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intheorangebedroom · 4 months ago

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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 5

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time flies, in room number 2. How much longer do you have, just for the two of you?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute, I sincerely apologise. Thank you to everyone who stuck around, I hope it was worth it, and thank you to everyone who just passed by 🧡 @frannyzooey my love, thank you for your help on the Americanisms, invaluable as always 🧡

Word count: 13.8k

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Chapter 5: Time in a bottle

It’s late when you pull into the parking lot. Dusk cloaks the motel in its fuzzy veil, the surroundings fading in diffuse shadows. The single-story building stands out in the twilight, akin to an old ship. Wooden poles for masts, hanging lamps swaying gently in the briny breeze, their lights blurry in the muggy air. Tacky and warm, it wafts in through your car’s open windows, dampening the exposed skin of your forearms and the back of your neck.

On the passenger seat, your iPhone’s screen glows in the semi-darkness with an incoming call.

Adrian.

“What now?” you sigh, through clenched teeth.

Your eyes dart up to Frankie’s truck parked in front of you. The word FORD stretched in chrome letters on the tailgate, shining bright in your headlights.

The familiar pull awakens between your constricted lungs. A pounding, greedy little tug compelling you to get out of your car and cover the distance to the room as quickly as your step will carry you. But you want to calm your nerves first. Slow down your heart rate, deepen your breathing.

That discussion you had with your father, earlier this afternoon, still clings to your frame. The humiliation conveyed by his carefully chosen words like tar, black and viscous. You can almost smell its foul stench. And you don’t want to bring any of it inside.

It’s only the third time Frankie gets here before you, if you count that very first Friday back in September. And the second, since you came back from Colorado earlier this month. The pressure in your rib cage eases at the memory of that sweet evening.

All day long, you had rushed through your counting routine. Through the long, icy corridors of your glass prison. Rushed on the 589 northbound. Rushed to strangle the uncertainty of his presence there.

It was a few minutes past 7pm when you parked next to his truck, his early presence cranking up your anxiousness. You got out of your car with an anguished scowl, and you all but ran toward the porch, toward the brass number 2, shoes scuffing the gravel.

The door swung open the very second you stepped under the overhang. A flash of dimple, and his arms wrapped around your waist. He scooped you up from the floor, swift and easy, carrying you inside. Hungry kisses, teeth scraping at your jaw, down the line of your neck. A throaty husk of Happy New Year, Lee Abbott, as he tugged your clothes off your body that thrummed with his scent and his voice and his arms and his taste.

With the density of him.

He lifted you again, your short, giggly yelp bouncing across the room as he hauled you over his shoulder with an easy force. His steps long and balanced, as if your weight was inconsequential to his strength.

In the dim bathroom, he put you down directly into the tub. There, he unbuckled his belt and slid down his jeans, looking at you with a mischievous grin you’d never seen before and that fitted his gorgeous face a little too well.

“Told you I’d fuck you in this shower.”

Thirty seconds later, you were standing together under an aggressive stream of scalding water, his broad back shielding you from the high pressure, steam blurring the tiles and the mirror. You pressed your face into his neck, hands splayed over his chest, feeling it heave with his low, rumbling chuckle.

“ That’s the best I could do. This place is trash,” he scoffed, lips grazing your ear.

“ It’s perfect,” you laughed.

Another notification lights up your screen, yanking you back into the stifling cab of the sedan, to the nagging cramp poking your rib cage, to your hindered breathing.

It glowers at you, bold black letters over a steel gray rectangle.

MESSAGES

Adrian

Your eyes flicker back to the red truck, your face crunching into a grimace.

“Shit,” you grit, grabbing the phone and quickly pressing the home button before you can change your mind.

The lock screen fades as the message app pops open. You squint against the brightness of the glowing white screen.

I made it, babe. I fucking made it. You’re talking to the new senior partner of Balmer & Steigt. Fuck yeah. I finally get what I fucking deserve.

The gray ellipses start blinking underneath the bubble. You frown, bracing yourself.

I couldn’t have made it without you. This is your victory as much as mine.

You scoff, but the dread-inducing ellipses keep bouncing happily. Fantastic. There’s more coming.

I got you something. Something fancy for my fancy girl.

“Oh, hell no.”

Leaning down, you pick up the roomy I ❤ NY tote bag Ava got you as a Christmas present and dump your phone into it, before stuffing the bag under your seat.

If only you could take a full breath. If only your chest would expend. It’s not that bad, really. A few months back, you would have been physically unable to keep going with your day after that conversation with your father. Let alone drive. You’d have suffocated, chocked up on your panic, until you’d been left with no choice other than to gulp down a pill, or two, or three, topped off with a swig of gin. The bitter taste of surrendering.

Is that what it means, to give oneself some grace? You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re doing your best.

Closing your eyes, you exhale through pursed lips and ease down your shoulders.

He had you called into his office by his secretary, as you were about to leave, bag in hand, counting steps.

But you were expecting it. In all honesty, you’re surprised it’s taken him this long. Four weeks since you came back from Beaver Creek. Four weeks of defying his strict, outdated, misogynistic dress-code.

The very first morning, you stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator on the 15th floor wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose button-up, the sleeves folded high on your forearms. And flat derbies.

Nervousness, sitting heavy and queasy in the pit of your stomach, beating loud against your eardrums. Prickling under your armpits, raising the hair on your nape.

Kaytee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of you walking by her office, before she remembered to police her expression. The shock on her face turned into something else, something worse. Lurking in the lift-up corner of her lips, in the smugness coloring her cheeks. Something sardonic. Condescension.

“ You can’t spend your life trying to be someone else. ” Ava’s words through the receiver the previous night were a dizzying swirl inside your head, as you walked down the glass corridors, coworkers and subordinates watching you with a similar shocked expression, that blurred their features into one subdued, frightened face.

But who the fuck am I, Ava? you wanted to ask, the only sound on the line that of your short breathing. How did you know who you were? Always. From the very beginning of your life. How did you know how to be so unapologetic about it?

Had it been your gift to her? Does self-confidence require love? Or guidance? Is it innate?

All you know, at this point in your life, is that wearing clothes that you chose for yourself seems like a sound first measure. One that you can actually undertake.

And with that in mind, you stepped into your father’s office, your heart pulsating in your throat, to take a seat across from him, his clear desk standing like a wide canyon between you.

Now, your steps are nearly silent on the shifting gravel, as you walk across the parking lot, fingers brushing along the cool metal of the truck as you pass it by. That pull toward Frankie propelling you forward, inescapable, irresistible despite the nasty sensation oozing down along your legs like thick-flowing tar, weighing your gait.

On the porch, you pause. On Friday evenings, this is when you shed your old skin. Healing wounds, scar tissues. When you set your eyes on the canopy as it swallows the sun, pink-orange dusk fading to dark. Grainy photographs, forgotten vacations. This is when your spine straightens, when you take in the horizon and let it deepen your breathing. When you ready yourself for the life you’ve chosen, between the brown carpet and the yellow curtains and his arms.

But it’s already night. The darkness has erased the horizon and your old skin won’t shed.

The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.

The first thing you see is the crease between his brow. The tick of his whiskered jaw, and then, his dark brown eyes, appraising the tension that winds up your body, appraising your silence. His grunt, like an echo, distant.

“You sat in that car forever. I was about to come out and get you.”

The concern in his voice rattles something deep inside your belly. You’re not bringing any of it inside that room of yours, you think, as he pushes away from the door to let you in, as you cross the threshold, but it’s stuck to you. Your father’s voice. The tremendous power it still holds over you. His disappointment. Your failures, plural. All the wrong choices.

His hat is set on the desk. His suede jacket is draped over the back of the angular wooden chair. Your gaze lingers on it, you can almost feel the comforting softness of the fabric under the pads of your fingers.

He stands a few feet away from you, giving you space. Dark mahogany searching your features, your posture. His hands propped on his hips, like that other night in the parking lot, after he’d seen the fresh scar in your hairline.

You face away from him. The smell of the room is familiar, in a comforting way. Musty. Dust and the faintest perfume of industrial laundry detergent coming from the starched sheets. He’s pulled the bedspread off the bed. It’s folded neatly on the floor underneath the window. It rises tears along your throat, the idea of him prepping himself, prepping the place, alone in this room where you’ve waited for him countless times and hours. Guilt scrambles your brain, over what, you’re not entirely certain. Keeping him waiting? You failures, plural. All the wrong choices.

“Lee.”

His voice seeps in through the blackness coating your skin, like warm and persistent little droplets of sweet amber.

You turn to face him, at last. An awkward upper-body twist, feet rooted to the brown carpet, teeth clenched around the lump in your throat. He’s wearing that gray threadbare t-shirt you love, the one with a v-neck, and your eyes find the dip at the base of his throat, the fireworks of freckles between his collarbone. Tears well up, too strong to hold back, and you shut your eyes to the muffled sound of his booted steps on the matted carpet.

You’re drifting, enveloped in his warmth, his scent, leather and musk. The contact of his skin as he curls a large hand around your nape, tucking your face into the curve of his strong neck.

His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, flush to his chest, and he presses his chin to your temple. You let go, surrender, honey dripping thick and golden along your loosening limbs.

His pulse beats solid and steady against your cheek. You breathe him in, a hindered inhale at first, and when your shoulders begin to drop, a deeper one. A single tear escapes. It rolls down the round of your cheek into his skin. Your palms skim up to the plane of his back, soaking in his heat, and he presses you in harder, his forearm aligning with your spine, fingers spreading at the base of your skull.

Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in.

Later, after he’s helped you climb into the cab of his truck, you keep your eyes on him as he rounds the red hood.

Sitting behind the wheel, he puts the key in the ignition and, looking at you, tilts his head to the left.

“C’mere,” he says, and you scoot next to him, biting down a relieved sigh as you slide over the seat bench.

He leans over your lap, grabbing the middle seat belt, and buckles you in, then himself. You settle in, with your head against his shoulder, and your hand on his thigh, soft cotton, worn denim. Under your touch, his firm muscles ripple as he drives you into the night, into oblivion. The steady motion lulling you to sleep.

Alongside the deserted road, trees and bushes roll out in the headlights as the truck swallows miles and miles of asphalt.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble after a while, fighting drowsiness.

“Don’t be. You wanna talk about it?” he adds after a pause.

“No.”

You shake your head, your voice so low you’re not certain he’s heard your answer.

“Doesn’t have to be now,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Your head bobs with his bunching muscles as he releases the wheel to bend his arm at the elbow, fingers threading through your hair. Without lifting his eyes off the road, he leans in, and pecks a pointed kiss on the crown of your head.

Your eyes close. The image of the bedspread neatly folded underneath the window flashes through your mind. You can’t seem to get used to his tender gestures, to his attentions. You hope they will never stop. You hope you will never get used to them.

The emotion washes over you, a soft wave, and you float with it. In the cab of his truck, in his scent and his hold, you feel free of all doubts. Fear and pain cannot find you here. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced so far, a strange feeling, potent and all encompassing, albeit one that doesn’t need to be dulled or tamed.

The words come out of your mouth as a surprise.

“I think I don't want it to define me anymore. My family, I mean. Where I come from.”

This is a new state of mind. Or perhaps it’s been there for a while, a mere shadow on the wall, something you couldn’t clearly discern. Suddenly simple to comprehend and articulate.

“Yea. I get it,” he says.

And you know he does.

You open your eyes, and take in a deep breath, fill your lungs with that distinct old leather scent that clings about him, and the smell of vintage Bakelite from the dashboard, so specific to his truck.

“Music?” you ask.

“Sure, good idea. You like Jefferson Airplane?”

You nod, brushing your cheek against the cottony fabric of his t-shirt, leaving a little bit of you there, for him to find later.

“Yes. I like them.”

“Jefferson Airplane it is, then,” he answers.

Gently, he bends forward, mindful not to nudge you too much, and turns on the stereo. His thick fingers push the tape that’s already there into the slot, and your lips curl with an explicit thought, unlike any you used to have before meeting him. Crude, but welcome pictures that now constantly crowd your brain.

He keeps the volume low, and with the round rumbling of his quiet humming, your mind slowly drifts off again.

You’re about to fall asleep when a thought surfaces, skirting the edges of your consciousness.

“Frankie?” you quietly call.

“Mmh?”

“Are you… Were you in the military?”

The humming stops, his silence abrupt, and his shoulder tenses under your cheek. Pushing away from it, you risk a sleepy glance at his face, plunged in the semi-darkness. It’s not dark enough that you don’t recognize the cocking of his jaw.

“Frankie?” you ask again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m a pilot,” he cuts in, pausing to inhale deeply. “I was in the Army for nearly twenty years. I got a discharge a couple years back.”

You remain silent. His eyes flicker quickly between you and the road, and you give his thigh a strong squeeze with your left hand, before resting your cheek against his shoulder, eluding his searching gaze.

Volunteers is crackling through the speakers, but you don’t hear the music. Fully awake now, your mind is reeling with those scattered, minute parts of him you picked up Friday after Friday to stash them away in your subconscious. His puzzle of shadows. All the things that now make perfect sense, and the ones you’re dying to unravel.

His quiet assertiveness. His hands, quick and sure. His silences. His commanding tone. That long, sideways scar etched on his left flank.

His early rage, and his anger too. The flight forward, dimming his eyes, where deep rich mahogany now glimmers.

The zip ties. Your eyes grow wide, a gasping sound catching in your throat. You’re not ready to address how much you appreciate this particular skill of his, considering where he picked it up.

Your imagination produces a clear vision of him in a US Air Force uniform, the fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, and you bite your lip, your entire body covering in chills.

Frankie has yet to say another word. Something raises your consciousness, something in the scowl sharpening his features as he scanned your face for a reaction.

Images flash through your head. The 8 × 10 picture displayed in your father’s office in its platinum frame, for every visitor to admire. Smooth faced and confident, his sleeves rolled up high on his lean forearms, your father’s shaking hands with Reagan in front of a colorful assemblage of containers, in the industrial quarter of the Tampa Bay Harbor, during the 1984 campaign. His coldly handsome face split by a smile, larger and more genuine than any of those he ever addressed you, let alone Ava.

Recollections of those dragging hours you spent in church as a child, beads of sweat dripping along your spine as you sat in the sweltering heat on a hard wooden bench, rigid and still like a marble statue for fear of being reprimanded.

The hateful, vehement speeches your father would burst into at random, your mother pinching your arm for you to listen, this is important. The uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, like bile, like nausea. Wrong. This is wrong. A feeling, not an idea yet. It grew with you, expending, to become impossible to see past by the time you started high.

The list of names in your father’s neat handwriting, scrawled on a crisp piece of paper, that he handed you before driving the entire family to the polls for your very first election. The sheer terror, primitive in its hold over you, prickling on your nape as you systematically disregarded his instructions, choosing the names followed by the three letters DEM.

The rare political meetings you secretly attended in college, the pamphlets in loud colors and bold letters, that you read hidden from your roommate’s prying eyes, as if they were satanic verses. Reproductive rights! Demilitarization Now! No to privatized prisons! End gun violence!

Petitions you signed with a shaking hand, because what if your parents found out? What if they heard of it? A dread so profoundly anchored at the very core of your psyche that you have never told Ava any of it, even when she would chastise your lack of interest in politics, your lack of involvement, lest she’d reveal your treason to them in the heat of an argument.

Could this be when you started finding yourself? In your diverging convictions? Could it be enough? Could it count?

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask tentatively.

He huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re a hell of a fast learner, aren’t you?”

“I have a very good teacher,” you shrug, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone.

Curiosity overthrowing your ingrained fear to displease, you ask, “What kind of aircraft do you fly? Planes? Helicopters?”

He simply nods, and your cheeks heat again at the notion, your heart racing.

“I’m very impressed,” you whisper. “I can barely parallel park.”

“I’m sure you got plenty of other skills,” he answers, softer.

“No. I really don’t.”

—

Frankie walks briskly across the parking lot, carrying a take-away bag and a six-pack of beer. His head hung low to shield his face from the thin, mid-February drizzle. His denim shirt sticks to his back with humidity, and sweat from the drive. It’s pulled uncomfortably taut across his shoulders.

He steps onto the porch, hands too full to open the door or even knock on it, so he gives it three light kicks. A tiny screw pops out from the curved top of the brass number two. The whole thing swivels upside down, swinging like a pendulum.

“Jesus christ, this fucking place,” he scoffs.

The door flies open, and you’re here, with that bright, earnest smile and your wide, luminous eyes. You’ve tied your hair up in a casual do, but you’re still fully dressed. He likes those slacks on you, snug on your curves, wide on your legs. It fits you so much better than the tight pencil skirts you used to wear when he first met you. Those made you look like an 80s porn producer fever dream. But these trousers transform your gait, your entire demeanor, into something more relaxed. More confident. He could watch you strut around the room for hours. If only there was more time.

He catches a glimpse of the mesh fabric of your bra, peeking out from the cleavage of your open shirt, and he mentally curses the corporate fucks who get to work all week around you.

“Hey, Frankie.”

The sharp, familiar pang rips through his chest at the sound of your voice, light and cheery. That ache he waits for seven excruciatingly long days to experience again.

“Hey, baby.”

As you let him in, he feels the tip of your fingers brushing his thigh, as if you need to make sure he’s here in the flesh. The miracle of you wanting him, still.

“What’s in the bag?” you ask, dragging the chipped chair away from the desk, so he can set down his bounty.

His eyes fall on your graceful nape as you crane your neck to see what’s inside the bag, too well-behaved to touch it without having been invited to do so.

“Didn’t have time to eat. I took something for you too, I hope you don’t mind. Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

“I don’t usually eat before I come here,” you admit. “I drive in straight from work,” you add, heat visibly creeping up your neck and ears.

He takes off his hat, ruffling a hand through his hair to conceal a smug smile.

“And you’re not starving, by the time I’m finished with you?”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I feel pretty full when you leave.”

Your lips stretch into a wide grin you’re ineffectively trying to hold back.

“That so?” he chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. For countenance.

Pride glimmers in your eyes, as it does every time you make him laugh. He knows it’s mirrored in his eyes. Your levity is his reward.

Everything about you is unbearably endearing. He’s not sure if he’s hungry for food anymore, or if he’s not going to go straight down on you. You’ve already prepared the bed, that ugly bedspread neatly folded under the window. He could lay you prone on your stomach, lower your trousers to your knees, perk up your pretty ass and eat your sweet cunt from behind.

His hunger for you sizzles along his spine, sparkling in his loins, imperious and distracting. The sensation is delicious, and for once, he takes the time to revel in it. He’s so used to barging in here and just taking. He doesn’t savor, not really, not until after he’s had you at least once.

He’s not proud of his unbridled hunger, the consequence of seven days’ worth of pent-up frustration, chasing your perfume on his clothes and the ghost feeling of your cool, smooth skin under his palms. That ever-growing obsession for your scent, for your eyes, and that crippling craving for the sounds you produce when he moves inside you. That high he gets when he makes you feel good. Every time he gives you what you want.

And there’s the absolute black-out on all communications between you throughout the week that drives him out of his mind. He knows that’s the tacit deal the two of you struck at the very beginning. No phone number, no address, no marks. Hell, he didn’t even know your name until you gave it to him at Christmas. Only, he’s left in the dark for seven consecutive fucking days, with no means to check up on you, and no way to make sure you’re safe.

He understands the necessity for secrecy. But the more time passes, the less it makes sense.

So come Friday night, he needs to crush you under his weight. Needs to feel your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers and hear you mewl his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body tensing up in his hold before it shatters around his cock.

He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his.

And his control might be tenuous, but he sure loves the way you lean into it.

You’re still smiling when he takes a step closer behind you. Lowering his face into the curve of your neck, he inhales you there, that spot behind your ear, where your subtle scent becomes heady. He feels your chest rising with your own deep breathing, and he pictures your eyes fluttering shut. His hand skims the curve of your hip, sliding up to the swell of your breast over the smooth fabric of your shirt, gripping you roughly as he takes your earlobe between his lips and sucks on it. His hips move against your ass of their own volition, his cock half-hard, fucking twitching.

“Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea?”

He licks a broad stride up your neck, collecting the tangy taste of your skin, mixed with the chemical one of your perfume.

“What’s in the bag?”

“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”

It’s a beat before he can detach himself from you. His cock is beating hard and angry against the confining fabric of his jeans. With a light brush of his knuckles along your side, he reminds himself there’s also pleasure in the anticipation. The word sits in the back of his throat, like a knife ready to bleed him dry. Concupiscence.

Ripping the paper bag open in the middle, he smooths both sides neatly over the desk, and points at the three rolls wrapped in tin foil.

“Took three burritos, and some fried beans. There’s one beef, one pork, and one vegetarian, in case you don't eat meat.”

You look at him with a twinkle in your eyes, your grin getting wider than he’s ever seen it. He braces a hand flat on the desk.

“Oh, I eat meat, I thought you’d know that.”

The words have barely left your mouth that you burst into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both hands.

“Christ, woman!” he laughs. “Alright, sit down. Let’s get proper food into that mouth of yours, for once.”

Together, you unfold the bedspread and arrange it over the foot of the bed. The thing is already stained, and you mutually agree there’s no need to make a mess of the white sheet just yet.

Letting you pick between the two richer ones, he takes the vegetarian burrito, and you start eating together, two open cans of beer at your feet.

His bites are ravenous, while you nibble gingerly at your food, holding the burrito with two hands, the foil crackling between your fingers. After a few bites, however, you start eating in bigger chunks.

“This is delicious,” you moan with your mouth full.

Is he getting jealous of a fucking burrito now? Is that where he’s at?

“What, you never had a burrito in your life?”

You wince, and he immediately regrets the teasing skepticism of his tone.

Setting the food down, you dab a paper towel to the corner of your mouth, catching a fleck of sauce. There’s grace in all your movements, even the tiniest ones.

“My mother monitored everything I ate. God forbid I put on any weight,” you explain, a hint of bitterness in your voice.

He lowers his hands, eyes trained on your averted gaze.

“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell him, looking up at him.

There’s that quiet resignation painted all over your face.

“Try me.”

“You’re thinking I’m a grown woman, old enough to make her own decisions.”

He shakes his head. “Was actually thinking your mother sounds like the exact opposite of mine.”

Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.

“I don't judge you, Lee. We all do what we can with what we got dealt with.”

A slight frown knits your brow, as you seem to consider his words.

He has spent a lot of time, lately, reflecting over his own choices, and the many places where they’ve led him, for better or for worse.

Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria. Libya and the most dangerous places in sub-Saharan Africa. Nearly everywhere in South America. Twice over.

Over the fucking Andes, and to Tom’s funeral.

Choices that also made him Lua’s father.

Crossroads that have taken him all the way to that shithole bar, last year at the end of August. Conscious decisions that brought him here, into this room. Into your arms. Into your life.

A chain reaction he wouldn’t alter, he knows it now, even if he was given the chance for a do-over.

He used to consider things as definite. Choices as absolute and irrevocable. It took him becoming a father, and meeting you, to understand his mother’s words. Paso a paso, she’d say, watching him with a tender, knowing smile as he rushed toward his life. Paso a Paso, Francisco.

