#santiago garcia x ofc
Text
Caught
Summary: Santiago inviting you and Frankie for his house warming party over the weekend leaves you to spend some nights at his new place. Getting up in the middle of the night to get some water, leaves you finding Santi and his girlfriend in the kitchen. Unable to look away Frankie finds you and decided to have some fun with you too.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem. reader / Santiago Garcia x OFC
Rating: E
Wordcount: 3.5k
Warnings: established relationship, accidental voyeurism, dub con (just cause people are being watched without their consent but the watched people do not mind in the end) smut (oral; fem receiving, unprotected PiV), fluff, dirty talk (the word slut is used twice)
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You usually weren’t a big fan of being stuck in a car for two hours. But Santiago Garcia did not buy a house to settle down with his girlfriend (soon to be fiance) of two years and invite for a housewarming party every day.
And you were always a fan of spending time with Frankie.
You looked at him from the passenger's seat, one of his hands on the steering wheel, the other one on your thigh. He had the aviators on that you gifted him for his last birthday after he broke the pair he had before. The gray shirt he was wearing was tight around his upper arms and you could see a tiny bit of the tattoo he got earlier this year.
God he was gorgeous.
“See something you like?” he hummed, a smirk sneaking to his lips as he caught you staring, his hand squeezing your thigh.
“See something I love,” you clarified and he smiled, his dimple showing and you swore you could see his cheeks blushing.
You and Frankie have known each other since you were four years old. Growing up as neighbors until he left to join the army made you spend endless summers together.
But you hadn’t started dating until a little over six years ago.
With him joining the army and you eventually going abroad to study you very much lost contact. After you got your degree you moved to Boston for work and only came back to the tiny town you grew up in for family celebrations or holidays.
But then your mother died and you decided it was time to go back home to help your father.
It was on your 26th birthday that Frankie showed up on the doorstep of your childhood home with a box of donuts and a bottle of whiskey, looking like he had been through hell and back. You would only learn much later that he had been.
Your friendship really just picked up where you left off, just with you both legally allowed to drink booze and adult problems.
And feelings that hadn’t been there before.
You remembered that you talked on your birthday until the early morning hours, Frankie telling you little about the army, about the divorce he was going through, about his little girl he wanted to be the best father too, about his drug addiction. Much like you told him about the man you had broken up with before you moved back home because he insisted you stay where you belonged. With him in the city. He didn’t care about your family or your feelings for that matter.
Not that you thought you would marry the guy, but it still hurt to be so wrong in someone you loved.
He told you everything about his little daughter Carina. She was his whole world.
She was also the reason he and his ex-wife had tried to make their marriage work but decided in the end that they were better off as friends.
Carina and you became fast friends, even though you still think it was because of the huge amount of cookies you had baked with her and Frankie the first time he had invited you over to meet her.
You started to spend more time together after that.
You went on drives, you cooked together, you even went on a weekend trip into the woods where you met all his army brothers. It was the most fun trip you ever had been on.
But something changed throughout the months after that. Touches lingered longer. Hugs seemed… tighter and more intimate. And then came his 34th birthday.
His divorce was final, his three year old daughter was staying for the whole weekend and he had decided that it was time to teach her how to swim.
The three of you spend the whole day at the local swimming pool. You brought muffins and sang happy birthday for him with his daughter before he blew out the one candle you had put on one of the muffins.
When you asked him if he made a wish he only nodded at you with a small smile.
It was the perfect day.
Carina fell asleep before Frankie’s truck was even off the car park, making both of you chuckle. You stopped to pick up pizza on your way home, you insisted you pay because after all it was his birthday. When you came out of the pizza place, Frankie was leaning against his car, waiting for you.
You put the pizza on your seat, waiting for him to go back to the car but he didn’t so you leaned next to him against the car, bumping your shoulder towards his.
He took a deep breath before he came to stand in front of you and you still could feel the butterflies in your belly when he looked into your eyes, his fingers brushing over your cheek. They never really went away since that day.
“What did you wish for Frankie?” you had asked and he had smiled softly.
“A birthday kiss,” he whispered. You licked your lips.
“Then come and get it,” you whispered back.
You would never forget this first kiss with him in the parking spot in front of a pizza place in your home town.
That was six years ago and you have only grown closer ever since.
By now not only your family but all friends were asking when you would get married and have children on your own.
Both you and Frankie told them to fuck off on a regular basis but they did not seem to get the hint.
If they knew you had been married for the last three years they would lose their minds. You got married on a beach while you were both on vacation in mexico. The only witness the older man who married you early in the morning at sunrise.
But Frankie and you had a bet going how long it would take for anyone to notice.
When he had asked you to marry him you had gotten him a ring too, so seeing the both of you with rings was not something out of the ordinary.
“Can you believe that he’s going to propose?” you asked Frankie when you entered the town Santi had moved into. He had started his own Security firm here and met Tina, his girlfriend, who owned the flower shop across the street from his office.
You had heard the story a million times, but the thought of Santiago Garcia buying all kinds of flowers on an almost daily basis for a month until he had finally asked her out still made you laugh.
“I couldn’t believe Benny getting married too, so anything is really possible,” Frankie joked and you laughed.
You would be staying at Santi’s place for four nights. The house warming party was in two days and Frankie had agreed to help Santi with the finishing touches of the back porch which left you and Tina mostly laying in the garden, watching your men sweat and work shirtless while offering occasional Lemonade.
You were very thankful the guest bedroom was in the basement when Frankie railed you in the shower after, his hand over your mouth to suppress your moans.
Sex with Frankie was ….
You still couldn’t believe he was the first man who ever made you cum on his cock. He was only satisfied when he made you cum at least twice.
The day before the housewarming party you spend with Tina in the kitchen. Helping her prepare some salads and dips and things for the party on the next day while Frankie and Santi finished the work on the porch and started putting tables and chairs together.
“I’m gonna make dessert when we come back from dinner,” Tina said. You wanted to argue but she waved you off.
“Santi is gonna help me. He has a hand for all things sweet,” she winked and you grinned.
You were very tired after dinner. And maybe a little tipsy.
Frankie and you invited them both to a Chinese restaurant where you ate way too much sushi.
Seeing Santi so in love with Tina was not something you ever thought you’d see. He had been living with Frankie for a while when you got back in contact with Frankie and he had a new girl every week. It went on until he decided to go back to Columbia for work.
You were happy to see him so content and happy with the woman he intended to spend the rest of his life with.
Once back at their home you didn’t fight to help with desert anymore, letting Frankie tuck you into bed where you fell asleep almost immediately, not even waking once Frankie got into bed with you after he had taken a shower.
You woke up hours later in his arms. One of his hand holding one of your breasts like every night. He argued he did it unintentionally but you knew how much he loved your tits.
Checking your phone you saw that it was just after 2 am. Sighing you carefully untangled from Frankie, feeling thirsty. Sadly you hadn’t gotten a new bottle of water before going to bed. You put one of Frankie’s shirts on (apparently Frankie had undressed you to your panties after you pretty much passed out) and opened the door to make your way to the kitchen.
You were climbing up the stairs when you thought you heard a moan. Stopping where you were standing you listened for more noise, taking the rest of the stairs. When you could look through the room, your head just on the ground level you heard another moan and you turned your head towards the noise, eyes widening when you saw what was going on.
Santiago’s house had an open floor plan on the ground floor. When you entered the house you were facing the stairs that lead to the first floor and the basement. The spacious living room lay on the left side, the kitchen on the right side.
The kitchen was huge, having two islands, one you were facing now where Tina was laying on top, her side facing you. Santi on his knees in front of her.
You knew you should turn around and look away but you seemed rooted to the spot.
His arms were wrapped around her thighs, keeping them apart as he went down on her. One of her hands was in his hair, her back arched, her eyes closed, her other hand made into a fist which she pressed against her mouth to keep herself, quite unsuccessfully, quiet.
“Fuck baby keep doing that,” she whispered and you heard Santi hum against her.
You felt yourself getting turned on, your panties dampening with your arousal.
“Fingers… need… fuck give me two fingers,” Tina moaned lowly and you saw Santi bring one of his hands between her legs before she whimpered as two of his finger pushed inside of her.
You closed your eyes, deciding that this is not something you should be watching, before taking a deep breath and turning around to go back down to wake up Frankie so he could fuck you, when you collided with someone. Just so stopping yourself from yelping you looked up, already knowing it was Frankie. You parted your lips to tell him to turn around when he put one of his fingers in front of his lips, his head turning towards the kitchen.
He was completely naked, his cock already half hard.
You gulped, following his line of sight.
He turned his head back towards you and you caught Frankie’s eyes, before he leaned down, his lips against your ear.
“I saw you watching them,” he whispered and you shivered. His hands came to rest on your hips, taking a step down so you couldn’t see into the kitchen anymore he towered over you.
His eyes were now on your friends in the kitchen and you sucked your bottom lip in as you heard Tina moan.
“I think he’s gonna make her cum baby….” Frankie whispered, his eyes now finding yours again. He took a step closer, two fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties to push them all the way down, you stepping out of them, before his hand cupped your pussy.
“Fuck you’re so wet,” his fingers parted your folds, slipping through your wet slit.
You let your head fall back against the wall.
“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” you heard Tina moan and you released a shuddering breath.
“Frankie…” you whispered. He shook his head slowly.
“Shh listen….” he hummed, nodding upstairs and you did. Hearing Santi’s girlfriend fall apart as she tried to keep quiet, her moans echoing through the room.
“Fuck baby you’re so sexy. My little cock slut,” you heard Santi say and Frankie’s eyes found yours.
“Gonna fuck this pussy so good we gonna wake up the whole neighbor hood,” he continued and you felt one of Frankie’s fingers enter you.
You heard a slap and you were dying to see what was happening in the kitchen.
“That turn’ you on? Making Frankie and his girl wake up to find me fucking you in the kitchen?” Santi asked.
“Fuck baby….” she moaned and your lips parted when Frankie pushed another finger inside of you, pumping them slowly, his other hand pushing your shirt up. You helped him, pulling it over your head, throwing it down. He cupped your breast, playing with your nipple.
“You want them to hear what a slut you are for my cock?” you heard Santi ask and Frankie bend down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. Your hands flew up into his hair.
His lips wandered up your neck, his lips against your ear as he moved his fingers inside of you.
“When I woke up you were gone and I got up to find you and maybe fuck you in the kitchen,” Frankie said and you whimpered, very quietly.
“But then I found you watching my best friend fuck his girlfriend…” he sucked on your earlobe and you let one of your arms fall down, your hand wrapping around his cock. You let your thumb brush over the wet tip of his cock.
“Who would have known my little wife is getting turned on from watching our friends fuck?” he looked at you then, his lips finding yours, swallowing your moan as he added another finger, stretching you out for his cock.
“Fuck me already baby,” you head from upstairs and you pushed Frankie away. He looked at you confused until you knelt down on the stairs, getting on all fours for him. Looking over your shoulder you caught a glance of Santi pumping his cock with his hand and lining himself up to sink into his girlfriend with a satisfied groan. You caught Frankie’s eyes, smirking when you found his hand pumping his cock too.
“Fuck me,” you mouthed and he shook his head in mock disbelief, his chest rising in a silent chuckle.
You heard a long moan from the kitchen and cursing from Santi.
Frankie’s hands were on your ass, parting your cheeks. He spit on his cock, taking a step closer and you felt him notch the head of his cock against your slit.
You could hear Santi and Tina fucking, moaning from both filling the room, skin slapping on skin.
They were doing a shit job at keeping quiet but then again it was their house.
“Can you keep quiet?” Frankie whispered, pushing the tip of his cock inside.
“Can you?” you challenged, looking at him over your shoulder, biting your lip when he thrust his cock into you fully.
“Fuck baby you’re so wet,” Santi moaned and you let your head fall down between your shoulders, squeezing Frankie’s cock.
“If I knew getting caught turned you on so much, I would have fucked you in your shop,” a moan was heard from Tina and finally Frankie began to move.
“Oh shit,” you whispered, feeling his hand groping your hips as he pumped into you with deep thrusts.
He fucked into you, his thick cock stretching you and it felt so fucking good it took all your brainpower to keep yourself quiet. Frankie groaned quietly, giving you a hard thrust that made you moan.
The sounds of Santi fucking his girl were almost porn worthy. And they continued doing a terrible job of keeping quiet and it made you wonder if they might want to get caught.
Frankie fucked you harder and you moaned again, definitely too loud to not be caught. He stopped, his cock deep inside of you, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders as you waited if you had gotten caught.
You didn’t.
You looked at Frankie and he winked at you, before both of his hands wrapped over your mouth. He gave you a quick thrust and your eyes rolled back.
He used his grip as leverage, beginning to pump into you with short hard thrusts. You heard him groan quietly.
“Oh fuck, right there. Baby…. fuck you gonna make me cum,” Tina whimpered and you clenched around Frankie, making him choke on a moan.
You risked a glance towards the kitchen, now being able to see what was going on and fuck these two looked so fucking hot. Frankie kept fucking into you while you saw Santi pump his thick cock into his girlfriend who was still laying on the kitchen island. His hands were on her breasts, groping them and you sighed into Frankie’s hands, closing your eyes.
Frankie took a step up, his feet now next to yours on the stairs. He let go of his grip over your mouth and pushed your upper body down as his cock dove into you. The new angle made him hit your G Spot perfectly and you pressed your lips together, trying to keep quiet.
“Shit I’m gonna cum,” Santi groaned.
“Rub my clit,” Tina moaned and you heard her cry out a long fuck as she came. Santi following her only seconds later.
Frankie pumped harder into you and it was only seconds later that you fell apart, moaning as quiet as possible as he fucked you through your orgasm.
“Shit baby,” Frankie groaned in a whisper. You felt him twitch inside of you, and you clenched around him, squeezing his cock and he groaned, loud, as he spilled inside of you.
You leaned your head down, your arms laying on the stairs, breathing deeply as you still felt Frankie spill inside of you. He leaned down, his chest against your back as he kissed your shoulder.
You turned your head, smiling softly and he kissed you.
“There better not be any cum on the stairs, Fish,” you both heard Santi say and you jumped. Frankie’s arm came up to cover your tits as he pulled you up, both of you finding Santi and Tina looking at you with him still inside of her.
There was an amused grin on his lips and Tina seemed amused.
“No worries. Definitely no cum on your stairs,” you finally said and you all burst out in quiet laughter. Frankie kissed your cheek. You both took some stairs down and he pulled out of you. You felt his cum drip down your thighs and you reached for your panties to clean yourself while Frankie helped you back into your shirt.
Turning around you wrapped your arms around Frankie’s neck and kissed him softly. You heard footsteps behind you and turned your head, finding Santi standing on top of the stairs, wearing his sweatpants.
You sucked your bottom lip in, feeling guilty.
“I’m sorry. I woke up and wanted to get some water and when I walked up I heard you and I just…” Santi waved his hands. You saw Tina come up behind him, hugging him from behind.
“Next time just ask if you could join if you end up fucking,” Santi winked and you made big eyes, looking at Frankie who was still looking at him. You turned your head again, finding them both looking down at you.
Frankie’s hand ran down your back, groping your ass.
“Maybe we will,” he said and you looked at him, finding his eyes. It was like a silent conversation happened in the span of seconds before you turned your head to look at Santi and his girl again.
“Yeah. Maybe we will.”
#my fic#Frankie Morales x fem. reader#Frankie morales#Pedro pascal#Oscar isaac#Santiago Garcia x ofc#santiago garcia#fanficiton#fanfic#fan fiction
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Preview: Is this how it ends? 6
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Read on A03
Words: 5,218
A03
Rhea’s eyes fixed on the window as the sun rose on the horizon, golden rays of light cast across the sky like brushstrokes accompanied by oranges and blues.
The heaviness of a long night was now absent from the sky, but no matter how much sunlight streamed through the room, it still felt like midnight.
Rhea barely slept. She kept reliving the afternoon before, what she could have done differently if she kept her anger in check, and how good it felt, even in the context of the situation, to see Frankie’s face, finally. And, she was also worried about Will, she had to make sure he was okay with her own eyes too.
In order to do that, she’d need to gain some trust with Pope, which she might have ruined yesterday. She didn’t regret it, she was pissed, and sick of his games; at the same time, she needed to find a way to control herself so she could get on his good side.
When they got back to the house yesterday, she was locked away in the room, where she’s been since then. She had a small amount of food and some water delivered around 6pm by a guard, but Pope himself was a no show.
Rhea kicked the covers off then sat on the side of the bed, her eyes moving to the Armoire full of dresses and shoes. Even the actual closet had clothes in it he picked for her.
“Stuck in a fucking dollhouse.” she muttered with a frown.
Even the pajamas she wore were selected by him. Rhea got up and started to pace.
“Fine Pope, you want me to play, I’ll play,” she opened the closet and thumbed through the clothes while going over a plan in her head.
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More vibes of this trio aka Rheas phone
#dark! Pope#santiago pope garcia#Santiago Garcia x ofc#Frankie morales x ofc#Frankie morales#will miller#Benny miller#triple frontier fic
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Did You Think I Had Forgotten?
Word Count: 2.6k
Pairing: Santiago Garcia x f!reader (written in third person).
Warnings: Unprotected PiV. Talk of murder. Allusion to pregnancy loss (not spoken about in explicit detail). Fucking at a funeral.
Author's Note: This may be my favorite thing that I have written. It's right up there with Soft Cries and Sacred Oasis for me.
Masterlist | Ko-Fi | Ao3
He’s got a mean streak.
Deep beneath the calluses of his hands and the surface of his skin, it’s there; golden tan and mean as shit with hard set sable eyes. She’d be terrified if she didn't know any better, didn't know all the shades of softness that warm his cheeks in sun kissed, peach toned blooms.
Santiago Garcia, standing there with a half smile like it’s just another day. Like he’s been around for all this time and all these changes. Like he’s waiting for a hometown hero, movie star style kiss.
She’d fucking hate him if she could.
Not that loving him stopped her from chucking a half full glass of whiskey from halfway across the room.
He looks down when it shatters at his feet, the amber liquid bleeding into the black of his pants and the shine of his shoes, and looks up at her again. “You still put ice in your whiskey, Sandy Koufax?”
Ben’s hand fists into his shirt before he can open his mouth again, the starched, black fabric crunching in his grip as he pulls the shorter man away from the mess; the room; her.
If they were eccentric rich people, this could be written off as performance art—The Scorned Lover and the Man Who Ripped Her Apart. The true bullshit of it all is that he didn’t even have to try. It was all so simple for him, leaving the bed and a note. His cellphone number had been disconnected before he even reached the airport.
He didn’t even take his fucking clothes.
Back against the closed door, she closes her eyes to fight the welling tears. It’s been two—three?—years, her anger shouldn’t feel like this anymore. Shouldn’t feel so palpable and all encompassing. She got past that stage clinging onto Ben’s hand while his sister and Frankie tiptoed around packing boxes and preparing food like it was a fucking wake. They were downstairs too, she thinks to herself. All that time pretending they didn’t want to fuck each other just to show up here with three rings and an infant between them.
