18 and out of the house that I changed my name and stuff.”

You nod.

“Been on T for a long time now. Managed to get top surgery when I was 24.” He pauses, “sorry, I’m word vomiting all over the place here and-”

“Hey,” you smile warmly, taking his hands, there’s a slight tremor to them. You rub your fingers over his skin reassuringly. “It’s good, great. Not oversharing, thank you for wanting to share with me.”

He returned the expression a little shyly, “thanks, I just…” He screws up his eyes and sighs, “need to overshare one more thing.”

“Go ahead.” You give his hands a soft squeeze.

“I’m, I haven’t had bottom surgery.” He swallows, keeping his eyes closed, “I don’t know if that’s a deal breaker for you, I understand if it is.”

You lean forward and kiss his cheek. “Not a problem.”

He opens his eyes quickly, looking at you like you painted every pink sunset cloud in the sky, before he presses a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Thank you.” He mutters, stroking your cheek and kissing you again.

He slowly steps closer, pressing flush against you and snaking his right hand to rest on your hip, giving him all the leverage he needs to gently press you back against the counter top and slip his tongue into your mouth.

It is a long time before the half unpacked groceries are remembered.

Thank you for reading!

@pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @whatthefishh

@romanarose @strangerhands @saturn-rings-writes @lonelyisamyw-0love @queerponcho

@steven-grants-world @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @lunar-ghoulie

@silvernight-m @autismsupermusicalassassin @apesarecuul @reallyrallyauthor @basicalyrandom

@alwaysmicado @mangoslushcrush @marc-spectorr @soft-girl-musings @spxctorsslxt

@novarosewood

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

73 notes · View notes

alltheirdamn · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 1: Opening Day

Series summary: You've seen it all as the team's lead photographer. You're in the tunnel before the games, on the sidelines for each inning, and always around the players. When Frankie Morales is called up for the new season, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you can't quite explain. Chapter summary: It's opening day at Petco Park, and you finally meet the team's new star catcher. Rating: 18+ (Eventual smut) Word Count: 5k Tags: Triple Frontier AU, OFC! character described as having red hair and freckles, meet-cute, two big dummies bound to catch feelings, mutual pining, slow burn, future smut, duel pov, baseball terminology, etc. A/N: Hi!!! Well, welcome to the series! I'm really excited to share this lil story with you all. I've never really written an OC! before, so hopefully I don't totally butcher it. Anyway, I'm a bit nervous but please enjoy!

Masterlist | Baseball 101

Point. Click.

The camera shutter echoes through the stadium tunnel as you settle into your usual game-day routine. It’s your third year on the media team for the Padres, and you’re beyond eager for the new season to begin. Nothing beats the thrill of baseball season, and it definitely doesn’t suck when an endless array of beautiful men in tight polyester uniforms surrounds you.

Perched on the ground, you angle your camera down the tunnel to capture the boys as they arrive. Benny Miller, the team’s starting shortstop, waltzes through the hall after a few managers get their head start. He’s got on his usual athleisure wear, a workout bag slung over his back, and his blonde hair tousled in a way that’s both messy and intentional.

Point. Click.

“Welcome back, Benny,” you say, your camera angled a bit higher to adjust to his height.

“Hey to you too, Red,” he grins.

America’s heartthrob, you think.

Not far behind him is his brother, Will—or Ironhead, as they all call him. He’s been a vet on the team for nearly five years and is one of the top left-handed pitchers in the league. No doubt, with last season's standings, he’ll take them far this year. He’s got the best ERA out of any team in the National League, and his brotherly dynamic with Benny is unmatched. The only difference between Will and Benny, though, is their personalities. Where Benny is outgoing—and a bit flirtatious—Will is reserved and collected. He’s the voice of reason and the glue that holds the entire time together.

“Hey, Will!”

You snap a quick photo, all too aware of how much he hates the attention. He gives you a subtle nod and continues down the tunnel behind Benny.

Santiago Garcia is the next to make his entrance, his infectious smile perfect for a candid moment. Santi was the rookie outfielder last year, securing himself a spot in the All-Star Game with his defensive playing in center field against the stronger teams. You’ve never seen such an arm on someone, and the way he commands the field is wildly impressive. His gigantic ego and self-assurance are also quite impressive and sometimes a bit aggravating. But, you let it slide. He’s a sweet man through and through and has, thankfully, never hit on you.

Unlike the majority of the sports world.

Especially when it comes to women working in the media industry.

You’re convinced Santi has some sort of sixth sense for the camera because the moment you line up for the shot, he’s already sporting a wide grin directed straight at you.

“Hola, Red,” he says, waving in your direction.

“You know I have a real name, right?” You toss back.

“Whatever you say, Red.”

You roll your eyes as he walks past you, chuckling to yourself as you scroll through the photos logged into your camera. Making a mental note of which to select for the social media posts, you realign the camera back to eye level and squint through the lens.

The team's newest addition walks straight down the tunnel, with his head low and eyes covered by the visor of his ballcap. Francisco Morales had been called up from triple just a week before opening day. You hadn’t read up much on him or his stats, but you know he’s done quite the work as the catcher for the El Paso Chihuahuas. There had been talks of who they’d have replacing Tom Davis after his season-ending injury last year, and Francisco was their best prospect.

“Welcome to the team, Francisco!” You holler before snapping a photo.

He barely glances up, but you catch a rosy tint coloring the tanned skin of his face and a slight twitch in the corner of his lips. He’s dressed far differently than the other boys: loose khaki pants, a basic cotton shirt, and a suede bomber jacket. He doesn’t even carry a bag with him, just a plastic bottle of water gripped tightly in one very large hand.

You’ve been with the team long enough to know his personality is far more reserved than the rest, a bit sheepish and uncomfortable, even. Maybe that’s just the game-day jitters getting to him.

“Can I get one of you looking at the camera?” You ask before adding a polite please at the end.

He hesitates but ultimately obliges. Through the camera lens, you meet his eyes—the soft, warm brown of his irises boring into you so intensely it causes you to falter over the shutter button. Like any baseball player, he’s got that signature scruffy face, with a distinct mustache over his plush lips and a patchy beard covering his jaw. Despite his introverted demeanor, Francisco steals the air from your lungs just from a simple glance. It’s as if he’s giving you this one moment to capture who he is, and you take it without hesitation.

Point. Click.

“Thank you, Francisco. Good luck today!”

You’re acutely aware of how shaky your voice is, which is unusual given that he hasn’t even spoken to you.

“Frankie,” he offers as he walks past.

The raspy low pitch of his voice reverbs inside your head, and you only manage to nod in agreement to his wishes.

Frankie. You can do that.

“So, what are your predictions for game one?” Ryan asks, nudging you slightly.

You’re both crouched behind home plate shooting pre-game warmup photos, the volume in the stadium growing as more fans trickle in. You switch out your sim card and set up your camera for action shots, too focused on getting the right angle of the outfielders to respond.

Ryan has been your partner in crime on the media team since the start, and both of you got hired right out of college. While you focus more on the game-day action, Ryan usually tends to the off-day social media posts and team engagement with fans. It’s a fair trade-off, plus you’re far more invested in the sport than Ryan is ever willing to admit.

“Hellllooo?” He waves a hand in front of your camera lens.

“I don’t like giving predictions, Ryan. You know that,” you grumble.

“You and your weird superstitions, Red.”

“It’s not weird,” you counter. “Don’t you ever pay attention to the broadcasting curse? If I say something aloud, it’s bound to go the other way, and my hopes will be crushed.”

Ryan adjusts the focus on his lens, shrugging absently at your argument.

“It’s the first game. Even if they lose today, there’s still six months left in the season.”

“No one wants to lose their first game.”

“You care too much,” he says, but there’s a lightness in his tone.

He knows you care more than you let on. Baseball has been something ingrained in you since you were just a kid. Your dad spent the greater half of his life as the pitching coach for UCLA, dragging you to nearly every game of the season since before you could even walk. You were raised sitting in the dugout with a handful of sunflower seeds in your hand and a baseball cap covering your red hair. Being a part of a baseball team in some capacity had always been in your future, but after your dad passed away when you were just starting college, you centered your entire life around it. You threw yourself into photography, taking every chance at capturing moments that could give you just a second of nostalgia. The photos weren’t just for school, a baseball team, or a social media page… they were for you. It was your way of coping. The longer you could stay on the field, the longer you could live in that bubble of the past.

Your dad was gone, but you still had baseball. And you’d never give it up.

“Think Morales is gonna make his mark on the team?” Ryan asks, steering the subject in a different direction.

You tense up, locked on the memory of Frankie’s big brown eyes. There’s something about him that skyrockets your heart rate, and you aren’t sure if it’s in a good way. You search the field for those dark curls, looking at everybody on the field, trying to spot him during the warmup. Crestfallen, you give up your search and resume snapping photos.

“I think he’ll do just fine,” you say dismissively.

“His batting average in the minors was insane,” Ryan rambles. “Just hopes it sticks here in the big leagues. You know how it is sometimes.”

You did know. Too often, have you seen star minor league players appear on the big stage and choke. Something about Frankie Morales makes you believe he won’t end up like that. There was something in his eyes that told you otherwise, a seriousness that showed this game meant something to him.

You liked that.

“Where’s your station for the game?” Ryan asks.

“First base. I might have to step into the bullpen for some shots if they let me.”

“I’m sure the boys will love that,” he teases.

“Oh, fuck off. They’re harmless.”

“I don’t know, Red. I see the way they look at you.”

You deadpan, giving him an icy stare. None of the boys thought of you that way, and you didn’t think of them differently. This was a job. They played the game; you took the photos.

That was the end of it.

“I think you’re seeing things,” you argue.

“I mean, Benny is giving you fuck me eyes from across the field right now,” Ryan shrugs.

