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spacecowboyhotch · 2 months

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The Dead Horse

summary: santi brings you back to reality.

pairing: fem!black!reader x santi garcia

contents: angst & fluff— happy ending, canon typical violence, blood, gore, ptsd, depression, feelings of hopelessness, friends to lovers, kissing

wc: 2,419

an: this has been sitting in my drafts for a while now bc of nerves, but always wanted to write Santi with a black love interest. planning to dip my toe into that pool more in the future 🥰

oscar issac characters masterlist

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting here like this. It could be minutes, hours, even days. In these four walls beneath the shower’s spray, there is nothing that matters. Not even you, not anymore. And while you’re usually the first to be cheery, to tell each of the guys that the work they do— the work you all do together— doesn’t compromise the goodness you see in their hearts, you’re having a hard time believing that right now.

Not with what you’d done. It was to survive, and while you’ve come to terms with how scary you could be in the past you thought it stayed there.

In the past.

Tonight had proven to you that you could always access that piece of you. That terrifying piece that was a killing machine. The emphasis doesn’t lie in efficiency, but in ruthlessness. You had shown no mercy, the switch for empathy and compassion turned off as soon as your hindbrain decided that it was fight or flight. Dormantly thirsty, lurking in the shadows waiting for its time, it chose to fight. But you had gone a step too far—like always— because of your lack of control.

You were messy, enjoying the cutting of thick flesh, the warmth of the blood as it sprayed you. The copper smell, so familiar and embarrassingly comforting, though you didn’t have the mind to think that now, not when you were exposing the pink underbelly of a corpse.

Santi’s been pacing the hallway since you all made it back to the safe house. He’d tried to chat you up on the way home with no success. You wouldn’t meet his eye, and when he drew nearer to catch your gaze it was empty. It chilled his blood. He wasn’t sure of what exactly happened in that room you’d gotten ambushed in but he’d seen the aftermath. Recalling the image of standing over one too many dead bodies, a gleam in your eye had made his stomach curl. He’d smoothed his hand over your knee and left it at that, trying his best to banish all the red and pink and white.

It’s been an hour since you’d stumbled into the bathroom. He can hear the shower still going when he puts his ear to the door and sighs, a mix of frustrated and concerned. He’s not sure what to do– he’s never had to take care of you before. He’s always been grateful for that given all the fondness he has for you bubbling just beneath. Any acknowledgement could jeopardize too much– missions, the dynamic of the team, and most importantly your friendship.

“You alright in there?” He calls softly through the door.

He’s met with silence. He rolls his neck, cursing beneath his breath as his mind goes back and forth, trying to decide what to do.

“Just go in there and check on her,” Frankie says from behind him, causing the other man to flinch. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Santi assures Frankie, leaning against the wall to face the man. He nods at the door. “She could be naked.”

Frankie snorts, shrugging. “She’s seen all of us at least half naked and well, Benny—“

Santi quickly cuts him off, trying to keep the sour jealousy out of his voice. He knows that there’s nothing going on between you and Benny, that Benny is as much of a flirt as he is but sillier and less concerned with his image. “But we haven’t seen her. I don’t— I’m a dog but I’m a respectful one.”

“If she’s gonna get help from anybody on this it’d be you. She trusts you man.”

Santi looks at him like he’s grown two heads but feels a little warm, “She trusts all of us, kind of a prerequisite of living and working with a group of men.”

“It's different with you. You should hear the way she talks about you when you’re not around.”

Santi almost lets himself think about it. Almost lets himself dream a little. Almost.

“Or see the way she looks at you when you’re not looking. Like a lost fucking puppy,” Benny pipes in, breezing down through the hallway between the two of them.

“Don’t sound so concerned, Benjamin,” Santi calls after the man, mouth quirking into a grin.

“Don’t look so smug, Santiago,” Frankie teases.

“I’m not smug,” He denies. He decides to go in, okay with being kicked out by you if it means that Frankie will be gone, done poking and prodding at what the man must know is his heart.

“Good luck.”

Santi murmurs a quiet thanks before slowly entering the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He stands, frozen in place for several moments as he digests the sight of you. It's heartbreaking. His chest goes tight, and he curses softly again. What could he do for you? He’d do anything, but he’s just not sure what. He feels helpless seeing you like this. He could burn this entire city, burn anyone who would look at you wrong. Hell, he’d burn the entire world if it meant some warmth would come back into your eyes.

You’re curled up, your arms resting atop your knees, head resting to stare forward. Your curly hair that usually frames your face is completely soaked like the rest of you, flat and sticking to your face in various places. He knows that your eyes are unseeing, that you’re so incredibly removed from yourself because you make no indication that he’s stepped into the room.

“I’m gonna come sit beside you, okay? That’s it. No words,” Despite his words he stays where he is for a handful of seconds, hoping to get some sort of answer from you. You don’t speak a word, don’t utter or sound or so much as look in his direction. But you do shift slowly, making more room for him underneath the water.

“Fuck, it’s freezing,” He grits out, drawing close enough to you that your shoulders rest flush against each other.

He gazes over at you, noticing the way the water glimmers on your brown skin. The way its collected on your dark eyelashes. If these were different circumstances maybe for just a handful of seconds he’d let himself get lost in your beauty. But then you acknowledge him– sort of. You hum softly and the leaning of your head on his shoulder. It's a good sign and he relaxes beside you.

“Do you want me to shut it off?” He asks gently, reaching out to take your hands into his. Your fingers are cold as ice, and he rubs at them in a futile attempt to generate some heat.

“No, please. No,” You beg hoarsely, suddenly springing to life. You grip at his hands desperately, eyes wide with panic as you finally meet his gaze.

“Alright, hush, cariño, I’ve got you. C’mere, baby,” He shushes you, pulling you into his arms and flush against him.

At little more present in the moment, you feel the chill registering. You curl up, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. There’s still some warmth in his skin and you press into it, letting the sound of his steady breath lull you back into a dissociative state.

Santi holds you for an undetermined amount of time. He runs his hands up your back, over the crown of your hair, feeling the difference of how your curls feel when wet. His hand drifts to your chin, and he leans away, tipping your head up.

“Honey, you’ve gotta talk to me,” He whispers.

Your dark eyes have a little more life to them, but that’s only amplified the sadness they hold. “Santi, I can’t. I can’t. Don’t make me, please.”

“I have to, you can’t stay like this. We’ve got to get it out in the open.”

“Like you do?” You challenge– your voice distinctly unkind, harder than he’s ever heard it before. His brow furrows and guilt blossoms inside of you. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. This just fucking sucks, Santiago. Its all wrong again.”

“Tell me what’s wrong and we’ll fix it.”

“There’s no way we can fix it. I’m just broken. I’ll always be haunted by her. She’ll always be here, waiting for an opportunity for that.”

“You preach that shit to me and the guys. Day in and day out. Every mission, and you don’t believe it?”

“I do— I did. I believe it for you. For them. You’re good people, Santi. Good men, all of you. You take care of me.”

“You take care of us, honey. Fish hangs on your every word. Will too. Benny is well— Benjamin.”

“And you?”

He shrugs, “You know I gave into this a long time ago. Before we even met. No other way for me to be.”

“Do you believe me?”

“I try to. I want to. There are parts of me too that I don’t like. I want them gone. I rip them up and bury them but they always come back to haunt me. I don’t think that means I’m not trying to be better, but it means I’ll never be the man I want to be.”

You frown at him, concerned, “Santi—“

“It’s okay. I accepted that after the first tour. Sometimes you gotta let the horse be dead.”

“Do you think my horse is dead?”

There’s no room for his ego, no room for hiding when he hears the blatant fear in your question.

He rests his head back against the wall, murmuring, “I think you’re the sweetest thing this earth has to offer.”

“You think so?”

“Bouncing around with your curls, and your sweet little smile. Kicking Benny’s ass with grace while you’ve got a cake in the oven. You should see yourself with Frankie’s little girl.”

“Seems like you watch me a lot,” You suggest softly.

“I watch you all the time,” He admits, but there’s no shame in his voice. In fact you can see resolve in his eyes, and possessiveness. A chill runs down your spine and it’s not from the water. Santi mistakes it for that anyway. “Let me turn this off for us?”

He’s still asking. Still checking in with you though there’s much more light in your eyes.

“Yeah, okay.”

Santi leans up and turns off the shower, letting out a sigh of relief. He runs his hands over your wet curls, pushing them away from your forehead. His thumbs swipe your cold cheeks, brushing away some of the water droplets.

Without that steady sound of the shower, sheets cascading down on you, you both are feeling a little more exposed.

“I came in here to make sure you were alright, not spill my fucking guts. I just had to take care of you,” He says, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

“You can always take it back,” You say teasingly, though most of you expect him to bite at your offer.

He’s said much more in these last few minutes than he ever has to you— Santi’s a sweet guy under all his charm, but he never lets you see below the surface. Not until now, when letting you in seemed like the only way to get you out.

It takes more effort than he expects to pull himself away from you. He leans back against the shower wall, nimble fingers lacing together in his lap. “And lose you?”

“You could never lose me, Santi,” You murmur, reaching out to grab one of his hands.

Your eyes roam him, a little in disbelief at what’s happening right now. But yes, it is Santiago Garcia sitting next to you. With his dark brown eyes, his sharp jaw dappled with stubble, his salt and pepper hair looking much darker and curlier than usual due to the water.

“Yeah?” Santi asks, eyes glued to where yours sits atop his. He traces slowly over the sight of you two linked together, admiring how soft and rich your skin looks even after sitting in a shower for so long.

He’s a goner isn’t he?

“Yeah.”

There are butterflies in his stomach. Butterflies, sweat slicking his palms despite the fact that he’s soaked through his clothes and down to the bone. He realizes in this moment that he’s not just a goner. No— he loves you. He knew that he was harboring some kind of feelings for you, but when your eyes meet his— earnest and tender— he can only think one thing: I love you.

His eyes hungrily drop to your full mouth, and another shiver runs down your spine. “Let me kiss you.”

You nod, squeezing his hand that’s still in yours.

“I need to hear you say it. You have to say it for me, so I can believe it.”

“I want you to kiss me, Santiago. Please.”

He’s on you then. All over you. His hands move quickly, guiding you back into his lap before one loops around your torso and holds you close. The other cups your jaw, angling it back so that he can press his mouth to yours. You’re breathless before the space between you is closed, chest heaving at how sure and firm his hands are. He kisses you. Kisses and kisses you, like his life depends on it. Like you’re lost and the only thing that will guide you home is his insistent tongue.

Your hands slip and slide against the fabric of his wet shirt before you give up, raising them to tentatively cup his face so that you can have leverage.

“That’s it honey, kiss me back. Take what you want to. Whatever you need,” He encourages between kisses.

Take you do. You squirm in his lap until he lets you shift and straddle him. It had started with him leading you, consuming you but now it’s your turn to surround him. Santi gives in, sighing into your mouth as your tongue goes on the hunt for his. You kiss him. Kiss him and kiss him until your mouth aches. When you pull away his is flushed pink, newly wet. You run your thumb over his lips before wiping your own mouth.

He looks up at you like hang the moon. His eyes are soft and hazy, pink mouth pulling up into a smirk. There’s the Santi you know. The Santi you love. But even now, he’s softer and sweeter, gathering you close again.

“What do you need now, sweetheart? What can I do to make it better?”

“You.”

“I’m yours.”

santi taglist: @jitterbugs927, @theconsultingdoctor10, @tanzthompson, @clairevoyanceee, @moonmalice, @tiffanypooh, @dearvirtualdiary-blog1, @marc-spectorr, @xbellaxcarolinax, @toracainz, @mccn-bcys, @missdictatorme, @whatthefishh

#santi garcia x reader #santi garcia x black!reader #santi garcia x fem!black!reader #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x black!reader #santiago garcia x fem!black!reader #santi garcia #black!reader #santi garcia fanfiction #santiago garcia fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #arson writes

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mrs-lockley · 9 months

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where there is love, there will be light

Author’s Note: This is not a full-length fic, but a moodboard and drabble for an AU. I got this idea for Santi after rewatching the classic Barbie movies. Swan Lake was one of my favorite Barbie movies, and the idea of Santi in Swan Lake has been haunting me for a couple weeks, so I had to get it out. I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: Mentions of military violence and cartels, deception, hidden romance, gunshot wounds

Word Count: 238

Swan Lake AU: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x WOC!Reader

For years, private military advisor Santiago Garcia has worked with the Colombian government to track down Gabriel Martin Lorea, one of Colombia’s biggest cartel leaders. After receiving intel from his informant that his team planted a mole in Lorea’s inner circle, Santi is set on finding her. With your call sign as Swan, you disguise yourself as a ballet dancer and befriend Lorea’s daughter, Solana, at one of the most prestigious ballet theaters in Bogota. You and Santi often meet through fleeting glances and coded messages, eventually falling in love in the quiet moments you can spare. As Santi’s team prepares to take down Lorea, you tell Santi to meet you at the theater where you will perform as the lead role with Solana.

On the night of the performance, you are caught and captured by Lorea’s men. Seeing that you and his daughter bear a striking resemblance, Solana disguises herself as Swan. She performs in your place as the lead act, enchanting and tricking Santi as she lures him away as the Black Swan.

But Santi only discovers the truth a moment too late when you escape to warn him about the bullet. He catches you as his and Lorea’s men clash forces, the two of you caught in the crossfire with the bullets grazing his shoulder and your arm. You lay in each other’s arms, Swan reunited with her Pope as Lorea’s empire burns around you.

Tagging: @callingmrsbarnes @themarcusmoreno @venting402 @musing-magpie @writefightandflightclub @v4mpires0ap @free-for-all-fics

#santiago garcia x reader #santi garcia x reader #santiago garcia x fem!reader #santiago garcia x woc!reader #santiago garcia x latina!reader #santiago garcia x black!reader #santiago garcia x asian!reader #santiago garcia x indigenous!reader #ngl i got this idea while rewatching the classic barbie movies to prepare for barbie #swan lake was one of my top favorite barbie movies and i can't explain it but santi just screams swan lake to me

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romana-after-dark · 4 months

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Room's on Fire: Pilot

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist : MainTaglist

Spotify playlist

Summery: The Delta is a commune in the middle of nowhere established by Santiago's mother. Since Divine Mother's passing in a rebellion a decade ago, Santiago, known as The Pope, and his half-God brethren Francisco, Benjamin and William have ran the commune. Now it is time for them to take a collective bride to breed, to bring the savior into the world.

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

This is not meant to be a statement about religion, Christianity, or Catholicism, this is simply my take on a cult. I am a religious person. I understand that some of this may be very offensive to religious people so if you don't like thing like AHS Asylum or Black Mass, maybe consider not reading.

"Come on home, girl, he said with a smile You don't have to love me yet, let's get high awhile But try to understand, try to understand Try, try, try to understand That I'm a magic man." ~Magic Man, Heart.

"God dammit Benjamin, what the hell is wrong with you!”

Will smacked Ben upside the head as Frankie chided him.

Ben tried to defend himself. “Hey! You guys act like you don’t sleep with ‘em too, why are you blaming me?”

“You’re fucking a new woman every goddamn week, you have no fucking class, we’re not even supposed to be sleeping with these women,-”

Santiago’s voice, strong and comanding, broke through the bickering. “Gentlemen, please, this is not becoming behavior for Gods.”

With their leader’s command, the other three settled down, Frankie’s eyes casting away. “Sorry, Pope.”

Pushing himself off from the wall he had been leaning against, Santiago walked toward the group. “That can’t be all the options. There’s no way Benny’s made his way through every of age virgin in our compound, we have over 5 thousand people here.”

The men thought through the women they knew, the various families at the massive compound who could accomplish their task. She couldn’t just be a virgin, that was the thing.

They needed their Madonna.

Before her death, Santiago’s mother informed their group that the prophecy would not be fulfilled through Santiago, that he was not the promised savior. Instead, he was destined to lead after her passing and that Santiago, Francisco, William and Benjamin were all demi-Gods. This was a step up for the Millers and Francisco, who had spend their youths in the privileged position of foster brothers to Santiago and living under The Divine Mother’s roof and direct guidance. To Santiago, however, this was a humiliating demotion.

His childhood was never one of whimsy, growing up told that he was a God, that he was the second coming, that he was the savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned… All that changed in his pre-teens. Suddenly, his mother was less pleased with him. His divinity was constantly dangled above his head. When his 20’s came and he failed to be what his mother wanted, she stripped him of his full God-hood.

So why, pray tell, were him and his fellow leaders and brethren searching for a virgin? Since Santiago had failed, they needed to father a new child. A new savior. Divine Mother’s instructions were clear; they were all to wed and breed a virgin from their compound. She was to live in their home as their wife for them to use not only whenever they wanted, but whenever they could. A sacred duty to be fruitful and multiple. It didn’t matter whose child grew in her, as long as there was a child. The world would be saved, and Santiago would earn his mothers favor from the heavens.

So, she couldn’t just be anyone. She needed to be a virgin, pure and holy. She needed to be beautiful, strong, faithful to their ways, faithful to the Divine Mother, faithful to the Pope, William, Benjamin, and Francisco.

“What about Marcus’s kid?’ Will asked, breaking their silence, causing everyone to turn to him.

Frank frowned. “You think the daughter of a traitor is the best option for the Madonna?” The sarcasm was clear. He didn’t like this plan as it was. He didn’t want strangers in their home, breaching security, putting his brothers at risk.

“That might actually be the solution to the problem.” He waited until Pope gestured for him to go on, not immediately shutting it down.

“The rebellion was when she was 12, the interrogations found she had no knowledge of her father’s plans. Ever since, she has been isolated. Lydia says she has caused no problems in the women’s home, been obedient but has no friends, no connections.”

“So you think she’s intact?”

“Santi, I doubt she’d had her first kiss.”

Since the rebellion 10 years ago, Will has set up measures to identify problems before they become something like that, and that meant keeping tabs on people. Single women lived in a few group homes throughout the compound. Each home had prefects that reported to house mothers, and house mothers that reported to Will. Anyone that was of any concern, Will checked in on, that included daughters of rebels.

“And she danced at the fire?” Pope asked, arms still crossed but listening.

Will nodded. “She did. No signs of disloyalty.”

Muttering, Frankie asked Ben if he’d slept with her in recent years.

He shook his head. “Nope. Forgot she existed.”

Frankie watched as Pope thought things through, his mouth shifting. Frankie asked, “How are the other viable women going to take it if the daughter of a traitor is chosen above them?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ben said, defensive of Pope. His loyalty to Santiago went above everything. “If she’s the right person, she’s chosen divinely.”

Santiago held up a hand, stopping another argument. “A redemption. She has the option to purify herself from the sins of her father through the pain of childbirth.”

“Biblical precedent…” Will murmured in agreement.

“And if she fails to produce a child, then we can say we were deceived-”

“Like Eve deceived Adam. Damn, Pope, I think it’s a winner.”

Santiago smiled at his fellow leader, clasping his hands together. “Alright, let’s go visit her, make sure she’s suitable.”

You were dead. It was over. Lydia had cleared all the other women out of the dormitory room and told you that the Pope and the other divine leaders would be coming to speak privately to you and you assumed that you had slipped up somehow and it was the end for you. You didn’t know what you possibly could have done. You never ever spoke badly about anyone, none the less your beloved leaders! You adored them all, worshipped them as they deserved, as you had Divine Mother…

Had they decided you were too much of a liability after what your father had done? How was that possible, it had been a decade… why now…

You gasp. Fransisco… he was clairvoyant… had he seen into your dream? Had he seen what you saw oh-so often, the dreams that forced you awake crying?

You prepared yourself to grovel, to beg for mercy, to plead that these dreams of fire were not what you wanted, that they tormented you. Would you forever be labeled a traitor for what your father had done? Hadn’t you proved your loyalty to The Delta?

The door opened and you dropped to your knees, silent until spoken too. You can hear Benjamin whisper a damn. The floor creaks in front of where you knelt, arms prostrated out and for a moment, everything stood still. Warm hands were on your chin, guiding you up to see him.

He was so much more stunning up close. You’d heard tales from other girls of the men, of the way they bedded them, how it was glorious, the most holy form of worship to allow them inside you… You had taken note that you had not been allowed that honor, you had accepted it as the punishment for the sins of your birth, you never thought you’d be worthy of close contact, but right now… Pope was touching your face, your chin tucked between his thumb and forefinger; his eyes were so close to yours, his plump lips keep a soft smile. “Do not be afraid, darling girl. If we are correct, you may outshine us all.”

“But it is, of course, your choice.”

Your choice…

This phrase was preceded by the reminder that if you said no, there would be no savior.

There was no choice.

“I am a servant to my lords.”

Santiago smiled at that. “Excellent. Now, let’s begin the inspection.”

The what?

“Oh… is it… I swear I am a virgin, I’ve never been touched-”

“I know.” Francisco said. Oh, right. Clairvoyant. “We need to make sure you’re… healthy.”

“Oh. Yes, of course then.”

Francisco undressed you, his calm demeanor and soothing touch eased you as he slowly stripped you of your clothing. He pulled the loose shirt over your body as you raised your hands, the pail bra underneath had a lot of coverage (everything was meant to be practical) but you still felt exposed.

“Just down to her underwear, Francisco.” Will instructed as he watched. Will was a healer, that was his gift.

Francisco pulled down your pants slowly, and you feel eyes scaling you.

“Strip her down fully, Frank.” Ben tells Francisco, and you jolt when you feel his hands on the bare skin on your hips.

Francisco sighs, but Will puts his foot down. “She doesn’t need to be naked, this is invasive enough as it is”

Ben gave a short laugh. “More invasive than fucking her.”

“BEN!” All three of them shouted, discomfort and fears coursing through your body.

“Pope, she’s shaking.” Francisco asserts with his hands on your shoulders and you watch Pope give Ben a look.

“You behave, your brother knows what he’s doing.” He turns to Will, jerking his head at you. “Handle it.”

Will approaches you, his hands on your face. He holds you different than Pope, more firm, more all-encompassing. Will’s hands were larger, and he placed them at the side of your head, like he was holding you together. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s like a medical examination, okay?”

You nod within his grasp. “Okay.”

He smiled at you. “Good girl. I’m going to touch you, just stand there and take it. Trust me.”

You did. You’d follow him anywhere if he spoke like that. His hands move down your neck, slowly over your shoulders and down your arms, sending a chill through your body. He squeezed your hands. “Doing so good princess. Gonna check your backside now, can you straighten up for me?” You square your shoulders as he walks around, towering over you. You lock eyes with Ben; he looks hungry, like he’s ready to pounce but smiling at you with his boyish charm you can’t help wonder what that pounce would feel like. Ben had slept with almost every girl in your dormitory, and you’d been privy to all kinds of colorful descriptions as you overheard girls talking. Not to you. Never to you.

Will rubbed his hands together and breathed on them to aid the warmth before placing his fingertips at the top-most part of your back. Slowly, he dragged 8 fingers down, applying pressure, sending a tingling down your spine as his fingers traced it. “Excellent posture, just need to check a few things.” His hands went back up, fingers bracing at your sides as his thumbs searched certain spots, rubbing over aching parts of you with pressure, but not pain.

“Got a few knots.” Will comment’s, and you turn slight back towards him, suddenly scared.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no. Nothing to worry about. Just means you’re stressed. It hurt there sometimes?”

He continued massaging you, your next words coming out with a moan. “Yeah.”

“I know it does, sweet girl. Don’t you worry, I’ll help you take care of that. You will be my wife, after all.”

The thought brings a small smile to your face. The smile falters when his hands wrap around your front, William’s body pressed up against your back. His hands are pressing into your stomach, making their way up until he cups your breast, a small groan escaping his mouth that had somehow found its way into your hair.

“She likes that.” You here Ben say, drawing your attention, his grin made you swell with pride. You’d spoken with him before; Benjamin knew all the women. Still, he never chose you to bed and you had thought you weren’t appealing but now, now you see it. Now, as Ben began to touch himself over his pants as he watched his brother examine your body, you realize you were meant for a higher purpose. You were being saved, protected, put on a pedestal for this moment, to be the mother of their child, to be their Madonna.

Will continued him ministrations, soft grunts as he ground his hips into your ass. You can se his eyes are locked in with Pope. Pope, is watching the scene with hooded eyes and parted lips. With a soft but powerful moan, Will stilled behind you, panting a soft kiss on your neck before his fingertips trails your panty line. “Now, for the vaginal exam.”

All the pleasure you felt stops, your body freezing up again. “B-but, you said I wouldn’t-”

William turned you around to face him. “I have to check out your privates, gotta make sure you’re safe. It’s just me, it’s just external, don’t worry. We’ll face away.” He knelt down.

You were acutely aware your ass was still out for the other men when you heard Ben groan when your underwear is pulled down, the distinct sound of him summoning Francisco, who had been quiet so far, and the unzipping of pants.

“Goddamn…” He says, notching your legs so they spread and lifting one foot so it is resting on his bent knee. He touched your sensitive skin. “Pope, you gotta see this… the girls wet.”

“But-” I wanted to protest that he had said it would only be him, but there was no point. Soon, you’d be married, and they be able to have you as much as they wanted.

“Holy shit, she’s dripping…” Pope marvels as the slick running down your thighs.

Will continues prodding at you, fingers running through your glistening folds. In the background was a sound you couldn’t quiet pinpoint, and something that sounded like kissing, but who would be kissing? There was only Ben and Francisco there. Will dips his finger slightly inside your hole, making you gasp.

“Careful.” Pope warned. “She needs to stay intact.”

“I know.” Will groans. “But she’s so fucking tight, Pope.”

A muffled but strong groan behind you, and Pope looks like he’s about to fall apart when he pulls away.

“William, Franisco, Ben. Go to Lydia, tell her the wedding will be at her next ovulation.”

The men reluctantly made their exit leaving Pope alone in the room with you. He pulled up your underwear and pants before helping you back into your shirt. “You are perfect.” He grabbed your face again, pinching your chin and guiding you to look up at him. “Pack only personal items. You’ll have new clothing, everything will be taken care of. From now on, as long as you are what we need you to be, whatever you need, you’ll have.”

He leans in and you open your mouth to him, beautifully alluring, gifting him your first kiss and the spark was ignited. He was everything now.

“My Madonna.”

WE'RE LIVE! So excited to do this, I was a little too excited, I didn't wait until january like i said lol. After this I'm gonna try and finish Blessed be the Fruit and Awakening before going forward which shouldnt be long

PLEEAASEEEE LMK YOU'RE THOTS AND THEORIES!!!!

