#triple frontier fanfic

[millermouth]

divinize 🪽

each vertebra reveals a mystery / pray on my spine, it's a rosary

reader x frankie morales

summary: You pray that God will keep you on the path of righteousness: to guard your heart, discipline your desire, and keep your mind free from wandering. But after a year away, Frankie isn't willing to be apart for much longer.

|| smut MDNI 18+, angst, please heed the warnings it's not a dark fic but it has dark themes, catholic!reader, devout!reader, virgin!reader, innocent!reader, kidnapping, obsessed!frankie! exbf!frankie, love bombing, toxic relationships, catholic guilt!!!!!, forced proximity, proposal, virginity loss, pinv, oral, praiseeeeeee kink, loving smut, religious imagery, canon to triple frontier 2019 except everything works out, frankie is a manipulative love bomber you've been warned (I do not condone, but if anyone was gonna be obsessed w me….anyway), beach smut || a/n: this is my submission for @tateypots's naughty or nice writing challenge with the naughty theme for both frankie & grand gesture! a/n II: I use some spanish in this, what little I know from working with people who are fluent and from colombia. one of the cutest things was when my boss would call his wife 'mor' like short for mi amor, so that is in this fic. also, I must add im the least religious person ever, I didn't even have to go to church as a kid. please excuse any mishaps and mistakes. references & inspired by: Rosalia's LUX (specifically divinize, magnolias, la yugular, and la perla) / That One Scene in A Walk to Remember

Forehead.

Chest.

Shoulder.

Shoulder.

It’s like memory, like breathing. It lives in you so intimately it barely feels chosen, more reflex than thought, something your body learned before language. It moves through you, closer than anything else, closer than your own blood, than the dark rivers that pulse in your neck, the jugular carrying life itself. Even that is not as near as the Spirit.

You slide into a pew and kneel against the rough wood pressing through your skirt, welcoming the familiar ache of your worship. It echoes the ache of it in your bones. It feels earned, deserved. You let it bloom in your knees and stay there, a small penance.

You want to feel your faith like this, the only physical proof you have of your conviction. It is the choice you make again and again to be good. To feel as if you belong to something higher than your own desire. It keeps your heart pointed upward, not outward. It burns in your knees.

Above you, Christ hangs in His stillness, ribs pulled taut beneath skin, head bowed under the weight of mercy made flesh. His eyes are cast downward, simply watching. He's not accusatory but He still lacks a gentleness. He bears a violent witness. You think of how much blood there must have been. How slow.

Your throat tightens as you close your eyes. You know you have been careless with memory. You know you have lingered where you should not let your thoughts linger, allowed your mind to drift back into a time when things like love and desire clouded your mind. You stop yourself again, now, before your mind's eye takes his shape again.

You reach into your bag and draw out your rosary, the beads cool at first, then warming as they settle into your palms. You wrap them around your fingers, letting the string pull snug until it presses into your skin. You tighten it. The pressure feels good. Corrective. You like the way it demands your attention. It keeps you present, anchored in the here and now instead of drifting back into longing.

You bow your head.

Thank you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for the path you laid out when I could not see my way through it myself. Thank you for discipline when comfort would have ruined me.

You think of your savior again, His final surrender. You think of how good He was, how He gave everything so you could be forgiven when you wandered into sin. Weakness in the form of nostalgia, desire that insists on resurfacing for a man you nearly gave everything to before he left. The awareness of Christ's eyes on you presses down on the back of your neck, making you feel small. Exposed and unworthy.

Please.

Please keep me faithful, even when my thoughts start to wander. Please guard me and my family from harm, from the things seen and unseen. Keep my heart turned away from what is evil, from sin and predilection. Show me discipline where I am weak, and clarity when I am confused. For now I know that all I want is to be with you, in the kingdom of heaven.

Amen.

After evening Mass, you stop at the doors of St. Anthony’s as the last of the parishioners say their farewells. It's quiet outside now, evening like a blanket of stars over the quietening chapel.

Father Paul takes your hand, thanks you again for your help this weekend, asks after your family with the same gentle attentiveness he always does. You answer quietly, promise to return in the morning for the food pantry, assuring him you’ll bring coffee, and step aside into the night.

You descend the steps and pull your coat tighter around yourself, breath fogging faintly in the cold. The street is mostly empty, the chapel behind you dark now except for a single light near the sacristy. You start toward home, your footsteps the only sound accompanying you in the dark.

Tomorrow will be the food pantry, and how much there always seems to do even when the night gives you the reprieve of silence. You hear the crickets, a lone car passing by once. You'll need to get to church early to set up, make sure all the boxes are in order. Father is always so sweet and you'll stop for his favorite coffee to wake him like you always do.