You steal a glance out to the in-field to find Ryan is, in fact, correct. With his free hand, Benny tosses you a flirtatious wave before throwing the ball back to Santi across the field.

“He flirts with everyone,” you say pointedly. “Did you see how many girls he brought back to his hotel rooms last season?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind adding one more.”

You punch Ryan in the arm, clearly annoyed with his pushy behavior toward the subject. Grabbing your equipment bag from the ground, you toss him a quick finger and haul your stuff down to the media room under the stadium.

Frankie isn’t in the right mindset when the National Anthem concludes before the game. He’s not one to get nervous before playing, but something about seeing Petco Park sold out for opening day has him fidgeting. The only saving grace is having Santi playing alongside him.

He and Santi met back in college, playing together from Sophomore year until Senior year when they got drafted to different teams. Santi was selected in the third round by the Houston Astros and was traded a year later to the Padres. Frankie got drafted by the Padres right away in the fifth round. He spent the last four years in the minors, just waiting to get called up.

Now, the moment is here, and he’s terrified.

Frankie doesn’t like to admit it often, but he holds himself to a higher standard. He’s fucked up in life a few times, and it’s cost him his happiness. He doesn’t want to fuck up now. Not when the entire world is watching.

“Estás bien?” Santi asks Frankie as they head into the dugout.

“I’m fine,” Frankie says, but his tone says otherwise.

There’s a haze over his mind, a fog he can’t shake. Santi claps him on the back, giving him a comforting smile.

“It’s just first-game nerves, Catfish. It’ll pass after the first at-bat.”

Frankie doesn’t respond. He’s got a lump in his throat, and he can’t quite swallow it. The last thing he wants to do is disappoint his closest friend—or the team. He can’t be a disappointment. He has to be good. He has to be the best.

He has to prove himself.

Frankie runs out onto the field, securing his catcher's mask over his face. The weight of his gear feels like a comforting anchor, leveraging him to keep his mind focused. There’s a roar from the crowd as he takes his place behind home base, and the applause and cheers only make things worse. He’s under the lights, he’s got thousands watching, and this is his one shot.

The first pitch comes fast, a sinker that falls perfectly into his glove. Strike one. Will is on the mound, his face stoic and focused on the batter standing to the right of Frankie. There’s still some trust to gain between them both, and Frankie hopes he proves himself today. Will throws a slider next, down low and right past the bat.

Strike two.

Like a well-rehearsed dance, Frankie and Will waltz between batters. An easy one, two, three, and they’re out of the top of the first. Frankie runs alongside Will as they head toward the dugout, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

“Great job out there, Morales,” Will says. “Welcome to the show.”

“Thanks, Miller. You’re solid on the mound. Those sliders are insane,” Frankie commends.

“Gotta keep them on their toes. Now, get ready for the bottom of the inning. Show them what you can do out there.”

As Frankie steps into the dugout, he nearly collides with a body nestled into the corner of the steps. Her red hair is tousled into a ponytail, the bill of her Padres ball cap shielding her eyes from the setting sun.

“Shit, sorry,” she mumbles, stepping out of the way.

He recognizes her from earlier, the media girl in the tunnel. Frankie was so wrapped up in his thoughts earlier he hadn’t noticed how beautiful she was: bright eyes, a gentle smile, and a face covered in freckles.

“All good,” he huffs, too flustered to choke out any more words.

“You look good out there,” she smiles.

Frankie runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, no doubt looking a mess. He needs to focus—needs to move—but he can’t seem to make his way past her.

“Be careful with Akin’s pitches,” she adds. “He tends to throw his fastballs up in the corner of the zone.”

“Thanks,” Frankie nods. He’s surprised at how much she pays attention.

“Yo! Catfish!” Santi calls from down in the dugout. “Get your ass over here now.”

“I’m assuming you’re Catfish?” She asks.

“Unfortunately,” Frankie grumbles. “Sorry, I’m just gonna go see what he wants.”

“It’s all good. I’m moving down to first base, so I’ll be out of the way.”

She rises to her feet and gives Frankie one final smile before stepping onto the dirt. Frankie watches as she walks away, her ponytail swinging behind her with every step.

Focus.

Halfway through the batting order, you’re already onto your next sim card. You usually space out the amount of footage you take, but the game is electric. The Padres are up three to zero, thanks to a home run from Benny—obviously—and a few quick plays made by Santi and Chris Holmes.

With two outs in the sixth, Frankie is up to bat. His first plate appearance was abysmal, with a groundout to third base. You saw his shoulders slumped as he walked off the field; he didn’t take it lightly. It’s just the first game, you tell yourself. He’ll do just fine.

Akin throws the first pitch, a fastball, just as you expect. Frankie takes the strike and readjusts himself for the next pitch. It’s outside the zone, and he tracks it carefully. You hold your breath as he hits a full count, three balls, two strikes… and wait. Akin places a screwball down low, but Frankie manages to get a piece of it and sends it sailing into center field for a double. You startle yourself with how loud you cheer, watching his muscled body run past first and onto second base. You’re so caught up in watching him you forget to snap a photo.

You scold yourself for missing the opportunity to capture his first hit for the team. Why are you so fixated on him? None of the other guys have ever caused you to miss a shot; no one has ever tripped you up this badly. But Frankie… there’s just something about him. He’s not self-assured like the rest. He’s not cocky in the slightest. Honestly, he looked terrified when you ran into him after the top of the first inning. Before your mind starts wandering off, you check the settings on your camera and return to shooting footage.

The team wins five to zero. Fireworks sparkle through the night sky as the stadium begins to clear out, and you start to return to the dugout. Benny and Will are in a tight embrace as you step under the awning, your camera gear slung over your back.

“Great win, boys,” you say, giving them each a high five.

“Did you ever doubt us?” Benny teases, giving you a smug grin.

“Not for a minute.”

The Miller brothers make their way down into the clubhouse, leaving you standing alone in the dugout. You peel off your ballcap and remove your ponytail, letting your hair fall down your shoulders.

“Thanks for the advice on Akin.”

The voice startles you, and you search through the shadows to find Frankie sitting alone at the end of the bench. He’s got his glove resting beside him and his bat propped between his feet. He should be celebrating with the team down in the clubhouse, yet he’s here by himself under the stadium lights and swirling shadows.

“I’ve got plenty more if you ever need it,” you tell him.

Frankie doesn’t respond, but his eyes stay locked on yours. The stadium lights illuminate the rich chocolate inside his irises, making it nearly impossible to look anywhere else.

“Shouldn’t you be with the team?” You wonder. “I’m sure they’re all celebrating the first win of the season.”

“Just wanted some time alone, I guess. Soak it all in, you know?”

You walk toward him, cautious on whether or not to get any closer. You aren’t sure if he even wants company, but you can’t seem to steer yourself away.

“Was it everything you hoped for?” You ask.

“It could’ve been better.”

Frankie moves his glove into his lap, offering you a space beside him on the bench. Though you feel reluctant, something inside you forces your legs to move. You want to be nearer to him, to get close enough to see past this wall he’s built up. You’re used to some players being quiet and shy, like Will. At least with Will, though, he’s fun when there’s no stress on his shoulders. He relaxes a bit from time to time and lets his guard down. Something you’ve yet to see with Frankie.

Sliding onto the bench beside him, you adjust your camera into your lap and lay your ballcap over your knee. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Frankie’s head tilt slightly, his eyes trained on your legs. There’s still a healthy gap between you both, yet the warmth of his body swarms around you.

“Are you with the team full-time?” He asks.

You glance at him, studying the way his hair curls around his ears and at the base of his neck. There’s a tension in his jaw that flexes under his beard, a simple twitch that happens after every time he speaks. Despite the timid exterior, you can’t help but to notice the softness in his eyes when he looks at you.

“Mostly just for home games,” you explain. “I only really travel with the team if they invite me on the road. They like having extra media presence for the bigger series, and whatnot. If I could be at every game, I absolutely would. Sitting on the sidelines beats having to watch it on the TV or listening to the radio.”

Frankie nods along as you talk, his lips pursed as if he’s thinking of what to say. Avoiding any more awkward silence, you flick on your camera and scroll through the photos, presenting him with a few you’d taken during his first appearance at the plate. His arm brushes yours slightly as he leans in closer, staring at the photo far longer than you expect.

“I kind of fucked up and forgot to take a photo of you after that double in sixth,” you admit. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” he shakes his head. “I like this one.”

It’s a photo of him swinging at a curveball, his bat posed perfectly in the center of the box, and his muscular thighs flexed under his pinstripe uniform. You have to admit, it is a good shot—and he looks amazing mid-swing. Your eyes flick up to his, realizing he’s already looking at you. Thank God for the shadows inside the dugout, or else Frankie would see the way your face warms at his words. You don’t ever share your footage with the guys until it’s posted on the social media pages, but it feels different with Frankie. It strangely feels nice.

“I feel like an asshole, I don’t think I’ve even asked for your name,” he says.

“The guy’s normally just call me Red,” you shrug.

“But that’s not your name.”

You tell him your name, and listen to his gentle voice echo it back. It’s rare you hear your name nowadays. Everyone just refers to you as ‘Red’, like it’s who you are. It doesn’t bother you, necessarily, but finally hearing someone acknowledge you makes your stomach flip. Frankie’s eyes never leave yours, and you realize how close you both have gotten. His leg is pressed against yours, and you can still faintly smell the turf on his uniform. He must notice it, too, because he clears his throat and shifts his legs inward. Shutting your camera off, you let it rest in your lap between your hands. There’s a quiet buzz between your bodies, a comfortable cocoon of shared silence that seems to swell with each passing second.

“I, um, I should probably head down there with the guys,” Frankie says after a while.

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry if I kept you too long.”

Frankie rises from the bench, his thick fingers wrapping around the neck of his bat. He offers you a hand, and you shrink under his height as you move to stand.