Embarrassment floods her suddenly, overtaking the despair and the rage. A drink. She threw a drink. She threw a glass of watered down whiskey at a mourning man’s feet. She made a spectacle out of her grief that wasn’t even for the man they’d just buried. Of course he was here.
Of course.
This was all his fault, after all.
They should change his nickname to Judge for the way he likes to sentence others into agony.
She looks down at her feet and then up again, across at the mirror hanging on the bathroom wall that cuts her at the waist. He bought this dress one Christmas, asked her to wear it out the store after he managed to collect his words again. Took her to dinner and then asked her to keep it on a few hours later in the bright white light of their bedroom.
Maybe that smile he wore was for the same memory the dress brings her. But it’s the only black formalwear she has with an appropriate neckline. Tits out in front of old friends at the funeral of another just didn’t sit right.
Pushed forward when the door opens, she breaks her fall on the vanity countertop and swears as she looks up into the reflected eyes of the man who drove her in here.
“Fuck.”
Who chose black anyway? If this was actually a celebration of life, they’d all be in camouflage and smudged face paint sharing anecdotes of casual racism and laughing about how it makes sense his half functional alcoholism tossed his head against the rocks on another foreign hike.
“He didn’t fall, did he?” She asks, turning towards him. “You did this, didn’t you?”
Santi shrugs. “I played a part—oh, don’t roll your eyes at me, sweetheart.” His eyebrows pinch, hand raised like he’s cutting off the chance of a response. “You fucking hated Tom.”
“So did you.”
“Yeah, but I needed him.”
“And me?”
He huffs a laugh. “That was more that you didn’t need me.”
“Fuck you, Santiago.” There’s venom in her words but they only seem to land at his feet like the shattered glass from earlier or her knees all the times before that. “You’re a piece of shit.”
A step closer, hands in his pockets, and he looks down at her with pity in his voice. “I don’t know what I missed more—your cunt or the way you like to act like one.”
“I'm so glad I burnt most of your shit.”
“Kept the house though, didn’t you?” He asks, closer still.
“It should be you in that box down there.” She regrets it before it’s halfway out of her mouth, brain already grasping to pull the words back in and down her throat.
Santi leans forward, hands bracing himself against the counter as the tip of his nose smudges against hers. “Fuck,” he breathes. “It's hot when you talk back. Been a while since somebody could give it as good as I can dish it out.”
“Nice to know you’ve been keeping yourself busy in…” She doesn’t know where he’s been, just that he went.
“Colombia,” he finishes. “There was nobody to keep myself busy with, trust me.”
When she licks her lips, she swears she almost catches his too and swallows back the fresh saltwater sobs threatening to surface. “Why should I do that?”
He stands straight again, palm rubbing up against the grain of his beard like he’s trying to find a respectful way to speak his thoughts. Finally, his shoulders raise and drop just as quickly again. “Nobody had an ass as great as yours”—his eyes dart down her body and back up—“good to see you’ve still got it. Did you end up having kids? Ben refuses to tell me anything.”
“Yours,” she nods, watching as his eyes open against the permanent jet lag of his life. “But don’t worry,” she continues, “he left me like you did. Guess I wasn’t good enough for either Garcia boy. Like father, like son, right?”
Light reflects off the strands of silver in the salt and pepper curls that spill between his fingers. He pushes them up and away, pulling near the roots before relaxing his grip to slide down against the grain of the half grey scruff across his cheeks and he shakes his head. “It was never that you weren’t good enough, mi vida.”
“You have no right to call me that.”
“Don't I?” He steps forward again, less space than before left between their bodies. “My decision was to value your life, your needs, over mine. I did what I thought was best for you.”
She looks up towards the art prints of ocean views hung on the wall, gently swiping at her lower lid, and takes a deep breath. “No, Santiago.”
A beat passes and then another, the tick of his gold Rolex echoing in the silence as his eyes stay on you and yours stay on a fixed point over his shoulder.
He’s got a mean streak and he’s stroking it with every breath between them. He’ll push until it’s satisfied, masking it with a warm, honeyed citrus scent and a deft tongue until every barrier breaks for him to take what he wants.
And then he leaves for others to pick up the pieces of the destruction that he left.
“No what, sweetheart?” He finally asks.
“No,” She repeats, turning to face him again. “You did what was best for you, Santiago. Just as you’ve always done. Because the only two people in this world that you have ever served is whatever grey faced man who sits in the oval office and—“
“I know what you’re gonna say,” he interrupts. “Don’t paint me like this, don’t make me the bad guy. I loved you.” His head drops towards her shoulder, turned towards her still and he presses his nose into her hair, breath ghosting across the shell of her ear. “I love you.”
She laughs, arms hugging closer around her body. “You've got a funny way of showing it.”
“You want me to tell you I’m sorry?”
Her head shakes and she turns to face him, warmed over by the liquid coal in his eyes. “I don’t think you’re capable of it.”
Santiago’s lips turn upward as thick, dark eyebrows rise to the challenge. “I am, baby,” he says. “I didn't know—“
“How could you have? Your phone disconnected and every goddamn email bounced right back to me.”
“I adore you,” he continues. “I always have.” He tucks his palm beneath her jawline, gun callused thumb sweeping across the pout of her lips.
She wants to hate him but she can’t; not when this simple touch feels like the first warmth she’s had in years. Leaning into it against her will, she feels the levees break as a half choked sob claws its way out of her chest.
He doesn’t even ask. Doesn’t even wait because his body is operating on pure instinct to push comfort onto her distress. It’s why he left before the sun rose. All he wants to do is keep her away from the bad things, especially when they begin and end with him.
He hates even more that she doesn’t even fight it, doesn’t push him away when it’s what he deserves. Because despite all her words, she’s just as in love with him as she was the night before he left.
Mouth opening beneath his, her body molds easily to his form as if she’s done this every day without interruption.
Nothing’s hurried about their touches, no urgency in the way they grab for one another, and neither of them forgot how to make the other melt.
“Santi, Santi,” she pushes back against his chest as his hands make their way beneath her skirt. “Stop.”
“Is there somebody else?” He asks.
“There was Ben,” she tells him rolling her lips in attempt to smooth out the splotched color he wears now too. “It wasn’t serious, I-I—“
“You needed somebody warm and sweet and just as broken by me as you.”
“Well…” When he puts it like that. “Yeah.”
Santiago nods, lips pressing back into the apple of her cheek. “That's exactly what he said when he told me. Mi vida”—he shifts his stance between her legs, pressing his hips against hers—“mi alma, I want to come home. I know you don’t believe me.” She doesn’t. “But I need you to.” But she does. “Leaving you, losing Tom…” He inhales deep, trembling lips and soft eyes fighting to betray an otherwise usually cool demeanor. “It could be me in that box down there; and God knows I fucking deserve it, baby. But all I thought about on the side of that mountain as I dodged bullets was you. I thought about what my life would look like if I hadn’t gotten out of bed that morning, if I’d stayed there in our bed and made you my wife like I wanted to. You were in my mind and it put Tom’s all over the fucking rocks.”
“Yet, they said he fell.”
He laughs. “Yeah, well…shot in the head for being a murderer and a thief doesn’t look too good in an obituary.”
“Santi—“
Again, he kisses her. Harder this time and with both hands gripping her hips, he leverages the press of his own to lift her up onto the counter. “It could’ve been me, baby,” he whispers into her, tears buried somewhere deep in his words. “It could’ve been me and I never would’ve seen you again.” Fingers hook into the waistband of her panties and pull. “Never would’ve told you I love you again. I hate myself, sweetheart. I know you never will but I-I”—the strangled pain of relief cuts his words as his zipper goes next—“Let me hold that anger for you, baby.
Vulnerability is his weakness, he yields to it every time. Hard stuff, he can do. He’s stood face to face with war criminals but this scares the shit out of him. She scares the shit out of him. He walked away time and time again from one night stands until she came along and called him a pussy for it. He never did have the balls to actually say goodbye.
He strokes himself in the space between her legs, chests heaving against each other beneath the fluorescent light.
“You gonna fuck me or what, Garcia?”
“Just waiting for you to tell me that I can, my love.”
She barely even says yes before he pushes himself inside of her, bottoming out quickly from the excitement of it all. Before he can even crack a joke, or swear, about the ease with which she takes him, her fingers wrap around the base of his skull. “Muscle memory,” she whispers, pulling him down to squeeze even more distance from between them.
Sex with Santiago has never been just sex. Never something to just get out of the way. To pass the time. Never too mean or soft; rough all around because he was too but tender all the same. Even the quickies ran with that formula, that same slow grind racing against the clock like a well calculated mission. Not this time, though.
This time he’s sloppy, pace stuttering as he tries to catch his breath but he can’t between all the shit flying out of his mouth. How wet. How hard. How many nights he’s sat up thinking about this moment. The way they sound together. The way they smell together.
He’s coming before he knows it, a grief filled groan right into the crook of her neck. This isn’t how he wanted it. This isn’t how it should’ve been done. He shouldn’t be leaking out of her onto a dead man’s bathroom counter top but here the fuck they are.
Heat blankets her cheeks and she covers her eyes against his stare, bottom lip tucked firmly between her teeth as he pulls himself from between her legs. He says something about grabbing tissue but she’s crying before he can even turn around to find it.
“Shh, shh.” Santiago takes her hand in both of his and kisses the back of it. "Baby, what is it?”
“It's you,” she says. “It's us.” Her head shakes. “It's everything and how fucked this all is. And all of it because you couldn’t open your goddamn mouth to have a conversation in the first place.”
“I know. I’m sorry, baby.”
She tries to pull her hand back from him but he only turns it upward to continue kissing at her palm, nuzzling against the marks of her own lipstick he leaves as if trying to make up for all the touch he lost.
“Did you see Benny’s sister and Frankie finally got together? A whole baby and everything.”
Everything lights up behind his eyes again as he smiles and nods. “They named her after me,” he says proudly. “She’s one person I haven’t let down and”—he shakes his head—“you don’t understand how close I came to ruining her little life too.”
“But you didn’t.”
They stay there for what feels like hours, small touches to prove reality traded back and forth as the noise that soundtracks their own conversation downstairs dissipates down to nothing.
“We should go.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you really burn most my shit?”
She’s halfway to the door, hand already reaching out to pull at the handle, and turns. “Come home and find out.”
#santiago 'pope' garcia#santiago garcia x reader#santiago garcia x you#santiago garcia x ofc#santiago garcia x original female character#santiago garcia fanfiction#triple frontier fanfiction#did you like that Frizzy easter egg?#o writes#triple frontier
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Sneak Peak!
Hi! Just to prove I haven’t completely dropped off the face of the Earth and that I am writing, here is a sneak peak of a Santiago x OFC series/story I’m working on! I have one and a half chapters completed already❤️🥰not sure of a “premiere” date yet. I’ll keep you all updated!
Everly looked into his kind eyes; the other medics in her unit had just gone about their day--like nothing happened--she’d finished out her shift in a complete haze. How was she going to complete a six month deployment?
Tearing the towel into strips, he began to wrap her hands with the makeshift bandages. “I don’t think I got your name,” he said, smiling at her, distracting her.
“Huh? My name...my name is Everly.”
“Santiago. Some call me Pope, some call me jackass.”
Confusion crossed her face and he laughed, warmly. “My callsign is pope--the jackass part was meant as a joke, you know, to get you to smile--obviously it wasn't a very good one.”
Everly swallowed, not sure how to respond and she was still processing what he had said when there were more heavy footsteps behind her, followed by a cacophony of voices.
Santiago glanced up from what he was doing and frowned. “I’m coming. Just give me a minute.”
#my writing#triple frontier fanfiction#santiago pope garcia#santiago garcia x ofc#santiago pope garcia x ofc
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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3
Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.
What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)
Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.
A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡
Word count: 12.2k
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Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier
Make us come, baby. Make us come together.
These words are yours.
Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep.
He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body.
They’re yours, right?
Even if you don’t get to see him ever again.
—
It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles.
Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here.
It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.
Not today. Please. Not today.
Friday.
Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head.
Today is Friday.
You reject the obvious.
Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.
Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.
Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night.
You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons.
Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours.
Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping.
Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.
And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you.
You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet.
You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.
Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can.
You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine.
It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor.
—
On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body.
You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze.
You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste.
Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.
Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you.
If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be.
With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia.
You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste.
All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down.
Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums.
At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again.
All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.
Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.
You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black.
—
In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation.
You did want to get better.
You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities.
On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results.
But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality.
For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.
Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were.
Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear.
As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.
Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.
Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all.
And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.
—
The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places.
Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed.
Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…
Frankie.
You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?
“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”
Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through.
Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before.
He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel.
The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.
Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish.
There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.
So many cords. Too many sensors.
“Where’s my phone?” you mumble.
Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore.
“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed.
You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.
“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”
He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness.
“What day is it?” you try again.
“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”
The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.
“What happened?”
“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”
You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you.
Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it.
“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.”
You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape.
Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”
“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.
It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.
Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most.
The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate.
“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”
“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week.
Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.
“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.
There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping.
“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”
So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known.
It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.
There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute.
“Polly’s not old,” is your answer.
“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”
“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”
“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.
The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt.
“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”
You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline.
He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small.
“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”
The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence.
“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation?
You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out.
You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show.
Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology.
“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!”
He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine.
“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.
“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink.
And he’s gone.
Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping.
Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse.
The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location.
Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.
Is this how it ends?
Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close.
You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday.
Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.
The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.
Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE.
The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case.
Your heart rate slows down.
Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.
—
The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you.
You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.
On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation.
Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed.
You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.
You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.
After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.
One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you.
You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.
Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.
Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.
Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week.
In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak.
You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid.
Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.
You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours.
You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it.
On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in.
She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child.
While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse.
True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material.
At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”
So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image.
“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”
As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.
Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC.
That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood.
You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted.
You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.
“Fuck it.”
You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic.
The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour.
It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut.
Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper.
As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor.
You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.
Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks.
That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.
You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity.
Is this how it ends?
Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here.
Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours.
The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes.
Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar.
“Good evening,” you start with a tight smile. “I—“
A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again.
“I come in every week?”
Jesus.
“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”
“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”
You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.
“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”
“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”
“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”
“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund. Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“
“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”
Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long?
If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will.
“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”
The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe.
“Do you want to book it?”
You shake your head slowly.
“No. Thank you.”
Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot.
He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding.
You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you.
You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.
All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years.
The before and the after him.
He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him.
Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story.
The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed.
That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel.
“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan.
His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob.
It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind.
Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.
“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers.
“What?”
His smile drops when you take a step back.
“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“
Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall.
He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.
“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.
“What happened to you?”
The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms.
“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper.
“Did he do that to you?”
“What?”
“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.
“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”
“How did you fall?” he presses.
He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to.
The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own.
“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”
“I’m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze.
“You can barely stand.”
However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.
“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.”
“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”
“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”
He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.
The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all.
“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”
“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.
“Wanna bet?”
You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could.
“Listen,” he begins with a sigh.
“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“
“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.
His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness.
“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”
Our minds.
He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control.
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Yes, ok.”
He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”
—
The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you.
What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?
On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing.
You hate yourself for that, too.
After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard.
Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual.
The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it.
“Hey. You ok there?”
In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate.
“C’mere.”
The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his.
The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer.
You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart.
“I’m not married.”
“Ok.”
The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it.
“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”
“Ok.”
The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit.
“And I really fell.”
He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist.
“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”
You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened.
He tightens his embrace.
“That when you hurt your head?”
“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”
“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”
“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”
You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”
How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again?
“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.
If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight.
“Does it still hurt?” he asks.
“No,” you lie.
“Mmh. And for real?”
You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.
“A little. I’ll be fine.”
The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines.
Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.
“He wouldn’t hit me.”
“Ok.”
“That’s not what he does.”
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“What does he do?”
You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason.
“He makes me doubt.”
“Him?”
“Myself. And him too.”
Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel.
The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights.
His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist.
Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber.
“You ok? Want me to close the window?”
His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness.
“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”
Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy.
—
When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare.
Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone.
You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin.
At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light.
You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there.
Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then.
You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh.
“Wait. I need to talk to you.”
His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will.
You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him.
“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes.
Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest.
“I understand.”
“I imagine you can’t be here either.”
No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always.
“No, I can’t.”
The following week, either. But you don’t share that.
This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.
Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.
In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you?
Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket.
“Kiss me, Frankie, please.”
“Yes.”
His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips.
All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his.
Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else.
His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too.
You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness.
Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire.
There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent.
He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.
Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles.
“Want me to make you come, baby?”
He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration.
“No, I want you inside me.”
“Shit, you sure?”
“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.”
You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth.
“You think I don’t know that?”
So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back.
Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.
“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.”
It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place.
“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans.
“I know you can.”
When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair.
It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.
You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside.
In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes.
He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart.
Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue.
Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.
Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.
“You ok?”
His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff.
His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.
Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it.
He stays like that for a while.
Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes.
“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”
“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.
“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”
You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts?
“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.
But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him.
Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”
You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within.
“I want you.”
His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion.
He doesn’t.
He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling.
Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named.
You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice.
“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt.
The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties.
You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face.
He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest.
The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale.
Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you.
“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”
He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.
“Fuck you’re tight.”
“Please, Frankie–”
His frame tenses up under your palms.
“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”
“No!”
That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out.
“I can—“ You trip over your words.
“What?”
“I can sit on it.”
Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles.
“Yea. Yea you can.”
He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal.
“Spit on it,” he says.
You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.
“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”
Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed.
His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours.
“Sit on it, now.”
His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look.
“Yes,” you pant.
Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.
Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing.
The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel.
Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back.
You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help.
You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically.
His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs.
“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”
You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.
A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.
You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats.
His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit.
And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall.
“Too much?”
“Oh god yes.”
You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.
“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”
His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind.
You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.”
He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire.
His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.
“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?”
You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are?
“Say it again, please.”
“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”
His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you.
“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”
“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.”
He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon.
You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already.
He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk.
You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave.
And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss.
****
#one day I will understand why I am more obsessed with Frankie driving his truck than flying a fucking aircraft?????#it's like Kelli said: it's my safe space 🧡#Kelli's a genius#anyway#HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY#tonight you belong to me#tybtm#Francisco Catfish Morales#frankie morales#the pilot™️#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales / fem!reader#frankie morales / you#frankie morales / ofc#triple frontier fic#triple frontier#frankie friday#will miller#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#william ironhead miller#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fic
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The Cupid Shuffle {Frankie Morales x F!Reader x Pope x F!OC}
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 5.9k
Warnings: Exhibitionism, voyeurism, bisexual women, mentions of past sexual relationships, little bit of putting on a show for the boys, women making out, mentions of fantasies, oral sex (male and female receiving), partner swapping, unprotected sex, cum eating
Comments: Inviting Pope and his girl over for a low-key Valentine's night movie turns in to something much more.