Your rosary beads knock softly against the zipper of your bag as you walk—a faint, familiar sound that keeps time with your steps. A car passes again, then the street returns to stillness. The quiet settles around you, deep and expansive, and you feel how easily it opens space inside your head.

Sometimes the quiet of night is welcome, but sometimes it allows for too much time to think. About things, about…about times before. About… him.

You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag and begin to pray again, the words rising instinctively, protective, filling you.

Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.

Whenever you feel your mind straying from you, from good, you say it again. You let the words occupy your mouth, your tongue, the soft hollow behind your teeth.

Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done, on earth, as it is in Heaven.

The night feels very still around you, the sidewalk stretched long and empty ahead, your breath a fog in front of you, steadying with the cadence of prayer. You are halfway through the next line when something changes. The sound of the passing car lingers longer than before, tires not moving away. There's an engine idling too close.

Give us this day our daily bread and —

There is the sharp scrape of metal, a sliding door pulled open with no hesitation, and then light explodes across the sidewalk, headlights washing over you so suddenly it steals your vision. You turn instinctively, already stepping backward, heart leaping hard into your throat. A figure moves out of the glare, tall and broad, its outline sharpening too quickly, too near for your mind to catch up.

Your arms pull in tight to your chest, shoulders hunching, fear driving straight down your spine like a nail hammered down. You feel it everywhere at once, white and electric, every nerve lit.

“What do you want?” you hear yourself say, shocked that your voice works at all.

The shape does not slow. Footsteps eat the distance between you, purposeful, unhurried. A hand reaches for you.

Then you remember how to scream.

It tears out of you raw and loud as you kick and thrash, hands striking at anything you can reach. It does nothing. You are lifted easily, hauled up and over a broad shoulder, the world tilting as your stomach lurches violently. Your fists pound against the man's back, but he's so solid, and your blows get absorbed without reaction. His arm clamps around your legs, locking your knees together so your feet can’t swing free.

“Let me go!” you scream, the words breaking apart in your mouth.

Your wishes are granted, but only to be thrown into the dark van, where there are three more men in all black with ski masks waiting. You scream again, but the door slides shut, making you blind to their reaching hands, which clasp around your wrists, a thin harsh plastic wrapping around you. This isn't like the rosary, a calming pressure of worship and devotion, this is a zip tie.

You are still fighting when rough fabric is dragged down over your eyes, smothering and close, stealing what little light remains. Your breath turns frantic inside it, the air hot and stale. They catch your ankles next, cinching them tight, stealing your balance completely, your body reduced to something contained and helpless.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” a voice curses beside you as they struggle to finish restraining you.

“Mind your tongue,” you spit back, the reprimand tearing free before you can stop it. For a fleeting second, anger steadies you, gives you something solid to hold. Hearing the Lord’s name said in vain snaps you back into yourself, into who you are, into what you belong to.

"Haven't changed much, has she, boys?"

There's something about the voices that piques a curiosity in you. If the blood wasn't pounding so loudly in your ears, if your skin wasn't buzzing with adrenaline, maybe you'd have recognized them.

But the voices overlap now, a laugh to your left, a chortle to your right from the front seat, "There's no way this is gonna work if—"

"Shut up," another one of them cuts in.

The buzzing in your ears is too loud to place any of it, drowning out all logical thought and the ability to think. Whatever recognition tries to surface slips away again under the fear.

You curl inward as much as the restraints allow, folding yourself small, clasping your bound hands together. You draw your knees up, pressing your forehead against them, turning inward, then downward, the way you were taught. The way you have always done when the world feels dangerous and out of your control. You begin to pray.

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.

The time passes without meaning.

The van, and time, seem to move and stop, then move again. You can feel every turn in your stomach as you pray, every brake against your spine. At some point your throat is hoarse from whispering your orisons, your hands clenched so hard together they lose their feeling. No one else speaks, the silence stretches. You're not sure for how long, whether it's twenty minutes or twenty hours. It feels a bit like forever.

Then there's another sound, distant. A vibration more than noise at first, something you feel through the floor of the van, like the tires beneath are on a fault line. The van is slowing, you're sure of it, and the sound is louder, thick and filling the space. A mechanical thrum that presses against your chest and hums behind your covered eyes.

Your heart stutters when the van door slides open.

No.

No, no no.

Air rushes in hard and cold, whipping across your skin, carrying the sharp bite of fuel and night. It feels violent after the sealed quiet of the van, too much all at once. Someone reaches for you, and you let them. You do not resist this time. Your body moves because it is moved, pliant and strange, as your mind is seized by a sudden, terrible certainty.