Special thanks to my BELOVED @hon3yboy for encouraging me so fucking hard with this series!!! she is so wonderful and has written great work including WEREWOLF MARC SPECTOR!!!!

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anitalenia · 2 months

Text

━━ 𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒐 𝒅𝒖𝒎 𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒔 pt. 4

━━ 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒚𝒔 / 𝒎𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔. the frontier boys as random tropes. ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ part one | part two | part three

┊┊✧ ⁺ 𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 ⋆｡˚ ⋆ Pope, Will, Benny, Frank x fem!Reader

┊┊✧ ⁺ 𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓼 ⋆｡˚ ⋆ ceo!Pope x assistant!Reader, lumberjack!Will x bimbo!Reader, bartender!Benny x fem!Reader, step dad!Frank x step daughter!Reader

┊┊✧ ⁺ 𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 ⋆｡˚ ⋆ sexual content, implied smut, graphic depictions of sexual acts, fantasized sexual content, blowjobs, depictions of fingering, pussy eating, inappropriate family dynamics you definitely shouldn’t partake in, inappropriate work relationships that you definitely shouldn’t do in real life (unless you want to purrrr💅🏻), a little long just cause I haven’t made one in a while, slight dark content in Franks section

┊┊✧ ⁺ 𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 ⋆｡˚ ⋆ sorry for the wait with this series, people really loved it actually, more than I thought they would. The begging for another part finally got to me, so here you go!!!! Hope you enjoy while I work on the next one 😭

━━ SANTIAGO ‘POPE’ GARCIA ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

CEO! SANTIAGO ⊹₊˚

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 desk in those cute little skirts and too tight dresses, always so busy and always so beautiful. He liked to stare out at you from his private office with a semi hard cock in his black slacks; a perfect view of your desk and the best view of you.

He could never get any work done of course, not properly anyway, too busy thinking about you and all the things you’d do for him if he asked. You always did what he asked, so eager to work and so eager to please. You, you with those black stiletto heels and those pink pouty lips, you, you with your sweet voice and your round hips — begging to be fucked good.

Nngh, just you.

He liked to call you into his office for no real reason other than his own selfish desires; he liked to see your hips sway when you walked and stare at your soft tits when you’d lean over — it’s what really got him through the tough days.

He loved to hear your soft giggles and see your cheeks go pink when he’d say something scandalously sly, something a ceo definitely shouldn’t say to their assistant, something a boss definitely shouldn’t say to their employee.

He’d take you on business meetings and lavish business trips, invite you to expensive business dinners and elite business parties, it was always business, business, business. He wanted more than that, wanted to take you out for real and show you how much of a gentleman he could be if you’d give him the chance.

Mainly, he wanted to show you how good he could fuck you, much better than any man could, show you how well he knew your body in ways you even didn’t, in ways no man did.

He’d have to clench his fists and hold himself back from fucking you on his very desk with his blinds open for all the horny temps to see — the ones who could never seem to leave you and your beauty alone, the ones who gawked at you in the break room, the ones whose grimy hands lingered on your arm for just a little too long…

That always pissed him off, having to see those puny fanboys of yours charade around your desk like prissy princesses and fight for your attention — it was pathetic and obnoxious. He couldn’t fire them like he wanted to though (unfortunately), too many lawsuits already being filed against him that he was too rich to really care about.

He had lawyers for that shit anyway.

Santiago, or Santi as he’s made you call him now, liked to watch you talk. He loved hearing your voice, seeing the way your lips moved and sparkled with gloss as you rambled on about some company he supposedly owned, pacing his office as he sat in his chair with his dick hard under his desk.

He’d clench his jaw and picture how those lips would look wrapped around his thick cock, your lipstick leaving stains all over him that he could admire later — maybe he’d even have you under his desk during meetings, sitting right between his legs with your lipstick smeared over your cheeks, and a sweet mix of your saliva and his cum dripping down his balls —

“Are you even listening to me?” You’d always scold him with your arms crossed over your chest when you’d notice his blank stare, pushing your tits up and giving him yet another fantasy he couldn’t get his mind off of.

He’d quickly snap out of whatever trance he was in, eyes flickering from your tits to your face, intense and twinkling — really thinking he was slick enough that you wouldn’t notice it. Then he’d let out a husky chuckle, his hand subtly palming his cock as he’d say, “Of course I am.”

You’d just roll your eyes and continue talking, oblivious to his arousal as he’d stare at your ass, your lips, your legs, his hungry eyes running up and down the length of your perfect body until he was so hard he physically couldn’t stand it.

But that was the norm for him.

For any other girl he had everything — the money, the power, the cars, the looks. He could’ve had literally any other girl he wanted yet he wanted you, yet he couldn’t have you.

You were so professional, always did your job perfectly and always did the right thing, the perfect assistant, the perfect employee, the perfect woman. Why, why, couldn’t you be one of those dumb slutty assistants who he didn’t give a damn about? The ones who didn’t bother to hide the fact that they were a slut, the ones who’d drop everything and suck his dick if he asked, even if he didn’t ask.

But no, you were you and you were so damn different from that and really, that made him want you even more. The fact that you weren’t a dumb girl but a mature woman, as flawless and elegant as rose petals and wine. He wanted you to break out of that persona, see your strong facade crack and crumble for him, for his love, for his cock.

He wanted to see that perfect red lipstick smeared over your tear stained cheeks, see that tight pussy gaping and wet and begging for him, see those lacy panties wrapped around your ankles as he’d fuck you hard and fast before a business meeting in just the way he knew you’d like, just hard enough so everyone could see the stumble in your walk and the tears in your eyes.

One day he was going to have that, one day. But for now he was just gonna have to stick with the lustful stares during crowded meetings and the not-so-innocent fantasies when you’d poke into his office.

One day he’d have you, one day… but for now he was satisfied with jerking his dick off in his office at the sweet smell of your lingering perfume. For now he was okay with imagining to throw you on his desk and fucking your brains out when you’d deliver his coffee in the mornings, his lunch in the afternoon, his dinner in the evenings… all the while staring at you from behind his computer with his dick so achingly hard he couldn’t focus on a damn thing.

All right, he wasn’t okay with it but what choice did he have? Bosses shouldn’t fuck their assistants, but damn, he couldn’t wait to break his own rule and see how easily he could make a good girl turn bad.

━━ WILL ‘IRONHEAD’ MILLER ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

LUMBERJACK! WILL ⊹₊˚

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 where you went. It was inevitable really; a pretty girl like you, wearing those pink skirts like you did, wearing those 6-inch heels like you did, wearing those tight tops like you did, in a town like this? It was really no wonder why you always got stared at.

It was just unfortunate that you were too dumb to notice that he was no better than the countless men that gawked at you, he was just better at hiding it.

You were the bosses daughter — dangerously beautiful and utterly unattainable (spoiled rotten too). You were a walking, talking Barbie in pink dresses and pretty purses; a pink, glittering ditzy princess who carelessly walked around the muddy work site in those cute heels of yours — William believed you were too beautiful to walk around in the filth.

You were the sweetest little thing he had ever met too — a butterfly in a battlefield — so giggly and cheery it drove him insane. The sound of your voice in his ears, your laugh, twinkling and sweet like sparkling water; he could only imagine how good you’d sound underneath him as he drove his cock into you nice and slow so you felt every vein, every ridge, every curve hitting that spot inside you that made you squeal.

Your father was a good man, had hired Will in a desperate time when he needed someone — something, constant. Ever since then Will had always been the best employee. He was the first hire and the only one to stay when things got tough. He put in the most hours, doing the most work, being the best lumberjack he could be for your father in repayment of his kindness. So for that reason Will had earned your father’s respect in more ways than one — for being patient, hardworking, loyal.

So sometimes Will would feel bad when he’d sneak into the bathroom after a rather short conversation with you; he’d slam the stall door closed and whip out his throbbing cock to relief some of the tension you had so dim wittingly caused.

He’d fuck his fist at the thought of you bent over the break room table he had left you at, cute mini skirt flipped up and giving him a perfect view of that pretty pussy he only prayed to see. He knew it was gorgeous, knew it’d be just as pretty as you, knew he’d be fucking addicted at the first taste.

Will was patient, level headed, a loyal worker who’d never betray your fathers trust… but he’d picture thrusting his thick fingers inside you slowly and carefully, smearing cum over your warm hole and feel your wetness drip down his palm as you begged him to go faster — a pretty pink mess all for him.

He'd imagine throwing your cute little ass against a tree and wrapping your smooth legs around his waist when he was supposed to be working, telling you to be a good girl for him as he'd grope your tits and hear your needy whimpers.

He’d hold you against him as he’d push his hard cock inside your tight little pussy once you begged him enough, listen to your gasps as he’d stretch you out in ways you’d never been stretched before. He'd be sure to cover your mouth with his calloused, work torn hands to muffle your screams, have you claw his chiseled back with those glossy pink nails of yours until he bled.

He’d make you cum around his cock as he whispered every filthy thing he could think of in your ear, hear you whine and whimper and leave bruises in the sweet spots only he got to see; your father would be down the hill confused on where the both of you had gone.

He’d squirt all over his hand and thighs once he was done, panting and hissing from the pleasure pulsing through his body. He knew you were right outside those doors too, right where he left you in the break room, sipping on an ice coffee — completely oblivious.

Will would take a long while to clean himself up after that, the guilt burrowing heavy in his tummy knowing your father’s office was right down the hall. He wouldn’t dare look in that direction, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to look your father in the eye for a good hour.

He’d walk out the bathroom as inconspicuously as possible and put his hands in his coat pockets, walk back into the break room like nothing had happened, like he didn’t want to fuck your brains out right then and there, and he’d lean against the door frame and give you the most charming, innocent smile you dotingly believed.

“Hey, darlin’.”

You’d look up from your phone startled, your tits spilling out of your pink top and the plushness of your thighs flared out on the bench. Your hair was shiny and glittery with cute hair clips on each side, your makeup done so prettily and perfectly he just wanted to ruin it. You looked so damn good Will couldn’t help but take a minute to admire you some more, his eyes running over you hotly, but too subtly for you to notice.

“Oh, hey, where did you go? You said 5 minutes…” You teasingly pouted up at him with those glossy, twinkling lips of yours like you weren’t making this hard enough as it was.

You’d giggle and smile at him — making his heart churn and dick stir. He’d be entranced by your tits jiggling as you did, covered in glittery perfume and smelling of vanilla and strawberries.

So fucking delicious.

Then you’d wrap those same lips around your pink straw and take another sip of your iced coffee.

God damn those lips of yours… Will would go in a daze at the image of you on your knees for him, your lipgloss smeared over your cheeks as you’d suck his swollen cock head into your mouth, patiently waiting for him to say you could take more. Sparkly pink lip stains marked over his dick and balls… it was his dream.

Will knew he was bigger than you too, in a lot of ways, was reminded of if every time you stood next to his hulking form in those cute heels of yours that still didn’t manage to reach him. He was a 6’0 mass of muscle and brawn, carved from brick and forged from stone and way too rough around the edges to handle a delicate thing like you — it’d be like putting a pretty flower petal in the brazen hands of a giant. He wasn’t sure he could have you and not ruin you.

But god damn he’d fucking try. He’d be so delicate and tender with you in ways he’s never been with another woman. He’d cherish every scar and blemish on your smooth skin and treat you like the princess you so clearly were. He’d kiss you from head to toe and lap at your pussy like a poor man worshipping a goddess — he’d be oh so lucky.

He was big, yes, but he promised he wouldn’t crush you. He was rough, yes, but even a pretty girl like you liked having a rough hand wrapped around her throat. You’d be a pretty pink angel wrapped in his gray cotton sheets, held between his mundane, trauma stained hands.

He was manly and burly, all flannel jackets and tree stained jeans and you were girly and feminine, all short skirts and glittering strawberry lipgloss. You two didn’t work in a conventional sense but nothing about his life or yours was conventional.

Your father was a good man and William was a good worker, the best employee, the best lumberjack. He was patient and so loyal, fully aware he was risking his livelihood by wanting you but yet he was left wanting anyway. You were too cute and bouncy and he needed you to bounce on his cock more than he needed a job.

He wanted to see you bare for him — bare in heart, mind, and soul because he knew there was more to you than meets the eye. There was more of you to discover beyond the pink masses and he wanted to be the one that discovered it, the one that you trusted enough to show it to. He wanted to see the real you bared to him in the middle of the night with the beautiful afterglow of what you two had just done shining on your skin — your most organic, happiest form.

“Ah, William, I see you’re keeping my girl company? I hope she’s not keeping you, she’s a chatterbox.” Your father laughed and smacked a hand on Will’s shoulder, suddenly popping up in the doorway like Will had conjured him with his guilt. A thud sounded from the smack and Will felt his shoulder sting, completely shaken out of his fantasy now.

He looked at your father and laughed that charming laugh — I want to fuck your daughter more than I need air to breath sir but no she’s not a problem at all.

━━ BENJAMIN ‘BENNY’ MILLER ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

BARTENDER! BENNY ⊹₊˚

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 it almost angered you. Every Saturday night the club was packed with women just hoping Benny the Bartender would look their way… it was pathetic, if you didn’t do the exact same thing.

It was routine for you, the only thing you really looked forward to in your long weeks of monotonous work and errands — Benny was new, exciting, and so fucking hot you blushed at just the mere thought of him.

He was so charming too, so good at his job by simply just existing you could see why the company had hired him. With just one dazzling smile the whole room swooned and came, even you, who so pathetically tried to act hard to get at the corner of the bar with your lonely margarita you only ever ordered — you needed to be somewhat tipsy to actually have the confidence to talk to him.

You’d wear your sexiest dresses, your cutest shoes, have your hair done pristinely and your makeup done perfectly all in hopes of Benny noticing you — you were almost ashamed that you valued his attention that much.

You’d sit by yourself, alone, at the end of the bar staring at him while he worked, staring at his face and body and just picturing him fucking you on this very bar with his snapback still on his head, his hands gripping your thighs, your hips, your tits, anywhere his greedy hands could leave their mark on.

He’d wear baseball tees and black t-shirts that clung perfectly to his abs and muscles — you even heard a rumor that he was in an underground fighting ring that gave him all those muscles and scars in the first place. The thought aroused you incredibly and you couldn’t stop from fluttering your eyes at him more than usual that night.

He seldom never wore his snapback, and while you loved seeing his full face you couldn’t deny how much you loved the nights when he left his hat at home more.

He’d have his dirty blonde hair slicked back out of his face but yet there was always that one rebelling strand that fell over his eyes when he was working… it drove you insane. And the way he’d run his fingers through his hair when he was in the middle of a busy service, the way your own hands could pull it when he was laid between your legs, nibbling on your thighs and bringing you to such an ecstasy you’ve never experienced.

He was such a natural flirt too, professional to a limit when it came to all the women fawning over him over the bar, their tits falling out of their dresses and their lips over lined with lipstick. He’d laugh that boisterous laugh of his, take shots with them like he wasn’t on the clock, and he’d charm the panties right off them and the money right out of their purses by the time he was done.

You couldn’t say you weren’t jealous.

Benny, on the other hand, was all too aware of the pretty girl at the end of the bar who never seemed to bring anyone but her credit card. He was all too aware of her pretty eyes and pretty lips and perfect set of tits in those skimpy dresses she’d always wear.

And honestly, since the first night he saw you he’s wanted you.

He’d flirt with you all the time in that southern accent of his that charmed all the ladies, but you never seemed to register it, or in other words, you never seemed to care.

You were nothing like the women he dealt with every night — you would roll your eyes when he’d tell you how happy he was to see you again, purse your lips when he complimented your makeup, and seem totally disinterested in him and whatever nonsense he had to say.

And he fucking loved it.

You didn’t fawn over him like the others girls did, you didn’t seem to buy into the whole charming bartender shtick he portrayed either. You were quiet and beautiful and sharp; you never seemed too desperate or eager for him like everyone else. Sure, he loved the attention from other women, he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t, but the fact that he never seemed to have yours made him want you even more.

He’d flirt with you whenever he got the chance to, knew your drink of choice by heart now and was always there to fill it back up when it was empty. He was attentive to your needs and he swore he could be just as attentive in other settings if you gave him the chance.

You’d just sit there in the shadows, skin flashing blue and black from the lights of the club and looking so damn fine Benny wished he could drag you into the bathroom and fuck your brains out on the door, feel the music pumping through your veins as you stuck your tongue in his mouth until all he tasted was you and liqueur.

It’d be fast and hot and he wouldn’t be able to breath in anything but you and margarita salt but it sounded perfect. His big hand wrapped around your throat as people knocked on the door like you two weren’t busy. He’d try to muffle your moans for your sake but he’d also decide he liked hearing them more. It’d be cramped and intimate and it would certainly leave him breathless but god damn that sounded like just what he needed right now.

He’d be drunk on you, the taste of you, the smell of you, the feel of you wrapped around him so tight — the mysterious girl he could never seem to break through to no matter how many times he tried. Sometimes, Benny even felt like giving up — you clearly didn’t want him like he wanted you.

But then, at some point during the night when you were two margaritas in and your eyes were starting to get hazy, he’d look over at you and you’d be giving him the hottest, most seductive look he’s ever seen. It makes his heart pound and skin prickle, his cock ache for something.

It was the kind of look where your eyelashes would flutter and you’d stare up at him with a delectable little smirk on your face, a look that screamed take me now, take me on this bar and show everyone what you’re capable of, show these other bitches you only want me.

And he fucking wished he could. It was that look that kept him going, that look that gave him hope.

And you wanted him to do just that. To leave bruises on your skin and taint your body with himself, to leave his mark on your pussy and soul and be so deep inside you you weren’t sure where his body began and your pleasure ended, just that you needed more, more, more of it.

But Benny assumed that was the game you two liked to play — to show up every Saturday night with the expectation that one of you was going to finally make a move on the other. To see who would crack first, give in to the temptation the both of you so clearly desired but neither were confident enough to admit.

Benny, the sexy bartender obsessed with the mysterious girl who barely gave him the time of day.

You, the girl at the end of the bar wishing Benny would just take the initiative and fuck her already.

And to think, Benny did want you, wanted you so fucking badly, only you. You’re the one that he even bothered to show off for anyway; flipping bottles, being quick on his feet, being better than anyone else cause he knew you were the one watching.

He made a soulful promise to both you and him that one of these nights you’re gonna give him that damned look one more time and he’s not gonna have a choice but to prove to you why you shouldn’t start things you don’t intend to finish.

��━ FRANK ‘CATFISH’ MORALES ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

STEP DAD! FRANK ⊹₊˚

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝐇𝐞’𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 for a good year and a half before he met you, the young and beautiful daughter of the woman he supposedly loved.

You were grown, well, grown enough; a beautiful woman with dreams and ambitions, goals for her life that he couldn’t help but admire. But you also had this delectable snark you certainly didn’t get from your mother, an attitude that made anything remotely good about you pale in comparison — it drove him mad.

He hated to act like a father to you because he wasn’t your father — you were in your 20s anyway, it was too late for him to be anything other than Frank. He was just an older man in your life set to wed your mother, yet he really only had eyes for you, his beautiful step daughter he certainly shouldn’t be fantasizing about when he was fucking your mother.

You were bratty and mean, always rolled your eyes at him and walked off right in the middle of him talking to you; you wore those short shorts he despised (loved more than he should have) and those dresses that clung just a little too tight to your body for his liking. You were disobedient and rude, but so fucking sexy he was left torn between his desires and morals.

You never cared what he had to say about anything, never bothered to listen to his rules, and never bothered to wear some god damn house appropriate shorts that didn’t shove your round ass into his face every time he walked past you.

He imagined bending you over his knee and pulling your shorts off you, gently sliding your pink panties down your thighs, then spanking your ass, hard, like the disobedient brat you were until his handprints were etched into your skin, until you were sniffling and moaning for him to stop, until you had finally learned some respect.

He wondered if you’d get wet from that simple act alone: maybe your childish attitude was all a front, an act, to really piss him off to his limits and see how far you could push him until he broke. Maybe you wanted to be punished by him, be spanked raw, be fucked hard, until tears were streaming in your pretty little eyes and you were sobbing your apologizes to him instead of running your mouth.

As a matter of fact he should do just that; with all the times you’d “accidentally” leave the door open when you were showering and your mother had gone shopping, just you and Frank and the sizzling tension between you left to fend for itself. He was a gentleman at heart but no man could deny the allure of such a pretty body like yours covered in water.

He should shove your face into his pillow and fuck you from behind so you didn’t have to see his face like he knew you’d want to. He’d hold your hands behind your back and pound you until you cried for him to stop, to go faster, that it hurts, but you fucking wanted more.

You’d probably be a squirter too, all mean girls like you were when they got stripped down to the bare parts of themselves, where they couldn’t hide behind their own insolence and were touched by the experienced hands of an older man.

Frank was a patient man, a very patient man. It took a lot to drive him over the edge but yet you always seemed to know just what to say and just what to do to really push his buttons.

Your bedroom door wide open as you changed out of your bra, your perky tits all smooth and round for him to ogle at through the hallway, your music blasting through the whole house when he was trying to get some god damn sleep, bringing over your stupid little boyfriends into his house and letting them fuck you under his roof — it was all reason enough for him to punish you.

And no, Frank wasn’t jealous. He was a grown man, what did he have to be jealous about? He wasn’t jealous when he’d hear your moans sound through the whole house, the headboard banging on the wall, the giggles you’d try to hide as you’d walk them out the door. It was pathetic. Those boys could never fuck you like he could and he knew it. He was not jealous.

You were a bad girl, a naughty girl, and he didn’t like pretty little girls who thought they knew better than him.

You never showed him any gratitude, or appreciation for taking you and your mother in when he didn’t have to, you never thanked him when he made you a hot meal, and you never listened when he’d say put gas back in my car if you use it.

He basically let you do whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. There was no structure, no rhyme or reason to anything you did and he’d be damned if he was going to let a spoiled brat like you make his life any harder than it needed to be.

Your mother was an angel, all kisses and kind words and that’s why he loved her in the first place. He had plans to marry her and live a great life with her. Even when she mentioned a daughter Frank didn’t worry, he imagined an adorable little toddler with big doe eyes and a kind heart just like her mother. But then he met you, and you were no kid, and you were certainly no fucking angel.

You were a soul sucking succubus sent from the depths of hell to tempt him, to make him fail yet another marriage. You were young and he knew it was wrong to despise you yet simultaneously want you so fucking badly. He wanted you out of his house, but he also wanted you on your knees and gagging around his cock. He wanted you to shut up for once, but he also wanted you to scream his name until the neighbors knew it.

It was certainly complicated and contradicting, and with his wedding on the way he really didn’t need anything going wrong. But, he figured, if he married your mother at least he would always be around to keep you in line, right?

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the-dendrophile-bookdragon · 2 years

Text

I Hate You (Affectionately) Part 12

I Hate You (Affectionately) Masterlist

Summary: Once you were friends. But everything changed one day…

Pairing: Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x fem!reader

Warnings: childhood friends to enemies to adult lovers, slow burn, Santi is an idiot, sadness, heartbreak

Life went on. Your heart burned every time you saw Santi. Thankfully he worked in the other building. Your first day consisted of board and security meetings. The FBI found new evidence that pointed to a competitor. He had it out for the company since the beginning. Mister Dawson was roughless some say even corrupt. Olivia describes him as a vulture or a black hole swallowing everything he wants to. The problem was, Dawson hides behind a hoard of lawyers.

Your day was uneventful. You signed papers, wrote new contracts, interviewed a potential new employee. You were bored out of your mind. You stood up from your office table and went to the door. You were on your way to the when you ran into something. You looked up and came face to face with solid muscles. Your eyes wandered further up till you are met with startling blue eyes.

“I am so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going?” You chuckled at the man, “No, it was my fault. I was distracted and ran into you.” Both of you stared into each other’s eyes before falling into a fit of giggles.

The stranger pointed into the direction of the coffee kitchen, “You want to grab a coffee and talk a little?” You nodded and smiled. The stranger with the enchanting eyes clapped his hands, “Great! By the way, my name is Andrew.” You smiled and told him your name.

_______

“So, Mr hot asked you on a date?” You nodded eagerly while Sif was wolf whistling. Benny waggled his eyes at you, “Well finally. You deserve it. Who was the last bloke that dated you? Daniel? Something with a D. Can’t remember?” You laughed, “David. He had to go on a journey to find himself. Now he is giving Yoga classes to soccer moms. I think he is dating one of his clients.” Benny and Sif made a face of disgust. “Thankfully you aren’t together anymore.” You nodded before taking a sip from your beverage.

Frankie came into the bar and sat down next to Will. The blond man moved a bottle of bear into his direction. Frankie pointed with two fingers to his temple before pointing them away from his face, “Gracias, amigo.” Will nodded.

Benny turned to his friend, “Where is the idiot?” Frankie sighted. He looked at Benny with a look only he and a few others (the delta bois as you liked to call them) could read. “He is on a,” He made air quotes with his pointer and middle finger, “Date. He doesn’t know how he feels around her even if it’s their third date. You all know how Santi and dating is.” He snorted into your glass of beer.

You looked into your own glass. Remembering Santi’s first attempts of wooing girls. He was clumsy but he had the cute dork with locks bonus. Every girl in high school loved those damn curls. Sadly his current hairstyle doesn’t show his glorious mane of unruly curls.

Frankie went on and on about Santi’s date. He met her once and she seemed nice. “I don’t know. She seems nice but I can’t shake the feeling that there is a dark side behind that shy smile.” Frankie’s eyes flittered over to you. Santi once had a toxic relationship in forth grade. The breakup wasn’t pretty.

You smiled encouragingly at your long-time best friend, “He will not crash and burn like last time. You say she is nice. When was the last time your gut told you something wrong? And if something happens, we are there to catch him.” You had a sour taste in your mouth but you swallowed it down. Santi wasn’t interested in you. Andrew was.

You fished out your phone from your purse. You searched for the contact of Andrew and found him. Opening a new chat you began to type.

