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whatthefishh · 8 days

Text

I……..

June.

I’m

Fucked up over this

I read this like 6 times probably minimum

I’m sooooooooo not normal when I think about Marc and the way his hands come over reader’s on the bed post

Or the way he’s so slow and insistent on prepping I just

Ugh.

Bye I’m gonna leave before I embarrass myself

Death to Dignity

I'm so late, but this was written for @romanarose's dead dove december. I've never written anything like this before, and it was a fascinating exercise. I'm aware that even my most dead-dove is soft, no need to rub it in.

About this: an intruder (Marc) breaks in to your apartment.

Warnings: the majority of this reads as rape, entirely non consensual. However, this is consensual-non-consent, and I did include a little scene at the end where Marc begins to give aftercare and he and the reader discuss their play. Guns, gun kink.

Immersivity: Reader is an unnamed, undescribed cisgender woman. If any detail hinders your immersive experience, feel free to point it out.

He finds you in the shower. The roar of the water must have disguised the sound of the bathroom door opening, because the only hint you have that there is an intruder in the house is the brief sight of his shadow on the other side of the shower curtain before it is ripped open. Steam billows out and around his figure: black on black clothes, with a balaclava and leather gloves, creating an image that nightmares are made of. You scream, shrinking back against the tiled wall. There is nowhere to go. Your fight or flight or freeze system vacillates between all three and then settles on fight.

You reach for a shampoo bottle and throw it at him. He bats it away with his hand, hissing in pain. Next comes the conditioner bottle, which he ducks to avoid altogether.

Then he pulls out a gun—a compact thing, seemingly small in his hand—and any thought of fight shrivels and dies on the shore of your brain like a fish out of water. The shower still sprays down as he aims the gun low towards your feet, excellent trigger discipline. Behind his mask, you can see that he raises his eyebrows. Your move, that look says.

Slowly, you lift your hands a little. They are shaking, and not from cold.

“Alright,” you say, voice shaking. “I’m sorry—please don’t.”

He nudges the gun toward the shower head. You reach out and turn off the water, and a chill rushes over you even as the humidity lingers in the air. You become acutely aware that you are naked, literally in your most vulnerable state. As if your minds are connected, he seems to take notice of it as well, his eyes (dark, so dark) raking over your bare figure. You cross your arms over your breasts, and you see the corner of his mouth quirk upwards, like your modesty amuses him.

With only a gesture of the gun, he instructs you to get out of the shower. You do so gingerly, shivering. Your brain feels numb, thoughts passing through and through, anesthetized with horror. He hasn’t killed you, and it’s because he has some other purpose.

You don’t think it’s money.

“C-Can I d-d-dry off-f?” your teeth chatter. He rolls his eyes and grabs a towel off the rack, tossing it to you, but first he makes you step out of the cramped bathroom and through the little kitchenette, dripping on the linoleum until you stand at the foot of your bed. A window is open, letting in a chilly London breeze. Is that how he had gotten in?

He puts the gun away, at last, and then crosses his arms. He backs up a little until he is against the table where you take your meals and shifts to perch on the edge of it, crossing his arms like watching you towel off your naked body is a show for his eyes only.

Face burning, you try to keep it perfunctory: scrubbing the cotton over your arms and legs and belly, squeezing at your hair to keep it from dripping down your neck. You wrap the towel around yourself when you are finished, and he clicks his tongue in disapproval. You glare. Something about the gun being put away (in a neat little leather holster sitting at the man’s trim waist) has made you brave. Yes, he has a gun—but the gun isn’t pointing at you, is it?

He points to you, snapping his fingers and gesturing for you to drop the towel.

You grip it tighter, fingers going numb with the force you use to hold it in place. If he wants it, he’ll have to come and take it, you think. But the sight of his eyes hardening as he slips off the edge of the table has your heart pounding. To your horror, you can tell that it isn’t just from anxiety. He comes to you until you are only a foot apart. You can smell him: clean, masculine. His eyes are brown, not black like you had mistaken them for in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. His mouth is full and pink; a pretty mouth, if it were on anyone else. You try to put together an image of his face based on these mosaic pieces, and the compilation makes your knees wobble.