A/N: Valentine's Day foursome? More likely than you'd think!
Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers
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|| MasterList || Frankie Morales MasterList ||
Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.
“Babe. I was talking to Santi and he’s cool with a movie night tonight. Him and his girl are going to go out tomorrow like us because tonight is always crazy busy. So it’s a quiet one in for Valentine’s Day.” Frankie says as he comes up to you to caress your waist, leaning in to kiss your neck. “You wanna go get some snacks? You know Santi will eat us out of everything if we don’t buy extra.” He jokes and you turn your head to kiss him, smiling against his lips. “What time are they coming over?” You ask and he murmurs, “seven.”
You grin, happy that this is happening. Santiago Garcia, or ‘Pope’ as Frankie calls him, is dating your friend from college. You had been the one to set them up, absolutely in love with your helicopter pilot boyfriend and Pope had always been a flirty, fun time when he was in town. After he’s moved back permanently, you had set them up and the rest is history. “Perfect. A low key night is just what we all need.” You promise, kissing him again
and smirking. “And after, I’ll give you your present.”
Frankie smirks, loving how eager you are and he’s excited to get you in bed after the movie ends and Pope and his girl are gone. “Baby, you’re already my present.” He murmurs, nipping your ear as you lean back against him. “Let’s get everything set up and we need blankets for the movie.”
You decide to have groceries delivered instead of going out, allowing you and Frankie to clean up and get ready to have them over. It’s not necessary, but you set out some of the candles Frankie got you for Christmas and light them, enjoying the romantic glow with the soft blankets strewn around for couples to cuddle under. “This is better than battling the craziness of a restaurant and a movie theater.” You decide, smiling at Frankie. You know that he hates crowded places and is constantly on alert for threats, so it’s easy to accommodate him and do a romantic night in on the busiest day for most fine dining restaurants.
Frankie nods, “it looks great, babe. I prefer this than going out and battling the crowds. We got some movies saved on the tv so we have a few options. You gonna make that dip?” He asks, biting his lower lip with a pleading expression. You nod and he groans, his hands caressing your side, “fuck yes. I can’t wait for that.”
You laugh quietly, swearing that dip is what made Frankie fall for you. Eating your dip at a party to the point where he almost made himself sick. “I’ll go make it now, I’ve got everything I need.”
Frankie playfully smacks your ass and you gasp, making him chuckle. His life was so dark before he met you. You brighten his days, make him believe in a hopeful future. You saved him. He’d be lost without you. “I’ll go get the drinks ready.” He says, making his way to the garage to grab the ice bucket and drinks for the movie marathon you have planned. Pope and his girl will be arriving soon.
The other food arrives and you set the store bought wings out on a tray and pop the pizzas into the oven and dump a bag of cheddar popcorn into a bowl. Just as you are setting it and the dip out, the doorbell rings out. “Oh! They are here!” You squeal, excited to see them.
Frankie heads to the door before you, opening it to greet his best friend and your best friend. You’ve been on quite a few couple dates, enjoying each other’s company during game nights. It’s been a perfect combination so far. “Hermano. Todo día más feo.” Pope teases Frankie as he pats him on the back in a hug and Frankie affectionately rolls his eyes as your best friend steps around the men to greet you.
“Hey!!!!” You and Dara throw your arms around each other and squeeze tight. Always happy to see each other and it’s such a joy to see your friend so happy after having so many shit boyfriends before Pope. You had constantly moaned together that it seems like there weren’t any good men anymore, and now you are both with ones that are completely amazing. If Pope had been kind of a playboy before, he had focused all that flirtatious energy into making sure your friend was head over heels for him. “How are you? I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to call!” You apologize and look at her once you break apart.
She grins at you, “I’ve been so busy with the new job and honestly, going to Pope’s nearly every night. I’m hoping he’s going to ask me to move in soon since I basically live with him by now anyway.” She says, squeezing your hands as she glances over at Pope who is telling Frankie about his latest client in his security business. “We need a brunch to catch up.” Dara giggles and you nod, “yes we do. You want a drink? I got that vodka that you like.” Dara nods and lets you drag her into the kitchen with a smile.
“It going okay with your girl?” Pope asks Frankie who nods, glancing back at the door you disappeared through.
“She’s everything.” He murmurs, a silly smile on his face that Pope understands.
“Sooooooo.” You grin as you pour the vodka and add juice to it for Dara before mixing up one of your own. “Tell me, how is basically living with Pope?” You ask. “You look happy, really happy. And I love that for you.”
Dara grins, her cheeks hurting from how much she’s been smiling, “honestly, he’s so good. In every way.” Her voice lowers slightly, “he flirts like crazy with me and only me. All that attention makes a girl crazy in love.” She confesses and you squeal quietly, the ice cubes in your drink shaking as you bounce a little.
“Love?” You ask and she nods in confirmation.
“Who would’ve thought? Both of us in love? Especially when we were lonely and horny and used to-” Dara is cut off as the boys come into the kitchen to grab their beers, “you ladies ready for an epic movie marathon?” Pope asks, leaning in to kiss Dara on the cheek.
“Let’s do it.” You wink at Frankie and he nods, walking back into the living room to get the movie up on the streaming service. Pope and Dara take a seat on the large sectional, snuggling into each other and Frankie holds his arm out for you to curl into his side.
You fold into his arms easily and pull the cover up over your laps. The snacks are out and you smile over at Dara and Pope as they curl together near you, Dara closest to you. “Let me know when you need another drink.” You murmur to Dara before the movie starts.
The movie is some superhero movie the boys wanted to watch. The next movie is your choice. The explosions are loud and Frankie glances over at Dara and Pope whose eyes are on the screen. His hand slides down from your shoulder until he’s squeezing your breast. Your eyes flick up to his face and he is smirking slightly, knowing you can’t make a noise otherwise the others will know. His hand slides a little lower, brushing past your stomach until he is sliding his hand under the hem of the dress you’re wearing. His fingers trail along your thigh, slow and teasing, and you spread your legs a little for him. Covered by the blanket, his fingers slide higher until they are pressing against your clit through your panties.
Your breath catches and you bite your lip so you don’t moan, not wanting Dara and Pope to know what Frankie is doing to you. You aren’t focusing on the movie, having no clue what is going on as your boyfriend starts to rub tight circles on your clit, teasing you as he touches you. Frankie loves to make you cum and you have no doubt that he will right now, regardless of the other people in the room.
Pope smirks as his hand sneaks under the blanket, teasing his girlfriend as he caresses her through her clothes. She offers him a warning look, knowing that they are in someone else’s home. All thoughts of propriety leave her mind when his finger finds her clit, rubbing through her panties under her shirt. She bites her lip and focuses on the screen, unaware that you are doing the same thing. Frankie can feel how tense you are, trying to control yourself and that urges him on, rubbing your clit a little faster and you put your leg up, acting like you’re getting comfortable when you’re really giving him more access to you.
Pope glances over at the two of you, noting the smug smirk on Frankie’s face and he grins. He knows that look, and with the way you are squirming, you’re doing exactly what he and Dara are doing. He leans in and presses his lips to his girlfriend’s neck. “Dirty girl. Just like your friend.” He whispers playfully, biting her ear.
Dara stiffens slightly until she looks over at you and Frankie, knowing that look on your face. "Looks like you had the same idea as us." She declares and you rip your eyes away from the screen to look at your friend just as she pulls the blanket away from her lap to expose Santi's fingers rubbing her clit under her underwear.
"Jesus." Frankie hisses, his cock already hard against your side as you lean against him. You smirk and pull your blanket off too, watching as Santi continues to rub Dara's clit.
"Damn, baby. What a sight." Santi coos and Frankie doesn't stop his movements. The four of you watch each other, the movie forgotten as you moan softly.
"Wanna have some fun, like old times?" Dara asks, her eyes flicking between you and Frankie.
Frankie’s eyes widen, gaze darting between you and his mouth is hanging open.
“Baby?” You turn to look at him and lean in to kiss the bare spot on his jaw where his whiskers never grow. “Do you want to see me fool around with Dara?” You ask him, turning to look at Pope with a questioning look. You think it would be sexy, but if your boyfriend or Santi isn’t okay with it, you wouldn’t touch her.
Frankie is a little dumbstruck and he nods, looking over at Santi who grins and says “fuck yeah.”
Frankie leans in to kiss you softly, “yes. I want - want whatever you are comfortable with.” He murmurs, pulling his hand from your underwear to give you the freedom to touch Dara how you want.
Dara grins, “like those lonely nights back in college.” She teases, leaning in to cup your cheek after Santi pulls his hand away from her and she leans in to press her lips to yours.
You are familiar with her mouth, accepting the kiss eagerly and curling your hand around the back of her head and sliding your tongue into her mouth. There were plenty of nights that you had done this and more, because you were bored, lonely, curious and finally just enjoying yourself. You hear the way the boys groan beside you but you are enjoying the way you know they are staring at both of you.
Santi reaches down to squeeze his cock through his pants, not noticing Frankie do the same as the two men watch their girlfriends kiss. Every guy’s dream honestly. Frankie caresses your back, squeezing your ass as you slide your tongue against Dara’s until she pulls back with a grin. “I wanna - do you want to switch?” She asks breathlessly, glancing behind you to Frankie.
You know that Dara has always been interested in how Frankie is as a lover and despite him being your boyfriend, you aren’t jealous. This woman has been a lover on and off for years and you have no jealousy. “What do you think, baby?” You ask Frankie, reaching down and pulling her tits out of her shirt and sneezing them. “Do you want to touch Dara like this? Show her how good your tongue is, like I’ve bragged about since the first night we’ve fucked?”
Frankie is torn, wondering for a second if this is a test, but your eyes are dark with lust and he glances at Pope to make sure he’s on the same page. His best friend nods, “as long as I get to see what these blowjobs you rave about are like.” He teases and Frankie smirks, “just you wait, hermano.”
Dara giggles, leaning in to kiss you again. “Any of us have an issue, we say it.” She says, setting the rules as she shuffles around you towards Frankie, reaching down to squeeze his cock through his pants. “You weren’t lying when you said how thick he is.” She says and Frankie blushes slightly.
“I would never lie about that.” You coo as you crawl towards Santiago. “My baby is packing, and he knows how to fuck a girl until her legs are jelly.” You bite your lip as you straddle your friend’s boyfriend. “Just like I’m curious to find out how Santiago fucks you so hard you pass out.” You caress his cheek and lean in, the movie forgotten in the background. “Can I kiss you, handsome?”
Santi nods, his hands immediately finding your waist and he groans when you grind down onto him, leaning in to meet your lips in a kiss. Frankie inhales sharply when Dara reaches down to undo his pants, reaching in to pull his hard cock out.
“Fuck, she wasn’t lying. You are packing. And uncut like Santi. Love that.” She murmurs and grips him, leaning down to take him in her mouth as her eyes focus on his while he watches her.
You look over as Frankie’s head drops back to the couch cushion and he moans loudly. You love the sounds he makes when you are blowing him and now you get to see him from another view. “You want to have a little competition, Dara?” You coo. “See who can get the guy to the brink of cumming the fastest?”
She pulls off of Frankie’s cock, a smirk on her lips as she looks over at you. “You’re on, baby. Let’s blow their minds.” She grins and you peck Santi’s lips as you slide down his body until you are working his pants open. Dara pumps Frankie in her hand and his eyes watch you as you take Pope’s cock out. Jesus, he feels his cock twitch in Dara’s fingers as your eyes meet his.
“Fuck, you weren’t lying when you said he has a beautiful cock.” You hum, pulling the foreskin back and looking at the bead of precum that has built up at the tip. “I can’t wait to hear him moan.”
Santi watches you as you take the head of his cock into your mouth, “mierda.” He curses and looks over at Dara who has taken Frankie back into her mouth with a moan. The men’s eyes flick between their partner and the woman sucking their cock. Groaning as Santi caresses your head and Dara chokes as she tries to take Frankie deeper.
You know Dara knows how to give head so you put everything you’ve got into sucking Santiago’s cock. Wrapping your fingers around the base and pumping while you work him deeper, making sure that you make him wet and keep your palette soft.
“Fuckkkk.” Santi pants as you take him deeper and Jesus, your mouth feels so good. He hisses and Frankie nods, “damn good. So fucking good.” He pants as his hand comes up to grip the back of the sofa, trying to keep himself from thrusting up into Dara’s mouth.
You moan around Santiago’s cock, enjoying the way he throbs and pulses in your mouth when you swallow around him. Reaching down and gently cradling his balls when you let go of his shaft and completely engulf him in your mouth until your nose is pressed against the short hairs at the base of his cock.
“Holllly fuckin’ shitttt.” Pope hisses, his fingers curling in the edge of the sofa cushion and his toes curl as you take him deep. “Fuckkkk.” He exhales shakily, eyes rolling into the back of his head as you blow his mind.
Dara chuckles around Frankie’s cock, knowing how good you are, and she ups her game, bobbing her head a little faster so Frankie hisses at the pace. "Holy shit."
You have to let up, needing to watch Frankie’s eyes roll back in pleasure. You hum around Pope’s cock and reach for his hand, pulling it to the back of your head. Encouraging him to thrust up into your mouth or push your head down. Wanting him to completely lose control.
Pope groans, keeping you still as he thrusts up into you, his cock twitching as he pushes down your throat. Fuck, no wonder Frankie looks dazed whenever he comes back from his lunch break. “She’s good, hermano?” He asks and Pope nods, panting slightly.
You don’t know if Pope plans on cumming down your throat but you don’t let up. Bobbing your head and swallowing around him, keeping the suction tight around his cock as he throbs on your tongue.
He doesn’t want to cum down your throat. He lets out a strangled choke and grabs the back of your neck, dragging you off of his cock and he watches you stay connected to his length with a line of spit. “Holy fuck.” He gasps, trying to calm himself down and he looks over at Dara who is taking Frankie down her throat.
“One day, you need to cum down my throat.” You gasp as you try to catch your breath, grinning up at him before you look over where Dara is still sucking Frankie’s cock. “Fuck they look so sexy, don’t they?” You moan, sinking a hand between your thighs and inside your panties. “I don’t know which one is sexier right now. And I’ve fucked them both.”
Frankie pants, turned on by your statement. He knows your history with Dara, you’ve talked about your sex life and Frankie must admit that he’s jerked off thinking about you and Dara messing around. He hisses when Dara pulls off of his cock, knowing he won’t want to cum, and Pope moves fast to drag you up his body. “Whose cock do you want to sit on?” He asks you with a smirk.
“Weelllllll, I think I want to sit on your cock, baby.” You lean in and press your lips to Santi’s. “I want to hear Dara squeal Frankie’s name while I moan yours.” You are dripping at the idea and reach over to grab your friend’s face and pull her close for another kiss. “Do you want to lick your boyfriend’s cum out of my pussy, baby?” You ask her breathlessly.
She nods, a whimper escaping her lips and she grabs her shirt to pull it over her head. You follow suit with your dress, leaving you both in panties that are soon shoved onto the floor. You straddle Pope, caressing his chest through his t-shirt, feeling his heart thumping in his chest. “Goddamn. You’re gorgeous. Fish is a lucky fucker.” He compliments you, his hands finding your ass to squeeze your cheeks until he slaps them.
“You’re lucky too, hermano.” Frankie groans, stroking his hands up and down Dara’s back before cupping her tits. “Your girlfriend is fucking breathtaking. Too good for your ugly ass.” He jokes, leaning in and biting her shoulder.
Dara whimpers and reaches down to grip Frankie’s cock. You know she has an IUD and is clean. She knows you are the same. She trusts everyone here and she’s excited to have a good time. She’s dripping wet so notching Frankie at her entrance isn’t hard work. He slips into her as she sinks down onto him with a low moan.
Both you and Santi watch, eyes blown with lust as your boyfriend and his girlfriend start to fuck. “Fuck,” you pant as you look back at Pope. “I need you inside me.” You beg, reaching down and gripping his cock. “Will you fuck me, Pope?”
Santi nods, his hands sliding down your back until he’s squeezing your ass again. “Take what you want, bebita.” He orders and you shuffle closer, swiping his cock through your folds a couple of times before you start to sink down onto him.
Frankie groans as he watches you take his friend’s cock. The way your jaw drops and he twitches inside of Dara. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” She murmurs to him, her eyes watching her boyfriend and her best friend.
“Fucking amazing.” Frankie groans, unable to believe this is happening. “You are so tight, hermosa.” He praises, rocking his hips up and slapping her thigh gently. “Never thought I would get to do this.” He huffs, groaning again when she squeezes him hard enough to make him twitch.
You watch Frankie and Dara, clenching around Pope’s cock hard enough that he hisses. “You like watching them, baby? You like watching them fuck each other?” He coos into your ear, biting down on your earlobe. “You’re so fucking wet around me. Always wondered what you’d be like. Frankie said he’d give me a chance with you.”
You moan softly, wishing you had known about those conversations before now. “He has.” You hum, clenching down around him. “How do you like being inside your best friend’s girl?”
“Fucking love it.” Santi groans, smacking your ass with both hands. He hisses your name and rocks you a little faster on top of him. “You enjoying it?” He asks you, leaning in to nip your jaw.
“Yesssssss.” You whimper, closing your eyes and tangling your fingers into Santiago’s hair while you start to bounce on his cock. “Always wondered what it would be like to fuck you. Imagined you and Frankie both railing me. Now I want that and to see you both rail Dara.”
Santi groans at the same time as Frankie, imagining that dirty thought. They have shared women before during time stateside but he loves the idea of sharing you with his friend and his girlfriend more often, watching you all like his own private porno. “Goddamn.” Frankie hisses, cupping Dara’s tits and pinching her nipples to make her gasp.
You giggle quietly and look over at your boyfriend. “You like that idea, baby? Fucking me and Dara with Santi? Being complete sluts for the two of you? I know you would want to have Dara sit on your cock while I sit on your face.”
Frankie groans, cock twitching inside of Dara, “and Pope can fuck her ass.” He smirks, knowing his friend has a big thing for anal.
Dara chuckles, “double? Fuck yes.” She groans, “then I can play with that gorgeous pair of tits and kiss your girl. Keep her satisfied while you suck on her clit like I used to.” Dara smirks until her jaw drops when Frankie thrusts up into her.
“Fuuuuuuck.” Santiago hisses and his hands tighten on your hips. “You never told me that.” He huffs. “I’d have had you telling me all about it while I was making you scream.” He has had quite a few ideas of fucking you and Dara, but to know that you used to eat each other out? It’s sexy as fuck. “I’ll want to see that while I recover enough to fuck her.”
“We can show our boys how to eat pussy, can’t we baby?” Dara winks at you and moans when Frankie thrusts up into her again. “Oh do that again.” She begs, knowing he has found the right angle and Frankie obliges her, keeping her still while he fucks up into her like it’s the last thing he will do.