Sif leaned over as you wrote Andrew. “Is this Mr. Hot?” You only nodded and resumed writing the man in question. Sif took a swig from her drink, smirking the whole time. Benny looked over and saw you both. “Babe, what’s with the smirk? And why is she so engrossed in her phone?” He pointed at you as you replied to Andrew’s texts. “Well, seems like someone will have a date too in the near future.” You looked up and saw the gazes of your friends on you, “I am so sorry. I put it away.” Immediately your phone wandered into your purse. Benny looked at you expectedly, “And? Are you getting laid? You need it.” Your mouth opened and closed while everyone around you snickered. “I have a date. Tomorrow. We eat lunch together.” Everyone cheered and wolf whistled.

“Is that for me?” Everyone turned to the voice at the end of the table. Santi stood there with a brown-haired woman on his arm. She had kind brown eyes. On her soft pink lips laid a gentle smile. Santi took a deep breath before looking at his company, “Hey guys, meet Lory. She is my girlfriend.”

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#santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia fanfiction #santiago garcia imagine #santiago pope garcia #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #santiago garcia #i hate you (affectionately)

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

Text

At ease, soldier (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader)

What is this? This is 8/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. (More deets in pinned post). The prompt is “I’ve never seen you dressed-up like this and **** you’re hot.”

Summary: when Santi moves in with you following his divorce, he didn’t anticipate seeing you in THAT DRESS. It does things to him, and has him reevaluating everything he feels for you, and everything he thinks he knows about home.

Author’s note: this has divorced!dad!Santi, so it’s a bit different (marriage / child not with reader). This might not be my best thought-out one-shot ever, or my best portrayal of Santi, but it is what it is. I personally think the thing reader does is adorbs, fight me if you disagree :P I really hope you like it! <3 Thank you as always for reading, commenting, and sharing. It means the world.

Rating: M/E (18+ ONLY, Minors do not read or interact. Thank you.)

Word count: this is not as long as some of the others! Hurrah!

Warnings: masturbation (m); Santi has super sexual thoughts about reader and they’re not together- they are written but not said out loud. theme of divorce but not too angsty. few mentions of shared custody / parenting (not reader’s child). Food mentions. Swearing. Kissing. Lmk if I missed any.

GIF: @realoscarisaac

Tagging: @isvvc-pvscvl @anetteaneta @stardustkenobi @casifer-is-king @foxilayde @tlcwrites @aellynera @kindablackenedsuperhero

“Hey, look. Thank you for this,” Santi says, softly and sincerely as you cross him again in the hallway, halting you with a hand on your shoulder. The heat from his palm bleeds through the thin fabric of your t-shirt and you consider wresting yourself sharply away from the pleasant torment of him. At the same time, you consider leaning in to his warm chest and staying there, so help you, curled like a leaf against the sturdy trunk of him.

He’s moving in with you, following the long, drawn-out process of his divorce. It has been a long time coming, but his marital house -which he has lived in alone going on a year - has finally been sold-off and split with his ex. And so, here he is, treading lightly and making himself small in your home - as if this isn’t somewhere he’s been loud and brash and welcome ever since you bought the damn place.

You can tell he’s grateful. He’s expressed it enough times. It’s the apology in his eyes you can’t stand - as if he’s some kind of burden. He’s been through a lot, but you want him to walk tall, instead of stooping under the weight of his “bad decisions”. He blames himself for a lot of things that you don’t think he ought to, not least the collapse of his marriage. She had cheated; although, he insists there were problems long before that. Perhaps even right from the beginning. He’d always been a travelling soldier, and even after he was discharged he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“I promise. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I get back on my feet,” he adds, self-consciously smoothing a hand over his scruff.

You smile softly. His promises still mean something to you. Even if he hadn’t seen through the promise of his marriage, you know he had tried. You know his word is never given lightly.

It’s hard. To start again, all over again. You know. You, yourself, were rattling around in a house too big for one, bought for two, perhaps meant for more - but that hadn’t worked out either. You’d had to forego promises you made as well.

“There’s no rush. Honestly.”

There isn’t. Between the legal fees and alimony, and carving up his assets, Santi needs a little time to get his finances together before he can consider his own place. You’re happy for him to take all of the time he needs. Out of the options available to him, you had been both the preferred one, and the last to offer. The other boys don’t have space. He’d considered a houseshare, but he needed somewhere his little daughter, Ava, could still come to stay on weekends.

You have space. Ava adores you. You were spending a lot of time with Santi anyway. For all those reasons, it was a no-brainier. You’d only hesitated so long in offering due to your impossible, undying love for the man. Did you really want to do that to yourself? To torment yourself with him, in your home?

“It’s no problem at all, but I do need you to haul this stuff inside a little faster, okay? I still have a date tonight, slowpoke.”

“You got it, boss.”

You chuckle, punching him playfully in the tricep, and traipsing out to the lawn to pick-up another box.

Perhaps it was ludicrous to go on a date tonight, of all nights, but at least you admit to yourself that it is an exercise in majorly over-compensating. It is some conscious attempt to signify how Not Into Him you are, and you are hoping -if the guy is cute enough and the sex is earth-shattering enough- that perhaps you could even convince yourself.

Aside from your well-established feelings for him, this whole arrangement is pretty dangerous. Santi is too easy to be around, and if you let yourself sink into the cosy bubble of his company, you fear you will never think to look for anyone else again. Whilst that would be just fine with you - Santi, on the other hand? He’s never been interested in you like that. Probably hasn’t ever entertained the idea of it. Besides, the timing between you two - even if there was something there- has never been quite right. There was always some mission or woman or man or bad decision getting in the way.

You sigh, as you bend and pick-up a box, feeling like your date is already doomed as thoughts of Santi swirl relentlessly in your head.

You can hope, perhaps, that it won’t turn out to have been a terrible decision to invite him into your home. Perhaps living with him will even help you get over him, once and for all, in a way that nothing and no-one else has managed to. You could discover all of his annoying habits and start bickering over whose turn it is to take the bins out until you hate each other, perhaps? However, somehow you think this is unlikely - when you’d broken up with Malik, Santi’s presence in your house had gotten you through. His laugh and his warmth had curled into every corner of this structure and nestled there, driving out all of the cobwebs. Santi made this house a home again, before he ever lived in it. In a way, you dread to think what will happen now.

“Make yourself at home, okay?” you encourage - this time as you cross him on the landing. “Put your stuff wherever. Take up some space. Hang your guitar above the fireplace. Hell, get a new one. Hang that too.” That had been a point of contention with her. “Paint your bedroom black, like you always wanted when you were a kid, whatever you want.”

Santi smiles warmly at you as he gets the message you’re so desperately trying to hammer home. You don’t want him to shrink himself into a corner. You want him to be at ease here. You want him to feel welcome.

With words escaping him, Santi’s hands wind around the back of your head, and he casually leans over, planting a quick but heartfelt kiss of gratitude, right in the middle of your forehead. “I love you,” he says freely, and, as he trots abruptly down the stairs, you only wish he meant it in the same way your heart sings its reply.

You do want him to relax here. He’s carried so much for so long. He’s carried it halfway around the world and back again, and the man deserves the break.

****

“Can I ask your opinion?” you call through his new bedroom door, cracking it and poking your head in as he responds affirmatively.

“Sure, come in.”

Santi watches as your body follows the path of your head, the slow reveal of your striking dress oddly tantalising, and sending a subtle surge of heat through him which he wasn’t prepared for.

“How do I look?” you say apprehensively, holding out your palms before doing a little half-swivel, one hand poised on your hip.

Santi’s extremely conscious that his eyes widen, and he swears he must look like a cartoon, feeling like they’re popping out of his head in surprise when he clocks you.

You’re wearing a form-fitting, flattering dress. It’s long, and it hugs you perfectly where it touches, with subtle hints of leg and cleavage where the luxe material gives way to soft, inviting skin. Your hair and make-up are different than usual too, and you really look the whole package - so much so that Santi takes a minute to form a coherent thought, beyond the low whistle he expels when he sees you stood before him.

Shit - he knows it has been too long since he said anything, and yet all he can muster from his slack jaw is a feeble croak.

Wow. Holy shit.

Santi is a little thrown. Your body looks amazing. You look sultry and sexy, and like sex-on-legs, if he’s honest. He tries to think or speak, but he’s not sure if he’s ever seen you dressed-up quite like this, and you have him feeling more than a little stupefied.

He gulps.

It’s not as though you look transformed, or anything. You’re an attractive woman, always, and the dress simply highlights that. No change there. But the way he’s responding to you is something new, and not something he entirely understands. Perhaps he simply became so used to seeing you clad in fatigues and sweats and overalls, usually covered in mud and sweat and blood. Perhaps he’s spent so long schooling himself into believing you’re someone he couldn’t and shouldn’t hit on -his friend- that he simply buried it. Buried it under his missions and his marriage and his house and his divorce. But now that all of those things are gone, and all the silt stirred-up, perhaps there is space for it to resurface? Now that, for the first time in a long-time, he feels at ease, and, here you are, looking like that?

Oh boy. His eyes trail over you further as though he can’t get enough. His gaze snags on the places the dress clings to you, providing a subtle outline of your form. He lingers on the places where you’re practically busting out of it- he likes those places especially.

He likes it a little too much, he realises, as he experiences an involuntary rush of blood to his cock, and he subtly rearranges his hands in front of him to disguise the fact as he stands to attention for you.

Fuck, what would Frankie say? Santi thinks, as he reaches for literally any wholesome thought where none seem to exist - in his mind nor his vocabulary - while he’s looking at you.

“You look nice,” he manages to say, but that’s not how he’s phrasing it in his head. Not at all.

I wanna shove my tongue between your thighs, honey. I want you to slip those red lips down on my dick until you drain my balls dry.

“Nice?” you bristle. “Nice, Santiago? I don’t want to look nice.”

“How do you want to look?”

Naked, on my bed? Or, maybe that dress hitched all the way up. Those juicy hips of yours being marked by my hands as I bounce you on me until I fill you up.

You cross to the cheval mirror at the opposite side of the room, further examining yourself.

Holy shit, you look good from the back too.

Santi may be a lapsed Catholic, but he certainly feels like he needs to visit confession with the thoughts he’s having about you right now. He swears he must have started visibly sweating.

“I don’t know,” you say, softly twirling. “Bangable, I guess? Come on, you’re a straight, hot-blooded male. If a woman turned-up to a date wearing this, would this do it for you? It’s not too much?”

He gulps. “Yes. Yep. For sure. That’ll do it.”

When you flick your eyes back to him, with a soft, humble smile, laced delicately with an inner confidence, he finally has a wholesome thought again:

You’re beautiful.

“I think it’s a little too much... but I guess we’ll find out,” you sing-song, his eyes following your hips as you wiggle back to the door, before turning back to him over your shoulder. “Do you have everything you need before I go?”

He looks at your plush red lips. He licks his own.

I need you on your knees.

Oh well, he’d managed to be wholesome for all of two seconds. That was something.

“I’m good,” he pushes out. “When will you be back?”

“Don’t wait up,” you breeze. “He has a nice pad, so if it works out I think we’ll be heading to his place.”

His place?

Santi can’t help but wonder why he’s suddenly imagining what sounds you might make underneath another man. Hell, whether he could double the intensity of those pretty noises under him instead.

This is not ideal. This is not ideal at all, when he hasn’t even made it through day one.

He hasn’t felt this... aroused in a long-time. Not since long before things went south with her. He hasn’t been this hard for a woman in just as long. He’s been hard in the sense of a mechanical, routine need, sure, where he has the basic need to pleasure himself; but this is something else. This is potent. This is lust, raw and consuming. This is not a general need, but it is startling in its specificity.

As you leave, and he takes himself urgently out of his pants, he understands that this is all for you. Moreover, as he winds his hand around himself, and works his shaft to the thought of you, he has the best orgasm he’s had in a long time.

When he’s done, he has some severe post-nut clarity, feeling guilty that he has moved into your home and spilled himself on your sheets to the thought of you; on day one, no less. It’s not very respectful.

But at the same time, he’s caught in a spiral. It’s like you have flipped a switch in him.

And, as much as he feels a little guilty, and a little terrified by the sudden onslaught of his desire, he feels oddly at ease. He already feels at home.

****

Santi is curled-up on the couch when he hears your key rattle in the door, and you tread in looking just as breath-taking, but a little more sombre than earlier. Having already shed your coat and kicked-off your shoes at the door, you collapse into the arm chair opposite him, your dress ballooning momentarily with a waft of air.

“It didn’t work out,” you explain solemly, answering the question on the tip of his tongue. He flicks off the distracting TV he was half-watching to give you his full attention.

“How?” he asks, leaning unconsciously forward in his seat, his eyebrows raised and mouth curling in a soft sympathetic smile. “There’s no way he didn’t like the dress.”

“Oh, he loved the dress. But I didn’t love him. He was a bit of an ass, actually. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“You okay? Did he hurt you? Say something to you?” Santi searches your face urgently, his eyes suddenly intense and muscles coiled. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

You lean forward in your own seat and pat him on the thigh. Your perfume wafts over him. You smell delectable. “Stand down, Garcia. You’re fine. I don’t need anyone knee-capped. I’m just tired.” You stand, and his chin tips up to follow you. “Gonna wash-up and go to bed,” you add, tiredly. “Your night okay?”

“Yep. Fine,” he says briefly, more concerned with you. You look a little sad. A little wistful, he thinks. “Think I left my entire box of underwear in ‘Fish’s car. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.” He smiles up at you gently, with those deep, brown eyes of his, as that earns a light laugh from you. He saws his hand over his chin, gaze remaining soft as he watches you disappear and bid him goodnight. You swing around the doorframe as your hand clutches it, a trail of diaphonous fabric floating after you, as though you are a vision which could disappear in a cloud of smoke. It scares him that you would, he realises. He’s usually the one who disappears. Who retreats.

He watches you slink away, his mind already busy, working on how he might pick you up from your slump, and he plods to the kitchen.

You are upstairs in your en suite when he calls in to you, and, once you admit him, he transfers a steaming mug of sleep tea to your night-stand as a little pick-me-up. A small token, but one that makes you gasp in a breath, looking at his thoughtful gesture in confusion and surprise. “Thank you. That’s sweet of you.”

“Don’t sound quite so surprised,” he says thickly as he approaches you where you hover next to the sink. “Just because she ditched me doesn’t mean I’m a total write-off. I do have some redeeming qualities.”

He wraps his hands around the back of your head and he pulls you to him, planting another kiss to your forehead; but this time, in the dusky bedroom light, it hits different. It is slower and softer, and he looks far more comely. It sends a hot flare of yearning through you, blazing into every nook of you.

“I know that,” you say steadily, your fingers and thumb reaching up to play idly with the hem of his t-shirt sleeve. Your fingers brush his arm before you check yourself, turning away from him and towards the sink so that he can’t see your desire catching like a flare - and instead you continue to cleanse the make-up from your face, grateful for the cover the activity provides. “In fact, maybe I should have gone to dinner with you,” you snicker, innocently, before you think of the full implication of your words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean like that...” you hastily backpedal. “Just because we live together I’m not planning on getting ideas.”

“It’s okay,” he says, voice low and steady and soothing enough to halt your ramble. “You can go getting ideas if you want to.”

You whip your head towards him, a gulp trailing down your throat, as you see the vaguest hint of a suggestive eyebrow, of a smug smile dancing at the corners of his lips. You will yourself to remain in place; to avoid the call to lean in to his inviting lips or chest - even if he’s not giving you any signal that he would move away if you did.

You are hot aren’t you? Santi thinks. More than that; you are beautiful too. Now that he’s allowing himself to notice it, he can’t stop noticing it.

Seeking air, and space, the world shrinking to a dot, you tear yourself away from the sink and stride out into the bedroom, posting yourself at the door and signifying it is time for him to head out too. He takes the hint, and he comes to stand opposite you in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweat pants.

“How are you doing?” you ask breathily, not knowing what has come over you but trying to push this heady, unravelling feeling away. To bundle it up and bind it back down. “First night in a new place?” You consider it, chiding yourself. “I should have been here. This whole date thing was stupid.”

It’s not a new place at all though, Santi thinks. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s ever been somewhere more familiar. Anywhere more like home. Not even with her - Ava notwithstanding, of course; that little girl is his pride and joy.

When Santi doesn’t answer, his eyes softly glowing at you instead, you reach to fill the silence, lest you fall all the way into the pit of yearning. “Maybe us living together is a bad idea. This is day one and you’re already counselling me through a bad date.”

“What else are friends for?” he smiles meaningfully. Gratefully, again. You can tell what he’s likely thinking. He’s thinking about all the times you have counselled him through years of bad decisions. You’ve always been there for him.

“Right.” Friends, you remind yourself, as the hall-light pools around him like spun gold.

He reaches his sock-clothed foot out to gently bump yours. “Well, don’t take tonight too hard, okay? You’re a catch.”

Feeling bashful, you fold you arms and smile, looking down at the floor and away from the vision that is him.

You kick your foot out to boop his in return, with your sizeable, fluffy slipper. “Well. You’re pretty bangable too, you know. Someone will snap you right up, as soon as you’re ready.”

Someone.

He turns his mouth downward, and tilts his head to the side. “Hmm,” he says as if considering your point. “Kinda looking for a little more than a bang though. I want someone who can be my best friend too. And... best friends? They’re kinda hard to come by.”

Your heart hammers in your chest. His tone is casual, but his eyes are earnest, and your desire unravels like spools of red ribbons from your core.

The way he’s looking at you, from beneath his lashes, a smirk developing at the corners of his lips has you almost collapsed to the floor with yearning, and you think, if he doesn’t step away from your door soon, you will find it hard to resist the temptation to drag him inside - if he’s willing. You will be tempted to let these ribbons wind around him and coax him to you.

However, Santi simply lets his comment hang in the space between you as you fumble for a response, before turning away and shuffling down the hall and towards his room.

“Goodnight, hermosa,” he calls, the pet name lighting you on fire. Beautiful.

“‘Night,” you call back to him, as casually as possible, before disappearing hurriedly inside your door and throwing yourself face down on to the bed with a silent scream.

Santi, for his part, reaches his respective room, and throws himself backwards on to the bed, having to fight the urge to run straight back to your room and kiss you senseless, if he’s honest. As he sighs out a huge breath and brings his hands up to his face, a light chuckle befalls him, and he has to consider what’s so funny. He lands on it quickly.

She - his ex- must hate this living arrangement, he realises. She’d always thought the two of you had something. She’d insisted. Had gotten mad jealous over it too. In all honesty, Santi had never seen it. Or, not at the time, at least.

Perhaps the timing had never been right.

...Not until now, perhaps?

****

The atmosphere is different in the morning. More settled, thanks goodness.

You’re up earlier than Santi, and you get to work in the smaller guest bedroom, which you had kept off-limits to him the day prior. When you’re ready, you call down to him - he’s in the kitchen getting a head start on breakfast- insisting that he comes upstairs.

He pads up to find you in the hall, stood with a huge smile plastered on your face.

“I have a surprise for you,” you announce to him, and, a curious, happy look blooms over his sharp features.

“Okay,” he says, oblivious, but his interest piqued as you swing the door open and hustle him inside ahead of you, clinging to his t-shirt.

“It’s not finished yet,” you explain from behind him as he moves his head to look around the room, freshly painted and carpeted, and entirely different to how it looked before. “Ava still likes purple, right?” you say to his back, delight infusing your voice as he takes it all in. “Oh, and the birds-“ you point “-the boys and I each painted one. Benny’s is super wonky. I know it’s cheesy as all hell, but we wanted to remind you that you -and Ava- you’ll always have us as family.”

Santi doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s speechless with gratitude. It is all he can do to look around the room and take in all of the details. The little bed and princess canopy, the shelves lined with a few books to start her off.

This is something he didn’t dream he would be able to give Ava again for a long time. At least, not without some coordinates and a shovel.

He rasps one hand over his stubble, and you come up beside him, seeing that his eyes are full with tears, and his face pinched, as he fights to supress his emotions. He doesn’t cry often, and there’s not a lot that can reduce him to tears, so you can tell from his reaction how much this all means to him.

Your voice and your manner softening, you slot both of your hands around one of his and give him a squeeze there, before rubbing soothing circles into his back.

When you speak again, your voice is full, cracking with emotion. “I know this can’t be easy, Santi. And you need to know that you are home for Ava, wherever you are, whatever happens. But I thought this would help a little too?” He sneakily thumbs away a tear from the corner of his eye as your words overwhelm him. “I hope I didn’t take too much of a liberty,” you continue, looking around the room, and wandering deeper into it. “Thought I’d get it half-done and then you could choose the rest with Ava tomorrow?”

You turn back to him, smiling over your shoulder before turning all the way, your expression bright and hopeful and everything he hasn’t been able to muster for himself.

Still choked-up, Santi takes a few steps forward to meet you in the centre of the room, his long lashes beaded with diamond-like tears. He takes your hands in his, one to each side, and he presses his forehead against yours.

“Thank you,” he rasps, his voice full of holes, and your own eyes overflow too as his hands squeeze yours, happy that he’s happy, and sad that he’s in pain too.

After a few moments like this, the yearning creeps in, and, lest it invade everything, you extricate yourself from him gently, padding towards the door and offering, in a soft voice, to give him a minute alone.

“Wait,” he says, his voice catching you as you reach the hallway, evidently yielding a great deal of power for such a breathy thing, and it halts you in your tracks. “Can I try something?”

“Try what?” you ask, your heart and your voice fluttering in tandem, as Santi moves towards you in the hall with purpose.

“Can I kiss you?” His eyes search yours, brimming with emotion and softness and yearning too, his thumb and forefinger coming-up to clasp your chin tenderly in his grip.

“Is this a good idea?” you babble, as his lips hover moments from yours, and you are drawn to him with an achingly slow gravity. “You’re emotional, and you’re rushing and maybe you’re projecting or... maybe a million other things and I... really like you,” you say, raising your hands in between you, your palms pressed to his chest as your voice catches on hooks in your throat - keeping him at a slight distance before you can succumb to him. Immediately, he stops his advances, one hand winding gently around your waist. “Santi, I mean, I really like you,” you elaborate, you voice brittle and coming undone.

As much as you want this -have wanted this-you couldn’t face being one of his whims or mistakes or bad decisions. You couldn’t face being something he ended up leaving behind. He means too much to you for that.

Sensing your pain now, Santi smiles softly at you, not angry or offended in the slighest, but nodding in understanding. Tenderly, he trails the pad of his thumb along your jawline, and across your lower lip. He still finds apprehension in your eyes, and so, instead of the kiss he craves, he holds your head gently with one of his hands, and he dips forward to plant a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead, your eyes fluttering closed and a single tear spilling out of you as it lands.

Then, he pulls back, both of you wearing watery smiles, and feeling more than a little frayed around the edges.

“I get it,” he admits, nodding slowly. “On paper, this seems like another of my bad fucking ideas, doesn’t it? But...” he explains softly, eyes shining at you. “I feel as though I finally have things figured out. I feel like I know where I’m supposed to be.”

You nibble on your lower lip, a tentative, shy smile brewing. “Guess that was one powerful dress I wore last night, huh?”

“Hmm,” he considers, with a gentle chuckle. “It was, for sure, honey. Honestly though? This sports bra and overalls get-up is doing it for me too,” he admits, with a lopsided grin, nodding down at your DIY outfit.

You examine his eyes in disbelief. You can’t believe that he’s looking at you like that. Like you’ve always wanted; and yet... you essentially knocked him back, your nerves and anxieties getting the better of you, despite his lips being moments from yours.

“Look, I’m sorry,” you gulp, eyes heavy with apology.

“Don’t worry,” he says, tilting his head towards the end of the hallway. “Let’s go make some more coffee. Also, I think you deserve some pancakes, sweetie.” He offers his hand to you and with a gentle song in your heart you take it, Santi leading you back downstairs into the kitchen.

You giggle, suddenly giddy as you shake out your remaining nerves and shock and doubts. As you settle.

By the time you watch Santi open-up the cupboards and search inside, turning back to you to ask if you want chocolate chip pancakes, a tiny note of delight in his eyes, he finds you looking at him with a gentle heat, brewing and eddying and clasping him in its tendrils, dragging him under with you. It causes him to double-take as he looks between you and the food-stuffs, until you have his whole attention. Until the world around him shrinks to you.

“Santi,” you suspire, tugging on his t-shirt to spin him towards you, your voice shaking like a leaf. “You took me by surprise up there. Any chance we can... C-Can we... try that again?”

A gulp trails down his throat, mirroring the heat sinking and settling into your core, even with the mere anticipation of his lips brushing against yours; of feeling his warmth where you have long been cold. You watch his tongue darting out to whet his lips, and it is as though you are already parted for him with the motion, your own lips already spread to accomodate the way he will delve into you, opening you up for him.

Then, Santi surges forward, hands holding you securely yet softly at your back and gathering you to his mouth, as if he is parched of you, all the yearning collapsing in on itself in one final surge as he flows into your arms. Yet, for all the force of your yearning meeting in the middle, and for the harsh initial crush of your lips, when the wave crashes, it is delicate and soft, his hand cupping your face and his tongue a delicate interlocuter, uttering promises against yours. Promises you are sure he will keep.

As the kiss deepens, you truly feel him, hard and sturdy everywhere around you except for this molten, supple tongue which courses into your being like a trail of fire. His kiss is like starlight tossed into a dark pit. You are lit but your hunger will never be sated; and instead you will kiss him and devour him again and again, opening yourself up to him to feed the dark.

Suddenly, with this kiss, his warmth is on you and filling you and one with you, unravelling, and you wonder what you ever did without it. How you ever felt at ease with this yearning within you; although, you suppose you didn’t. You suppose you longed for this divine quickening and stilling, this slickness and friction. You longed to feel him, and most of all, you longed for him to yearn for you in return.

And, finally, as the kiss wanes and you hold each other tightly, Santi considers that although he planned to stay in your house for a mere few months, he has a feeling his stay by your side will be far longer. And, on your side, as you hold him against you and this house feels like a haven in ways it never has before, you are content in the knolwedge that your travelling soldier is finally at ease.

Finally at home.

A home for one, but meant for more, finally fulfilling its purpose.

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

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knivesareout · 3 years

Text

like it or not

Pairing: Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: FLUFF, seriously so much fluff it’s disgusting. Food mention. Possible typos?

Summary: Kids aren’t afraid to speak their mind and your daughter is no exception.

A/N: Based off this TikTok. The fic wrote itself, basically. Was gonna write it for a Pedro character but someone (@michaelperry @marvelousmermaid) mentioned Santi so here we are. AO3 link here. Enjoy!

---

It was a quiet Sunday morning and you were basking in the silence.