You eat in silence for a while, and he keeps watching you. That sharp pain solidly entrenched inside his chest, blooming through his heart, he has to make a conscious effort to breathe around it.

He bought you the food you’re eating right now. Drove to his favorite place, stood in line and placed his order with you in mind. And you’re enjoying it. In fact, you’re demonstrating an impressive appetite, hungrier, messier with every bite. Sauce dripping down your chin. Pink flashes of tongue licking it from between your fingers.

He could get used to that. Providing for you. Taking care of you. In more than just one way. Sharing the mundane routine of a daily life together.

But this is not real. Whatever is happening between the four walls of this shitty motel is not ground for life-altering choices.

“Do you want to share the pork one?” you ask, crinkling the tinfoil wrapper into a compact ball.

“I’m good, baby,” he answers with a soft smile. “You can have it. Just make sure you’re still hungry for more meat when you’re done.”

—

Adrian has gifted you a new purse from another French luxury brand. It’s a square-shaped thing cut from some grayish reptile skin, with a matching tag and a decorative lock hanging from its handle. It looks insanely expensive and ridiculously vulgar, its tackiness almost cruelly ironic. Like a rich people’s inside joke.

Somehow, you’re vaguely aware this model is exclusive and can’t be bought online or even in stores, however high-end. It has to be ordered, and there’s a waiting list. Useless knowledge you probably gathered from one of your mother’s magazines. A family of four could most likely live comfortably for a whole year for the price of this thing.

Incidentally, there’s a new perfume clinging to Adrian’s clothes when he comes home late at night. The first time you caught a whiff of the heady fragrance, intense vanilla and white musk, it reminded you of the stunning blonde with feline hazel eyes.

The gift immediately felt less like an expression of gratitude for your support than like a reward for your silent compliance. But it’s of little to no importance. The bag sits idly at the bottom of your walk-in dressing. Unused, containing what’s left of the love and respect you once harbored for the man.

Every so often, you think about it, as you cruise along the 589. It makes you smile. A wide, Cheshire cat grin, one that bares your front teeth, and you wonder if it’s cruel of you to smile about the end of something that used to mean so much. Something that meant nearly everything. You wonder if you’ve ever been cruel before. Intentionally, that is.

Then, you conclude you don’t care. This particular kind of cruelty feels far too good. Too righteous. You could get used to it.

And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound.

—

“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”

“Oh god, Frankie, I don’t know…” you moan, too distracted to think straight.

Teeth ghosting a bite over your neck, he wraps a kiss around your skin, sucking on it. Not sharply enough to bruise, but enough for you to clench hard around him.

In the past few weeks, he’s become playful. It’s new to you. Was it always a part of him, constituent but buried underneath the scars and the years, or was it born from your touch?

He’s become talkative, too. Talkative, and curious. But then again, perhaps he always was. Only, not with you.

Thus, there are new rituals between you. Secrets exchanged behind the shielding partition of the yellow curtains. Murmurs shared underneath the droning of the ceiling fan, in the golden lighting from the quaint bedside lamps.

Some of his questions can pose a challenge. You’re not always certain about the proper answer. The right one. You were raised to say what was expected of you. Taught to speak to please, not to speak your mind. To wait for your cue, and hold your thoughts in between.

Frequently, you hesitate, afraid to trip on your words.

But he doesn’t easily relent. He’s playful and curious. But above all, he’s patient and persistent.

“I don’t know,” you repeat.

“You know. Come on.”

“Okay, um… Lewis Carroll. I love– I love Alice.”

“Oh yea? You do? You like following big white rabbits to strange places, huh?”

His chest shakes with his raspy chuckle, and you laugh, until he pulls you in closer, sheathing himself deeper inside you, and your laughter plummets into a throaty groan.

Seamlessly, these new ceremonials have replaced the old ones, the ones that were carried out under wary gazes, in appraising silence.

Now, you don’t always count your steps on Fridays, but you leave work earlier, and when you arrive at the motel, you try to engage Raul in conversation. His discomfort is obvious, bordering on annoyance, as you disrupt his concentration while he’s busy drawing charcoal landscapes of jagged mountains. But these past two weeks, he seems to have loosened up a bit. Either you’re wearing him off, or he’s trying to get rid of you faster.

On the porch, in front of room number 2, you watch the sun slowly sink into the canopy of trees in an explosion of tangerine pink. Every week, the sunset creates a different palette of orange, but your emotion continues to be whole and unaltered.

Before stepping in, you flick the upside-down brass number. It smiles in greeting, swinging on its one remaining screw.

You wish the place carried Frankie’s scent. It never does, of course. As you fold the comforter and prop it under the windowsill, the only smells wafting around are that of laundry detergent, dust, and the faintest hint of mold.

There’s nothing tangible for you to hold on to in his absence, and this is by far the most difficult. It creates a vacuum, a fertile soil for foul, festering thoughts. Doubt, dread, agitation. During those seven days apart, there is no text or voicemail on your phone you can turn to for reassurance. No photo booth pictures stashed inside your wallet. No clothes of his to drape over your body and keep you warm and safe. Keep you sane.

Every so often, when you cannot find sleep, you convoke the memory of his gray t-shirt, the one with the v-neck and the pilled fabric. The sensation of the slightly rugged cotton under the pads of your fingers. The immediate comfort gently lulls you to sleep.

There is one thing, one thing only: the receipt from the burrito place, that you retrieved from the wastebasket after he’d left, that one time he brought you food. It’s tucked between two pages of your Moleskine planner. You’re not sure whether it’s cute or downright pathetic.

You had thought the want, the yearning, would ease with time. It only kept spreading to every corner of your existence, every aspect of your life. Instead of only missing his touch, you now miss his voice, too. His choice of words, the cadence of his speech, the pace of his gait. His crinkled-eyes, dimpled smile. The way he rolls up his sleeves, leaves the top buttons of his shirt open, and the way he undresses. His three-finger hold on his glass. His long reflecting pauses before he speaks. The freedom and safety you experience with him.

You just became better at handling the longing. Recently, you have become very good at handling numerous things. Quietly but steadfastly defying your father’s injunctions to comply with his dress code. Adrian’s glaring eyes of blue, their silent judgement. Ava living a life of her own, far away from you.

Reading helps. You hadn’t read in years, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. Now, you carry a book with you everywhere in your I ❤ NY tote. In these last moments before he walks into the room, you lie on your side across the motel bed, your head propped on your hand, and you read.

And when Frankie arrives, everything makes sense again, everything is justified.

The wooden door creaks open, the brass number swiveling frantically, and his relief upon seeing you lights up the dim room. Hushed greetings, his large hands curling at your waist, pulling you into him, a husk of Hey, baby, his lips barely leaving yours while he tugs at your clothes, undressing you already.

There’s rarely any other form of preamble beyond an occasional variation of Fuck, I really missed you, Lee , his teeth trailing down the line of your throat, sinking in just shy of a bite. Out of breath, out of time.

The wait is over.

Does he still come here to escape? Does he come here for you? His urgency hasn’t abated. But his intent feels different.

Stop me, skin on skin, chest to chest, the weight of his body covering yours, calloused hands hooked on your shoulders for purchase, pounding into you loud and ruthless.

Stop me, crouched over you like a devouring beast, his face buried into the crook of your neck, shallow breaths and gripping hands, grinding deep inside your heat.

Stop me, and what you hear is, I trust you.

Deep grunts thrumming out of his throat, tumbling from his plush lips into your skin, a searing branding, an invisible mark.

His plea. Lee.

He comes right after you do, pulling out just in time to spurt hot and thick over your arching body, or inside your wanting mouth.

Later, when his spend has dried on your skin, when he’s kissed the soreness better, when your breathing has slowed, he brings you a glass of water, and waits until you’ve drank it all to bury his face between your legs, or fuck your throat if you begged him to.

And on some Fridays, he goes by the desk to sit on the rectangular chair. He positions it sideways from the framed mirror. Says the reflection distracts you. It’s true.

You could spend hours watching him. Watching him move, watching him sleep. Watch the care he puts in the way he handles his clothes and his truck and your pliant body. Watch him button up his jeans or tie his belt around your wrists. Watch his curls catch the light as he combs his fingers through them, the working of his throat, the pulsating throb of his heartbeat in his strong neck. The dip in his collarbone. The darker scar on his side. The muscles of his shoulders and his back, rippling under his freckled skin. Watch, and map those freckles with your lips.

You could spend the rest of your life with him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, with a little tilt of his head, and a light pat on his thigh.

You get up from wherever he left you lying, the bed, the rough carpeting, the bathroom tiles, and walk over to him on wobbly legs. There, he draws you into his lap in a face-away straddle, his hands on your waist guiding you, firm and gentle, as he makes room for himself inside of you. The tip of your toes barely reach the carpet once you’re seated, and you have to rely entirely on him for balance. You like that.

He braces his strong arms around you, and you keep your fingers curled around them, reclining against him, against his warmth. You like the sticky sensation of your combined sweats gluing your loose bodies. Your back molds to his chest like it was shaped for this very purpose.

Your head tips back onto his firm shoulder, and he props his chin in the curve of your neck. The slight swaying of your hips is languid and slow, barely perceivable, in the same way the earth’s revolution around the sun is imperceptible to its inhabitants.

Time lingers, in long lazy stretches, infinite moments in the amber lighting of the room, in the friendly shadows. In the heart of the night, and the folds of your existence. The low husk of his voice like honey in your ears, his words vibrating from his chest to your back, to your core.

You can hear the smile in his tone. If you close your eyes, you can see it.

He asks about your taste in books, music or movies, food and entertainment, and tells you about his. Silly games of Would you rather? and Never have I ever.

Scrunching up your nose under your pinched brow, brain cells scrambling back together inside your hazy brain, you try to produce coherent answers as his lush lips trace intricate patterns along your skin, your throat, your shoulders, nimble fingertips rolling your nipples into hardened peaks. A scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet glide of his tongue, soothing over your flushed skin.

Sometimes, you feel so full it’s overwhelming. The sensation, the emotion strangles the air out of you. Your cunt flutters around the thick, stiff girth of him, and he lets out a gravelly groan, cock throbbing inside your snug walls. Your slick pools down onto the coarse curls at his base. It’s like a virtuous circle. Everything feels right with him.

After a while, when you’ve melted inside, when amber twirls in your bloodstream and your thoughts have turned to swirling molasses, his hand slides down along your stomach. His calloused fingers parting your folds, he starts rubbing at your clit, telling you that it’s time to come for me, baby.

And when you do, he comes with you, shoving you down and deep onto his pulsating length, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth pressed to that sensitive spot over your pulse point, his feverish grunts sizzling against your damp skin.

When he comes inside you, when you come together, you are made brand-new. Anything’s possible. There’s nothing you can’t do.

The elating sensation is your favorite daydream, sitting at your desk, over dinner, stuck in traffic, or in the blue hours before dawn. It sustains you throughout the week. The promise of it tingles in tense anticipation, from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, when you watch him walk over to the desk and fold his tall, massive figure into the ugly chair.

Week after week, question after question, you come into focus between his arms. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. You keep getting better at it.

It’s a bittersweet ache, tender and addictive, to learn about his existence outside this room of yours. The borderless confines of his life. Of him. The details he chooses to confide in you, about his childhood, his past, and his present, in the dead of the night, his body wrapped around yours, chasing the contact of your skin. Chasing your touch, your softness, your understanding, when he used to grunt away from it. Like a threat, with bared teeth, and a shake of his head. A forbidding. A not yet.

It makes sense to you now. There’s an absolute about him. An all or nothing. You’re not sure when it happened. The tipping point. Perhaps in the bathroom, on that sunny morning after Christmas, when he crowded you against the sink with a wolfish look turning his gorgeous face dark and threatening. You think it was meant to scare you. One last attempt. Your last chance to recoil and escape.

You didn’t. You kept blooming, unfurling into your own limbs under the dark depth of his gaze, reflected in the black-edged mirror. You pressed back into him, the solid, steadying bulk of his body, of his broad chest. You pushed back and sunk deeper into his world.

Today, he had to scoop you up from the floor where you were lying, boneless, in the wet mess he drew out of you.

When he stormed into the room, you could still hear the engine of the truck revving. A scowl shadowed his face. Fidgety, tightly wound up, he began undressing you without a word. Unceremonious in his need, an echo of those early days, when he was imprisoned in his past, when his strength was unrestrained, when violence was his sole language.

Fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders, carding through his hair, you sought eye contact, softly cooing, I’m here, Frankie, I’m here, until your voice got through him. Until he heard you, slowing down, drawing you close. His forehead smearing sweat over your temple, his ragged breathing fanning the shell of your ear. His fist clutching the fabric of your shirt in a ball, with a push-pull motion, torn and primal, I need it, Lee. Please, I need you.

You relented, gave into it, lose and pliant as he bent you over the desk with a press of his palm, flat between your shoulder blades, as he pulled your panties to the side and lined himself up, as he thrust into you in one ruthless shove, down to his base. The clasp of his watch biting into your flesh. He was still fully clothed.

Pulling on your wrists with an iron grip, he drilled into you at a brutal pace, skin catching at your entrance along his length, and you bit your lips through it, nearly drawing blood, until, at the very center of you, the pain turned into something blindingly pleasurable, bright and searing. A shockwave, erupting from your core, fast spreading along your limbs, lighting up every nerve-ending.

Tensing under his constraining hold, bucking against his grip, you cried out his name, your back achingly stiff. Slick gushing out of you fast and hot, as your legs trembled uncontrollably, and through the din of it all, his rumbling growl, a guttural string of Fuck, before you slumped onto the desk and he fucked his own release into you.

When he let go of you, he had to lay you on the carpet, where he collapsed next to you, chest heaving with exertion. Time blurred, you might have spent the whole night lying there, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, but he got up to undress.

He’s cradling you on his lap now, gently rocking into you. The slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat aligned with yours, you’re bathed in his warmth, enveloped by his musky scent. You play along, searching your brain for answers. To his questions, and yours.

There’s no evidence of his earlier outburst, saved for his thumbs drawing circles on your wrists where his fingers left a bruising indent. And of course, the wet spot on the carpet.

Nuzzling your jawline, he trails a path of messy, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, capturing the tender skin between his plush lips, his tongue peeking through them.

“I should read it again. Alice. Read it so long ago. When I was a kid.”

Humming distractedly in agreement, your head lolls back on his shoulder.

“Did I hurt you, earlier?”

Your eyelids fly open. His voice is barely a murmur, no more than warm breath grazing your ear, and you feel him throb inside you.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability in his words shoots through your heart like a bullet. You free your arms to twine your fingers with his.

“What happened today, Frankie?”

His chest stiffens underneath you.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. It’s more… It’s the date.”

The overhead fan hums over the room, louder than your breathing, louder than his.

“A year ago, I agreed to a mission. With my former teammates. It was… It was bullshit. From the start. Nothing went as planned.”

He pauses and you wait, still and silent.

“One of us got killed.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing his hands with all of your strength.

A chilling, bone-deep dread settles over your body in the sweltering heat, so cold he can probably feel it. You don’t want him to.

“You said you resigned a couple of years ago?”

“I did. I worked for the private sector, on occasions. It’s over now.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Fuck no,” he snarls. “But some of my friends did. I– I had to go.” He clears his throat. “I chose to go.”

“Do you miss him?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. Lifting his hand in yours, you give his knuckles a long, open-mouthed kiss. His forehead rests heavy against the back of your head, his eyelashes a fluttering caress on your nape.

“For a long time, I felt responsible for his death.”

His words are dense with defeat. With sadness, and fatality. They sink heavily into you, into your bloodstream. You don’t need a mirror to know what his face looks like at this very moment. Your body will remember it, even if you live long enough to forget your own name. The pitch-blackness of his beautiful eyes, the stern crease splitting his brow, imploring for your touch. The tightness in his jaw. The downward curve of his plush lips.

That first night at the motel comes back rushing like a flood, like a wildfire. His roughness, the urgency saturating his actions, the anger in his grief. His bleeding wounds, invisible, evident, glaring. He reached for you through his despair, clutching your body, clinging to the idea of you.

Are you real?

I don’t know.

A dry sob wells up in your throat, but you swallow it down.

“What do you think now?”

“I think it doesn’t matter who’s responsible for his death. His girls are still orphaned.”

Between your lungs, the wild creature curls up into a ball. Its tears fill up your heart. There isn’t any pill or alcohol strong enough to numb this pain of yours. But it doesn’t matter. You want to feel what he feels.

You turn around. You kiss him.

—

“What about this one?”

He should be leaving soon. But your body’s soft and relaxed, curled into his side on the rumpled bed. Pleasantly cool in the muggy atmosphere of the motel room, in the dawn’s indigo hues. Your thin fingers hover gracefully over his skin, tracing the outlines of his scars, and it’s like you’re reshaping his entire body, all of his wounds, and his whole life, with the gentle touch of your fingertips.

“Frankie, what’s this one?”

He should be leaving soon. The sun’s about to come up.

“Did you save it for last because it’s the largest?” he deflects with a smirk.

Folding an arm over his chest, you prop your chin over it, frowning exaggeratedly with your jaw shifting to the side. He laughs so hard that your head bobbles with his shaking belly.

“That supposed to be an impression of me?”

“You recognized yourself,” you smile, sitting up next to him.

He should be leaving soon. And you know it. You’re giving him the space he needs to get up and get out. He fucking hates it.

“Stay here,” he says, curling his fingers around your arm as you’re about to get down from the bed.

The look you give him awakens the pain in his chest. You peer through the curtains, into the blue morning sky, and your gaze returns to him with a silent question.

“Come on. Please. Just a little longer.”

It’s not lost on him that he should be the one getting up. Not pleading.

The mattress creaks in protest as you move over it on your knees, sitting in a straddle across his hips.

“Yea, that’s better,” he smiles, smoothing his palms over your thighs. His left hand slides up to palm your breast, and he notices he hasn’t taken off his watch, tonight. It’s the second time this month.

“What’s this one?” you ask again, entirely undistracted, measuring up your hand to the length of the darker patch of skin.

“Okay,” he sighs, “I crashed a chopper near– wait, I can’t actually tell you that.”

“Jesus, Frankie,” you gasp, spreading both hands over the old wound, as if to stop a ghost bleeding. Your eyes have grown so wide, they eat up half your face.

��It’s okay, baby, it’s old. Wasn’t a big deal.”

It had been a big deal, at the time. There had been talks of awarding him a Silver Star for that mission.

“Did it hurt?”

“Mostly my pride. It wasn’t that bad, don’t worry. Nothing compared to what my sister threatened to do to me if I didn't leave the Army.”

“I can’t say I blame her. I would have probably done the same.”

“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”

His left thumb skims along the thin line on your inner thigh, and he feels you tensing under his touch.

“It’s nothing,” you snap, taking your hands off his skin as if you just got burnt.

He presses his thumb into your soft flesh. The pain in his chest accentuates, radiating down to his stomach.

“You’re cheating,” he says, as softly as he can.

You face away from him, gaze flickering up to the window again, and you start moving away, but he holds you firmly in place with both hands on your waist.

“Lee. Tell me what it is.”

Seconds turn into minutes, the only sound in the room that of the ceiling fan’s motor, and the pain grows stronger, pulsating from his neck to his gut. Your eyes remain trained on the window, lost somewhere beyond the curtains.

“I had several more like this,” you start. Your tone is detached, your voice distant. “Smaller ones. On the back of my arms. When I was 17, my mother took me to a dermatologist. He removed them with laser treatment.”

You pause, and look down at him.

“She got me fixed, so I could find a good husband.”

His fingers dig into your flesh. It’s a full minute before he remembers to breathe, through his nose, because he can’t unclench his jaw. The chest pain turns into blinding, white-hot rage. His truck is parked outside and in his mind, the sequence of actions is crystal clear. Get you dressed. Get you in the cab. Drive away with you as far as the road goes, and never come back here.

“It burnt like hel—“

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he cuts in.

“I’m really not, Frankie,” you calmly answer. “What I am is a coward.”

He sits up with a cinch, cupping your face so you can’t recoil from him. Somehow, this would be easier if you looked upset. If you were crying. Showing any kind of emotion, really. But you’re far beyond that.

“I can’t let you say that. Not when you risk everything to come here every week.”

“Alright, so I’m a selfish coward,” you say with a joyless little smile.

“No. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect girl. Say it.”

It’s there. Your unbending will, your steel-hard determination. In your defiant gaze and your pinched lips. In the distance you're trying to put between your body and his.

“Okay, fine. Don’t say it. I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me. I can be fucking persistent, you know?” he adds, falling back onto the pillows.

“I know you can,“ you say, lifting a leg off the bed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he nearly growls, a bruising grip on your thigh, “I’m not done with you.”

His clipped tone appears to be more effective on you. You sit back down, let your shoulders relax, and the palm of your hands find his skin again. Distant gaze, cold touch.

“What’s this one?” he asks, the blunt fingernail of his thumb grazing the grid-shaped scar on your left knee, his tone barely a question, and to his surprise, you come alive with a spark in your eyes.

“Oh! This one’s a good scar. I like it.”

You adjust your position over him, slotting your folds over his resting cock, and a coiling heat stirs in his loin.

“I had a bicycle when I was a kid. The most beautiful bicycle in the entire world. Red, the exact same shade as your truck. With a round cushion protection on the frame, I don’t know how you call that, and the letters MBK painted in white over it, you know the kind?”

He nods, and you continue talking.

“I would spend hours riding it. I would disappear for entire afternoons. It was heaven. And maybe you’re not going to believe me, but I was pretty reckless on that thing.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

You’re smiling again.

“Well, one day, I was too reckless. I hit the brakes too abruptly and I skidded over gravel. I flew ten feet away from the bike and I tore my knee open. I got home covered in blood, my parents were furious.”

A vengeful smile curves your lips, one he’s never seen on your face.

“They confiscated the bike. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike, and my father said– I can’t remember his exact words, probably 'you can’t damage my property,’ or something along those lines. They never let me on a bike again after that.”

“How’s that a happy story?” he frowns.

“I didn’t say it was a happy story. I said it’s a good scar. I got to keep this one. It reminds me of what I’m capable of. Even when I want to forget.”

The sun is rising. A new day colors the sky in vivid bronze. The light filters into the room through the yellow curtains, dust particles suspended in the air, suspended like Frankie’s life when he can’t be with you.

He should leave, but instead, he’s going to fuck you one more time. Pump you full of his come. Brand you with his essence, mark you as his in the only way he can before he has to let you go back to face those people who put murder on his mind.

His hands skim along your thighs to the swell of your ass, roughly kneading the round of your cheeks. His grip settles on your hips, and he bucks up into you, ever so lightly, his length hardening between your lips. He sees it on your face, on your profile bathed in the first ray of sunlight. The moment when you register his intention. The shift in your body, the echo to his desire. So powerful, so immediate, it’s almost like black magic. Your mouth parts open, your back arches. You press down on him.

“That serves him well, your father,” he says, sliding you slowly over his cock.

“How’s that?” you ask, voice laced with lust.

“Look what you’re riding now.”