At your dumb silence, he takes an edge of the towel and tugs, barely using any force. It flutters from your grip down to your feet, and he snorts a little in soft laughter. He holds out a gloved hand, palm up. Your brows furrow as you look down at it. It seems innocuous enough…and when you slip your hand into his, he gently leads you around the edge of the bed towards the bedside table.

You are so distracted by the sight of the full glass of water sitting there (which wasn’t present when you climbed into the shower) that you don’t anticipate his next move: lifting your hand to the headboard where a set of cuffs are already waiting. He snaps them around your wrist, causing you to give out a panicked shriek. When you pull at the cuffs they don’t give; they don’t even shake the sturdy headboard. All they do is bite into the soft skin of your wrists. You’ll take off your fucking hand trying to get out of them.

Your free hand goes for the glass of water, and you hurl it at him. The glass strikes his shoulder and falls to the ground, shattering, water splashing the both of you and all over the hardwood floor. Exhaling angrily, he reaches out for your free hand with less tenderness than he had used to guide you, gripping it with enough force to hurt as he shoves you onto the bed, pushing you toward the other cuff. The two of you struggle, but all it takes is the gun muzzle brushing against your temple for all the fight to go out of you. He cuffs your other hand. Bound like this, your arms are spread wide as you face the headboard, kneeling on the mattress.

Resting your forehead against the headboard, you begin to cry a little. You know what is coming. But it doesn’t explain the way your heart pounds with more than fear. God why did he have to be so handsome? Couldn’t he just get women the normal way? You feel a shameful heat between your thighs, one which grows when you tug at your cuffs and realize just how thoroughly bound you are.

You are jolted from your thoughts by something slapping against the headboard beside your face, falling to rest down by your knees. His gloves.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispers, walking his fingers across the length of your arm towards your shoulder. He kneels on the bed behind you, body throwing off a heat that you are strangely grateful for. His voice is low and soothing, a pleasing timber that you feel all the way in your bones when he speaks. “I don’t wanna use that gun. But my therapist says I have impulse issues. Don’t give me any more impulses. Just be a good girl for me, yeah?”

You nod your head, face burning hot, ashamed at what those words do to you. Despite your assurance that you’ll be good, as soon as his hand cups your breast, you squeal, jerking away from the soft touch.

He clicks his tongue, hand finding your throat to grip it tight. His other hand presses a finger to your lips, the message clear: quiet. You nod just as your head begins to go light with lack of air. When he lets go, you struggle to take in frantic breaths in a quiet manner. But it must please him, because his hands come to rest softly at your hips. They drag up the sides of your body, firm enough to be just on this side of ticklish. He takes your breasts in his broad hands, palming them. The sound you make—breathy and desperate—makes him breathe an incredulous little laugh against the nape of your neck.

“Dirty little girl,” he mutters. “Getting hot for me? You don’t even know me. I held a gun to your head five minutes ago.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, jerking away from him—but it is a futile effort with your arms outstretched and bound. You shift closer to the headboard, hoping to make his fondling of you more difficult. Every effort you make to thwart him just seems to amuse him more than the last, until his every teasing touch is hardly about arousing you. It’s about pissing you off.

It’s about breaking your fucking spirit. You burst into tears and he comes to rest flush against your back. His hard cock against your ass makes your thighs clench even as it disgusts you. Why was everything about him so arousing? His voice, his eyes, his mouth, his body lined with lean muscle pressed so firmly against your back…it feels like he was made to arouse you.

His warmth is so nice, you find yourself leaning into him without meaning to.

“Shh,” he hushes softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s scary, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” you shriek angrily.