You’d left bed only a few minutes ago with a sleeping Santi and your daughter curled up soundly against his side, snoring softly. It was rare that the two of them slept later than you did on any given day and you planned to take advantage for as long as you could manage.

It started out with a quick shower in the guest bathroom. Less chances of them waking up, you figured, not willing to chance it. After that it was a face mask that you’d managed to grab from your own bathroom while you fully moisturized your body with the lotion tucked under the cabinet.

As much as you loved your little family, and you did, it was nice to have time to yourself. Things were almost always chaos around your house; with Lucy running and getting into everything her hands could reach and Santi working later hours, you were feeling run down and it seemed like someone was smiling down on you this morning to allow you the peace and quiet you’d desperately needed.

You figure it was probably best to start on breakfast now before Lucy woke up and decided she wanted to help. Usually you didn’t mind her asking to help but it almost always ended up in a mess and this morning it wasn’t something you really wanted to deal with if you could avoid it.

Music plays quietly in the background of the kitchen. It was a soft rock playlist Santi had made for you when you first started dating. It reminds you of stolen kisses and long distance phone calls in the middle of the night when he was stationed in another country- harder but simpler times. A time before mortgages, shared finances, and your daughter.

By the time the pancakes are done and you start working on the eggs, you hear heavy footsteps climbing down the stairs and smile. As sad as you were to have your quiet morning coming to an end, you knew the smell of breakfast was bound to wake them up sooner rather than later.

“Good morning mi reina,” Santi greets you, walking into the kitchen with Lucy hiked up high on his hip, still dressed in his boxers and a black shirt. Her head was buried sleepily in his neck, her pj’s askew from a heavy night’s sleep, curls wild, and the image has your heart squeezing.

“Morning handsome,” you call back, pushing the eggs around in the pan.

Santi sidles up to you to press a kiss to your cheek and you lean over, pressing one to Lucy’s forehead. “Morning baby, did you sleep okay?”

She nods tiredly, looking around. “Pancakes for breakfast?”

Of course she skips right over the eggs you were clearly cooking and you roll your eyes, reaching over to tickle her tummy. “Yes and eggs too,” you told her and she giggles, shying away from your hands.

You start to plate everything up once the eggs are done, bringing them over to the table while Santi buckles Lucy up in her booster seat.

“How long have you been up babe?”

“A couple hours, maybe?” You tell him, cutting up Lucy’s pancakes and drizzling them lightly with syrup before sliding it closer to her. “You two were passed out and I couldn’t sleep anymore so I figured I’d get a head start on everything.”

You all dig in, hands moving faster than your mouths can chew.

Lucy’s covered in syrup by the time you’re all done with breakfast, face and hands sticky and you’re just thankful she didn’t get any in her hair.

“I’ll take care of the dishes if you wanna go clean her up?”

You take your boyfriend up on the offer quickly. He knows doing dishes is your least favorite chore and you pull your sticky handed daughter out of her booster seat, careful to avoid her grip. “How do you always get so sticky, my little gremlin?”

“No mommy,” she tells you, going to grab for your face but you dodge her hands, laughing on your way to the bathroom.

She doesn’t fight you as you wipe carefully at her chubby cheeks, lips blowing raspberries while you clean her up. “You’re so silly, my little monkey. Come on, let’s see if daddy’s finished the dishes.”

Once she’s on her own two feet, she takes off towards the kitchen and you’re slow to follow her. It seemed like only yesterday she was barely learning how to walk and now she’s running through the house at full speed, letting nothing get in her way.

“So, what’s the plan for today? Or is there no plan and we’re just winging it?”

Santi’s finished loading the dishwasher when you find him, Lucy messing with the magnets towards the bottom of the refrigerator and trying to see how high she can get them as she jumps.

There’s so much that needs to be done. Laundry was piling up in the mud room, the front and backyard both needed to be mowed, and the house was in desperate need of a full sweep and yet, there was no desire to do any of it.

“Can we just sit on the couch and watch movies all day?”

Lucy squeals below you, clapping. “Nemo!” She starts chanting, abandoning the magnets to hop into the living room, curls bouncing, and you sigh. It wasn’t exactly what you had in mind but you don’t have the heart to tell her no.

Santi just shoots you an apologetic smile, pulling you into his chest and kissing the top of your forehead. “Maybe she’ll nap soon?”

“You two just woke up,” you remind him, poking him gently in the stomach.

He just laughs, guiding you two into the living room where Lucy’s waiting patiently on the couch.

“Come here munchkin,” Santi dives for her, easily picking her up and settling her in his lap once he’s comfortable on the couch.

You settle on the loveseat by yourself, spreading yourself out on the cushions and pull up Finding Nemo on Disney+.

It was the 3rd time in the last week you all had watched this particular movie. Lucy was going through a “fish phase” as Santi liked to call it, and it was easy for you to drift off, the noise familiar.

An hour later, loud giggles fill your ears and you turn on the loveseat to see Lucy crawling over her father like a jungle gym, using his arms as a monkey bar and it puts a sleepy smile on your face as you watch the two of them.

“Mommy’s awake,” Santi whispers loudly to Lucy once he spots your eyes cracking open and she squeals when she sees you.

“Hi baby. Sorry I fell asleep,” you tell her, turning around to sit up, rubbing at your tired eyes with a yawn.

“It’s okay mommy. Daddy says you woke up early and was tired,” she explains, sitting half on Santi’s shoulder and half on his back as he lays down across the couch.

You hum quietly as the movie continues to play, checking the time to see it was only half past 12. Your eyes drift back towards your daughter and boyfriend, watching as Lucy starts to stroke the side of Santi’s head and looks at him curiously.

“Daddy, you have paint on your hair,” she tells him, pointing at a thicker patch of gray that had become more prominent in the last couple of months.

Santi looks at you for help, clearly confused as to what she was talking about but you shrug, trying to hold back your grin.

“Paint on my hair?” He asks her.

“Yeah, right there,” she points to the grays and a quiet giggle escapes your lips. Santi seems to understand then and huffs.

“No princesa, that’s gray hair.”

“Gray hair?” She strokes the patch, tugging on it a little and Santi winces.

“Yeah, cause your daddy’s old.”

Santi shoots you a death glare and Lucy just giggles above him, moving herself off his back and jumping on the empty cushion at the end of the couch by Santi’s feet.

“Daddy’s old, daddy’s old!”

“Luciana Rose Garcia, don’t be mean to your father,” you try to scold her but your tone is light and honestly the whole thing is just hilarious. Santi’s pouting as he watches his daughter chant about how old he is and you sit up, moving to place yourself in his lap and pull him into your chest.

“I think the gray is sexy,” you tell him quietly in his ear, tugging the hair at the back of his head.

“Mommy!” Lucy jumps towards you and places herself in your lap and it’s one big pile of limbs now on top of Santi once she’s settled in.

The movie’s over 20 minutes later and you’re thankful. Lucy’s eyes have started to droop as the movie ends and you heave a sigh of relief.

“I’m gonna put her to bed but I’ll see you in the bedroom in 10?”

You slide off Santi’s lap, careful not to jostle your 4 year old too much until she’s situated against your chest and snoring softly against your shoulder.

He nods, looking up at you with clear admiration written across his face and you nudge his foot with yours. “See you in a sec, old man.”

#santiago garcia #santiago 'pope' garcia #santiago x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac #my writing #idk how else to tag this ??????

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need-a-fugue · 3 years

Text

Trustworthy (Chapter Two)

Summary: You’ve spent the last three years teaming up with Santiago Garcia on every mission you had a hand in coordinating… and the past several months plotting with him to take down the biggest bad to hit your radar. But even all your time at the DEA and all your experience in the field couldn’t have prepared you for this.

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (slow burn)

Warnings: Language... shitty language. And maybe sheer size? This one’s nearly 6,000 words... I may have gotten a little carried away. 😬

It began as a drunken joke, a flippant what if…

“If no one else is gonna do it,” you’d slurred out, voice barely above a whisper despite the cantina being utterly empty aside from the two of you, “we should take the motherfucker out ourselves.”

He’d laughed at the time, and promptly cut you off before insisting on walking you home. He helped you along the uneven streets of Leticia, held back your hair as you blew chunks into a dark alley, even slept on your couch that night just to make sure you didn’t die in your sleep. That’s what he told you, anyway. But you suspected that Santiago stuck around that night because he just couldn’t get your words out of his head.

You hadn’t been so drunk that you’d failed to notice the way he went eerily silent following your seemingly ludicrous suggestion. You hadn’t been so far gone that you’d missed the sudden glint to his eyes, nor the crooked smile that wrapped around his face as you said the words, “I want Lorea dead.”

That next morning, he brought it up casually, asking – before you even had the chance to brush your teeth – if you remembered what you’d said. When you told him you remembered every part, he simply told you to go on, nodding slowly along as you dove headfirst into a painfully impulsive proposal, your words still tinged with a lingering, drunken idealism. You spilled out the disparate thoughts you’d been harboring for months, if not longer – the ones that together formed little more than the ill-conceived beginnings of a damn stupid plan – only to discover that they were precisely in line with what he’d been contemplating as well.

By the end of the week, you were introducing him to your longtime informant, a woman who’d worked for Lorea in some capacity for years. A gorgeous woman, whom you’re almost entirely certain Santi fell into bed with later that same night. And after just a few months of nearly constant off-the-record investigating – both of you becoming utterly consumed by the thought of bringing Lorea down – that crazy, ridiculous, fucked-up joke you’d made had become a highly illegal, morally questionable, might-just-get-you-fired-and-thrown-into-a-federal-prison plot for ending the reign of one of the premier drug traffickers in South America.

You’d started it. There was no denying that. You’d started the whole damn thing.

For nearly three years, you fought the good fight with Santiago Garcia down in Colombia. He was one of just a handful of people there whom you trusted. He actually was one of just a handful of people there you even really knew.

If you ever got to chose an advisor to head up a mission, he’d be it. Any raid that fell within your purview, he’d help to organize. Intel was slow in coming, CIs dropping off, bosses telling you not to leave Leticia and to remember to stay in your lane? No problem. Garcia to the rescue.

He was able to operate largely independently – unlike poor, bound-by-the-rules-and-regulations-of-the-DEA you. Local cops and the surrounding military actually liked him and never balked at bringing him in, mostly because he was more than capable of playing along with their bullshit. Hell, he was so good at it, that for the first few months you knew him, he had you convinced that he either completely bought into the very obvious corruption surrounding that Amazonian paradise, or – if he really didn’t see it – he was dumber than a fucking box of rocks.

But Santiago Garcia never missed a damn thing. And while he might have seemed to have written off the actions of certain officials or the peculiarities you both encountered, he never ignored – nor forgot – the individuals he suspected of collusion. He was just smart enough to know when to act.

You, on the other hand, well, you never were very good at not calling people out. For all your life, if you saw something that seemed funky, you’d say something… immediately. If you ever suspected someone of lying, plotting, taking bribes, just plain being dirty, you’d raise an accusing finger high. Hell, that’s the main reason you got sent down to that southernmost point of the country, transferred away from what you saw as being the real goings-on, to simply help keep an eye on the drug runs taking place at the border.

Santiago taught you to quell your initial reactions of raising a stink when you believed something was amiss. He urged you to stop seeing the word in a never-ending list of black and white rules. He showed you how to keep from boiling over and calling people out, a thing that undoubtably kept you from getting yourself reassigned somewhere you’d be less of a nuisance… again.

He also fed you intel, shared specifics of his suspicions, and helped get you into military-run raids where DEA might otherwise have been shut out. And in the time in between – when you would normally just stalk around your small apartment all alone or perhaps stalk about the city… also all alone – he provided friendship, that not-so-tiny thing you’d been lacking ever since getting transferred from your post and away from the workmates and friends you’d had for years in Mexico.

He was fun and sharp-witted and outgoing, eager to make friends with just about anyone. He invited you out for drinks, dancing, into local card games. And though you often wondered why – did he feel sorry for you because the local police and military alike treated you like a damn leper? Was he trying to show others that you were alright, despite being a gringa DEA agent? Did he simply want to fuck you? – you’d be lying if you were to say that you didn’t feel damn lucky he’d stumbled into your life and forced his friendship upon you.

And how did you repay him? For all of the invites he’d extended, all the drinks purchased, all the intel he threw your way, all the military-run raids he somehow managed to get you in on? All of the trust and faith he invested in you?

You’d set him on a path to ruin.

000

The bar was much larger than you’d anticipated, the quick drive-by you did on your way to the motel earlier this afternoon making the freestanding structure – out in the middle of nowhere, like everything else in this Bumblefuck, USA town – appear small. Maybe it was because the massive parking lot dwarfed it. Maybe it was because you were only half awake, at best, and just didn’t notice the size of the place. Maybe it was because Santiago drove past it at 65 miles per hour, alerting you to it – that’s where we’ll meet up tonight – just as you flew by, allowing little more than a meager glimpse.

Regardless, you expected… less.

But the place is huge. There are two bars on either side of the sprawling building and tables flanking the wide-open center, which you could only imagine would at some point be flooded with drunken townies, eager to dance the night away.

When you first arrived – well over an hour ago – it had been just you and a handful of incredibly loud bros populating the place. You took off for the far bar, ordered yourself a drink, and slinked into a large table in a dark corner, eager to remain invisible until Santi arrived with his friends… his crack team. But – just as you’d come to expect from Garcia – he was nearly an hour late, and by the time he and his brothers-in-arms strolled in, you’d already been spotted by the douchebags at the bar and had to fight off the advances of two separate assholes, each of whom only approached you when making their way back from the bathroom.

“I’m sorry, bonita,” Santiago had proclaimed with a wide smile and a not-at-all-stifled laugh after you told him of your troubles. He turned to face the group of strangers at the bar, caught the glares of a few of them, and shouted over a simple dictate to, “Fuck off!”

And that had been the cap to your introduction to your new co-workers. They strode in, all smiles and laughter and blooming drunken glows, coming from what must have been a great fight night, undoubtably made all the better by being together once again, only to be forced to shake hands with you… a jetlagged stranger, washed out in the low light, obviously frazzled by having a guy fresh from the men’s room – who probably didn’t even bother to wash his hands – wrap an arm around your shoulder and tell you that the bathroom door locks… in case you wanted to check it out with him later.

They took your uncomfortable story in stride, exchanging pleasantries and apologizing again for their tardiness – well, Will apologized at least – before grabbing some drinks and then plopping down at the isolated table you’d chosen.

For a bit, the group of them just talk to one another, tying up loose ends to the conversations they’d been having before arriving. You catch snippets of nah, man, she’s gone… didn’t work out and do you have any idea how expensive kids’ soccer is? as their conversation flows around you, seemingly oblivious to your existence. For those first ten minutes or so – save Santiago’s paltry threat shouted across the bar and Benny’s rather flirtatious introduction – the whole team settles in around you and acts as though you aren’t even here at all.

The only exception during this time is the pilot, Frankie Morales – had Santi called him Fish? He keeps quiet as the others speak, cracking a smile at their comments every now and then, but mostly nursing his beer and awkwardly picking at the label in silence. Every so often, he steals a glance over at you, as if to say, yeah, I know you’re here. His eyes are warm and friendly despite the otherwise utterly unreadable expression planted on his face.

Maybe you’re simply intrigued by the fact that he’s the only one actively acknowledging your presence, or it could be that you’re just rather curious to figure out what his placid expression is hiding. Or perhaps you’re merely a fan of the subtle beauty that his sharp profile paints on the background of the dark, seedy bar. Whatever the reason, you find yourself not just staring but gazing at the man long after he looks away.

“So, shoot me straight,” Will says suddenly, nudging your shoulder and tearing into your thoughts as he turns to face you. Your eyes bounce wildly away from Frankie’s face, a heat creeping up your neck as you light on the patient smile of the man next to you. “That file… it’s your work, right?”

“Hey,” Santiago scoffs from across the table, leaning over to backhand his friend in the chest. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Will’s face cracks and a deep rumble of a laugh spills out of him as he bites out, “It’s good work. Too good to come from your sorry ass.”

Santi scoffs, his hand flying to his heart with a wounded quality. You simply shrug, small smirk perking your lips as you feel some of the initial tension of the gathering – and the strange concern that you might actually have somehow become invisible – finally start to lift. “He helped,” you say, tone coy.

“Oh, c’mon,” Santiago gripes, giving you a slightly irritated, definitely amused look. “Half that intel came from me. The PNC, Colombian military, they barely even acknowledge you’re there.”

You interrupt with a snort and a scathing, “Yeah… it’s really fucking annoying when people do that,” before choking down the rest of your beer.

If he understands the jibe about your current situation, he doesn’t let on, instead pushing his point that, “None of them would’ve given you jack shit.”

“And the one informant who actually got all this started?” you counter, accusing brow raised high. “Who’s informant was that?”

His face begins to blush, just a bit of redness seeping into his cheeks, as he reaches out to grab your empty bottle. “She was mine in the end,” he mutters, shoving back from the table and rising from his stool. “I’ll get the next round.”

“Yeah,” you call out after him. “You owe me more than just a beer for stealing my CI!”

“I’ll get you a shot too!” he throws over his shoulder, never looking back as he makes his way to the bar.

You turn back to the men surrounding you, each of them now eyeing you warily, and a part of you wants to go back to when they ignored your presence entirely. Tom – what did Santiago call him? Redfly? – is the first to break the awkward silence, ticking his chin in your direction. “So,” he starts before pulling a long breath in through his nose. “DEA.” He overenunciates each letter and states rather than questions your affiliation, despite there being an inquisitive – or is it accusing? – glint to his eye.

“Yeah,” you say with a lingering nod. “Yep. DEA.”

“They teach you about this kind of thing?” Will asks, his drawl deep and languid. You turn to look at him, the imposing man by your side, and feel your shoulders tighten all over again when you see that the stern expression he had worn when first shaking your hand has returned. But then something lightens, the corner of his mouth ticking up just a bit, his gaze softening as your eyes meet. You’re certain that he can sense the rise in tension, understands with just a glimpse of your face that you’re way out of your element here. Intimidated. Nervous. And while the softening of his countenance doesn’t wipe away your anxiety completely, you do at least appreciate the attempt.

Ben, the tall, younger man flanking your other side, must notice the unease building up inside you too. He leans in and bops you with his shoulder, a light, buoyant laugh bursting out of him. “Aw, hell,” he emits breathily. “Leave her alone. If Pope trusts her, she’s got to be good.”

“Not saying she’s not good,” Will intones, shooting you a quick wink that, oddly, really does manage to set you at ease. “Just wondering how much experience she has with ops like this.” His eyes start to sparkle as they lock onto yours once again. “So, sweetheart, you ever pull a recon mission deep in the jungle?”

You offer an evasive shrug and release a tightly held breath. “I got lost in a corn maze once. Had to find my way out on my own. Probably would’ve starved in there if I hadn’t had the presence of mind to bring a funnel cake in with me.”

On your left, Ben snorts out another laugh, and across the table you see Frankie try to maintain that straight, impassive face. But Will’s deadpan expression doesn’t shift in the least. “Well,” he says with a sigh, bringing his nearly empty beer bottle up to his lips. “I guess that is pretty damn close.”

“Ha, ha,” Tom mocks. He waits to go on until you look his way, and once you do he levels you with what can only be described as a fatherly stare – oddly disappointed and imploring, stern and warm all at the same time. “We’re all very glad to hear that you have a sense of humor.”

“Very glad,” Ben interjects with a wide grin.

“But,” he continues, “You’re not gonna go in there and be part of this unless you can convince us that you’re capable.”

Santiago’s voice cuts in then, sounding over the clink of beer bottles as he lays out the next round on the table. “She’s capable,” he states simply before sliding back into his seat next to Frankie. “We’ve been on…” he glances over at you, “how many raids now?”

“At least a dozen,” you answer.

He gives a firm nod and lets his eyes drift between the men at the table. “She’s done good every time. Stays outta the way, does what she’s told.”

Your brow wrinkles and tugs tightly together, deep frown taking over your face. “Jesus, Garcia. I’m not a fucking dog.” He gives a quick laugh, but says nothing, prompting you to defend yourself. “I’ve worked with military advisors for years. Most of my career has been spent working alongside foreign armies and police forces. I’m not just some kind of desk jockey, I promise you that.”

“This is different.” The words flow across the table, the deep rumble sliding just beneath the reverberating bass coming from the jukebox in the corner. You look up and lock onto Frankie’s eyes, note immediately the hesitancy building behind them. He raises his brows as he looks at you, almost into you, and says simply, “This isn’t a raid. This isn’t some amateur hour bullshit put on by the local cops. And you won’t have the military or CNP or the US government at your back if something goes wrong.”

You nod, wanting – for some inexplicable reason – to pull your gaze from him, but finding that you just can’t. “I know. I get that.”

“Do you?”

Santiago gives his friend a little shove, just enough to cause him to look his way, breaking the odd hold he has over you. “She’s a good shot,” he tells him, tells all of them. “And she’s done enough undercover work for me to know that she sure as shit can keep her head.” He looks over at you again – “I still don’t know how you managed to get out of that shit in the comuna last year.” – and then gives a wry little laugh as his head shakes absently.

“Alright,” Tom mutters just as he slams down an empty bottle and reaches over to grab a new one. “She follows orders and keeps her cool… at least we can work with that.”

Benny nudges you with his elbow and when you look up at him you’re met with the widest, sunniest of smiles – never mind the deep split in his lip from the fight that he claims to have won just a few hours prior. “Hear that? That’s just about the best kind of approval you’ll ever get from Redfly.”

“Approval?” Tom shoots across the table. His voice drops an octave as he aims a serious stare over at you. “I’m still not convinced that we can actually trust you.”

“Jesus,” Santi breathes out with an annoyed air. “You really think I’d bring her here… hell, you think I’d have put all this together with her if I didn’t think – know – that she can be trusted?”

He shrugs. “You haven’t really known her that long,” he mutters thickly, his expression slipping back into something wary as he folds his arms across his broad chest and falls into a speculative silence as he mulls over his friend’s words.

You watch him closely, trying to discern what exactly he’s thinking. But long before you’re able to draw any sort of conclusion, Benny bumps you with his shoulder again and says simply, “Don’t worry about it, darlin’. He’s onboard.”

There’s a part of you that balks at the darlin’, just as you had almost called Will out on his use of sweetheart. But the truth is – both times – the names are uttered with a casual, even reassuring, cadence that you’re certain holds no demeaning intent. And you’ve been in enough male-dominated circles over the years to be able to discern at least that much. Even the way Ben’s looking at you now – genuine grin and kind eyes – seems to hold no innuendo. So you let it slide.

“How long did it take him to trust you?” you ask, the tension in your shoulders lifting when a throaty chuckle bubbles out of him.

“Oh, I don’t know that he does. I don’t know if Tom really trusts anyone.”

A snort of a laugh rings from the other end of the table, surprisingly coming from the Doubting Thomas himself. “You’re so full of shit,” he mumbles as he sits back upright and grabs his beer. He takes a giant swig and tacks on for good measure, “Besides, nothing wrong with being… cautious. My being – ”

“A distrustful prick,” Santiago interjects brazenly.

“Whatever you want to call it,” he counters with a faux-saccharine lilt. “It’s saved all your asses more than a time or two. Hasn’t it?”

There’s a quick round of almost wistful snickers from nearly all the men, each seeming to light onto a particular memory, their gazes faltering and ticking briefly off towards nothing. The exception is Frankie, who simply stares down at the battered beer bottle in front of him, sticker half peeled off and clinging to his fingernails as he continues to work at it with a frown. “What about this informant of yours,” he says, low voice slicing into the newfound silence. He shifts nervous eyes over to the man at his right. “You’re sure she can be trusted?”

Without hesitation, Santiago nods. “I’m sure of it. And besides, we’re not basing all of this just on her word. You read the file, right?” He glances over at you and ticks his chin in your direction. “We checked it out. We’ve been out there enough to get a lay of the land. We’ve seen the deliveries of cash coming in… and not going back out.”

Will speaks next, his words soft and slow. “Could all be a setup… a giant, well-planned setup.”

You shake your head. “No. No, it’s legit.” Five sets of eyes turn to you, drilling into you for something more substantial. But the truth is, all that you have is in that file. And, yeah, it could be an elaborate setup. Or – more likely than that – just a really, really bad idea. But your gut says it’s neither. Your gut says that this whole damn thing is the only way to put an end to Lorea’s ever-growing cartel.

Tom’s eyes narrow at you once again, suspicion still lingering in his glare. “How’d this all happen, huh? How’d you even get involved with this… this shit-brain scheme?” he asks before the serious countenance begins to crack and he blows out a harsh chuckle. “How’d Pope sucker you into all this?”

Santiago answers before you get a chance to even open your mouth. “I didn’t sucker anybody into anything. And I don’t use the same callsign down there, so…”

Your eyes flash over to meet his, face splitting into an insolent grin. “Pope…” you mutter, popping the p at the end. “How exactly did you get that name, anyway?”

He rolls his eyes. “You don’t need to know.”

“He spent his first firefight hailing Mary through the coms,” Will chimes in with a teasing lilt. “All damn night.”

“I was nineteen.” He defends… almost whines. “You wanna tell her how you got Ironhead?”

He shrugs and takes another pull of his beer. “I’m not embarrassed.”

Frankie smirks from the other side of the table as he issues out under his breath, “You should be.”

Your eyes bounce eagerly back and forth between the men, silently pleading for someone to tell you the story of Will’s ridiculous moniker. But it seems that you’ve once again gone invisible.

“Hey, he held that record for a solid decade,” Benny mutters beside you. “And I’m pretty sure that dipshit, MacCovey, cheated to take the title.”

“How can you cheat at that?” Frankie asks with an incredulous laugh.

“He cheated.”

“Cheated at what?” you blurt out, eager to just hear the tale. “Ironhead’s a title? With a record? For what?”

Will pivots in his seat, flashing you a smug grin as he rather haughtily announces, “Record for the most concussions sustained during basic training. And no one can take Ironhead away from me… especially not some hardheaded kid from freaking New York.”

“How do you know he was from New York?” Santi asks.

Frankie cocks his head at his friend too. “You met him?”

“Didn’t he die?” Tom interjects, confusion suddenly weaving through the lot of them.

“Did he?” Will asks. “Shit, guess he wasn’t that hardheaded after all.”

Benny leans forward to address them all. “He didn’t die. Just lost a leg. Roadside bomb.”