—

The pillow is damp underneath your back, sweat exuding from your every pore. The last days of March have been unforgiving. You find yourself longing for a room with a proper air conditioning system, instead of the motel’s weak, outdated fan that only swishes hot air.

Frankie’s searing touch doesn’t help. Stroking the back of your arm in a repetitive up-and-down motion, he’s laying across the bed, his head resting heavy on your lap, his long hair curling in every direction in this sweltering atmosphere.

Instead of shying away from the discomfort, you embrace it. With your fingers twined in his locks, you lean into his touch, focusing on his high forehead, and the crease in his brow. On his long eyelashes, the curve of his lips as he speaks, the working of his throat.

Ignoring the dark blue rectangle of night sky, gradually lightening up behind the musty curtains.

Dawn used to be a deliverance. From your thoughts that the night painted black. From the wait, when Adrian wouldn’t come back. From a forced rest that never really came, another disappointment, another let down, another part of your life requiring the artificial help of chemicals.

Now, you resent it. Dawn is when Frankie leaves you behind to go back to his family. Dawn is when he’s the happiest, with his child, without you, in a realm over which you have no grasp.

A rational part of you acknowledges that it’s easier if he leaves before the sun rises. It prevents you from yearning for things you’re afraid to want. Things you cannot have. A life with him in broad daylight. A life without shame.

Recently, he’s become increasingly reluctant to let go of you. Dawn finds him wrapped around your body. Last week, he stayed past daybreak, and fucked you in the sunlight.

The brighter tone of his skin, the lighter shade of his curls, the depth of his mahogany irises hit by a sunbeam, everything was like a knife through your chest.

“Lee?”

The caressing timber of his husky voice brings you back to the soft amber light from the dusty lampshades, to the humming fan, and the blue rectangle.

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you like it. Your job.”

“God no, I hate it! Sales productivity statistics and accounting manager, can you picture me?”

He huffs his breathless chuckle, the one that sends tremors rippling through your chest.

“Not really, no.”

“I’m terrible at it, and it’s a problem, but no one says anything because daddy runs the company. I don’t understand why he insists on maintaining me in this position. It’s like a power play. He needs me to be miserable.”

Frankie’s hand pauses, fingers digging into your flesh, and he cranes his neck to peer at your face. You give him a reassuring smile. A genuine one.

“Is that what you studied at university? Accounting and statistics?”

You wipe your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yes. But university was a golden parenthesis. I minored in Russian literature. Not a skill that easily translates to the employment market, but Richard was thoroughly pissed,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows.

“My little punk.”

His smile is brighter than the midday sun. Your index finger darts to the dimple in his right cheek.

“I really like this,” you whisper, your voice dropping, thick with heat and arousal. With affection. “And these,” you add, scraping your fingernail over the bare patches on each side of his jaw.

“Mmh. I’ve noticed,” he says with a smug expression.

“Oh, you have?” You try to laugh off your embarrassment, but what comes out is a quivering sound, betraying the want that hinders your throat.

He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, closing his plush lips around your index finger, wrapping his tongue around it. Your belly quakes. You clench around nothing.

He releases your hand, and you hope he’ll get up and move over you, but instead, he reaches for your arm again, resuming his rhythmic strokes.

“So what would you do, if you didn’t do this?” he asks.

You sigh, glancing up, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror above the desk.

“I’ve no idea, really. I never allowed myself to consider the possibility.” And before he can prod any further, you add, “What about you? What would you have liked to do, if you hadn’t become a pilot?”

The diversion doesn’t fool him, you know it. You’re acutely aware of his gaze, scrutinizing your face. You picture the familiar, pensive frown. His hand leaves your arm as he suddenly gets up, air hitting your damp skin where his head was lying.

A few strides, and he steps into the bathroom, disappearing behind the partition wall. The tap runs for a moment, and there’s the distinct sound of wrung out fabric before he comes out, holding the hand towel.

You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become.

You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls.

And if you know all this, then, isn’t he yours?

He circles the bed over to your side, by the window, and sits next to you.

Delicately, his fingers circle your wrist. He lifts your arm, and brings your hand to his lips, nuzzling the relaxed curl of your fingers open, to press a kiss inside your palm. His eyes briefly flicker shut as he inhales the transparent skin of your inner wrist.

Lowering your arm, he starts running the towel along it and you jolt at the contact of the cold, wet fabric, letting out a short whimpering sound.

The sensation is sudden, seizing like an electrical shock, but the relief is immediate. The coolness radiates on the surface of your feverish skin, soothing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you relax into it.

“Maybe an architect,” he starts, the towel gliding up to your shoulder, “or a carpenter. Build stuff, for a change. Instead of destroying them.”

Goosebumps break out along your arms, on your nape, as he skims the towel over the plane of your chest in slow, meticulous movements. As he rounds your breasts with reverent care, one, then the other, your nipples tightening in peaked buds, the low rumble of his voice filling your mind, his words boring into your heart.

The towel brushes up, tracing your collarbone, left, then right. Higher along the column of your throat, curling to the side of your neck. A droplet of water rolls down between your breasts, running along your stomach to end its course into your navel. You sigh.

“I could… run a small business, building houses or crafting furniture. In a small town, somewhere up north. Somewhere with seasons,” he says.

The towel wipes over your trembling belly, over your mound, down your inner thigh. He’s slow, precise, thorough. Careful and gentle with your limp limbs. You’re sinking into the mattress, and floating over it all at once.

You lift a heavy eyelid, your dazed gaze landing on his gorgeous face. He’s solemn, focused on his task.

He readjusts his position on the mattress, so lightly the bed barely moves, and twists his torso to reach down your leg.

“You could be my accountant.”

Your eyes shoot open. He’s facing away from you, wiping the towel under the arch of your foot.

“The last thing you want is to have me as your bookkeeper,” you whisper, your heart beating in your throat.

He turns around, looking straight at you. Soft sad eyes, cold hard stare.

“That’s all I want for the rest of my life, Lee. Be with you night and day.”

—

Everything seems to hinge on you now.

His balance, his happiness, his redemption.

You filled a void, a hollowness inside his chest, he carries you with him wherever he goes. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green.

He tries to convince himself it’s harmless. That he’s not doing anything wrong. That it’s easier this way. Easier than the drugs, easier than placing that burden on his daughter’s shoulders. He tells himself the peace you bring him makes him a better man, and a better father. Makes him worthy again. There might even be some truth to it.

He’s not so sure if he deserves the second chance. If he deserves the parts of you that you confide in him. Your past, your regrets, your secret victories. Your hindered aspirations and the shores of your inner island, within his reach. The touch of your cool skin. The strength of your embrace. The veneration in your eyes. Your trust, your faith. Your time.

But he wants to believe it. It’s more of a fundamental need, really.

And as long as he’s with you, the illusion holds. When you’re sitting next to him in the truck, singing along to the tunes playing on the old crackling stereo as he drives to nowhere, when his body’s wrapped around yours in the dark, when he murmurs against your temple everything and anything that runs through his mind, when you’re coming undone between his hold, with his name on your lips. He believes he can be as good for you as you are for him.

But it’s a thin fabric. One that tears the very minute he steps outside the room, leaving your sleepy form tucked under the starchy sheet.

Day after day, until the next week, he’s left on his own to fence off the thoughts that plague him.

The voice inside him, relentless, somber, asking how much longer this can last. How long before the consequences on your life are irreversible? How long until that man who’s not your husband finds out, and takes action? What repercussions would you face, then?

He knows what he’d be capable of if he ever met him. He doesn’t like to think about it.

You won’t open up about your life with him, no matter how much he prods and pry. He knows your strength. And he chose to trust it.

Seven months, and one week. He sat down with the cardboard calendar hanging above Lupe’s desk at work, and counted. His mind crowded, overflowing with what ifs.

What if he took you out of this shitty motel, for once? Not just to drive into the night, but on a proper date. Dinner. A movie. Fucking lunch. A weekend somewhere. An entire vacation.

What if he took you out of your life?

Lupe started dating this Marcus guy back in December. Now she’s staying at his place every other night. The man is decent, one of the best paramedics he’s worked with, honest, reliable and steadfast. The kind of man Lupe deserves, and that he doesn’t mind around Lua.

He should move out of the house. Lupe hasn’t said anything yet, but it’s just one more grace she gives him that he hasn’t earned. Every time they see each other, Will hints at it, the allusions becoming increasingly less subtle.

The truth is, he sees no point in moving forward with his life if it’s not with you. If it’s not to take care of you, and provide for you. Watch you thrive, keep you safe.

A couple of weeks back, when he’d first thought about it, he’d deemed the idea crazy, painfully aware of all the frustrations a couple’s daily life entails.

Now, it’s the only choice that makes any sense to him.

—

The airport terminal is bustling with flocks of tourists. Noisy families with children too young to travel, transient businessmen and women, groups of youths of dubious soberness flying out after spring break.

Ava stands out in the crowd, her tall frame topped with a short bob of bright purple hair, and you spot her immediately. Standing on your tiptoes, you wave at her until she sees you and starts running in your direction.

She all but leaps into your open arms, and you both grab at each other, leaning into the embrace, laughing. You inhale her scent, searching for that baby smell in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my god, pup, your hair!” you exclaim. “You look terrific!”

“Yeah? You like it?” she asks with a broad smile, running her fingers through her locks.

“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”

In turn, she takes you in, looking you up and down, and lets out a low whistling sound.

“You look good, too. You look better than good. You look gorgeous!”

“Oh shush,” you gesture bashfully, but you can’t hold back your own smile.

The two of you walk to the parking lot to retrieve your car, immersed in bubbly conversation, oblivious to the moving crowds around you.

Driving out of the airport, you glance at the sign indicating the 589 northbound and smile at your precious secret, before making a left turn south.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, “I’m hungry! Feed me! Feedmefeedmefeedme!” she chants, before breaking into a high-pitched giggle.

“Alright, alright! Hold tight, I’m taking you somewhere special. Do you like burritos?”

“Who doesn’t like burritos? Wait, what? Burritos? Do you even eat burritos? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

You had to type the address from the crumpled receipt into your GPS. Until today, you’ve never allowed yourself to go there. Not on your own.

It’s a small cantina with tiled walls and concrete floors, colorful trinkets arranged in pyramidal displays behind the counter, chalkboard menus and an endless list of drinks. Star-shaped lanterns are hanging from the ceiling, and the staff is busy but jovial.

Lunchtime on a Saturday, the place is packed with couples and kids, and your pulse accelerates. You hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Frankie and his family.

You place your orders, and after a short wait, you secure a spot in the back of the restaurant. Sitting on high metal stools behind a round table, you catch up on the past three months as if you hadn’t texted every other day, speaking with your mouths full, sauce dripping down your fingers.

The life she’s built for herself in New York treats Ava better than anything you could have hoped for, anything you could have helped her achieve, had she stayed here. A job in a cutting-edge art gallery, where her vibrant personality and her flair for networking are not only recognized but valued, a bustling social life, more thrilling projects than you can keep track of, all of it balanced by Polly’s grounding presence by her side.

Your choices and sacrifices, justified.

Ava puts down the crumbling remnants of her vegetarian burrito to wipe her mouth, and takes a sip of her margarita.

“You sure you don’t want to drink anything?”

“I’m drinking something,” you answer, pointing at your iced tea.

“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.

“It’s too bad you’re not staying with me. It’s idiotic, you’re only here for a couple of days and you have to sleep over at Jules’.”

“Listen, even if your douchebag of a fiancé had agreed to have me, which I know he didn’t, I don’t want to see his ass face.”

“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”

She nearly chokes on her margarita. Setting her glass down, she gives you a pointed stare, emphatically scrutinizing your face.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you? How are you? I mean, that’s obviously the wrong question, you’re fucking thriving. What happened? What’s happening? New medication? Are you finally leaving him?”

“I’m not taking any medication,” you answer with unexpected satisfaction. “But no, I’m not leaving him.”

You catch yourself before you can add another word.

“Are you still seeing that other guy?”

You nod, dipping your head, heat creeping up your neck. Why are you like this?

“I take it he likes burritos, am I right?

“You are correct in your assumption, detective,” you quip with a grin.

There’s a pause as Ava seems to consider her next question. It’s always so easy for you to forget that she’s a grownup now. That she knows you at least as well as you know her. That she has the capacity to outsmart you. The notion flares pride in your chest.

“Is he married? Is that why you haven’t run off together in the sunset yet?”

“I’m not sure if he’s married or not.”

“What does he do in life?”

“I don’t know.”

Ava throws up her hands.

“Girl! What do you know?” she exclaims with only half-feigned exasperation.

I know what’s important. He’s a father. He’s a friend and a brother. A pilot and a veteran. He's thoughtful and observant. He’s organized and practical. And a reluctant sentimental. He learned to swim in the Pacific Ocean. He’s capable of cold-blooded violence, but it will break him. He’s capable of infinite tenderness. And it will save him.

You pull a face, communicating how little you care about what you don’t know. Your sister shifts on the hard stool. She frowns, and when she speaks next, her voice is low, her tone conspiratorial.

“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Of course, he does. Or he did. His attention is elsewhere, for now. Seems serious.”

“Again?”

“Again,” you nod.

Ava squirms on her stool again, probably trying to restrain her temper.

Your mind wanders, jumping back through time at light-speed, to when you first met Adrian. To the way he used to hold your hand when you started dating, squeezing your fingers with his. Letting you choose the wine, opening doors for you. To the affection in his smile, and how fast he started calling you babe . The glimmer warming his cold blue eyes when he introduced you to his family. The way he leaves the bathroom mirror splattered in toothpaste every time he brushes his teeth. The way he lets his alarm ring off forever after he’s gotten up even if you’re still in bed, even on weekends.

The ease with which he admitted to all his flings, whenever you confronted him, but never confessed to the one with his coworker, the ambitious young lawyer.

Would you admit to having an affair? Would you use that ugly word that make you crawl out of your skin? Would you deny it? Could you answer No, I’m not seeing anyone? Could you bear the betrayal of denying Frankie’s existence? The truth of what you share, but can’t define?

“Your fiancé is a bag of dicks,” Ava finally says, shaking her head.

“His obliviousness suits me for now,” you remind her.

“I don’t understand why you don’t leave him,” she snaps back, forsaking her reserve. “He got his big promotion, he got what he wanted! And Richard loves him, it’s not like he’s going to fire him just because you two broke up, right? You don’t really love him anymore, do you?” she adds on second thoughts.

The words spill out of you unchecked, once more. Just like in the truck with Frankie, back in January. Months, years for the idea to mature below the surface of your conscious thoughts, the reflective process unbeknown to you.

“I’m scared, Ava. I’m scared shitless. I want to leave. I’ve been wanting to leave for so long. Adrian, the company, that fucking ugly apartment.”

“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”

“If I leave, I have nothing. No job, nowhere to go.”

And if you could give up a relatively comfortable life, would you be able to renounce the refuge of your sadness? Of your life between the folds?

“You have money,” Ava counters. “You have shares. Sell them. Richard can’t stop you. Get a lawyer, if you have to. One that’s not on Adrian’s payroll. And then you can fuck your man Friday every day of the week, how’s that?”

You think about the folded bedspread under the windowsill. About the wet hand towel brushing up your skin. The trucker hat on the desk, and his fingers splayed on the steering wheel. The pleading arch of his brow.

You think about that space between Frankie’s chin and collarbone, that contains your safety, your desires, and all of your hopes.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should leave a man for another one,” you whisper.

Ava’s eyes widen. She sits up straight, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips.

“I don’t know either, but it looks like this one fucked some sense into you. The irony.”

She’s withholding something, you realize. It’s in her uncharacteristic pauses, her sideways glances. Surprisingly, human interactions were simpler when pills kept you numbed and oblivious. Being attuned to everyone’s minute expressions is a daily trial.

“Why don’t you move to New York with us?” she eventually asks. “We can take you in until you find a job there, for as long as you need.”

There’s that we again. People talking about you in your absence, judging your choices, plotting your future.

“I don’t know how to do anything, Ava. I have zero skills.”

“First off, that’s not true,” she retorts, relentless with her well-rehearsed arguments. “And then, Polly can help you find something. Lee, if you can leave this company, there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”

Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Weary and old. A bone-deep lassitude. And at the heart of it, the realization that this is a liminal sequence in your life.

“Is that why you flew here for the weekend? To ask me to come away with you?”

“Are you mad?” she asks with a face. A little girl’s expression, afraid of being scolded. Your little girl.

“No, I’m not mad, pup. I can’t be mad. You came back for me.”

“Of course, I came back for you. I was never going to leave you behind, silly.”

****

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pimosworld · 5 months ago

Text

Just say the word

Pairing-Tf boys x reader (one shot)

CW-18+, NSFW, MDNI, established polyamorous relationship, light teasing, edging, voyeurism, orgasm denial, exhibitionism, possessive tf boys, mentions of smut, fingering, soft dom Will, soft dom Santi, soft dom Frankie. Unsuspecting victim ( poor Jack) he’s innocent in this I swear.

Summary- The boys decide to have a little fun at your expense.

WC- 1.7k

A/N- Set in the (story of us) universe but can be read as a stand alone. I feel like I’ve neglected this bunch since I finished the story and I miss them and their delusional little bubble. Please enjoy this ficlet set some time after the story of them ends and their relationship begins.

[Series Masterlist]

Not beta read

It feels weird being back in your normal spots. Nestled away in the corner booth in the dimly lit bar. All five of you crammed in like nothing has changed. Except it has.

This thing forming between the five of you for the last several months. No rules, no pressure, just the four of them not being able to let you out of their sight for more than five minutes. It’s intoxicating and overwhelming and you love it.

You are situated between Frankie and Santi, Will on the other side of Frankie sharing glances. Knowing tells as you squirm in your seat. Santi’s hand squeezes the plush skin of your thigh while Frankie rubs soothing circles against your knee. It all looks so normal to anyone walking by. They’ve been teasing you all night, switching places as they grab more drinks at the bar or head to the bathroom.

Will grins as he watches you fidget, not so subtly rubbing your legs together at the thought of his hands so close to where you needed them most. Not less than ten minutes ago he had you pleading into his ear like you were telling him a secret. His fingers tracing up and down the seam of your panties, wetness pooling against the fabric as you chased his touch.

Goosebumps raise on your arms as Santi’s fingers slip just past the string, curling in so precisely, you half to clear your throat to stifle the moan that crawls up the back of your throat.

“Ya ok sweetheart?” Will says and the look you flash is equal parts beautiful and terrifying all at once.

Santi kisses your shoulder, such a sweet endearing gesture to juxtapose the absolute filth that is happening below the table. “She’s fine.” A look to Frankie, something unspoken passing between them as the corners of Frankie's eyes crinkle with a smile.

You bite the inside of your cheek as his thumb presses against your clit. Dropping your head to your hands to wipe the sweat from your brow.

“Just say the word baby and we’ll stop.” Frankie’s voice in your ear luring you into the lion's den. You weren’t going to lament that easily.

Your hand drifts below the table, palming at the growing bulge in his pants, you yelp when he smacks your thigh. His palm soothes the spot as you let out a shaky breath.

“Hands where I can see them sweetheart.” Will commands.

“Fuck you.”

“Thirsty?” Ben’s voice cuts through the pounding in your ears. His one hand with a refill pitcher of beer, the other gesturing behind him as he mouths ‘be nice.’

Following close behind with an empty glass is a familiar face. Not one you don’t want to see on any given day, but right now you’re struggling to breathe normally.

“Fucking Jack.” Frankie bites out and you regard him with a quirked brow.

“I thought you liked him.” Your head turned in a whisper and he just lets out a deep sigh.

It’s not that he doesn’t like him so much as he knows how much the guy likes you. Judging by the grin etched across his face as he approaches the table.

Santiago withdraws his hand and you whine at the loss, disguising it with a cough as Ben shoots you a worried look.

Everyone reaching for the cold glasses as Jack slides into the booth next to Ben. You watch Santi from the corner of your eye, slowly taking his fingers in his mouth. The others preoccupied with greetings as he hums at the taste.

Your mouth agape at the filthy show of dominance. He takes a sip of his beer, his dark eyes on you as he swallows and you watch the way his throat bobs.

“You’ll catch flies that way cariño.”

You tamp your mouth shut as heat licks up your spine.

Frankie slides you a beer as a peace offering and you let out a breath hoping the torture is over with your new guest at the table.

Jack says your name and you probably look a little wide eyed when you say hello. Sounding a little too happy to see him. Completely unaware that whatever tension building right now is not directed at him.

“Haven’t seen you guys here in awhile.” He says as he pours himself a beer.

“We’ve been…busy.” The boys snicker as Ben hides his smile behind his glass, unbeknownst to Jack.

“What have y’all been up to? Any hot dates recently?”

The boys stay quiet, shooting each other looks as Frankie’s hand starts inching it’s way up your thigh.

He nudges Ben with his elbow. “Oh come on, spill. I know you’ve at least got some.”

Ben laughs it off, eyes flicking to you and memories of your date the previous night. He looks shy almost as he rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.”

You’re starting to gauge their annoyance at his presence.

Frankie doesn’t falter as he pinches the fabric between his fingers and you clamp your thighs shut. Your sandals clicking loudly on the floor.

Santiago laughs, motherfucker…with a stupid grin on his face and Will has to bite down on his lip to keep his at bay.

“In fact.” Jack starts up again. Pointing at Santiago. This guy doesn’t quit apparently. “Last time I saw you here you had some hot blonde in your lap.”

He drops his head to the table and for his sake he looks apologetic. “I don’t recall.” The redness creeping up his neck and the simmering tension below the surface.

Frankie relents when he notices your obvious discomfort. They’ve been edging you all night and now this Jack off had to come and ruin all the fun.

“What about you honey? You seeing anyone?”

Bingo

His attention on you, a wide smile on his face. He draws his fingers up and down the condensation on his glass and you have the sudden wild thought to pour it on you. Anything to escape this fresh hell.

He wasn’t an unattractive man. Tall, broad shoulders and a strong jaw. Gorgeous head of dark brown hair that was always kept neat and combed back. He’s a firefighter so he’s got a great build and he can on occasion make you laugh.

Which is perhaps why the rest of the table looks as though they’re three seconds from choking him.

Frankie’s hand flexes a little on your thigh, Ben cracks his knuckles and stares straight ahead at Will whose jaw is so clenched you think he might break a few teeth.

And Santiago…looks as stoic as you’ve ever seen him. Too calm.

“Baby.” Frankie’s voice and the startling use of the pet name brings you back to the present. “He asked you a question.” His head tilted in waiting.

You fumble for words you’ve never actually spoken out loud. Not knowing what the right or wrong thing to say is. “I’m…keeping my options open.”

That seems to be the right answer for now. Santiago gives you a reassuring squeeze as he resumes drinking his beer. You can feel Frankie relax next to you and Ben’s shoulders aren’t reaching his ears.

Will still watches Jack, who obviously can’t take a hint.

His tongue dragging along his teeth as he eyes you from across the booth. For the sake of his safety you don’t want to let him finish whatever thoughts he has running through his head at your admission.

You slap your hands down on the table. “I’ve had too much to drink.” Signaling to Frankie and Will to slide out so you can relieve yourself, or at the very least get some space between you and Jack.