“But it’s simple, too. I’m going to do whatever I want to you—and I think you know what I want,” he says, letting his hips rut softly against the curve of your ass. “All you have to do is be a good girl. No struggling. No trying to get away. No trying to hurt me. No hurting yourself. You follow my rules, and I’ll fuck you so sweet, baby, I swear it. Can you do that?”

The way he talks to you…God help you. Your forehead rests briefly on the headboard, tears of resignation in your eyes. Is it worse for you if you agree? Does it make you complicit somehow? Shouldn’t you fight and struggle and scream? But all the fight feels leaked out of you. You just want to go to sleep. You just want him to leave.

“Alright,” you sniffle.

He loops his arms around you in the mockery of a hug. It shouldn’t comfort you. It shouldn’t. “Good girl. Don’t worry, baby, daddy’s gonna make it good for you.”

His hands return to your breasts, and this time he softly plucks at your nipples, soothing the ache of neglect. It feels like there is a live wire connecting them to your clit, and every soft pinch and twist makes your breathing stutter, clit swelling in anticipation of his touch. You try to think of other things, to distract your frantic mind, but everytime you begin to be successful, he would change the angle of his hands or alter his speed, rudely dragging you by your ankles back to the present.

He plays with your breasts for ages, softly slapping them just to see you jump. His laugh rumbles through you from where his chest is pressed to your back. When your breasts feel nearly numb with being fondled, he lets his hands fall to your hips, massaging, and then to your cunt. He finds you soaked, two fingers stroking through your swollen folds and brushing over your clit.

“Fu-uck,” he groans. “You’re wet. If I had the time, I’d use my mouth on you—suck and lick your soul out through your pussy, I can promise you that. But you’ve got my cock aching to be inside you. Should I prep you? Or do you think your little pussy can take me?”

You don’t know which is worse—his prolonged touch, or the risk of him doing damage to you. Is it a trap? Will he do the opposite of whatever you ask for? Your brain whirls in panicked, aroused circles. In the end, the threat of pain outweighs the impending humiliation. “Just—just a few fingers—”

“Has it been a while?” he asks mildly, like you are two lovers about to have sex for the first time, like he isn’t your rapist, your nightmare come to life. While he talks to you, he teases your clit with light strokes that have your thighs trembling.

“Yes,” you admit, face hot.

“You don’t fuck yourself with your fingers?”

“I do,” you admit. “But—”

“How many?”

“How—?”

“How many fingers do you shove in this tight little pussy?”

“I—two? Sometimes, sometimes three?”

He reaches out to your hand, shackled to the bedpost. He finds your three middlemost fingers and encircles them with his own. You realize that he is testing the girth of them—and whatever he is testing them against makes him scoff lightly in derision. “Three of these skinny little fingers? Yeah, you’ll need prepped if you don’t want my cock to tear you in half.”

“No, please,” you groan, pulling away from him as best as you can. He hushes you, looping an arm around your waist to drag you back against his body.

“Shh, it’s alright. I’ll prep you, I promise. I don’t want it to hurt.”

You aren’t sure if you believe him. How could he not want it to hurt? But then he is softly feeding two of his thick fingers past your folds and into your entrance. You weren’t lying that it had been a while since the last time you had sex, but you couldn’t have expected the stretch of his digits, the way your cunt already seemed poised to flutter and clench on his fingers, molding your walls to the shape of his insistent intrusion.

“So-o-o fucking wet,” he sighs happily against your neck before kissing you there.

You want to snap at him, to assure him (and yourself) that this is only physiology. Stimulus equals response. You could get turned on from plenty of different stimuli—the seam of your jeans against your clit or the hem of your dresses brushing against your thighs—that didn’t mean you were sexually attracted to the inanimate objects. Anyone could have made you wet, you told yourself. Anyone.