“He’s so good, isn’t he?” That’s not to say Santi isn’t a good lover and he steals your attention back to him with the next thrust. Making you moan and turn back to crush your lips to his while you start to ride him again in earnest.
Dara watches you kiss Santi and it sends her over the edge, she cries out against Frankie’s shoulder as he thrusts up into her with vigor, grunts escaping his lips as he jackhammers up into her until she is squealing. Shaking against your boyfriend as she cums, soaking him and her nails digging into his shoulders.
Santiago actually stops thrusting into you, although his cock is pulsing harshly, twitching inside you as he watches his girlfriend cum all over Frankie. “Jesus Christ.” He hisses, so turned on by the sight he almost cums himself. “Now it’s your turn.” He promises, kissing you passionately and starting to move when Dara collapses against Frankie’s chest.
Frankie stops thrusting once Dara is worked through her orgasm, wanting to watch you cum on Santi’s cock. He doesn’t want to cum too soon so he strokes Dara’s back as they both watch Santi start to thrust up into you. “That’s it, Bonita. Want you to cum for me.” Santi coos, his hands squeezing your ass to help rock you on top of him.
Your boyfriend encouraging to cum throws you over the edge. Tossing your head back, you cry out in pleasure. “Santi!” Your walls clamp down around his cock and you soak him as your body shakes.
He groans as you clamp down on him, squeezing him tight.
“Holy shit, Fish. Like a goddamn vice.” Pope hisses and works you through it by rocking you on top of him. His cock is throbbing inside of you. “Wanna - don’t wanna cum yet.” He admits and Frankie nods.
“Get on your hands and knees. Both of you.” Frankie orders, smacking Dara’s ass.
It takes a moment for you to move, but when you are on your hands and knees by Dara, you lean in and kiss your friend. “Fuck.” You giggle against her lips. “Isn’t this the fucking dream?” You ask breathlessly, looking over your shoulder at the two men and smirking. “They are both so fucking hot and want to fuck us.”
Dara smirks back, “a girl’s fucking dream, baby. Remember when we used to talk about something like this happening?” She asks and you nod, leaning in to kiss her again, sliding your tongue against yours. The two men groan, slowly jerking their cocks before they shuffle forward, notching themselves at the dripping wet cunts and pushing back in.
You don’t know exactly who is inside you for a moment while you are kissing Dara. Eyes closed and trying to guess because your cunt is already a little abused from the fucking. Until his hands grip your hips and he drills forward hard enough to make you gasp into your friend’s mouth. “Frankie!”
Your boyfriend chuckles as you gasp out his name and he slaps your ass. "Want you to cum for me, hermosa." He demands, knowing he can pull you apart easily. He hisses when you teasingly clench around him.
"That's it baby." Pope groans when Dara grinds back onto him and he thrusts into her, making her moan into your mouth before she sucks on your tongue.
Dara nods, knowing it won't take much. She hisses as she rocks back onto Pope, his fingers rubbing her clit, but when you lean in to kiss her, your fingers pinching your nipple, she's sent over the edge. "Fuck!" She squeals into your mouth as she cums, clamping down on Santi's cock.
Both men groan at the sight of the two of you locked into a kiss when Dara cums. Santiago grips her hips tights to continue fucking her and Frankie moans as his own pace quickens. You know they are loving the sight and you swallow her sounds as she comes apart.
Frankie wants you to follow, his hand squeezing your tit as he rocks into you. “Fuck baby. Want you to cum for me.” He demands, pinching your nipple as Dara pants against your chin.
His cock is shredding against something wonderful inside you and you know you won't last long. You never do when he's hammering into you like it's the last thing he will do. Your body starting to stiffen with each thrust until you let out a loud cry, unable to stop yourself from tumbling over the edge and drawing out your pleasure.
“Fuckkkk.” Frankie groans when you squeeze his cock like a goddamn vice. “That’s it, hermosa. Jesús Christ.” He hisses, trying to hold off from filling you up. He pants your name and caresses your stomach, enjoying the way you soak him.
Dara groans and pushes back against Pope's cock. "Need you to cum, baby." She begs softly. "Both of you. Want to see cum dripping out of both of our cunts."
Pope grunts, jaw clenched as he pounds into your best friend, his nostrils flared as he seeks his orgasm.
Frankie groans, smacking your ass when you clench him, egging him on. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He hisses, pushing deep as he fills your walls with his hot seed in one of the most intense orgasms he’s ever had.
“Fraannnnnnnkie.” You whine his name, rolling your eyes back in pleasure as he paints your walls with his cum, hearing Pope hiss out Dara’s name beside you as he is the last one to cum, his hips stuttering and his entire body jerking in pleasure as he fills her. “Oh god.” You pant, collapsing down onto your cheek and look over your friend and her boyfriend as he slumps over her back and kisses along her spine. “That was amazing.”
Frankie leans over you to kiss you, his tongue sliding against yours and you kiss him back as hungrily. Dara chuckles breathlessly, “now I wanna taste your cum from her pussy.” Dara smirks at you, “wanna sit on my face like we used to?” She asks, biting her lip.
“Fuck yes.” You moan, clenching around Frankie and the thought of her tongue against your cunt. Frankie is amazing at eating your pussy, but Dara was just as good, if not slightly better. “I want to taste Pope’s cum too.”
The two men shuffle from behind you, pulling out slowly, and move to sit on the other side of the sofa, eyes eager. Dara shifts to lay down and she smirks at you, tapping her cheek and you shift to straddle her face, stretching your body over hers so you can push her legs apart, finding her creamy cunt. Dara doesn’t hesitate to lean in, sliding her tongue through your folds with a groan.
It takes a good bit of tilting her hips, but your own tongue quickly follows suit while both men groan around you. Watching as you two sample their cum from their girlfriend’s cunt with an eagerness that borders on feral. You love the saltiness of Santiago mixed with the sweet tang of Dara, licking the mixture from her swollen folds and holding her legs apart when your tongue swipes over her sensitive clit.
“Fuck me.” Frankie murmurs, watching you both writhe and lick and suck. It’s primal and his spent cock rests against his thigh but his stomach twists with arousal at the erotic display.
“Mierda.” Pope murmurs, watching just as intensely.
You love the fact that they are watching, but this is honestly for you and Dara. They have cum and it will be a little while before they can fuck again. You clench around nothing when you hear Frankie groan, and suck a little harder on your friend’s clit.
Dara squeezes your ass, loving the way you rock back onto her tongue. Her hips tilted so you can lick deeper into her pussy. It’s intoxicating and everyone is feeling the intensity of this moment. “That’s it baby. Lick her clit. She likes that.” Frankie coaches you, seeing Dara’s reactions.
You hum, grinning into her folds as you obey Frankie. It’s no hardship, especially since that’s exactly what she likes. You suck her clit into your mouth and give it a series of kitten licks that makes her moan into your cunt.
Dara’s tongue gets faster, anxious to make you cum like you used to. She laps at you, sucking on your clit and swirling her tongue around it while the boys continue to watch with rapture. “Look so good, bebita. Wish I could take a a fucking photo.” Pope groans, watching with dark eyes.
She pulls her lips away from your clit for a moment, making you whine. “Do it.” She moans before she dives back into your cunt. You moan your own agreement and nod. You trust the boys not to share that, and you would love to see how sexy this looks from their perspective.
Pope scrambles to find his pants on the floor, getting his phone and he looks over at Frankie who nods enthusiastically. “Do it, hermano.” He insists and Pope smirks as he takes a photo of you and Dara. “So fucking hot.” He groans softly, taking a couple more.
You whimper when Dara sucks on your clit again, so close to cumming as you rock your hips back. Pushing down onto her tongue. Your hand slides up and you push two fingers inside her, knowing how much she loves to cum around something.
“Fuck.” She cries out against your folds, her lips slick with cum and your arousal, and the boys watch in awe as her thighs start to shake around your head. “Cum for her baby.” Santo orders, his cock twitching in interest.
It only takes another few moments of sucking on her clit and pumping your fingers into her cunt before she is crying out. Her walls clenching down around your fingers and soaking them with her cum.
The boys hiss, watching Dara cum, and Frankie leans forward on his elbows, planting them on his knees as he watches Dara ride her orgasm on your fingers. “Your turn, hermosa.” Frankie rasps and Dara nods, her tongue pushing back inside of you, her chin against your clit as she tries to push you over the edge.
You whine, eyes fluttering closed and your mouth drops open when she flicks her tongue inside you, sending you over the edge. Your entire body bucks and you squeal in pleasure as the waves of bliss crash over you, making you gasp out as you grind back onto her face.
The guys groan, their cocks half hard at the sight in front of them. Pope smirks, biting his lip as he watches you cum. “Beautiful. Fucking beautiful.” He coos to both women.
“Goddamn.” Frankie murmurs, watching Dara work you through it before she shifts to pull her mouth back.
You sit up and shift off of her, smirking at Dara and pulling her in for one last kiss before looking at the boys. “Happy Valentine’s Day, boys.” You hum playfully, making Dara giggle as she clings to you and it might be the best Valentine’s Day that you’ve ever had. Definitely one to repeat.
#pedro pascal#frankie morales#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales smut#frankie morales imagine#frankie morales fanfiction#santiago garcia#catfish x reader x pope x ofc#catfish x you x pope x ofc#catfish x f!reader x pope x ofc#Frankie morales x you x Santiago Garcia#triple frontier#santiago garcia x you#santiago garcia x reader#reader x ofc
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Five more minutes
Pairing - Francisco morales x f! Reader (hints of Santiago Garcia)
CW-18+, MDNI,NSFW, smut, oral f receiving, established relationship, teasing, overstimulation.
A/N- This little Drabble is part of a series I’ve been teasing for awhile. Stay tuned 🤍
“Frankie please I can’t.” Your blunt nails dig into his scalp as he growls into your pussy. Your legs draped over his shoulders with his head buried between your thighs.
“Yes you can…give me one more.” He chuckles as you try to squirm away from him on the bathroom counter. His strong hands pull you forward as your head hits the mirror. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not.” You gasp as his tongue circles your clit, his fingers dip into your center stroking that spot that has you seeing stars.
“You’re right…I’m not.” His husky voice and the scratch of his beard on your thighs has you trembling. He can tell you’re close as you dig the heel of your wedges into his back. “Come on baby, you’re almost there.” You whine as his mouth sucks hard on your clit, his thick fingers pressing down on the bundle of nerves.
You might come up with a few locks of his hair after this but he doesn’t seem to care as he works you through your climax.
“I’ve been waiting for five minutes in the truck.” Santi’s teasing voice breaks through the haze as he leans against the bathroom door.
Frankie sits back on his heels, your slick dripping from his chin and a stupid grin across his face. “Five more minutes.”
You look to Santi for assistance but he just smirks and sets his watch timer. “It’s your fault for wearing that dress.”
Comments and reblogs are much appreciated
tagging a few who might be interested-@heareball@for-a-longlongtime@romana-after-dark@legendary-pink-dot@ghostslillady@casa-boiardi@survivingandenduring@romanarose
#francisco morales#frankie x f!reader x santiago#triple frontier fanfiction#francisco catfish morales#frankie morales smut#triple frontier#frankie morales x you#santiago garcia x reader#pedro pascal characters#triple frontier fic#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales#pimowrites#frankie morales x ofc#triple frontier imagine#triple frontier drabble
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The Fall Out; The Invitation.
Frankie Morales x F!Reader.
Summary: You attend an audition for a local band, and all seemingly goes well until it doesn’t.
Warnings: P in V sex, Creampie, Swearing, Some angst, Arguing, Asshole Frankie and Drummer!Benny Miller.
Word Count: 2K.
Chapters: 1 of 6.
A/N: I don’t know what I am doing. I am bad at this. This is mostly flashbacks and throughout the series I will be jumping back and forth. The next chapter will heavily focus on the breakdown of the band/relationships.
[FLASHBACK: TEN YEARS EARLIER].
It was fucking intoxicating, it was four months of unspoken tension and frustrations being hashed out in the most bruising and salacious way.
Every thrust was fuelled by a different desire, a desire to make you scream his name, a desire to make you his and a desire to stop your smart mouth from spilling anything but moans of pleasure and desperate whimpers of his name.
His grip was bruising from the very second the tension snapped, he spun you around and pulled down your panties without stopping for breath. He made a snarky comment about how fucking desperate you were for him and the way your thighs were glistening with your wetness meant that for once you couldn’t shut him up with a snide remark of your own.
Instead you just choked back a moan, ignoring the sharp sting of pain you felt as you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip at a futile attempt to hide the overwhelming feeling of relief that it was finally happening.
He sunk himself into you in one fluid movement and you swore you could see stars. Everything around you disappeared and for a moment you were somewhere else, you weren't in a filthy dressing room at the back of some shady venue that hadn’t seen a vacuum in god knows how long.
And then he spoke.
“You think I can’t see what you’re doing,” he scolded before ceasing his movements, “Stop biting your lip. I wanna hear how well you take my cock. I can already feel it, so what’s the point in trying to pretend that you’re not fucking gagging for it?”
The groan that was milliseconds from spilling over your lips was replaced by a moan that you had no chance of suppressing, his cock having speared into that spot inside of you as your lips had parted.
And from that moment on, you were putty in his hands. All the need to defy him had evaporated and the only thing that you could feel was a stronger need to be consumed by him, to feel the heat of him enveloping you as he relentlessly fucked into you.
You gave him everything he wanted, you came with a gasp of his name and you let him spill every drop of spend inside of you as he murmured some almost incoherent speech about how you were his and he was going to claim you in every single way.
It was always going to end in tears.
[THE BEGINNING]
“Can I add this to your notice board?” A voice boomed out from across the cafe, as you served a customer their overpriced coffee.
“Sure,” you replied with a friendly shrug, “Spare pins are placed in the bottom left corner of the board.”
“Thanks, babe,” the voice called back and before you could get a real glance at him, he was out the door and on his way to cover every spare post or board with copies of the same flyer.
The rest of the day had been so busy you didn’t even think of it again until you were heading out, the hastily made flyer grabbing your attention as you slung your backpack across your shoulder.
You pulled it off the board and studied it for a few moments before shoving it in your backpack, it has been a while since you’d even considered performing in front of people, work and bills getting in the way of the dream you’d had since you were a child, but something about this was calling out to you.
[THE DAY OF THE AUDITION]
Work was as busy as ever, you had been starting work at four am rather than six because the festive period had seen more visitors popping in before or after doing their Christmas shopping.
And that had seen the pastries, cakes, tarts and cookies you made for the business selling out quicker than you were used to.
Work was a helpful distraction, the amount of things you had to freshly bake and prepare meant you didn’t have time to fret or sike yourself out over the audition.
And before you knew it the café was open and filled with hungry and thirsty customers; and your co-worker Callie was bouncing behind the counter to relieve you of your duties.
“Are you ready for the big audition for the big gig?” she asked with a signature wink, “You’re gonna smash it.”
“Ooh, the big gig?” you said with a giggle, “Is that what we are calling me potentially hanging out in someone’s garage a couple of times a week?”
“Sounds like superstardom to me,” Callie shot back as she tied her apron around her waist, “Good luck, break a leg or whatever!”
“Yeah, yeah! Thank you babe.”
“Don’t forget to text me how it goes,” she called back as you politely weaved your way past the waiting customers.
The line of people outside the venue made your nerves tingle, you weren't sure what to expect or just how many people would be interesting but it certainly wasn’t this. There must have been 25 people ahead of you, and that was just waiting outside.
Instinctively your fingers intertwined with the fingers on your other hand, as you eagerly waited your turn, occasionally fighting the urge to abandon ship and wait for another opportunity to come around.
But the snotty girl in front of you said something to someone else in the queue that made you stand your ground, the anticipation and intrigue outweighing the anxiety and doubt.
She was eavesdropping the conversation in front of her and the sharp scoff she exhaled in judgement immediately caught your attention, “Didn’t you hear? They asked the original lead singer to leave. This is a big fucking deal, they were offered an opening slot that would have been huge for them and he pissed someone off so badly that they withdrew the offer.”
“Who were they going to open for?” a voice that sounded alarmingly like your own croaked out and the mean girl spun around with a raised eyebrow before looking you up and down and scoffing again.
“Green Day.”
‘Shit.’ You murmured, and she turned back around before making some unintelligible comment under her breath that made you roll your eyes.
After three agonising hours, it was almost your turn. The pink haired mean girl from the line came crashing out of the room with a smug look splashed across her face and just as you’d made the decision to go home, the door opened again and the same guy from the café was inviting you.
“Hey!” he said with a huge smile, “From the café on main right?”
“Yeah,” you replied with a shy smile, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Come meet the guys,” he said as he ushered you in the room, “I’m Benny by the way. Drums!”
“Oh, yeah, it figures you’re a drummer,” you reply with a laugh before introducing yourself.
“Why’s that?” Benny says as he gestures to the microphone before climbing back on stage and calling out, “Because the drummers are always the most handsome guy in the band?”
“Something like that,” you roll your eyes and shrug and simply reply, “Your arms.”
He laughs before telling the guys your name and telling them where you work and then he introduces them all.
“Okay, so we got Pope over there on bass, my brother Will is on keyboard, I’m obviously on drums and this is Frankie our guitarist.”
As he introduced each guy they waved and smiled from behind their instruments, all until Frankie. Who barely glanced up at you. Too busy fiddling with his instrument to give you the time of day, boredom and frustration clearly painted across his face.
His incredibly handsome face. You hated how obvious it must have been that you did a double take when you looked at him, your breath hitching as you took him in. You couldn’t ignore his strong nose and jaw and his endearing scruffy patchy beard. He was gorgeous. But he seemed so utterly disinterested that he immediately struck a nerve.
“So what are you going to sing?” Pope called out from the stage, “You want us to play something or do you have a backing track?”
“Shit,” you hissed, “No I didn’t bring one. I just figured I’d sing it without… is that ok?”
“All good, babe,” Benny yelled back with a reassuring smile, “Whenever you’re ready.”
Run by Snow Patrol had been the song you ultimately settled on singing for the audition, it had been a firm favourite for years and was always something you felt comfortable performing.
“Holy shit,” Benny spluttered as you finished the song, “Café girl has got some pipes.”
“That she does,” Will replied with an approving nod.
And before you had a chance to thank them a gravelly voice flooded the room, “She’s not exactly what we’re looking for,” he said as his fingers still fiddled with his guitar, “I mean, yeah, nice voice, but come on.”
“And what exactly are you looking for?” you blurted back, “Another arrogant asshole that’ll blow any more chances that may come your way.”
He sneered at you, before standing up and giving you an obvious once over, “Yeah, she’s…uh, real nice. Clearly she would make a great addition to the band” he spat out to his band mates every word dripping with sarcasm before slipping through a door off the stage.
You couldn’t make sense of how quickly he had gotten under your skin, and immediately you were trying to work out if you wanted to slap or kiss him. Slap him. Definitely slap him… Maybe.
“Is that good for you?” the voice called out from the stage as you tried to regain some focus.