Someone has the nerve to pinch your ass before you exit the booth and curse low under your breath as you retreat to the restrooms. You were absolutely going to kill them when you got home later.

—

The blatant flirting, the casual use of your sacred nickname, the way he’s not so subtly checking out your ass as you walk away.

The guys aren’t certain but Jack acts as though he’s not in clear immediate danger. But he’s a firefighter so the regard for his life is skewed toward running at a problem and not away from it.

As you round the corner disappearing from view he focuses his attention back on the table. Whistling low under his breath as he shakes his head still oblivious to the rage closing in on him.

“I still don’t know how one of you hasn’t snagged that yet.” Jack says offhandedly as he downs the rest of his beer.

Ben takes it from him and Santiago flinches, unsure of what the younger man will do as he calmly slides it out of reach.

It’s one of those intense moments. In the wild we freeze it in photographs and videos. In the images there’s a predator, perhaps a cheetah staring unblinkingly at a gazelle, who stares back with a look of surprise and terror.

“How do you know we haven’t?” Ben’s body turns to face him as he clears his throat.

He stutters a little, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Look if I’m moving in on anyone’s territory you just say the word-“

“You are.” Will says without specifying whose.

Will stands as you make your way back to the table and Jack stands with him, waving goodbye. Frankie stays seated, not yet able to hide the evidence of his arousal. The whole display not doing anything to compress his excitement.

The guys all shift as you slide in, Will taking his seat next to you as Frankie throws his arm over your shoulder and he can see the wheeler turning in the poor man’s head. You never stood a chance.

“Leaving so soon?” Your sweet voice doing nothing to disguise your obvious guess at what just transpired.

“Ugh…ya I’ve got an early day tomorrow.” He offers a tight lipped smile before walking away with his tail tucked.

Frankie’s laugh jostles you and you move to slap his arm as he grabs your wrist. “Play nice hermosa.”

You huff as you pry it out of his grip. “What did you guys say?”

You’re met with mostly silence and their grins at each other and just like that you’re right back where you started the night. Them, teasing you…and you loving it.

Will’s hand slowly creeps up your thigh,bunching the fabric of your skirt in his hand as he leans in close. “Now where were we sweetheart?”

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated

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madhattervanessa · 2 years ago

Text

Night Moves

AN: There's so little plot here it's astounding lmao. Based on a prompt from this list.

(Un-beta'd)

You’re going to kill your neighbor. It’s 3 a.m. 3 a.m. on a Wednesday and this ass hole is blasting fucking Metallica.

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?) Words: 5,030 Pairing: Santiago "Pope" Garcia x F!Reader Warnings: pwp, cursing, kissing, alcohol consumption, p in v, oral sex (brief), fingering (brief), frottage, strangers to lovers/neighbors to lovers AO3

———

You’re going to kill your neighbor.

It’s 3 a.m. 3 a.m. on a Wednesday and this ass hole is blasting fucking Metallica.

You can hear every lyric through the thin walls of your apartment, every drumbeat, every guitar riff—everything. It’s so loud, it’s almost as if the band is actually there playing live in your living room.

You’d tried just ignoring it at first, hoping they’d get their rage or whatever out and would turn it off. After an hour, you’d tried banging on the wall, but they were either ignoring you or couldn’t hear over the din in their living room. It’s going on hour two now and you’ve had enough.

With a growl, you roll out of your bed, muttering angrily under your breath as you pad barefoot across the hardwood floors of your living room to your front door. After unlocking it, you wrench it open, slamming it shut behind you as you step out into the hall.

You stop short when you reach your neighbor’s door, trying to hold back your rage and go into this confrontation with at least a semi-level head. This’ll be your first time meeting them after all, and if you’re going to continue sharing a wall, it might be the best idea to not come out swinging right off the bat.

So you take a deep breath, willing your frayed nerves to calm as you lift your hand and knock on the door.

No response.

Your lips twist in annoyance. There is a possibility that they hadn’t heard the knock, just as they couldn’t hear you banging on the wall earlier, so you give them the benefit of the doubt. With a sigh, you lift your hand again, this time knocking with the side of your fist. The sound is louder this time, the bangs echoing down the hallway.

Nothing.

“That’s it,” you mutter, balling both of your hands into fists and bringing them down on the door, alternating your knocks so they’re constant.

It’s loud. So loud you’re likely to wake every neighbor on your floor, not just get the attention of this one, but you don’t care. You’re pissed and this jackass needs to know it. You continue banging, your hands starting to get sore from the constant contact with the hard surface of the door, when suddenly (blessedly) the music stops.

Your fists bang on the door one more time as the music cuts, your body tensing a little as you drop your arms back to your side, bracing yourself for the inevitable confrontation. Just as you’re wondering if this ass hole is even going to have the balls to face you, the door opens and—

Oh. Oh no.

There in front of you stands what has to be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life. He’s a literal work of art, standing there framed in the doorway looking like one of those marble sculptures you’ve seen in museums come to life. His brown eyes are warm, but also a little guarded as they meet yours, one thick eyebrow raising in question.

It’s then that you remember to speak, blinking rapidly as if it’ll clear the heavenly image of him that’s likely been forever burned onto your retinas.

“Hi,” you offer finally, your throat suddenly dry.

The corner of his (perfect) mouth twitches a little as he slides his gaze down the length of you. Your skin heats and you’re not sure if it’s him or the embarrassment you’re feeling.

“Hi,” he rasps, eyes meeting yours again as he allows a smile to fully spread across his lips.

You’re staring again and you know he notices, amusement shining in his eyes.

“Something I can help you with?” he prompts, eyebrows raised as he leans his shoulder against the doorframe.

The question snaps your attention back to him and you mentally give yourself a shake. “I’m your neighbor.”

“Oh,” he responds, holding his hand out to you as he continues to gaze at you with amusement. “Nice to meet you, neighbor.”

Your eyes drop to his outstretched hand, gazing at it dumbly for a moment before you take it in yours to give it a shake. A jolt zips through you at the contact, heat flaring in your belly as you will your brain to imagine anything other than having his hands somewhere else on your body.

Jeez. You really need to get a hold of yourself.

“Right, so,” you begin weakly, your hand still loosely clasped in his. “It’s 3 a.m. and, uh, your music. It’s loud.”

His amusement fades instantly at your words and something inside you regrets ever uttering them.

“Oh shit,” he says, reflexively pulling his hand back and glancing at his watch, “I was unpacking and didn’t even realize the time. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say automatically, even though it really isn’t.

He shakes his head, putting his hands up placatingly. “No, it isn’t. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Thanks,” you nod, crossing your arms over your chest as you shift a little awkwardly on your feet. “Well, uh, I’m gonna go then. Nice to meet you—”

“Santiago,” he offers, smile returning to his lips as he holds your gaze.

You give him your name as well, returning his smile with your own as you begin to drift back in the direction of your apartment.

“‘Night,” you mumble, sending him an awkward wave as you open your door and step back inside your apartment.

A soft ‘goodnight’ wafts down the hall in response, reaching your ears just before you close the door and you smile.

—

The next night, you can’t sleep. Why can’t you sleep? You should be exhausted after the day you’ve had, especially after only getting a few hours the night before thanks to your neighbor.

Your gorgeous neighbor.

Santiago, you remind yourself, chewing your lip as your brain immediately conjures up an image of him in that black t-shirt which was just a little too tight, his biceps bulging slightly as he’d crossed his arms over his broad chest. Your breath quickens as your imagination runs rampant with a seemingly endless stream of tantalizing images; Santiago in your living room, in your bedroom, in your bed, his tan skin slick with sweat, chest heaving, his hips snapping against yours as you moan into his neck—

A whine escapes into the darkness of your room and you freeze, eyes wide. You know no one else is there, that he’s not there, but you still can’t help but feel embarrassed. You don’t even know this guy, and here you are fantasizing about him fucking you into oblivion.

“Shit,” you mutter, shaking your head in an effort to clear it.

You swallow thickly, clenching your fingers in your sheets, fingers that itch to slip beneath the waistband of your underwear, to circle your clit, to plunge into your tight, wet channel—

“Fuck,” you groan, jolting up out of the bed.

You walk quickly to your kitchen, grabbing a cup from the cabinet and filling it with water. You chug it, chest heaving as you fill it up again, this time forcing yourself to take sips. As you drink, you lean against the counter, eyes closing as your breathing slows.

When you feel your calm return, you set your cup by the sink and return to your room. You sigh as you slip between the sheets, pulling them up to your chin as you snuggle down into your pillow. Your mind is blessedly quiet as you close your eyes, the heaviness in your limbs now more pronounced than it was a moment ago. Just as you’re about to drift off, he’s there again, this time pressing you against your kitchen counter as he licks into your mouth, his hands on your hips—

“Fuck it,” you grumble tiredly, eyes still closed as you shift, slipping your hand inside your panties.

—

It’s Friday. TGIF, or whatever.

You’re just glad you don’t have to work this weekend; maybe you can catch up on the sleep you’ve missed out on the last two nights. Just as you’re contemplating making it an early night, you hear a knock at your door.

Confused, you shuffle over, lifting the cover over the peephole to look through it.

It’s him.

In your surprise, the cover slips from between your fingers and clatters against the door. You cringe, knowing that you now have no choice but to open the door. You look down at yourself, grumbling when you remember you’re wearing what has to be the most unsexy collection of clothing ever.

“You okay in there?” a muffled voice asks through the door.

Sighing, you hurriedly fasten a few of the buttons on your flannel overshirt, attempting to cover the worn tank top and shorts beneath. It’ll have to do.

You shake yourself in an effort to loosen up a little, and quickly unlock the door.

“Santiago, hi,” you say, perhaps a little too cheerfully, as you pull it open.

His smile makes your insides melt, dark eyes boring into yours. You lean against your doorframe, returning his smile as nonchalantly as you can manage.

“This isn’t a bad time, is it?” he asks, gaze flicking briefly behind you, as if looking to see if someone else is there.

You shrug, shaking your head. “No, not at all. What’s up?”

His eyes snap back to yours and he holds up a bottle of whiskey you hadn’t noticed was in his hand. “It’s a ‘welcome to the building’ gift from a guy down the hall. Wanna help me drink it?”

You hesitate, not wanting to embarrass yourself any more than you already have.

“If nothing else, I figured it might kind of help make up for keeping you up the other night,” he adds, his smile sincere.

Panic slices through you at his words before you realize he means the loud music and not…your thoughts about him. Obviously, ugh.

“Sounds great,” you squeak, stepping aside to let him in. “Sorry about the mess.”

He waves you off, stepping over the threshold and waiting as you close and lock the door behind him. When you turn, you find that he’s closer than you anticipated, so close you can smell him, feel the heat of him even through the flannel.

God, you are so fucked.

“Kitchen,” you say, wondering when your voice got so fucking breathy. “That’s—the glasses are in the kitchen.”

His gaze locks with yours, a heat simmering in his eyes as he smiles. “Lead the way.”

You turn away, swallowing thickly as you try to regain your bearings. You guide him in the direction of the kitchen, mentally giving yourself a pep talk with every step.

“You can have a seat if you want,” you offer, gesturing toward your kitchen table.

He shakes his head though, opting to lean against the counter instead. “I’m good, been sitting all day.”

You hum, pulling open the cabinet and grabbing a couple of glasses. “Desk jockey?”

His sniffed laugh makes you smile as you close the cabinet door and turn to face him again.

“More or less,” he says vaguely, a gentle smile on his lips. “How about you?”

You tell him what you do for a living as you make your way back over to him with the glasses. He nods, watching as you pull the bottle to you across the countertop.

“May I?”

“Have at it,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

The action causes his lean muscles to strain against the material of his shirt. Your gaze lingers there for longer than it should as you absently work to pull the cork from the bottle. Eventually, it comes out, a satisfying pop echoing through the room. You pour a little in each glass, the amber liquid swirling a little before settling at the bottom.

“Ice?” you ask, holding one of the glasses up.

You hold the glass out to him when he shakes his head, his fingers grazing yours as he takes it.

“Salud,” he says, his eyes locked with yours as he tips back the glass.

You raise your own glass in agreement, bringing it to your lips and taking a sip. It’s warm and rich as it slides down your throat. You hum at the sensation, closing your eyes briefly in contentment, the oaky flavor making your taste buds sing.

“Good?” he rasps, his breath puffing against your cheek.

You open your eyes, lashes fluttering; goddamn it, why was he so pretty?

“Mhmm,” you respond, not confident your mouth would be capable of forming words right now.

He steps in closer, reaching past you and pulling the bottle toward him, his arm brushing against your side.

“Want more?” he asks softly, eyes locked with yours as he holds up the bottle.

You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s not just talking about the whiskey and it sends a shiver down your spine. You nod, sliding your glass toward him. He looks away to fill it and you force yourself to take a breath.

“Thanks,” you say as he offers the glass back to you

He nods, leaning his hip against the side of the counter. “So, how long have you been in this building?”

Grateful for a benign topic to ease some of the tension, you smile. “About two years.”

“You like it?”

You shrug, swirling the liquid around your glass. “It’s a place to live.”

He chuckles and the sound makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

“How are you liking it so far?” you ask, stealing another sip of your drink.

“It’s a place to live,” he responds, raising a teasing brow at you.

You roll your eyes. “Come on.”

He smiles, shrugging as he drains the rest of his drink. “It’s alright. Most people seem decent so far.”

You sniff, taking another swig from your glass. “Don’t let them fool you.”

Santiago sets his glass down, his arm braced against the counter as he leans toward you. “So who should I steer clear of then?”

“Well,” You sigh, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth in contemplation. “Mrs. Sacks in 5B for one, she’s a gossipy bitch; Jay in 2C for another—”

His eyes flick up to yours from where they’re staring at your mouth. “2C? Really? He’s the one who gave me the whiskey.”

“Yeah well, he’s an ass hole,” you grunt, throwing your head back a bit as you drain your glass.

After studying you quietly for a moment he asks, “Ex?”

“Please,” you scoff, setting your glass on the counter. “Want another?”

He nods, eyes roving your face as you pour more liquid into his waiting glass.

“And what about you?” he asks as you raise your refilled glass to your lips.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “What about me?”

“If I asked Mrs. Sacks about you, what would she say?”

You chuckle, twisting your lips in thought. “Honestly? Probably that I’m too loud.”

His eyes darken a little, a shiver running up your spine. “Yeah? And how would she know?”

“Well, we do share a wall,” you say, swallowing thickly.

Santiago leans in closer, his voice low when he asks, “Which one?”

He knows the answer, he must since you only have two neighbors with whom you share a wall, one of which is him. Nevertheless, you respond.

“That one,” you whisper, pointing toward your bedroom.

His eyes briefly flick in the direction you’re pointing before returning to yours, humming contemplatively.

“Wanna give her something to talk about?” he asks, leaning in close, his breath mixing with yours.

You nod, breath catching as he cages you against the counter between his arms, his body pressing against the length of you. He holds your gaze for a moment, giving you a chance to push him away, breath fanning across your cheek as he hovers. Then he leans in slowly, his nose nudging yours before he tilts his head just enough to meet your lips. They’re warm as they press against yours, stealing the air from your lungs with every soft caress. He licks into your mouth with a hum, one of his hands coming up to cradle your face. He tastes like the whiskey you were just drinking, and something else, something richer, something him. You want more, can’t get enough as you push your tongue between his lips. He groans into your mouth as you taste him, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt, holding his body against yours.

When air becomes a necessity, he breaks, trailing his lips down over your chin to mouth at your neck. His hand follows, ghosting over your chest down to the buttons of the overshirt you’d hastily fastened before you’d let him inside. He nips at your collar bone, tongue laving at the base of your neck as he undoes them, his hand slipping inside to settle on your waist. You breathe his name as he sucks a mark into your skin, fingers winding themselves into his hair. You tug at the graying strands, his groan vibrating against your chest before you pull him back up, reattaching your mouth to his.

The kiss is messy and frantic this time, your lips catching on any patch of skin they can reach. You suck on his tongue when he slips it into your mouth again and he groans, his hands reaching up to push the flannel overshirt from your shoulders. His fingers drag lightly over every inch of skin revealed to him, raising goosebumps all over your body. Your hands are everywhere; moving up his arms to his neck, down his back, clutching his plump ass through his jeans—

When your hands snake beneath his shirt, he growls against your lips, lifting you up to sit on the edge of the counter. He fits his body between your legs, hands skating up the outside of your thighs and slipping his fingers beneath the hem of your shorts. You gasp, scooting closer to the edge, to him, encouraging his touch. He groans as you pull him flush against you, wrapping your legs around his torso as you continue to attack each other’s mouths.

You feel hot, like you’re burning up from the inside, like you’re going to explode into a ball of fire any minute now. His fingers tease you, dragging along the seams of your panties, tickling the sensitive skin there, but never slipping underneath. You grind yourself against his abdomen, desperate for relief, and moan into his mouth when he presses his thumb to your clit through your shorts, the fabric of your panties creating a delicious friction. He kisses down your neck again, worrying a mark at the base of your jaw before soothing it with his warm, wet tongue. Your fingers slip back into his hair, holding his face against you as you continue to absently grind against him.

“Bedroom?” he breathes, bringing his mouth back to yours.

“Please,” you plead, locking your feet together at his lower back as he lifts you from the counter.

He grunts as he walks, mumbling something about his knees. You’re not sure if he trips, or if his knees are really just that bad, but the next thing you know, you’re on the couch, your legs on either side of his torso. His hands are on your hips, encouraging you to grind down onto his lap. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans and it makes you shiver with anticipation. The friction is delicious, better than anything you’ve ever felt. You’re not sure if it’s just been a while or if Santiago is just that good, but at the moment, you don’t really care. You feel his hands slip beneath your tank top as you shift, surprising yourself with a moan as the zipper of his pants catches against your clit perfectly.

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles, pushing your shirt up and pulling it over your head as you continue to undulate in his lap. “Take what you need.”

He leans forward, mouthing at the swell of your breasts, groaning against your chest as you chase your release. You’re so close, can feel the heat pooling in your belly, the fire spreading beneath your skin. When he pulls the cups of your bra down and takes your nipple in his warm, wet mouth, you come with a gasp, hips stuttering against him as you try in vain to prolong the euphoria. Santiago groans as you continue to grind against him, your nipple still between his lips. You cup the back of his head, encouraging him to keep going as you slow your pace, breath shaky as you come down from your high.

“Fuck, you are incredible,” he praises before languidly swirling his tongue around your neglected nipple.

You moan, heat flaring across your skin at his words; you’re already drunk on him and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

“Look gorgeous when you come,” he continues, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs teasing their peaks. “Can’t wait to feel you come around my cock.”

You whimper at his words, leaning over to capture his lips again in a slow, sensual kiss.

“You can’t wait either can you, hermosa,” he pants against your lips, unable to keep quiet, it seems, even when you’re kissing him. “Bet you’d let me fuck you right here on this couch, wouldn’t you?”

A moan escapes you at the mental image your brain conjures at his words and he smirks. “Another time, I promise.”

You silence him with your tongue, slipping it into his mouth again with a hum. He groans, his fingers fumbling behind you to unclasp your bra. Once you’re free, he tosses it away, hands roaming unimpeded across the expanse of your back, fingers soothing the indentations left behind by the garment.

He takes you in his arms again, standing to his feet, your legs wrapped around his hips. You make it to the bedroom this time, and he lays you out beneath him, pressing you into the bed as he covers your neck and chest with licks and kisses. You whine when he begins to pull away, your arms wrapping around his neck to keep him on top of you. He chuckles, gently unwinding your arms before leaning in to press a soft, reassuring kiss against your lips.

He crawls back down your body and off the bed, and it’s then that you realize he’s still completely clothed. He pulls his shirt off first, revealing his toned chest to your gaze, then toes off his shoes and unbuckles his belt. You chew your lip as you watch him, eyes devouring every inch that’s revealed to you. He shucks his pants next, letting them drop to the floor unceremoniously and stepping out of them. His boxers are last, but he drags it out, a teasing smile on his lips. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and suddenly you want nothing more than to take him between your lips and make him come down your throat.

Another time, perhaps.

He crawls back onto the bed, stopping at your torso to place a kiss against your belly. His fingers find the waistbands of your shorts and panties, and you lift your hips as he pulls them down your legs. After tossing the rest of your clothes onto the floor, he pushes open your thighs, settling himself between them. You bite your lip as he drags the pads of his fingers through your soaked slit, gazing at you with a knowing smirk as he circles your clit. You moan when he dips them inside, stretching you, massaging your inner walls. He can’t seem to help it when he leans forward, lightly licking at you with the tip of his tongue. He hums at the taste of you, licking his lips as he pulls away, his fingers soaked from your cunt.

He moves back up your body, his wet fingers settling on your hip as he claims your mouth once more. You moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue, grabbing at him, trying to bring him closer somehow. His cock slips between the lips of your sex and he grinds it against your clit, dragging another moan from you. He keeps kissing you, smiling against your mouth as he continues driving you up the wall with pleasure. But it’s not enough for you to come, and by the time he’s telling you to get on your stomach for him, you’re more than eager to comply.

“You ready for me, querida?” he rasps, breath fanning against your ear as he presses himself against your back.

“Yes,” you moan, pushing your hips up off of the bed, the tip of his cock bumping against your center.

He hums, pulling back a little to situate himself, and when he enters you, he does it slowly, hissing as you engulf him in your tight heat. You press your face into the bedspread, moaning as he pushes his thick cock into you, stretching you, your fingers clenching into fists at the delicious burn; you’re so full, and every inch of him feels exquisite.

He grips your hips, calloused fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back, dragging his length slowly against your sensitive walls. He groans when you flutter around him, your body still acclimating to his girth. You whimper when he snaps his hips back into yours, the tip of his cock just hitting your cervix. He pulls back again, almost all the way out, before slamming into you again, this time adjusting the angle slightly. He does it again, and again, each time hitting a different spot inside you, as if searching for something specific, something special.

When he finds it, you gasp, your back bowing as his cock hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You clench around him and he groans, hands gripping your hips like a vice.

“You feel so good,” he groans again, his hips snapping hard against yours. “So good.”

You can’t do much more than moan in agreement, the pleasure coursing through you almost overwhelming. He hunches over you, chest pressed against your back as he speeds up his thrusts, his cock still brushing that special spot.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he rasps, his breath hot against your ear.

You moan again, your walls fluttering around him as his pace starts to falter.

“So tight, so warm, fuck,” he slurs, slamming into you harder, burying his face in the back of your neck. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.

Callused fingertips brush your clit a moment later and you gasp, a shiver wracking your body.

“Santi,” you plead, grinding yourself against his fingers. “Please, I’m so close.”

“I’ve got you, hermosa,” he whispers, pinching your clit and dragging another moan from you. “Let go for me.”

At his words, you come with a choked moan, relief and pleasure rolling through your body in waves.

“Oh, good girl,” Santiago groans, fucking you through your orgasm, his thrusts sloppy as he nears his own peak. “So fucking good.”