He’s just—really good at it. You grit your teeth against a moan when his fingers flex softly inside you, stroking tender, swollen places that your own fingers struggle to reach. His hand loops beneath your outstretched arm to wrap around the base of your throat: a threat, a tender caress all in one. When you flinch away from his pleasurable touch, his fingers flex and tighten around your neck. Experimentally (and feeling like a traitor to yourself) when you arch your back to give him more room to work, his fingers relax and stroke softly. You hate him. You hate the way he makes you feel—-like you are an animal being trained, a creature held hostage by your own Pavlovian response.

“Please stop,” you whisper, head tilting forward until your forehead can rest against the headboard. “Please stop being gentle.”

His teeth tease your neck, the spot sensitive from how he has been lavishing it with gentle attention. “Is that what you really want?”

“Yes,” you say, tears dripping onto the sheets beneath you, unsure if it is a lie.

“Well it isn’t about what you want,” he says softly, fingers nearly cruel with their gentleness inside you. He pulls them out and smears your wetness with such care over your swollen clit. Your hips jerk toward the touch helplessly. “It’s about what I want. And I want you just like this. Wet, and shaking. Scared shitless and about to cum. Not sure if you want me to shoot you with my gun or fuck you with it. That’s how I want you. So get used to it, princess. Lean forward.”

He withdraws his hand from between your thighs and presses it between your shoulder blades, pushing you forward until your breasts rest against the headboard, arms outstretched between either bedpost, back arched obscenely. His hips rut forward against you softly as he helps you gently into the position that pleases him most. Then his hands are gone altogether, and you are forced to listen to the soft sound of rustling clothes as he takes his cock out.

You jump a little the first time his erection brushes against you, burning hot and soft where it grazes your thighs. He shifts, pressing your thighs apart wider so that he can slip his cock between them, and it’s the first indication you get of how large he is. You believed that most men overestimated their size, and had hoped such would be the case when he made fun of your small fingers earlier, but such wasn’t going to be the case now.

Your rapist begins a steady rhythm of rutting against you. His cock finds the wetness of your cunt, though he keeps his hips tilted to make sure that he doesn’t yet slip inside you as he drags himself along your most sensitive parts, mimicking sex. At the apex of his thrusts, when you glance down, you can see his cock head peek from between your legs every time it brushes against your clit.

“Oh my fucking god,” you mutter, shaking like a leaf in something close to terror and anticipation.

“Soaking me,” he mutters back, ignoring you. “Gotta lube up a dick this big if I don’t want to tear you in half, don’t I princess? Luckily, I’ve got a fountain right here.”

The head brushes against you, and he eases his way in, helped in no small part by how wet you are—and how wet you’ve made his cock. Slowly, he breeches your entrance. Most shocking to you is the way he listens to your body. Whenever his size borders on uncomfortable, he slows his entry and reaches down to stroke your clit, coaxing your body to relax. You’ve had lovers in the past who didn’t demonstrate this much awareness.

When he bottoms out, he is so deep that his head brushes against some unbearably sensitive part inside you. Your forehead thuds against the headboard, your back arching as you try to decrease the stimulation. He just hushes you—with all the infuriating gentleness of a man hushing a wild horse—and for a moment it fucking works. You relax, your cunt relaxes, and instead of being just that side of too much, it feels so fucking good. And then you remember (who you are, who he is, what he’s doing to you), and it’s too much. You find that you aren’t broken in—not yet, at least—and you can’t let him have you like this; so easily.

Tossing back your head, pain blossoms bright and sharp as the back of your skull connects with his forehead. He shouts an expletive, and you know by the way your own vision swims that you must have gotten him good. He pulls out of you, hands falling away from your shivering form as he touches tenderly the growing bruise above his eye, blinking away the blurry vision. You hunch forward, instinctively trying to distance yourself from him, invigorated from your own audacity but also terrified—

“Are you fucking stupid?” he hisses, wrenching your head back until your neck gives a crack and you cry out in pain. His hand finds your throat and he grips tightly, tighter, until it is impossible to draw in a breath. Your body revolts, causing you to struggle against your bindings and his hold. Then the gun appears and you go still all over, horror prickling along your scalp. He brandishes it in one shaking hand (is that rage that makes him shake? Pain?) as he hisses in your ear: “Quit fucking playing with me! Good girls get fucked, bad girls get their brains splattered on the wall.”