“I didn’t mind the company.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face, just an easy curve of his lips as he stares at you a moment longer. You should move. You should definitely move.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Frankie,” you say. “Great job out there tonight.”

“Thank you.” He says your name, again, emphasizing it as if to prove a point. A gentle reminder that you’re more than just a nickname.

“What took you so long, Catfish?” Santi yells from across the clubhouse.

He’s already showered and got on his casual clothes for the drive home, something Frankie should have been doing. Instead, he had been helplessly wasting time sitting next to the photographer he had seen around all day.

Frankie tears his baseball cap off his head, tossing it into his locker as he unbuttons his uniform. He’s still mentally picking apart the day—what he did wrong, what he could improve on—but in each thought, her shiny red hair and doe eyes make a reappearance. Shaking his head, he strips off his undershirt and searches through his stall for a fresh one.

“Got to chatting with the team photographer,” he says, shrugging the shirt over his chest.

Santi leans against the locker stall, his mouth quirked up in a teasing grin. Frankie already knows what he’s going to say, and he regrets ever mentioning it.

“Distracted by Red, huh?” Santi teases. “She’s got that affect.”

“She’s not distracting,” Frankie defends. “She just came down to show me some of the pictures she took, and we talked a bit. That’s all.”

He hopes his clipped words are enough to steer Santi away from the conversation, but Santi can see right through him.

“Red never shows anyone her photos. None of us ever see what she’s got on that camera until they’re online.”

For some reason, Frankie loves knowing he’s the exception. He saw the way she lit up as she scrolled through the footage, clearly proud of her work. Hell, he doesn’t even care she missed his big play. She spent that time in the dugout with him while his mind was a mess, and gave him a reprieve from the clouded thoughts that the game left him with. Was it awful that he was only looking forward to tomorrow’s game so he could see her again?

“Maybe she feels bad for me, I don’t know,” Frankie huffs.

He slips on his jacket and runs a hand through his hair before putting on his hat. Santi watches him suspiciously, tracking the tense movements Frankie makes as he gathers his stuff to leave.

“She’s a nice girl, you know, and she knows her shit, too. Hell, half the guys have tried to grab her attention the last few years, and she’s never been interested.”

“What makes you think she’s interested in me?”

“I don’t know,” Santi drawls out the words. “Guess we’ll just have to see what she posts tonight.”

Frankie rolls his eyes, shoving past Santi and out of the clubhouse. He steers clear of the other guys as they walk together out to their cars. No one has said much to him yet, and he’s okay with it. Frankie knows he’s the new guy and it’ll take some time for everyone to warm up to him. The only person that seems to be welcoming so far, was Red. Maybe that’s just who she was, but Frankie found himself working Santi’s words over and over inside his head. Red never shows anyone her photos. What made Frankie so special, then? Was he right to think she felt bad for him? If she hadn’t been interested in anyone else, then why did she spend that time with him?

The apartment is pitch black when Frankie opens the door. Flicking on the lights, he takes in the empty space. Moving boxes scatter the hallway, leading into the renovated kitchen. Frankie barely got the keys to his new place in San Diego two days ago, leaving him little time to settle in before opening day. After this series he’ll be on the road for a week, without any time to get acclimated. Traveling never bothered him, but he wished he could just stop and breathe for one minute. You wanted this, he reminds himself. He’s worked too hard the last several years to let this opportunity pass. The boxes can wait, at least for now.

Tossing his jacket onto the back of the sofa, Frankie slumps against the cushions, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s been itching to look at his phone since he left the stadium, but he held off. Guess we’ll just have to see what she posts tonight. Digging out his phone from his pocket, Frankie opens Instagram and refreshes the page. Sure enough, the media team already made a post-game slideshow…with Frankie’s at-bat being the first photo.

The same one he told her he liked the most.

His thumb hovers over the post as he debates whether or not to look at the rest. He’s already got his one photo, there wouldn’t be any need to give fans more. Yet, as he slides his thumb left over the screen, there’s another photo of himself—from the pre-game walk through the tunnel. Even though his eyes are staring directly into the camera, he knows that wasn’t what he was looking at. His entire focus had been on the girl behind the camera.

Frankie opens the team’s Instagram page and scrolls through the ‘following’ tab, searching for her name. It’s just innocent curiosity, that’s all it is, but as he finds her name down the list, he’s tempted to press the button. The blue Follow button taunts him, begging him to make the move. Her profile picture is a simple mirror shot, half her face covered by her camera. He wants to see more, like this odd desperation to know her past the lens she hides behind. Before he talks his way out of it, Frankie taps Follow, and sends his phone sailing across the room. It hits the carpet with a soft thud, and sits there silent on the ground. He tips his head back against the couch, pitching the bridge of his nose. God, he feels stupid.

A soft buzz resounds through the room. Frankie slides his eyes toward his phone, seeing the carpet illuminated by the screen. Just a coincidence, he thinks. Despite the denial he spews inside his mind, he moves from the couch to retrieve his phone.

Red has accepted your follow request.

Red started following you.

Frankie stares at the screen with a stupid grin on his face. He scrolls through her page, finding a surplus of photographs of the stadium, the beach, and a few cityscape shots from various cities. There isn’t a single photo of her, though. He studies each photo, wondering what she saw through the lens of the camera, wishing he could see just one of her face. As he makes his way down her page, a message notification pops onto the screen.

Red: I hope it’s okay I posted that photo of you.

Frankie: Absolutely.

Red: Ok, good. I liked it, too.

Frankie: Santi told me you don’t show anyone your photos.

Red: Of course he did. LOL. I’m just protective over my work. I like to keep things private.

Frankie: Why’d you show them to me?

Frankie watches as text bubbles appear and disappear over and over for at least a minute. He half considers turning his phone off for the night to avoid her response. He shouldn’t care why she showed him, but the thought of it would keep him up all night, wondering why he was deserving of it and not anyone else. His phone buzzes in his hands, and Frankie quickly opens the message.

Red: I don’t know. You’re the only person I really felt like sharing it with.

Frankie: I feel honored. Any time you want to share them, I’m always around.

Red: I’m holding you to that.

Frankie thinks of a million things to reply with, but his fingers don’t move; all he can think about is seeing her again tomorrow.

#triple frontier fic #triple frontier au #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #baseball!frankie #frankie morales x ofc #baseball!frankie x ofc!red #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie catfish morales fic

90 notes · View notes

hoedamn-eron · 7 months ago

Text

Happy Father's Day!

Happy Father's Day to all the parents out there! In celebration (and because I haven't managed to finish my Baby, Please Santi x Reader one shot), here are a list of my fics with daddy Oscar 😉😘

Sports Day - It’s your daughter’s sports day at school, and Jake decides to take part in the “dad race”. (Jake Lockley x Reader)

Baby, Please - Your dating life had been a range of fleeting moments and one night stands. You thought Santiago Garcia would be no different. (Santiago Garcia x Reader)

Shut up, Kid - You awake to your first Mother’s Day with baby Bateman. (Nathan Bateman x Reader)

Bluey! - Nathan discovers your son’s favourite show. (Nathan Bateman x Reader)

Sick Bug - Silas is ill with a bug. (Nathan Bateman x Reader)

Oscar Isaac Characters as Dads (includes Nathan Bateman, Llewyn Davis, Blue Jones, William Tell, Laurent LeClaire, Basil Stitt, & Outcome 3)

I will eventually post that one shot, I'll make sure of it. Fingers crossed it's today!

#santiago garcia x reader #nathan bateman x reader #jake lockley x reader #basil stitt x reader #blue jones x reader #william tell x reader #laurent leclaire x reader #outcome 3 x reader #llewyn davis x reader #ex machina #moon knight #triple frontier #in secret #sucker punch #the bourne legacy #the card counter #lightningface #inside llewyn davis

76 notes · View notes

tokkiwrites · 8 months ago

Text

ᘓ ♡‌ ꣒ ׄ ONE SHOT, NO LIME. ⏜ 🍋‍🟩 ◌

a Santiago 'Pope' Garcia x f!reader fic

summary: A group of (very attractive) men walks into the small bar where you work as a bartender. One of them, in particular, has caught your eye, and it seems like he's noticed you too.

tags: pwp, one night stand (but they live happily ever after in my mind!!!), afab/f! reader, dom Santiago but also soft kind of, sir kink (muehehhehe >:] ) he kind of likes to be worshiped ig, p in v unprotected ( you get a condom, theu get a condom, everyone gets condoms!!!! ), positions that idk the name of, Santiago manhandles reader, hair pulling, slapping, choking, head m and f receiving, throat fucking, pet names, creampie, Santiago is in love w reader by the end of it teehee. lmk if i missed anything!!

ㅤ↪ㅤtokki's ۫ 𐑺 𝚜𝚞ׂ𝚐𝚊𝚛 ࣭ note ˑ ⌕ ࣭ ּ ➭ is it obvious im obsessing over oscar isaac?!?! :D HAHA. I need a fix every day but im p sure i saw all the content about him available on this app. this has 3.5k words and is not proofread so if u see any weird spellings no u dont. OKAY ENJOY !!!

The dim lighting of the small bar casts a cozy, intimate glow over the room. The low hum of conversation mingles with the soft strains of a jazz band playing in the corner. Behind the bar, you expertly mix a cocktail, the clinking of ice and the swirl of liquid a familiar rhythm.The door swings open, and a group of five, very attractive men stride in, immediately drawing the attention of the patrons. They exude an easy confidence, their laughter and banter filling the space. As you look up, your eyes are drawn to one man in particular. He seems to be leading the rest, at least thats what his presence gives off, with a chiseled, bearded jaw, curly, dark hair and eyes that seem to scan the room with sharp, yet relaxed precision.He catches your gaze, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you.