You shiver a little as your pleasure subsides, brain still buzzing when you feel him pull out of you, moaning as he spills himself on your lower back. His seed is warm and sticky on your skin and you hum, relishing the feel of it. He’s still panting behind you, trying to catch his breath as his fingers brush soothingly over your skin, smearing his cum. After a moment, he leans in, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades, and your chest aches a little at the unexpected sweetness of it.

“You okay?” he asks, breath tickling your ear as he hooks his chin over your shoulder.

“Mhmm,” you hum, stretching a little, your body feeling pleasantly loose.

He mumbles something that sounds like ‘good’ before pressing another kiss into your neck. Then he pulls away, the bed shifting as he stands to his feet. You steal a glance over your shoulder, dread settling in your belly—Where was he going? He wasn’t leaving, was he? A moment later, he returns, washcloth in hand, and you relax, your panic draining away as he meets your gaze with a smile.

An hour or so later, you’re both in the kitchen again, sitting side-by-side on the counter laughing, half-eaten takeout containers strewn around you.

“So then he says, ‘no, it’s European,” Santi says, chuckling as you double-over with laughter.

“No way, he did not,” you laugh, hand covering your mouth.

Santiago nods, an amused smile on his lips as he swallows another mouthful of whiskey. “He did.”

“Shit,” you chuckle, leaning back on your hands as you shake your head. “What an ass hole.”

He hums, eyeing you appreciatively as he sets his glass back on the counter. You’re naked beneath the overshirt currently slipping down your shoulder, only a few buttons and some flannel between you and his hands, his lips, his tongue, and he’s looking at you like you're the dessert table at a buffet. You chew your lip, heat already pooling again in your belly.

Guess once wasn’t enough.

“So…neighbor,” he begins, his eyes teasing as he drags his tongue over his bottom lip. “Have I done enough to earn your forgiveness for the other night?”

You bite back a smile, tapping your chin as you pretend to contemplate his question. “You know, I’m not sure.”

He raises a playful eyebrow before leaning in, pressing a soft kiss against your lips. “How about now?”

You humming, scrunching up your nose in thought. “Still inconclusive.”

He grunts, capturing your lips again, this time in a deep, languid kiss. His hand skates up your bare thigh and you moan, tangling your fingers in his curls. He pulls back after a moment, raising his eyebrows at you expectantly.

“I guess, you’ll just have to keep trying,” you tease, biting back a smile when he growls, leaning back in to claim your mouth once more, the hand on your thigh finally slipping beneath the hem of your shirt.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟

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#i am in love #santiago garcia x fem!reader #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia #fic rec #this is so hot #and it's so HIM

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 3 months ago

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Place Of Worship

Santiago Pope Garcia x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Day 27: Body Worship

Summary: Santi's besotted with you.

A/N: Thank you so much to @thexsanctuaryx for beta-ing so amazingly again!

Warnings: swearing, body worship, oral sex (afab! receiving), please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 619

Santi’s practically lightheaded. Dizzy with how heavy his cock feels, sure that all the blood in his brain has truly rushed downwards.

He kisses your stomach softly, spreading his salvia over your skin as he sucks and licks. He wants this all the time, you naked lying back on the bed for him to touch and caress. He wants to feel every part of you, taste every inch of your skin while your hand is in his hair and scraping at his scalp just right.

He’s still got his boxers on, but he’s sure he’s leaving a soaking wet patch of precum on the cotton. He doesn’t fucking care though.

Santi inches lower, enjoying how your breathing hitches as he nips at your hip bone and massages your inner thighs with his thick fingers.

His tongue traces the join of your leg to hip, licking down to your mound and just dancing above where you would truly like his mouth. He’s not trying to be a tease, just take his time and enjoy how close you are. How breathy you sound above him and how sweet your skin tastes.

He licks down, running the tip of his tongue along your outer lips on one side, then up, across and back down and up the other.

He gazes up at you with hazy lidded eyes and he finally sinks his tongue inside slowly, then drags it up, up, up to finally flick along your clit.

Your moan is musical, the way you push your head back into the pillow and sigh, he wants that image engraved into gold that he can wear around his neck.

He repeats the long lick, groaning as you buck and shiver, before he swirls around your clit once and then sucks lightly.

Your little gasp sends tingles of pleasure down his spine, makes him moan into you. He eases up on the pressure, practically almost letting you fall from his lips before sucks harder, alternating in pressure and tempo until your hips are bucking fiercely and you're pulling at his hair for dear life.

“Santi!”

Fuck, he could come just hearing you like that.

He groans, focusing completely on keeping the same deep pressure, the same rhythm, not slowing or speeding up despite how you writhe.

Your breathing hitches, your chest rising and falling rapidly. He can feel your muscles jumping under his hands, how you try to fight the urge to squeeze his head with your thighs.

He’ll have to talk to you about that after, beg you to not be afraid to suffocate him with your thighs, to keep him between your legs. Exactly where he’s meant to be.

He groans, his own eyes rolling back as he senses your orgasm, can practically experience your pleasure building and building and running along your skin like electricity.

He wants to beg you, plead with you to give in, to give him all of it, to come and come and come until you're hoarse. But he doesn’t move his mouth from your centre, doesn’t break in his flow.

“Fuck!” You swear loudly, your back arching. Your voice is more than music to his ears, practically the word of a god as you sob in pleasure.

You shake and convulse on his tongue, your release hitting his tongue and soaking down his chin.

As you start to come down and relax he takes one last greedy lick through your folds, long and slow, trying to gather as much of your cum on his tongue as he can and groaning as he swallows.

You stroke his hair absentmindedly, the action soothing. He kisses your inner thigh and rests his head against you, utterly content in that moment.

Thank you for reading!

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nathanbatemanfucker · 6 months ago

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Sycamore Part 1: Along the Deep

summary: Frankie had said that your home was the perfect place to lay low; a small cottage nestled between the Alaskan sea and forest.

pairing: Santiago Garcia x fem!reader (Eclipse)

wc: 2,415

warnings: not sfw/minors dni/18+, strangers to lovers, eventual smut, mentions of canon typical violence, mental health issues (ptsd), addiction mention, food mention, internal angst, pining

an: its good to be back! hoping this series will propel me forward and get me writing more consistently. can't wait to hear yalls thoughts, and as always thank you for reading <3

sycamore masterlist

Santi’s running, headed to a place he’d never dreamed of setting foot in: Alaska. It isn’t an unfamiliar feeling–running is his forte– but this time around he truly feels like a failure. This time, he’s running because it's life or death and with the loss of Tom, Santi finds himself yearning to live. He had to make this grief burrowing in his chest worth something, and he was grateful to do it in the face of a stranger.

Frankie had assured him that you’re calm and collected. But, Santi didn’t know who you were– had never heard of you before this moment. He felt it was fair to have his doubts.

“Who is she?” Santi had asked once they had touched back down in Florida.

“Childhood friend. She served and seen as much as we have. I’known her longer than I’ve known you,” Frankie had explained.

Any of those doubts that lingered in Santi’s mind crumbled and were lost to the wind as he continued driving down the windy Alaskan roads. He’s surrounded by rows upon rows of trees. Frankie had said that your home was the perfect place to lay low; a small cottage nestled between the Alaskan sea and forest. Sunlight is endless this time of year and the salty coastal breeze bathes everything it touches.

He knows he’s in the right place once his tires hit gravel. The driveway stretches on a couple miles and he feels his heart rate increasing, palms slick against the leather steering wheel. This isn’t a test, this isn’t something he has to get right. All he has to do is mind his own business, keep his head down– something he does with the people that care so deeply for him day in and day out.

The house comes into view, sand and sea as its backdrop. You are not what Pope expects– neither is the house. You’re sat on the porch swing waiting for him, a book in one hand, a mug in the other. The word that comes to mind isn't one he uses often, but you are distinctly lovely. You look so relaxed, in a pair of cutoff overalls, hair up and framing your face. The house is white and rustic, and the porch wraps around it entirely.

Pope exits the car, treating you to an awkward wave. He doesn’t understand why his knees feel weak, but it could be your intense gaze. You wave back at him with an easy smile. You look welcoming, like a woman waiting for your husband to return home. But he has to remember, he doesn’t have a home anymore, that he hardly knows you even though he already likes everything he knows about you. He’s nothing but a man who bounces from place to place, contract to contract, there isn’t room for him here.

“Need some help?” You call out to him as he heads towards the trunk.

“I’m alright,” He says, not unkindly.

You stay put on the swing, sliding a bookmark between pages to save your spot before you wrap your hands tightly around your mug of tea. He’s more handsome than he was in the pictures, but there’s something in his step, in the way his shoulders slouch that tells you whatever he’s just experienced has changed him.

Frankie wouldn’t tell you much besides that they’d had a big job in South America that had gone awry. They’d lost a friend– a brother, Tom who’d you seen pictures of before. You hadn’t pressed for details knowing that the more you knew the more at risk all of you would be.

But, from the lost look in Santiago’s eyes as he trudges up to the porch, you know it had to be heavy. A loss deeper than he’d ever known.

He holds out a hand to you, words rushing out of his mouth in an unfamiliarly clumsy way, “Santiago. Santi. Or Pope, I don’t know.”

“Santiago. You can call me Eclipse.” You say, taking his hand and shaking it firmly despite the current that seems to follow between the two of you. You brush it off, standing and gesturing towards the house, “Let me show you your room.”

He continues to be surprised by you. The inside of the house is simple, all cream and light wood and house plants with small pops of color. The couch is large and fluffy with a colorful patch quilt on it, taking up most of the living room space. There’s lots of black and white art, even a set of twinkly lights in the kitchen.

You lead him into what seems to be a never-ending hallway, showing him the bathroom he’ll use, where closets are, your room. He notices that you neglect to tell him what’s in the room beside the one he’ll be staying in and the curiosity that’s been bubbling inside him overflows.

“What’s this room?” Santi asks, his voice strangely polite. He doesn’t want to offend you. The only thing he really wants right now is to know more about you. He points to the closed door between the large bathroom and his room for the next two months.

He notices your body stiffening, and for the first time since the two of you have met you look guarded. Secretive. Your eyes are wary as you answer him, “My art studio.”

Santi’s fascinated, you’re even more mysterious now. He’s thrown by how taken he is with you, how his knees feel weak and not from all of the bullshit he’s but him through. This pull he feels is different than usual, complex and genuine. He wants to unravel you, but unlike his usual habits of leaving when it’s all said and done, he would put you back together. He’d be drowning in his fear if he wasn’t so hungry for the knowledge of you.

“The art’s yours?”

Your face warms, but you shrug, brushing off his…wonder. That’s what you identify; he’s marveled by you. “Living up here, I had nothing better to do.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but you quickly cut him off, not wanting to discuss your art in depth– it isn’t yet what you want to be. Something has always been off, always been missing.

“Are you hungry?” You ask quickly.

“Starving, actually,” He says sheepishly, his mouth pulling up into a soft smile.

So handsome and so broken, you allow yourself to think for just a moment.

“Get settled, I’ll heat up some food for us.”

“Thank you, Eclipse.”

“Of course,” You say easily, like this choice of you inviting him into your home took no thought, no effort. Like you’ve known each other for multiple lifetimes.

As he watches you walk down the hall, he finds himself wishing that to be true.

With plenty of stew in the freezer, you preheat the oven to bake some potatoes. While the stew heats, you prep the potatoes, chopping them into small cubes and coating them with an herb mix. It’ll only take them 20 minutes in the oven, enough time to throw together a fresh salad with vegetables from the garden and warm some rolls.

You hear him shuffling down the hall about 15 minutes later, and when he appears he’s changed into a white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

You allow yourself a single glance at him as you stir the stew, quickly forcing your eyes away from him, “Drink? I’ve got water, soda, coffee, tea. Matcha.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking a little disappointed, “No beer?”

“I’m sober. 3 years.”

Santi has to force his expression to stay neutral. You’re sober like Fish. He wonders what your vice is, how you made it to this point. It was hard with Frankie, a fight every step of the way but one he’s dedicated to helping win.

“I have ginger beer,” You offer when he stays quiet.

“I’ll take it.”

He can see it clear as day, how good for Frankie you’ve probably been and will continue to be. Frankie may not know it, but you’ve been taking care of him in your own way for a while now. He’s described you to Pope as a younger sister, familia through and through despite losing each other for a while. Santi wonders just for a moment how you’d treat a lover, his eyes roaming your body. The thoughts are whisked away by the crack of a can, and you slide it over to him.

“Thanks,” He croaks, his cheeks warm from his thoughts.

If you notice you don't mention it, quipping back with another soft, “Of course.”

A comfortable silence settles between the two of you, and he takes a seat at the sturdy wooden table. He tries and fails not to watch you move around the kitchen. You’re incredibly graceful, floating around the room as if you’re on a cloud. You get the salad on the table along with some plates in perfect timing; the oven dings just as you turn towards it.

You’re a machine, just like him. Just like Frankie, and Benny and Will. Like Tom was. And yet it seems like it hasn’t plagued you the way it has all of them as you plate up dinner and sit across from him. This little life you’ve built, even if he ‘s just gotten a glance of it seems peaceful. He wonders if he could be whole in a place like this or if that’s just wishful thinking he’ll never verbalize.

“What made you move out here?” He asks softly after several minutes of silence marked by the sound of forks on plates.

“Solitude suits me,” You say simply.

Santi knows that’s not true. With how easily you welcomed a stranger here, the second nature of you fixing him a meal. He doesn’t push, its not his place.

“I guess I’m ruining that for you then.”

“Francisco trusts you. So I trust you.”

Trust, not solitude. You need safety and instead of finding it in people around you, you find it in yourself. Santi sees you a little clearer now– sees that this isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a fortress surrounded by water and sand and sycamores to keep everyone out.

“That’s why you don’t live in town?”

“I can’t– the guns,” You explain gruffly. “I need to know where they are and when they’ll fire or it gets– bad.

Oh.

He gets it. He hasn’t experienced it himself, his body’s still in this flight mode, but he can imagine what happens when it’s been turned off and then triggered. He’s heard the stories, though he files them away in a box in his head, never to be touched again. Or so he thought, until he met you.

In a strange way, you remind him of himself–even with all the work you’ve done he sees you as guarded, though less closed off than he is. Just like him you crave organization, and belonging, though it seems like your versions are much more poetic than his. More than ever, Santi feels like the scraps of belonging he had with his men is out of reach with Tom gone. Everything’s jumbled and off balance, and now they’re left to figure this out again. Like it wasn’t hard enough the first fucking time. But here…it feels like he could start to. Like he could do it properly.

The sun is finally starting to set when you finish dinner, and Santi insists that you stay put and let him clean up. When he gets all the food scraps in a pile you head out to put them in the composter and give the plants one last little sprinkle, though the coastal spray was probably enough. As always you find yourself staring into the abyss of the ocean, eyes captivated by the crash and fall of blue hues.

He watches you through the kitchen window, slowing down his methodical movements so that he can spend more time simply looking. There’s no purpose, no quota he must fill in being here with you unless he truly wants it. And right now the only thing he wants to do is look, and look and look at how beautiful you are.

With the dishes done he follows after you, standing awkwardly on the porch. Santi looks down at his feet, as if the answer to the question in his head rests upon them. But as if you’ve heard his silent steps, you look back at him expectantly and his eyes rise to meet yours. Your mouth raises just a fraction of an inch, he wouldn’t even count it as a smirk, but it pulls the question out of him, “Do you mind if I join you?”

You just beckon him on and his feet move without thought, listening to your siren call. You sink further into the sand as he nears you, burying your feet and resting your head on your knees. et. He kicks his shoes off before joining you, keeping his legs straight as he leans back into his palms. The sand is cool and scratchy against his calloused hands. You stay like that as the minutes go by, the sun sinking further and further into the sky.

It looks half submerged in the ocean, its golden hues reflecting off the dark water, when you finally speak again, “I’m gonna head in but you should stay a while. It’s an experience, watching the sun leave the moon alone.”

He hums noncommittally as you rise to your feet dusting the sand off your body. “Thank you for letting me come here. Especially without Fish.”

“Fish,” You repeat, laughing softly. You hardly even glance at him when you say, “You never have to thank me. Goodnight, Santi.”

Winded, Santi can only nod and you both avoid eye contact as you pass him, the moment already feeling charged enough. He likes it though, being on edge about something other than a mission or objective. Your jury’s still out, but she can’t deny what you’re feeling already.

“Goodnight,” He calls after you once his voice returns.

When you make it to the door you turn to look at him; there’s a pull, an invisible string wound between the two of you. Slowly, you commit this scene to memory so that you can start painting it. You’ve found a muse in him and how long has it been since you’ve painted in color?

He stays there to watch the sun leave the moon, thinking of you the entire time.

> Part 2: Juna's Bloodshed

taglist: @sylviantree, @whatthefish, @marc-spectorr, @mccn-bcys, @toracainz, @xbellaxcarolinax, @reallyrallyauthor, @missdictatorme, @lesbianhotch, @campingwiththecharmings, @veritable-trash, @ivystoryweaver, @iolaussharpe-24, @aria725, @hana-hanako, @kingtwhiddleston, @for-a-longlongtime

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jamneuromain · 4 months ago

Text

Addictive Chapter 1

Santiago "Pope" Garcia x PhD Candidate!Reader (You)

Warning: Unconventional Sugar Daddy!Santiago Garcia, Implied age gap (Santiago is in his late 30s, reader in her mid-20s), first meet, fluff, TW: conversation over drug abuse

Summary: The beginning of an unconventional sugar relationship.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: I solemnly blame @innorogers for indulging me with sugar daddy!Santiago Gargia thoughts, and in addition, my thanks to @bigtreefest with her help on med school experiences.

Prologue< | Chapter 1 | >Chapter 2

Chapter 1 Sober

I do medicine.

Brown.

There’s a small bowl of brown powder right next to the coffee machine.

You retreat a couple of steps to observe the bizarre object.

The coffee machine, that one you know from the bottom of your heart. Someone specifically duck-taped the signage of “Cold” and “Hot” in ballpoint over the original buttons because they were worn out. The black crispy paint fell from all edges and corners of this crappy machine since it was moved around a lot. Legend has it that this machine nearly retired from the shared common room of the Physics Department and the Chemistry Department before it was rehired for the Med School.

The application for a new coffee machine was delivered to the Head of Pharmacology over a year ago, and some grad students were waging over whether the paperwork ended up in the Head of Pharmacology, Professor Yovanna Castillo’s private lab as nest materials for her rats.

No, that’s old news. This is new … You watch the brown powder cautiously, giving it a careful whiff.

You know someone on this level is doing a project that includes marihuana extractions, you honestly hope they didn’t leave their product here.

The strong spice knocks your brain dead for a minute before you can hastily put it back down and sneeze in the other direction.

Nutmeg?

“Oh, I’d probably not touch it if I were you.” Diego swoops into the breakroom, smooth as always, grabbing his mug from the counter, his eight white teeth on display as he spreads into a big smile, “Is that the marihuana product Professor Parker and Drew and their grads were working on? Gosh, I hope they don’t just leave this stuff around unattended.”

Diego got into the Pharma PhD program the same year as you did. He swoons every woman, from the age of eight to eighty with his warm, affectionate smile. Your friendship bonds over the shared catastrophic studying experience and your failed experiments. Although he looks into a different research field, that doesn’t stop you from helping each other now and then, from looking after lab rats to picking up his drunken ass in clubs you have only heard of.

You cough and wave in front of your nose to clear the smell, “No. Just spice. Nutmeg.” You frown, heavily, and ask in disbelief, “Who puts nutmeg in their coffee?”

Diego gives the brown nutmeg powder a whiff and pours a lethal dosage into his porcelain mug before placing it under the machine. His mug has that funny PhD joke on it that makes you smile every time.

I study famarcology phamacology pharmacologee I do medicine.

Diego shrugs behind his funny mug, “I do.”

“Lucky you.” You murmur darkly, grabbing your lukewarm coffee and gulping down as much caffeine as possible.

Diego downs his nutmeg coffee – a pure abomination, in your opinion – and frowns too: “You didn’t bring the nutmeg.”

“’ Course I didn’t.” You look taken aback, deeply offended, “I don’t want anything to ruin the coffee!”

“So, who did? And nutmeg coffee is brilliant. Chef kiss to whoever came up with this idea.” Diego looks pointedly at you making your second cup of coffee with milk and sugar and no nutmeg, “Milk ruins coffee, honey.”

You make a gasted expression at his mug, clutching yours tightly to warm your numb fingers. It is too early to be called winter, but the morning wind did a number of things that are close to getting your hand frost-bite. You have never been so grateful that your ugly university-issued mug conducts heat faster than the metal handles of almost every door on the campus.

“So … who brought the nutmeg. That’s the question.” Your gaze floats between the small bowl of nutmeg and Diego, the latter one shrugs again.

“I did.” Professor Castillo, Head of Pharmacology, clicks her heels on the ground at the door, “Kindly advise you both against occupying this break room because we have a potential donor who would be coming in …” She raises her wrists to take a look at her iWatch, “Fifteen minutes.”

You and Diego exchange a look.

Diego mouths, “Money’s on the lab rat nests.”

You chew on your lower lip from smiling too hard.

“Don’t you have a TA session in ten, Mr. Martinez?” Professor Castillo purses her perfectly lined lips, her eyes narrowing like a sharp dagger, her hair in a ponytail, soft and smooth, and not a single hair out of place like a conditioner commercial, “You know how the faculty views tardiness for undergrad courses.”

“Yes, Professor Castillo.” Diego dumps his mug into the sink and flees the scene.

“I have … my rats to attend to.” Bullshit because all your rats died yesterday. Your research is a total bust. You need a few new ones, that’s for sure. But it’s a good enough reason for you to escape the piercing look from Castillo.

“One second -” She stops you by the door.

“Uh, yes, Professor?”

She examines you with her disapproving look, from head to toe.

Lab coat, check. Jeans, check. White sneakers, check. Bright orange sweater with crimson ketchup stain, check.

You button your lab coat with flames flaring your cheeks, hoping that this will cover the stain. It must have gone up there when you had your breakfast earlier this morning.

“Never mind.” Professor Castillo huffs with her slit nostrils, “Just a reminder to be more careful of laboratory regulations of no food and drink allowed. Off you go.”

You slip from her claws as if your sneakers turned into roller skates. Your heartbeat is in a frantic state from the breakroom to the shared lab where you and a few other grad students cohabit. The beating remains for a few minutes as you pick out new rats for your experiment.

From the transparent glass walls of your lab, you see that Professor Castillo storms out of the breakroom and swipes her keycard on her way out.

Your phone pings as you drug the rats with heroin.

Diego: Is it just me or the faculty seems empty today?

Diego: No one bothered to come to work besides phds?

Three hours of watching mice getting stoned and recording data passed. Then an hour lunch break. Then it’s your TA sessions for Biochem 101 and Introduction to Microbiology, which would last three hours and a half.

By the end of your TA session, Professor Castillo nearly blew up your phone with five missed calls and a very polite but restricted “Please call back, it’s urgent”.

“Professor Castillo? Sorry, my phone was silenced because I was -”

“Yes. Yes. Doesn’t matter.” Professor Castillo cuts through your explanation curtly, “Our donor wants to speak with you.”