He relaxes his grip a little, just in time for your breath to catch. More tears drip down your cheeks, and you only shake harder when he presses the barrel of the gun to the hollow of your throat. He drags it down, down to your sternum, right between your breasts, right over your fucking heart.

But then—oh God help you. Then he shifts, the cool metal dragging over the curve of one breast until he’s teasing your nipple. Pleasure and horror mingle in your belly at the touch.

“Oh, that’s why you’re being such a bad girl,” he teases. “You’re not scared of the gun. You like it.”

You can’t even shake your head in the negative. Your own depravity astounds you. Your body is stiller than a statue as he drags the barrel down the softness of your belly. You know where he is headed. Your mouth forms the shape of the word no, but you don’t even have the breath to whisper it. He lets it brush your clit, and the pleasure is nearly painful. You’re terrified. Horrified. Desperate. So, so turned on.

He begins to drag the barrel of the gun along your seam the way he had his cock, the irregular shape of the barrel stimulating your clit and swollen folds. He crowds your body against the headboard until you can’t hunch away from him and lets his free hand—the one not masturbating you with his gun—to your thigh, pressing against it, coaxing you to open wider.

“Fucking filthy,” he laughs brightly. “I can’t fucking believe this. You’re a dream, you know that?”

You open your mouth to tell him off, but all that comes out is a desperate whine. Your teeth click with the force of shutting your jaws against any further sounds.

“You’re gonna cum on it,” he growls, continuing his ceaseless motion, the metal warm from your cunt and slick from your juices. “Aren’t you? Go on, then. Cum on it. Cum.”

You try to hold it, you really do, but it becomes inevitable. Tears dripping off your chin and onto your chest, your body stiffens, legs trying to squeeze shut as your cunt bursts with pleasure, soaking the barrel and your own thighs. His shaky breaths are panted against your neck as he mutters a stream of obscenities. He works you through it until you are weak and wrung dry, then lifts the gun to your face. You flinch only a moment before you realize what he wants—for you to lick it clean.

You’ve already degraded yourself enough. What’s this one further step? Your dignity is dead. Opening your mouth, you hesitantly drag your tongue along the wet barrel, tasting something bitter beneath the sweet tang of your own cum.

The hand holding the gun is shaking. You can feel where his bare cock brushes against the small of your back leaving trails of precum. Clearly you are not the only one affected by this use of the gun. He wrenches the gun away from your mouth, and for a moment his body presses firmly against your back as he shifts upward—and places the gun into your shackled hand.

“Hold on to that for me, would you?” he says. “I’ve got to fuck you or my dick’s going to fall off.”

It’s the final blow: holding a weapon which might have saved you if only you weren’t bound. There’s no possible way for you to maneuver it (as tightly shackled as you are) to face him. He’s defeated you in every possible sense of the word, and this only adds the gravest insult to injury. Then his cock is nudging through your tender folds, and all you can do is grip the handle of the gun for dear life.

He bottoms out, and there is no hint of pain—not after your spectacular orgasm. You are even more sensitive than you were before, privy to every detail of his cock: its seemingly endless length, its substantial girth, flare of the head and the way it thickens toward the base. Despite his frantic words and the way his hands grip your hips too tightly, he fucks you slowly. Controlled. He wants you to feel every last inch of it. And God, you do.

The man never picks up the pace, though he does work his hand back between your legs to stroke your clit in time with his thrusts. Once wasn’t enough for him. He wants to feel the way you clamp down on his cock, and you are too tired, too beaten to do anything but let him punch the air out of your lungs.