“Shit,” his brother repeats solemnly.

“Was supposed to be his last tour too. Well, guess it still was.” He looks down for a somber beat before lighting on Frankie. “And I heard that he never actually hit his head when he fell off that tower, so… cheated.”

Throughout all of the back and forth, you just sit, eyes wide, expression both amused and deeply concerned. “Jesus,” you finally breathe out once everyone falls quite. You turn to Will, look a little closer at him as though you might be able to discern some of the damage done so many years ago. “Are you… okay?”

He lets out a hearty laugh and raps his knuckles on his skull. “Nothing to worry about here,” he tells you with a wide smile. “Ironhead, remember?”

Tom snorts and shakes his head skeptically. “Tune’ll change when that CTE shit kicks in… start wandering around the neighborhood, talking to yourself, picking fights with people in grocery stores.” He stops short and flashes a shit-eating grin. “Oh wait…”

The joke – if there even really is one – is lost on you. But Will must get it, because his face flashes in irritation, a mere, “Very funny,” falling from his lips as he brings his beer bottle up to meet them.

You let out a sigh – “I’m confused.” – and choose to ignore Tom in favor of getting more of the story from Ironhead himself. “Did you get concussions on purpose? Why does this seem to be some kind of source of pride?”

“It wasn’t on purpose…”

“What about that full can of soup you tried to crush on your head?” Frankie interjects with a raised brow.

“Yeah, alright, there was that one,” he concedes.

Your forehead furrows deeper. “If you were always getting hurt, why didn’t they call you something like, Falls-a-Lot or Unlucky Charms or just Blockhead?”

He stares at you for a long moment, face hardening into a stoic set. “Wasn’t Tom asking how you got yourself into all this? Wasn’t that what we were talking about?”

You offer a nonchalant shrug. “Don’t think we were really talking about it…”

“She basically started it,” Santiago states simply. “I mean, I was in the minute she brought it up, completely in. But it was her shit-brained scheme from the get-go.”

“Really?” Tom smarts, skeptical look once again riding his face as he takes a pull from his beer.

“Look,” you begin, tone painfully sincere, “I’ve been on the losing end of this battle for years. And the people down there, the families… the kids he recruits…” You stop for a beat and slowly, bitterly shake your head. “Lorea, and all the others like him… It’s their turn to lose.”

Tom nods, his gaze never breaking from yours. “You do realize you sound just like him,” he mutters, ticking his chin towards Santi. “Seriously,” he begins, stare serious, but tone glib. “Did you two hatch this crazy little plan together in bed?”

You glance over at Garcia, quickly taking note of the burning blush creeping up his neck as he hides beneath his baseball cap and tries not to laugh. Then, on their way back to Tom, your eyes light on Frankie. He too is ducking his head. But he doesn’t seem to be laughing like the others. Rather, from what you can make out beneath the shadow of his hat, he looks… embarrassed. No. Dejected.

Your heart skips a beat and you blurt out suddenly, “We’re not sleeping together,” a little too loudly to come across as anything other than agonizingly defensive. The laughter intensifies and you clear your throat before going on to say, “Garcia’s usually too busy fucking his informants to ever even think of giving me the time of day.”

Benny just about loses it, his body pulsating with fits of giggles as he leans back a bit and reaches out to give you a high five. You oblige, a small, crooked smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as you see Santiago shift across from you. He peers at you from beneath the ballcap, eyes dark and smile wide as he says, voice deep and honeyed, “Oh, bonita, trust me, I’ve thought about it.”

You roll your eyes and tip back the nearly empty bottle to your lips, draining the last dregs of your beer before rising and stating, “I’ll get the next round… as long you guys promise to do nothing but regale me with embarrassing stories about Pope for the rest of the night.”

000

Jetlag. It’s something you’ve experienced countless times over the years, hopping from place to place, office to outpost to field. And yet you’ve never really managed to get used to it, the bone-deep fatigue kicking your ass after each and every trip you’ve ever taken. A full day of travel, and now a full night of drinking, and by the time the lot of you stumble out of the bar, you’re barely able to put one foot in front of the other.

“Lightweight, huh?” Benny jokes as he pushes past you on the way to his car.

You grumble under your breath, something akin to, shut the fuck up, though your words aren’t all that put together right now either. But Ben doesn’t hear any of it anyway, he’s already giving his brother an unforgiving shove in the nearly empty parking lot and laughing maniacally as he dodges the lazy retaliatory punch.

“Don’t mind him,” Frankie mutters from behind you. You stop and turn, squinting through the harsh halogen light piercing your eyes as you look up at him. He notices the pained grimace you give and lets out a light chuckle as he takes your elbow and swings you back around to lead you to the car. “You seem more tired than drunk to me,” he says with a lilt as he easily slips his arm beneath yours for a little extra support.

Without thinking, you let your head tip to the side and rest on his shoulder. “Soooo tired,” you bemoan. A deep rumble of a laugh pulls from Frankie’s chest, reverberates up and through his entire body so that you feel it vibrate into you. It makes you smile. It makes you tuck yourself in a little closer. You stumble a bit, your toe catching on a crack in the pavement, and before you can even think to right yourself, his arm pulls away and reaches around, the warmth of his hand splaying across your hip as he steadies you. “Maybe a little drunk too,” you admit with a sigh.

If he thinks it’s odd that you’ve burrowed so close to him, or if he’s the least bit uncomfortable with your fingers now clinging to the back of his shirt, or if he’s irritated at having to slow to a crawl to help you to Santiago’s car, he doesn’t show it. Instead he easily slows his pace to match yours, giving your hip a little squeeze as he says, “Hey, sorry about earlier.”

Your shuffling stops as you pull back to look up at him with a confused frown. “You mean telling that story about Santiago’s ex? I don’t think I’m the one… to apologize…” Your brow furrows even deeper as you try to sift through what you just said, trying to determine if it makes any sense.

He lets out another low laugh, the sound quickly becoming a new favorite tune. “No. I mean about…” He hesitates for a moment, the smile slowly melting from his face. “When I was… questioning you. Whether or not you’re up for this. And, you know, whether or not you’re getting played.”

“Oh,” you bark out, far louder than intended. “Yeah, no.” You wave it off and waste no time at all – fatigue and alcohol both wiping away any embarrassment you might otherwise feel at plastering yourself up against a near stranger – falling back into him.

He chuckles again as he hikes you a bit higher and leads you over to the tiny blue rental car in the corner of the lot. “It’s just… I know you put a lot of work into gathering the intel. And I know this is… important to you. Or you wouldn’t be here. But still…”

You turn your face into his shoulder, his chest, unabashedly breathing in the musky scent from the collar of his jacket as you mumble into him, “I promise not to fuck it up. At least not too bad.”

“Hey!” Garcia calls out from the car, swinging the back door open as you two approach. “You getting handsy with my girl?”

Frankie snorts out a laugh, incredulous, almost sardonic, and not nearly as endearing as the ones that have been rumbling into you for the last however many glorious minutes it’s been. “Not your girl,” you mutter blandly. “Too risky… too many possible diseases.”

“Hilarious,” he deadpans, standing back as Frankie helps you into the car, his palm pressing gently on the back of your head to make sure you duck inside safely. “She took like five Xanax on the flight in,” he tells his friend with a snicker. “Probably shouldn’t have let her drink so much on top of that.”

“Hate flying,” you breathe out as you settle back, harshly tugging at the seatbelt to your left.

Frankie shakes his head in amusement as he watches you grow increasingly frustrated with the non-cooperative seatbelt. “How can you hate flying?” he asks, crooked smile stretching across his face.

You stop the infernal struggle and collapse back into the seat, “Fucking hate it,” coming out of you in a petulant whine.

“Alright,” he murmurs amid a snicker as he leans into the car, easily tugging the seatbelt out and reaching around to buckle you in. Your eyes droop further, slipping closed as he pulls back out of the car, fading into the night. “You guys good?” you hear him ask, the deep tenor of his voice sounding even more melodic when penetrating the dark.

“Yeah,” Santiago tells him, fatigue drowning just that single word. “We’re over at the Motor Inn. Just a few miles up. Listen, Frankie… thanks for this. Really. This…” You almost open your eyes again, want to just to see if the expression on Garcia’s face matches the earnestness in his tone. “This isn’t just a standard op, you know. To me. To her. This is… just… thanks.”

“Yeah,” he replies simply. “Well, uh… I’ll see you Thursday.”

The only other sounds you hear before slipping away entirely are the door gently closing beside you, the engine starting up in a soft roar, and Santiago muttering, seemingly to himself from the front seat, “I am not carrying your ass to bed.”

Taglist:

@tweedlydumbtweedlydoo @icanbeyourjedi @greeneyedblondie44

#frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales x you #triple frontier #santiago pope garcia #will ironhead miller #benny miller

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romana-after-dark · 3 months

Text

Rooms on Fire: Stop Dragg'n My Heart Around

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist : MainTaglist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Madonna learns more about her role and the dynamics of the household.

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

Extra warnings for chapter: Anal, oral, love bombing, control

A/N: Every chapter will be named after a song from the spotify playlist. Dont forget to commen fitting songs!!

6.2k words

Support writers! Reblog and leave comments!

NEW OC: Faceclaim, Dev Patel

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

There's people running 'round loose in the world Ain't got nothing better to do Than make a meal of some bright eyed kid You need someone looking after you~ Stop Dragg'n My Heart Around, Tom Petty and Stevie Nicks

You were the wife of deities. You were blessed, honored. Holy mother. The Madonna, and inside your womb the savior would grow. All four of them were Gods of different patronage, each with their own abilities and passions.

Francisco was the god of nature. He was the god of all that grew in the earth, the soil. the flowers. He was clairvoyant, but also had a gift of growth. Life. His prayers over you would solidify implantation after conception, keep you and your baby safe.

Benjamin was the sun god, god of celebration, and celebrate he did. Ben’s mood often controlled the weather. Most of the time, regular weather patterns took place, Benjamin’s emotions could change them, and he was prone to big emotions. That’s why him and Francisco worked so closely together. Weather and nature, working to keep the crops growing and the people safe.

William was all about duality, you were taught in catechism. God of war, God of medicine. He had the gift of healing, but also impeccable military prowess. This made for a powerful ally and feared enemy. William headed the military and security, but also watched over the medical care.

And Pope, Divine Mothers only child. Pope had the gift of discernment and prophesy. He was incredibly intelligent, and with that came respect. He was not just born into this position, but born for it. God of family, god of passion. You felt that passion so clearly every time his eyes bore into you. He could no more hide it than he could his own beauty.

So why, with all this power surrounding you, did you feel so scared?

Everything just feels so confusing right now. You feel as if you can’t get your head on straight, like everything is whirling. You're married. You might be pregnant. Why was everything so… hard. When Pope waved your bloodied sheet around, he was soon joined by a whooping Ben who took part in the celebrations and dragged Francisco out with him. It was just you and Will.

Naked and shivering, suddenly cold on the cool tile of the altar without the heat of passion to warm you

“Just one minute, I’ll get you dressed once I’m done.” He says quietly, kneeling before you with a wet wipe, gently dapping at your swollen folds. “Damn, really did a number on yuh, huh?”

You don’t know how to respond, so you don’t.

“Well, I think this is as good as it’s gonna get.” Leaning over, he presses a kiss to the top of your puffy parts and gets up, helping you down with a hand. He slides the dress back over you. William was gentle as he caressed your cheek. “You did so good for us, princess.” His hand moved to your belly. “You’re a good girl, and soon you’ll be full with our baby, I just know it.”

You stand there in shock, unable to exactly form a reaction. The lights were too bright, it was too warm. There were too many flowers and incense and candles and oils… to much. You shut down and Will finishes dressing you: shoes, flower crown minus the ropes of vine. He stuffs your underwear in his pocket with a smile. “My little dividend.”

Jonah was outside the room, laying down on a bench with his cowboy hat pulled over his face.

“Wake up, old man” Will spoke with a bite you weren’t used to.

He mumbled under the hat. “I’m awake, damn. Just resting.”

William nudged you towards where he was standing. “Watch her for the rest of the cocktail hour, then bring her in for the entrance.”

Jonah frowned. “She ain’t going to the cocktail hour with you?”

“What’s the point? She can’t drink. She might be pregnant.”

“It’s her wedding.”

Will rolled his eyes. “She’ll have the wedding shit, this is more of a… stag party. Bachelor party sort of thing.”

You didn't know what that meant. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

“Whatever. I’ll watch her.”

“Yeah. You will.” Williams harsh glare softened as he turned to you, holding your face with both hands. “I’ll see you in an hour, my beautiful bride.”

When he left, Jonah mumbled something and began walking you down the long hall. The place was huge, absolutely massive. The worship chapple and sanctuary were attached to the house, originally built as a pool house but refurbished with the establishment of Delta. Divine Mother wanted her home attached to the sanctuary so she could go whenever she wanted, no matter the weather, so a hall was built on. In addition to the several bedrooms, living rooms and so on, there was a ballroom. This is where you would go after. For now, it seemed, you weren’t needed…

You wanted to go still. You were their wife, you wanted to meet the other members of Delta, you wanted to dance, to laugh, to smile with them… but the day's events left you tired, left you hurting, left you… confused. Why had they all left you so fast, save for Will?

“You alright, honey?” Jonah’s voice barely registers in your ear.

You don’t have it in you to answer, simply staring straight ahead as your breathing picks up speed.

“Hey, darl’n, hey.” He stops outside the kitchen. “What’s go’n on, you hurt?”

How do you even explain it, the panic rising up in you, the fear. Why were you scared? You were married to the gods, there was no safer position to be in. You were safe, protected… so why did you feel so on edge? Why was your head hurting, your heart racing, and why did you feel so used?

You stopped breathing before you realized it.

“Hey!” Jonah shook you, but your eyes felt glassy and unfocused. He pulled you through the swinging kitchen doors.

“Dad, what-” You hear Iris say and vaguely register a third person in the room. Iris stops what she’s doing and rushes to you. “What’s happening? What did you do?”

“Nothing! I got her after the ceremony and this just started!”

You were gasping for breath, the light and airy feeling in your head making everything a little blurring. Still, you register hands on your shoulders, calling your name. “You need to breath. HEY! You hear me? BREATH.”

But you can’t. The panic, all-consuming panic clawed at your throat and tightened your chest. Then, a hard slap.

*SMACK*

Iris slapped you, causing your body to gasp in shock. You took the opportunity to breathe in as much as you could get, and once the oxygen settled in, so did the clarity.

Dizzy, you stumble back and nearly topple over, but Jonah catches you. Careful, he sets you down in a chair. “Easy now, darl’n, breath, breath…” his arms were strong and safe around you, but Iris grabs your shoulders.

“Listen to me.” You look up to watch her, brown eyes fiery on yours. She commanded the room. “You need. To get it. Together. Those men out there-” She pointed vaguely out the door. “Are dangerous.”

“Iris…” Jonah whispers, but when her head whips towards him in anger, he backs off.

“You shut it, you don’t know jack shit about surviving here, especially as a woman.” Back to you. “I don’t care how you feel, I know you’ll probably fall in love because you’ve been so brainwashed, but I need you to understand this.” She leans in. “You need to get your shit together. You need to clean up, you need to get out there and charm the fucking dick off of every single person in that room. The only way you get through this is if you want a very thin line. Submissive but not weak. Obedient but not permissive. Have boundaries but keep them loose and never, ever, try to resist sex. This is no time to be weak.”

Her words barely made sense to you.

They weren’t dangerous. They LOVED YOU. You were their WIFE. But still, part of her words range true; you were the daughter of a traitor, a man who partook in an uprising that caused the death of the Divine Mother, and the other high up members would have their eye on you. You needed to make sure there was no reason to doubt your love for your husbands, nor your adoration of Divine Mother.

“Fuck,” Iris mutters something to the third figure in the room about ‘nothing there’ then stands up. “Jonah, go back to the dressing room and get the make-up and hair products.” It was only then you realized you had been crying, make-up running off your face. “Rey, I need you to help me in here.”

He was tall, about as tall as Jonah but not quite the Millers height. “What do you need?” He began to tie his dark curls back. Iris directed him on finishing the desserts while she took out all the food from the oven for the main dish.

When Jonah came back, Iris set to work redoing your face, making it look as if you never cried, never had a single scared thought. She fixed you up nice and pretty, then left you on the chair to wait for your entrance.

After everything was placed on carts to take out, Iris departed, with Jonah following behind shortly and instructing the other man to stay with you. Iris insists she doesn’t need a guard dog, but Jonah say something about not wanting her alone with ‘those drunk bastards’ if he can help it. You’re suddenly nervous, unsure about being alone with a man other than your husbands or Jonah, but you don’t have a choice.

“They’re a stressful pair to watch aren’t they?” The dark haired man says, pulling up a chair beside you. He turns it around, straddling it before sitting backwards and leaning his arms on the backrest.

You don’t want to be rude, so you give a shy smile without meeting his eye. “Are they… um… is uh…” You realize you don’t know Jonah’s last name, and are unsure how to properly address him to others. You don’t want to seem too familiar when you are a married woman now. “Mr. Jonah, is he Iris’s father? I heard her call him dad.”

He chuckles a bit, and you turn to look at him. With a better view, and clearer vision, you are able to take in his features. He’s handsome, but in a almost boyish way -although you doubt he’s younger than 30. Dark curls are still pulled back, but you’d estimate his hair falls about shoulder length, maybe shorter, as chunks are falling out. Strong nose, brown skin, and bright, brown eyes. Strangely jovial compared to Iris and Jonah.

“Yeah, kinda rare that happens. She’s um… well, they’d had… well I guess it’s not my place to say, but they’ve had some ups and downs. But yeah, she’s his daughter.” He extends a hand. “Reyansh Saha.”

You give him your name. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Saha.”

He laughs again, but it doesn’t feel like he’s laughing at you; it’s too good natured for that. “Just Rey is fine.”

“Oh, no, no I shouldn’t.” You try to protest.

“Ammayi” (my girl) He says with a glint in his eye. “No one here will understand you if you call me Mr. Saha, I promise you. You can call me Reyansh if that’s easier. Or, well, you can call me Mr. Saha if you’re uncomfortable of course” His tone is good natured, but clearly trying to ease you. You feel like a skittish animal, and he’s a good samaritan trying to coax you to some food.

You give a little nod. “Okay, yeah Reyansh works.”

You felt like you may have another panic attack.

Pope was on your right, holding your arm with William beside him. On your left arm was Benjamin; Francisco was fidgeting beside him.

“Baby.” Ben whispers to Francisco. “You gotta calm down, you're shaking…”

You watch as Pope turns abruptly at the nickname, but says nothing. Benjamin grabs Francisco's hand, squeezing it three times and giving him a little peck on the cheek before letting go. Francisco smiled, just a little.

You were making your grand entrance as husbands and wife, to the whole of Delta, to stand out on the balcony as the masses gathered below. Jonah instructed you on procedure.

“This is the most dangerous point. I have the entire guard in the crowd, both noticeably armed and plain clothes, everyones been searched before entry and theres no reason to suspect a problem, but-” He turned to you. “Anything happens, a gun shot, something is thrown, a fight breaks out, I am grabbing you and we are going. Don’t argue, don’t worry about them-” He gestures to the men beside you. “My only concern will be to get you to safety. Your husbands are all armed and trained fighters, you are not. You have me, understood?”

There would be no need for concern. As you stepped out, leading your husbands in a v shape through the curtains, a stark hush fell upon the crowd. Thousands of people, thousands, here to see your husbands. Here to see them with their brand new bride, the mother of their child. You were humbled, truly, to be honored in such a way that the god’s dained you deserving. Cheers broke out, no doubt to the flag being raised- your bloodied sheets, signifying that you were indeed a virgin, and had been claimed in the name of the gods. The crowd was adoring; how beloved your husbands were to their people!

You focused your hearing not being all that far away, to try and pick out a word or two, and were surprised with the result.

“MADONNA! MADONNA! MADONNA”

They were cheering… for you.

The priestess stood off to the side, raising her arms to hush the crowd.

“Hail Madonna, full of grace, blessed are you amongst women!”

Then, she kneeled.

Behind her, beginning with the front and sending a wave through the back, the entire mass of people knelt, chanting “Hail! Hail! Hail!”

To both your left and right, all four of your husbands bowed to you.

You were the holy mother. You were Madonna. You would bring about the savior and peace on earth. You were divine.

The party went swimmingly. Your new found confidence, it turns out, made speaking to strangers easier. You shouldn’t fear them for being a traitor's child, you shouldn’t feel their judgeful gaze. They should worship you. Not the same as Pope, William, Benjamin and Francisco, and certainly not Divine Mother, but you were blessed.

You never were far from William, Pope, or Benjamin, most moments of the evening were spent with their arms around your waist or holding your hand; you belonged to them.

Pope had pulled you to the dance floor, tender grasp keeping you close as he guided you through the violin music.

“You are just… so beautiful” He whispered, clean shaven face up against your own.

“Thank you.”

“You do understand how stunning you are, don’t you? Most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

You tuck your head in his neck, smelling his aftershave; or was it the liquor on his breath? You weren’t sure.

“It’s like you were made for me…”

A gentle kiss. “I was. I was made for you, by Divine Mother’s majesty.”

You could feel him smile at that, hands slowly trailing down your back. “That’s right, made just for me…”

You nuzzle against him, signing contently. He loved you, you were so, so loved… “Made for my husbands”

His smile dropped. When his hands grazed over your ass, he gripped it tight, painful, making you yelp. The noise and crass motion was sure to attract attention, and you turn to look.

Pope grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. “Don’t look at them, look at me. I am their god, they are nothing compared to us, what we do is none of their business. I could bend you over right now and if I told them to ignore it, to go about the party, they will. You understand me?”

You nod.

His fingers pinch your cheeks. “Your body was made for me, and it’s mine. Understood?” You realize now your mistake. You had said your husbands. Plural. You must have hurt his feelings when bringing the others into it, even if you meant well. You note that special times between you and Pope should remain exclusive. Don’t make him jealous.

“Made just for you” You push past the force of his hold to kiss him on the lips. “I belong to you.”

Popes body language relaxed, his plush lips smiling again as his grip softens. He runs his thumb over your lips. “So beautiful for me…”

As you spoke like old friends to a woman you’d never met in your life, Benjamin slid up to you. “‘Scuse me, darl’n, but may I steal my wife away for a few moments?”

The woman bowed her head and excused herself while Benjamin pulled you away.

It wasn’t long before you were out the ballroom, down a hall and into a small linen closet, his hands all over you; frantic, needy, a fully hard cock pressing against your skirt. This was to be expected, and you understood your role. At any time, day or night, busy or not, you were to be available to be filled.

He yanked at your skirt. “Yuh know,” Benjamin said between short pants of breath. “It was my brothers insistence that your dress have blue… he said that- mmphh- it was symbolic or some bullshit, but I think he just wanted his color on you.”

You weren’t entirely sure if that was true, but you didn’t want to make a committal answer so you attempt to kiss back, unsure of the movements still. “Mmm, Benjamin…”

“Call me Benny, darl'n.” He rucks up your skirt, only to find no underwear. He stops, blue eyes looking at you with a steely ferocity. “Will take your panties after he cleaned you up.”

Lie, your first instinct told you. He’s dangerous,lie. But he wasn’t dangerous. He was your husband. “Yes” You wanted him to touch you again, you liked the way he explored your body.

His brows pursed together before growling, turning you around and bending you over a small folding table. “God damn him, and god damn Pope!” Benjamin grunted, making you scared as he flicked your dress up to your waste. “I should’ve had you first!” Ben spits onto your exposed asshole, shocking you a bit.

You try to turn around when you hear his belt being undone. “What-”

“Shhhh” He pushes you back down on the table, freeing his hard cock. You jump when he slides a finger into your tight ring of muscle. It doesn’t feel bad, but not necessarily good, either. He begins to pump, then adds a second finger and you gasp at the intrusion. “Making me fuck’n wait till last-” You hear him spit on his free hand, beginning to jerk himself off as he begins to scissor you open.

“Ben!”

“Relax, baby, I’m not Pope, I ain’t tryna tear you open, you’ve bleed enough for one day.” You swear you hear him chuckle. What is he doing? You were confused, but also beginning to sink into the feeling of him. “They always do this to me, they always make me wait, and wait and wait just because Frank’s Pope’s favorite and Will’s ugh, Will’s older- goddamn” He stops, lining up the tip of his cock to your asshole and spitting a few more times. He was going to fuck you there?! Ben folds over, encasing your body in his warmth as he whispers in your ear. “Not this time, your ass is mine.” With that, he thrust into you, splitting your hole open as you cried out.

He laughs. “Lot louder than when Pope took you huh?”

Jonah found William getting a glass of wine and sipping it while watching over the party.. “I gotta talk to you.”

William doesn’t even turn to look. “Fuck off, Hanson.”

Will did not like Jonah, he knew. Their history prevented the same rapport that he had with Santiago, but never the less, he know Will was the one for this request.

“It’s about your precious Madonna.”

With that, Will turned.

Benny was insatiable, thrusting into you wildly and grunting with every movement. “So- fucking-tight-god!” He shouts and it takes everything in you not to cry… but that feeling was bubbling up again, despite the discomfort, but that discomfort was slowly slipping into something else.

The slightest moan escapes.

It seems then almost that Ben reminds you’re here, that he’s not fucking a hole in a wall and chuckles. “Oh, you like this, pretty girl? I can make it better, so much better.” He wraps a strong arm around you, toying with that sensitive spot that William was playing with earlier illiciating a much louder moan from your lips.

“God baby, thats it… gonna cum like this, darl’n? Gonna cum with a cock up your ass like the dirty girl I know you are? Yeah, yeah sure sounds like it…” He replies after your sounds of pleasure grow. “Under all this white, underneath that good girl act and that sweet little face, I knew, I just fucking KNEW your little virgin cunt was begging to get fucked, desperate for cock, huh?” His hips begin to falter, growing more sloppy. “Well now you got 4 cocks desperate to fill you up, to put our baby inside you first, fuck, you gonna be able to handle all that?

You can’t even reply, a mess of moans under his body.

He grabs your hair, yanking you up to look at him. “ANSWER ME!”

“YES!” You scream, so close to spilling over but not quite there, needy and whimpering for him. “I can take it! I want it! I want you all, all the time!”

“I know, darl’n girl, I know, f-fuck, ugghh fuck!”