“Now?” You pause a second to look at the clock at the far end of the wall, “I - I think I have a couple of minutes. I have another … thing … elsewhere, at six thirty.”

Castillo clears her throat over the phone, “Not now. Our donor wants to have dinner, with you.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t, my part-time doesn’t finish until nine.” Your throat tightens at her not-so-subtle command.

“I’m sorry too, but I’m afraid this donor is bigger than your part-time.” Castillo repeats coldly, “This is a chance you wouldn’t want to pass up.” She hesitates before giving away further, her tone grows softer, “He wants to contribute to your work. Your funding, more specifically. Think about your personal LC-MS, microdialysis probes.”

“But -”

“We’re talking about hundreds of thousands. And possibly much more to come if your research yields results.” Her voice sounds tempting, slow but seductive – not sexually, God forbid, “What I’m about to say is blunt, but please, think about your TA stipend.” Which is a very pathetic eight hundred dollars per month, as you and Professor Castillo are both aware of. “Times that by fifty. Our donor is thinking about investing forty grand. On you. On your PhD.”

Your own grant.

That sounds extremely tempting.

You can’t help but hold your breath. Forty grand. You don’t think you have ever seen that much money in real life. And such a grant isn’t for academic-only. It would certainly help your budget, and your finances.

“It’s a now or never chance,” Professor Castillo calls out your name softly on the other end of the phone, “Talk to our donor, tonight. Reschedule whatever you have in mind. Go have dinner with him. Talk about how much you love biology and pharmaceuticals. Being a PhD isn’t all about research, you know.” Her unspoken words linger in the air. It’s about connection, persuasion, and asking idiots with a suitcase of wads to fund your passion.

“Professor, I-”

“Oh,” She chuckles to the speaker, sounding more pleasant and friendly than she has ever been during the past year, “Yovanna is fine. Six thirty. A place called Jean-Georges, I’ll text you the address. Don’t be late.”

Your fist clenches and unclenches on the podium.

“Oh, and uh-” She pauses for a brief moment, “I was told that Jean-Georges is a high-end restaurant. Wear something nice.” Before quickly hanging up the phone.

You check the clock again, three minutes to six. Great.

With the ping of your phone, Professor Castillo – Yovanna texts you the address for Jean-Georges. Luckily, it’s about a ten-minute walk from your campus to the restaurant. Unluckily, it’s in the opposite direction of your apartment. There is simply no way for you to head home, change into something fancy – which is another problem because your wardrobe lacks anything that could be labeled as “high-end” – and head to that restaurant.

There is only one thing you can do now.

You call Diego.

***

You should be grateful that this donor guy gives you a chance to prove yourself.

You really should.

You tug the hem of your tight black dress in all discomfort, and can’t help but get a teeny tiny bit of annoyance in the back of your head.

As stated, you have two formal outfits for such occasions. One is a nice, cute, white shirt, and a black suit to go with it. Quick flashback, Diego did not find your dress pants. Which you were fairly sure that the pants were hanging just by the shirt. So, it left you with the only other option. Option number two, the tight black dress stuffed at the back of your closet. You once hoped that you would never use it again, but, well, here you are.

You are very grateful for Diego living right next door and being able to find your dinner outfit plus heels on such short notice and deliver it to you. It spared you a few minutes to apply lipstick – you really need to stop scraping its bottom with a toothpick and buy another one instead. You borrowed foundation and concealer from a girl in the lab down the hall. You are also thankful for her helping you with the concealer before you risked smudging the colored ointment over your black dress – the only thing that you could wear at this point. She also did your hair with a small comb that she carried with her make-up pouch at all times, taming it and styling it as much as she could.

She also wanted to help with your eyebrows, ready to pluck some of them off with a pair of tweezers before you gasped in horror and claimed that you had to leave.

Very nice of a girl. You think her name is Jessica.

Yet here you are, in front of the restaurant as the wind grows chilly by the minute.

“Do you have a reservation, Miss?” The waiter in a tux at the door asks with a smile.

“Under the name, Mr. Garcia, I think?” You take out your phone from your stark-white canvas bag. Yeah, you see the waiter subtly checking out your canvas bag. Not your fault that high heels hurt so much and you need to take them off and change them into sneakers the second you say goodbye to Mister Kind Sponsor.

The waiter checks the sheets of reservation in front of him, quickly finding the name “Garcia”, “Of course.” He gestures to another waiter in a tux, a taller and skinnier one, “Dave will lead you to your table. I hope you will enjoy our food.”

You smile back, following the other waiter’s lead.

Strong, blinding light emits from above your head. Thick, grey carpet underneath your soles. The restaurant is decorated in a neat black-and-white style. A woman wearing tight brown skims yoga pants brushes past you, having you somewhat relieved, as this place is not strictly dress-coded.

Gentle clicking of forks, knives, and plates, and glasses. Bare whispers of people talking. Not loud. Not rushed. Au contraire to the student’s cafeteria where you choose to spend your nine dollars and twenty-nine cents every Wednesday as a reward for your hard work.

Somewhere you don’t fit in. The realization hits you like a bus. Not the first time. But the most realistic one as you know the one guy you are about to pamper, the guy who simply has too much to spend on his yacht or villa or first-class tickets or privet jets, doesn’t belong in your ranks. Doesn’t belong in your world. And vice versa.

Just how would you be able to sweet talk him into investing in your research?

Dave leads you to the table without you even realizing it. Maybe it’s that you don’t recognize the man. Or maybe the fuzzy grey sweater and his brown leather jacket don’t really fit in like the rest of the men wearing tux and suits and ties.

Two misfits. You conclude in the depth of your own mind.

He stands from the table when Dave introduces the table set for the two of you.

“Mr. Garcia?” You pronounce your name loud and clear, extending a hand, “It’s very honored to meet you.”

“Pleasure is all mine.” He shakes your hand firmly, telling the waiter to circle back with two menus before turning his attention back to you, “Please, have a seat.”

Grey curls adorn his forehead, capturing your attention first. Then it’s his toned skin, a shade tanner than most who occupy the higher-up positions in your life. A light stubble covers the lower half of his face. Although you are no expert, you realize it’s trimmed with delicacy. When he smiles at you, there are wrinkles at the corner of his eyes.

“Here are the menus.” Dave brings two thick leather-bound books back and hands you each one, “Would you like to order now or … ?”

He leans over before Dave can finish, kindly smiling, “It’s okay if you need a few minutes to go over the menu.”

You open the leather-bound book – it contains two pages. One page of the cuisines under the name “Autumn”, as a fixed set for each and every guest, and another page filled with beverages and wines and cocktails.

There’s literally nothing you need to go over with. Besides the drink.

“I’ll just have the Autumn set.”

“Same.” The charming man on the opposite side of the table pipes up after you.

“And the drinks?” Dave continues in his uneventful tone.

“A little bit of alcohol, if that’s alright with you?” He checks with you, “It’s okay if you want something alcohol-free.”

Who are you to say no when your donor wants to have a drink with you?

You chew on your lower lip as a slight hesitation takes over, before realizing his intense gaze on you. “I’d love to have a bit of alcohol, but I don’t know much about wine. You can do the honors and help me order one, perhaps?”

A toothy grin reveals his sharper canines. He seems taken aback by your blunt confession over the subject of alcohol, yet he shows no signs of annoyance or impatience.

He turns to ask the waiter Dave, “What can you recommend for Champagne?”

“Bollinger for the more traditional flavor and richness. Or Moet for light and fruitful. We now have a bottle of Bollinger Special Cuvée, the flagship champagne of Bollinger which I highly recommend.”

Mr. Garcia nods. “Then we’ll have the flagship one. Thanks.”

Dave collects your menus and exits quickly.

Santiago Garcia folds his arms over the table, like a pupil eager to learn, cocking his head slightly, he asks, “I think I’ve heard a lot about you from your professors, but I’d like to hear it from you. What is your current research subject?”

This is a question that you get asked countless times. Even so, you can’t help but sweat a little. “I uh- ahem, I study pharmacology. My PhD research is Development of a Novel Therapeutic Drug Mimicking Endogenous Pain Modulators for Enhanced Pain Management in Addiction Rehabilitation. Basically, I’m aiming to develop a drug that would help individuals in rehab.”

“How so?” Santiago Garcia rests his chin on the back of his hand, “Forgive me for asking, I honestly don’t know a thing about pharmacology, how would this … therapeutic drug work?”

“Well,” a moment and you seem to have returned to the podium, lecturing the students on your ongoing research, “Most people do drugs again because of the pain-reducing component in the drugs. Think of it this way: your body contains muscles, bones, and ligaments. When your body is constantly in motion, like I need to pick up my fork.” You gesture by lifting your tableware, “Your bones and muscles create friction. But you won’t feel anything, as our body produces, well, mostly endorphins to counter the feeling of minor pain from within.”

Dave pours you both a glass of sparkly wine, but Mr. Garcia doesn’t reach for the glass, and neither do you. Though you both say “Thank you” to the waiter, interrupting the conversation briefly.

“As I was saying, when you start to do drugs, minor ones like marihuana or dangerous ones like Oxy, your body captures the signal that you have sufficient chemicals to reduce the small pains, and that it doesn’t have to produce endorphins for you anymore.”

“We have very stupid bodies.” Massaging his lower lip with his thumb, Santiago Garcia murmurs.

You shrug nonchalantly, “That’s one way of putting it. Anyway, when you stop doing drugs, your body has already shut its endorphin factory down, and that’s when you start to feel itches, pains, and discomfort all over your body. It is unbearable. To a lot of drug users, it’s not that they don’t want to quit, it’s because they can’t. Doing drugs again is the only way they don’t feel the pain anymore.”

Santiago nods, chiming in, “I think I’m getting the hang of it now. What you are doing, if I summarize it correctly, is mimic a drug similar to endorphin?”

“While also boosting our endorphin factory back to life – but yes, you get the gist. It should be a non-addictive version of painkillers that would allow doctors to gradually decrease the meds subscribed to these addicted patients until they could return to their full health. At least for their endorphin factory.”

Dave comes back with your entrées.

“That sounds …” He wrecks his brain for the right word, “quite impressive.”

Your cheeks warm up per his amazement. He sounds genuine. Unlike how your professors comment on every research as “very good” “interesting”, while in fact they just mean “This is a lot of bullshit and you need to do better” before marking each work with a B minus.

He proposes a toast by raising his glass, and you take up on that offer. The sound of glasses clicking has to be one of the most musical voices you have heard throughout the year.

As you progress from entrée to the main course, your inner curiosity is killing you, leading you to drop your question, “I am very thankful for the … dinner and your enthusiasm over biology, but can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“Why me?” You nervously add, “I’m not saying that I’m not a good choice. But why?”

He quirks his eyebrows, huffing a small laugh. “The short version is, I like your research.”

“And the long version …?”

Santiago Garcia washes down the food with a gulp of that golden sparkly wine. Leaning back in his seat, he responds, “Truth is, I worked for the Delta squad for over eight years, and I’ve been fighting drug lords ever since. That’s the eight-year-long version of it. If it helps with your question, I have also invested in a psychological research, a chemical one, and another one of social sciences, all related to drug abuse.” And I also have like forty million dollars I stole from the drug lord Lorea that I don’t know how to spend. So, it’s a hilarious way to spend some of that drug money, investing in research that would corrupt other drug lords’ business. He thinks to himself.

That is, in fact, very admirable. Both working for Delta Squad and now investing in such research that is beneficial to society.

“I am very much impressed, Mister Garcia.” A small smile perches up the corner of your lips.

He lets out a throaty laugh, “I think we’re beyond that. Santiago – I go by Santiago.”

“Right, Santiago.” You will never forget that name anytime soon, considering the amount he is about to invest in you.

His lips briefly graze the surface of the champagne in his glass. This man, Santiago Garcia watches you while he takes a sip of his wine.

He clears his throat, putting down his wine glass, “I think we have a deal then,” he calls you by your first name, “fifty thousand for a year. Then two or more years, depending on your research outcome.”

Fifty thousand for a year.

Your breath hitches in your throat. That amount is probably more than the wage your parents could earn in five years.

Your tuition. Your personal lab equipment. Your soup cans and tuna cans with red 50% Off stickers at the back of your cabinet.

“Is this the wine talk?” You joke, to mask the tension at the back of your spine.

“No,” Santiago says in his gravel but surprisingly warm voice, his beautiful eyes with the color that reminds you of melting hazelnut chocolate lingering on your face. The look, the gaze, it was nothing repulsive. Nothing offensive. Nothing intrusive. “I’m very much sober.”

#santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia x you #sugar daddy!santiago garcia #santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #santiago pope garcia fluff #oscar isaac characters #fem!reader #oscar isaac image #triple frontier #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #oscar isaac

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nyctophile-moon-child · 1 year ago

Text

everything about this was so good, wow

Honest Mistake (Cowritten with @missdictatorme)

Santiago "Pope" Garcia X Fem!Reader

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Birthday fic for me and Dolli! Her's was the 18th, mine is the 20th (TOMORROW AT LEAST IN THE US!!!) so we whipped this bad boy up together! It was a lot of fun, we worked well together and have similar humors. I think some parts you'll be able to tell who wrote what, but others it could honestly be either. I hope you enjoy, bc I think this is pretty stellar!

Fluff

5k words

Summary: Santi goes into a panic one morning when he realizes it's your birthday, the first since you and him got together at Will's engagement party... and he forgot. In a hurry, he calls on his team to pull off a special day in order to make it seem as if he this all planned out ahead of time.

Warnings: some smut (fingering, oral), uuuhhh that's it? Content warning implied/referenced Nicolas Cage.

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

“God baby, you just woke up this soaked?”

“It’s doesn’t help you’ve been grinding your morning wood into my ass the last hour.”

Santi had his finger down your Star Wars pj pants as the two of you laid in bed on this sleepy sunday morning, Santiago spooning you. Santi loved how you looked like this. Don’t get him wrong, he loved how you looked in business casual for work, he loved how you looked when he took you out on a fancy date and you got all dressed up, but something about this drove him crazy. Maybe it’s because only he got to see you like this, or maybe it’s because he got to see this so often instead of the one night stands he was used to. There was something so fucking intimate about it.

And it just turned him on like crazy.

“Not my fault you look this goddamn good”

“I literally have drool dried to my cheeks right n- oh” There it was. Santi curled his fingers and hit that perfect spot inside your gushing core.

“Only way I can get you to shut the fuck up, huh? Make you moan like a little whore?”

“Hmmmm I think you should be just a little bit nicer to me considering it’s my birthday.”

It took all his will power for Santi to not stop finger fucking you right then and there, his face hidden behind you hiding the horror at himself. BIRTHDAY?!?! It can’t be your birthday. That was tomorrow, wasn’t it? No, no it was a Sunday… next Sunday? No, next Sunday was Will’s wedding- oh fuck it’s your birthday.

“Sure is, hermosa” Santi mumbled into your neck. “And I have a great day planned for you, starting with…” Flinging the blankets off the bed, Santi scrambled his way down your body, sliding off the pants and diving in, large nose and all, into your cunt. Santi put every goddamn ounce of energy he had into making you scream, licking and sucking away, only breaking away to nibble on your thighs for a breath while he finger fucked you, never once letting up on the sensations he was giving.

“Fuck! Fucking hell Santiago, what’s- uuugghh, fuck, what’s gotten into you today?”

“Just trying to give my girl the best birthday ever!” He said, perhaps too enthusiastically. Only Ben get’s that fucking excited. Still you didn’t seem to find it odd because you were moaning his name as you came on his face, Santi lapping up every drop until he drew a second, smaller orgasm out of you. “Just lay here, princesa.” Still in a panic (and fucking hard, on top of it all) Santi went and drew you a bath. The perfect excuse to leave you alone with a towel, face mask, candle, and music going so you didn’t have to hear him hyperventilating.

How could he do this? How could he forget your birthday, his perfect fucking girlfriend who remembers every date from his birthday, to Frankie’s daughter Yasmine’s recitals to the anniversary of Tom’s death. And he couldn’t remember this? It’s a week on the dot before Will and Lana’s wedding, how could he forget! Between the wedding, the bachelor party, groomsmen duties and not to mention last month he signed Yaz up for a soccer camp which meant committing to picking her up from daycare for a few hours every day for the last week and of course he had to take her out for McDonalds after like the good uncle he was… you had just gotten lost in the flood.

This would not stand. He’d give you the best birthday he could pull together last minute or so help him god! He just needs a few reinforcements.

Benny’s Boys 😎

Pope: I fucked up.

Ironhead: You forgot her birthday, didn’t you.

🐟: How the fuck do you remember, Will

No Call Sign: Will drinks respect women juice for breakfast

Ironhead: It’s a week before my wedding. How did you forget?

Pope: I don’t know! But I need your help to fix this!

No Call Sign: Have you tried eating her out? That usually fixes things when May is mad

Ironhead: Jesus Christ Benjamin. Have some class.

Ironhead: Have you, though?

Pope: GUYS

Pope: Also, yes.

🐟: What do you need, Pope.

After a four way call on the balcony and planning that rivaled what it took to almost pull off Colombia (Why does Will have a white board and a corkboard with pictures of them all, you, Yazmine, Lana and red strig just ready to go?), a preliminary plan was made. Santi would start by taking you to brunch where Will would just have enough time to bring over a bouquet of flowers and put their names in for a table without being seen. Meanwhile, Frankie and Yaz were going to be working on a cake and Benny called up everyone you both knew (why does he have everyone’s numbers?). Lana was their man on the ground, updating the boards in an organized fashion she knew Will loved and keeping everyone on track. One task each would not be enough to get this done, they’d have to hussle the whole day to pull off what the 4 men had planned in an effort to make it seem like Santi scheduled this out ahead of time.

When Santi finished the calls and the grand plan was made, he walked back to the bedroom, just in time to see the bathroom door open. He quickly dove onto the bed, landing on top of the covers and he propped himself up on one elbow, acting relaxed.

"Enjoyed your bath, mi vida?"

You lifted an amused eyebrow, seeing that he bounced a little on the mattress and looked a bit out of breath, but you nodded.

"Yes, baby, it was perfect, thank you." - you blew him a kiss and walked to your closet to dress up.

He had a big house, much bigger and much nicer than your flat, but last night was spent at yours. When you two first dated, Santi set the rules by saying that he wants to keep things slow and casual (like with all of the women he had in the past, he loved fucking them, he respected them, but he wasn't the type to spend most of his free time with them).

You agreed, not wanting to complicate things. The sex was great and he was fun to hang out with, and because of that you didn't want to rush things in case you get bored with each other too soon.

This plan flew right out the window when both of you spent your nights in separate beds, thinking about the other, missing the other.

The next time you had sex, Santi pulled you closer when you wanted to get up, get dressed and leave, asking you to stay the night, kissing your neck. You melted in his arms and cuddled close to him, and after having the best sleep of your life next to each other, it was almost impossible for both of you to let go of the other from then on.

Santi was surprised you and him were still together. Not because you two together weren't perfect. He just… never met someone who made him feel this… happy. Now he felt even worse for forgetting your birthday.

He watched you dress up with a soft smile, loving the way your body looked. When you were done he got up too, lifted your face up with one of his fingers and kissed your lips sweetly.

"How about I'll take you to that restaurant you eye fuck everytime we pass it? For brunch?"

Your eyes widened. That restaurant was… expensive.

You opened your mouth to protest and Santi smiled wider, putting his forefinger against your lips.

"Not that you get any say in the matter, I'm gonna spoil my perfect little princess on her birthday and you can't do anything to stop me."

You mock pouted and bit his finger making him laugh, then you hugged his neck and kissed his lips.

"Okay, Mr. Kidnapper, I sure as hell don't wanna go to that restaurant I've been dying to try since I first saw it. And just for your information, I'm gonna be all grumpy and shit the whole time while we're there!" - you said as you turned to walk out the door and Santi's heart fluttered at seeing the excited bounce in your steps as he followed you.

You kissed his cheek when he opened the car door for you, making him grin widely; you were so sweet, so good to him. Just when you were driving near Santi’s house to get to the resteraunt, you spotted a car similar to Benny's as it turned in the street.

"Isn't that Be…?"

"So are you excited to try this restaurant?" - Santi asked all too eagerly.

"I think that was Be…"

"You must be so curious what I brought for you as a present, carino. I can't wait to give it to you."

You frowned a little then started talking about the reviews you read on the restaurant and started listing him the stuff you'd be happy to get as a present.

When you were looking out the window while you were rambling on and on, Santi quickly reached for his phone and started a voice recording. He sent it to William so he'll know what to buy.

As Santi took you into the restaurant, he got nervous since it was packed. How was he supposed to make it look like he had made a reservation? “Sit here, amor.” Santi directed you to an open chair and went to talk to a host. As he walked away, he heard you call his name, and when he turned around, he saw you in your pretty white dress making a heart with your hands. Santi made his best attempt at a heart back (it looked terrible.) and went on. You were so perfect, so pretty… how was he supposed to give you the day you deserved?

“Hi, uuhhhhhh call ahead for Santiago Garcia? Or maybe it’s under William-”

“Yes! Mr. Garcia! Your friend put your name in. Luckily we just had a bunch of tables get up, so as soon as they get bussed off, we’ll seat you. Maybe 10-15 minutes?”

Santi breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, that’s perfect.” He turned to go back to you when he realized a weak link in this plan. The hostess. This was not a military operation and he couldn’t ‘take care of it’ the way they used to… lucky for the hostess. “Hey uh… can you maybe not mention my friend to my girlfriend? Or that this was a call ahead instead of a reservation?”

She smiled knowingly. “Of course, Mr. Garcia.”

When he got back to you, he told you the wait time. “Sorry baby, they said they had some tables stay longer than expected.”

“Oh that’s okay!” You assured. You used to work in a restaurant and know how it goes. When the hostess came to seat you, she made sure to tell Santi his “reservation” was ready.

Brunch was… expensive. But it didn’t matter, you were worth it, and you smiled so brightly at every bite and every sip, he wanted to take you here more just to see you so happy. Just when he thought Will couldn’t swing the flowers, the hostess brought up a bouquet and Santi watched in delight as you beam at him.

Next on the agenda was a picnic. Driving home, Santi prayed for the first time in half a decade that the Millers had gotten their next part done. Ben came over to start decorating and prepping the picnic basket. Will had to bring the physical basket and blanket… and glasses that aren't plastic.

“BEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNN”

“Relax!” The younger man shouted back as Santi entered the apartment. “We’re way ahead of schedule” Ben had stopped at the store to get a cheese and meat platter and was adding the finishing touches. Will had already left for his next part; buying a gift in which Santi would venmo the cost back. He didn’t care how much, just make it good.

“Tio!!!” A little brunette ran up and hugged her uncle, covered in flour.

“Mija, what are you doing here?” He asked as he greeted his goddaughter.

Frankie round the corner from the kitchen. “Yasmine, you just got him dirty!” He scolded. Santi assured him it was fine and wiped off the flour, and Frankie explained. “We figured we’d make the cake here instead of risking transportation.”