“Careful,” a voice says close to your ear as your feet are positioned outside the door and the zip ties are cut from your ankles.

Your feet are positioned at the edge, then lowered, the ground solid beneath you. The zip ties around your ankles are cut away, the release abrupt and disorienting. Hands grip your arms, lifting you upright, keeping you steady. Your wrists remain bound. The blindfold stays in place.

They guide you forward.

The sound swells into a roar that consumes everything. It vibrates through your ribs, your skull, your teeth. You can barely hear your own breathing over it, shallow and uneven inside your chest. You can't see. You can't hear clearly. But you know.

You know that sound.

It brings back memories, flooding you. Your body reacts as your mind swims with them, dread pouring through you, cold and absolute. And threaded through it like a warm current in the turn of two oceans meeting, is something else. Something you refuse to name, that you've prayed to extinguish for the past year. It feels as if the hands at your sides and the sound ahead is submerging you into those memories, like being held under and lifted out again. A baptism.

Your stomach flips and your knees threaten to give out as the person beside you tightens their grip and says something you can't make out over the noise. You stumble forward a bit, guided step by step, until you're being lifted again and strapped into a seat.

And finally, when you're no longer being pinned or guided or restrained by hands, you bow your head and begin to cry in the passenger seat of the helicopter.

You’re only half aware of the trip through the sky.

It’s too dark to make sense of anything, the strip of fabric around your eyes starting to itch, sweat collecting beneath it as you try, uselessly, to peer through the narrow gap it leaves against your cheekbone. There’s nothing to see anyway. Just darkness. No lights or landmarks below, no sense of height or distance. The helicopter vibrates through the bench seat and into your bones, rattling your skin, turning your stomach over and over until you can’t tell if you’re afraid or just sick.

Maybe you’re over the ocean.

The thought comes unbidden, but it sticks, makes sense. Endless black water beneath you, nothing solid for miles. You swallow hard, throat tight, and curl your shoulders in against the cold that seeps through the metal.

Eventually, the vibration changes, the pitch dropping and movement shifting, and the descent throws your belly into your throat with sudden pressure. When you touch down, the rotors kick the air into a frenzy, wind and grit blasting through the open door as it’s wrenched wide. You turn your face away, tucking your chin down, bracing.

"What the fuck did you do to her?"

The shout cuts through the mechanical roar like a blade.

Oh god.

No, no no no.

Some part of you had prayed you were wrong, desperately hoping. Somewhere between the van and the sky, you had begged to be mistaken. You wish you still had your rosary. You don’t know where your bag is. You wish you could have knelt, pressed your forehead to the floor, prayed harder, prayed better.

Hands grab at your wrists, wrenching the ties free, and relief comes quickly but painful, pins and needles racing through your fingers as blood rushes back. The hands move to fumble at your head, and you flinch, jerking away, keeping your eyes squeezed shut as the fabric comes away. If you don’t look, you don’t have to see who it is. Who you know it is. You feel like you knew all along, from the first words uttered in the van. From the broad expanse of the shoulders you were hauled over when they took you.

But then the two broad hands are back to your face even without restraints. Thumbs brush along your temples, gentle, reverent, moving your hair back like he’s done a hundred times before. Your breath stutters. You turn your head away, squeezing your eyes shut so hard your vision sparks, blood pounding so loud in your ears it feels like a scream. The hands leave your face and close gently around your wrists instead, steadying you, lifting you from the seat.

Your feet hit the ground and you gasp.

The earth beneath is…soft. Not the jolt of blacktop or cement you expect. Your shoes sink slightly, the surface shifting under your weight. You open your eyes without meaning to, a curse of human curiosity, and look down.

Sand.

You make sure to advert your eyes again, away from…him, because you can't yet. You need to occupy your vision with something else, anything else. You turn to see the helicopter crouched on the beach just behind you, rotors still churning, the ocean stretched out behind it, black and endless, moonlight breaking across its surface in silver ripples. You raise a hand to shield your eyes as grit lashes past your face.

Then the helicopter lifts.

Someone in the cockpit raises a hand in a quick, casual wave, their face hidden by the glare of the moon, and then it’s gone, rising into the dark until it disappears completely, black against black sky. The wind settles to a gentle breeze as the sound of waves crashing against the shore fill your ears.

You can't turn around. You think maybe you were looking for more in the blanket of stars, looking for someone to come and rescue from what you know was waiting behind you. Praying to God or the archangel Michael to save you from this fate.

A hand touches yours, and you flinch away as if burned. Your hands lift to cover your face, hiding your eyes as you realize no one is coming.