“What?” you stammered, “Uh, sorry, I didn’t catch what you said?”
Will laughed, “He has that effect on people. Could you leave your number on the sheet over there and we will let you know in a few days.”
You nodded politely before giving the band an unconvincing smile, before stumbling over and scribbling down your name and number on the sheet.
‘Well, I definitely won’t be hearing from them.’ you thought to yourself as you slowly walked home, replaying it all back over and over until you felt physically sick.
You sipped the hot chocolate in your mug as some absolutely awful but equally captivating hallmark movie played out on your TV, each scene as predictable as the next making you roll your eyes but somehow still being so alluring that you audibly tutted when your phone started ringing and disturbing it.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
“Hello,” you sighed into your cell phone, “If this is a spam just do me a favour and hang up for me.”
“Depends on what you’d refer to as spam, Café girl,” the voice boomed back into your eye with a laugh, “Not disturbing anything important I hope.”
“Benny?” you asked with an obvious tone of surprise, “I didn’t expect to actually hear from you.”
“Can hardly offer you the position if I don’t contact you, babe,” he says and you can picture the cocky grin on his face, “What are you doing Tuesday night?”
Joining a local band with a guitarist that you’ve already had a spat with? ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ you thought to yourself before answering.
“Sounds like you’re about to tell me.”
[PRESENT DAY; TEN YEARS LATER]
The chill in the air made you grip the mug of hot chocolate in your hand a little tighter, you sat comfortably on the balcony off your bedroom and looked out over the lake whilst enjoying the same silence you had for years.
The rude unexpected ringing of your phone making you wince slightly as you glanced down at the screen.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
Usually you’d just let it ring out, maybe check the voicemail they’d potentially leave a few hours later if you felt like it, but a feeling you hadn’t felt for many years started to bubble up in your stomach, and something was calling out for you to answer.
“Hello,” you quietly murmured into the phone.
“Hello, babe,” a familiar voice boomed back at you, “It’s been a while. What are you doing next month?”
#frankie morales#Triple Frontier#triple frontier fic#triple frontier fanfiction#triple frontier au#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#pope#santi garcia#santiago garcia#will miller#will ironhead miller#francisco morales#frankie catfish morales#francisco catfish morales#frankie morales smut#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x f!reader#Frankie Morales x OFC#my fanfiction#the fall out#the fall out fic
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Trembling/Famished/Hollow/Gone
Mature Content 18+
Pairings: Frankie "Catfish" Morales/ OFC (mentioned)
Main relationship: Frankie "Catfish" Morales/Ben Miller/Santiago "Pope" Garcia/William "Iron Head" Miller. (non sexual)
Fic Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, Sad Boys, Mental Health Issues, Traumatic Brain Injury, Drug Addiction, Drug Abuse, Suicide, Military Inaccuracies.
Word Count: 3.6k
Inspired by Taylor Swift's Midnight Rain.
This was written as a part of the Taylor Swift drabble challenge.
As a Non-Swiftie this really was a HUGE challenge for me, thank you to @beskarandblasters for the open invite to participate and to @punkette1026 for lending a hand in the process of understanding my feelings towards this song and this story.
You can also find the story and some important notes in my AO3 -> IN MADNESS
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
Also thank you to @beardedjoel for letting me rant about how much this song was not for me.
Act I: Petrichor Syndrome
Even in a different place, it always starts the same.
Sorrow, a chill in the air, the fog of early morning, and the heaviness of his body sinking into the mattress. The scent of damp earth, and cool wood against the soles of his feet when they touch the floor. He stands next to his borrowed bed for a moment and takes it all in, looking out into the Alaska wilderness from the panoramic window in one of the many guest bedrooms.
It’s surprising, he thinks, how much a few million dollars can buy you. Surprising how much they can cost you too.
He swallows the bitter taste of pain and memory, of soft cinnamon skin and beautiful sparkling eyes that look away, full of regret. It’s a razor gliding down his trachea, the memory of twisted metal and gunpowder, of a glass syringe hitting the pavement. Of how it was all his fault.
He takes a deep breath and looks away. He pretends not to think about it, about her, about them, about…Him. He pretends not to think about children crying in the middle of the night, about a punch to the face that split up the skin and left over an unhealable scar, about clear blue eyes, all-knowing that never looked on in reproach. He pretends not to think about the forgiveness he doesn’t deserve.
A light blue suit hangs on the edge of the half-opened closet door, a pair of perfectly shined shoes peek out from his open suitcase, and a carefully folded Tommy Bahama shirt sits neatly on a chair because they all made a promise.
He avoids the man in the mirror as he goes through the motions of a morning routine drilled into him a long time ago, and he doesn’t vomit out of sheer will. There’s lead in his stomach and a rattle shaking his bones.
And guilt.
Guilt, guilt, guilt.
He flinches at the grumbling sound of the promise of thunder, nearby enemy fire.
He shouldn’t be here.
“Alaska?” Pope feels befuddled, dizzy, disoriented, and every adjective under the sun. Fucking ALASKA. He thought he was the only one with that, leaving , itch. He looks at Fish as if he just sprouted a second head out of his palm-tree-decorated short-sleeve-covered shoulder. Frankie smiles back at him, smooth and easy. Almost… Happy.
“Yeah!” He chuckles, taking a sip from his lukewarm corona, Benny’s fridge has been on the fritz for the past couple weeks, but hot beer is still beer, and Frank is still Frank. “Lusa thinks it’ll be good for the kids, you know? Nature, Community. She grew up there” The smile disappears. He looks away, to where Ben and Will are trying to get the grill going and then far away. His fingers reach up absentmindedly to scratch at his beard. Longer now, grayer. “Ahí puedo volar”, he whispers, almost too quietly.
“That’s cool man” Pope reaches out and pats his shoulder, firmly, just once. He lets his hand rest there, he ignores the way that he can almost feel bone. “I bet you’ll love it there, get you a fishing boat, para que ese nombre tenga sentido! Finally” He chuckles, and when Frankie looks back the smile springs forth again. It’s been so long since Pope last saw the spark in his eyes and the dimple on his cheek that he doesn’t have to pretend not to notice they’re not there anymore. He’s forgotten.
There are streamers all over the backyard of the humble home the younger Miller still keeps, a handmade banner full of roughly drawn hearts and male genitalia surrounding his full name. SANTIAGO GARCIA. And a shiny red Ferrari in the garage. A not-so-well-kept secret.
A loud whoop startles them, and they both turn to see Benny and Will have managed to get the old rickety grill going, a huge dopey smile on Ben’s face, his arms in the air, and a deep look of love and pride on his brother’s face. “Come on”, he says, slapping Frankie’s leg as he gets up from the old, worn lawn chair “Let’s go give me a proper goodbye this time” he laughs when Frankie groans and curses at the way his knees pop when he does the same.
This is a party, after all, a farewell celebration, a new mission, 2 years in the making.
A beautiful woman in Australia, still waiting for him.
A town like a cage finally left ajar. He has to go.
Act II: Fickle Food Upon a Shifting Plate
“Goddamnit!” he pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head back, the slime-like feeling of fluid dripping down his throat makes him gag to the verge of choking. He swallows and shuts his eyes as tightly as he can, trying to counteract the pulsing headache that has been keeping him awake.
Three days, two nights.
Too late.
Soft heather gray fabric is digging into the skin of his biceps. The bottom of the shirt flares up, un-tucked just above the waistband of his emerald-green suit pants as he stretches. Two sizes too small. And he remembers it so well, never saw this shirt again until today, folded neatly on a little decorative table just outside his assigned bedroom.
Japanese Cranes on a busy street.
Just one look at himself in it was all it took, blown out pupil almost matching back with his healthy eye. And he wanted to throw up so badly, actually thought he would. But no, Ha! Because his life’s just such a fucking joke, his brain starts leaking instead. So fucking funny. What he deserves.
Eat it up, Benny boy. His stomach turns again.
He opens his eyes and stares at a faint watermark on the ceiling. A body slumped against a trash can in the middle of the day. An interview cut short by a sucker punch. He lets go and looks down and straight ahead into the face of the liar who got what he had coming. The mirror laughs at him.
He was the one always supposed to make sure it was safe. First hit. All clear.
He promised he would be there.
He stares, like a challenge. Tall, blonde, tan.
Disfigured.
He wears the shirt.
He’ll never break a promise again.
There’s a fucking Marquee with his name on it, front and center. The main event.
BENNY “FIRST HIT” MILLER
He laughs out loud, arms stretching as far as they can go, shaggy blond hair curling at the edges of a backward cap as he turns around and stands under the sign “Yeah! Look at this shit boooys!” He’s smiling so hard his face hurts “Ya boy bout’ to get richer! Hooah!”
“What have I said Benjamin” Frankie shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest “Never count your mon…” Ben rolls his eyes and cuts him off “...money before it’s in your pocket. I know, I know. Just be happy for me old man” He chuckles, slapping his shoulder once before slinging a long arm over his neck and pulling him close to his side. He stares at that face and notices that Frankie seems a little worn, a little tired. But his body’s strong after living like a lumberjack for the past 3 years, and his smile is wide, bright, and happy. Benny misses the dimple, but at least it reaches his eyes again if only slightly.
He misses the signs too, but only because he doesn’t know to look for them. Frankie’s clean. Took all the steps, wrote all the letters, said all the sorries. He’s happy and clean and flying again. There are wrinkles and white hair and nothing wrong at all. Not a single thing.
“Can’t believe you actually did it” His brother’s voice is deep as he comes to a standstill right next to him, and Benny snaps out of it, throwing an arm around Will's shoulders too. He can’t believe it either. Thirty-three years old, all the money he could dream of, a perfect house, a white picket fence. Eternal sunshine and peppermint-flavored holidays.
And that insatiable hunger, his name in shining lights, his face on TV sets.
His brothers in arms, in his arms.
He laughs. It’s picture-perfect.
Interlude: The Use of Unnecessary Violence Has Been Approved
Afghanistan: Some time between getting the boot and becoming criminals.
It’s Christmas day and they’re deep in the suck, deployed to conduct “training exercises” and bogus drug busts in the third world. But they know the drill, the time has come, heavy footsteps are banging in the attic and their clocks are ticking.
They can all smell it coming a mile down the road. Smells like polyester, ribbons, and flaky lacquer-covered medals.
Forced retirement.
They know too much and have seen shit no one would ever believe. They’re too expensive , and this? This is a fucking vacation, they’re just getting them out of the way, tucked into the furthest corner of the world they could find to send them to.
Mostly, it’s just fucking boring.
“Alright Benny, your turn”, Catfish proclaims, grabbing a sand-eroded bicycle playing card and sticking it to his forehead, he can see one 3 and two eights, fucking lucky Millers. “What are we wearing, baby?” he throws 2 chips onto the makeshift plywood table. Benny’s smile widens, and he slides half his chips into the pot.
“Mighty Morphing Power Ranges, Mother fuckers!” He laughs, wide and happy and young, and why shouldn’t he, at 25 years old he’s worn that heavy flag on his shoulder a loooooot less than the rest of ’em. “And you better fucking cry too. LOUD . I want the whole fucking town starting rumors about how much we really shared overseas” he winks and blows Pope a kiss.
Will snorts and calls it “I’m out” he waves his hands over the whole thing and looks at his card, the 8 of spades, he snorts again taking a sip of his coffee, it’s a hundred degrees out and it tastes like ass, but he spent a good chunk of cash to get the fucking thing shipped over. “How bout you Fish?” he asks, pushing his sunglasses up his nose and leaning back on his chair, letting the sunshine hit his face.
Frank looks at Pope’s 3 and Benny’s 8, he bites his lip and throws two more chips in. “Want y’all GQ buttfucks wearing suits” He waits, Pope goes in big, a determined frown on his face, he’s on the hunt. “Hawaiian shirts” He chuckles, picking a half-burned-out basuco cigarette off the rim of a can of lukewarm Pepsi, he picks at the peeling skin on a freckled shoulder and brings it up to his dry lips. “Yeah”, He nods, inhaling, the middle finger on his other hand pushing against the plastic card to hold it in place on his forehead. “Hawaiian shirts and colored suits. Lu hates black” He speaks through the billowing smoke.
Menthol and cocaine.
He wins the pot 2 minutes later and they play another round. Pope wants quinceañera dresses and Will... Will wants banana hammocks underneath Dress Blues.
They spend six months getting a nice tan and a sand rash. Trading photos of their girlfriends in various stages of nudity in exchange for 10 minutes of late-night internet access to mid-quality porn and the Food Network. They train during the day and spend their nights taking turns on the beat-up Panasonic, jerking off to a combination of Angela White solos and Rachel Khoo’s simple pleasures half a foot away from each other’s bunks.
They start faking Australian accents just for fun and learn how to cook French onion soup.
And… If push came to shove, they absolutely could pick out each other’s dicks from a lineup.
They’re veterans, honorably Discharged by the time their ride back home hits American Aerospace.
Life is good. Kind of.
Act III: Spare What’s Failing
He’s been up and ready since Zero Four Hundred .
He’d woken up to green, red, and yellow hues in the early morning sky. Fifteen minutes to shower and shave, 15 more to get dressed. Ten buttons through ten button holes, Four knots on his shoe laces. One, single, curved palm tree on his shirt.
His suit is a deep plum color, three-piece, and he’s even put on a tie. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he goes over his checklist, one more time, taps each button, and pulls each strap. He makes sure there are no creases. His shoes are polished, his waistcoat pressed. He adds 4 buttons to the list and pulls at the hem to make it fit just right. It’s armor. A uniform.
He throws the jacket on last. He steps forward out of the bathroom, and then back. One step, two steps, lights on, lights off, then on again. It’s a practiced dance by now, back home.
Here though? He’s thrown just a little off rhythm. Lights off. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. And he’s relaxed, he’s mindful and settled and calm. He’s picked clean like carrion.
He steps away. The light stays off.
He should have stayed where he belonged.
He tucks the moment away in a tinny little box in the palace of his mind, and he’s not sure how much it helps, because he knows those numbers by heart too. One hundred and Thirty-two little boxes all lined up in rows. His childhood bedroom. His barracks dorm. A hastily built plywood container with four bunk beds in the middle of a desert storm. A house of cards and rained-soaked blood money.
The life they gave away. The life that came after.
Miami-Dade County Morgue.
He exhales. Light blue eyes hone in on a ticking clock.
A time bomb.
Zero Five Thirty. There’s nothing left.
He’s empty.
“Holly shit Fish, another kid?” He leans forward, holding Frank’s phone as he stares at a photo of his friend’s two little boys holding a sonogram and hugging Lusa in front of a beautifully wild Alaska nature backdrop, he swipes right, and then it’s just a tiny round belly, Frankie’s hand interlocked with his wife’s over it.
There’s a sharp whistle over his shoulder, and a heavy hand falling on his back “Woah! Ironhead, Who you got knocked up?!” A chuckle followed by loud whoops and hugs. “That’s my wife, pendejo!” Frankie smiles, and Will sees that dimple for the first time in what feels like a lifetime (6 years, 3 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days). He thinks it’s ironic that it should be Pope who brings it back.
He snatches the phone out of Will’s hand and swipes to the next photo, a perfect silhouette of a very obviously naked and very heavily pregnant Lu “For real? Que le paso al bebe nuevo?” Will snorts, sitting back against the cushioned bench in their favorite booth. “The new baby’s six years old man”, he takes a sip out of the beer Benny sets down in front of his face. Fish points a finger at him confirming this information is true. They haven’t seen Santi in almost 5 years, and Frank only does his Florida/Alaska run every 6 months.
This night is special.
“So you’re back for good huh?” Pope nods and takes the beer offered to him in his hand “Yeah, she just packed her shit and told me it was over and… well Australia fucking sucks” he smiles “But, enough about me. What’s going on with you?” he asks, pointing a thumb towards his right side “Benny boy here’s a big boy fighter now, Fish’s flying and doing to his part to overpopulate Juneau” He leans back, and gulps down half his beer in one go “What’s going on in Iron head’s world? You still doing your part for Uncle Sam?”
And Will, well, he notices things. Deflection for one, the pain in Santiago’s eyes, the wavering in his smile. And he notices other things too, the shaking in Frankie’s hand as he lifts his own pint, the new tattoo down his forearm.
The pink spots around his knuckles.
There’s a prickling in his stomach, and goosebumps on the back of his neck, and he should say something, anything but he’s not really sure that there’s something there. He’s not sure of many things “Not anymore” he replies, shaking his head.
They drink and they don’t really talk much. Frankie shows them more photos, Lusa, the kids, the huge fucking cabin-slash-mansion in the middle of the woods, Regina… his seaplane. He’s happy.
They all are, they smile and drink and smoke and Benny shows off, Pope gets drunk, and Frankie disappears into the bathrooms for a good 20 minutes. Will hesitates.
They have good lives.
They’re all good liars.
Act IV: Dead Man
At 7 a.m. on the dot, three doors open simultaneously.
Three men look up. A Mexican standoff, too scared to be the first to step up, too scared to be the last one. Blue, Green, Purple. They stare at each other for what feels like a little too long, can’t look into the other’s eyes.
Shame, Self-loading, Fear.
A sadness so deep it pours over them, dampening their bones. There’s thunder now, the promise fulfilled, threatening rain. there’s a chill in the air and the sound of their combined breath only makes their discomfort all the more obvious. They haven’t REALLY been together in almost 4 years. Too busy, too famous, too… damaged.
Too selfish.
There’s a sigh, a hard sniffle. “Come on” Ben’s voice is deep and soft as he pulls his bedroom door closed and limps his way down the hallway, he doesn’t wait for them to follow him, but he can feel them right there, behind, to the right of him, to the left of him. They walk into battle again, towards the worst promise they ever broke. Towards what’s left of the man they left behind.
Three phones went unanswered, and three voicemails were heard too late. Three men, almost strangers, identified the same face. And now, here they are, in missing man formation, marching to the last goodbye.
And it’s funny how they were trained in brutishness, to victimize, in savagery, to terrorize. they learned inadequacy and became murderers. And they forgot along the way what it should have meant. They never learned to save each other properly, because that skill was not of use.
A dead man is waiting for them.
And this time they will be there.
“Fish is dead”
That’s the first thing Ben remembers when he opens his eyes, everything is blurry, and the light is too bright. There’s a headache splitting his brain apart. He tries to breathe and starts to choke. Loud beeping noises start firing all at once, he’s thrashing against restraints, half his body feels like it’s not there and shadows are hovering over him, pulling and tugging and asking him to cough and telling him to “Please calm down sir… you’re ok”
A week in a coma. His career is gone. His brother on the phone, urgently, in the middle of his weight-in, three words.
He doesn’t lock his eyes back on his opponent fast enough. One second too late.
His world crumbles.
Police have been waiting for him to wake up because they found his name and number tattooed on the back of a John Doe’s shoulder. And it makes sense now that when they’d wheeled him out Santiago was there, Ben’s tattoo has HIS name and number on it.