There's a spark, a silent acknowledgment that both of you feel the magnetic pull. He smiles, a slow, knowing curve of his lips, and you can't help but return it, feeling your heartbeat just a little faster.They make their way to the bar, and as he approaches, you can feel his eyes on you, a tangible presence even amidst the crowd. He leans on the counter, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne, something rich and woody. "Evening," he says, his voice smooth and warm. "What do you recommend."

You offer him a smile, feeling a rush of excitement at the chance to engage with him. "Depends on what you're in the mood for," you reply, your voice betraying a hint of playfulness. "Something strong and bold, like a whiskey sour, or perhaps something smoother, like a classic martini?" his gaze holds yours, a flicker of intrigue dancing in his eyes. "I'll trust your judgment," he says, his tone suggesting a willingness to let go of control, if only for a moment.

With a nod, you set to work, your mind racing with possibilities. As you craft their drinks, your fingers move with practiced precision, but your thoughts are elsewhere, caught up in the mystery of the man before you. The other men in the group engage in lively conversation, their laughter filling the air. your attention is focused solely on him, on the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, on the way his presence fills the room with an undeniable energy.

You decide to play a little game of your own. While the others receive their beers and cocktails, you pour the mystery man one large shot of strong tequila, no lime, because he seems like the kind of guy who can handle it. As you slide the shot glass across the counter, your fingers brush against his ever so slightly, sending a thrill through you. He meets your gaze, a silent exchange passing between you."Cheers," he says, raising the glass in a toast with the rest.

As the one man you're interested in raises the shot glass to his lips, the atmosphere around the group shifts slightly. There's an air of camaraderie mixed with an underlying tension, as if they're carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. "You know," one of the men says, his voice low but filled with determination, "we need to talk about the operation." The rest nod, setting the empty shot glass down with a decisive clink. "Agreed. It's time to finalize the plan." Their conversation drifts to murmurs, their voices lowering as they discuss the intricacies of their mission. They speak in coded language, mentioning names and locations that hint at the danger and complexity of their undertaking.

As you listen in, curiosity getting the better of you, you catch snippets of their conversation. They speak of distant lands and hidden treasures, of risks and rewards that seem almost too fantastical to be true.

But amidst the cloak-and-dagger talk, one name stands out: Pope. It's not mentioned in the same hushed tones as the others, but rather with a sense of respect and admiration."Pope, what do you think?" one of the men asks, turning to him for guidance. He meets their gaze, his expression unreadable. "We proceed as planned," he says, his voice steady and unwavering. "But we stay vigilant. We can't afford any slip-ups." somehow, despite the danger and uncertainty that surrounds them, you find yourself drawn to him even more.

A couple of hours pass by, filled with laughter, drinks, and shared stories. As the night wears on, the group begins to disperse, bidding their farewells and promising to meet again soon. The man you're interested in, whom you now know as "Pope," stays behind, offering to settle the tab.

"Is your name really Pope?" you ask, unable to resist the curiosity that has been gnawing at you all evening. He pauses, his brow furrowing slightly before a soft laugh escapes him. "Santiago," he says, his voice low but filled with warmth. "What?" you reply, caught off guard by the sudden revelation.

"My name," he repeats, his gaze steady as he meets your eyes. "It's Santiago."

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that has been brewing all evening. You feel a rush of excitement mingled with apprehension, unsure of where this newfound knowledge will lead. "Santiago," you repeat, testing the sound of his name on your lips. It feels right, somehow, as if it belongs to him in a way that "Pope" never could.

He nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips as he slides a few bills onto the counter. "Santiago," he says again, his voice barely above a whisper this time. "What time do you get off work?" Santiago asks, his voice carrying a hint of intrigue. "Well, you guys were the only ones here since like 11 pm, so I'm supposed to close up in a few," you reply, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. "Why ask... Santiago?"

"Curious," he says simply, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You can't help but feel a surge of excitement at his question, the implication hanging in the air between you. As you begin to tidy up the bar, Santiago lingers nearby, his presence a comforting presence in the otherwise empty room. As you lock up for the night, he falls into step beside you, the two of you walking side by side into the cool night air. The streets are quiet now, the bustle of the city having long since faded into the distance.

"So, Santiago," you say, breaking the comfortable silence that has settled between you, "what now?"

He looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before a smile quirks at the corners of his lips. "Now," he says, reaching out to take your hand in his, "I take you back to mine, have something to drink, maybeㅡ?" You stop in your tracks, and he leans in closer. "If I may."

Your heart races at his words, the anticipation building as he leans in closer, his warm breath tickling your ear. "If I may," he adds again, his voice low and husky, sending a shiver down your spine. You meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as you search for any sign of hesitation in his eyes. But all you find is a quiet confidence, a sense of assurance that leaves you breathless.With a nod, you find yourself falling into step beside him once more, the electricity between you palpable in the air. As you walk together through the deserted streets, the world seems to fade away, leaving only the two of you in a bubble of anticipation and desire.

Finally, you arrive at his place, a small, unassuming apartment tucked away in the heart of the city. He leads you inside, and you can barely suck in a deep breath before his lips crash down onto yours with a hunger that takes you by surprise, making you fall like petals into his strong grasp.

Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the heat of the moment, his kiss igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you whole. His hands move with purpose, exploring every inch of your body as if committing it to memory. You respond with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his curly hair as you pull him closer, unable to get enough of the taste and feel of him. The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you locked in a passionate embrace. As the kiss deepens, the desire between you intensifies, a primal need driving you closer together. In that moment, electricity that crackles between you like lightning in a storm.

And as you finally break apart, breathless and exhilarated, you realize that this is just the beginning, his eyes know flooded with a darkened haze and lust. "Do you know how much I had to hold back and not fuck you over that bar, in front of everyone?" he groans and you can only whimper shamefully as the thought of just that was a constant in your mind the whole night.

"God, you're so beautiful." Santiago groans, dragging his calloused thumb across the plush of your lips, the other hand tracing the curve of your hips. You gaze into his eyes, seeing a raw intensity that mirrors your own longing. With a harsh tug, he pulls you closer, his lips hungrily seeking yours again. His kiss wild and untamed, sweeping you away in a whirlwind of sensation. You respond with equal fervor, surrendering yourself to the pleasure of his touchㅡ every light one sending waves of ecstasy coursing through your whole being.

"How do you want it?" he pulls away, breathlessly, both palms now settled on the small of your back. "How do you want me to fuck you, baby?" The man asks, almost pleading, his tone low and grazing at the growing heat from your core. "Any way, justㅡ" you're short of breath "Please, I need you.." you shy your eyes away from his, but Santiago is quick with his grip, taking your face by squeezing both cheeks with one hand, forcing you to look back at him. "C'mon. Say that again." he teases, prompting you to speak again. "I need you.." you say again, a little louder.

"I'm gonna have so much fun with you, baby." a promise you'll come to find out he will deliver on. in no time you're naked, left only in your not so for the occasion panties, all though Santiago doesn't seem to mind, seeing as they're stained with a wet spot between your legs. He's slow, as he traces his fingers across your pebbled nipples, teeth grazing your neck as he whispers dirty nothings. In no time, you're on your knees in front of him, who was settled on the cushioned couch in the middle of the room. His pants were zipped down but not off yet, that was 'your job' as he put it. he asks you to call him 'sir', and you didn't even know you liked that so much until you felt how wet it got you when he made you say it.

"Dollface." Santiago taps your cheek. "Eyes up here. you want it, don't you?" and you nod your head eagerly, eyes already weepy. he coos, almost making fun of you, then grips your head by the hair. "Aren't you something. God, can't wait 'til I get to fuck this pretty face." he takes his time staring you down, making you understand how this was going to go and where your place was: at his feet. but you didn't mind that one bit.

"I don't have a problem with waiting, baby. We have all night. Maybe if you're good I'll give it to you tomorrow too." Santiago pushes your head towards his crotch and you obliged. "if you're good. can you do that for me, angel?"

"Yesㅡ" you agree, a tinge of shyness quivering into your voice. "Yes?" he quirks up an eyebrow, the pull on your hair, tightening."Yes, sir." You breathe out, mind already dizzy. "Good girl... You're gonna be so good to me, yeah?" and you mewl a soft 'yes, sir' at his request. the next thing he commands you to do is take off his pants along with his briefs, which you do, and you can't seem go get over the Goliath of a dick you had in front of you. It intimidated you, a visible thing to read on your face, eliciting a low chuckle from Santiago. "You scared, beautiful?" you can only muster a soft 'yes', provoking yet another harsh hair tug from him. "Good."

the first few strokes were slow, you shunned away for a bit but as you got into it, you could hear the plaintive moans that tumbled out of his mouth, instigating you to go a bit faster, your lips finally wrapping around his tip that as leaking precum all over your tongue, the bitter taste enveloping your papillae. cautiously, but surely, you sink your head down and start bobbing it. you weren't even halfway, yet the tip was hitting the back of your throat, which prompted Santiago to push your head further down, tears beading at the corner of your eyes. you gag and moan around his length as he shushes you like he didn't just impaled your throat with his dick. "Breathe, baby, breathe." he instructs, and you struggle for the first few seconds as he has your head fully pushed low.

you manage to get used to the feeling, all though difficult to do, you let him fuck into your throat as you breathe through your nose. your gags and wet noises filled the room as Santiago left out low moans and little praises for you to know you were doing well. make-up was smudged all over your face, cheeks red from his repeated slaps and drool dripping down your chin, your brows contorted into a pleading frownㅡ it was the most beautiful sight somebody has bestowed upon him. "Shit, you're so beautiful with my cock down your throat, angel. So hard not to come immediatelyㅡ" he admitted.

he pulls you away from his length and you gasp for air. your vision is fuzzy from the lack of air and tears. "Up. And bend over." in no time, you're bent over the armrest of the couch, ass up and face flush with the mattress. the cold air hits your clothed cunt and your knees still hurt. Santiago gets behind you, fingers hooking around the hem of your panties as he pulls them down to reveal the soaking mess you were. "This pussy is crying for me, huh?" he's cocky with the way he says it, two of his fingers gathering up the glistening liquid from your puffy lips, then bringing them to your mouth. "Be a doll." he's playing with you, but you? you do as you're told because he has you so drunk on him, in a way you've never felt before. you lick around his digits, tasting yourself and he delivers a proud slap to one of your asscheeks. "You pretty slut." back behind you, he crouches on one knee before drawing a long strip from your sensitive clit to your entrance with his tongue, the same two fingers you had licked, now slipping inside of you.

your back arches as a wave of pleasure breaks over your body like water on a shore. his licks are now concentrated on your bud, fingers quickening their pace as Santiago hums at your sweet taste. You moan and writhe, that familiar warm feeling building up inside of you again. but as soon as you soon were there he stopped. He stopped, pulling back to see the shaky, wet mess you were. "P-lease, sirㅡ"

he tuts, slapping your plush thighs. "You take what I give you. So don't get greedy. You're lucky if I'm gonna let you come at all right now." this pain that a sick pleasure envelopes you and you sit with your cunt exposed as you hear Santiago fumble the pockets of the pants he had you take off. 'condoms' he mumbled, as if he knew what you were thinking.