"Look at me, 'mor,"

'Mor. That nickname. Mi amor. My love. And that voice. It throws you back into your minds eye, so hard you have to force your eyes to open so the back of your eyelids won’t paint your vision in memories.

"What have you done, Frankie?"

Frankie

You wouldn't look at him—why wouldn't you look at him?

"'mor, please," he says gently, staring at your back. Your pretty blouse flutters, fabric tugging against your waist, your hair lifting and falling in the sea wind like it used to when you’d walk ahead of him down the street and he’d reach out just to feel it. His fingers twitch uselessly at his sides now at the memory of it. You’re here. You’re actually here. In front of him. Real, alive, beautiful.

If only you'd turn around.

He opens his mouth again, already full of everything he wants to tell you, but he stops when you drop your hands from your face.

The red marks on your wrist glow in the light of the candles he'd set up, the burns angry against your skin, and the sight of them twists something hot and violent in his gut. His jaw locks, his hands curl into tight fists, he thinks he might kill his friends for one fleeting moment. The candlesticks stretch ahead of you in a soft path along the sand, petals scattered out of place from the helicopter, the arch waiting at the edge of the beach like a promise that’s suddenly gone wrong.

He wants to take your hands, kiss the redness away and swear it never happened.

"I told them to be careful," he began, softly, his voice thick with apology, "I didn't know Ben would…and Redfly, I didn't think—"

"Take me home." you whispered.

"Baby—"

"Take. Me. Home." you still wouldn't look at him. But he could see your shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, panic changing his tone. “You wouldn’t answer my calls. You wouldn’t see me. I had to— I had to do something, just to see you.”

"So you kidnapped me."

He shakes his head. This is not what he pictured. He'd pictured you coming off his fellow pilot's helicopter, eyes lighting up like they once did for him and jumping into his arms. He pictured your lips against his, soft and warm and all the memories of before washing away in a beautiful twilight proposal on the beach.

"I fixed everything, 'mor," he insists, and his words start to tumble over one another, "I'm clean, I have money now to take care of you. I bought—" his hands shoot out around him. He wishes you'd just fucking turn around and look at him. "this entire place, baby, it's ours."

"I don't want this." you whisper, "I don't want any of this."

The words are sharp and cruel, even in your sweet voice.

"Look at me, 'mor," he pleads, stepping closer, "por favor,"

"Stop calling me that."

"Please."

You let out a shaky sigh, and finally oblige.

You turn, and god, your face, it's like seeing god. An angel, carved from every dream he'd ever had. All the sleepless nights he'd thought of you over the past year did nothing to compare to you, now, bathed in the moonlight, the wind from the sea blowing your hair around. The cross at your throat flashes silver when you move, and something tightens painfully in his chest at the sight of it, something aching and possessive all tangled together.

"Marry me," he says. His voice is barely loud enough over the water crashing at the shore.

It isn't how he meant to say it. He should’ve taken you to the arch first. Gotten down on one knee. Why did he let it go on this long? Why didn’t he just take your hands and walk you down the candlelit path, show you everything he built for you? He glances at it now, distant and waiting, but his eyes come right back to your face. He can’t look away, he never wants to look away.

"This was supposed to be perfect—I wanted it to be—"

"No."

He freezes, his eyes search your face, your pretty eyes, your sweet plump lips he remembers like the back of his hand, the feeling, the taste. The way they felt that night when you'd…

He shakes his head.

"What?"

“No, Frankie.” Your voice is steadier now, even as tears build in your eyes. “I’m not going to marry you.”

Something like the devil on his shoulder makes him laugh.

“You don’t mean that,” he says. “We—we're always meant to be together, 'mor.”

"I mean it," you snap, your tone sharp and serious, though your voice is shaky and wet. He can't help but think how absolutely adorable you are, even when you're angry with him.

"I don't want to be with you, Frankie."

"You're scared," he cuts in, stepping closer, shaking his head harder, his hands wanting so badly to come up and touch you. He hears your breath hitch, your body leaning away. He pushes down the anger that boils in him.

"You're scared, baby, I know. I know I scared you." he tries to force a calmness over himself, over the situation. Forcing reason. "The guys were never supposed treat you like that, I wanted them to talk to you about coming, about seeing me. They were meant to only pick you up and tell you there was a surprise, I'm sorry. I know you're scared, but that's over now. It's just us."

“I can't,” you say suddenly, brows furrowing, a hand coming up to clutch your cross necklace, and the words hit him sideways. “God has made me realize this is wrong.”

His stomach clenches.

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t do that.”

“I can't be with you,” you continue, tears spilling now, your hands clasped tight. “I’ve prayed about it every day. I’ve prayed so much. This—it isn’t right.”