Will has Frank's. They all have Will's.
Santiago has contacts, he knows people and after they ID the body he manages to get his hands on the coroner’s report. The scene photos. It feels… surreal.
A big man, made small. Sitting hunched over on a bench, held up by a trash can, in the middle of South Beach, a fist clenched tight, a needle stuck between his knuckles, a shattered glass syringe at his feet.
Three voice mails, and then six, and then nine. They all start the same.
“Hey it’s Frankie”
Haven’t seen you in a while… We should get together… I’m in town, need to talk…
Too busy, too famous, too scared.
Pope handles the cops, Will handles the ARMY, and Ben… Ben spends 3 months in Rehab learning how to become human again. Once it’s all over, Lusa and the kids get a flag and a check.
And the 4 of them take their last flight together.
Epilogue
“What you depart from is not the way.”
Ezra Pound.
Francisco Morales knows he’s going to die.
He knows how, when, and as he sits on that bench at 12:01 a.m. he finds… Where . And it’s not like it was planned down to a T or anything. No, he left some wiggle room. There wasn’t enough space to contain them.
He was happy, don’t get him wrong, he was. Had everything a man like him could want, a beautiful wife, a beautiful house, and three beautiful children. A beautiful life. It was too bad though, that he had been dead for a decade, his body moving forward, the machine still running.
His soul had gone, long ago. In the middle of the jungle with his finger on the trigger. He was no more.
He looks out into the ocean, deep and dark, and vast. Cleansing. The neon glow of orange, red, and blue lights on the strip, the far-away sounds of life, the palm trees swaying in the breeze. It feels right. He’s come home.
He takes a deep breath, that warmth of the air, the scent of coconut tanning oil and stale beer, he thinks of blue eyes, dark hair, and a dopey smile. He thinks of the days before when they had dreams of pride, and the days during, grueling heat and scorching sand, a clear mission. And he thinks of the days… after.
Zero Three Hundred
He pops the cap off on the last weapon he’ll ever hold, clenches his fist tight, and finds a vein.
He pulls the trigger.
#Triple Frontier#Triple Frontier Fanfic#Triple Frontier Fic#Frankie Morales#Santiago Garcia#Bem Miller#Will Miller#Frankie Morales x ofc#Mia's fic
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Day Six - Santiago Garcia x Amalia (plus size OFC)
Word Count: 406
Warnings: domestic fluff, children, some feelings
Notes: An Oscar Isaac character has joined the spring prompts! I recently read Santiago being a dad in some fics by @reallyrallyauthor who also had the Delta boys being babysitters. I highly recommend them for fluffy and comedy value. Then I kept trying to figure out what to do with flutter. Enjoy!
Main Masterlist / March Spring Prompts 2024 / Writing Challenge
Every spring, Amalia requests that he stop by the Home Depot on his way home from work “when he thinks about it” but Santi is a smart enough man to know what his wife means within the week she told him about it. He’s checking out three of them, feeders for hummingbirds. She prefers a certain kind because it matches the soft yellow of their front and back porches. He always promised himself he was going to paint over the yellow with white or gray - a more neutral color but the bright color had grown on him now.
Unloading the feeders and carrying them to the back was an easy feat for him, maybe not his knees though. His wife Amalia greeted him with a warm smile and took one of the feeders from him, setting it down on a table that was soon joined by the others. “Mr. Garcia, you’re a devious man.” Her hands were on her hips playfully, Santi wouldn’t deny that he is sometimes, well more than sometimes but he just got in. What did he do? His wife tilted her head toward the backyard he had worked on a project with their children and Frankie’s daughters. A small mason jar that had four tubes sticking out of the bottom hung from the large tree that provided about a third of the yard with shade.
Their three children were gathered around watching as an elegant turquoise hummingbird was gathering nectar out of one of the tubs. Small, bright and excited eyes were trained on the bird seeing its wings flutter until they were nearly invisible. They remained quiet so as to not spook the bird and were content to watch, their giggles barely heard by their parents.
“Something Catfish and I put together for the kids. I wasn’t sure if it was going to work. I taught Grace how to use the hot glue gun to plop the flower Luis made with Diego.” Amalia’s arm wrapped around Santiago’s waist and she laid her head on his shoulder.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have fussed about getting the feeders. And yes I know I did, I just did it silently.”
“It’s fine. Who knows how long it’s going to last anyway? We’ve got backups now, Mrs. Garcia.” He matched his wife’s playful energy and she bumped his hip with her plush one. Gentle moments like these made Santiago Garcia’s heart flutter with warmth.
#March Spring Prompts 2024#fanfiction#Oscar Isaac#oscar isaac characters#Santiago Garcia#Santiago Garcia x plus size OFC#plus size OFC#A Nerdie fic
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Supernatural Frontier | Chapter 2: The Cabin in the Woods
Series Summary: Former Delta Force soldiers, Santi, Frankie, Will and Benny, meet with fellow hunters, Dean and Sam Winchester, and team up for a rescue mission. Their objective: kill the demons, destroy their army, and save as many people as they can. Little did they know they'd find an angel in the pits of Hell, and that they'd have to put their lives on the line to save hers.
Chapter Summary: The girl wakes up. Santi warms up to her.
Pairings: TF!boys x OFC
A/N: Please note that I am French so there might be some mistakes here and there.
Words: 7089
Warnings: PTSD, nudity, mentions of blood, eventual poly relationship...
Minors DNI!
Masterlist
Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 (coming soon...)
Tags: @moonchild-cupcake @littlenosoul
Please leave some feedback and reblog if you like it!
The feeling was too great. It overwhelmed him. He didn’t know it. He didn’t understand what was happening to him. He thought it was just exhaustion. The adrenaline leaving his body. The horrors he had witnessed haunting his mind, the evil sticking to his skin. He had plunged in the dark and had returned with its treasure. Like a pirate, killing and maiming his way to the hold of a haunted ship. What had he been fighting for all these years if not for her? She was all the answers to all his questions. Everything he’d been through seemed worth it now. She washed all his regrets away, erased them from his memory.
Will had always believed he had left the war behind, not for the hopes of a better life, but to put his skills to better use. He wasn’t killing other human beings anymore, he was killing real monsters, real demons. He was making his own choices. Every time he pulled the trigger now, he did it because he chose to, because he needed to kill a monster to save a person. Not because his generals had put someone’s name on a list. It wasn’t just his country he was protecting anymore, but the world, the people. He had always been good at his job, been good at death, but he didn’t want to do it any longer. He couldn’t. Hunting was just another kind of job, another kind of death. One that wasn’t as bad. He had seen what humans were capable of, and it had broken him. And sometimes, when he would look in the mirror, he would wonder if he was just as bad as the people he had been ordered to kill. Sometimes, he wondered if he would see them again one day, with black eyes, just like he wondered if he would one day look back at his reflection and see only darkness in his own. But still, he hunted. He hunted to help the vulnerable, to rescue the defenseless, to save the innocents. He did it all. He did it all to get to her. She was it. He knew it the moment he stepped foot in that room and laid eyes on her. She was the most vulnerable, the most defenseless, the most innocent.
She was his redemption.
Benny kept a close eye on his brother, checking in the rearview mirror if he had moved at all. They had been driving for hours, and yet Will hadn’t moved a muscle. He was holding her, her head resting on his lap, his eyes focused on her thin face, his large hand cupping her cheek. Every breath she took he took with her, like she was allowing him to breathe.
He was waiting for her to wake up and yet he hoped she wouldn’t. He wanted her to be in a safe, warm place when she opened her eyes, wanted her to be able to run from him, from them, and see they weren’t going to hold her down and tie her up. He didn’t want her to feel trapped by the size of the car, or scared by the dark of the night. He wanted to be able to give her clothes and access to a bathroom. He wanted to give her a sense of safety, her dignity, and her humanity back to her. He wanted her to trust him.
He wondered how bad it would be, once she woke up. Because he knew she would be scared. He knew it would take time for her to trust him, and his friends. It wouldn’t take days or weeks, or months. It would take time. And patience. And he would do anything to make it happen as soon as possible.
The feedback of the walkie startled the two brothers. They jerked on their seat then sighed out of annoyance. Will let out a little laugh. On the other side, Santi’s voice was tired and low, probably because Frankie was sleeping next to him.
“They rent cabins not far from here.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Benny nodded. “We hunted a Wendingo in those woods once.”
“Fuck, don’t remind me,” Santi chuckled, earning the same reaction from Will. “Let’s see if they have a cabin for us.”
Finally coming to a stop, the three men jumped out of their vehicle with unspoken relief. They stretched out their arms and legs as quietly as they could in the cold silent night. Benny had to hold back a very loud tired sound that almost escaped his throat as he extended his arms above his head. Frankie was still sleeping on the passenger seat, his forehead resting against the foggy window of the car. Santi didn’t waste any more time and went in to ask the dreadful question. Every second he was inside was agony to his weary friends.
“I don’t think I can get back in the truck,” Benny whined, almost praying for a miracle.
Will turned back to check on the girl, still sleeping on the back seats, before turning back towards his brother.
“Me neither.”
The door of the front desk opened to show Santi holding up a key like it was a medal won after a great victory.
“Thank God!” Benny laughed, releasing a shaky breath, almost falling to his knees.
“How many beds?” is the first thing Will asked.
His friend smirked, ready to defy his eternal pessimism.
“Six.”
Benny straightened up as his breath caught in his throat, while his brother raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Six?!”
“And that’s not the best part.”
“What?” Will said, doubtful he could do better than that.
“Ask me how many bathrooms there are.”
“How many bathrooms?”
“Five.”
“You’re kidding,” Will shook his head.
“Nope. It was the last cabin they had.”
“And how much is that costing us?”
Benny rolled his eyes, annoyed by his brother‘s restless negativity. Santi dug his hand into his jeans pocket and took out a credit card in the name of Hector White.
“It’s not costing us anything.”
“Come on, Will, aren’t you tired enough?” his brother scolded as he put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s just go to bed. Wait… how many double beds?”
“Four.”
“Ha-ha!” Benny jumped, like he’d just won the lottery. “Perfect, let’s go.”
The younger brother got back into his truck, gesturing for his brother to hurry up and for Santi to lead the way. It only took a few minutes to get to the cabin, but those minutes were the longest. Benny could already see himself in bed and sleeping for the next few days. The little wooden house was the furthest away from the road, deep into the forest, but that didn’t scare the hunters. When they parked the trucks on the designated spots, Frankie was awake. Their relief could be seen on their faces. It was such a comfort to know they wouldn’t be hiding in a cheap motel, sleeping in uncomfortable beds and taking cold showers for the near future. That cabin was a luxury they couldn’t usually afford, both for financial and practical reasons. And it put Will’s mind at ease as well, knowing the girl would have a safe and clean place to wake up to. The last thing he wanted was for her to think she was trapped in another tiny, smelly, dirty prison.
He carefully wrapped his coat around her before he carried her out of the vehicle. Quickly, he walked up the stairs and crossed the porch to enter their new temporary home. It was luxurious indeed. From the outside, the place just looked like an oversized log cabin one could find in the woods, dusty and dirty, stocking the usual hunting and camping gear. The kind of place people owned on the side, to escape the city for the weekend. But, perhaps, it would look better in the daylight. However, in the inside, it looked like a palace. Or at least, as close to a palace they would ever see. Will almost felt ashamed to walk on the beautiful rug with his muddy and bloody boots.
The entrance was a large square. The hardwood floor was covered by a giant beige rug, and in the middle stood a high glass square table on which had been placed a vase of obviously fake white lilies. Above it hung a chandelier with candle shaped lightbulbs. The walls were adorned with paintings not unusual for a vacation home. They weren’t unpleasant to look at, but no one really did want to look at them. He was surrounded by three archways. The one on his right led to the living room. It looked pretty comfortable, especially with that big TV, but that wasn’t what he needed at the moment. The one on the left led to the kitchen, and the one before him led to a staircase and a hallway.
“There’s a bedroom with a bathroom over there,” Santi said as he pointed towards the hallway. “There’s another bathroom next to the kitchen. Everything else is upstairs.”
“Let’s go upstairs then,” Benny yawned, knowing Santi had already claimed the bedroom on the ground floor.
It happened naturally, like it always did when they didn’t have to flip a coin for it. Benny entered the first bedroom he found. Frankie picked the second one, and Will was left with the bedroom at the end of the hallway. It wasn’t as big as the others, but at least he had the best bathroom, with the modern shower and the large bathtub.
He settled the girl on the bed, not caring for a second about staining the clean sheets. He brought the covers up to her chin, before turning on the night lamp and turning off the room light.
“And where are you gonna sleep?”
He turned around to find Santi in the doorway, his bags in his hands. Will gestured towards the couch.
“There are six beds in this place and you’re gonna sleep on the couch?”
“I can’t leave her alone.”
“Take the single beds.”
“She’ll be more comfortable here.”
Santi sighed. He sounded desperate. He put Will’s bags down on the dresser before he leant against it and crossed his arms over his chest.
“What’s your deal with her?” he asked, although it didn’t sound like a question, because he knew Will didn’t have an answer.
“Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m keeping her.”
“Keeping her? She’s not a pet, Will.”
“She’s staying.”
Will’s aggressive tone and the seriousness in his eyes concerned his friend the most.
“Nobody’s making her leave.”
Will nodded. To him, that was the end of the conversation. That was the end of the issue.
“Seriously, though,” Santi started and Will sent him a warning look. “You do realize this isn’t… I mean it’s weird, man.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“Exactly what we’re doing now, just… be careful.”
“I will be, okay? I just… I just know she’s not what they said she is. She’s not dangerous.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Did you see her down there? She’s not a monster.”
Santi frowned and tilted his head to the side as he stared back into his friend’s eyes, hoping he would see and understand his worry. He spoke his next words quietly.
“Maybe she was the biggest monster there.”
Will opened his mouth, but then closed it without saying a word. He looked down at the floor as he clenched his jaw in frustration. He made his way to the couch and sat down, his eyes remained focused on his boots, until they moved back onto her.
“I guess we’ll see when she wakes up,” he said, giving up, too tired to keep debating, as he knew there was nothing he could say to make him understand what he knew in his heart.
“I guess we will,” Santi repeated in a whisper. “Do me a favor, though. Get some sleep.”
Will nodded. “Yeah, I will.”
Santi chuckled as he pushed himself off the dresser and exited the room. Will had always been a terrible liar.
***
Spinning in darkness, untethered, floating like a leaf in water, drifting away in the infinity of her unconsciousness… she rose slowly from the deep sleep she had been forced under. It didn’t feel like waking up, because she hadn’t really been asleep. It was another kind of slumber. She emerged from the shadows of her mind, yet felt like she was drowning in them.
Memories echoed in the obscure chambers of her consciousness, compelling her to return to her comatose state. She didn’t want to go back. That was the only thing she was certain of. The only thing she knew. She fought against it but found herself unable to go back to the peaceful darkness. She was too weak for it. And trying made her feel worse.
She had been taken to the deepest corners of Hell, and they had used every weapon, performed every experiment, put to the test every theory, used up all their ideas… And the lack of satisfactory result never discouraged them. In fact, it became just another excuse to use new tools and new methods to torture her. They quickly learnt how to subdue her, how to make her weak, and her power mute. She had lived most of her life trapped between spells and sigils that had paralyzed her, body and soul. She had only known pain, had only felt their touch, the cutting of their knifes, the breaking of her bones… In Hell, there was no music but the sound of cries, and no song but the demons’ laugh.
That was all she knew.
They had driven her mind away, broken it like they had broken her body. Except it couldn’t heal the same. She was immortal. She was eternal. They couldn’t find a way to stop her heart, so they stopped something else. They had pushed her to meet her end. She had done it to herself.
She had put herself in a box where they couldn’t reach her, where she wouldn’t feel the pain, or their hands on her skin. She had turned herself off, had used those sigils and those traps to her advantage and had locked her mind away. The only way she could escape them. The only death she could ever have.
But something had changed. Now, she was free. The chains had disappeared. She could no longer feel the effect of the sigils on the walls, the traps on the floor and ceiling. She could no longer hear the screams, no longer feel the pain. She could no longer recognize where she was.
It was warm, and soft, and comfortable. And she wasn’t hanging from the ceiling, nor was she chained to the corner of a cold cage. She was lying down, but she wasn’t tied to the surface. It felt weird. Like she could actually move.
***
The sun rose and set on an eventless day chased away by the merciless night. Resting, relaxing… those were not words part of the soldiers’ vocabulary. They almost didn’t know how to do either of those things. They could appreciate a warm shower and recognize a comfortable mattress when they had one, but they were used to the opposite. So when they woke up from their restful sleep, they felt even more tired than they were when they went to bed. It didn’t help that it was almost midnight when they woke up. Or maybe it did help. Because even though they were used to living at night, it was just a good excuse to get back into their comfortable beds.
Will stayed up as long as he could, and he tried not to fall asleep, but he was human, with human needs, and no man, as strong as he might be, could stay awake, as exhausted as he was. But when he woke up the next night, unlike his brothers, he never went back to sleep.
He was awoken by a whimper. It startled him. Like he had just caught himself falling asleep at the wheel. He almost fell off the sofa. His eyes immediately searched for her, fear driven, as an irrational thought crossed his mind that perhaps she had vanished in silence, escaping the house and the attention of the four very skilled men who had been trained to not let such a thing happen. But she was still there. Sleeping. Her chest rose, and when he saw her breathe, so did he. He let out a sigh of relief before running a hand over his face.
He was staring, he didn’t realize it. Once again hypnotized by the sleeping beauty. He came to dread her waking up. The apprehension made him uneasy. Still panic settled in his heart as if he could feel the moment getting closer with each agonizing second that went by.
And then, he heard another whine. Suddenly, finally, she flinched, and his heart stopped.
A grimace twisted her face. A whimper broke the silence. And he froze like a deer in headlights. Like any movement from him would make her pain worse.
Her eyes shot open as she sat bolt upright with a cry that stuck in her throat. She gasped, like the air burnt her lungs. She whined as she found herself free to move and breathe without pain, the surprise almost as painful. She grabbed her wrist and looked down at herself, ignoring the dirt and blood covering her skin, instead focusing on the fluffy cover that kept her warm.
“Hey.”
Although he spoke calmly and as quietly as he could manage, she jumped, and as she saw him, the confusion on her face vanished and terror came to replace it. She seemed to shrink under his gaze, as if she was trying to make herself disappear.
“You’re okay,” he quickly added, holding up his hands before him to show her he meant no harm, “it’s okay.”
She whined as he stepped forward. He stopped.
“My name is Will. You’re safe, I promise no one here will hurt you.”
He could see she didn’t believe him, or maybe she just didn’t understand him. She was trembling, holding back tears, as if she was afraid to move or make any sound, as if that would lead to more scary, more painful things.
