Bunny-Girl || Santiago âPopeâ Garcia x Reader
-> When convinced to retrieve the money left by Frankie and his team left at the bottom of a canyon in Peru, you have to deal with the most annoying person youâve ever had the displeasure of meeting. Thank you once again to @foxilayde for proof reading!
Gif Credit doesnât belong to me!
TW/CW: LONG-ASS SLOW BURN ISH FIC BUT THE SMUT IS WORTH IT I SWEAR. Enemies to lovers yaâll. Santi being a sassy little bitch. Violence, death. Oral (f receiving), orgasm denial, degradation and dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex.
Shocking you out of your tipsy haze is the slam of a shot glass against the wooden tabletop. The dingy bar is rather quiet this late at night and so the sound practically ricochets off of your eardrums. Paired with the raucous laughter of the men sitting with you at the table, you found it practically impossible to tame the wild twitch of your brow that only made an appearance when you were truly at your limit.
Santiago âPopeâ Garcia had surpassed your limit astronomically. Heâd stepped over the fence of exactly what you could tolerate, then set it aflame.
Fuck, youâd never hated someone so intensely. You were beginning to spend time awake at night trying to answer the burning, existential question of whether or not there was anyone, alive or dead, who deserved more resentment than Pope. Needless to say, the list of those who met the requirements was dwindling.
Heâd sucked you into this mission so easily. It wasnât even the promise of enough money that you could retire and live comfortably that enticed you. When Frankie had named you as someone who could fill in for Redfly in the undertaking to bring back the money the original team of five had left in the Andes canyon, Pope laid it on thick. That intense, smoldering gaze as he spoke you through each step of the plan had you wondering whether or not you still had the bottle to enter the firing line. Youâd barely even processed half of the information you needed before youâd said yes, coaxed into an agreement when you saw the way his focus raked over your body.
Just looking at him made you want to reach across the table and punch him, to break that stupid fucking nose. Seeing him talk so carelessly with Frankie and the others, as though he wasnât making your life a misery, was enough to boil your blood. The humid heat clings to your temple in beads of sweat, seemingly boiling your anger from the outside in as you scowl at Pope with an icy glare.
Thinking back on it, youâre not entirely sure when your relationship with Santi soured so significantly over the course of the three days you had been together. Perhaps it was that first night where you kept trying to have a serious conversation about faults in his âmaster planâ only for him to be utterly engrossed by the bounce of your tits as you spoke animatedly with your hands, or the morning you woke up to him singing in the bathroom of your shared motel room in Peru as you waited for an unregistered vehicle from one of Bennyâs old friends with only a towel to hide his modesty.
Everything Santiago did vexed you. Regardless of when it started, the situation had devolved to the point that the two of you could barely spend five minutes together without a petty squabble starting up. It was therefore unsurprising that Frankie and Benny had plied you with alcohol all evening in an attempt to dampen the rage that sparked between the two of you whenever you locked eyes.
It was, however, doing very little to maintain your short temper given the antics he had been pulling all night.
A second shot glass practically bounces off the table with the force that Santi sets it down with, and you momentarily consider knocking it off the edge of the table so it shatters on the ground or picking it up and throwing it so it bounces off of his pretty head.
âCould you bang that glass any harder?â You finally snap, voice strained with a bitterness that coats your tongue better than the shitty, cheap tequila you had all been sharing.
âAre you asking if I could bang harder, Conejita?â Popeâs lips pull into a lazy smirk as he watches you fume across the tabletop. Heâd purposely misheard your question, intending to frustrate you further with his flirtatious response. The men around the table all chuckle, Frankie sitting back in his seat and folding his arms across his chest as he waits for the firework routine to begin.
âIâm not sure how you expect to âbang hardâ with such a small âglassâ, Santiago. Do you not leave the girls wanting a little more?â You question, feigning innocence as you pick aimlessly as your cargo pants, the quiet âooooâ sounding from Benny spurring you on. Thereâs a pause, Popeâs jaw ticking as he watches you act very fucking proud of yourself.
âFuck, Frankie, do you hear this shit?â Santi scoffs, your below-the-belt comment clearly striking a nerve with him. Morales is swift to throw his hands in mock surrender, silently absolving himself of the narrative as Santi gears up to defend his honour- and the size of his cock in the process. âWhatâs got your panties in a twist, sweetheart? Do you think about me banging you often? âS that whatâs got you all worked up?â
âOh you are so fucking dumb, Garcia,â you hiss, irate at this point as you actively ignore the way Frankie halfheartedly slides another tequila shot your way. Itâs like trying to douse a forest fire with a water bottle. âWhat makes you think Iâm that easy, huh? Because Iâm the only woman in this fucking sausage fest?â
Benny nearly sprays the beer in his mouth as he attempts to hold back his laughter, and instead ends up choking on the now luke-warm liquid while Will breaks out into a fit of hysterical, drunken giggles.
You can practically hear Frankieâs eyes roll in his skull, gathering up empty glasses in a desperate attempt to escape the table that was inevitably going to become a warzone and retreat to the bar.
âI donât know where you get the idea that Iâm a fuckinâ misogyn-â
âThatâs all on you, Pope, youâve got a sex-god complex far superior in size to your fucking shot-glass-sized penis.â You project over him as he exhales slowly in an attempt not to raise his own voice at you. âItâs not like those very same illusions of grandeur have almost gotten us killed or anything, what with you fucking every single one of your female informants. I mean, I wouldnât be surprised if youâd fucked the male informants too!â
âYou jealous?â Pope returns with a calm tone that somehow manages to incense you further. In what fucking universe would you be jealous of Santiago âPopeâ Garciasâ fuckbuddies?!