Pulling out of your ass, you almost whine for him, whine for more, but he thrusts it into your pussy last minute. The intrusion sends you over, clamping down hard on him as he spills into you. “Yeaahh, that’s it, thats- oh my god, perfect little pussy- fuck!” When he finishes inside you, his warmth is all over you again, staying there for a moment with his cock plugged inside you. “Gotta make sure to cum inside your little pussy every time, no matter how good your ass or mouth feel. Can’t waste a drop.”

He caressing your arm as his body language softens, nuzzling his face into your hair. “So good, pretty girl. So fucking perfect.”

“She needs someone looking after her.” Jonah insists. “She’s just a kid.”

Will is dismissive, but behind his eyes hide curiosity. “That’s what you and security are for.”

Jonah signs. “Okay, listen, I’ll be honest here.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“You ain’t fond of me, that’s a given. I get it. But let’s be clear.” Jonah drops his voice low. “Frank’s been mentally checked out all day. He don’t want nothing to do with this. Ben’s a -”

“Watch it.”

Jonah rephrased his next words. “He’s not gentle. He’s not careful, and when he’s high he flat out dangerous, and he buys into this whole delusion and so does Santiago. Santiago is worse, he’s delusional and can flip like a fucking switch. She needs someone to help her navigate them. That needs to be you.”

Will didn’t say anything, but from the way his brows were furrowed, Jonah new he planted a seed.

“Look, here she comes with Ben, she’s fucking stumbling, Will. Go take care of your wife.”

It hurt.

It was hard to walk like this, but Ben’s arms were tight around you. You felt strangely safe like this, like he was going to be there from now on.

“What the hell did you do to her, Ben?”

“Relaaaaax” Ben waved off his brother. “She’s fine.”

Will didn’t buy it.

“Pope got her pussy, I got her ass.” He shrugged.

Disgust spread across his features. “You did anal? With no lube? Jesus Ben!”

“RELAX!” Ben raised his hands in defense.

Will hushed him. “That’s enough for tonight, I’m taking you to bed.”

And that was that. Will’s arm replaced Ben’s and quickly guided you out the door again. Once out of sight, Will scooped you right out. “Ain’t having you walk like that, babygirl. ‘Slright, just rest.” And rest you did, clinging to him and laying your head on his firm chest. You felt like you were almost asleep when he laid you on the bed.

Like how he cared for you before, he cared again, undressing you with a gentle strength.

“Lay down, lemme make sure your okay.” The worry in his voice made your heart sing.

“I’m alright, I promise.” You whisper, but spread your legs anyway.

He tsks his tongue. “Poor little girl… you’re alright, but I know it must hurt, doesn’t it?”

You swallow thickly, nervous with his face so close to your core. “Um… it’s a little sore, I guess…”

“I bet… but it wasn’t all bad, was it?”

“N-no, it wasn’t…”

“I can see that…” A thick finger swipes up your slit. “Got all wet, didn’t you? You sure are easy to work up…”

You shutter at the touch, a little achy but still desiring him. How could you not? How could you not want him when he spoke to you so low, so careful? When carried you and cleaned you and dressed you… he was perfect, fucking perfect.

“Poor little girl…” William spoke in a deeper tone, planting a kiss to your clit and making you whimper. “Gotta be at the beck and call for four men… that can’t be easy, but you’ve been taking it so well…” His fingers move up and down your folds, spreading your cum and the new slick trickling down.

“It’s, mmmm it’s my honor to be found worthy…” You sit up on your elbows, curious as to his actions.

“And worthy you are, Madonna.” His lips glazed over your flesh. “Bless are you, among women” His hand on your stomach. “and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” You watch William, knelt before you, hovering with his mouth open above your waiting mound.

You whisper, “Please”

He whispers equally soft. “As you wish.”

When William latched his mouth onto you, it’s unlike anything you’ve felt before, although you can’t say you’ve felt much. His mouth is hot, wet, messy as he licks you, tongue and lips moving in tandem, like a well practiced team with the sole purpose of reducing you to a whimpering mess.

“W-Will, oh that… oh my god-”

But he didn’t stop, latching his tongue to your clit as his fingers entered you, and despite the overstimulation of the day, compared to the large phalluses that had breached your core, his fingers merely provided pleasurable stimulation. His free-hand remained busy as well, taking your private moment to explore the rest of your body. You didn’t understand what pleasure he could find in your thighs, your stomach, or playing with your fingers, but you relished in his closeness, the emotional and physical and sexual intimacy compared to the coldness of the deflowering.

But it had to happen this way, you thought as your hips bucked; William had begun swirling his tongue around your clit, causing a surge in pleasure. This afternoon was a ritual; systematic, calculated, precise. There was no room for intimacy, for love. But you’d seen it now. You’d seen it in the way Pope danced with you, in the way Ben caressed you after sex and praised you, the way Will touched you now… the only thing missing was Frankie.

It wasn’t long before Will had to gushing on his face, crying out his name in a hedonistic moan, a orgasm so blinding that the revelation that you existed to pleasure and be pleasured by these men until you were swollen with child seemed like a gift of godhood itself.

He pulled three more out of you before he was satisfied, making come on his face and fingers thrice before your final orgasm was only singled by an tired “Mmmmmmmph” and your contracting walls. Finally, he pulls back. You can’t see him, eyes too tired they won’t open, but you imagine his beard is glistening with the way he soaks you when he kisses you cheek.

When you’re situated in bed, where you can only assume is your room, you ask Will to stay, ask him to hold you while you fall asleep. He obliges.

You feel dwarfed in his grasp his body so large it makes you feel small, but also secure. You don’t have to be brave, you don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to think or to worry. Everything would be taken care of for you, you’d give birth to the savior and how many other children, and redeem your family name from your fathers betrayal. You would find redemption in this house, right alongside love, family, and maybe even friendship for the first time since you were twelve…

Everything was falling into place.

So why didn’t it seem like Francisco loved you?

Knock knock.

“Honey?”

Knock knock knock

“Honey you in there?”

Jonah.

“One moment!”

You open your groggy eyes and take a look around the room, finding a luxurious, long, white robe on the dresser. You put it on, covering your nakedness, and timidly open the door.

“Yes?” Jonah stood before you, gun slung on his hip as usual.

He looks sympathetic. “Sorry to wake you, but Santiago wants to see you, I’m here to escort you.”

Hearing someone refer to Pope as his given name is jarring, but something about Jonah is just… very different. He seemed so serious when talking to you about safety, about making sure only his most trustworthy men watched you and how determined he seemed at the balcony… but it seemed he took everything else so unserious to him.

You didn’t like that he referred to your husband by his name, it was much too informal, but you cared about Jonah, so you don’t mention it.

After dressing, Jonah takes you down stairs. You’re thankful for him, the house is too big for you to know your way yet.

“How you feeling?”

“About what?” You ask genuinely.

Jonah turns to you, a curious look on his face. “About… everything. Yesterday was a big day. A lot happened.”

Of course a lot happened. You were still leaking their cum. “Nothing that Divine Mother didn’t intend.” You say as if its obvious.

He sighs. “Right.”

Pope was waiting outside the door of the intended room. His smile grew when he saw you, walking over to place a hand on your cheek and kiss you. “Good morning, my beautiful wife.”

Wife… something so magical about that word.

Pope thanks Jonah and dismisses him, turning you to the doorway and opening it. “I have a surprise for you, bebita.”

When the door opens, you gasp as you’re led inside. Canvases fill the room as did papers, paints, pencils…

“How… how did you know…” You whisper in awe, your heart swelling at the gesture. He loved you, he really loved you and wanted you to be happy here. You were so lucky, so lucky to be adored like this, to be adored by him especially. Pope had worked his way deep into your heart in a matter of days. He was everything to you now, he was your world. You belonged to him, every single inch of your heart, your body, your mind, your faith was him.

“I’m the god of love, I know what mi amada needs… I’ll always know.” He stands behind you, wrapping his arms around your body, the body that belongs to him, and kisses your neck. “I can’t wait to see what you paint, Madonna…”

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

PLEASE TELL ME UR THOUGHTS I THRIVE ON PRAISE

I feel like im doing ass at writing Ben here. I my normal fics on my main he's a consent king and so so so so soft so this is strange to me. BUT he can be tender and loving, dont you worry

SO, THE GENERAL CONCENSOUS IS YOU ALL WANNA FUCK JONAH. Lmfao, horny sluts. HE'S OUR FATHER FIGURE. Imagine having daddy issues. COULDNT BE ME (this is a joke lol)

But! Thoughts on Iris, and our new boy, Reyansh?

Not a super eventful chapter and i felt like Madonna have said like 10 words this whole fic but this has been the set up, now we can move forward! If you read TWW, LO was practically silent for the first few chapters.

Now they ceremony is done and she's married and already v attached and brainwashed.

How to keep up with the story!

Follow @romana-updates and/turn on notifications

Follow the tag Rooms on fire

@hon3yboy @winniethewife @femmeanonymelives @yorksgirl @pockcock @neverwheremoonchild @casa-boiardi @meveispunk @survivingandenduring @criticalarchitecture @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @obscurexsorrows @hellfire-state-of-mind @christinamadsen @pimosworld @princessanglophile @rubyfruitjungle @simple-lovebot @missdictatorme @campingwiththecharmings @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @javier-penas-wifexx420 @stefani-topaz @alwaysmicado@mjnomaryjane @incorrectclassicbookquotes @axshadows @ghostslillady @movievillainess721 @justagalwhowrites @charethcutestory02 @pixielou5 @gogh-with-the-flow @justafandomgvrl @katw474 @loveable-liar @arrozconpepitoria @minigirl87 @runa-falls @pedge-page @angel-of-the-moons @beefrobeefcal @pixielou5 @miraclesabound @oliveksmoked @mjnomaryjane @bubble-pop-eclectic @corazondebeskar-reads @charethcutestory02 @pedroshotwifey

If I forgot someone or you'd like to be added/removed LMK!

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romana-after-dark · 3 months

Text

Room's on Fire 4: Tolerate It

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist : MainTaglist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Madonna learns more about her role and the dynamics of the household.

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

Extra warnings for chapter: 'incubus', emotional abuse, withholding of affection, more panic

A/n: next chapter things ramp up.

3.6k words

Support writers! Reblog and leave comments!

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid Use my best colors for your portrait Lay the table with the fancy shit And watch you tolerate it If it's all in my head, tell me now Tell me I've got it wrong somehow I know my love should be celebrated But you tolerate it ~Tolerate It, Taylor Swift

Your bed was comfortable, huge, with pillows and soft comforters all around you giving all the comfort surrounding you that you could need. This is a good thing, considering how exhausted you felt all the time. It was not easy keeping 4 men satisfied. Ben was near constant, and although Will took his time with you and both made you cum, it was still a lot. Francisco avoided you, only fucking you when Pope was there. Pope and Francisco… you didn’t know how to take it.

It was strange seeing your husbands kiss, and you struggled with how little Pope’s eyes were on you. It seemed he could only cum when he looked at Francisco.

You woke up in the middle of the night, a cloud of darkness and pillowy soft as you lay on your back. Consciousness came to you slowly, a deep sleep attempted to keep you down, but the feeling between your legs refused to let you sleep. You were tired, so damn tired and so sore, your arms so heavy you couldn’t even lift them feel at the heaviness on your chest. Why did you hear breathing? Was it your own? You wanted to open your eyes but they were almost sealed shut. Panic began to bubble.

You’d heard of incubus’s before, demons that entered you in your sleep and violated you, but that wasn’t possible, was it? You’d remained sexually pure, physically and emotionally faithful to your husbands and them only. You attended prayers and were the model of wifery. This shouldn’t happen to a faithful servant of Divine Mother. Had you done something wrong? Were you not fulfilling your role? Had you been tainted by the actions of your fathers betrayal?

You were scared.

“Shhhhh” A voice whispered, but you were so delirious from the broken sleep cycle you couldn’t recognize if it was a voice you knew. “Shhhhh, go back to sleep…”

Not sure what to do, scared and completely out of control of your body you tried to fight it, tried to fight off the demon on top of you, but there was no energy left.

You sank into sleep as the rhythmic thrusts rocked you back into the haze.

Still tired, still unfocused and unclear, you wake up slowly. When you remember what happened last night, your eyes flash open in a start and the memories come back. They scared you, but the biggest concern was how wet you felt between your legs. Had the demon cum inside you? Were you to become pregnant with a demon's child. Anxious, you throw off the blanket and look down between your legs in your nightgown.

Blood.

You scream, fear from last night clouded any rational judgment and you scream when you see Reyansh.

“What’s going on?!” He rushed in, gun drawn, looking about to room.

“GET OUT!”

He looks back to you, seeing the blood on the bed. He blinks. “Are you… okay?” He looks confused.

It begins to settle on you what happened, and now you’re embarrassed. You throw a pillow at him. “GET! OUT!”

The pillow smacks him right in the face. “Oof!” But after one more check over, eyeing you confused, he leaves.

You got your period. This did not calm your fears. You shouldn’t have your period, you should be pregnant with the savior. Something was wrong, something was horribly fucking wrong and it was somehow your fault. Was last night a nightmare, or were you being haunted? Either way, something was wrong because you were not found worthy.

You were not pregnant.

Bleeding more and more, you needed to take care of this, but you didn’t have any sanitary products… No one expected you to need them.

Wrapping your blanket around your flimsy nightgown, You crack the door open, hands visibly shaking. “Reyansh?”

“Yeah?” He says kindly.

You didn’t want to talk about this with him, as nice as he was. Usually, Jonah was outside your door in the morning. You wanted him. “Um… where’s Jonah?”

“He’s the head of the guard, he went back to his normal duties. I’m gonna be your primary guard.” He chuckles a bit. “Sorry to disappoint.”

No… no you wanted Jonah… you trusted Jonah. “No, um… I want Jonah back, thank you…” You tried to sound in control. You were the Madonna, they needed to listen to you, right?

Reyansh sighs. “I’ll mention to Jonah, but I don’t think that’s happening. Miller wants him focusing on security. He just Jonah be around for a bit because you seemed comfortable.”

Fine. Problem for later. You could feel the blood dripping down. “Well then I want Iris!”

“Why? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” He sounded concerned.

“Reyanash please”

“It’s monday, she goes shopping on Mondays, it’ll be a few hou-”

“ARE THERE ANY GIRLS IN THIS DAMN BUILDING!” You snap.

There is a bit of silence before he says. “Ah. I’ll be back.”

When he walks away, you slump against the door and fall down, crying. As you bleed and cry into the comforter, you try not to let the panic settle in. It’s okay, it’s going to be okay. They loved you, they wouldn’t throw you out after one month! They loved you, they loved you, they loved you.

Knock Knock

“Come in…” You whisper, defeated and scoot enough for him to slip in, holding tampons and pads. You didn’t know how to use a tampon, only using pads before. You wanted to preserve your virginity.

“I found these. They’re Iris’s, but she won’t mind.” He tries to hand them to you, but you don’t grab them.

“You can set them on the floor…” You whispered, and he does.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. Can you um… if you see Santi, let him know?” Santi was anxiously awaiting to hear if you were pregnant… he’s going to be so disappointed in you.

No one came to see you all day. Will and Ben were out in the town, working, and you didn’t expect Francisco, but the fact Pope didn’t show was enough to know he was angry with you. You had asked to talk to him, but Reyansh had said it “wasn’t the time.”

So, you went to your studio, Reyansh sitting outside, and went to work. You’d been working on a portrait of Pope. He liked to sit and watch you paint from behind your easel, but you didn’t tell him what you were painting. It was almost done, and you were adding the details by memory. You loved to study his face, all the fine lines and grays and sharp features of him as he fucked into you. He didn’t understand how much you adored him, how you relished the intimate moments not for the pleasure he gave, but for the closeness it brought.

But he didn’t look at you like you looked at him. When he did, it was almost too much; his eyes were fiery and alite. He made you feel like the center of the entire world when he dd, but for the most part, he didn’t. Not in bed. When he made love to you, if Francisco wasn’t there his eyes were closed.

“So you aren’t pregnant.” His voice broke through your thoughts.

When you look up from your work, he’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed and hip cocked. He was not pleased.

You will yourself not to cry. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything as he stalks forward and you set down your brush. He looks at your painting.

“It’s you.” You whisper. It’s his side profile, the background is in flames.

“Am I burning?” He asks, incredulous.

You were quick to disued the idea that you’d paint any harm happening to your beloved husband whom you adored completely. “No! No, not at all! The, the background is, you see?” You use the brush to gesture to his picture. “You’re perfectly unscathed. It’s meant to represent your power… And maybe me?”

He turns at that. “You?”

You nod. “The priestess… she said, well she likened me to fire.”

Pope scoffs before turning to you again. “The Madonna is fire. The mother of the savior is fire. You’ve yet to prove yourself.” He look another look at your portrait and rolls his eyes. “Needs work.” With that he walked away.

You had a plan.

Maybe the reason you weren’t pregnant is you hadn’t won them over completely. You had Ben, William, and before this, Pope… the missing piece was Francisco.He wanted nothing to do with you, and how could you become pregnant when he didn’t want you? You were supposed to be one, a cohesive unit bound together. You needed him, and you needed to win back Pope.

Iris hadn’t been keen on the idea; she didn’t like people in her space, except for Reyansh it seemed. She allowed you in her kitchen with him if there were tasks she was comfortable letting you handle, or if you promised to stay out of her way. Today,however, you begged and pleaded to take over. You had very few personal items, but you had a cookbook from your mother, and you knew how to use it. It wasn’t like you were an amazing cook; that was Iris, she was incredible, but you were what you were doing.

“C’mooooon” Reyansh said, arms propped up against the table holding up his face as he gazed at her. “Take the night off.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t bad natured. She smiled when she talked to him. You wondered if they were in love, but no one had said anything. You hadn’t wanted to assume… but Reyansh looked her Iris the way Will looked at you.

“It wouldn’t be a night off, I’d have to stay here and make sure she doesn’t fuck it all up because it’s still my responsbility”

“I won’t mess it up!” You insist, following after her as she put groceries away. “I used to cook big meals for my dormitory all the time! And anything goes wrong I’ll take the blame!”

“No.”

You run in front of her, looking at her face pleadingly. “Iris, please, I’m begging you, I need to prove to them I can be a good wife!”

Iris looked at you, and you didn’t care how pathetic you looked. You needed this. She turns to Rey.

“You could work on something here while she cooks, free up a little time tonight.” Did he wink at her?

It’s working, you can see her thinking. “Well… I guess I could work on my sewing… it would be nice to get ahead of work…”

“YES! YES YES YES YES!” You jump and hug her, and you catch her and Reyansh smiling at each other.

It took 2 hours, but you never asked for help once. Rey tried to help, but you wanted it to be all on your own. Instead, he helped Iris darn socks and fix holes and tighten or loosen clothes. At one point, Iris came up to you and checked a few measurements on your body but wouldn’t tell you for what.

The meal was extensive, 7 courses.

Muse-Bouche: Miniature crab cakes with a spicy remoulade sauce.

Soup: Creamy butternut squash soup.

Appetizer: Olives stuffed with blue cheese.

Salad: Arugula and pear salad with a honey mustard dressing.

Main Course: Herb-crusted salmon

Cheese Course: Pepper jack was all you had, but it’d do.

Dessert: Dark chocolate mousse with raspberries.

When it was done, you were sweating, ready to run off and change before helping serve the appetizer course with Iris, when she stopped you.

“Here” Iris places a fabric in your hands, lavender and lacy.

You blink. “What’s this?”

She pushed you out the door towards the bathroom to change. “A new dress, thought tonight was a good night to debut it.”

It was stunning. All made out of lavender lace, with straps but also the soft fabric going off your shoulders. It was short, about knee length, and an a-line skirt. You looked beautiful, you had to admit. You didn’t like to be prideful, but this was really Iris’s doing

“And what did we do to deserve such a treat?” Will said, drinking his whiskey on ice in the parlor as you served the appetizer and muse-brouche. His eyes scanned over your body hungrily, and you had a feeling you’d be blessed with his mouth tonight.

You smile up at him, then try to catch the gaze of your other husbands. Francisco’s eyes averted to the floor, and Pope’s were icy cold. When you’d knocked on his door, excited and grinning to tell him you had cooked a feast for them all, he was unimpressed. Francisco was in his room, and you felt like you interrupted something, saying they’d be down in a few.

“Just wanted to show my appreciation for having such wonderful husbands.” You go on your tippytoes to kiss Will’s cheek Out of the corner of your eye, Iris passes Ben and you see her quickly turn around, and Will snaps.

“Ben!”

Ben flips his brother off. You don’t know what he did.

During the meal, the rest of the courses are served by Iris and Reynash. You haven't quite figured out Reyansh’s role here. He seemed to do a little bit of everything, lower level security that filled a variety of roles. Or maybe he was just around Iris a lot and she put him to work, you didn’t know.

Will and Benny complimented you, Benny wrapping you up in his arms and kissing you deeply as he told you how delicious it was.

You even get a small smile and thank you from Francisco, which is more than you got most days, and he let out a quiet mm eating the soup. It was a good sign, but it wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted him to love you, you wanted him to adore you the way you adored him.

You wanted Pope to look at you with anything but disappointment.

“Do you like the desert, Pope?”

He didn’t look up. You’d picked this out just for them, knowing how much he liked chocolate, and Iris said Raspberries were Francisco’s favorite fruit.

“Did Iris make this?” He said, poking at the half-eaten cake.

“N-no, I made…”

“Hm.” Pope stood up, setting down his napkin. “I can tell.”

He pulled at Francisco's collar and Francosco followed after him. Ben took the rest of their cake.

“God fuck’n DAMN!” The youngest man shouted with a mouthful of chocolate. “Baby I’m gonna fuck you so good for this.”

Will took your hand. “We love the food, princess.” He kissed you tender. “Thank you so much for taking care of us.”

“It’s…” You stare off at the wall, your heart breaking in pieces but trying not to show it. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful for what you were given by your two loves… but you needed them all. You were incomplete without them. “It’s my honor to take care of my husbands…” You say quietly.

He sighed, taking your chin in his hands and lifting them up to his blue eyes. “Madonna, look at me.” You do. “Pope is… he’s complicated. His moods come and go, it’s not personal.”

“But… I think it is… because Francisco doesn’t like me either…” You hate how weak your voice sounds. You want to be strong, you want to be the goddess you are but you aren’t sure how.

Ben’s mouth is full as he talks. “Frank don’t know a pretty girl if she slapped him, don’t worry about him.”

But you did, you did worry about both of them. You worried they wouldn’t love you the way you loved them.

You spent the night with Will and Ben. On your hands and knees you pleasured Ben with your mouth with Will stuffing himself in your cunt, both brothers showering you in praise and love. Will was unbothered by the blood it seemed, nor by the way your body was bloated with your period. They must have known how badly you needed reassurance, because after Ben pulled out of your mouth to cum inside your hole lubed up with his brother’s cum, they took care of you. Will cleaned you up and placed underwear with a fresh pad under you while Ben laid your head on his lap, caressing your hair until you fell asleep.

Or pretended to. You heard their conversation as they left you in your bed.

“You gotta take it easier on her, Ben”

“What was that if not easy. She literally fell asleep on my lap, that was romantic as fuck.”

“Not today, today was fine, I mean in general and you have got to stop with-”

“Shh!”

“Well if it’s supposed to be a secret maybe stop pinching her ass in public!”

“Oh for-” Your eyes open just slightly, you watch Ben drag Will out of your room. They continue arguing outside your door but you can’t hear them.

You don’t sleep that night. Terror of the night before consuming you, fear of the demon or the nightmare or whatever it was an anxiety that your husbands didn’t love you anymore. Pope you could understand. You’d disappointed him, you’d mess up… But Francisco never wanted you, you can see that now. Were you that attractive? Unpleasant? He was clairvoyant, could he see into your heart that you weren’t worthy?

You felt another panic attack coming. Fear was surrounding you and the dark room didn’t help matters. You needed something, you needed someone’s reassurance but you couldn’t go to Ben and Will, afraid of what they’d say. Did you not trust them enough?

Jonah’s voice in your head. ‘if you ever need anything, anyone cause you problems you come to me, alright?’

Soon, you found yourself at Jonah’s door in his quarters, knocking. You were barefoot and in our nightgown, but it was the least of your worries. You needed help, and you trusted him.

When he opened the door, his loose sleep shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest and light sweats on the bottom half, his eyes were wide.. “What are you doing here?!” He whispers, looking down both sides of the hall and yanking you inside his room.

It was simple, but clean for the most part. There was a pair of boxers on the floor and a bottle of whiskey vodka opened on the bedside table.

“Hey!” He whisper-shouted, not looking pleased. “What the hell are you doing here?” He repeats a little harsher this time.

You blink. “I… you said if I needed something to come to you?”

“I-” He sighs, softening a little but still looking irritated. Or angry. You couldn't tell which. “Yes, yes I did, but honey it’s 2 AM, is this an emergency?”

Your lips quiver, eyes filling with tears. “Francisco doesn’t love me.”

He looked more confused than before. “Huh?”

You begin sobbing loudly. “Francisco doesn’t love me! And I messed up with Pope and now he’s mad but I, I can fix that but it’s Francisco! He doesn’t want me here! He doesn’t want me to be his wife-”

Your mouth is suddenly covered “SHHHHH!!!” The back of your head is thrust against the wall and you’re suddenly scared and confused. Jonah pinches his brows together, eyes closed. “Hon, that’s not- this isn’t an emergency” His body was pressed up against yours, and as soon as he realized it, he moved back but his hand on your face. It’s large, and you think it could cover your whole face.

You tried to tell him it was to you, that this is your life, your future, but your mouth was covered by his rough, calloused hand and his dark brown eyes so close to yours. You could feel his breath on your face. He’d been drinking.

He mutters a few swears, lets go of your mouth before running fingers through his graying hair. More swears.

“C’mon, let’s go.” He took your hand and cracked the door open, checking the hall again before pulling you out and dragging you several doors down the corridor, his loose shirt fluttering.

Iris opened the door to his knocks, and as soon as she saw you crying she ripped your hand out of Jonah’s and pulled you behind her. “What did you do!” She hissed quietly.

Jonah raised his hands in defense. “Nothing! She showed up-”

“Why is she wearing lingerie!”