With hugs and thank you’s all around, Santi grabbed the finished basket and dashed out the door.

When he got back in the car, you looked at him curiously. “Is that Frankie’s car down the street?”

Santi gives a noncommittal answer and mutters something about Frankie having ladies in every zip code, then drives away, quickly changing the subject to the new Barbie movie you wanted to see so badly as he took you out to the park for a picnic.

Santi found a nice spot under a tree where the shadow was big enough to cover the big blanket from the heat of the sun. He made you sit down and you watched with a smile as he pulled everything out of the box. While he did that, you decided to pull off your sandals and removed Santi's shoes and socks too, making the man chuckle.

He opened the bottle of wine while you picked some cheese on your plate and you beamed up at him.

"Today is going great Santi. Thank you for this."

Santi smiled back at you and leaned over to kiss your cheek.

"You deserve the best, baby."

You shook your head, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"Still… No one put this much effort into making me feel special, like… ever."

Santi's smile faltered a little and you thought it was because of sympathy. But he felt shame envelope him. He shouldn't have forgotten your birthday. If he would've remembered he would've made you take a week off from work and would have taken you to somewhere nice. To Spain maybe, or Guatemala or Italy, maybe Greece. To somewhere beautiful where you always wanted to go. To make you feel like the most special girl in the world. Because you were the most special! At least for him. What would you think of him if you knew his friends were helping him, because he forgot your birthday? Did he really deserve you?

You pulled him out of his thoughts when you leaned your head on his shoulder as you were watching the lake where ducks and swans were swimming peacefully.

"You always make me feel special though. Everyday. Sometimes I feel like I don't thank you enough." - you said quietly.

Santi looked down and kissed your head several times, until you chuckled.

"Don't be silly, baby. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. There are times when I just look at you and wonder how you ended up being in my life."

You grinned.

"It was one of Benny's parties where you were drunk as hell, grabbed his guitar and started to serenade me, singing about how I am the most beautiful woman you've ever seen."

Santi started to laugh.

"Well, you are!"

"I just finished throwing up, and was trying to wipe my makeup off with little success."

"Still. I was watching you since you entered the house and was drinking cause I was trying to get enough courage to go over to you."

"This is such bullshit!" - you said, looking at him.

"Que?!"

"Benny told me you are the biggest womanizer he ever met, why did you need courage?"

"Because…" - he started as he booped your nose with his fingertip gently as he leaned closer. - "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and I didn't want to fuck it up." - he said and kissed your lips softly.

You snorted and kissed him back.

"So your grand plan was to get shitfaced and serenade me with silly lyrics you made up on the spot."

"Well, I didn't mean to drink that much, but Will just told us he got engaged and we had to celebrate." - he kissed your cheek again, then your neck. - "Besides… it worked." - he grinned.

"It did." - you laughed and kissed him again.

Benny’s Boys 😎

🐟: Booked you a couples massage. Consider it your birthday gift. And christmas. Y Dia De San Jose.

Pope: I cannot say thank you enough, you guys

No Call Sign: Once would be great.

Pope: Hey! I said thank you!

Ironhead: Quit texting your boyfriend and woo your girlfriend. If you want her to be your wife you can’t let her think you’re going to ditch her for some blonde bimbo

No Call Sign: Wait. Am I the blonde bimbo?

🐟: Hey! He’s my blonde bimbo

No Call Sign: Thanks baby 😘

This was proceeded by Ben and Frankie ‘homie flirting’ as Ben called it, before Will reminded them Benny has a girlfriend and Frankie still needed to text Santi the details of the massage.

He took his time with you at the picnic, plopping little bits of meat and cheese and berries in your mouth, continuing to woo you with everything he had. He would make you feel like the most special girl on the planet if it was the last thing he did.

“You’re the most perfect boyfriend in the world“ You praised as you laid on this lap as he sat back against the tree. Santi dangled grapes over your mouth, feeding them to you as he fanned you (Will had a fan in his picnic kit? No wonder that man got engaged so damn fast).

“Hopefully I’ll be the most perfect husband not long from now.”

The way you beamed up at him, eyes sparkling, made every worry he had disappear. “You mean that, Santi?” With bated breath, you await his answer. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been serious… but the line between meeting at Will and Lana’s engagement party where Benny brought you along to, where you had both said to stay ‘casual’ to where you were now, with you as Santi’s official plus one to Will’s wedding, spending nearly every night together… you hadn’t really talked about the future. You knew he was serious. He wouldn’t lead you along like this if he just wanted to casually date, and Benny would kick his ass if he thought Santi was being a dick to you (and threatened to do as much when you first told him about his two best friends dating), but you hadn’t really talked about it.

“I mean it, carino.” Assuringly, Santi caressed your cheek. “I know we’ve been moving a little slow, and I appreciate you meeting me at my pace. I know maybe it seems like I’m just messing around-”

“It doesn’t.”

“-but I promise you, I am very serious. And I’d like to take the next step.” He goes in for a kiss, pecking your lips and tasting the fruit on them.

“And what’s the next step, baby?”

“You’ll see when we get back to the apartment.” He did have one gift ready, something he had planned for weeks ahead of time to give today. It wasn’t that he forgot your birthday completely… he knew what day it was, he knew it was coming… it just got lost in the chaos. So yeah, he needed his 3 best friends, one’s fiance and his goddaughter to assist him. “But up next, a couples massage.”

Santiago did not mean to moan. He really didn’t. But between the stress of the wedding and this whole day, he was tense, and the massage therapist was good. Lucky for him, both his and your massage therapist were cool about it, and you burst into giggles, proceeding to tell his masseuse “I never get him to moan like that.”

He’d be humiliated if it was anyone else but you. You made everything so easy. You also mimicked his moan the whole car ride to his apartment as Santi prayed to god Benny had decorated and gathered enough people together to constitute a surprise party. It was definitely a perk that your friend was good friends with your girlfriend; they knew a lot of the same people. Okay, so maybe Santi thought Ben was competition at first! So maybe Santi kinda wanted to steal you from Ben! So maybe the reason Santi brought out the guitar is because Benny had previously played it and was singing ‘baby lock them doors and turn the light down loooowwww’ and Santi wouldn’t be upstaged! So sue him!

As he unlocked the door, he spoke REALLY LOUDLY in hopes they’d here and get into place. It worked. It definitely worked. Until Yaz shouted “DON’T SHUSH ME DADDY” and it was all over.

You looked at Santi suspiciously.

"You are either hiding your side-chick or… IT'S MY FAVOURITE LITTLE GIRL IN THE WORLD!"

In three seconds you two spotted Yazmine sprinting down the stairs and into your arms, giggling.

"No, Yaz, abort mission, I repeat ABORT MISSION!" - you heard Frankie yell after her, still in his hiding spot while Santi facepalmed himself.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" - she shouted excited as you picked her up and kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, honey! So tell me…"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!" - suddenly dozens of people jumped out from behind different furnitures and you jumped back scared, but then laughed when you recognized the faces.

"Oh my god, guys, thank you!" - you laughed as you put Yasmine down and hugged everyone who came up to you.

Santi quickly searched for his friends to thank them all the effort they put into to make this day special for you. The decoration was done and it seemed like you loved it, if the way your eyes sparkled when you spotted another balloon or a birthday poster was any indication.

You loved the restaurant, the picnic basket Will and Benny put together was fucking delicious, the massage was heavenly and now all of your friends were here to celebrate you.

"Guys, seriously, thank you." - Santi said as he hugged them.

"You better marry this woman one day, since we did all this for you two." - Will winked.

Santi looked over at you with a soft smile on his face.

"Maybe I will."

Frankie, Will and Benny's eyes widened and they grinned, pulling Santi into another group hug. They've never seen their friend this happy and it was easy to tell that it was because of you.

You had a suspicion that it wasn't all Santi. You're not saying he wasn't capable to pull all of this off, but he looked a bit on edge the whole day and he was on the phone a lot more than he used to.

When Santi appeared in front of you with a big gift box, you grinned widely, taking it from him.

“Baby it’s huge!!!” You squeal as you both sit down to tear it open; right away you knew he had sent Will to get it. When you had listed off things you guessed he might have gotten you in the car this morning, you had named several items. A pandora’s charm bracelet, the giant blanket off redbubble with Nicolas Cage’s face all over it, that rose shaped sex toy you were curious about, a new hair dryer since yours had broken, and it was, in fact, the last one. This had Will written all over it. It wasn’t that Will couldn't be romantic; he was, from what Lana had told you and what you had seen, very romantic. However, out of the four, Will was more practical, and absolutely went for the hair dryer. Santi was more fancy jewelry, Frankie would go for the sex toy, and Benny…

The hair dryer was nice, though, very, very nice. It came with several attachments, and Will even managed to put in different hair masks and deep conditioners in there. It was perfect, and you would absolutely be using it on you and May to get ready for Will and Lana’s wedding.

“THANK YOU BABY THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!” Jumping up, you tackle him onto the carpet and pepper his scruffy face with kisses as you both giggled.

The night went swimmingly, a fun weekend but nothing crazy since most had work the next day and the real party would be next weekend, but you had such a great time, Santi serenading you with a cover of You and Me by Lifehouse. Benny somehow read your mind and got you that god awful Nicolas Cage blanket you wanted, and Santi he was never staying the night again.

When the crowd cleared out, leaving you and Santi alone, you took both of his hands in yours. “Thank you for today, Santiago. I had an amazing time”

Santi smiled at you, adoration and love spreading across his face. “I’m so glad, mi vida. It took a lot of effort” Now he could honestly say that wasn’t a lie.

Looking around, you compliment his work. “The decorations look great” You nod to the streamers that were so high up. “You use a step stool?”

Fake glaring, Santi furrowed his eyebrows. “Oh you’re gonna be a brat now, are you?”

Pulling your boyfriend closer, you look his dead in the eye but keep a light smile to make sure he knows you aren’t upset. “You forgot my birthday, didn’t you?”

His eyes go wide, and immediately he starts stammering. “No! No- why would you- baby I would never- your birthday of all days!”

You cock and eyebrow at him. “Santiago Garcia.”

He sighs. “Fine! So I forgot it was today, but I knew it was coming! I just got so… I don’t have an excuse, baby, I’m sorry.” He genuinely looked so sad, so disappointed in himself.

“Oh Santi.” You lean in to kiss him, caressing his face tenderly. “It’s okay, you made me feel so, so special, so loved, not just by you but by your family, and that means a lot to me. Knowing that they care about me too. So thank you today was perfect.”

His face softens, smiling lightly. “Okay, so I had a lot of help. But!” He departs from you, walking into his bedroom and coming out with a small box. “This is something I made up weeks ago. I didn’t completely forget about your birthday.” He hands it to you.

“Santi, you shouldn’t have! You’ve already gotten me so much!”

“Well, this one cost me like. Three dollars.”

When you open it, you see a small key from those kiosks at walmart that even had a Star Wars design on it. “Santi” You gasp. “Is this-”

“A key to my house, yeah.” Santi stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark pants, shuffling nervously. “Well, we’ve been dating for a while, and you practically live here anyway” He teases. “I want you to just… make yourself at home. And when your lease is up… and if you feel ready… I was thinking…” The hopeful look on his high-strung face after everything he did to put today together at the last minute… you fell more in love with him every day.

“SANTIAREYOUASKINGMETOMOVEIN?!” You blurt out, practically jumping.

“If you want-”

Kisses. Nothing but kisses and I love you’s and you jumped and squealed in excitement.

When you had settled and confirmed yes, you’d move in when your lease was up in a few short months, Santi took your mouth in his for a more passionate kiss, and a handful of ass in his hand for a squeeze. Sloppily, you two made out on your slow trek back to what would soon be your bedroom (Where the Nicolas Cage blanket was awaiting him, little did he know) he asked you.

“How did you know I forgot?”

“Weeeelllllll” you draw it out as you go for his neck. “There were a few signs.”

He mumbles a few swears. “Was it Benny and Frankie’s car’s?”

“Well, yeah. But there was the fact, and baby I love you very much, but that level of decoration requires Benny’s enthusiasm.”

“Okay, yeah, well-”

“The gift screamed Will, and the massage had to be one of their ideas at the very least because you would never willingly strip for a woman you weren’t sleeping with.”

“Hey-”

“The cake had a chunk of missing frosting that was suspiciously Yasmine sized”

“She takes after her uncle Ben-”

“There was a fan in the picnic basket”

“Okay so?”

“And baby…” You stop right outside the bedroom door, both of you panting and eager for each other. “You never eat me out like that unless you are trying to make up for something.”

His stupidly sharp jaw drops. “Are you saying I’m not a pussy eating champion?”

“Hey!” You raise your arms in defense. “All I’m saying is if Lana and May are correct, you could take some tips from the Miller- AH!” Santi scooped you up, slinging you over his shoulder.

Despite his words, he was clearly smiling, his shoulders shaking in laughter. “I don’t need jack shit from the Millers!”

“Except this party”

“Except this party! Now, let me show you a little hint of what my wifey will get.” With that, he carried you into the bedroom, promptly greeted by a giant blanket collage of Nicolas Cage.

“Babe. What the FUCK!”

***********

Hope y'all liked!!!!

Dolli I hope you had a great birthday!

Tomorrow I'm decorating my classroom with baby yoda decorations, giving my day care class party favors, and bringing them cookies.

then this weekend thank GOD i have friday off and im going camping

@eyelessfaces @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @my-secret-shame @whatthefishh @miraclesabound @littlenosoul @fandxmslxt69 @campingwiththecharmings @melodygatesauthor @moonknightly @ahookedheroespureheart @jake-g-lockley @kittyofalltrades @milkymoon2483

#santiago garcia x fem!reader #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #fluff

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the-little-ewok · 1 year ago

Text

Hard at work

Santiago Garcia X F!Reader

Rating : E/18+

Word count : 3800 (ish)

Warnings : SMUT, office setting (power play dynamics), PIV, unprotected sex, fingering, Dom!Santi (pretty soft), oral (f/receiving), lil bit dirty talk, reader wears a skirt, fluff, semi public sex (I guess. But not really?), Marking, *additional warnings under the fic at the end because spoilers ( nothing bad)

Prompts / summary : “I’m afraid I can no longer remain professional.”, "I think I've made my intentions clear", "Noone needs to know" / Santiago Garcia is your boss. And you should absolutely not be fucking your boss on his desk during the work day…

A/N : I've chosen to put some warnings at the end of the fic as I want to keep a couple of surprises. Nothing bad or super triggering I promise. But if you are worried please check before you read.

Thank you Vi for the hilarious tongue in cheek title 😂 and to the anon who requested!

Please if you read take time to reblog and maybe leave a comment or a couple of tags! The only way writers keep writing is if they hear from you.

------------

Ping

S. Gacia: I need to talk to you in my office. Now.

You stare at the message on your computer screen, debating if you could think of a good enough excuse not to go, unsure if you could keep your composure when you were alone with your boss today.

It wasn't that you were avoiding him exactly. You liked your boss, you really did. He was hard working, fair, supportive, maybe a little demanding at times, well, actually demanding all the time, but he was hot, in a sort of 'your daughter calls me daddy too' kinda way. He had the eye of every girl in the office, yours included. Most people would be glad to have a boss like him.

The problem was he always seemed to find an excuse to be inappropriate with you — pressing up against you as he leans over you to get a coffee mug out of the cupboard in the break room, brushing his hand against your thigh during meetings, looking at you, and not just a normal look, a complete undressing eye fuck that made your face heat and your thighs press together. He made you want him all the damn time.

And while so far nothing has happened at work, everyone else in the office has noticed the growing situation between you. Disappearing away from your pc to meet with him would only add fuel to the fire.

Ping.

S. Garcia : When I say now, I mean now.

With no good excuses coming to mind you get up with a sigh, smoothing down your skirt and making your way over to his office.

The door is pushed open already, Santiago sitting at his desk, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons undone, giving an air of relaxedness, but you can tell he's anything but. Your heart gives a now all too familiar flutter in your chest.

"Mr Garcia?"

You tap the door lightly to get his attention. He gestures you in with a silent wave of his hand, barely looking away from the laptop as you step into the room.

"One moment, and shut the door" he instructs you, tapping away at the keys and muttering in Spanish to himself. You swallow hard as you close the door behind you.

Eventually, your boss sighs, rubbing his hands down his face and shutting his laptop.

"Is everything okay?" You venture inquisitively. Perhaps whatever has frustrated him is the reason he called you in here? Maybe he needs your help with work?

Santiago gets up from his desk, coming around to stand in front of you, just a few steps from where you awkwardly shuffle your feet, waiting for him to speak.

"We need to talk."

You can't help but go through a mental rolodex of things you might have done that you need to talk about with him, but nothing comes to mind.

"I'm afraid I can no longer remain professional," he continues, leaning back against the polished wood with a sigh, as though it's your fault, as though you've done something to encourage him. Perhaps you have. You did specifically pick this outfit today, hoping it would spark his attention, and as his eyes roam a slow trail from your toes to your face, licking his lips, you know it worked, but maybe a little too well.

You choose the innocence card, pretending there hasn't been an underlying tension since you started working together.

"I'm not sure what you mean?"

He doesn't even hesitate for a second before he answers, clearly expecting your response. His dark eyes bore into yours, blatant desire shining through.

"I think you are."

You swallow hard. Sure you might have hoped to get a reaction out of him, but you hadn't actually expected it to work. Especially not when there were specific rules in place about office relationships, especially during work hours.

"No one needs to know," he offers slickly, like putting a deal on the table, some form of forbidden contract. He steps towards you, then around you, coming to stand at your back, close enough that you can feel the warmth from his body.

He leans into you, gripping your upper arms and then slowly allowing his palms to slide down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he whispers.

"It's just us in here. Nobodys going to know what happens here today." His hands ghost over the tips of your fingers, continuing down, stepping closer so his body is pressed up against yours.

"Mr Garcia, I don't think this is the time. We have…we have… work to do." You stutter out as his hands map the curve of your hips, pressing himself against your back. Even as you speak your body leans back against him, tilting your head back onto his shoulder, betraying your every thought about him. You can almost feel the smug smile he's probably wearing, knowing he was right in his assumption that this isn't one sided, and that you really aren't thinking about the work piled on your desk.

Your eyes flutter closed as he presses a trail of kisses down your neck, before his tongue licks its way back up to take your earlobe in his teeth, tugging gently.

"Work can wait. I think I've made my intentions clear," he breathes against your skin. He says it like you have a choice about what happens next. Like there's any possible world in which you would say no.

But you aren't going to let him have the upper hand entirely. You can't just collapse into his arms and beg him to fuck you. He might be your boss, but that doesn't mean you can't have your own fun too.

"I'm really not sure I understand what you mean? Perhaps you'll have to be a little more direct, sir."

There's a hitch in his breath that lets you know the sir hit exactly the way you expected it to.

What you aren't quite expecting is the way he nudges you forward before pressing a hand between your shoulders, forcing you down, bending over his desk. The touch isn't violent or forceful, he isn't the sort of man to do that, but it's commanding enough for you to willingly follow the direction.

Taking both your hands in his he presses them down onto the desk, leaning over you.

"I can make my intentions as clear as you need," he growls, standing back up. "Don't move, or you're fired."

You'd like to think you know him well enough that it's probably an empty threat, but damn does it make your pussy flutter anyway. You press your palms harder against the cool wood, resigned to let him do as he wills with you.

His hands slip across your hips and down over your ass, admiring your position, before he hooks his fingers under the edge of your skirt and raises it, just a little. He's testing you. It's a silent request about how far you want this to go.

You don't move to stop him, so he lifts your skirt the rest of the way, almost delicately slowly, hitching it up over your hips.

He gives a soft hum of appreciation at the pretty lace panties you're wearing, the ones already starting to soak through with your arousal at the fact your boss has you bent over his desk, admiring your ass.

"Pretty," he drawls, pulling back the elastic and letting it snap against your skin, giving a stinging bite and making you gasp. "Not very work appropriate though."

You open your mouth to offer a sarcastic response that people at work don't usually see your panties, but the words catch in your throat as he slides his fingers into the waistband and tugs them down quickly, letting them fall the rest of the way, fully exposing you.

Not satisfied with that, he uses his foot to tap your ankle, encouraging you to lift first one foot, then the other, stepping out of your panties before he kicks them to one side.

"Spread your legs."

If you weren't wet before the gush of arousal you have at his words certainly soaks you now. It isn't a question, it isn't a request, it's an instruction, a command. You spread your legs just a little.

Santiago nudges them further apart with his foot, spreading you for his benefit, before he grabs your ass, squeezing as he surveys you with a groan.

"You're practically dripping on my carpet," he comments, making your face heat.

You hear the whisper of fabric and glancing behind you you see him kneel on the floor, his hands dropping to your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh.

He meets your shocked gaze.

"Now let me be very, very clear in what I want."

The broken noise that leaves your throat as he licks a hot stripe through your folds isn't one you've ever made before, your body jolting forward on the desk.

Your rational brain tells you this is a bad idea. You should be working, not letting your boss eat you out on his desk of all places. But then he seals his lips over your clit, sucking hard, and you can't seem to care about work anymore.

You quickly realise he's too good at this, too good at making you tremble all too quickly, taking long slow laps at your clit, pressing his hot tongue deep inside you, growling and groaning as though you were the best thing he's tasted. He has you on the edge of a climax in no time.

Your fingers dig into the hardwood, curling around the edge of the desk, biting out a curse as his tongue completes another slow circle around your clit.

You wish you could see him, tangle your fingers in his short curls, direct him how to throw you over the edge, but you suspect he knows exactly how, and he's dragging this out for his own pleasure.

"Mr Garcia…Santiago…" you hiccup pleadingly, barely able to get enough air in your lungs.

You don't know if it's mercy or torture when his mouth leaves you, giving a playful bite to your ass before he gets to his feet, gently tugging you up, unpeeling you off the desk, his hands on your waist, steadying you on wobbling legs as he spins you to face him.

"Clear now?" He asks, almost impatiently. His eyes are dark, your slick still shining on his chin as he makes a show of licking his lips.

"That was…pretty clear," you breathe shakily.

He smirks as he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding you still as he presses his lips to yours, allowing you to taste yourself as his tongue slips into your mouth.

It's not the type of kiss you're expecting from him. He kisses you sensually, tenderly, it's slow and decadent. He lets go of your chin in order to slide his hand around the back of your neck, holding you to him as his tongue slides against yours, drawing soft little moans from you.

When he pulls away your lips are kiss swollen and your fingers are tangled in his curls the way you wanted to do only moments ago.

"I want to fuck you here, on my desk," he whispers against your lips. "I want to stain the wood with your cum so there's always a part of you in here with me."

Oh fuck.

You don't answer initially, forcing down the moan of desire that tries to escape. Instead, you lift yourself up onto the desk, feeling the cool wood against your heated skin, before you curl your fingers around the white collar of his shirt, pulling him close to you. You're done waiting. You're done playing. You're done being professional.

"So fuck me already."

His mouth crashes into yours, kissing you hard as you both scramble to unbuckle his pants. He's barely shoved them down before his hands are gripping your thighs, tugging you roughly forward to the edge of the desk, lining himself up at your entrance, his actions messy and impatient.