The silence that answers you back is almost deafening. A victorious smirk settles itself on Santiagoâs face as he takes another shot of the disgusting tequila, his eyes cast towards the bar as he shakes his head knowingly. Benny and Will remain silent, an awkwardness settling between them as they keep their eyes firmly planted on the label stuck to the bottle that Ben twists in his hand. Like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
It took you a few seconds, given the odd response, to realize none of the men at the table believed you.
âOh, fuck off!â You sneer, standing from your seat and slamming your glass down on the tabletop in defeat. Youâd rather get snatched off the streets of Peru by the cartels you were actively avoiding than spend another second with the narcissistic prick across the tabletop.
In fact, itâs a miracle that you didnât turn back on your heel and launch yourself at him when he calls out to your back. âCan you bang that glass any harder?!â
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Frankie was never allowed to buy you alcohol again, regardless of whether or not it was a peace offering to make Santiago more palatable. Your head feels like it has been put in a vice, the sunshine leaking into your motel room through the window causing the migraine that ran down the backs of your eyes enough to make you want to hurl the entire contents of your stomach and then some.
Given the fact you had practically thrown yourself at the mattress the moment you entered the room after leaving the boys at the bar, you would have thought the extra sleep would have shifted the swirling sensation inside your skull. Itâs possible that staying up at least another hour and stewing in your rage didnât aid your condition.
Youâd heard the lumbering idiots stumble back into their respective rooms while Frankie tried desperately to quiet them all down at a time that was utterly obscene, given the sun was already rising according to the orange tint in the sky when you had checked. Had you not been so exhausted after the ridiculous length of the journey to the coordinates on that tiny scrap of paper Pope carried with him so far, you would have kicked all four of the inconsiderate bastards out and forced them to sleep in the hallway.
Turning your back to the window to escape the glare of the harsh sunlight that seeps through your closed eyelids, you settle back into the thin linen covers as you try to ease yourself back into sleep. Warmth settles between your shoulder blades where the sunshine floods your skin, lulling you back into the in-between stages of sleep, where unconsciousness ebbs at the edges of your mind, but youâre still aware of your surroundings.
As a result, you hear Santi before you even see him.
âUp, Conejita, weâre leaving in fifteen.â He sounds rough as he throws the door open, his voice still laced with sleep and tone gravelly from shouting across the table all night. Had it been anyone else, youâd consider the drawl attractive, but itâs Santiago, so itâs definitely not.
âMhmmm,â you groan in frustration, rolling onto your back, âYou just burst into womenâs rooms without knocking, Pope?â You grumble, making it clear that youâre lacking significant levels of patience to be dealing with his ridiculousness this morning.
Opening your eyes, you wince at the pain that sparks through your head as you glance over at Santi. He looks as rough as you feel, his short curls sticking every which way as though heâd drunkenly stuck a fork in an electrical socket. His clothes are crumpled, creases in every direction throughout his simple, gray cotton t-shirt, like heâd slept in it. Come to think of it- werenât those the clothes he wore to the bar last night? His salt and pepper stubble has grown back on his chin and frames his cheekbones, despite you knowing for certain you had seen him shaving in the mirror only 24 hours ago.
Despite how tired he looks, you note the way his brown eyes, polished amber from the golden sunshine cast across his face, seem to drag down the silhouette of your body underneath the thin bedsheets. Heâs not as subtle as he thinks he is.
âFifteen.â He repeats curtly, turning on his heel and walking back down the corridor with thumping steps across the wooden flooring while leaving the door wide open.
âHeard you the first time, asshole,â you scoff bitterly to yourself, rubbing your palms over your face in a fruitless attempt to rouse you from your weariness. Swinging your legs over the mattress, you reach down to the zipper of the duffle bag you had stuffed fresh clothes into, reaching blindly into the carrier and fishing for the first shirt and set of cargo pants you could get ahold of. Living around these feckless men meant no real effort was put into your appearance on their behalf. It also meant you were ready within moments, completely contrary to Bennyâs persistent joke that the team weâre always waiting on you.
Everyone knew Santi was always the one holding them up, youâd caught him a few times carding his fingers through his hair in the mirror as you screamed at him to get a move on.
Walking down the hallway after slipping on your combat boots to finish off your outfit and duffle bag in hand, youâre careful to observe the relatively damp atmosphere in the communal-kitchen area. Benny and Will are barely managing a plate of scrambled eggs and looking rather sorry for themselves. You lock eyes with Frankie as he leans his hip against the counter. Heâs smiling at you apologetically as he holds out a chilled bottle of water.
âSorry if I woke you last night. Wrangling these lunatics into bed took some effort,â he admitted softly, in that gruff southern accent you had grown to love over the coms in his helicopter over the time your two had served together before he retired. The condensation on the plastic bottle cools your palm as you take it from him, another liquid peace offering, lacking in alcohol, that would probably only maintain the tranquility of the morning for five more minutes.
âYeah, I bet.â You grumble weakly as you twist the cap off the bottle, raising the rim up to your lips as you glance around the small space to locate Pope. âThey were causing quite a scene when I left.â
The brothers audibly grimace at your sly dig, and you can feel the self-pitying, sorry gazes they throw your way without even looking at them. They know better than to side with Pope when the two of you start a verbal tug-of-war.