"I'm clean.." you manage a whisper. "And on birth control." he sighs in relief. "Good." you can feel he is less tense now, his presence still behind you. with no warning he flips you over, back on the couch and ass on the armrest, that had your legs settle around his hips with ease. "Spread 'em." so you do. you spread your legs as much as you can, giving him a full view. Santiago smiles, thumb back to rubbing circles onto your clit. "You're so beautiful." it was so sincere, so sweet you could almost taste it.

his gentle gaze soon got replaced by the hungry one he had all this night whilst staring you down. Finally, he aligns the tip of his shaft with your entrance and slowly pushes the tip in. Your breath got stuck into your throat, from the feeling laden with thornsㅡ every prick of discomfort is countered by an unexpected surge of delight. Your tears fall down onto the mattress under you, little moans gripping your throat as he slips inside further. "You're okay, baby, you're okay. C'monㅡ" he assures you, asking you to surrender. "Take it all- theere we go.." Santiago praises, lifting your hips a bit to get a better angle. He moves gently, each stroke hitting deeper within your core, the pain soon converging with ecstasy right as he alerts his movements.

you wrap your legs around him loosely but he takes you by your ankles and almost folds them over your stomach, providing him a better position to pound straight into you, hitting that sweet spot on and on. his hips dive down, one of his palms snaking up and wrapping itself tightly around your throat. your head was spinning, heart pounding, as his whole weight dominated over you. "That's it, baby, knew you could take it." his thrusts are rough, each hit making your body bounce, the urgency as he hit that very spot each timeㅡ your whole insides burning, too cock drunk to talk or respond, other than some pathetic whines that perfectly accompanied the wet sounds your pussy made wrapped around Santiago.

Feeling you tightening, the hand that was around your throat slips down to your clit, while the other makes you spread your legs wide again for easier access, giving you a chance to take in a big gasp of air. "want me to breed this pussy, huh? feel you up with my babies?" the room spins around you, body floating as if ready to plummet back down, you try your best to reply. "yes, yes- please, please, sir, I'mㅡ"

"Go ahead." the man succeeded to say, between his breathy groans. "Thank you, thank you, oh god, thank you so much sir." you say as if praying to him whilst he keeps fucking into you. he pounds into you as you come down from your high, your body almost too limp to register your surroundings. he slap your thigh, strong grips now onto your breasts as he comes ropes inside of you, then as he pulls his length out of you, some landing on your stomach. He watches intently as his seed drips out of you, your body beautifully splayed out right under him. You squeeze around nothing, licking your lips, as you feel the warm trickles of come dripping from your stomach to your chest due to your position. you're both quiet for a bit, catching your breaths, as you scoot lower on the couch.

"I thinkㅡ" Santiago begins, breaking the silence, "I'd wanna do this for more than one night.”

#oscar isaac x you #oscar isaac characters #oscar isaac x reader #oscar isaac smut #oscar isaac #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #santiago pope garcia smut #triple frontier fanfiction #oscar issac characters #oscar issac x reader #oscar issac smut #oscar isaac imagine #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector smut #marc spector imagine

131 notes · View notes

nathanbatemanfucker · 2 years ago

Text

Over a Ledge

summary: just the taste of his name on your lips can be too much— until you taste him.

pairing: santiago ‘pope’ garcia x fem!reader

warnings: symptoms of ptsd, water/swimming, friends to lovers, perceived unrequited feelings, kissing, cuddling

wc: 1.9k

an: wanted to write the one-bed trope with santi in a non-violent setting and birthed this lol

oscar characters masterlist | requests are open

He’s on vacation with his closest friends, a rest and reset that you’ve all practically forced him into, and the pool has a waterfall.

The sound is tolerable during the day, in the bright warmth of the sun, in the comforting cocoon of being with all of you. His brain can tune it out, make it soothing background noise, a simple distraction easily pushed into the back of his mind to be dealt with later.

It’s later now. Yes, the pool has a waterfall and his window is nearest to it. In the quiet of the night its cadence rings loudly in his head. There is no escape, nowhere to run. The window is shut tightly, a pillow over his head, and still, it plagues him.

All he can think about is the rain they froze in. The weight of the water, how the raindrops fell so hard they seemed like they were the size of baseballs. How at least then, even as they sat on the brink of hypothermia, soaked to the bone, there were 5 of them, that he’d have lived the rest of his life there if it meant that Tom lived.

It’s the middle of the night and he goes to find the switch. There is no way he can spend a week in the house like this.

He pokes around, walking circles around the waterfall in hopes to find a switch. When he has no luck, he looks at the filtering system for the pool. Still nothing. Maybe it’s in the pool. He knows it’s a long shot but he’s out here, he might as well try. He’s in his boxers already, so he strips off his shirt, before jumping into the deep in near the waterfall.

With the chill of the night, the water is colder than usual, and goosebumps ripple across his skin. It feels as if every strand of hair on his body is up, standing at attention. He paddles through the water, dipping under the surface as he searches for a switch of some sort.

“What’re you doing?” You call from behind him.

He whirls around in the water, sending a wave to wet your feet. He glares at you, crossing his arms, “Fucking Christ, announce yourself would you?”

You glare back at him with a feigned offense, “I was here first, actually, Santiago.”

“And you just sat in the shadows like a fucking creep?”

“Maybe. What’re you doing?” You repeat your question, but this time you get up, coming to the edge of the pool.

“Trying to turn this goddamn thing off,” He gestures to the waterfall, water splashing.

“Why, what’s wrong?”

Santi is quiet for a moment. So much is wrong. There’s not enough time to explain all the things that are wrong with him, some of them so old and faded he’s not even sure they count anymore. There’s always been something wrong, some empty feeling has sat in his chest since he was too young to name it. His service didn’t help, the gorge had just grown bigger and deeper. New wounds accompany it.

“It’s uh, just keeping me up,” He finally offers, his gaze faltering.

You can tell by his tone that there’s more to it. But, you've never been privy to meaningful information from Santi, never been deemed important enough.

“I’ll switch with you.”

“I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“You didn’t, I offered. I mean, you could sleep with me if you’re really worried about kicking me out. It’s a king-sized bed.”

You’re skating on the thin ice that’s between you and your feelings for Santi. When Frankie offered to introduce you to his friends, you hadn’t given it much thought. You take care of his daughter while he and Vanessa work, he’s like family— it made sense to get to know him better through his friends. And so you’d said yes, not realizing that you were going to meet Santi.

Santiago.

Just the taste of his name on your lips can be too much. But, he’s never shown any interest in you— and if there’s one thing he’s good at it’s flirting. You’ve seen him in action, seen him charm many women in various places, from bars to grocery stores to the concession stand at one of Benny’s fights. But, he’s never tried to charm you, and that’s enough for you to keep your mouth shut. Keeping him at a distance? Well, that’s harder than it should be knowing what you do.

“Sleep with you,” He repeats clumsily, as if he is speaking some language he doesn’t know.

“Yeah, so you won’t hear the waterfall, I won’t have to move all my things. You wake up early anyway, you could head back to your room before anyone else is awake, y’know so no one thinks—”

“They won’t think anything.”

“Right, of course not,” You say sharply, and Santi immediately notices your tone.

“Wait a minute—”

“There’s a towel I brought down just in case I decided to swim, take it,” You point back at where you were sitting. “Just knock on the door once you’re good to go.”

Before Santi can explain what he meant you turn on your heel and head back into the house. He doesn’t get to say that none of them think anything because they know he couldn’t risk losing you. Since Frankie had introduced you two, all of the guys noticed a change in him. Santi is tender with you, even if you don’t realize it. You are delicate, as delicate as a flower just as it blooms, and he’s known for destroying anything he touches. The last thing he could bear is destroying you.

He wades to the stairs, slowly climbing from the pool and drying himself with the towel you spoke about. Once back inside the house, he dresses in some sweatpants and an old army tee that’s much too thin for him to be holding onto. He hesitates when he makes it to your door, standing with his fist raised for several moments before he knocks gently. There is no answer and so he knocks again. And again, a bit harder this time.

He’s about to head back to his room when you finally open the door, out of breath.

“Sorry.”

He frowns, reaching out for your arm, “Are you okay?”

You fight off the urge to shiver, moving with the opening door so that his hand falls away, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. C’mon.”

The two of you do this song and dance, awkwardly asking about which side to take. Staring at each other and looking away as you make it to your respective sides of the bed. Quickly sliding in and turning over, as if the sight of the other amongst the sheets is some sacred ritual for worthy eyes only.

You’ve never seen him like this before and the only thing you can contribute to is him having to spend the night with a woman he doesn’t want. With you.