He hesitated, for minutes, he just stood there, holding her gaze, nodding at her, whispering promises, begging her to calm down. But she wouldn��t. She just wouldn’t. She just looked at him with her big wet blue eyes as if he was going to do unspeakable things to her. And the more she looked at him, the more scared she got.
“I p-“
She fled. She fled like a rabbit scared of hunting hounds. She pushed herself off the mattress, away from him. Tangled in the sheets, she struggled to get out, and fell on the floor, but she never stopped. She dragged herself in the corner of the room, between the wall and the old-fashioned wooden wardrobe, dragged the sheets with her, brought them up, covered her body under them, hid inside them.
Will sighed as he gave up. He really had no idea how to deal with this. He knew PTSD. He knew how to help soldiers, veterans coming back from war, but this? An angel tortured by demons? He had no idea what she had been through. No idea how to help her. But he knew he had to be patient. And kind. And gentle. And he couldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to. Even if she needed to.
He slowly walked up to her and she pushed herself against the wall like she wanted to melt and disappear into it. He had never heard such broken cries. As if she knew no matter how much she tried to fight back, how much she begged, how much she cried, the pain would inevitably come. So he had to make her understand it wouldn’t. He had to make her understand he wasn’t one to bring pain.
He sat with her. Without saying a word, he just sat there. And he waited. He waited for her to understand.
***
Hours passed and they hadn’t moved. Slowly, though, she came out from under the sheets, eyeing him, wondering what kind of game he was playing. Usually she could tell what they would do to her that day by who was holding the knife or the room they took her in. But this was new.
He seemed to have fallen asleep, and a thought she hadn’t had in a very long time crossed her mind. She could run. She could try and run. And she might have tried it, had she been certain her legs could carry her out of there. She might have tried it, had she been certain he was really sleeping. She might have tried it, had she known for a fact the door was unlocked. It could be a trap. It was most certainly all a trap.
She moved, slightly, just to see if she could get a reaction out of him. Little by little, and it took minutes, she got herself on her hands and knees and slipped out of her corner. What she was doing terrified her, but her survival instinct pushed her to move, pushed her to seize her chance.
Slowly, quietly, she made her way to the door. She kept looking b ack at him just to make sure he was still sleeping. Then she got on her feet and almost fell down. This was a terrible idea. She wouldn’t go anywhere in that state. She could barely walk. But she tried it anyway. Because even if they caught her, at least, maybe, they would be mad enough to put her back to sleep.
The door opened, and the empty hallway smelled of freedom. A wave of relief surged through her, but she still had miles to go. She staggered her way to the stairs, falling down a couple of times, but always getting back up. She gripped the ramp tight and was careful with each step she took down the stairs. She could see the front door and she knew it was too good to be true. But she didn’t give up. Even when she fell down again, her knees hitting the soft rug. Even when her legs were too weak to get her back up. She didn’t realize she was crying, because she had spent so much of her life with wet cheeks, and she worked through the pain, because she had known worse. She dragged herself to the big door, pushed herself up enough so that she could reach the handle and pull. And pull.
But the door was closed.
A broken sob escaped her throat as she collapsed to the floor and broke down in tears. She cried until she couldn’t breathe anymore. She cried until she felt a pair of hands around her waist.
She yelped as she was lifted off the floor and the stranger helped her sit up. She was expecting to see scary black eyes and the sadistic smile of the bored jailor that had played this cruel trick on her, but instead was met with the gentle brown-eyes of a man with dark disheveled curls. He looked nothing like Will, but for the pity in his eyes. He sighed as he looked at her, and she felt shame as his eyes travelled on her dirty self. She was only wearing a large brown coat and it had opened up on her way downstairs.
She flinched and shut her eyes as he brought a hand to her face and cupped her cheek. When she opened them again, when the pain never came, when all she felt was the soft touch of his hand on her skin and the gentle rub of his thumb wiping away her tears, fear had made place for confusion, and she dived into his eyes and saw the promises they were making her. She wanted to believe them. She wanted nothing more than to believe Will’s words; that she was safe here. So when the man moved his hands onto the coat, she didn’t move, and she let him button it up in silence.
“Do you want to go outside?” he asked, a question needing no answer, as he knew she wouldn’t give him any.
He slid his fingers in his jeans pocket and retrieved the keys to the door. She gasped when he scooped her up in his arms, but found herself holding on to him. She didn’t know why but she held on to him. The air outside was fresh and wet and she sobbed as it hit her skin and saw the sunrise in the horizon before them, behind the forest. She couldn’t remember the last time she had set foot outside. Had felt the wind in her hair. She buried her head in the crook of his neck to shield her eyes from the natural light. They would have to get used to it again, after all those years in the darkness.
The stranger smelled nice. She didn’t know what it was, but it was different. It was a strong rich smell that had her rub her nose against his collar bone. He smelled clean. He smelled alive. It filled her lungs with unspoken relief. At least, it didn’t make her sick. She shivered at the contact of his skin. He was warm, almost burning the hand she had wrapped around his neck. She wasn’t used to being around the living. She only knew cold death.
There was a swing on the porch and he thought she might enjoy it, perhaps the rocking would calm her down. Soothe her.
She was still trembling in his arms, and he knew it wasn’t because of the temperature. She needed pants… well, she needed everything. He could hear her sob, feel her fingers tap on his skin, and slowly move up to his hair until eventually she slid them in his soft curls and mindlessly, gently, started to pull on them. He rested his cheek on her icy forehead as he hushed and whispered promises, telling her everything was going to be okay.
Eventually, her breathing settled and her sobs disappeared, replaced by the quiet sounds of the calm forest. Her shaking now was mostly due to the cold morning, and while her fingers were still playing with his hair, her free hand had, at some point, seized the collar of his shirt and hadn’t let go.
That was the only thing she could control, the only thing she possessed. That bit of fabric attached to a man she didn’t know, trapped inside her tiny hand like it was a source of power that could allow her to stop time and remain like this forever. It was the shield she had put up around herself, the walls she had built for protection, the leash around his neck to pull on should he or anyone try to end this moment.
She pulled on it when Will ran out of the house in panic and found them on the porch. She pulled on it even though Santi, as Will had just called him, tightened his hold on her and told her it was okay. She pulled on it when Will knelt at his friend’s feet and took her face in his hands. She saw his lips moving, but a sudden ringing in her ear stopped her from hearing him. She whined as she shut her eyes in pain and once again chose to find shelter in Santi’s arms, hiding her face in between his neck and shoulder.
“What happened?”
“She tried to leave. Freaked out when the door wouldn’t open.”
Will sighed. “She’s not scared of you.”
“I don’t know what to tell you man. She keeps smelling me.”
“It’s the cologne I got you for your birthday,” Frankie said as he joined them, cigarette in hand, leaning against the doorframe.
“You didn’t get me anything for my birthday, pendejo.”
“She awake?” Benny asked, appearing behind him with a hot cup of coffee in his hand. “She a monster or what?”
“She can barely walk, Benny,” Santi answered.
“Yeah, she doesn’t exactly look like the most dangerous creature on earth…” Frankie said.
“She looks like she needs a shower.”
“Shut up, Benny,” Will spat as he leant forward to retrieve the girl from Santi’s lap.
She gasped as she felt his hands on her and quickly wrapped her arms around Santi’s neck, desperately holding on like Lucifer himself was trying to snatch her from her safe place.
“Come on, man,” Santi complained. “She’d just stopped crying!”
Will stepped back, obviously frustrated, as Santi stood up. The sudden move made her panic.
“It’s okay, baby,” he hushed as he made his way back inside the cabin without giving another look to his friends.
He took her back to Will’s room where he laid her on the bed. It was one of the hardest things he ever had to do. She just wouldn’t let him go, and her cries made it harder for him to put her down. They came to a compromise. She got back under the covers, and he remained by her side as he held her hand. She played with his fingers for a while until they moved onto his wrist. She seized it and, little by little, started pulling him towards her. Gently, at first, then forcefully. He kept telling her that it was okay. That she was going to be okay. After a while, the words started to make sense to her. Not that she started to believe them, but her brain heard the words, and understood their meaning. Reality was still blurry. But her senses were slowly coming back to her. Eventually, he gave in, and climbed into bed with her. He slid under the covers and brought her to his chest, and she surprisingly didn’t hesitate to embrace him. She laid her head close to his neck and started tapping her fingers on the exposed skin of his chest.
Will appeared at the door with his hands in his pockets. He took in the sight before him then looked away.
“We’re gonna go into town, get some food, some clothes… you need anything?”
“I’m good.”
“Right…”
Silence settled awkwardly and he started to rock on his heels.
“Get her some girl stuff, will you?”
“Girl stuff?” he chuckled. “Sure. Try and get her to take a bath, yeah? I looked around, there’s everything she needs in there,” he said as he pointed to the bathroom.
“Sure,” he scoffed. There was no way that was going to be easy.
Benny called for Will from down the stairs and the older brother waved goodbye before he disappeared in the hallway. Santi heard the front door close behind them and the car drive away. She didn’t move. She didn’t move when Will stepped in, and didn’t move when he stepped out. She just laid there, running her fingertips on his skin. She just held on to him.
She held onto him when he sat up, when he got out of bed. She held onto him when he took her to the bathroom. But when he tried to put her in the tub, she let go. She fought against him, suddenly, startling him, and he was unable to stop her from falling on the cold hard floor tiles, hitting her head on the edge of the tub.
“Shit!”
She pushed against him when he knelt to check her forehead, she screamed in panic. She tried to get up and run but he easily caught her, causing her to fight back even harder. She cried and begged, and he hushed and comforted, but she wouldn’t calm down. He had no idea what he had done wrong.
Frankie arrived soon after, running in, worried about all those screams that echoed from the bathroom.
“Close the door,” Santi told him.
Bad idea.
Once closed, the girl’s screams got worse. She never stopped trying to escape Santi’s arms, and started kicking Frankie as he tried to approach them.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I think she’s scared of the tub, just lock the door.”
“Are you kidding? She thinks we’re gonna drown her or something and you wanna lock her in here?”
“I don’t want her to run away, just lock the door and help me calm her down!”
Frankie had been right, though. She did lose it when he locked the door. Somehow finding more strength to fight them off.
“Show her the water, show her… damn it,” he hissed in frustration as she almost managed to slip away, “just show her it won’t hurt her, will you?”
Frankie sighed. He made his way to the tub and turned on the tap, putting his hand under the water.
“See? Look. It’s just water, it won’t hurt, look. It’s just water.”
He kept shushing, repeating the same words over and over again because he didn’t know what else to say to make her understand. Her screams, her cries, her begging just wouldn’t stop. And all the while, he wondered why on earth would she be afraid of a bathtub. He stepped back into the corner of the room, still facing the tub. Steam evaporated from the water filling it while her cries worsened.
“We’re gonna get you in the tub, it’s not gonna hurt, it’s going to be nice and warm, and we’re going to get you cleaned up, wash away the blood, wash your hair, you’ll feel so much better, you’ll see. It’s not going to hurt. I promise. It’s not going to hurt.”
She screamed as he stepped forward, and every kick and punch from her broke his heart. But Frankie helped him take her coat off and finally get her in the tub. She fought all the way in, water splashing everywhere. They had to pin her down to keep her from getting back up once they had finally gotten her to sit. Her hands gripped the edges of the tub, as if she was afraid they’d push her under the water. Santi covered one with his own.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” he said as he caressed her skin. “Will said there were some products around, grab some,” he instructed Frankie, who came back with everything he could find.
Bottle after bottle, body wash, shampoo, conditioner… he opened them all and only kept the best smelling ones. He made her watch as he brought them to his nose then asked her to do the same.
“See? Smells good, right?”
The water had gotten cold by the time she was calm enough to let him bring a bottle to her face. But that wasn’t an issue, on the contrary. The water had also gotten quite dirty.
“We’re gonna change the water, okay? So you’re not too cold.”
She watched, with fear, but also a bit of fascination, as the water disappeared around her. She brought her knees to her chest and rested her chin on top of them. Santi took the showerhead and explained to her what he was doing as he turned it on and checked the temperature. She was still scared, but her panic had gone, and although she was still wary of him, she let him do it. She even let him bring the water to her face and hair.
“Close your eyes, I won’t be long.”
When most of the blood and dirt had been washed off her skin and hair, he filled the tub again and asked Frankie to find a washcloth. He could see she wasn’t completely at ease, but hopefully she would remain calm until she saw they wouldn’t hurt her.
Frankie had sat on the other side of the tub and rested his forearm on the edge. He watched as his friend put the cloth in the water and brought it to her face. She jumped and moved back, but then let him clean her face.
“Did you pick the bottle you wanted?” he asked, as he showed them to her again. “This one?”
It was a kids body wash that smelled like strawberry, that he could use to wash her hair as well. After he was done with her face, he handed the cloth to her, but she only gave him a confused look.
“I’m sure you’d rather do it yourself.”
He shouldn’t have been so sure, because she didn’t move. She only looked back down at the water. Santi sighed.
“Right.”
He started with her arms, and she started looking at the bubbles that had appeared in the water, like she had never seen any. He did her back as she tried to grab some, only to watch them explode under her touch.
“Do you wanna do your legs?” he asked again, but still, no answer. She was too captivated by the bubbles. And it smelled good too. Perhaps, that was why she seemed so calm as he touched her.
“I think she’s lived through worse things, Pope.”
“That doesn’t mean I get to touch her like this.”
“I think she’s used to it.”
“It doesn’t make it right!”
“I know that.”
He reluctantly brought the cloth to her legs and she didn’t move when he reached her knees. When he looked up, he found her eyes on him.
“Come on, baby, you can do your thighs, yeah?”
She tilted her head to the side, like she was considering it, but she was just trying to understand. Eventually, she stretched her legs, revealing her upper body to them. They looked away.
“Take the cloth. I’ll wash your hair. Deal?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer because that would have just been a waste of time. She watched it float in the water as he did his best to clean her very dirty and tangled hair. To his relief he remembered Frankie had handed a detangling spray to him earlier as well.
Frankie had spent the entire time looking away from the girl. He didn’t know why but she freaked him out. At some point though, as he dipped his hand into the water to check the temperature, he saw she was looking at the ring around his finger.
“You like it?” he asked as he removed it and handed it to her. She gave him a puzzled look. “Go on, take it. Take a better look.” But she never did. She had learnt long ago not to take anything that was handed to her under any circumstances. She jumped and moved away when he reached for her arm, but didn’t fight back. She watched as he placed the ring in the palm of her hand. It was big and heavy, golden, with details all around it, an eagle in the middle. She looked at it for a while. It could have been seconds, it could have been minutes. Time had taken another meaning inside that bathroom. But at some point, she handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” he said as he put it back on his finger.
In a surprising move, she took the cloth out of the water, and handed it to him. He sighed.
“Alright.”
He wrung the cloth out before bringing it to her neck. Then down her shoulders. Down to her cleavage. He watched carefully for any sign of discomfort, but she seemed lost in thought, her eyes looking once again at the bubbles in the water.
“Frankie,” Santi warned.
“I know.”
He ran the cloth in between her breast and onto her stomach, down to her thighs. He was meticulous. He slowly brought it back up to her breasts. She didn’t move. He made it quick. When he was finally done, she brought her knees back up to her chest, and he looked over at Santi who was still struggling with her hair.
“Do you need a hairbrush or something?”
“Maybe. Hand me that detangling spray you found earlier.”
“If we hurt her, she’ll lose her shit.”
“I know, I’m doing my best here.”
Santi started to wish he had waited for Will to come back and make him do it, because he definitely hadn’t signed up for that. When Will and Benny came back with food and clothes, he was still struggling with it. But at least it was clean.
“That shit ain’t working,” he said angrily, feeling like throwing the bottle out the window.
“Just let me do it,” Will said as he removed his shoes and stepped in the bathroom.
He knelt before her first, and asked her if she was okay. As expected, she gave no answer.
“Let’s just get her out of the water first, we can deal with her hair out there.”
He grabbed a robe that was hanging from the door and Frankie left them to join Benny down in the kitchen and help him with the groceries. Will emptied the tub and asked her to get up, promising they wouldn’t look, although they weren’t sure that information mattered to her. Seeing she didn’t move, Santi leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“Let me help you.”
He put his hands on her waist and she instantly turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck, surprising him once again.
“Oh, okay…”
He helped her back onto his feet, allowing Will to get her inside the large white warm fluffy robe. Although she wouldn’t look at him. She kept her focus on Santi. Will tied the belt around her waist and once his hands were off her, she hurried back into Santi’s arms.
Will sighed. “Come on.”
They took her back to the bed where they sat with her, Will behind her, armed with a bunch of hairbrushes and detangling products that didn’t work, Santi before her, holding her hands in his, whispering the same thing over and over again.
“You’re safe. We will never hurt you. You can trust us. I promise.”
Will managed, by some miracle, to fix her hair around noon, and they wondered if she was starving just like they were. Santi gently took her chin in between his fingers and made her look up at him.
“You hungry, baby?”
As usual, she didn’t understand the question, and moved towards him for only response.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, wrapping an arm around her. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”
#triple frontier#fanfiction#fanfic#fic#oc#ofc#santiago pope garcia#santiago garcia#santi x oc#will miller#benny miller#frankie morales#frankie morales x oc#frankie x oc#will x oc#benny x oc#benny miller x oc#poly#poly relationship#will miller x oc#supernatural#crossover#Oscar Isaac#Pedro pascal#charlie hunman#garrett hedlund
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Electric Touch (feat. (feat. Francisco Morales) (Val's Version)
Frankie Morales x Valerie "Songbird" Harlow (Singer Songwriter!OC) (platonic)
Santiago "Pope" Garcia x Valerie "Songbird" Harlow (Singer Songwriter!OC) (mentioned in this chapter)
Series Masterlist Part 1
Ari's Note: Finally, I finished this chapter. I took some liberties with the timeline. (In my head, the movie takes place in 2017 and this story takes place in 2019 or 2020ish.) Frankie in my head is in his late thirties, whereas Val is 31 in this story.
Deep breaths, in and out.
In and out.
“What the fuck,” I think in my head as I pace inside the home studio inside my house back in Florida, a day after the show where I ran into Santiago. My mind is racing over the kiss that he gave me the night prior. I owned the house before I started dating Santiago. A small house near a beach. When we were dating, we balanced staying with each other at both of our homes. I come from an old-fashioned family who never believed in moving in together with someone before an engagement.
Frankie comes into my home, holding two cups of coffee, one for him and one for me. His hunter-green jacket is slightly stained due to wear. His slightly brownish-gray hair is messily curled. His “Standard Heating Oil” hat always seemed attached to his head. We have known each other since childhood. He is a few years older than me; he used to babysit me when he was 10, and I was 6. We were more like siblings than friends. His child refers to me as “auntie” more than anything else.
“Kid and momma are spending the day doing a mommy playdate. I am all yours. You okay?”
“I am fine… you are late, by the way.” I sip the lukewarm, bitter coffee slowly to fully enjoy it.