âOh really?â Frankie muses, eyes settled on your face as he shoots you a toothy grin. âLast I was updated on the situation, it was you and Garcia who were causing the hassle, man. Bickering over the size of a shot glass really is a new low for the two of you, I must admit.â
âIt was a euphemism, Frankie,â you deadpan, screwing the cap on your water bottle once again. âI thought you of all people would be smart enough to figure that out after all the time we spent together.â
Frankie doesnât bother entertaining you as he points to the door that leads into the corridor of the motel, gesturing absentmindedly with a swirl of his wrist. âHeâs outside, setting up the pickup for us.â
âI didnât ask,â you say bluntly, glancing up at him through your lashes to catch him smirking at you. Frankie never has to say what heâs thinking, his expressions are like an open book written in neon pink. Even the fuckin Inca Tern birds in the trees outside the window would be able to piece together what he was thinking. âJust fuck him alreadyâ
Perhaps it had escaped you, the evidence that had convinced everyone that you wanted Santiagoâs cock down your throat, because you just couldnât understand why everyone was so certain that you had the hots for him. Sure Pope was an attractive man, arguably the most attractive out of the four, but that didnât mean you wanted to fuck him. Not with that appalling attitude. If you saw one more set of eyebrows raising playfully, youâd break the nose of whoever they belonged to.
âI said fifteen, pendejoâs hurry up!â Santiagoâs voice cut through the room as he opened the door to the motel room, his apparent hangover seemingly responsible for his aggressive tone as he leans against the doorframe.
Heâs all sweaty, his light-gray shirt stained dark down his sternum from where his perspiration seeps into the cotton. His tanned skin has a sticky sheen to it, as though heâd been on a run in the middle of the afternoon, and his chest heaves a little as he catches his breath back after running up and down the stairs a few times to load the pickup truck.
Staring down Frankie in an attempt to show your disapproval at his shoddy attempt to play matchmaker, you pull the straps of your bag over your shoulder while making your way towards the door. Pope, in his utter stupidity, doesnât move from the doorframe and instead puts the effort into slamming his palm against the wood a few times to urge the two brothers from their seats at the dining table. âMove it!â
âShift, Pope,â muttering under your breath, you attempt to barge through the doorway with the large bag still slung over your shoulder. Itâs a tight squeeze, the other side of the wooden beam catching on the bag and forcing you forward into his muscular chest as you attempt to work your way around him.
Meanwhile, Santi is twisting his body towards you to make space for you to squeeze past. Youâre certain heâs not sure how close he is to you until your tits brush against his chest and his nose is bumping against yours. Any closer and you were positive his eyelashes would be tickling the skin of your cheeks.
Impossible not to notice, you catch the way his breath hitches at the contact between your bodies. His pupils dart down to your chest, where youâre pressed up against him due to the awkward position, before flicking back up to your face. He makes no attempt to move.
âCould you not have waited?â His tone is firm, if a little breathless- or were you imagining it? Itâs not clear to you, your head swimming as though youâd downed another bottle of that disgusting tequila from the night before. You can smell the sweat on him, the pheromones that youâre almost certain are scrambling your brain. He smells good.
âCould you not have fucking moved when I asked?â You respond curtly, the curve of your nose still pushed against Santiagoâs as you attempt to force your way through the small gap. Cruelly, your bag is caught on the lip of the doorframe, so your movements only aid in dragging your pinned body against Santiâs. Itâs so much all at once, his smell, the press of his warm body against yours- âFucking move, Pope, Iâm serious!â
Santiago is uncharacteristically quiet at first, his eyes set on yours with such formidability that youâre convinced your knees will buckle beneath the pressure against your better judgment and ultimately give way to him. Why is he looking at you like that!?
âYouâre not making much of an effort to move yourself,â he murmurs, the rasp of his quiet voice worming its way into your skull and frying your brain. This emotion it pulls from you, a mixture of acrimony and arousal, is so potent that youâre uncertain of the words that slip from your mouth even as you state them.
âYouâre so fucking irritating!â The syllables come out sounding strained, vowels drawling slightly.
âTrust me, I donât consider you an angel.â With that, heâs pushing his body past you, back into the motel room. A final drag of his chest against yours and youâre free, stumbling to grab the wall so the weight of the bag doesnât tip you backward. âGet in the car, I wonât tell you again.â
You donât want him to. Youâre quick to make your way down the stairs and away from the other boys that you knew would have something to say about that little performance, racing to the street to ensure you had dibs on the seat as far away from Santiago as possible, and hopefully with Frankie Inbetween you to mediate your conversations. Though, you werenât certain that even Frankie âCatfishâ Morales would be able to referee the two of you in a confined place for what would be at least five hours after having been so close to Pope.
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Luck had never really been on your side throughout your military career. During your time in the Delta Force, you had never heard of someone having as rough of a time as you. Every single mission you seemed to get into deep water; shot at in the open, just barely missing landmines. It came to a point that you were certain you were a cat reincarnated and that you had used up eight of your nine lives already.
Well. Consider this all nine lives used up.
Preempting where Santiago would choose to sit had failed miserably. Having driven the last shift before calling it a night yesterday, you were almost certain he wouldnât want to take the driver's seat first thing this morning, and so you had sat behind it in the hopes he would take shotgun. Boy, you were wrong.
Santiagoâs hands hold the steering wheel firmly and you can see over his shoulder that his knuckles are tight on the leather. He has multiple tie-bracelets on his right wrist, the different brown leather tones complimentary to his complexion. The salt and pepper of his hair peeks out from the seam of his navy baseball cap at the nape of his neck.
There you can see the scar from his neck operation, the one he claims is the reason heâs in this fucking mess in the first place. Itâs a pale silvery-pink, raised and thick with a wrinkled appearance. Itâs still relatively fresh, apparently, and youâd heard Pope tell Frankie he hoped it would become less noticeable over time. His gold chain rests over it in decoration, glinting in the afternoon sun.