You turn that thought over and over in your head, the start of a spiral you’re sure will keep you up all night when he speaks.

“What I said earlier, about them not thinking…I didn’t mean it in the way you thought I did.”

“There’s one interpretation of what you said, Santiago. We don’t need to talk about it.”

“What were you doing when I got to your door?”

“What?”

“When I knocked, you answered out of breath. What were you doing?”

“Pacing.”

He turns over to face your back, hoping that you’ll turn over so he can read your face. “Pacing?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you—“

You refuse to go through this back and forth with him. You’ll face it hea-on, get it all out in the open so that you both can look it in the face once and never again. Maybe this way, you can still keep in your life with minimal awkwardness. If you’re honest with yourself, you’d bear any amount of awkwardness if it meant you got to keep him in your life.

Turning over with a frustrated huff, you say, “Because you’re you, and I’m me and this is just…not in the cards for us, Santi. Okay? Do we have to talk about it? Is it not glaringly obvious enough?”

Santi blinks rapidly at you before his face softens, “Not for the reason you think.”

Now it’s your turn to blink, confused by his words, his tone, his soft eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“There’s too much here,” He gestures to himself, to his heart. “I can’t let you see it. I won’t. I won’t do that to you.”

For a handful of moments, all you can do is stare at him in disbelief. All of the pieces fall into place. He’d held back for you. He’d ignored this for you. He’d been resigned to holding onto his feelings and doing nothing about them for you. To hide you from his pain. To protect you from whatever overwhelming mixture of emotions bubbled inside of him.

“I’m not afraid of what’s inside of you, Santiago, it’s all you. That’s what love is, it’s witnessing every part of someone and staying.”

“Love?” He repeats cautiously.

“Love,” You say again, reaching out slowly to run your thumb over the swell of his cheek. It feels like had always imagined it— a contrast of smooth and prickly from his stubble.

He leans into your touch eagerly before he grasps you by the nape of your neck, every piece of his resolve crumbling under the weight of you. The weight of your love and care for him. The gasp you let out dies when his mouth presses against yours. It is not gentle, not slow, or steady. Santi is starved for you, his kiss firm, tongue licking into your mouth like he’s finally found all he’s been searching for. He’s so frenzied that the kiss turns sloppily, loud, and wet and exploring as he holds you tightly in place. You groan, trying to match his fervor, his passion, but there is no matching Santi— there is only succumbing to him.

“Love,” He whispers affirmatively, his eyes cloudy with it.

Your smile is bright, giddy like a kid who’s won some sort of contest and gets to pick out their prize. But you've already gotten yours. You hug him, latching to him tightly before you pull away to look at his face again.

This is all real. Santi is yours. All yours. Will he let you in now?

“Tell me about the waterfall?” You ask delicately.

There’s no holding back once he sees the sincerity in your eyes. You want to know, to be there for him and he trusts you in a way that he trusts no one else. Sure he trusts the guys, but there's something different about the vulnerability he’s sharing here with you tonight.

So he tells you all of it. Every single detail. He lets you gather in his arms, holding him close to your chest as he spills, not only words but tears. You wipe his eyes, listening intently and when he’s done, you know there’s nothing you can say to make things better. But you aren’t trying to be his savior, just his support, a shoulder that he knows will always be there and unbiased by his work, a sliver of peace. Eventually, he goes slack in your arms, the tears melting to snores.

You grin, holding back your giggle as his snores grow louder and louder. You had told him what love is, that it means witnessing it all. But, you had never promised you wouldn’t tease him about some of it—not when he currently sounds like a freight train.

santi taglist: @hotchaways, @honeybrowne, @jitterbugs927, @theconsultingdoctor10, @awesomemikaus, @tanzthompson, @siezethenights, @clairevoyanceee, @moonmalice, @tiffanypooh, @dearvirtualdiary-blog1, @marc-spectorr, @xbellaxcarolinax, @toracainz, @roseqzpd, @rosecentaur1916, @mccn-bcys, @hotchs-bitch, @missdictatorme

#santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #santi garcia x reader #santiago garcia x fem!reader #santi garcia x fem!reader #santiago garcia fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fic #arson writes randos

568 notes · View notes

youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year ago

Text

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

I’m participating in Kinktober 2023 this year using this list by @flightlessangelwings . If you’d like to be tagged, please leave a comment on this post or send in an ask.

Day One - Frank Castle x Reader

Warnings: Overstimulation ; impact play; fingering; nipple play; dirty talk—praise and degradation

Day Two - Frankie Morales x Reader

Warnings: Public sex (car sex); role playing; blowjob; cum play; fingering

Day Three - Diego Jimenez x Reader

Warnings: Reader is the monster; vampirism; mention of drug use; mention of alcohol consumption; blood drinking (because vampires); vaginal sex

Day Four - Santiago Garcia x Reader

Warnings: Public sex; sex pollen; rough sex; unprotected sex; creampie; hair pulling

Day Five - Jax Teller x Reader

Warnings: Table sex/desk sex; enemies to enemies who fuck; vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Day Six - Josh Lyman x Reader

Warnings: Lots of dialogue!!; phone sex; power imbalance; dirty talk; praise kink; masturbation

Day Seven - Matt Murdock x Reader

Warnings: Morning sex; fingering; oral sex; safe sex; vaginal sex

Day Eight - Rafael Barba x Reader

Warnings: Cockwarming; restraints; spanking; impact play; Dom/Brat dynamics; choking; rough sex; oral sex; vaginal sex; cum shot; cum play

Day Nine - Nathan Bateman x Reader

Warnings: Rimming; fingering; masturbation; pegging; blowjobs; cunnilingus; praise kink

Day Ten - Poe Dameron x Reader

Warnings: Stripping; car sex; clothed man/partially clothed woman; grinding

Day Eleven - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Warnings: Blindfolding; hide-and-seek/prey-play adjacent; blowjob; cunnilingus; vaginal sex; unsafe sex; creampie

Day Twelve - Will Miller x Reader

Warnings: Established relationship; fluff; formal wear; oral sex; safe sex

Day Thirteen - Jim Kirk x Reader

Warnings: Anonymous sex; public sex; oral sex; spit as lube; safe sex

Day Fourteen - Oberyn Martell x Reader

Warnings: Prostitution/sex work; canon-typical sex work; dirty talk; sub Oberyn Martell; hair pulling; restraints; orgasm control/denial; masturbation; breeding kink; oral sex; gag use; unsafe sex; creampie

Day Fifteen - Duke Leto Atreides x Reader

Warnings: Free use; semi-public sex; oral sex; fingering; unsafe sex; creampie

Day Sixteen - Indiana Jones x Reader

Warnings: Role reversal; period-typical attitudes toward sex; vaginal sex; riding unsafe sex; creampie

Day Seventeen - Ben Miller x Reader

Warnings: Praise kink; dirty talk; blowjob; fingering; grinding; semi-public sex

Day Eighteen - Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: Masturbation; mutual masturbation; fingering; handjob; vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Day Nineteen - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Warnings: Somnophilia; Bradley 'I Eat Pussy for My Own Pleasure' Bradshaw; anal sex; anal plug; safe sex; vaginal fingering

Day Twenty - Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader

Warnings: Sex toys; fingering; blowjobs

Day Twenty-One - Harvey Specter x Reader

Warnings: Hate sex; oral sex; semi-public sex; table sex; spit as lube; safe sex; negotiating tactics that would get you disbarred

Day Twenty-Two - Marcus Pike x Reader

Warnings: Reader is an older virgin; fingering; oral sex; loss of virginity; vaginal sex; safe sex

Day Twenty-Three - Jonathan Levy x Reader

Warnings: Dirty talk; vaginal sex; cunnilingus; fingering; unsafe sex; creampie; breeding kink

Day Twenty-Four - James Bond x Reader

Warnings: Exes; domineering James Bond; fingering; choking; hate sex; mostly naked woman, clothed man

Day Twenty-Five - Shiv Roy x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: Infidelity; mentions of previous adolescent antics; mirror sex; oral sex; fingering; grinding; semi-public sex

Day Twenty-Six - SithMaster!Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Sith Master!Obi-Wan; Sith Apprentice!Reader; Power imbalance; Force-choking; deep throating; grinding; masturbation; choking (without the Force); degradation

Day Twenty-Seven - Christopher Pike x Reader

Warnings: Fluff; yearning; kitchen sex; vaginal sex; improper use of buttercream

Day Twenty-Eight - Andromache of Scythia (The Old Guard) x Reader

Warnings: Intercrural Sex/grinding; nipple play; fighting; light degradation

Day Twenty-Nine - Don Draper x Reader

Warnings: Semi-public sex; fingering; vaginal sex; unsafe sex; creampie; gagging with clothing

Day Thirty - Jake 'Hangman' Sersin x Reader

Warnings: Oral sex/cunnilingus; face sitting; Jake 'I Get Hard When I Eat Pussy’ Seresin

Day Thirty- One - A Thank You :)

#Kinktober 2023 #Kinktober Masterlist #Kinktober #Youvebeenlivingfictional's Kinktober 2023

275 notes · View notes

violentdelightsandviolentends · 2 years ago

Text

Time.

You get shot in Colombia. Frankie, Benny, Santiago and Will all have their own ways of helping you heal.

Pairing - Santiago Garcia, Frankie Morales, Benny Miller, Will Miller x female reader

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - Cursing, mentions of blood, gunshots

Word Count - 4329

Author's Note - hi lovely people. i loved writing this one so much oh my :( those four boys in one movie together is a dream. and i don't know if you noticed, but i have a real soft spot for will. and yes, i did photoshop ben afflecks character out of that picture. more than happy to write for any of the triple frontier boys individually - just send me an ask! as always, lots of love x

my other triple frontier fics - Tethered, Tranquility and Home Is Where The Heart Is.

Masterlist. Requests.

It’s been 6 days since you were shot.