He huffs out a breath and changes the angle he’s fucking you, slows his thrusts. He’s about to cum, you realize, likely very close to the edge if the way he holds his breath is any indication. But he wants you to cum first, his fingers methodical and merciless on your clit and the other hand coming up to encircle your throat once more, cutting off your air with just the gentlest squeeze.

Just as you cum, he loosens his grip, and the release of air comes out as a throaty groan that has him burying his face in your neck. You nearly drop the gun, your body shakes and jerks so hard against your bindings. He sinks his teeth into the meaty part of your shoulder and thrusts deep into you, filling you with the warmth of his seed.

Marc isn’t even soft before he slips out of character. The balaclava comes off, leaving his curls a riotous mess. Above his left eye is a dark bruise forming from where you head-butted him. He might even have a black eye in the morning.

The first thing he does is take the gun from your shaking hand. It isn’t loaded—you had known that all along—but you are grateful for its loss anyway. He sets it on the nightstand and unlocks your cuffs, pulling you back against his chest while you fight against your own stiffness to straighten your legs out.

“You were incredible,” he says, sounding terrified. “You never said the safeword—-unless, fuck—did I not hear it?”

“Never said it,” you slur, shivering.

“Does anything hurt?”

“Legs do.”

He kneels up on the bed with you in his arms and lays you amongst the ruffled pillows and blankets. His hands are warm and broad where he kneads your thighs and calves, even down to your toes which had started to tingle from loss of circulation. The whole time you stare at him, at his eyes which are so different to you now than they had been from behind the dark cloth of the balaclava.

“You were so…” you don’t know how to finish the statement.

Marc dips his head in shame. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”

“‘M thirsty.”

He looks up and gives a weak smile. “Someone threw the water I poured for her.”

“I wondered what that was doing there.”

“I was trying to be proactive,” he says, slipping off the bed. He glances back, keeps his eyes on you even as he dashes to the kitchen and pours another glass of water to bring back to you in bed. You feel the loss of his body keenly, and ache for him to be back. Your hands are shaking too badly to hold the cup, so he holds it for, helping you to drink.

“I don’t want to do that ever again,” he says firmly.

You look up at him with wide, startled eyes. “Why not?”

He blinks, unsure how to answer you. He thought it had been obvious—the character he slipped into, the way you had cried and even the way now that your body trembled in misplaced adrenalin and hormones. It had been too much. It had gone too far. Hadn’t it?

In your own mind, you can’t help but wonder what fault Marc could have had with it. Your eyes fill with fresh tears, a headache forming from all the ones you have cried tonight. “You—you didn’t like it? Did I do bad?”

“No,” Marc says, taking the glass from your hands and setting it on the bedside table. “Fuck, no. I, I liked it too much, didn’t I? Feeling you helpless underneath me—knowing that I could do anything I wanted to you. What the hell does it say about me, that I liked raping you so much?”

“We were playing,” you say, scalp prickling with horror at him using that word. “It wasn’t like that, Marc, not at all. I knew I could have stopped you, but I didn’t want to. We were pretending.”

“I know. I just—” he blows out a breath and goes quiet. Looking down at you, his face softens. He wipes some sweat off your brow and leans down to kiss your forehead so very softly. “I love you, you know that?”

“I love you too,” you whisper, shutting your eyes against his soft touch.

#dead dove december #marc spector smut #dub con

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whatthefishh · 8 days

Text

Period fics (esp yours) are too real and highly appreciated 🩷 love love love it

Ouch!

Santiago Garcia x fem!afab!reader

Join my tag list!

Triple Frontier Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

840 words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh. Like… with my dick?”

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

“You talk about sex with Lana?”

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

Santi shoved your face back into the pillow.

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

“I’m clearly already soaked, Garci.”

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

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

“Owwwww” You moan.

He slowed. “You okay?”

“No I’m dying!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just what, baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

anyway, love yall!

make sure to follow @romana-updates for more!