Itâs torturous. The three, maybe four, hours you had been in the truck had slowly driven you mad. Popeâs scent clings to you like gun residue, repetitively appearing again just as you think you have shifted it. You can only thank God that the boys are in here with you, Frankieâs knee knocking into yours whenever the tires hit a bump in the road. It keeps you grounded, and prevents you from doing something stupid.
âHow far are we from the drop point?â You ask Frankie quietly, your tongue feeling a little too large for your mouth after talking for the first time in four hours. You had attempted to sleep, like Benny who was utterly incapacitated in the front seat, but you were still enraged from Popeâs antics from earlier.
âHmm. Another hour of driving maybe?â He wondered aloud, scratching at his patchy beard as he glanced down at the map sprawled on his lap, âThen half an hour of climbing to the canyon itself.â
âYouâre not having doubts are you, Conejita?â Pope speaks up, ever the instigator. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Frankie tilt his head back against the headrest as he resigns himself to the fate of having to referee yet another petty squabble.
âDonât insult me like that, Garcia. Itâs just that this journey has been long and youâre fucking annoying.â You strain, doing your best to keep your voice down so as to not wake Benny in the front. âYou insisted upon driving even though you knew it would take longer.â
You see Popeâs knuckles brighten as he grips the steering wheel harder, the only external expression of his irritation towards you that youâre able to observe.
âIf you must know, I âinsisted upon drivingâ because it was a lot more low-key than flying there. If you werenât aware, the last time we were in Peru we had a whole cartel-army and a village shooting at us and I was a man down. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I didnât fancy having to go through all that again so I decided to drive,â he drones sarcastically. âThough you would know that if you ever listened during briefings.â
Scoffing loudly, your irritation begins to get the best of you despite the hand that Frankie rests on your knee as though you were about to leap out of your seat, you launch into verbal attack.
âI donât know why I should listen to you when youâre giving briefings. Itâs not like you have any clue what youâre doing, you found all your intel in some girl's pussy.â You know exactly what route heâs going to take in his counterargument before youâve even finished your sentence, as though youâve peered into a crystal ball or pulled a card from a tarot deck that spells out THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.
âYou jealous?â How fucking original. âI like it when you talk filthy like that, say it again-.â
âKnock it off!â Will cuts in now, utterly grossed out by now as he covered his ears with his palms like a child. How the fuck more of these idiots didnât die in the raid last year, youâll never be able to work out.
â-Besides, you should be listening, Conejita. Itâs about your safety during this mission.â He insisted, his tone suddenly taking on a serious note that has you pausing in your seat. âI refuse to lose someone else to these fucks, and you messing around better not compromise that.â
You pretend not to hear him or the demanding tone of his final comment, turning to Catfish with a scowl plastered to your forehead. âFrankie, for the love of God please tell me what that means. Heâs called me Conejita this whole fucking time and I have no idea what heâs saying!â
Frankie looks at you with a pitying gaze as Will bursts into laughter at your utter frustration. âYour Spanish is almost as bad as Bennyâs.â He mutters weakly, rubbing at his temple in an attempt to soothe the headache that had begun to build in his skull. You were pretty certain that, unlike the others, this headache had less to do with the alcohol consumption of last night, and entirely thanks to yours and Popeâs antics.
Glancing to the front of the car, you catch Popeâs eye in the rearview mirror. That same intense stare, the one that had burnt down your defenses and adjourned you to join him on this wild chase gazed back at you. It makes your stomach feel like youâre standing at the edge of a cliff, flipping and twisting in your abdomen and youâre physically unable to look away. Itâs really not too dissimilar. Pope is just as thrilling yet utterly devastating, waiting for you to make the jump from the unstable ledge without a parachute.
Instead of leaping you close your eyes, resting the curve of your skull against the window beside you. The vibrations of the truck's wheels against the bumpy road keep you from sleeping, but at least you donât have to look Santiago in the eyes this way.
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Temperatures plummet the longer you stay up the mountain. The terrain is treacherous even with your combat boots on. Within an hour of climbing, you were certain youâd almost popped your ankle at least three times, the snow and ice on the loose stones akin to a walking death trap.
In spite of this, you canât find it in yourself to complain when Will is being hoisted up and down the freezing cold canyon with climbing equipment. Each time he reaches the bottom of the crevice, he picks up as many of the fully-loaded bags as he can carry and the boys pull him back up, stack the bags away from the cliff face and send him back down.
You darenât turn your eyes away from the horizon to watch their incredible teamwork. You hadnât expected the area to be quite so open. While that meant youâd see hostiles approaching from miles away, it also dictated that you were sitting bullseyes against the bright background of snow, ice, and light grey stone.
âStill clear, Conejita?â Pope calls over to you, his voice strained with pain. No doubt his knees and neck are beginning to seriously hurt now with the strain of hauling twice, sometimes triple, Willâs body weight in duffel bags of money. At least heâd be able to afford a good masseuse at the end of this shitshow- probably one he could fuck when she helped him recover. The thought makes you hate him more.
âAll clear,â you insist, index finger resting on the trigger of your carbine gun with practiced ease. âHow much longer?â Youâre not sure you can promise them safety after so much time in the open. The cartels have been searching for the four of them for a whole year. No doubt you had been clocked entering the country. It was almost common sense they would lay in wait in the mountains, letting the group come to them.
âWe have one more drop.â
âMake it quick then,â you insist, eyes on the horizon still. You canât shake the feeling things are a little out of hand. Collecting the bags takes much longer than expected- the nylon fabric has been exposed to the harsh weather of the mountains for so long that some of them had begun to degrade, making them more precarious to carry for Will.
âYou good Will? Last one!â Santi informs him, âBenny can finally get that Ferrari he wants so bad!â
âThought youâd learnt not to count your money until itâs in your pocket, Pope,â Frankie cuts in, stacking another set of bags and tying a rope to them like chain links. It helped to carry large quantities of the bags apparently, a trick they acquired last time they were here.