The only thing he hears is that you thought of him every day. In your most intimate time, between you and Christ.

"So that's it?" he asks, "You and God have decided, huh? Don't I get a say?"

"Frankie, please," you sob, "I don't want to fight you. I don't want to be punished for picking the wrong thing."

"You think I'm the wrong thing." he echoes, flat and wounded.

You don't answer, and it feels like confirmation.

"I got clean for you," he says, louder now, stepping even closer, chests nearly brushing, and your breath stops. You close your eyes tightly.

"I left all that behind—the coke, the partying, the bullshit." you wince at his curse, "I'm sorry, baby. I know." he lifts his hands so they hover over your arms, wanting, so badly, to touch. "I lost my license and my career, but here I am. I fixed it. All of it."

"I never asked—" you shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut before glaring at him glassy eyed, "I told you to not come back."

"I love you," he says, desperate, shaking from fingers to his toes, "I love you so much, I'm trying to show you—I'm ready to give you everything. I have the money, I bought this island for us, I have this ring." he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the box.

You take a step back, "You're scaring me, Francisco."

“I would never hurt you,” he says fiercely. “Never. I would die before I let anything happen to you.”

“You already did,” you say, voice barely there. “You left for Colombia with your friends on a suicide mission. I had to live with the fact that I thought you died.”

He stares at you, chest heaving, the candles flickering wildly behind you, the ocean roaring like it’s listening.

“We're supposed to be happy,” he says, almost to himself. “This was supposed to make you happy. I didn't die, 'mor, I'm back, I'm clean, I can take care of you.”

You shake your head again, helpless. “Take me home.”

The word home hits him like a betrayal again and again.

“We can make this home,” he says, voice shaking as he reaches into his pocket, “We can make a life here. Or anyway, I don't care. Just—just let me show you. Please.”

"Don't—" your voice cracks, "I don't want a reason to be angry at God. Please, Frankie, stop—I've m-moved on."

That stops him cold like he'd just been plunged into the ocean.

There's a silence between you, thick and ringing in his ears. Frankie's hands fall uselessly to his sides with the velvet box clenched tight in his fist.

His chest constricts around his heart, something sour crawling up his throat.

“Who?” he asks.

Your shoulders tense, hesitating just a fraction too long.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “That’s not—this isn’t about that.”

“It matters to me,” he snaps, the edge in his voice cutting through the night before he can soften it. He sees you flinch again and it only makes everything inside him feel louder. “Who is he?”

"I don't want to do this. Take me home."

But he's already there, already doing this, his thoughts spinning, green and fevered. Santiago said no one ever saw you with anyone. The days he'd been going insane and sent his friends to check on you at the church, at your house without being seen. Were you lying?

"Tell me the truth."

You look up at him, a glare on your sweet face, "I am. I went on a few dates with a man from church. Stop being mean. I only wanted to—I was trying to not…"

Your face pinched, and you shook your head, as if willing the thoughts away. Your cheeks glistened wet in the moonlight.

"Say it." Frankie demanded, his eyes trying to bend to find your gaze now that you'd looked away again. It was so close—your confession. He was your confessional, you, his little sinner wanting to do right. Always.

You took a few breaths, and Frankie, not for the first time, but maybe more desperately than ever before, prayed that you'd just say it.

"I've been praying…" you breathe out slowly, and tears were rolling down your face as you looked up, "I've been trying anything just to stop thinking of you, Frankie."

He rushes towards you now, velvet box shoved back in his pocket, forgotten, and he's pulling you into him. You squawk in protest, pushing your hands up, but they only fold in between your chests.

"Frankie," you whine, a rush of breath leaving your body as he squeezes you to himself, "stop it, Frankie, please,"

"Did you let that man touch you, baby?" he coos, "tell me you didn't give him what's mine, hermosa, por favor mi amor, amor amor amor," he's kissing your face, babbling away, and his kisses—they're wet. He'd do anything to make you stop crying, he's never wanted to make you sad. It cleaves his chest in two to think he created them.

"I'd never—I'd only ever wanted—but Francisco, I can't—not—"

"Let's get married," he pleads, arms tightening around you, bringing you even closer, "'mor, please, it's what I'm tryna tell you, then you'll never have to worry, you'll never be apart from me," he kisses your face harder, your breasts push up into him, "kiss me back, say yes, 'mor, por favor, ángel mía, hermosa,"

"Frankie," you sob, gripping his shirt. You look up at him, finally, you're taking him in, drinking in his closeness, he can see it. And your eyes, they're glassy, full of something— and then he knows.

And he kisses you.