6 days of blood, pain, sterility, stitches, hazy memories that float into your consciousness like smoke in the air.

You somehow remember it both clear as day and blurry as night.

The metallic taste of copper in your mouth, clear as day.

The searing, burning pain in your side, clear as day.

The panicked looks on the boys faces, the yelling, the frantic scrambling – clear as day.

The rest of it? Blurry as night.

You can’t remember getting home. One minute you were bleeding out on the ground in Colombia, and the next minute you’re back on US soil, lying in a bed in Houston Methodist Hospital.

You can’t remember your discharge. You fell asleep on those sterile, crinkly white sheets, and woke up in a soft bed, wrapped in a navy blue comforter that smells like Will.

All you’ve known for the last 6 days is sleep. That molten sleep that moves like molasses, warm and slow and sticky. The sun rises and sets, and you’re none the wiser. Floating aimlessly through unconsciousness, just you and your dreams.

Unbeknownst to you, you haven’t been alone for a minute since you got home. The boys have taken turns sitting by your bedside, heart rates rising whenever you stir. All of them silently processing what all of this means, for you and for them.

It was damn close. Too much blood. Pints after pints after pints of it. Pouring over Will’s hands, soaking into Benny’s jeans, slipping beneath Santiago’s boots, choking the air around Frankie where his forehead was pressed to yours, begging you to stay awake. All of them wondering the same thing – where has all of this come from? Surely one person can’t have so much blood in them. It can’t all be from her.

The Doctor said that you got lucky. Any more blood loss and you’d have lost your life too. Your surgeon said that you owed your life to whoever stopped the bleeding.

William ‘Ironhead’ Miller. He’d shoved his hand straight into the wound, applying as much pressure as he could without breaking any ribs. It was the worst thing he’d ever seen, but he was in fight or flight mode. He knew it had to be fight. He hoped you were making the same choice as you were lying there, breath rattling in your chest like pennies in a tin can.

Some would call it a miracle. Divine intervention, perhaps. You shouldn’t have survived. Scientifically, statistically, you should have died right there on that floor, in a mission gone wrong. Tragic accident. Caught in the crossfire. Collateral damage.

But you didn’t. Now, you’re half conscious in Will’s guest bedroom, enveloped by his scent. Warm, cozy, safe, and alive. You’re struggling to stay awake for more than ten, fifteen minutes at a time. It’s all catching up to you. You had to fight so hard to take each breath, that now you’re exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that sleep can’t fix. No, it’s settled into your gut, wrapped it’s limbs around your bones. It keeps you weighed down and heavy, a reminder of the trauma. You’re alive, but you’re tired. So tired.

The boys are worried. Worried beyond belief. When the Doctor told them she was happy to discharge you, reality hit the four of them like a high-speed freight train. How do they navigate this? You can’t go home. You can’t be by yourself. They’re all back on Texan soil, which means work, and family, and bills to pay, and routines to carry out. How do they factor in the woman they call their best friend, who’s currently in the deepest sleep of her life with a healing bullet hole in her side?

“I’ll take her,” Will had said. “She can stay with me, in my guest room. You guys can come over whenever you want. I have the most space, anyway.”

That was true. Santiago and Benny live in apartments, bachelor pads really, and Frankie’s second bedroom is his daughter’s room. She was only with him on weekends, but she needed a place to sleep, so that was him out of the question. Having you stay with Will made the most sense. They all agreed to come and sit with you in shifts, so Will could go to the grocery store, or for a run, or to take a shower. The Doctor never actually said that you needed twenty four hour surveillance, but the boys thought it would be best. Just in case.

So that’s exactly what they did. You’re on bed rest, and they’re all happy to play nurse for a few hours during the day, and to leave you with Will during the night. He’s been sneaking in to sleep in the armchair next to your bed. His room, a mere ten feet away, feels too far. He wants to be able to hear if you need his help. Just in case.

None of the boys quite know how to treat you. They don’t want to act any differently around you, but it’s hard not to. They haven’t seen you like that before. You, a force to be reckoned with. The backbone of the group. You, with your sharp wit, quick humor, blinding smile. You, who always seems to be a step ahead of them. You, a pillar of strength, proving yourself just as capable in this world designed for men. Lying on the ground, painted crimson, you looked fragile. Small. Frail. You looked so… innocent. So afraid. That was the scariest part for all of them – seeing the fear in your eyes. They’ve never seen that before. They never want to again.

So, they all take their different approaches. They cope the best way that each of them knows how.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

When Frankie visits, he always brings a book.

Cracking open the door, he pops his head around the frame, smiling as he sees both you and Will asleep – him in the chair, you cozy in bed. He gently squeezes the blond man’s shoulder, whispering as he wakes.

“I got her for a while. You go do what you need to do.”

Will shoots him a grateful smile and stretches his arms above his head, before padding out of the room, softly shutting the door behind him.

Frankie opens the curtains, letting the soft morning light fill the room. It illuminates your face, catches on the strands of your hair, making it glow. You look like an angel, in this orange haze. But Frankie already knew that.

Your eyes flutter open, and land straight on the broad man standing next to your bed, trusty cap sat atop his head. You smile, and his heart stops for a second. God, he’s missed that sight. All of the tension from the last week leaves his shoulders, and he sinks into the armchair next to you.

“Hi, Francisco,” you whisper, voice slightly hoarse from minimal use.

“Hi, cariño,” he whispers back. “You doing okay?”

You nod, golden smile still etched on your face. The wound in your side is a dull ache, and the psychological pain keeps washing over you in spontaneous waves. But you’re okay.

“You here to babysit me?” you tease.

He smirks, which is all the answer you needed.

“You don’t need to. I’m okay, I swear,” you insist.

He looks at you and quirks an eyebrow, the corners of his lips still turning up slightly.

“Well, you’re my baby, and I’m sitting,” he winks. “Now that we’ve established that, what do you wanna do for the next few hours?”

His abysmal attempt at a joke makes you chuckle, which in turn makes you wince, pain shooting through your abdomen. He jumps out of his chair towards you, placing a hand on your cheek gently.

“Shit, querida. I’m sorry. Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

Breathing deep and slow, you tilt your head to meet his eyes.

“Yes. For you to stop fussing. Sit down, Francisco. Your nervous energy is making me stressed.”

He exhales carefully, and presses a kiss onto the top of your head.

“Yes ma’am.”

He returns to his original place, and grabs a book from the nightstand.

“Have you read this already?” he asks, showing you the cover.

You shake your head, and he flips to the first page.

“It sounds good, actually. You comfy, cielito?”

You nod gently, holding his gaze. He flashes you one of his signature smiles – the rare, genuine, time stopping ones – and begins to read softly, in that dulcet, honeyed voice of his.

He reads to you for hours. You were only awake for 45 minutes, but he continued reading aloud anyway. Morning becomes afternoon, yellow sunlight beating through the open window. A gentle breeze blows the curtains and ruffles Frankie’s hair that is ever so slightly too long for his liking. He’d be perfectly content to read to you like this forever. He’s gotten so into the plot of the book that he doesn’t notice Will stood in the doorframe, watching with those careful eyes of his. They gleam blue in the sunlight, his golden hair glinting like citrine. He eventually catches Frankie’s eyes, and the older man makes his way over to the door, both boys talking in hushed whispers so as not to wake you.

“Has she been okay?” Will asks, eyes scanning your sleeping form.

“Perfectly fine. She was awake for about 45 minutes,” Frankie replies, pride evident in his tone.

“That’s the longest she’s been conscious since. Progress, huh?” Will smiles. Frankie can’t help but smile too. A week ago, they were huddled around your lifeless body, hands deep and bloody in your wound. Now, they’re watching you slumber peacefully, life returned to you like a gift from the universe.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

When Benny visits, he brings comfort with him.

He uses his key to let himself into Will’s house quietly, aware that you’re most likely asleep. It’s been a week and a half since everything happened, and while you’re awake more and more each day, you’re also still on bed rest.

Creeping up the stairs and peeking his head around the door that’s ajar, he finds Will sat at the end of your bed. You’re awake, but barely. The light shines from the hallway into the bedroom, and illuminates your tear stained cheeks.

Will wipes your cheekbone with his thumb gently, and moves to meet his brother. The older Miller pulls Benny into the hallway, shutting your door momentarily.

“She’s having a real bad day. The worst since she’s been home. The memories are flooding back man, they’re drowning her.”

All the colour is gone from Will’s face. He looks helpless. His brother hates it.

“I don’t know how to help her,” Will continues. “The tears won’t stop. It’s like every time she calms down, another nightmare takes her by surprise. I don’t know what to do, Ben. I don’t know what to do.”

Will’s voice is shaking, tears threatening to spill from those cerulean eyes. He has a hand fisted into the front of Benny’s shirt, as if he’s grounding himself. There’s something unsettling about seeing the calmest person in the room start panicking. Benny doesn’t like it.

“Hey, it’s okay. She’s gonna have bad days, that’s a given. Go get some fresh air, go for a drive or something. I’ve got her. I ain’t gonna leave her.”

Benny looks pointedly at his big brother, and inhales deeply. They exhale together, and Will wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“Are you sure?”

Benny nods. Will trusts him.

“Okay. Call me if you need anything and I will come straight back. I mean it, Ben. Anything.”

Benny pulls his brother into his chest, holding him for a moment. Will isn’t used to being the glue holding everything together, he thinks. It’s usually you.

Will pulls away and starts his journey down the stairs, momentarily pausing to watch Benny straighten his shoulders and clear his throat before opening your door carefully.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he smiles.

You don’t feel gorgeous. No, you feel like you’ve shattered into a million pieces in William Miller’s guest bedroom. The weight of your trauma has come crashing down on top of you suddenly. It’s suffocating and it’s choking you and no matter how many times you inhale, your lungs won’t fill with air. Tears keep streaking down your cheeks despite your best efforts to stifle them. You wonder if you’ll feel like this forever – forced to carry around the weight of surviving something that you weren’t supposed to.