Turning your head over to Benny, you find heâs watching his elder brother with an anxious expression. You understood the feeling, your heart had nearly fallen out of your ass when he first leaped over the ledge an hour or two ago. No amount of combat training or life or death situations could possibly prepare you enough to be willingly pulled up a sheer cliff with only a rope tied to your waist. Thereâs a sense of relief as the final bag is pulled over the unsteady edge and Will finally plants his feet on solid ground for the first time in two hours. Fuck that.
The crack of a gun ricochets off the mountain face, and before you even have a moment to register the sound thereâs a tearing sensation that rips through the curve of your shoulder. Military experience kicks in almost like second nature, body dropping to the floor heavily. The rocks jab into your abdomen underneath you, but your spike in adrenaline and the pain of your bullet would mean you barely feel it.
âIâm hit!â You call out to the boys with a strained voice while you feel at your shoulder. Blood comes away on your palm, painting the skin crimson.
âFuck! Are you okay?!â The tinge of fear in Santiagoâs voice is just as loud as the hail of bullets that spray toward him. The larger boulders surrounding you all are the only form of cover you can use.
âIâm fine- it just grazed me. Focus on yourself!â You call back, steadying the carbine as you assess the horizon to find the threat. âFive of them, Santiago!â
âWe're pinned here, do you have a clear shot at them?â Frankie called out to you, head shielded by a small rock. When you quickly glance back, all four of them are on their stomachs on the rocky floor. Theyâre relatively exposed, and theyâre without their guns after working on the bags of cash for so long. Youâll have to do the dirty work.
âYeah!â You call back, facing the hostiles once more. Considering the anxiety you had felt waiting for them to arrive, in the face of open fire you found yourself relatively at ease. Balancing the barrel in a crevice on the boulder you hid behind, you prepare yourself to take them out one by one.
The scope makes it much easier to pinpoint them. Itâs like painting a red marks point on their forehead, a big fuck off neon sign that reads âshoot hereâ. Popping your head up with perfect timing, you pull the trigger of the gun. The crack of the bullet ejecting is deafening after years of being out of active combat, and the wait for the lead to travel and pierce between the cartel members' eyes feels like hours.
âFirst one down,â you call out your kills, dropping down behind the rock as a spray of bullets ricochets off the stone with golden sparks. Fuck fuck fuck this was bad. How the fuck had you even ended up in this position anyway? You swore youâd never see active duty again, yet here you were fighting for your life once more. This was the last time youâd help any one of these fucking idiots with their âmaster plansâ.
You wait patiently for a pause in the firing before lifting your head again and glancing down the scope. Itâs quiet for a few seconds until their heads peer out from the rocks again. Two take the plunge, but youâre ready for them and pull the trigger within relatively quick succession to take out two in one go.
âFor fucks sake, be careful!â Pope hisses. He sounds utterly wrecked, overwhelmed with nerves. Again, you didnât know him well enough to say with certainty, but it sounded as though Santi was relatively level-headed given the stories youâd heard from Frankie. It was unlike him to be so anxious.
âJust keep your fucking head down!â You snap back, raising your voice over the hail of further bullets, âThey must have kept tabs the whole time weâve been in Peru.â Youâre reloading, wanting a full cartridge for the last two hostiles should things get ropey.
There was a large pause between shots, which indicated to you that the shooters were changing position. Your shoulder stings, pouring blood into your thermals. Sure, youâd been shot before, it was like a right of passage in the Delta Force. Maybe it was because you were getting older, but the pain sears down the muscle of your bicep worse than youâd ever experienced from a graze.
Peeping over the curve of the rock, you scope the area for any sign of where the shooters had settled for the final assault. Theyâve fallen back slightly by the looks of things, gathering their thoughts and setting up a plan. It allows you a moment to look to Santi, crawling belly down in the rocks to get to you.
âHand me the gun.â Itâs not a question, itâs an order. Youâre swift to pass the weapon over, back pressed against the uneven rock surface and chest heaving. You hadnât even realized you had been holding your breath until the assault rifle leaves your hands.
When the shots sound again, youâre swift to cover your ears with your bloodied palms. Santi is an expert marksman, it doesnât take him very long to zero in on each of the two shooters and take them out with deafening cracks of the carbine that bounced off the rock face of the Andes mountains. He counts them off one after the other, punctuated by shots that cause your eardrums to ring even with the muffling effect of your hands.
Busted eardrums are disorientating. Youâd experienced severe tinnitus following a botched mission in Chile a few years ago, and for weeks you didnât know up from down- so when Santi grabs ahold of your chin and forces you to look at him you find yourself gazing up at him with whatâs probably the dumbest expression you could ever imagine, like a child caught stealing chocolate from the fridge.
He looks enraged, yelling at you with a creased brow and reddish face. The veins in his neck protrude and the force in which he holds your jaw with his fingers is bruising. You canât hear him, the sound of his voice faded and is overshadowed by the prolonged ringing in your ears. Reading his lips, you can only really catch that heâs calling you stupid, totally on brand.
When his hand reaches for your shoulder, you flinch in pain and the pressure bubble in your ears pops suddenly. The flood of sound is dizzying, the heaving of Santiagoâs breath and the rattle of the carbine rifle as it hits the floor. âFuck, baby Iâm so sorry, I should have been more careful-â heâs stumbling over his words, applying pressure to your wound despite the cry that sounds from your throat.