He doesn’t give you time to second guess him, to recover from the shock of his mouth smothering yours. If anything, you pull him closer, nails biting into his shoulders where you cling to him, dragging him in like instinct has finally won. The moment your resistance softens, though, he takes it as permission, as proof. Silly thing, always fighting him, his sweet angel, trying so hard to be good for your god.

His hand comes up into your hair, threading through the locks to hold you tight, pressing you even closer to him. Your gasp breaks loose as he clenches his fingers harder, as if the breath was knocked from your lungs. He feels it immediately, the give of your wet lips, and something both feral and relieved floods him at once. He leans into you more, plunging his tongue into your waiting mouth, claiming the opening without hesitation. The kiss deepens until it’s nothing but heat and breath and want, until he feels a little unhinged, pouring himself into you like there’s no end to his need.

“Frankie—” you breathe when he finally breaks away, his mouth trailing over your jaw, down the soft curve of your neck.

"—Frankie, we shouldn't—"

“I’ve waited so long for you, ’mor,” he murmurs, his tongue flattening against your pulse. You tilt your head back without meaning to, exposing yourself, and he feels like if he could unhinge his jaw he’d swallow you whole. The red apple of Eden, offered straight into his mouth.

"Not here, Frankie, oh please, I can't—"

"I don't give a fuck," he demands.

You cry out when he tugs your blouse aside, teeth grazing the place where your neck meets your shoulder, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“I just love you so much,” he corrects softly. “Will you marry me, baby? Make me the happiest man alive.”

He says it between kisses as he lowers himself in front of you, hands everywhere, strong and sure as they grip and pull you close. His palms are broad, and you fit into them so perfectly, like he'd never forgotten the map of you, even as your knees threaten to give out.

You're looking down at him, chest heaving, blouse askew.

He's never thought you more beautiful in his life.

He kisses your stomach, lifting the hem of your top so his mouth can touch your hot skin. You shiver as he moans against you, nuzzling into your navel. He wants every sound you make, and you give them to him, soft and breathy, whining little noises as his hands tighten. His hands come down to your ass, groping and spreading even through your skirt.

“I’m gonna fall, Frankie,” you whimper, clutching his shoulders. “This is wrong. We shouldn’t. It’s a sin.”

He groans as he looks up, fists full of you. He must look a little unmoored, half-mad, because your eyes widen, your tongue slipping out to wet your lips. You swallow around the feeling climbing your throat. The moon above you halos your head as he kneels.

“Mi ángel,” he whispers, “I’d never let Lucifer take you. God loves you, but he’ll never save you from me.”

You frown deeply at that.

“Admit it,” he murmurs. “You’ve been angry with him for a long time.”

“No,” you whimper, pushing at him now, but he holds you fast, mouth returning to your stomach.

“You’re angry because you want me just as much as I want you,” he says quietly. “Because he made you fall in love with me. Because you want my cock just as badly as I want your sweet little—”

“Frankie!” you cry out, covering your face.

He raises to his feet, cupping your face over your hands.

“Look at me, ’mor.”

You peek through your fingers. Your eyes are shining again.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Wanting’s natural, baby.”

You shake your head.

“Tell me,” he whispers, “are you wet right now?”

You hide again, like you might disappear, like God himself might be watching.

“If I reached down between your legs,” he murmurs, “would I feel you soaked for me? You remember that night, baby? When you let me touch her?”

Your head dips lower, the tips of your fingers brushing his chest.

“Remember how good it felt, hermosa,” he whispers, arms wrapping around you, holding you close, kissing the crown of your head. “When you let me taste you. How bad you wanted me, but told yourself you couldn’t. Not until we were married. But I let you taste me too, didn’t I?”

“I’m going to hell, Francisco.” you whisper.

“Never,” he says, kissing your head again, squeezing you harder. “You’re too good. Too perfect.”

He pulls your hands down so he can see your face, memorizing you again. Those eyes, they bring all the memories back, burned into him. The day he met you. The day he told you he loved you. The day he left, how you cried. He’ll never forget those eyes.

"I've missed you." he says finally.

“I miss you,” you confess back, a secret carried out to sea. “It hurts just to think about you.”

"I know, 'mor," he says, kissing your top lip so carefully, gently. Your eyes close, lashes fluttering against your cheekbone.

"I love you, Frankie," you say finally.

Finally.

He leans down, wraps his arms around your body, and lifts you against him.

“I love you so much,” he says, carrying you toward the archway, where everything should’ve begun.

And finally, finally, you're smiling down at him. Enough of the secrets, of trying to stay away, of trying to fight this. Finally, he had you.