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

#period fic #comfort fic #santiago garcia x reader

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whatthefishh · 8 days

Text

As you watch him, the moonlight illuminating him from behind like an angel, you’re struck with the urge to cry. No, not just cry, full on sob.

🥺 my heart (two things are beating)

Can't Hold Back

AN: Hey y'all! This is kind of an unofficial sequel to Down Time, in the sense that I was thinking of while writing but made no actual references to it lol. ANYWAY. This was written for @triplefrontier-anniversary! Hope y’all enjoy 🥰

(Un-beta’d)

You can’t go on like this, having him but not having him. You want more, you deserve more…

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?) Words: 1,554 Pairing: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x F!Reader Warnings: Very light on the plot here lol, friends (who are secretly in love with each other) with benefits, p in v, a smidge of angst then cliche fluffy fluff (please let me know if i missed anything). AO3

——————

Santiago fucks into you, his thrusts slow and deep, his body draped over yours as you cling to him, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you try to stifle your moans. He buries his face in your neck, muffling his groan as he loses himself in your warmth. He mouths at you, his tongue dragging over your sweat-slicked skin before coming to rest just below your ear.

“Feel so good, cariño,” he slurs, his voice low and raspy. “Feels like heaven when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt clenches at his words and he grunts, his movements stuttering slightly. Your chest heaves in an effort to stay quiet, knowing your friends are sleeping just on the other side of the thin walls of your shared vacation rental. They didn’t know about you and Santi, didn’t know that you’d been secretly fucking for months, didn’t know that you were head-over-heels in love with him.

To be fair though, Santi didn’t know that last bit either.

Your arrangement had been fun when it started, had scratched the proverbial itch, but as time had gone on, you’d started to want more. The sex was great, but you hated when it ended. Not just because it was over, but because one of you always left. That had been part of the arrangement: no staying the night. So you didn’t, he didn’t, and you ignore that ache you feel in your chest every time he rolls off your bed and starts putting on his clothes, ignore the queasiness that roils in your belly when he leans in and kisses the side of your head gently in goodbye, ignore the way your heart cracks as the door to your apartment clicks shut and you’re left in silence, alone.

You’d been planning to tell him, tell him that you couldn’t do this anymore, that you wanted (needed) more, more with him…but then he’d started kissing you and every other thought had flown right out the window. So here you were, writhing in pleasure beneath him as he played your body like a well-loved instrument, willing yourself to stay quiet so as to not alert the rest of your friend group. You shiver, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers the filthiest things. The sound of his voice, coupled with his words, pushes you higher and higher, and you whimper softly as you near the edge, your cunt fluttering around his cock.

Santi shushes you gently, pulling back a little to watch you, his dark eyes heavy and blown wide with lust. Your gaze locks with his, and you swallow hard to keep your moans at bay, your lips parting and releasing a soft, strangled sound. He pulls his lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes hard through his nose, his body moving steadily over you.

As you watch him, the moonlight illuminating him from behind like an angel, you’re struck with the urge to cry. No, not just cry, full on sob. You can’t go on like this, having him but not having him. You want more, you deserve more…but you’re worried. Worried about how ending this will affect your friendship, that you’ll have to put up with seeing him date other women (or worse, that he won’t care when you start dating). You want to be present, be in the moment, want to enjoy yourself if this really is to be the last time. Even so, you can’t stop the tears as they slide down your cheeks, can’t stop the weight pressing on your chest, can’t stop the fracturing of your heart. A strange combination of euphoria and sorrow war within you, and you can’t do much more than ride it out, can’t do much more than cling to him like it’s the last time you’ll ever hold him (because it likely is).

He must notice your crying because he suddenly leans in, whispering comforting words that don’t really register in your brain as he kisses away your tears. He presses his forehead to yours, pushing you closer and closer to your peak, grinding his hips into yours and making you see stars.