âBenny, pass me a medkit now!â
âPope, sheâs okay, itâs just her should-â
âNow!â Youâre certain heâs hyperventilating, the wheeze of his breath rattling against his ribs as wild eyes assess your expression and the wound at the same time. âAre you okay? Tell me youâre okay.â
âIâm- Iâm okay, Santi, I-â youâre trying to reassure him, but he appears to panic further, ripping the fabric of your thermals in a desperate attempt to gain a visual of the damage. Cold sweat covers his brow, and you realize, a little late, that heâs having a panic attack.
Pushing his hands away despite the fight they put up, you grab ahold of Popeâs gorgeous face with both bloodied palms, painting his tanned skin with blood as you try to get him to look you in the eyes. âIâm okay! I am okay, Santiago. Breathe.â You tell him softly, stroking your thumbs across his cheekbones soothingly.
Recognition bleeds across his expression, and his head drops suddenly. Tears are streaming down his cheeks within seconds, grasping onto your wrists with his thumbs pushed into the flesh there. He can feel your pulse, the blood flowing there indicating you were still here. âOh fuck,â he chokes weakly, straining so hard to keep it all in. He thought heâd lost you, thought heâd find you slumped against the rocks with a hole in your forehead, eyes rolled back into your skull like Redfly. He couldnât afford another Redfly.
âItâs okay,â you whisper gently, easing him down from that emotional ledge with a soft voice, âIâm okay. Weâre okay.â Itâs a simple word, but it does exactly what you intend it to as you hold Santiago close. Within minutes, heâs okay too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pressure against your wound keeps you awake at night, the searing pain having dulled to a mild ache with the aid of some strong painkillers. The cool linen of more hotel bedsheets eases the humid nighttime air against your relatively bare skin, having stripped down to a thin T-shirt and your underwear to battle the oppressiveness of the warmth. The team hadnât stopped for three days until the truck's tires passed onto American soil in an attempt to stay one step ahead of the cartels and avoid further confrontation.
Santiago refused to allow anyone else to get hurt, staying awake the entire time to keep his eyes out for any sign of a threat.
Closing your eyes slowly, you feel the buzz of the painkillers working. Things feel a little slow, your vision taking a few seconds to catch up with you whenever you turn your gaze to the other side of the small hotel room. Itâs a surprisingly pleasant, warm feeling and you settle back into the pillows as you allow the sensation to wash over you.
âHow are you feeling?â
It takes significant effort for your eyelids to peel open again. Santiago stands in the doorway, hand on the doorknob in a firm grip. He looks exhausted, dark shadows coloring under his eyes, and his stubble having grown further since your observation from a few days ago.
âStill donât knock, huh?â You drawl, words a little slow to sound from your lips. He chuckles weakly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he approaches the bottom of your bed with careful steps like heâs concerned heâll fall through the floor. Once again, he leaves the door wide open. Classic.
âOh come on, donât start that shit, man,â he grumbles, rubbing at the nape of his neck with his palm with a flat expression. âI thought youâd at least thank me for saving your ass back there.â
A scoff works its way up your throat, bitter and acrid like that fucking tequila from Peru that haunted your every waking moment. âI didnât need you to âsave my assâ, Pope. I had it under control before you wheedled your way over and demanded control like you always do. I killed three of them-â
âThey almost killed you. Shit, a blind man could do a better job of keeping an eye out than you, youâre lucky that they were such a shit shot!â Typical Santiago Garcia, deciding to have a critical conversation while youâre doped up on meds, exhausted, and utterly fed up with his bullshit.
âDid you even listen to anything I said in the truck?â he speaks firmly, jerking his outstretched palm animatedly while he speaks with a tone that you just know he uses with those inferior to him in the force. âI was trying to keep everyone safe and I could have fucking lost you!â
âOh fuck you Garcia!â You snap loudly, âI was one person doing a 360 sweep for two hours while you and your fucking pals fucked around trying to get every single dollar you could get your hands on! How the fuck was I supposed to have eyes in the back of my head? Huh?! Besides, Iâm not yours to lose!â
âWhy are you being such a shit, Conejita?â He grits his teeth, a vein protruding at his temple.
âBecause youâre such a shit yourself, Pope! Youâre constantly manspreading. Makes it impossible to be comfortable in the backseat with you when you take up so much space. You listen to Metallica on repeat at top volume in your earphones, you might as well play it out loud at that point because I can hear everything,â you count off the infuriating things he does on your fingers, voice raising slightly with each point. âAnd you never know when to shut the fuck up. Just shut up!â
Santi has crossed the floor so heâs standing in front of you on the bed. He reeks of alcohol and his face is flushed- you didnât notice before.
âDid you go to the bar and not fucking invite me?â You whisper now, voice a little breathless from your blinding rage. Youâd fucking helped these fuckers, got them out of deep shit and they didnât bother to ask you to celebrate with them?!
Itâs Santiagoâs turn to scoff, rubbing at his beard and across his mouth. The divots in the skin of his lips, the creases, drag slightly against his touch, and the crackly sound of his knuckles brushing against his stubble permeates the quiet room much louder than it should.
âAlcohol thins the blood,â Pope grumbles, eyes closed with exasperation while matching your volume, âI didnât want you to bleed any more than you already have, Conejita.â
âGod, fuck you Santiago!â You snap, grabbing ahold of the collar of his shirt so youâre face to face now. âFuck your and your fucking ego- You always have an answer for everything! I fucking hate yo-â
It all happens so quickly that youâre not even sure what happens at first. Santiagoâs lips smash to yours in a devastatingly needy kiss, the force in which he kisses you is almost bruising, and youâre scrambling to push him away.
âWhat the fuck Santi?!â
âJust shut up, for fucks sake,â he grits his teeth, pulling you in again. Santiâs palm is at the nape of your neck, and the rage you feel for him bubbles over before youâre reciprocating with equal fervor almost instantaneously. You can taste the tequila on his tongue, along with the slight hint of salt and lime. Itâs almost as intoxicating as if you had downed half a bottle on your own.