Your hands move to his hair, petting and pulling, his curls a little unruly from the wind and sweat.

He sets you down gently, only taking his hands away to reach into his pocket again, and gets down on one knee.

"Marry me, 'mor?"

Your hand flies to your mouth as you stare at the ring. Ten carats, blazing in a halo of diamonds. He never cared about the price. It was you the moment he saw it.

“Oh, Frankie,” you breathe, offering him your hand.

“That a yes?”

You nod, laughing through tears. “Yes. Of course.”

He slides the ring onto your finger, already pulling you close again, kissing you like restraint was never part of him. He draws you down to kneel with him on the red rug beneath the arch, candlelight warming your skin, the night pressing close.

He eases you back onto the ground.

"Frankie—" you whisper. "What're you doing?"

"Want you," he moans, "now."

"What? Here? Frankie—" you gasp as your back hits the red rug on the sand, "Not here—anyone can see us—"

"Didn't you hear me, hermosa?" he smiles, "I bought this entire island. For you. It's just us."

You turn your head to look around, left and right, as if testing if he was right, before looking back at him and smiling. Your cross necklace is askew on your chest, bathed in candlelight and the brush of the moon. You're beautiful.

Frankie kisses you again, no longer waiting, pushing his tongue into your mouth. He sits between your legs, your skirt bunching up higher and higher as your knees fall open and let him in.

He doesn’t waste a second before shoving the fabric up around your hips, moaning softly at the feel of your skin under his palms. He kneads you, grips you hard enough to pull a whimper from your throat, the last of your tears still drying on your cheeks, catching silver in the moonlight.

When his hands reach the apex of your thighs, you’re shaking. Trembling. Nervous, but fuck—

"You're wet, mi amor, just like I knew—"

“Don’t make me feel bad,” you whisper.

“Never,” he says immediately, shaking his head. He kisses your chin carefully, before lowering himself again.

You watch him, holding your breath. His eyes stay on yours until he can’t help it anymore, until he’s kneeling between your legs, staring openly at the way your cotton underwear clings to you, darkened where it presses against your folds.

"Ohhh," he breathes. He nudges your skirt even higher, guiding your knees over his shoulders, locking you there. He presses a kiss to your covered mound, slow and sweet, inhaling, and you gasp, your hands flying into his hair.

The sound he makes startles him, slipping out before he realizes it’s his own. His tongue presses flat through the fabric, and he groans again, helpless. Nectar. The nectar of the gods. His own ambrosia. He thinks, with sudden certainty, that he could die here and know heaven could never come close.

“Fuck,” he breathes, mind gone, undone by the feeling of you, by the sounds you make for him. He hooks a finger into the gusset of your panties, tugging them aside just enough, and finally lets his tongue have what it’s been begging for.

Your back arches immediately, a broken moan tearing free into the night. Frankie devours you, eating, licking, taking his fill.

To be fair, dear reader, he had done this before. He remembers it now better than ever. The taste, the smell of your honey invading his memory.

It was Santiago’s birthday. You’d loosened up with a little help from his friends, wine poured generously, laughter spilling from you easier than usual. By the time midnight crept close, you were giggly, flushed, your hands restless in a way they never were when you were being good. Your devout Catholic hands, always folded, always careful. That night they weren’t careful at all.

When the party thinned out and it was just the guys left, you’d slipped away with him, quiet as a secret, into Santiago’s bathroom of all places. You’d tasted like Malbec and something unreal, warm and plush in his arms as he kissed you against the door the second it closed behind you. You’d begged then, he can hear your voice in his memory now, sweet and breathless, asking to be touched like it was a confession you couldn’t keep anymore. And Frankie—God—he hadn’t stood a chance.

With one word, and he was on his knees at the altar of your hips, worshipping you the same way he is now, mouth full, mind gone. Afterward, you’d wanted to try more, curiosity shining in your eyes when you whispered it. He nearly came just hearing you say it. He let you taste him, just a little, guiding you with a steady hand, petting your hair, letting you cradle what god had given him. That was all, though. He’d drawn the line there.

Not because he couldn’t have taken more.

Because he decided he wouldn’t. He couldn't risk the fallout of your penance.

And then a few days later, Santiago had told him and the guys about his plans. To take down Lorea for once and for all. And when Frankie told you he'd said yes, he'd never seen you so angry. Almost as angry as tonight when you'd touched down and finally looked at him.

But he’d known then, the same way he knows now.

You would forgive him.

No matter what he did—whether he stayed up all night coked out of his mind, or came to you with beer on his tongue, slurring his words as he kissed you—you always forgave him. You forgave him the day he told you god wasn’t real, though even now he isn’t sure he meant it. He’d just been angry and hungover. He remembers shaking with the early ache of trying to quit the snow.