Benny’s never been any good with words. So he tells you what he needs to with his actions instead.

He kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket, throwing it on the chair. Then, he unbuttons his jeans and slides them off his legs, tossing them sideways with haphazard aim. The last thing to go is his t shirt, which he shucks over his head with ease, landing somewhere with the rest of his clothes. He moves across the room towards you and pulls back the comforter. He strokes your cheek with his knuckles gently, looking at you carefully to gauge your reaction. When he’s satisfied, he climbs into bed behind you, pulling you mindfully to sit in between his legs, his chest pressed to your back. He pulls the comforter back up over the two of you, and uses his arms to cage you in to him, enveloping you in his warmth.

Benny’s always run hot. You joke that he’s like a walking space heater, a radiator if you ever need one. Right now, it’s like having your own ball of sunshine, warming you gently from the outside in. You feel the safest you have in two weeks.

“Relax, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. He pulls you in tighter, and nudges your head to rest in the crook of his neck. You inhale deeply – the first real breath you’ve been able to take all day. He smells like sunshine, and salt, and sandalwood, and safety. You relax into him and let all the tension leave your body. You let go of the flashbacks, and the fear, and the chaos, and surrender yourself to Benny.

He stays with you like that for three days. He doesn’t separate himself from you more than a few inches for 72 whole hours, keeping his arms wrapped around you from behind, as if holding you together. When he gets up to go to the bathroom, he takes you with him. You stay attached for three days, skin to skin, allowing his warmth to seep into your bones, to settle your nerves. You’re convinced that no medicine could heal you the way Benny is. Science doesn’t have a match for this. It never will.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

When Santiago visits, he brings his guitar.

The first time he came to see you, right at the beginning, he sat with you for 20 minutes before he careened out of the room, gasping for air. The silence was strangling him, sending him into some sort of panic attack. Then, the guilt settled, and he felt like he’d betrayed you so badly that he couldn’t bring himself to go back in. He sat on the floor of the hallway with his back pressed against the door for 6 hours before Will returned home, concern coursing through his veins.

When Santiago explained what had happened, Will looked at him knowingly.

“You don’t have to be deathly silent, you know. You can watch some TV, turn the radio on. Frankie reads to her. Benny talks her ear off - doesn’t stop fucking rambling. I walked in the other day and he was explaining the current state of the NBA to her, team by team. She’ll sleep no matter what.”

Santiago nods, patting Will on the back lovingly before leaving, weighed down by shame.

The next time he visits, he brings his guitar.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s hoping you’ll be asleep. It’s easier to play for you if you aren’t looking at him like he hung the moon with those big, bright eyes of yours. But, lo and behold, he walks into the room you’ve made your own, and you’re wide awake.

“Hi, handsome,” you smile. “Where you been?”

“Oh, you know,” he smirks, “just caring for all the pretty girls that need my help.”

“And here I thought I was special,” you tease.

That smile of yours wraps itself around his heart, tangling in the core of him. You’ve always had that effect on the boys. One grin from you, and all of their problems melt away, even if just for a moment.

“You staying today, or you gonna run away again?”

You’re joking with him. Why are you trying to make him laugh? You should be upset, telling him that he’s a bad friend, that all of the other boys have sat with you for hours, so why can’t he?

But instead, you continue.

“I’m kidding, Santi. I get it, you know. I don’t think I’d be able to sit in a room with you lying there all half dead and helpless if the roles were reversed.”

You’re looking at him with so much understanding in your eyes that he has to choke down the tears that are trying to escape from him.

“It’s not that. It’s just – it’s my fault, bebita. You wouldn’t have even been in Colombia if it wasn’t for me. I’m the reason you got shot.”

He’s crying now – heavy, ugly sobs crawling their way from his chest, up to his throat. His knees give out, and he sits on the side of the bed, hands fisting in your comforter.

“Santi, baby. Hey. Look at me. Please, Pope.”

Your pleading gets his attention. He looks at you with those red rimmed, watery eyes, and your heart breaks so hard you swear you can hear it shatter.

“It wasn’t your fault, Santi. I followed you out there voluntarily. We all did. You know I’d follow you anywhere. I still would. It could have been any of us that got hurt. I’m glad it was me. I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing any of you in a hospital bed. It’d break me.”

You’re crying now too, at the thought of one of the boys in your situation. The bullets, the blood, the makeshift bandages they shoved into your side, ripping their shirts and tearing apart anything they could find. You couldn’t have survived that, if the roles were reversed. You wouldn’t have wanted to.

You press your forehead to his, hands tangling in the front of his shirt. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest, needing you as close as possible.

You fall asleep like that, face pressed into him, his heartbeat in your ear. Santiago tucks you back into bed gently and takes his place in the armchair, settling down. Pulling his guitar out of the case, he tunes it slowly, meticulously, before beginning to strum the strings carefully. He picks at the strings, playing you tune after tune, only stopping to stretch his arms and crack his knuckles. He plays for you for hours, time slipping by him like sand through his palms. When you wake, you keep your eyes closed, savouring his presence for just a moment longer.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Will doesn’t visit.

He sticks steadily by your side, day in, day out. If Frankie visits for 6 hours, Will sits with you for the other 18. When Benny holds you for 3 days, Will gets anxious, popping his head around the doorframe every few hours, checking in just in case. Since everything happened, Will’s whole universe has revolved around you. Which, he’s realising, is the way it’s always been. His whole world has always been you. He’s just been forced to confront that truth now, and it’s scaring him.

He’s suddenly aware of the fact that he almost lost you. He’s never felt fear like that before. He’s had men press guns to his temple, shoot at him from mere feet away, fight him with their fists. That’s nothing, now. He’d take that any day over watching you lie there, drenched in crimson, dripping with pain. His hands, twisted into your side, wet and slipping, trying to quell the dam that’s broken inside of you. Your eyes, looking into his, terror grasping your whole body like a cold chill. When he falls asleep at night, all he can hear is the way you said his name, like it was the last thing tethering you to the Earth.

He makes a silent vow to himself. A promise - to never let you go again. To protect you forever, no matter what. All of this trauma has just made him love you more. He’s not sure what the future will look like, for him, or for you. But he knows that right now, you need him.

And so he pours all of his love into his actions. He makes you breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and sits with you as you eat slowly. He eats at your speed, too - always doing everything at your pace. He combs your hair every morning gently, brushes your teeth twice a day carefully. He tucks you in when you fall asleep, pulling the comforter around you, keeping you safe and warm. As soon as one of the other boys leaves, he takes their place, sitting in the armchair – making sure you’re never alone. Whenever you’re awake, he listens to you pointedly, nodding and smiling. When you have a bad day, he’s right there next to you, wiping the tears from your cheeks and murmuring reassurances gently.

He watches as slowly but surely, you come back to yourself. You’re awake more often, smiling more confidently, cracking jokes and asking for laughs. The two of you are chatting like you used to, about nothing and everything. And you watch as slowly but surely, he returns to Will. The frown lines in his forehead become less pronounced, the worry in his eyes fades slightly. The smiles he throws your way are bigger, more genuine. The scales balance out again.

You’ve been in bed for two weeks when you decide to ask him for a favor.

“Hey, Will?” you query, looking at the blond man who’s currently folding laundry on the dresser.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he replies instantly, ready to give you anything you could possibly ask for.

“Can we go outside? I think I might go insane in this room real soon,” you smile, bright and bold.

He beams at you, relief washing over him like an ocean wave. You haven’t left your bed for a fortnight. He’s offered a couple of times, but you refused, scared to leave the comfort of the safe haven you’ve created. But you’re ready now.

“Of course we can. You want me to carry you?”

His tone is light, jesting, but you know he’s being serious. Neither of you are actually sure if you can walk all the way outside.

“I can walk if you carry me down the stairs? Not sure I’m quite ready for those yet.”

He grins at you, and your heart stops. That smile of his seeps into your pores, lifts you up, sends energy flowing through your veins. You’re alive, and you’re okay, and Will Miller is looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky. You feel invincible.

Admittedly, it does take you 20 minutes to get from your room to the back patio. Will throws a strong arm beneath yours, holding you up as you take the journey step by step. When you reach the stairs, he picks you up bridal style, carrying you carefully. Before he sets you back on your feet, he nudges his nose to yours, still grinning.

The sun soaks into your skin outside, gentle breeze rippling your t shirt that you’re now realising is Benny’s. The leaves rustle in the trees, and you inhale the world, as if seeing it again for the first time. Will sits right next to you on the bench, hand holding yours tightly, fingers interlaced as if he’s worried you’ll blow away.

You glance at Will’s watch and see that it’s only 1pm. You have so much time left. So many possibilities to be fulfilled, so many people to love, so many places to see. But for now, you press yourself into the blond man’s side, settling in. You fit perfectly. Almost as if this is where you belong.

“Can’t believe I almost died without telling you I love you,” you murmur. It’s quiet, but he hears you, loud and clear.

“It’s okay,” he reassures. “You’re here now. We have time. So much time.”

“Forever,” you whisper. “We have forever.”

He turns to look at you in the hues of the bright afternoon. His blond hair is glowing gold, and his blue eyes match the sky, hopeful and full of promise. His hands come up to cradle your face, and he caresses your cheeks with his thumbs, rubbing comforting circles into your skin. He moves in closer, and nudges his nose into yours. He breaks out into a grin, and you can’t help but join him. Leaning in, he presses his lips to yours, soft and reassuring. You melt into him, running one hand into his hair, the other at the nape of his neck. He pulls you impossibly closer, until every part of you is pressed together. The sun is still beaming, and the birds are chirping, and you have time.

“Forever,” he whispers into your mouth when he breaks the kiss.

“Forever,” you murmur back. “We have time.”

You have time.

2K notes · View notes