Pushing your fingers through his short trimmed curls, you settle your grip on the hair at the base of his skull, pulling at the strands with a harsh tug. He groans low and deep, the sound causing your abdomen to spark with arousal as he pushes his palm roughly into your lower back so your chest is pressed impossibly closer to his.
Jesus, you hate him. Hate the way his teeth push into the flesh of your lip, despise his hands for grasping their way down your waist with ardor and squeezing at the pliant flesh at your hips. Itâs infuriatingly sexy, the burn of his stubble against your chin as he kisses you with such zeal that heâs practically bending you backward.
You fall back against the mattress once more, yelping into his mouth as your shoulder makes contact with the mattress.
âFuck, Iâm sorry,â he groans against your lips but doesnât make the effort to stop. You donât want him to, heâs climbing over your body thatâs now splayed across the mattress, one hand pressed into the bed above your injured shoulder and the other trying to feel at the hem of the shirt you had been trying to sleep in. You know he wants to rip it from your body, but heâs careful to go slow so that he doesnât hurt you, dragging the fabric over your waist and tracing his thumb across the expanse of your ribs before pulling the shirt over your head and tossing it across the room.
âNo youâre not!â you gasp weakly, pulling away from him to press the base of your skull into the mattress, but heâs chasing your mouth and pressing burning kisses to the corner of your lips.
âNo. Iâm not,â he repeats, eyes dragging over your bare chest before lowering his head so he can sink his teeth into your clavicle. You cry out at the sharp pain that blooms through your skin, hips rocking upwards. Heâs a fucking prick, laughing condescendingly as heâs sucking at the indentations his teeth leave so a bruise definitely blossoms in its place.
His body is settled between your thighs as you hook your ankles at his lower back, sobbing out weakly as his stubble scratches down your chest, mouth biting and sucking a path down to your nipple before dragging the flat of his tongue over your hardening bud. Meanwhile, his hands are exploring the flesh of your thighs, groping hard as he pushes his fingers underneath the fabric of your underwear and squeezes at your ass with a feverish need.
With the hold he has on the lower half of your body, heâs lifting your hips off of the mattress so they grind into his own, his hardness pushing into your clothed cunt and practically winding you with the sudden intensity of how quickly a typical argument has turned into dry-humping your best friends colleague in a hotel room at four in the morning.
His cock is straining against his cargo pants, twitching against the fabric as he swirls his tongue around your nipple. Fumbling with your hands, you reach down between your bodies and grasp shakily at the brass buckle of his belt. Itâs a struggle to undo, given Santiago is grinding his hips into you while you fight with the metal prong.
âFuckinâ stay still!â You snap, desperate to have his cock out of his pants. The only response you get is a particularly vicious bite around the skin of your breast, causing your hips to rock up in shock. âFuck!â
Finally, despite your blind arousal, the buckle comes loose, and youâre pulling it out of the loops of his pants with such vigor you can hear the thwip sound of the leather coming loose. The metal clatters to the wooden floor as you throw it blindly into the darkness of the room, but youâre too engrossed in battling with the button and zipper of his trousers now.
Again, Santi is laughing at your struggle, skimming the sore skin of your breasts with the flat of his hot, wet tongue. He blows at the saliva that paints your skin and the sensation is icy cold, causing goosebumps to settle on your skin which is now littered with all forms of color from crimson red to deep purple.
Somehow you work his pants open, immediately slipping your hand past the fabric to palm at his erection through his boxers. Fuck heâs throbbing in your hand, a groan ripping through his throat and causing his hot breath to fan across your sternum. Got him.
âHah, cat got your tongue, Pope?â You tease breathlessly as his eyelashes flutter against the bare skin of your chest. His cock is drooling in his boxers, a wet patch forming in the fabric. You focus there, brushing your thumb against the tip of his cock through his underwear. Jesus Christ, itâs like heâs in heat. Heâs grinding his cock up into your hand, chasing the pleasure thatâs settling in his stomach. You allow yourself a moment to imagine how embarrassing it would be for Santiago if you got him to cum in his boxers, how empowering it would be for you, and how you could hold it over his head for the rest of his life.
âFuck!â He practically growls, violently ripping his body from your touch. Heâs no longer gentle with you, grabbing your thigh and hooking it over his shoulder. The position is a little awkward, hips lifted off the mattress and focusing all of your weight into your shoulder blades. Yes, the ache of your bullet wound settles deep in your flesh, but the sharp pain of Santiâs teeth sinking into the flesh of the junction of your inner thigh, nose pressing into your panties and brushing against your clit as he does completely throws you off complaining with anything more than a wordless yelp.
His digits work your now soaking panties to the side, groaning as your cunt is exposed. âFuck, Conejita. Youâre dripping.â The slick sound of his fingers passing through your soaked cunt is mortifying, and youâre squeezing your eyes shut to escape your embarrassment. It means youâre not prepared for the feeling of his tongue swiping through your folds, nor the loud cry of shock that accompanies it.
Pleasure rocks through your lower body and you find yourself mindlessly chasing it. You use your heel in his back to push your hips further into his face, forcing your palm into the curve of his head. Heâs ruthless with his mouth, nipping at your clit and swirling his tongue to ease the sparks of sharp pain. Heâs humming at your taste coating his tongue, the vibrations rushing through your pussy.
You sob brokenly, back struggling to arch at this awkward angle. You can see his eyes peeking over the curve of your sex, dark with need as he watches your expression twist in ecstasy. You must look stupid, hair a mess, and jaw slack. Even as it begins to get intense, your eyes welling with fat tears, he doesnât let up.