He smacked his head. “It’s not like that, Iris! I didn’t touch her! She showed her here panicking about those assholes but you need to get her back to her room!”

You couldn’t see Iris’s face, but you got the feeling she didn’t believe him. “He’s telling the truth.” You whimpered through your tears. “I came to him,” Iris turned to you. “Because I was having a panic attack, but he didn’t touch me…” You didn’t tell her the close proximity he was his, his mouth on your face. You didn’t think it happened for the reason Iris thought it did.

She held onto your hand, pausing, then spoke. “Go.”

Jonah looked at you once more, guilt on his face before he nodded, telling her to talk to him when she got back.

Iris took you back to your room, turning on the light and facing you. “You cannot be alone with Jonah like that, do you understand me?”

You weren’t sure why she was so aggressive. Jonah was no danger to you. “He didn’t-”

“I don’t care what he didn’t do this time, but you need to listen to me, you are dangerous fucking territory, and you need to watch your back every fucking step before you or someone else ends up dead, got it? Don’t be stupid.”

She slammed the door behind her.

You only slept when you cried out all your energy.

WELL WELL WELL I gave some Jonah description for you horny Jonah girlies....

BUT ALSO! Jonah lore??? Why did Iris freak out?

LEMME KNOW THOUGHTS OR THOTS

Short chapter, not super eventful or spicy, but next chapter RAMPS UP THE SPICE

If you havnt seen, i've put out two bonus content

1 is FishBen, adding context to their relationship.

2. is the tik tok trend asking your boyfriend to peel your orange

if you have ideas for bonus content or any questions, DROP BY THE ASK BOX!!

Love interaction <3 I know we preach reblogs here but if you arent comfortable with reblogging dark content or even commenting, please consider dropping by the ask to show your engagement, I allow anons!

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romana-after-dark · 2 months

Text

Room's on Fire: Black Wedding

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist : MainTaglist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Everyone is together, everything is complete.

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

DUB CON MOSTLY but there WILL BE NON CON. Major character deaths, forced breeding, physical abuse, brainwashing, manipulation, violence, gore, alcoholism/addiction, BIG OLE BLASPHEMY WARNING like this cult appropriates a lot of religious themes and they call reader their Madonna, Santi is called the Pope, like all that stuff. However, this is a cult so I mean. It happens. None of it are my thoughts on religion or meant to make fun of religion or demonize religious people. Disgusting views on virginity. Attempted rape outside the boys. T*m warning. Age gap. Creepy terrible men. Non-reader rape, dub con, violence. Covert incest, massive mommy issues, sexual abuse all around, past grooming by parental figure. no CSA but the victim isn't much older. some Bates Motel type shit. I cannot properly warn you for everything, without just telling the story but consider this a major warning that there are dark dark themes. No one involved here is morally clean, and who you perceive as the good guy cannot be relied on. Don't come to my story and say im romanticizing these things until at least the story ends.

WARNINGS HAVE BEEN UPDATED!!!

Extra warnings for chapter: FEET (sorry Fen!), complete worship, mind control, the incubus. Tummy bluge since apparently this is contensious now???

3.2k words

A/N: Some pov shifts.

Support writers! Reblog and leave comments!

"Priest are you there? Can you hear my voice? Do you hear my prayers? Are you out there? Forgive me priest For I have sinned (I know not what I do)" ~Black Wedding, In this Moment.

Sweating, tossing, turning.

The demon, the manifestation of your inadequacy tormented you so often you’d come to be complacent in it, the ravaging of your body nearly a nightly part of your bedtime routine. You just wanted to feel safe in your own bed again. You wanted your husbands to stay the night, to protect you from the terrors, but how could you confess what was happening?

When you wake up in a cold sweat, fear shivers down your spine as you dry heave and gasp for air, red daylight seeping in your curtains and bathing your clothed body in the image of blood, you are determined to change something. You can’t go on like this. You had Francisco now, you just needed to win back Pope. You were ovulating, now was your chance, all you needed was to have all their hearts.

Ben was a lot of fun. You and him did the most activities.

Before he became angry with you, Pope and you mostly spent time outside of sex in your studio. He liked to watch you paint, sipping wine with his eyes over the glass observing the strokes. It was quiet, peaceful, and calming.

Francisco, since your trip to the field was taking you more and more. He liked to take you out to the meadow, fucking on the blankets and putting flowers in each others hair. He let you put a flower crown on him, looking so pretty you had to reward him.

Will treated you like a princess. Will promised that first day that he’d help work out those pains in your back, and he was. He liked to massage you with his healing oils, making your body feel good and comfortable before he filled you up, stating that your comfort and health was important for conceiving.

But Ben, Ben was fun. Ben’s time was filled with laughter, adventure, and lots of sex. Today he took you out on a horse ride, much like Frankie, but there wasn’t a picnic. That wasn’t Ben’s style. What was Ben’s style was making the horse go ‘really fuck’n fast’.

You felt like a princess, your handsome prince whisking you away to some far off land. Benny made you giddy, he made you feel wanted. When Pope and Francisco both wanted nothing to do with you, it was Ben and Will who made you feel seen, feel beautiful, feel desired for.

You watched Ben climb a tree, begging him to be careful but he swore up and down he was going to find you the best peach there was. Ben loved food.

“Please just watch your step!!” You shout after him, but then turn your attention to the open field. From the top of the hill, you could see the fields of gold you used to labour at. Watching the others work, all but tiny dots on the horizon, sometimes you felt bad, like you weren’t contributing to Delta… Will had reminded you that you were called to a higher purpose, for something more. The DNA of gods was constantly inside you, and you wondered if it was changing you in more ways than just the hopeful pregnancy. Maybe you were more than a saint. Maybe their seed was creating a goddess, a new mother- nonononononono that was heresy! You shove the idea out of your head like an intrusive thought, determined to keep your thoughts clear.

THIS was why the incubus was tormenting you! Your thoughts were impure, vile, evil, and so were you. Tears began to burn behind your eyes.

“Here!” Ben drops upside down, hanging by his knees on the tree branch, making you gasp. He’s holding a peach, which you happily take.

“Thank you.” You smile. He always knew how to make you smile. Ben himself was shining as bright as the sun today, a reflection of his good mood. He said he’d make sure there’d be perfect weather for your outing, and he delivered, not a cloud in the deep blue sky. Will made you put on a straw sunhat to protect your skin from its reys. He treated you so well.

Ben makes a kissy face, and you oblige, rewarding him for finding you your snack. His mouth tasted sweet, only then do you realize he took a bite already and you can’t help but laugh adoringly. You take a bite of the peach as Ben still hung from the tree, swinging as he gripped the branch, and come to him again, sliding the bite into his mouth for him to eat. You can feel him smile, chewing the peach and you pepper his face with kisses.

It wasn’t long before he was pulling you up onto the tree, helping you climb up and up. Everything was so beautiful where you sat. Ben kisses you deeper here.

“Fish ain’t the only one that can be romantic as shit.” He mutters against your mouth and you get the feeling he was jealous. Francisco must have told him what you did the last couple days with him, making love in the meadow and yes, it was romantic, but you didn’t expect Ben to be Francisco. All of them loved you in their own ways, with their own expressions.

“He certainly isn’t, my handsome husband.” You kiss back, sighing as he touches your thigh. There was no way to fuck up here, but Ben still brought you to orgasm with his fingers. He had told you not to wear panties.

He picks another peach, pulling his hard cock out as you kick your legs, smiling, your dress rustling in a breeze. You’d noticed the breeze picked up as Ben got turned on. You watch in aw as he fingers the peach open, eyes intently on you. He’s obscene, groaning as if he’s pleasuring himself until he creates a hole, and then…

“Eyes on my cock, peach.”

And god, are your eyes on his cock. Benny has the prettiest dick in your humble opinion. It was long and thick like they all were. Ben was cut, his manhood always throbbing and the prettiest golden color and a vein on the underside. You loved looking at it. Ben fucked himself with the peach, up and down on the shaft with the most levacious squelches coming out only to the harmonized by Ben’s moans and whimpers. His eyes closed, lost in pleasure and he jerked off.

“F-fuck…” Ben mumble, chest heaving as he rests against the trunk. “Fuck man, feels so fucking good.” His hip bucked, makin the branch you were on shake and you had to grab one above for stability but fuck, you couldn’t stop watching him. He was incredible, sculped body creating a divine figure in your midst and you were so blessed to be filled by him. His blue eyes flashed open only to roll back into his head, spurting cum all over his hand and the peach. You nearly came again from the sight and sound alone. You loved how he looked in orgasmic bliss, it didn’t matter who caused it, you, Francisco or Pope, you just wanted to see him when it happened.

You ate the cum stained peach directly from his hand.

You got the idea from Iris, really. Sitting on the counter of the kitchen, you were busy with some cross stitching you wanted to give to Francisco. It was a simple scene, nothing complex as your dormitory focused of useful skills like fieldwork, cooking, animal care. Still, you knew how to sew and although you’d asked, sometimes even begged Iris to let you help with housework, she didn’t trust you with much outside of cooking, which you were good at. You wished she didn’t treat you like a child. Still, you happily worked on the nature scenary for you husband, god of nature. How lucky you were. You noticed how much he liked smoking marijuana.

Reyansh was inside for a refreshment while working outside. He was creating a flower bed for you at Francisco’s request, and his neck was hurting so Iris rubbed his neck. Reynash sighed contently, his soft face smiling at the touch of who very clearly, you see now, was his lover.

Iris was gentle for no one. She brushed off every attempt Jonah made to talk about anything none work related, and it hadn’t endeared her to you much. You didn’t think that bothered her, it didn’t seem she was too fond of you either. It wasn’t a rivalry and you didn’t have a problem with her. In fact, you liked her. She was beautiful, she made good food and she had been there when it was necessary, like having a panic attack. Even in the small things, she fed you well and had your safety in mind. Today, for example, she told you to put on sunscreen before you went outside to sunbathe while Rey built the flowerbed and doubled with babysitting you. That’s what you called it. Still, she didn’t talk to you, and didn’t seem like she wanted to be your friend.

You liked Reyansh a lot, he was kind, gentle, and thoughtful. Iris took care of Reyansh, and that made you happy. You liked seeing Reyansh smile, he had a nice smile. Iris never smiled unless it was at Reyansh and even then it seemed subdued. Jonah smirked at best, and that was usually mixed with an eye roll.

Pope had bad knees. He called it his stigmata, the physical manifestation of the sufering he bared for the people of Delta. He took the brunt of your sins and wasn’t that so good of him? You wondered if you could alleviate some of that pain, seeing as much of it was probably caused by the sins of your father.

“Rey?” You ask from your chair, watching him plant seeds for marigolds. You loved marigolds; they reminded you of Ben, all sunshine and gold.

He turns around over his should, a bright smile on his face. He seemed happier with plant or animals. “What’s up?”

“Do you know where Will keeps his healing oils?”

Reyansh laughs and its brighter than the midday sun. He turns around, sitting his ass on the dirt and props himself up on his hands. “What are you planning?”

“SHHHHHHH” Reyansh shushes you, but he’s giggling himself.

You and him were breaking into Will’s room while he was out. Well, not so much breaking as Rey got the master key but still, naughty. You loved Will’s room, you wanted to stay here all the time. It was simple, but not uncomfortable. You both had to be careful, not digging too much into his things as to not get in trouble… but then you found them.

You took lavender, rose, peppermint and oregano. You knew a little about healing oils, but Will’s were special having been blessed by his hands. This had to help Pope’s aches… now, you must get an audience with Pope, and he was not pleased with you.

“I’m busy.” Pope called from his office, ignoring your plea’s to spend time with you. You missed him so, so much. You missed his intensity, the warmth in the gaze, the fire and passion in his eyes. You feel his love for you, his husbands, his community. Who else was to bare the pain he did for his people? He was good, so good.

“Pope, please?” Your voice cracks, leaning against the wood of his door. “Please just ten minutes?”

“I’ll be with you tonight with Francisco.” To breed you, but you didn’t just want to be fucked by him, you wanted to be loved.

“I want to spend time with you, please? I have a surprise. I just… I miss you.”

Silence… then the door unlocking. He stood in front of you, brown eyes ablaze with irritation but also curiosity.

Once securing his attention, you were able to get Pope to follow you to the room you had set up. In it, a chair and a bucket of steaming, sudsy water.

“Sit! Sit!” You beckon him to the chair, and although hesitant he sits down. You take your place where you belong, at the feet of your God.

Knelt before him and gazing up into his eyes, you untie his shoes and slide off his socks, pleasantly surprised by the lack of smell. He’d been inside all day. After rolling up his pants, you take his feet, one by one and lower them into the steaming water and watch in delight ashe closes his eyes, moaning and hanging his head back. He looked relaxed, actually, something you only see in post orgasmic bliss.

You don’t take your eyes off him, massaging into the arch of his foot and enjoying the look of pleasure on his face. You’d doused the water preemptively with lavender and rose oils and you were happy to see it working in calming him.

“Mmmmm” Pope moans, a hardening bulge between his spread legs and you smile at the effect you have on him, the evidence of the love he still held for you. You hoped this act of washing his feet and massaging the joints would prove your subservience to him, your devotion.

Leaning in, you kiss the ball of his foot first as he opens his eyes, firey and alight with lust and love for you, his Madonna, his wife, his goddess. Pope’s mouth pops open, slightly agape as his chest begins to heave, eroticism clouding his face. Pope angls his foot, pressing his toes to your lips and you don’t hesitate to open, completely and fully in his control. You would debase yourself however he asked, just for him. He was your first kiss, your first love, your first everything. You’d adored him your whole life, worshiping him in prayer halls for as long as you could remember. He’d been the light of your life, your God, and although you were 11 when Divine Mother announced Pope was not the savior, it didn’t matter to you. He was your savior, he was your everything, and oh, how blessed you were to be here.

You make your jaw slack, allowing him access of as much of your mouth as possible, laving your tongue out against the calloused skin. Reaching to the side, you grab the peppermint-oregano mix of healing oils and poured some on his leg. As you gagged on him, sucking on his toes, you rubbed down his legs. Pope groans in pleasure, taking out his erection to stroke himself to the wet sounds of your mouth. Swirling your tongue around him, so desperate try to please him, to regain his favor so you can be impregnated by his seed, the seeds of his brothers. You wanted so desperately to be his Madonna again, his holy mother, his little flower, it didn’t matter what it took.

He could cut open your chest and carve your heart out if it meant he held the dying pulse in his hands.

“Get over here” He grunts, pulling his feet out of you mouth with a pop. You chase after him, worried you’d done something wrong, but Pope grabs your dress, yanking you forward harshly and into a crash of a kiss. The action knocks over the warm bucket of water, but he didn’t care. Pushing you down and into the spilt water, Pope turns you over and climbs on top of you, rucking your wet skirt over your ass. He didn’t bother taking off your underwear simply pulling it aside in order to thrust directly into you.

You were wet, you were always so, so wet with him. Being in his presence had always left you soaked and needy when he didn’t give you what you wanted. Sometimes you found yourself going to Will for his mouth to give you what Pope wouldn’t.

“My beautiful, sweet Madonna” He mutters, his bearded cheek scratching against yours. “Always so ready for me, such a good fucking girl.” His thrusts are harsh, your face sliding against the floor with the spilt water, your dripping hair splattered all about the tile. The smell was overwhelming and you realize Will’s oils were spilled, mixing into the water and stirred with the movement of your connected bodies.

Everything was so, so much from the smells of the oils to the stretch of his cock, the pounding, pounding, pounding in your womb.

It was the same pounding you felt that night when, for the first time in a long time, you were fucked and pleasured and devoured and worshipped by all four of your husbands.

You were raw, aching, sweating and throbbing; 3 men’s cum had flooded your womb and Will’s was soon to follow. It was good, so, so good. Your body, despite the exhaustion was floating on your soft bed. The group sex had happened in your room, which was a rarity but something that in this moment made you feel like home. This was special, this was different. Will’s grunts were loud, powerful, his strong and naked body forbaring before you where he knelt. Muscles flexing and shifting and moving, his sweaty form and dripping hair complimenting his presence, the size reflected in the bulge of your stomach in every inward thrust. He had to be this stunning if he were to distract you from the scene beside you.

Ben, Francisco and Santiago and spent and drained, were entangled next to you in a sweat and lust-fill affair of their own. Francisco was the center focus, his body worshiped and adored by Pope and Ben. It seemed like a tug of war, like Francisco was the rope in a tug of war. It was clear that Francisco was precious to both of them, but there was another air about it all. The fight for Francisco’s sweet kisses was just the battle ground. Francisco himself had gotten hard all over again, Ben’s hands jerking him of from where he lay, their two body’s and coloring a contrast of dark and light, hard and soft, and electric energy so, so close to Pope’s explosives.

Pope would not be out done by the younger man. This was his community, he was the leader, he was son of the Divine Mother and he would not relinquish his most favored lover to a boy 8 years his junior. Ben had ambition, he had wants and visions of a future that Santiago would not acquiesce to and although Benjamin’s loyalty was strong, so was his jealousy.

Two could play at jealousy, and Francisco was his. Playing with Frankie’s balls, heavy but starting to tighten as his perfect body writhed to the sounds of the Madonna’s pleasure, Santiago gripped Ben’s locks and yanked him down. He took control of Frankie’s mouth, lips still swollen from their previous encounter evidence of who his lips belonged too. He sucked on him until the healing lip cracked open again. If Francisco bled, his blood was Pope’s.

He hears you cry out in the way you only do when you’re coming, and Ben latches onto Francisco’s nipple, determined to make him cum again. Pope loved his brothers, loved them all, they were the center of his world, his everything, his rocks. He’d had all of them in every way imaginable, fucked into every hole at every angle but god, nothing compared to Frankie. Ben must’ve felt that too, the way he took care of him. Together, as a team, they gave Francisco his second orgasm.

Something was different today. Something changed.

They all slept in her bed that night.

WHAT DO WE THINK For The Wrong Way readers, did you catch the reference? it was small.

also last chapter i asked whose the worst and someone said jonah i just wanna talk LMFAOOOO but i laughed bc its OVERWHELMINGLY santi. like 80%

Poll of the day

who knocks up madonna? not who you WANT that'll be a new poll, but who you think does it. listing all potential options.

WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS and whyyyyy

If you are into c.ai, check out the Jonah ai on the masterlist

Also, hope you check out the playlist! if you like old music like me especially. lots of 60's-80's

apoligies to everyone whose been tagging me in tag games. i appiciate the tags a lot, im just like....... ahhhhhhh you know? life. i love yall for including me though! If you have discourd and wantto join a server for my works, dm me! as long as you are an active particpant in the fics you're welcome!

IF YOU LIKE CULT FICS READ THIS ONE BY @noxturnalpascal with cult leader joel!!!!! I havnt had the chance to read a full chapter by i read most of the first chapter and its soooo good.

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spacecowboyhotch · 11 months

Text

summary: but it's coming down, no sound, its all around.

pairing: fem!reader x santi garcia

contents: song based fic, angst, jealousy, perceived unrequited love, best friends to lovers, love confessions, santi being a desperate simp, kissing

wc: 2k

an: yes this is a song inspired fic again bc it’s just who i am ok. listen i want them to fuck eventually but who knows if i have the bandwidth to write santi railing her into oblivion. if people really want it, let me know.

oscar characters masterlist | requests are open

“What’re you doing out here? It's cold, cariño,” He calls out to you, a healthy distance away.

He can tell that you’re brooding by the tension in your shoulders, the way you’re rocking back and forth as you stare straight ahead. He knows you better than he knows himself— possibly better than you know yourself— though he’s not sure why you’re upset in this instance. Not yet anyway.

He’s right– it is cold. Despite the extremely warm days in Miami, the nights can grow cold, especially standing on the sandy plains of a beach such as this one. You don’t bother turning around to look at Santi, continuing to stare out into the darkness of the ocean. It's stupid that you’re out here, that you feel a way about how tonight’s gone. Santi isn’t yours and the depth of your friendship, or your romantic feelings for him doesn’t change that.

There’s always a risk with bringing Santi anywhere. It’s not a deadly risk, but sometimes he looks so absorbed in someone else that it feels like your heart might give out. He’s good at it, at making someone feel like they’re the center of attention or all that matters to him.

He’s a natural flirt, so charismatic that most people don’t believe he’s been in the army or that his day job is in operations and the execution of them. People— including all of your single cousins, who have been all over him since the moment the wedding reception began. You couldn’t blame them, even if you weren’t in love with him, there’s no denying that he’s one of the most attractive men you've ever seen.

Tonight everyone is treated to a rare occasion. Santi’s in a suit; it’s black and fits him perfectly. The top two buttons of his crisp, white button-up are undone giving the most sinful view of his strong neck. His unruly curls are styled neatly for once and with the short stubble dusting his chin it's practically game over. He’s Santi, he rarely turns down showing a woman a good time– because that’s just what women deserve according to his creed– and being with your family means he’s pulled out all the stops, always trying to make a good impression.

You’ve been friends with Santi since college— you signed up to be pen pals with someone in the service. When you saw the name Santiago Garcia, you pictured some sauve man who wouldn’t give you the time of day if he’d seen you walking on the street. It made you nervous, and you didn’t send him a letter— except in a twist you never saw coming, he wrote you first.

You were correct, he was sauve— is sauve, but so incredibly charming. So understanding and playful in the short length of a single sentence. So devastatingly handsome. There was no resisting him. Your friendship with Santi unraveled parts of you that you were unaware of. The deep yearning, the lightness in your chest, the craving for adventure. With Santi by your side, whether in person or words on a page, opened a world for you. One you’re completely sure wouldn’t exist without him.

The first time you’d met six months after exchanging your first letters, you had to swallow the notion you’d been denying for months. You love him. Staring into his mischievous brown eyes, witnessing his bright smile for true and not just in the photo he’d sent you in one of his letters only solidified that. But, he’s Santi. You and Santiago… make sense as friends. And so you fake it. You fake not loving him until it’s almost believable.

“Cariño?” He calls again, breaking through the hazy thoughts of your mind.

You glance back at him for just a moment, and the smile that you flash him doesn’t touch your eyes, “Just needed some fresh air.”

“You’re gonna get a cold in this dress,” He murmurs, slipping out of his jacket as he closes the gap between you.

When he starts to drape the jacket over your shoulders, you turn to him, taking a step back, “I’ll be fine.”

The bite in your voice, the way you don’t look at him as you say it makes him realize that he’s done whatever’s put you in this state. He ignores you, wrapping you in the jacket before pulling you a little closer, dipping on his knees so that he can try to catch your gaze.

His eyes are pleading, “What’d I do? Just tell me, I’ll make it better, you know I will.”

“There’s nothing to say,” You insist stubbornly, looking down at where your feet are buried in the sand. You wiggle them, trying to do anything to distract you from this conversation you and Santi are on the cusp of. Maybe he’ll give up.

He sighs, using a finger to raise your chin so you must look at him. And when you try to pull away, his thumb grips you, holding you in place, “There’s plenty to say if you’re upset, so let’s stop playing this game, yeah?”

You fix him with an empty stare that chills him to the bone. “Fine, there’s nothing I feel like saying. Happy?”

He glares at you, tightening his grip on your chin, “Fuck, no, you know I’m not. Words. Speak. Tell me, right now, cariño.”

Getting both of your hands on his chest, you push him back gently, forcing him to let go of you. Angrily, you murmur, “Would you stop with the cariño and the puppy dog eyes, for fucks sake. Go back inside, I’m sure the girls miss you.”

Santi takes a step toward you, and he’s close enough that you instinctively take a step back— he prevents it though, grabbing you by the lapel of his jacket so you’re cemented in place. Santi’s eyes widen to an almost comical size as he realizes what’s happening.

Are you…jealous? Jealous that others would look at him, that he might be theirs. Do you want him?

“Is that what this is about?” His question is vague so as not to make a fool of himself.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m here for you.”

“I asked you to come with me, of course, you’re here for me. Not standing around while you whisk women out on the dance floor would be nice,” You grumble, fiddling with the lapel of his jacket so that you won’t have to meet his gaze.

“No, I’m here for you,” His other hand raises, cupping your freezing cold cheek.

“Don’t, please, I can’t. It’s not the same for us Santi. It’s never been the same for us,” You whisper desperately.

“You think I give a fuck about anybody in there but you? Do you? Hmm?”

You open your mouth to answer, though you’re not sure what you would say. He continues to speak, not even giving you a chance.

“You think I wore this ridiculous fucking suit to impress your cousins?”

“I…I don’t know what you mean,” You repeat, swallowing to try to rid your throat of its sudden thickness.

“You’re jealous?” He tests, too in disbelief to say it as a statement though there’s no other explanation for this.

Your mouth twitches, brow furrowing as you step back, “I am not.”

“I know when you’re lying, your mouth, it does this thing,” He says, eyes wandering your face with wonder.

Yes, you’re jealous. It thrills him— his heart pumping so loudly it drowns out the sounds of the tide.

“You’re jealous, and there’s no reason for you to be because I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, cariño. Understand?”

“What?” You whisper, taking yet another step back. You look like a wild animal, like prey looking predator in the eye, desperate for an escape route.

“I’m here for you— I need you. There’s no one else,” He murmurs, taking a slow step toward you.

“Is…is this real?” You stutter out, the fear in your voice palpable to both of you.

Slowly as not to scare you away, he takes both of your hands, pressing one to his chest, the other to his stubble-covered cheek as he gazes down at you, “Does this feel real? Do I?”

You blink rapidly at the feel of his stubble beneath your palm. It’s a new sensation, it almost tickles and his skin is warm despite the chill of the night.

“You’ve never felt real to me,” You admit quietly. “You came into my life like a shooting star, I’ve just been…”

“Yeah? What’ve you been doing?” He encourages softly.

“I’ve just been waiting for you to disappear like all shooting stars do.”

“I could never leave you, baby, don’t you get it? From the first letter…I knew. I knew,” He repeats firmly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You grumble, your hand twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

A humorless laugh leaves his throat, “You’re the most unreal thing I’ve ever had. I thought— I was afraid you would slip through my fingers. That I’d wake up and you wouldn’t be there, that this is all a dream. I don’t get things like this. I don’t deserve you. I got lucky. I’ve been waiting for you to disappear, can you believe that, cariño?”

“That could never be true. Walking away isn’t an option for me, trust me, I’ve tried to free myself from the torment that is having feelings for you.”