“Being late for a demo session for a song that I am not even singing on.” Frankie takes a look at the home studio setup. A setup that I made when trying to get someone- anyone to recognize what I have is real. A random patterned rug that I found on clearance at West Elm. Faux-leather stools that were found at a yard sale when babysitting Frankie’s kid years prior. The only new thing is the technology given to me by the label.
“The band recorded the instrumentals back in Seattle. The label wanted to see how I would sound doing an actual love song, which is this song. I told them this song is perfect if the male vocalist is a tenor and as a duet. That is why I sent you that text with the lyrics a few days ago. This session to record the vocals and send it to the producer and the label.”
“When you told me about this, I thought you were crazy for wanting me to sing again.”
“Said the man who loved choir in high school.” He rolls his eyes. He takes off his faded trucker hat and tries to straighten his hair. His darkish gray curls are messy like always.
“That was the choir in high school, Val.” He looks at me with concern, fully knowing what happened the night prior backstage. “What happened with you and Santiago last night?”
“It was nothing,” I look over at him as I start prepping the studio for two people recording there. He grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him.
“Val, he left mid-song. I tried to find him after your set for over an hour. I had to find him nursing a beer outside the venue. I know your guys’ breakup was hard on you, but it hit him the hardest.”
“Frankie, I love you like a brother. Can we not talk about this now? I don’t want to waste your time by talking about this instead of doing the recording.” I start vocal warmups before handing him his headphones, and we go into the booth together. We both are standing in front of a microphone for each of us. I place my laptop on a nearby table with the instrumental track and pull up the recording software. He holds the notebook with the lyrics in his hand. “I will lead you in when your part comes in. Recording in 3…2…1.”
The soft country rock instrumental leads me in as I start singing. Frankie smirks the songs as he recognizes the song beat as a signature of my musical composition style.
“Just breathe, just relax, it'll be okay
Just an hour 'til your car's in the driveway
Just the first time ever hangin' out with you tonight
I've got my money on things going badly
Got a history of stories ending sadly
Still hoping that the fire won't burn me
Just one time, just one time
All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life
Got a feelin' your electric touch could fill this ghost town up with life
And I want you now, wanna need you forever
In the heat of your electric touch, mmm”
Frankie’s soft tenor voice appears as I gesture him into the song. His voice is soft, yet rough. I could have been a while since he sang aloud, but he still sounded good.
“I've been left in the rain lost and pining
I'm tryin' hard not to look like I'm trying
'Cause every time I tried hard for love, it fell apart (whoa)
I've gotten used to no one callin' my phone
I've grown accustomed to sleeping alone
Still, I know that all it takes is to get it right
Just one time, just one time
All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life
Got a feelin' your electric touch could fill this ghost town up with life
And I want you now, wanna need you forever
In the heat of your electric touch
I was thinking just one time (just one time)
Maybe the stars align (just one time)
And maybe I call you mine
And you won't need space
Or string me along while you decide
And just one time (just one time)
Maybe the moment's right (the moment's right)
It's 8:05 and I see two headlights
All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life
Got a feelin' your electric touch (oh)
All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life
Got a feelin' your electric touch could fill this ghost town up with life
And I want you now, wanna need you forever
In the heat of your electric touch, mmm”
Out of breath, I pushed the end of the recording. “Please tell me it hasn’t been a while since you sang aloud.” I take a long sip of water from my water bottle nearby.
“Three years.”
“Karaoke with Ben was the last time you sang,” I asked as I gave him a questioning look.
“Why didn’t you tell me that Santiago kissed you?” I gave him the look of “are we really talking about this right now again?”
“How did you know?” Frankie gave me a concerning look since he knows the truth.
“Based on the details in the song, this song was about your first date because you told me how much you cared for him. Plus Santiago told me that he kissed after your set after you two talked after I picked him up from the bar…. Val, what the hell happened?”
“He and I kissed… He told me about the money… his share of the money.”
“And?”
“And that his share was for me…”
“He finally told you then…”
“Frankie, don’t dabble in his bullshit…” I am getting fed up with the same fucking lie that his share was for me.
“I am not… Val, he wanted that money for you….” He sighs deeply as he takes a long sip of coffee. “I know it was shitty of me for not telling you, but I promised you I would have done the same thing.”
“I understand the guilt around Tom’s death but why did he have to do it like that?”
“He was going to buy you a ring so he could propose to you…”
“What?”
“He wanted to propose and do a big old fancy engagement for you. I am sorry that I didn’t tell you.” Frankie is concerned about what is next for me and Santiago.
I sigh as I step out of the makeshift studio so Frankie can record his audio. “I need to record your vocals, Frankie... I will start the music where your part comes in.” As the music plays, my phone buzzes. I pick it up. It is a text from Santiago.
Santiago: We need to talk. Alone.
#santiago pope garcia#santiago garcia x oc#santiago garcia x reader#triple frontier boys#triple frontier fanfic#oscar issac x reader#oscar issac characters#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales fanfiction#Spotify
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Hmmmm what to work on today?
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Echo
Disclaimers: I have been out of the writing game for months but I decided to try a new series. I really hope some people like it and enjoy it. If you want to be tagged please let me know and all. Enjoy...
Word count: 2420
Warning: Mentions of food and anxiety.
Description: Sometimes Mondays aren't so horrible.... (I suck at descriptions.)
Pairing: Santiago 'Pope' Garcia x OFC (Juni Bishop)
Rating: Maybe PG just for some cussing or whatnot. Not too much happening other than introducing Juni.
Chapter One: Broken ATMS and Wet Dogs.
Juniper could barely keep her eyes open as she padded around the apartment to get ready for her morning shift at the bookstore. The rain was pouring outside, which made Juni only want to crawl back into bed and sleep the day away, but that wasn’t in her future. Bending down to search through the driver to find a pair of pants and a nice blouse, she yawned softly, trying her best not to groan loudly. It should have been a crime actually to work when the sun wasn’t out, but it could also be said it should be a crime to work when it was a lovely day. Either way, she was still set on crawling back into bed even as she was getting dressed. Her fingers combed through her hair to part it into sections to quickly braid as she watched the time on her phone. Mentally, she was reminding herself that she needed to stop and get gas, otherwise, she wasn’t getting to work. A horrible habit she had was testing the gods of fuel and seeing how far she could get before her gaslight came on. Something her father would already scold her about and how it damaged the car. She could almost hear the man ranting as she finishes braiding her hair. Noticed the single piece of strawberry blonde hair that she had missed and hurriedly tucked it into the braid before she got too frustrated. The smell of fresh coffee greeted her nostrils as she walked into the kitchen and smiled seeing Rue.
“Look at you awake before noon..” Juni teased before moving to the fridge to get her things to make her iced coffee.
“I have some dumb meeting at work. Apparently, some servers are complaining about one of that managers again and we need to all talk it out.” Rue scoffed before pouring her coffee into the cup.
“Is it Monica again? The one you don’t seem to like and micromanages you every shift?” Juni asked while hopping up on the counter and stirring her coffee that was more sugar and caramel than actual coffee.
“It always is. However, I didn’t complain. I gave up on that. I think it was someone else. Maybe the new girl…”
“Damn. Hope they get something done or her eyes open… “
“Monica? Not a chance. She’s older than the restaurant, she claims. Any plans tonight?”
“I don’t know yet. Probably just going to watch trash television or read.”
“I’ll bring home dinner and if you don’t want the usual, just text me.”
Giving her friend a thumbs up while she sipped her coffee, she inched off the counter to grab her back and check the time on her phone. It was time to go and she can already feel the dread bubbling in her stomach. Hoping that the shift would go back quickly if she was working with the less than favorite employees today… Telling rue goodbye and jogging down the stairs, Juni made her way to her car. Not minding the rain and simply hoping that she wouldn’t be late for work because of it. Or that there weren’t too many accidents on the road because of it. The gaslight came on not too long after she started down the road to the gas station. The gas station was seemingly busier than usual, and it took her a moment before she could pull up to the pump. Stepping out of her car, she dug through her wallet for her debit card and went to place it in the reader. Her head tilted to the side in confusion when it said, ‘Please see the cashier.’ Juni knew there was money in her account and was already checking her phone just to make sure. The line inside was long as well as she crossed the pavement to get inside and glanced around, trying to understand what was going on.
“I can help you right here!” The woman spoke as Juni stepped forward.
“I just fifteen on pump three…”
“We can’t take cards right now. The system is down. Only cash…”
“Oh. Do you have an ATM?”
“Yes, but it’s down as well..”
Juni’s face fell and she could already feel her anxiety bubbling up as she nodded and walked out of the store. Her mind racing to figure out if she could even make it to the next gas station that was on the end of her road. There weren’t many other options for her and there was no way she could make it to work. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she gripped the steering wheel tightly and tried to calm herself down. It would be okay. She could more than likely make it to the other gas station. No big deal. Taking a deep breath, she started her car again and tried to ignore the bright glow of her gas pump icon on her dash, and started towards the other gas station. Every single little noise made her stomach go into another knot and spiked her anxiety. “Not too much further…” she whispered, more to herself than the car. Why did Mondays have to be some call to adventure days? But not even the marvelous adventures, the adventures that happened before the actual hero came along?
Like a knight in shining armor, the sign for the gas station came into view and she pulled her car right to the pump and nearly fell out of the car as she got out to pump her gas. The moment the card reader asked for her pin number, she nearly screamed with joy and felt relaxed as she pumped her gas. Her anxiety slowly crawled back from the depths that it had come from. The rest of the journey to work was much calmer, and she found herself not dwelling too much on what the rest of the day held for her. It couldn’t be as horrible as her morning, and that was going to be behind her soon. Yet, Monday mornings seemed to have a way of ripping the rug out from underneath someone.
“And Juni, my darling, you’re at the cash register for your shift. We had a call out and I had to move things around…” Morgan spoke with a tiny smile.
Juni nodded her head and picked at the inside of her cardigan sleeve and gave a smile. “Totally fine. Things happened, and we gotta adapt. I totally get it and I’m only here until 4:30, so it’s no biggie.”
Deep down, she wanted to scream. Ever since they had trained her on the register, Juni had done little of the actual bookselling or shelving anything. She missed getting to actually help customers but had to stock the gift area and replenish all the little things around the cash stand area. The thing seemed too repetitive there, and she often was drained by the time it was her break or when the shift was over. Making her list of things to do before getting to her other projects, Juni made her way to her own personal hell.
The hours ticked by slowly and at some point Juni felt more like a robot trying to sell membership and tote bags to people that never even let her get the sentence out. Shrugging off her cardigan and placing it back in her locker along with her name tag, she close her locker and placed the lock on it before grabbing her bag and waving bye to a few people as she went through the doors. The rain had stopped not too long ago, and she was thankful for that. Hitting the unlock button frantically as she walked to her car, Juni was ready to end this not-so-great Monday, but as she stood at her door with her hand on the handle, she stopped for a moment. Something was whimpering nearby. Glancing around the parking lot and noticing that she couldn’t really see anything under cars or any babies making odd sounds, she was at a loss. Yet, it got louder and she glance down at her feet where she swore she heard it.
It was under her car.
Bending down and ignoring the pops of protest from her joints, she soon faced to face with the cutest puppy that she had ever seen. “Hello there, sweetheart. You can’t be comfy under there… Are you lost?” She cooed and moved back just a little more to give more space to the puppy, who tilted the moment that she started speaking to it. Juni wasn’t sure how she was going to get the little pup out from underneath her car, but she continued to keep still. “You can come out here. I won’t hurt you and the rain is gone…” She continued to speak and after a few minutes, the puppy slowly came out and approached her, sniffing at her hand before licking it. “Such a friendly little pup. I bet you’re lost… no one could ever just give up such a cutie like you…” Carefully scooping the pup into her arms, she looked around the parking lot again and tried to see if someone even remotely looked like they had lost a dog. The pup continued to lick at her hand and sniff her.
“Well, I guess I can take you to the apartment and see what information I can find out about you. I see your collar and I’m sure it’s got your info…” Juni mumbled before opening her car door and carefully placing the pup in her passenger seat and noticing the ID tag. “Echo? Your name is Echo?”
The pup’s tail began to wag and Juni couldn’t help but smile and scratch behind her ears. “Alright Echo, let’s get back to my place and I’ll check the back of it to see if there’s a number to call.”
The drive back to the apartment wasn’t too awful, even if she couldn’t keep Echo out of her lap and had received so many kisses that made her squeal with delight. Okay, so Monday wasn’t too terrible and maybe this was her sign to look into getting her own puppy to love and care for. After making one quick stop at the pet store just in case she had to keep Echo overnight, she walked into the apartment and set the bags on the counter.
“Finally, you’re home. I was about to start—Juni, is that a puppy?” Rue asked as she came to the kitchen and pointed to the German Shepherd puppy that barked at her.
“This is Echo, and she isn’t my puppy. I think she got loose and I’m going to call her owner in a moment.”
“You promise you didn’t steal someone’s puppy?”
“No! I didn’t. Will you pour her some food while I get the number off her tag?”
Rue nodded before getting everything out of the bag and setting it up while her friend looked at the back of the idea tag.
“Santiago Garcia. Not a name I know. Should I text or call them?”
“I would say text but a call is better in this case…” Rue suggested before taking Echo and taking her to the food bowl. Moving to the living room, she hit the call button on her phone and listened to it ring. Part of her hoped he didn’t answer. That way she could just leave a voice mail and have him call back. There was no answer, and the voice mailbox was generic.
“Hi, Mr. Garcia. My name is Juni, and I have found your puppy, Echo. If you could just call me back at this number or text me. Thank you…” She did her best not to speak too quickly and ended the call when she was done. The hard part was over and she fell back on the couch and undid her braid.
“Mr. Garcia? Sounds like an old man… Let’s hope he has caller id because you forgot to say your number…” Rue chuckled before taking a seat beside her and handing her the box of food. “Cheese fries with loads of bacon, cheese, and chives. Ranch on the side.”
“This is why I love you.”
“Because I’m your supplier for cheese fries? I’ve never been more honored.”
Settling into the evening, Juni tried to focus on the latest episode of 90 Day Fiance while Echo slept in her lap. Rue made her brief comments as she worked on her homework for school. The night was quiet until a buzz made Juni jump slightly as she took her phone. The number was unknown to her, but she quickly realized who it was the moment she read the message.
Thank you so much for calling! Sorry, this is Santiago Garcia. You found Echo, and I was texting you back.
Hey! Yeah, I was getting a little worried, but I have her with me. She’s asleep and I have no problem driving her home tonight. If not, then we can meet tomorrow morning?
I’m sorry to contact you so late. I have been looking for her all day and I barely checked my phone until I got home. I hate to make you get out so late and all. We can meet tomorrow morning?
That sounds perfect! I’ll send you the address of the gas station where we can meet.
Perfect, thank you so much, Juni.
“You get to see your dad tomorrow, Echo,” Juni spoke before yawing and looking over at Rue. “Will you ride with me to meet him? I don’t want to take a chance?”
“Of course. I don’t want you to get kidnapped by someone and if it happens, at least we’re together.” Rue spoke before yawning.
Checking the time, Juni scooped up Echo and made her way towards her bedroom. Maybe Monday wasn’t too horrible if she made a new cute friend even if she had to return her back to the owner. However, it seemed like the man was worried and eager to get reunited. Snuggling under the covers, her mind wondered what kind of man Echo’s owner was. What was Santiago Garcia like? One could tell a lot about someone by their dog or any pet. Was he a goofy man who was excited easily? A stern man who tolerated little, or what he was just someone who liked dogs? Shaking her head, Juniper couldn’t believe she was thinking about this pup’s owner, but her question would ultimately be answered tomorrow morning…
#Triple Frontier Fic#Santiago 'Pope' Garcia x OFC#Santiago Gracia x Juni#cw mentions of food#cw mentions of anxiety#mar's writing#my writing
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Tonight you belong to me
Series, ongoing
Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.
Week after week, under the crushing weight of his body, you learn to find yourself. Week after week, under the reverence of your touch, he allows himself to heal. Why can’t this last forever, when you’re so good to each other?
Set a few months after the TF events.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC fem!Reader
Written in reader format but Reader is an OFC. There are sparse but still present physical descriptions, she has a thorough background, and a name.
Rating: Explicit 🔞
TW: THERE WILL BE NO TRIGGER WARNINGS ON INDIVIDUAL CHAPTERS. So please tread carefully because there will be (blood) (kidding, just mine) mentions of: PTSD, death, infidelity, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, stomach bug & hospitalization, light bondage, rough sex, size kink taken to the next level, lots of bodily fluids (come spit and sweat, sweat come and spit, the usual suspects), questionable (very bad) decisions, unprotected sex like woa, intense darker Frankie, where’s my feminism at, this man, this man, this man. You know the drill.
A/N: alright orange besties, here we go again, I once more locked up Frankie in a bedroom with a girl... More or less an alternate exploration of my favourite tropes: love at first sight, soulmates, forever love, pleasure and pain, hard sex/sweet love, flourishing through a lover's care and attention, Frankie being a B I G boy... Are you in? 🥺 Also, I’ve never set a foot in Florida, bear with me, I'm trying my best. This is going to be a little rougher kind of Frankie, but still our Pilot™️. I hope you enjoy the flight 🧡
A very special and heartfelt orange THANK YOU to my love @deadmantis for the moodboards & inspos that went straight into the header for this series 🧡 Deadmantis, I love you in every colour.
Chapters
Prologue - In The Beginning
Chapter 1 - Dirt
Chapter 2 - Closer
Chapter 3 - The Man At The Frontier
Chapter 4 - Frankie (coming... before May. I hope. Tell my employer to leave me alone)
Chapter 5 - ...
Chapter 6 - ...
Epilogue - ...
Playlist
#HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY#I’m scared#tonight you belong to me#tybtm#Francisco Catfish Morales#frankie morales#the pilot™️#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales / fem!reader#frankie morales / you#frankie morales / ofc#triple frontier fic#triple frontier#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fic#frankie friday#will miller#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#william ironhead miller#Spotify
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Navigating the Dark
Read on A03 ⬅️
TF guys, Ocs, Yovanna (Gonzalez), plus some poly Fishben* (my recent obsession)
Headers, Moodboards, and title cards pt 1
About: After the events in South America, everyone struggles to find their way.
Warnings: a bit of a dark fic but slightly. Themes of divorce, infidelity, cheating, death, substance abuse, ptsd, etc. read at your own discretion.
Cast
Molly Davis, Frankie Morales, Will Miller, Benny Miller, Santiago Garcia, Yovanna, Ofc: Juliana, Omc: Liam (Molly’s love interest), Frankie’s daughter Isabella, Ofc: Eva (Frankie’s gf/ mother of his child)
#fic: navigating the dark#Fishben#Santi x Yovanna#triple frontier#triple frontier au#coming to A03 soon#slightly dark fic#frankie catfish morales#Frankie Morales#Will miller#Benny miller#santiago pope garcia#Molly Davis#triple frontier fic#poly fishben#fishben x ofc
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