âSanti- Santi, oh fuck, pl-please!â You barely recognize your own voice, the pitch is all wrong. Cramp tightens your calves as your toes curl into the flesh of his back and youâre struggling to see straight. âOh god- Oh god Santi please donât- FUCK SANTI!â
You didnât mean to yell, you really didnât, but Santiago is pulling his lips from your cunt the moment your orgasm begins to crest. The pleasure wound up so tightly dissipates almost as quickly as it had been built, and your tears spill down your temples as you mourn the loss of what could easily have been the best orgasm of your life.
Meanwhile, Pope is moving to his feet and pushing down his cargo pants, taking his boxers with them. His cock is weeping precum now, the clear substance slipping down the top of his purple-tinged cock.
âAct like a bitch and Iâll fuck you like one,â his voice is gruff with arousal when he grabs your hips, pulling them to the edge of the mattress so he can angle you *just* right.
âOh god!â You sob loudly, the lewd sound devolving into a scream of bliss as Santiago pushes the head of his cock at your entrance and pushes all the way in with one particularly harsh thrust. Heâs splitting you open with gritted teeth, punishing your cunt for your shitty behavior. âFuck Santi! Fuck!â
The brutal pace he sets liquifies your brain. Youâre reaching over your head for something to hold onto, to either side of your body, but thereâs nothing for you to find purchase and you find yourself sobbing louder. His grip on your hipbone is bruising while using his grip to bring you down harder on his cock as it spears deeper into your cunt.
You knew Santiago seduced his informants, knew he fucked the information out of them, but none of this knowledge could have prepared you for just how skilled he was at coaxing mind-blowing pleasure from you. Within moments of him finding his preferred angle, his perfect pace, youâre biting down so hard on your lip you can taste blood as you whimper his name pathetically.
âSanti-â you hiccup, tears once again settling in your waterline, âSanti I can-I canât!â
âYou will,â he growls, moving forward to hold the crown of your head with his palm. This way he can feel your tits bounce against his chest with each brutal snap of his hips. âAfter everything youâve put me through these past few days, you fucking will.â
You canât help it, canât stop the debauched moans of pleasure that he forces from you. They punctuate each of his thrusts, rising in volume each time he hits that perfect spot inside you that has your thighs shaking violently around his hips.
âYes, thatâs it,â he breathes, focusing so that he tortures that spot inside you every time he works his hips forward, âThatâs it, I want them all to hear. Let them all hear it, baby, come on.â Heâs begging you now, coaxing you to cum on his cock.
The coil of pleasure that heâd spoiled a few minutes ago was working up again, this time quicker than before. Your knuckles are white as your nails dig into the flesh of your palms, but you canât feel the pain where they cut in and leave four crimson crescent moons, because Santiago is grinding into you with such obscene precision that all your mind and body can focus on is the way it teeters on the precipice of a blinding orgasm.
âCome on baby girl, come on. Thatâs it~â You hear Pope whisper in your ear, his own voice unsteady as he reaches between you. His fingers manage to brush shaky circles over your clit once, twice, three times.
You cum so hard your voice cracks when you scream his name. Intense pleasure works its way through your abdomen and leaves utter devastation in its wake. Shocks burst up your spine, causing your body to twitch violently as you grasp onto his short curls.
Uncertain just how many more times Santiago thrusts into you, all you know is that when he cums, he gasps your name brokenly. Your real name. Cum seeps from your cunt with each thrust, soaking the inside of your thighs while Pope finally comes to a halt, resting his head against your sternum with a shaky groan.
Panting heavily, you lay perfectly still underneath him. Itâs mortifying to admit, but the idea of moving an inch resulting in him leaving you alone in this bed terrifies you. The afterglow of your orgasm buzzes through you, skin sticky with sweat and cum, but you refuse to adjust.
As you scan the room, you note the mess youâve made. The bedsheets had somehow slipped from the mattress and fallen onto the floor, pooling at the base of the bed. Popeâs belt lays haphazardly across the wooden flooring, and you find your cotton t-shirt balanced on the lampshade on the bedside table. Itâs only now, as you scan the room, that you notice the door is still wide open.
â⊠Do you think they heard us?â You whisper, hoping that at least talking isnât enough to convince him to move. Pope lifts his head, gazing up at you with a shit-eating grin thatâs wide enough for you to want to break his perfect nose.
âOh, they heard us. Benny banged his fist against the wall a few minutes ago.â
Horror runs through you at the concept that you had been loud enough for one of the boys to complain, your face heating up at the thought of even having to face them in the communal kitchen tomorrow after everything theyâd heard Pope say. They were never going to let you live it down. âOh god!â You hadnât even heard it!
Santiago laughs, pressing soft kisses to the hickeys that paint your chest. He seems entirely unbothered, far too preoccupied with easing you both down from your post-orgasm haze to feel guilty about ruining his colleagues' sleep.
âHow is your shoulder?â He asks with a whisper, sitting up in order to assess the bandages that cover the wound. When you tilt your head down to check with him, the gauze is still a cream color, lacking the crimson blotches that had stained the previous dressings.
âIt feels okay,â you admit, watching as Pope reaches over to gently ease the pillow behind your head to support your shoulder. Heâs extra delicate, far more tender towards you than he had been previously.
When you note that it doesnât appear as though Santi plans to leave the comfort of your arms, you finally allow your tense muscles to ease beneath the weight of his body. Closing your eyes, you listen.
âWhere were you thinking of going with your millions?â He murmurs as he continues to press kisses against your skin now that youâre comfortable, fingers brushing down the curve of your waist.
âOh funny! Thatâs where I was thinking too!â
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