“Sweetheart—“

You cut him off, seeing the disbelief in his eyes, “It’s not, Santiago. It’s not, there is nothing more that I could ever want more than you. I want you so much that I can’t breathe.”

“Then I’m yours. All of me, for you.”

“This is unbelievable.”

“Believe it,” He implores, cupping both of your cheeks and pulling you closer. Your eyes flutter shut in anticipation but then he stops, his mouth brushing against your cheeks as he begs for you, Let me kiss you. Please, I’ve wanted it for so fucking long, querida, let me?”

“Yes,” You breathe, trembling against him. He smells divine, like fresh linen, a soft summer breeze, and something uniquely Santi.

You allow yourself to get lost in it, to get lost in him for the first time because it’s safe. He’s right here, getting lost with you.

He presses his mouth to yours and groans, gripping your face so tightly that his hands ache. He forces himself to take a step back and let you go, chest heaving as his eyes roam your face for any evidence of discomfort.

“W-why’d you stop?” You ask the whine evident in your voice despite its breathy tone.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, kiss me again, Santi. Right now,” You demand as you bury a hand in the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

When Santi leans in once more to kiss you, you meet him eagerly, capturing his lips in a bold move that only he could elicit from you. He falters for a moment, still in shock that this is happening before he matches your passion, one arm curling around your waist while his other hand cups the back of your head so that he can dip you.

You smile into the kiss, gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter on instinct as he tips you back. It's impossible to not know that Santi’s a charmer and flirt even upon first meeting him, but this is different. You can feel the way he forces himself to be delicate with you despite his hunger. All of this is as painstakingly romantic as it is cheesy, something you’d never expected despite knowing him so well.

He breaks the kiss when he feels you clutching him, nuzzling his nose against yours as he whispers, “I won’t drop you.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that his words are true. Through everything, Santi has only ever done his best to take care of you, he’s shown up for you as much as you would let him. Now that you both have been honest with each other his devotion to you will only grow sweeter and deeper.

You grin up at him, closing the small space between you to press the tenderest kiss to his mouth, “I know.”

santi taglist: @honeybrowne, @jitterbugs927, @theconsultingdoctor10, @tanzthompson, @siezethenights, @clairevoyanceee, @moonmalice, @tiffanypooh, @dearvirtualdiary-blog1, @marc-spectorr, @xbellaxcarolinax, @toracainz, @roseqzpd, @rosecentaur1916, @mccn-bcys, @hotchs-bitch, @missdictatorme

#santi garcia x reader #santi garcia x fem!reader #santi garcia fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #arson writes randos

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spacecowboyhotch · 5 months

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thank you for the tag @thelightsandtheroses ❤️ rules: Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 🤍

Ambrosial (din djarin x black!fem!reader)

my first time writing a proper fic for din that isn’t an au or smut. v v proud of this one for its representation for black readers <3

By Chance* (jonathan levy x f!reader)

the first thing i wrote that wasn’t hotch. it was a big step for me and i really love the push & pull between these two.

Blurring Out (santi garcia x f!reader)

i’m a bigggg proponent of simp boy santi & i love friends to lovers. the tenderness between these two pre and post confessions is just something i really enjoy. i wish i had more to write for them.

So Choose (aaron hotchner x f!reader)

i’ve written a lot of hotch in my day but his potential new flame reminding him of something haley once said in a dream about happiness and love just really felt like i had a big brain!

Blossoms & Whiskers (jake lockley x f!reader)

i’ve been obsessed with jake as of late and growing more comfortable writing for him (thanks to a lovely lovely human). really just love writing soft, sweet things for him.

no pressure tag: @juneknight @soft-girl-musings @eyelessfaces @campingwiththecharmings @masterwords @lesbianhotch @mccn-bcys @saturn-rings-writes @cptn-nash @sequinsmile-x @flightlessangelwings @greg-montgomery

#tag game

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the-dendrophile-bookdragon · 2 years

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I Hate You (Affectionately) Part 18

Summary: Once you were friends. But everything changed one day…

Pairing: Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x fem!reader

Warnings: childhood friends to enemies to adult lovers, slow burn, Santi is an idiot, angst, cheating, talk of pragnacy, fighting, toxic relatioship

From that night on the dizziness became worse every day. Every morning you woke up with a heavy head and a spinning room. Your stomach started to rebel against you on day seven. You had to pack two extra shirts for over a week.

Currently you were sitting on the floor of the office bathroom taking deep breaths. Your lunch was down the drain. You weighted your possibilities, nearly calling Sif and explaining your symptoms to her. The more air filled your lungs the better you felt. After you felt better you stood up and rinsed out your mouth with water.

Slowly you made your way out of the bathroom and back to your office. You worked on some documents, finished deals and chated with potential new clients. You were so focused on your work you didn’t registered Olivia entering your space.

She held a paper bag in her hand and had a motherly, warm smile on her face. She stepped next to you, putting a hand on your shoulder. You jumped in your seat before looking up.

Olivia held out her hand with the bag inside. Her smile never wanishing from her painted lips. „Sweetie, I got you these. Take an early break and please call me if you need emotional support.“ You only nodded before taking the paper bag. You looked inside and saw it full of pregnancy tests. “Take my restroom next to my office. Here is the key. I forgot to make you your own one. I will call the keysmith right away.” You nodded and began to walk to the private toilet.

It felt like a walk of shame to the bathroom. Not like the times you made a sprint. You had other things to worry about. Now your mind was empty of thoughts.

As you put the key in and turned it Santi walked bye. Both of you stopped in your tracks. A lump formed in your throat.

Santi’s breath stuck in his throat. His mind went black. He didn’t know what to say. He left you with the promise of coming back but he broke the promise and probably the last ounce of trust you had left for him. “I-I-“ He tried to say anything to you ut his mind blacked out.

You smiled awkwardly before opening the door and all but running in. Santi tried to follow you but you were faster and closed the door in front of his face.

Walking over to the sink you emptied the bag. It felt like Olivia bought every brand of pregnancy tests available. You took the first package you reached for and opened it. One after the other you used them. You put a timer in on and sat down.

Santi was still standing outside. He heart light shuffling inside before he heard a sound he never wanted to hear. Your light sobs could be heard from outside the door. Santi wanted to run down the door, explain why he left and hold you in his arms. His heart bleed for you.

He hadn’t had to wait too long. The door opened and you came out with the same paper bag you went inside. Tears streamed down your face. You couldn’t look at him. You brushed past him and ran to your office. Closing it and never stepping out.

Months went by. Every time Santi tried to talk to you ran past him or gave him a lame excuse. He got fed up after month four. He walked into the break room and saw you fixing yourself a cup of tea. You looked up and stared at him like a dear caught in the head lights of his car.

You tried to run out of the room yet again but Santi blocked your escape route. “Let me explain.” “No!” Santi scrunged up his nose. He huffed, “I am fed up and can’t stomach this bullshit between us. Let me-“ “You will not! I have had enough! You told me once that if I marry this douche it would be my biggest mistake. But it was sleeping with you. I thought you cared for me but I was wrong. I don’t wanna see you ever again.” Santi looked at you, irrigation and anger battling on his face. He scoffed, “Well princess. That wish I can’t grant. We work together.”

You rolled your eyes and sneered at him, “Thank god I have an assistant now.” That was a total lie. Olivia asked you if you wanted one but you declined. Santi’s mimic changed. It changed to a sarcastic sneer. “Good for you!” “Yes it is!” You defensively but your hands over your stomach. It made some flipps but you ignored them. “I need every help I can get! You should stop obsessing over me and fix the mess you have with Lory.” Santi was confused. His stupidly perfect eyebrows wrinkled. He cocked his hips to the side. His hands flew to his hips, “What do you mean?” You looked down onto the floor. You played with the sleave of your blouse, He caught the first part. “Thanks to you my child will have to grow up without a father.” Santi’s eyes widened. He tried to speak but only stumbled over his words.

You shook your head before running out of the room. You ran off to your office and locked it. You jumped as you saw your surrogate mother sitting in your chair. She stood up before embracing you into a tight, warm hug. “Oh sweetie. Everything will be alright. We will figure it out.”

Santi went home early. He was too wound up to keep working for today. He tried to call Frankie or will but both went straight to voice mail. He sighted and opened the door to his apartment. Lory was sitting on the couch surfing through diverse clothing websites. He rolled his eyes at her. She looked up from her laptop and fixed Santi with a passive aggressive stare. She somehow knew about the night. She was the reason why he never returned to you. He still couldn’t believe what both of them did and how stupid he actually was.

He tried to fight the pull. But he was like an addict who needed his next fix. Lory was personified poison and you were the cure. But he was too stupid to realize and drank from the poison time and time again.

He bumped into her on his way back to your apartment. Only a fake sweet smile and the clambering of her enchanting eyes and he was under her spell. Lory all but dragged him back to his apartment. You in the back of his mind.

Currently Lory was sitting on his couch in one of his old shirts he hated. She was lazily surfing through clothing websites and occasionally buying stuff. Santi rolled his eyes. You would never impulsively shop online and buy things you would throw out a month later. Benny had to buy you a new sweater because it had gigantic holes in it. You cried as he threw it away but snuggled into the new one half an hour later.

He smiled at the image of you stealing his things and snuggling in them. Lory looked over and saw Santi daydreaming. She knew that face all too good. He had it every time after he met with the boys and you. “You love her Santi, don’t you?” Santi was startled by the sudden question. How could she possibly know? The man shook his head, “It was a long time ago.

Lory scoffed before closing her Laptop. “Oh really. And why is it every time she calls you sprint away like Superman to aid her?” Santi sighted, “Because she is pr-“ “Yeah, I know she is precious to you. Funny. I thought you two couldn’t stand each other.” Santi glared at her. They hated each other once. But over the years and thanks to Frankie they rebuild their friendship.”

“You know I heard she threw up the last two or three months. Carla thinks she might be pregnant. And she doesn’t seem like the type to have random one-night stands and get knocked up. And I think it’s not that douche you told me about she was going to get married to. Most pregnant brides don’t leave their husbands-to-be one week before the wedding and raise their baby alone. And she only had pregnancy symptoms a month after her supposed wedding. In fact, she has been pregnant the whole time we were dating.”

Lory looked at him with an open mouth and wide eyes, “You are the father. You cheated on me!” Santi held up a finger, “No, I did not. We were split for a month. You needed a break to find yourself. ” “Oh so now I am the bad guy!” Santi sighted and threw his hands up in frustration, “No one is to blame!” “Yeah well, you are. You didn’t wear a condom and now look at what you did.”

Santi turned to her with an icy glare “Choose your words wisely, that kid is my kid and I won’t let you insult it or their mother. If you want a bad guy, take me Lory. But leave the child and mother out of it. Both are innocent.” Lory huffed, “Funny. And I thought it takes two to tango. You know what. I played the second violin for far too long. Go to her. Your innocent baby mommy.” Lory was right. He never had strong feelings for her. She was just a place holder.

“Behind the goody-two-shoe facade lays the face of a two-faced snake.” Santi’s demeanour changed drastically, “I said, don’t drag her into the mud. It was my fault I should have stopped. But I let my emotions get the better of me. And I thank every deity who listens to my silent prayers for this child. Because it made me realize how much I love their mother. And thank you for showing your true face, Lorelei. You showed me how a goody-two-shoe can turn to a venomous snake. Here is the door, go to Laura, I sent your thinks to her apartment. And by the way, next time you accuse someone of cheating, don’t do it yourself.”

Lory scoffed, “You can’t break up with me so easily-“ “Oh I can. You did it many times through our relationship. In fact, this isn’t even a relationship. We broke up a month ago. We always split up when this thing between us get too serous for you. After the next ten one night stand you crawl back to me. I am not your fluffer, Lory. I am not that kind of man. I want a partnership with someone on the same level as I. An equal. Not a child who can’t decide which candy it wants.”

Lory’s mouth fell open. “How-“ “Leave this is my last warning!” Lory stood up and stomped through the whole apartment packing her things. She tried to drag out the process but she was pushed on by Santi.

After the Lory was gone he grabbed his car keys and drove as fast as he could to you. It began to rain. He had to park a few blocks away from your apartment. He ran even as his knees and lungs burned. He ran up all the stairs till he reached your floor. He knocked at your door a little too loud but he didn’t care.

You opened the door. Before you could even asked what he wanted this late he spoke first. “I love you! I have for as long as I knew you and had the privilege to be your friend. I am sorry for every time I hurt you. If you wanna punish me, do it as painful as you want. Shoot me, love another man and let him be the father to our child. Move to another state and never contact me. Revoke my right to care for my child. Hurt me till all my parts bleed.” He took a deep breath. Tears and raindrops mixed before running down his heated cheeks.

You looked at him for the first time. He was tripping wet. You moved away from your door, “Come in. I my want to do a lot of things you listed. But I know I would bleed with you. Come on. I have things from Benny that might fit you.” You smiled softly, “Let’s talk.”

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Taglist

@nightlockcornucopia @katzenwahnsinn @celess02-blog @stvnnie

#santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia fanfiction #santiago garcia imagine #santiago pope garcia #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x you #i hate you (affectionately)

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the-dendrophile-bookdragon · 2 years

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I Hate You (Affectionately) Part 10

A/N: Finally finished with part 10. Wohoo! Hope you enjoy it!

Summary: Once you were friends. But everything changed one day…

Pairing: Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x fem!reader Warnings: childhood friends to enemies to adult lovers, slow burn, hospitals, Santi is an idiot

I Hate You (Affectionately) Masterlist

You woke up from a hazy dream. You couldn’t remember all of it but one detail is very present in your mind. You don’t know how but you dreamed about Benny flirting with your nurse, Sif. You shook your head and turned to your bedside table to grab the cup of water. The liquid running down your throat like silk.

You looked out of the window and watched the wind sweep through the canopies of the trees. Benny came by later and kept you company until Frankie and his Family visited. You saw Sif peer into the room before sneaking away, Benny following her. You smirked and told your suspicion to the man sitting on the chair next to you.

After a while Frankie left and you were alone again. You turned on the TV only to turn it right off due to the lack of good entertainment. You sighed and began to watch the birds as they flew through the sky.

Slow steps could be heard from the hallway. You looked at the door and saw the black locks of Santi. “Hey there, bubbles. How are ya doing?” You chuckled before wincing, “Don’t call me bubbles. I’m fine. Head and my back hurt but that’s it. How come you are here after visiting hours?”

Santi smirked, “I’m good at sneaking.” He winked at you as you rolled your eyes. You could see the nervousness of the man standing before you. You always had the gift to read peoples body language like they were an open book, much to the dismay of your boy band.

“Santi? What’s on your mind?” He sighted. Pulling out the chair next to the bed you were laying on he sat down and held his head in his hands. His face was obscured by his large hands. His shoulders began to shake, his breathing was uneven and riddled with hick ups. He mumbled something under his breath you couldn’t understand. “Santi, I can’t understand you.” He looked up from his hands. Bloodshot, teary eyes looked into your worried ones.

Santi looked even handsome while he was crying. Often you found it unfair how incredibly attractive he was while crying.

“I thought I loose you for good. The doctor said it was bad. I was so scared I couldn’t visit you after you were out of surgery. I even told Frankie to excuse me every time you ask why I am not here. I-“ He broke of his sentence. A deep, agonizing sob escaped his lips, “You are too important to me. Please don’t leave me alone so early.”

You wanted to answer him but couldn’t. Santi sprang up from his seat and leand over your body. You were too perplexed to understand what was happening till it was too late. Santi kissed you. But you didn’t have the chance to return it. He was gone in a blink of an eye.

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@nightlockcornucopia @katzenwahnsinn

#santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia fanfiction #santiago garcia imagine #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia x you #santiago garcia #I

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mrs-lockley · 3 years

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that would be enough

pairing: santiago “pope” garcia x woc!reader

summary: santi comes home with an ache in his bones. but around you, maybe the pain isn’t as painful as it used to be.

word count: 2.4k

warnings: angst, brief mentions of blood and the fragility of human bones (nothing explicit), hurt/comfort

author’s note: just a little something that’s been in my drafts that i wanted to finish, thank you for being patient with me.

The Santiago Garcia Comfort Series: Part 1 / Part 2

gif credit: @nathan-bateman

tagging: @writefightandflightclub @propertyofabelmorales @houseofthirst @themarcusmoreno @staarshines @commandersousa @zoriis @slfreya @woakiees

Santi had come home from the VA later than usual that evening, the sky darkened in blackness by the time he stepped inside your home. Aside from his civilian job at the woodshop, he had talked to you about helping Will at the VA from time to time, promising you that he would try to come home before the sky would become too dark. You had smiled through the phone at the sound of his familiar voice, gently telling him that you would be fine and for him to take his time.

Just come home safe, you whispered.

I’ll always come home to you.

But he had been quieter than usual during dinner, his voice unlike the same comforting tone that you had heard on the phone an hour ago.

Everything okay? You asked as you watched him wash the dishes.

The corners of his lips quirked into the ghost of a smile as he cradled the cup in his hands.

Cradled, you noticed. Cradled as if it were about to break.

You always loved watching his hands. As you watched him set the cup down in the open dishwasher (a drying rack, the two of you had argued one night against the Miller Brothers), you knew about where those hands have been, what those hands have done. They have not always been gentle and kind as the way those hands have loved and cherished you. Those hands have hurt, have maimed, have killed.

There was red on those hands. No matter how hard he tried to scrub it off, the red would remain.

Perhaps those were the same thoughts running through his head as you found him lingering in the hallway, his eyes fixed on the frame hanging on the wall.

(You didn’t have to look to know which photo he was looking at.)

You were no stranger to the man standing in the hallway. You knew about his service in the Delta Force and the years he spent in Colombia. The battles he fought, the scars he harbored… The unspoken trauma that lingered, hovering over him like a knife behind his neck.

(He never said anything, but you already knew about the scar.)

It was a Saturday night when Santí first told you about Colombia. The two of you had come home from dinner at Frankie’s to his apartment at that time, your mascara a mess after the two of you ran from the parking lot to the gate in the rain. He had accidentally given you one of his old shirts from the military when you caught him staring at the shirt for a moment too long.

It was the first time you’d seen him broken down, but not in the ways that you expected. You sat on the bedroom floor beside him with your back to the bed, watching the man before you fall back into that afternoon, his eyes vacant at the shadow at his feet.

(You knew that look all too well.)

The man standing in the hallway before you was not the same man you had fallen in love with, that much you knew. Santiago Garcia was a different man before you, haunted by the skeletons in his closet, the blood on his hands.

The two of you were not that different.

So you gently tugged at his hand and out of the hallway, your voice soft as you asked him if he would join you in the shower.

The water pours over you in weighted kisses as you stand behind Santí, watching him wash the shampoo out of his hair. But your eyes drift to the harsh bright line on the back of his neck, trailing along the curve of his spine like a flash of lightning in a dark sky.

Santí had tried to hide it from you the more serious your relationship had become. He had always tried to top and maneuver himself around you so you couldn’t see how far it ran down his back, couldn’t guess just how much pain that followed. You had seen it peek out a few times whenever you saw him adjust the collar of his shirt on a few humid nights, but you found out after you overheard him talk to the crew about the real reason for his neck surgery.

You trace your fingers along the curves of his shoulders and down his spine, not noticing that Santí had lowered his arms and finished washing his hair, trying to anticipate your next movement.

But you don’t say anything. Your fingers speak for you instead, tracing over the jagged surface of his scar with the warm water washing over you.

Washing all over you and him, washing everything away. The weight of the sky on his shoulders, the weight of your walls on your chest.

Instinctively, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the back of his neck, right at the tip of his scar.

And down, down the lightning scar, from the tip at the base of his neck to the small of his back. One kiss after the other, your lips trail along his back, your hands tenderly following after.

Neither of you say anything, not until you reach his neck again.

You wrap your arms around him from behind and lay your cheek against his back.

“Does it still hurt?” You ask quietly.

His hands wrap around yours, giving you a slight squeeze before raising your palm to his lips with a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Not anymore.”

…

He didn’t deserve you.

You were too good for him, that much he knew. As you toweled your hair in the bathroom, Santí sat with his back to the headboard of your bed, trying to read an article you wrote for work about advocating and empowering underrepresented students in academia. You had given a complete research presentation to your supervisors at work to persuade them to keep the funding that the institution provided for students last week, and you had yet to hear back from them.

Santí had helped you prepare for the presentation a couple weeks ago, even invited the boys through Zoom as you presented in front of them for practice. You were dressed to the nines (save for the fuzzy Ewok slippers that Benny had bought you for your birthday a few months prior) as you rehearsed in front of them, attentively cataloging their feedback whenever you straightened your posture, projected your voice, or even threw in a well-timed joke until you did not have to look at your index cards to present.

The whole time, Santí had sat in the back with a soft smile on his face, completely in awe of you. A few years ago, he never would have thought he would be where he was now, sitting at the kitchen table with you on the other side of the table, holding your laptop as a makeshift projector of your presentation with his brothers chipping in their feedback from their screens. The same kitchen table where your family and his parents had gathered for a couple holidays now, exchanging presents and food and different languages that he had yet to pick up on.

(He only realized you had gotten a lot better at your Spanish after practicing with Frankie when you told him one evening that you overheard his parents telling him that they wanted grandchildren, only for you to add that the Miller Brothers and Frankie were already their grandchildren.)

And he knew you had thought the same as well. You tried your best to hide it, but even when you tried to hide behind your hair or say your allergies were causing your eyes to tear up, he caught the misty look in the corner of your eyes, only to be concealed with a smile.

“Hey darling,” he looks up to find you in one of his old shirts as you take a seat next to him on the bed. “Have I told you that you look even more handsome with those glasses?”

Santí could not help but laugh as you girlishly twirled a strand of your hair around your finger while batting your eyelashes at him. “You may have mentioned it once or twice. C’mere.”

He spreads his legs for you to sit between them, your back to his chest as he wraps his arms around your shoulders to pull you closer to him.

“What were you reading?”

“Your paper.”

“Oh?”

He smiles softly as he leans forward and tenderly kisses your cheek. “Have I told you that you’re amazing?”

You lean back against him, your fingers lacing with his as you rest your entwined hands on your soft tummy.

(His heart still swells every time he sees your wedding ring on your finger.)

You hum, your hair hiding your teasing smile as you mirror his words. “You might have mentioned it once or twice.”

Santí smirks as he moves to kiss your other cheek, smiling at the sound of your giggle. “Poor baby … maybe I need to remind you again just how intelligent—kiss—eloquent—kiss—passionate—kiss—and beautiful you are.”

Soft peals of laughter fall from your lips as he brings you closer, purposely rubbing his prickly stubble across your chin and neck to hear you laugh again.

“You need to shave! You’re just as scruffy as a bear!” You gasp between fits of laughter and try to pull away from him.

Except he’s too fast. Before you could escape, the soldier had pulled you back and peppered your neck with several kisses, rubbing his prickly stubble against under your jaw and on your neck until you were crying from laughter.

“Are you sure you want me to shave?” He smirks as you laugh, lightly tapping his arm as a sign of surrender. “That’s not what you were telling me the other night when—“

“—shhhh, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you giggle as you turn around so that you’re fully seated on his lap, your face flushed from laughing.

Gently, Santí traces his knuckles against your cheeks, a soft smile on his lips as he looks at you.

Sensing the change in mood, you lean forward until your forehead rests against his with your hands on his chest, your eyes fluttering closed at the warmth of his fingertips delicately grazing against your cheek before his lips find yours.

By the time you pull away, his hands rest on the space where your shoulders meet your neck, the pads of his fingers gently skimming over your pulse beneath your jaw.

You respond by tracing your thumb over his parted lips with a soft kiss to his nose. “You okay?”

A small smile spreads across his lips as he runs his hands from your neck and down your arms before resting on top of your thighs.

“I am now that you’re here,” he whispers.

And that was the thing about you, Santí realized later that night as he listened to you sleep beside him, your breath rising and falling like the steady waves of the ocean. Around you … everything hurt less. The cracked scar on his spine stung less than it used to. The weight in his knees is a little less burdensome.

If he dared to call you an angel, you would scoff and roll your eyes, chiding him for being over dramatic.

Maybe you weren’t an angel, like the stories he heard from his parents growing up whenever they went to mass on Sundays. You were not a painting or a sculpture to be admired or seen. You were far from it.

You were you, with all your wit and sarcasm, your humor, your kindness, your sweetness, and that was more than enough for him.

Sometimes, he worried he would not be enough for you.

Before he could stumble down that path, your warm hands reached around him, your leg tangling with his under the blanket as you tucked your arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer to you, your head on his chest.

Quietly, Santí looks down and gently grasps your head, lightly dragging his fingers across your scalp.

Hands that stained red. Red on his palms, red on his fingertips. The bones that have cracked bones, the bones that have-

How fragile you were beneath his fingertips. Through your soft breath on his neck, the soldier could easily trace the outline of your skull with precision, almost as if he were dissecting the bone on a cold table in an artificial light. How easy it would be for him to split it open with the screams of the skeletons in his closet rattling through his bones.

But as he looks down at you, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks, your relaxed lips resting against the column of his throat, he chases those thoughts away.

After a moment, he whispers softly. “I thought you were asleep.”

At first, Santí thinks you must have fallen back asleep. But he hears your tired voice laced with sleep, your voice a gentle whisper. “It’s too quiet.”

A small smile spreads across his lips as he chuckles softly. Of course. The first time the two of you had taken a nap together, you told him you couldn’t sleep because of his snores.

How funny that years later, the sound you once hated became the very sound you needed for comfort in the night.

Slowly, Santí presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand trailing down to your thigh as he traces soft circles on your skin. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t say anything, but you didn’t need to. Your warm hands gently grasp his bicep, your thumb caressing his skin as the familiar scent of your shampoo brings him back to the present, back to the world resting right on top of him.

It wouldn’t be long before the two of you drift apart, but every morning, you find your way back to each other, limbs tangled with limbs, sheets tangled between different joints and bones.

And in the morning, Santí would find you in the bathroom getting ready for work, testing out the different shades of lipstick on the back of your hand. You would talk to him over breakfast after he had slipped the honey in your tea, but before he grabbed a piece of toast without you looking.

But that morning, Santí would find an extra cream in his coffee, and a peeled clementine wrapped carefully in a napkin with your handwriting etched across a sticky note.

For now, in the whispers of the early morning, you press yourself against his back with your hands entwined with his.

And the scar on the back of his neck stinging a little less than yesterday.

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