Even so, he presses into you slowly, allowing you to adjust to the stretch that borders pleasure and pain, swallowing each of your moans with his kisses, letting out a low groan as he bottoms out, giving a soft nip of his teeth to your bottom lip.

"Fuck, you feel so good. Pussy is so wet for me," he slurs, taking your chin back in his fingers, forcing you to look at him. "How much have you thought about fucking your boss you filthy girl?"

Ring. Ring.

The sharp trill of the phone cuts in, making you both pause, turning to look at it mocking you from its space next to the laptop.

Shit. No. Not now. The timing could not be any worse. You need this. You've waited too long for this.

Santiago looks at you, his gaze questioning. You shake your head, silently pleading with him not to answer, not to put an end to this yet.

He lets out a soft curse, glancing over to the phone and reading the caller ID.

"Be quiet," he hisses, leaning over you and to your shock, clicking the answer button.

You don't quite know how to react as he grabs one of your thighs, hoisting it up over his hip, forcing his cock deeper as he starts to thrust into you. It steals the breath from your lungs and you let out a choked noise, throwing a hand over your mouth to smother it, still shocked he's actually taking this call.

Santiago lets out a quiet laugh at your reaction as he speaks on the phone, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Fish, what's up?"

"Just checking in on how things are going," the man on the phone answers easily, clearly unaware of the position your boss was in.

"Hard at work," Santiago answers, thrusting deeply into you with the last word, and you squeeze your eyes shut, desperately muffling your moans of pleasure.

You can't believe he's doing this, casually carrying on a conversation as he leisurely rocks into you. Your mind can't really keep up with the discussion— something about a BBQ on the weekend — too distracted in concentrating on keeping quiet, and hoping the wet squelch of your pussy isn't being picked up on the call.

You bury your face into his neck, trying not to allow the pleasure threading through you to give you both away. It's an uphill battle. Each steady thrust pushes you closer, your pussy already sensitive from his earlier ministrations.

You're not expecting it when he turns his head, his teeth biting down on your pulse point. It's just enough to send a shock through your system, making your eyes snap open, and your pussy clamp down on his cock.

Santiago's eyes go wide and it's him that lets out a choked moan, clearly far louder than he intended to. There's a beat of silence in the conversation as he scrambles for the phone receiver.

You have a moment of smug satisfaction at his panic, but the joy is fleeting, as when his eyes are back on you, smouldering and dark, phone in his hand, you realise you are in trouble. A lot of trouble.

"I'll call you back."

Click. With the press of a button the phone call ends, the receiver clattering noisily back onto the desk. Santiago's hands grip your hips, his fingers digging in hard enough there will be marks.

"You shouldn't have done that."

You have a moment of panic that he's going to end this, leave you on the edge, unsatisfied, and send you back to your desk desperate and needy. But instead, he pulls almost all the way out of you, before slamming his hips into yours.

You let out a strangled moan. Every time you think he can't possibly go deeper, he angles his hips and sinks in further. You want to scramble back on the desk, give yourself a moment to breathe, to think, to process the bliss, but Santiago's hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as you fall back on your elbows, splayed out across his desk, being used solely for his pleasure.

Santiago follows your movement, bending himself over you, causing the angle of his thrusts to change just slightly and hit something bright inside you. Pens and papers clatter noisily to the floor as the desk rocks with you. In a desperate attempt to stop yourself from suddenly being pushed over the other side, you grab onto his shoulders, holding yourself in place.

There's a growing blissful ache in your pussy and muscles that lets you know you'll still feel this tomorrow.

But you don't care, you can't care. All you care about is the knot in your stomach tightening, your muscles straining, your vision whiting out. All you care about is the pleasure careening through you.

Your pussy clamps down around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as your climax bursts through you. You give all pretence at being quiet, throwing your head back as you all but scream his name, uncaring who hears.

"Fuck, Santiago!"

The clench of your pussy drags him over the edge with you, and he muffles a growl into your neck, filling you with hot bursts of cum.

He pauses there, buried deep inside you, your pussy still pulsing as you come down. Lifting his head he captures your lips in a sweet kiss, his hands tenderly massaging your thighs, slipping up your back to pull you to sit up, holding you against him.

When he eventually pulls away, his eyes roam your face, taking in your dishevelled appearance, pressing a final gentle kiss to your lips, before he slips out of you, pulls his pants back up and disappears around the other side of the desk.

You slide off shakily, your skirt still bunched up around your waist, turning to watch him throw himself down into the office chair, your panties dangling from his fingers like a hard won prize, back to his cocky, self assured, smug self. All traces of the softness he had only moments ago, wiped away.

"You won't be needing these back," he grins, opening his top drawer to drop your panties inside, before snapping it shut, his gaze daring you to protest as you stand open mouthed.

"Can I at least have something to clean-"

"No." He cuts you off, going back to clicking through his emails on his computer.

You have the realisation that he expects you to walk back to your desk with his cum still dripping down your thighs. You imagine the stain on your skirt, on your chair, one that probably won't ever fully come out, the stain like the one currently staring at you from the wood of his desk, a constant reminder of this day.

It shouldn't make your pussy clench the way it does.

You swallow, pulling down your skirt, ignoring the slick already coating your thighs, and give him a defiant stare.

"Very well. Will that be all Mr Garcia?" You mock sarcastically. If he was going to go back to professional, then so were you.

He doesn't even glance at you as he answers, dismissing you as though nothing has happened.

"For now. But don't go far. I don't think it will be long before I need to see you again."

You suppress a smile as you leave.

"Still working hard?"

Looking up from the document you've barely typed a word on all afternoon, you meet the gentle gaze of your boyfriend.

His eyes crinkle as he smiles warmly at you.

"Yeah, I haven't really managed to get much done," you sigh, glancing back to the half written document, knowing it's a lost cause for now.

"You look tired, baby. Your boss working you too hard?"

"He's pretty unforgiving," you hum, rubbing your eyes, your body aching with exhaustion. "Three times he had me in his office today."

Your boyfriend lets out a low impressed whistle.

"Harsh. Well, how about you leave whatever you're doing for now? I'm sure your boss will be okay with it being finished tomorrow. I'll run you a bath, make some dinner, then we can relax in front of the TV? Your choice of movie."

"That actually sounds perfect," you smile, logging out of the pc and getting to your feet, stretching your cramped muscles.

He holds his hand out to you as you come around the desk, pulling you into his arms and giving you a sweet kiss.

"I told you having two home offices would be fun," Santiago grins, his eyes bright.

Giggling, you shake your head.

"Yes, but I don't think we got any work done!"

Santiago shrugs nonchalantly.

"Guess that's the perks of being with the boss. I'll let you get away with it and make it up tomorrow." He winks and you laugh, knowing you both have a huge amount of work to catch up on now.

When he'd suggested you work with him you'd been hesitant for this exact reason. But he'd promised to keep quiet about your relationship initially, while you settled into the job, and for the most part, Santiago was professional in the office, although your colleagues had started to notice his almost blatant eye fucks. If you were honest, you didn't help the situation, sending him filthy chat messages, knowing he couldn't have you until you made it home. It turned out professionalism when you wanted to fuck your boss, was hard work.

You squeeze his hand as he leads you to the bathroom.

"Santi, can I have my panties back?"

"Nope," he grins positively merrily. "I'm going to frame them and put them next to the stain on my desk."

You roll your eyes, unsure if he's joking or not, but judging by the look on his face, you think not.

—----

Additional warnings (ending spoilers):

*illusions to infidelity/cheating (it's not I promise)/ role playing

-----

Thank you for reading! Please if you enjoyed take the time to comment and reblog! As writers we always want to hear your thoughts!

#santiago garcia x f!reader #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia smut #santiago garcia x you #santiago garcia #tripple frontier fanfiction #santiago garcia x fem reader

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 2 years ago

Text

Caught

Summary: Santiago inviting you and Frankie for his house warming party over the weekend leaves you to spend some nights at his new place. Getting up in the middle of the night to get some water, leaves you finding Santi and his girlfriend in the kitchen. Unable to look away Frankie finds you and decided to have some fun with you too.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem. reader / Santiago Garcia x OFC

Rating: E

Wordcount: 3.5k

Warnings: established relationship, accidental voyeurism, dub con (just cause people are being watched without their consent but the watched people do not mind in the end) smut (oral; fem receiving, unprotected PiV), fluff, dirty talk (the word slut is used twice)

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You usually weren’t a big fan of being stuck in a car for two hours. But Santiago Garcia did not buy a house to settle down with his girlfriend (soon to be fiance) of two years and invite for a housewarming party every day.

And you were always a fan of spending time with Frankie.

You looked at him from the passenger's seat, one of his hands on the steering wheel, the other one on your thigh. He had the aviators on that you gifted him for his last birthday after he broke the pair he had before. The gray shirt he was wearing was tight around his upper arms and you could see a tiny bit of the tattoo he got earlier this year.

God he was gorgeous.

“See something you like?” he hummed, a smirk sneaking to his lips as he caught you staring, his hand squeezing your thigh.

“See something I love,” you clarified and he smiled, his dimple showing and you swore you could see his cheeks blushing.

You and Frankie have known each other since you were four years old. Growing up as neighbors until he left to join the army made you spend endless summers together.

But you hadn’t started dating until a little over six years ago.

With him joining the army and you eventually going abroad to study you very much lost contact. After you got your degree you moved to Boston for work and only came back to the tiny town you grew up in for family celebrations or holidays.

But then your mother died and you decided it was time to go back home to help your father.

It was on your 26th birthday that Frankie showed up on the doorstep of your childhood home with a box of donuts and a bottle of whiskey, looking like he had been through hell and back. You would only learn much later that he had been.

Your friendship really just picked up where you left off, just with you both legally allowed to drink booze and adult problems.

And feelings that hadn’t been there before.

You remembered that you talked on your birthday until the early morning hours, Frankie telling you little about the army, about the divorce he was going through, about his little girl he wanted to be the best father too, about his drug addiction. Much like you told him about the man you had broken up with before you moved back home because he insisted you stay where you belonged. With him in the city. He didn’t care about your family or your feelings for that matter.

Not that you thought you would marry the guy, but it still hurt to be so wrong in someone you loved.

He told you everything about his little daughter Carina. She was his whole world.

She was also the reason he and his ex-wife had tried to make their marriage work but decided in the end that they were better off as friends.

Carina and you became fast friends, even though you still think it was because of the huge amount of cookies you had baked with her and Frankie the first time he had invited you over to meet her.

You started to spend more time together after that.

You went on drives, you cooked together, you even went on a weekend trip into the woods where you met all his army brothers. It was the most fun trip you ever had been on.

But something changed throughout the months after that. Touches lingered longer. Hugs seemed… tighter and more intimate. And then came his 34th birthday.

His divorce was final, his three year old daughter was staying for the whole weekend and he had decided that it was time to teach her how to swim.

The three of you spend the whole day at the local swimming pool. You brought muffins and sang happy birthday for him with his daughter before he blew out the one candle you had put on one of the muffins.

When you asked him if he made a wish he only nodded at you with a small smile.

It was the perfect day.

Carina fell asleep before Frankie’s truck was even off the car park, making both of you chuckle. You stopped to pick up pizza on your way home, you insisted you pay because after all it was his birthday. When you came out of the pizza place, Frankie was leaning against his car, waiting for you.

You put the pizza on your seat, waiting for him to go back to the car but he didn’t so you leaned next to him against the car, bumping your shoulder towards his.

He took a deep breath before he came to stand in front of you and you still could feel the butterflies in your belly when he looked into your eyes, his fingers brushing over your cheek. They never really went away since that day.

“What did you wish for Frankie?” you had asked and he had smiled softly.

“A birthday kiss,” he whispered. You licked your lips.

“Then come and get it,” you whispered back.

You would never forget this first kiss with him in the parking spot in front of a pizza place in your home town.

That was six years ago and you have only grown closer ever since.

By now not only your family but all friends were asking when you would get married and have children on your own.

Both you and Frankie told them to fuck off on a regular basis but they did not seem to get the hint.

If they knew you had been married for the last three years they would lose their minds. You got married on a beach while you were both on vacation in mexico. The only witness the older man who married you early in the morning at sunrise.

But Frankie and you had a bet going how long it would take for anyone to notice.

When he had asked you to marry him you had gotten him a ring too, so seeing the both of you with rings was not something out of the ordinary.

“Can you believe that he’s going to propose?” you asked Frankie when you entered the town Santi had moved into. He had started his own Security firm here and met Tina, his girlfriend, who owned the flower shop across the street from his office.

You had heard the story a million times, but the thought of Santiago Garcia buying all kinds of flowers on an almost daily basis for a month until he had finally asked her out still made you laugh.

“I couldn’t believe Benny getting married too, so anything is really possible,” Frankie joked and you laughed.

You would be staying at Santi’s place for four nights. The house warming party was in two days and Frankie had agreed to help Santi with the finishing touches of the back porch which left you and Tina mostly laying in the garden, watching your men sweat and work shirtless while offering occasional Lemonade.

You were very thankful the guest bedroom was in the basement when Frankie railed you in the shower after, his hand over your mouth to suppress your moans.

Sex with Frankie was ….

You still couldn’t believe he was the first man who ever made you cum on his cock. He was only satisfied when he made you cum at least twice.

The day before the housewarming party you spend with Tina in the kitchen. Helping her prepare some salads and dips and things for the party on the next day while Frankie and Santi finished the work on the porch and started putting tables and chairs together.

“I’m gonna make dessert when we come back from dinner,” Tina said. You wanted to argue but she waved you off.

“Santi is gonna help me. He has a hand for all things sweet,” she winked and you grinned.

You were very tired after dinner. And maybe a little tipsy.

Frankie and you invited them both to a Chinese restaurant where you ate way too much sushi.

Seeing Santi so in love with Tina was not something you ever thought you’d see. He had been living with Frankie for a while when you got back in contact with Frankie and he had a new girl every week. It went on until he decided to go back to Columbia for work.

You were happy to see him so content and happy with the woman he intended to spend the rest of his life with.

Once back at their home you didn’t fight to help with desert anymore, letting Frankie tuck you into bed where you fell asleep almost immediately, not even waking once Frankie got into bed with you after he had taken a shower.

You woke up hours later in his arms. One of his hand holding one of your breasts like every night. He argued he did it unintentionally but you knew how much he loved your tits.

Checking your phone you saw that it was just after 2 am. Sighing you carefully untangled from Frankie, feeling thirsty. Sadly you hadn’t gotten a new bottle of water before going to bed. You put one of Frankie’s shirts on (apparently Frankie had undressed you to your panties after you pretty much passed out) and opened the door to make your way to the kitchen.

You were climbing up the stairs when you thought you heard a moan. Stopping where you were standing you listened for more noise, taking the rest of the stairs. When you could look through the room, your head just on the ground level you heard another moan and you turned your head towards the noise, eyes widening when you saw what was going on.

Santiago’s house had an open floor plan on the ground floor. When you entered the house you were facing the stairs that lead to the first floor and the basement. The spacious living room lay on the left side, the kitchen on the right side.

The kitchen was huge, having two islands, one you were facing now where Tina was laying on top, her side facing you. Santi on his knees in front of her.

You knew you should turn around and look away but you seemed rooted to the spot.

His arms were wrapped around her thighs, keeping them apart as he went down on her. One of her hands was in his hair, her back arched, her eyes closed, her other hand made into a fist which she pressed against her mouth to keep herself, quite unsuccessfully, quiet.

“Fuck baby keep doing that,” she whispered and you heard Santi hum against her.

You felt yourself getting turned on, your panties dampening with your arousal.

“Fingers… need… fuck give me two fingers,” Tina moaned lowly and you saw Santi bring one of his hands between her legs before she whimpered as two of his finger pushed inside of her.

You closed your eyes, deciding that this is not something you should be watching, before taking a deep breath and turning around to go back down to wake up Frankie so he could fuck you, when you collided with someone. Just so stopping yourself from yelping you looked up, already knowing it was Frankie. You parted your lips to tell him to turn around when he put one of his fingers in front of his lips, his head turning towards the kitchen.

He was completely naked, his cock already half hard.

You gulped, following his line of sight.

He turned his head back towards you and you caught Frankie’s eyes, before he leaned down, his lips against your ear.

“I saw you watching them,” he whispered and you shivered. His hands came to rest on your hips, taking a step down so you couldn’t see into the kitchen anymore he towered over you.

His eyes were now on your friends in the kitchen and you sucked your bottom lip in as you heard Tina moan.

“I think he’s gonna make her cum baby….” Frankie whispered, his eyes now finding yours again. He took a step closer, two fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties to push them all the way down, you stepping out of them, before his hand cupped your pussy.

“Fuck you’re so wet,” his fingers parted your folds, slipping through your wet slit.

You let your head fall back against the wall.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” you heard Tina moan and you released a shuddering breath.

“Frankie…” you whispered. He shook his head slowly.

“Shh listen….” he hummed, nodding upstairs and you did. Hearing Santi’s girlfriend fall apart as she tried to keep quiet, her moans echoing through the room.

“Fuck baby you’re so sexy. My little cock slut,” you heard Santi say and Frankie’s eyes found yours.

“Gonna fuck this pussy so good we gonna wake up the whole neighbor hood,” he continued and you felt one of Frankie’s fingers enter you.

You heard a slap and you were dying to see what was happening in the kitchen.

“That turn’ you on? Making Frankie and his girl wake up to find me fucking you in the kitchen?” Santi asked.

“Fuck baby….” she moaned and your lips parted when Frankie pushed another finger inside of you, pumping them slowly, his other hand pushing your shirt up. You helped him, pulling it over your head, throwing it down. He cupped your breast, playing with your nipple.

“You want them to hear what a slut you are for my cock?” you heard Santi ask and Frankie bend down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. Your hands flew up into his hair.

His lips wandered up your neck, his lips against your ear as he moved his fingers inside of you.

“When I woke up you were gone and I got up to find you and maybe fuck you in the kitchen,” Frankie said and you whimpered, very quietly.

“But then I found you watching my best friend fuck his girlfriend…” he sucked on your earlobe and you let one of your arms fall down, your hand wrapping around his cock. You let your thumb brush over the wet tip of his cock.

“Who would have known my little wife is getting turned on from watching our friends fuck?” he looked at you then, his lips finding yours, swallowing your moan as he added another finger, stretching you out for his cock.

“Fuck me already baby,” you head from upstairs and you pushed Frankie away. He looked at you confused until you knelt down on the stairs, getting on all fours for him. Looking over your shoulder you caught a glance of Santi pumping his cock with his hand and lining himself up to sink into his girlfriend with a satisfied groan. You caught Frankie’s eyes, smirking when you found his hand pumping his cock too.

“Fuck me,” you mouthed and he shook his head in mock disbelief, his chest rising in a silent chuckle.

You heard a long moan from the kitchen and cursing from Santi.

Frankie’s hands were on your ass, parting your cheeks. He spit on his cock, taking a step closer and you felt him notch the head of his cock against your slit.

You could hear Santi and Tina fucking, moaning from both filling the room, skin slapping on skin.

They were doing a shit job at keeping quiet but then again it was their house.

“Can you keep quiet?” Frankie whispered, pushing the tip of his cock inside.

“Can you?” you challenged, looking at him over your shoulder, biting your lip when he thrust his cock into you fully.

“Fuck baby you’re so wet,” Santi moaned and you let your head fall down between your shoulders, squeezing Frankie’s cock.

“If I knew getting caught turned you on so much, I would have fucked you in your shop,” a moan was heard from Tina and finally Frankie began to move.

“Oh shit,” you whispered, feeling his hand groping your hips as he pumped into you with deep thrusts.

He fucked into you, his thick cock stretching you and it felt so fucking good it took all your brainpower to keep yourself quiet. Frankie groaned quietly, giving you a hard thrust that made you moan.

The sounds of Santi fucking his girl were almost porn worthy. And they continued doing a terrible job of keeping quiet and it made you wonder if they might want to get caught.

Frankie fucked you harder and you moaned again, definitely too loud to not be caught. He stopped, his cock deep inside of you, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders as you waited if you had gotten caught.

You didn’t.

You looked at Frankie and he winked at you, before both of his hands wrapped over your mouth. He gave you a quick thrust and your eyes rolled back.

He used his grip as leverage, beginning to pump into you with short hard thrusts. You heard him groan quietly.

“Oh fuck, right there. Baby…. fuck you gonna make me cum,” Tina whimpered and you clenched around Frankie, making him choke on a moan.

You risked a glance towards the kitchen, now being able to see what was going on and fuck these two looked so fucking hot. Frankie kept fucking into you while you saw Santi pump his thick cock into his girlfriend who was still laying on the kitchen island. His hands were on her breasts, groping them and you sighed into Frankie’s hands, closing your eyes.

Frankie took a step up, his feet now next to yours on the stairs. He let go of his grip over your mouth and pushed your upper body down as his cock dove into you. The new angle made him hit your G Spot perfectly and you pressed your lips together, trying to keep quiet.

“Shit I’m gonna cum,” Santi groaned.

“Rub my clit,” Tina moaned and you heard her cry out a long fuck as she came. Santi following her only seconds later.

Frankie pumped harder into you and it was only seconds later that you fell apart, moaning as quiet as possible as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“Shit baby,” Frankie groaned in a whisper. You felt him twitch inside of you, and you clenched around him, squeezing his cock and he groaned, loud, as he spilled inside of you.

You leaned your head down, your arms laying on the stairs, breathing deeply as you still felt Frankie spill inside of you. He leaned down, his chest against your back as he kissed your shoulder.

You turned your head, smiling softly and he kissed you.

“There better not be any cum on the stairs, Fish,” you both heard Santi say and you jumped. Frankie’s arm came up to cover your tits as he pulled you up, both of you finding Santi and Tina looking at you with him still inside of her.

There was an amused grin on his lips and Tina seemed amused.

“No worries. Definitely no cum on your stairs,” you finally said and you all burst out in quiet laughter. Frankie kissed your cheek. You both took some stairs down and he pulled out of you. You felt his cum drip down your thighs and you reached for your panties to clean yourself while Frankie helped you back into your shirt.

Turning around you wrapped your arms around Frankie’s neck and kissed him softly. You heard footsteps behind you and turned your head, finding Santi standing on top of the stairs, wearing his sweatpants.

You sucked your bottom lip in, feeling guilty.

“I’m sorry. I woke up and wanted to get some water and when I walked up I heard you and I just…” Santi waved his hands. You saw Tina come up behind him, hugging him from behind.

“Next time just ask if you could join if you end up fucking,” Santi winked and you made big eyes, looking at Frankie who was still looking at him. You turned your head again, finding them both looking down at you.

Frankie’s hand ran down your back, groping your ass.

“Maybe we will,” he said and you looked at him, finding his eyes. It was like a silent conversation happened in the span of seconds before you turned your head to look at Santi and his girl again.

“Yeah. Maybe we will.”

#my fic #Frankie Morales x fem. reader #Frankie morales #Pedro pascal #Oscar isaac #Santiago Garcia x ofc #santiago garcia #fanficiton #fanfic #fan fiction

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