You whimper softly as you come, your body shaking, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure washes over you. Santiago leans in, smothering his moans in your neck as you squeeze him, pulling him closer to the edge until his body stiffens, his sticky warmth coating your inner walls. The urge to wrap yourself around him, to keep him with you, keep him inside you, is so strong, but you resist, knowing it won’t make a difference.

Santi pulls back, smiling softly as he gazes down at you. You try to smile back, thankful for the darkness of the room as it means he can’t see the tears that are still leaking from the corners of your eyes. He swipes his thumbs over your cheeks and pauses, his lips twitching down when he feels the wetness there.

“Estás bien, cariño?” he whispers, his eyes quickly darting over your face. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head, willing your tears to stop falling.

“I’m okay,” you say, forcing a smile, “Just emotional, I guess.”

He grunts, and you can tell he’s not buying it. You never were very good at lying.

You do your best not to look at him for too long, knowing the longer he looks, the more likely it is that he’ll see, see it all, everything you’re trying to hide, trying to bury. Just when you think he’s going to let it go, you feel his hand cup your cheek.

“Look at me,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your cheek.

You try not to, really you do but, when it comes to Santi, you just can’t help yourself.

Your resolve crumbles the moment your eyes meet his, the words you’ve held back all these months spilling from between your lips like water from a broken dam. Tears blur your vision so much that you can’t really tell what effect your words are having on him, but you suppose that it doesn’t really matter in the end. You can feel yourself spiraling, your chest heaving with barely suppressed sobs, when Santi’s finger presses against your lips halts your descent.

“Did…you just say you loved me?” he asks softly, his voice and face unreadable.

Icy dread slices through you at the question. Had you said that? That you loved him? You don’t remember, but you must’ve, right? You panic, stuttering as you try to explain, your brain racing a million miles per hour as you search for the right words…but it turns out you don’t need them.

Santiago stops your lips again, this time with his own.

You’ve kissed him a thousand times before now but, somehow this time it’s different, this time it feels different. He takes his time, his kiss somehow both gentle and deep, like he’s pouring everything he has into it. He pulls away before you can kiss him back, a faint glimmer of something unfamiliar shining in his eyes when he meets yours again.

“I love you too,” he rasps, smiling down at you softly.

Your eyes widen a little, searching for the truth of his words in the darkness. “You do?”

He chuckles, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. “I do.”

You exhale sharply, a relieved laugh slipping from between your lips before you can stop it. You clap your hand over your mouth in surprise as Santiago’s smile widens, his eyes shining. You spend the next few hours wrapped in each other’s arms, talking about everything and nothing, content to just be.

You wake hours later to the sun streaming in through the windows and Santiago’s warmth at your back, your still-naked bodies tangled in the sheets and blankets. His arms are wrapped loosely around you, his face pressed into the back of your neck, and you can’t help the mix of relief and giddiness you feel knowing it wasn’t all some crazy fever dream. Your eye lashes flutter as sleep tries to call you back, the warm tendrils reaching for you, pulling gently—

Until the sound of someone clearing their throat drags you back to full consciousness.

Your head snaps toward the sound, your widened eyes meeting amused blue ones.

Santi stirs behind you, sighing softly as he presses a kiss against the base of your neck and rasps, “Morning.”

“Mornin’,” Benny responds, a smug smile on his lips as he takes in the sight of the two of you tangled in each other.

You feel Santi pause briefly before turning to meet his gaze.

“Breakfast is gettin’ cold,” Benny continues, suggestively pumping his eyebrows as he backs out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

Benny walks back to the kitchen, his footsteps thunking loudly against the wooden floor of the house as he calls out something about the other guys owing him a hundred dollars.

Santi snorts behind you, pushing his face against your shoulder as he dissolves into laughter, and you can’t help but follow suit.

“Guess we should go deal with that,” you chuckle, looking over your shoulder at him.

He smiles, his eyes shining with laughter as he leans in and presses a kiss to your lips. “Guess we should, cariño.”

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

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#santiago garcia smut #santiago garcia x reader

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