All it ever took was reminding you how much he loved you. Telling you he was the only one for you. That his devotion was sacred, set apart, something god himself would have to understand. He liked that part best—the moment your resistance gave way, the instant your certainty cracked and you looked at him like he was both the wound and the cure.

His tongue flattens against your clit now, swollen and pulsing beneath him, and he snaps back into the present as you gush around his mouth, hands locked tight in his hair. He hadn’t even realized he’d been grinding a hollow into the sand, his cock dragging against the ground beneath him, desperate for friction.

Frankie, Frankie, Frankie you chant. He groans, lifting his head to look at you, reaching up to tear your blouse down your chest, freeing your breasts so he can watch them rise and fall as you gulp in the night air. Your nipples pebble instantly in the cool ocean breeze, and he crawls back over you, taking one into his warm, wet mouth. His lips tingle where he’s tasted your orgasm, like a constellation bursting across his tongue. Heaven.

Your hands never leave his hair as he circles his tongue around you, greedy, unwilling to choose just one. He squeezes your breasts together, nuzzling between them, shaking his head, burying himself in the valley of your warmth.

“Hermosa,” he moans, his covered cock grinding up into your wet, open cunt.

“Frankie, please,” you cry after a particularly rough thrust of his hips. He knows his jeans are too rough for you, knows you’re sensitive there, but he wants to see your eyes when he pushes just a little harder.

“You’re so beautiful, ’mor,” he murmurs. “Let me have her. Please. Let me give you everything.”

You pause, watching him, your forehead dappled with cold sweat in your hairline. You're still breathing hard, coming down from your high.

"You're just so perfect, 'mor," he says, "so perfect, it's only going to be you and me, forever. You know that. Me and you. Always. I love you."

"I love you, Frankie," you whisper, "yes, okay, just please—be gentle—please,"

You sound so soft and sweet he could eat you alive, he might, he wants to. His mouth opens wider, taking your breast fully this time, wondering dimly if he could bite hard enough to see your heart, the way it swells for him, the way it hammers faster and faster as he convinces himself he’s giving you everything.

A high buzz fills his ears as he lifts back onto his knees, fumbling with his belt. He frees himself and rests against your hip, forcing himself to pause, to ground his mind back into his body. Your hand is already reaching for him. You say something sweet, something whispered, half-lost to the sound of the waves—something about remembering him, about how he once felt like velvet in your mouth. He wishes you wouldn't say such things, because one more minute he'll combust then and there.

You’re a mess beneath him. Clothes torn and shifted, blouse pulled away, skirt hiked up. Blasphemous. He can’t do it like this.

"Baby," he whispers.

"Yes, Francisco?"

"Let me—let's get these things off of you, I wanna see you—"

You nod, beginning to pull your top over your head.

"Can I see you too, 'mor?" you ask quietly. His heart swells in his chest, his skin warming, finally, finally, finally.

“Of course, mi ángel,” he says, pulling his shirt free. Your hands roam him immediately—hands he’s watched clutch a rosary, fold in prayer, open for the Spirit—now holding him like treasure.

“Ohhh,” you whisper as he slides your skirt down your legs. “You're so warm.”

“I know,” he murmurs, folding over you, arms slipping beneath your body to hold you tight. “I’ve got you. Let me love you. Let me have you.”

"You already do," you say, kissing his nose, kissing the bend of his cupid's bow. You watch him, your eyes, so pretty, god how he ever went a year without them, he's not sure. Your hands cradle his face. “Make love to me, Francisco.”

He guides himself to your weeping entrance, and pushes in.

Your brows shoot up quickly before pulling together. He mimics the look on your face, his brows pulling tight at the feeling of your velvet keep—so tight it's almost resisting his intrusion.

"S'alright," he slurs, drunk on the feeling, "s'gonna feel funny, 'mor, s'okay, s'okay," he chants, kissing your frowning lips.

You whine softly, almost feline as you mewl, discomfort threading through the sound, but your arms fold around his neck, pulling him close. He can’t move, only his hips are free to push in.

"Oh, oh, oh," you whisper, "oh God,"

It's the first time he's ever heard you say the name in vain. He thinks he might go insane for it. He wants to hear it again.

"Fuck," he swears, he can't help it.

"Oh, God, Frankie, oh—"

Yes yes yes.

He pushes deeper. Your pussy grips him like a fist, and his vision flashes white. He can feel the head of his cock brushing your womb, pressing there, claiming it, whispering promises to it only he believes. You pulse around him, fluttering, and he stays still, pressed hip to hip, closer than he’s ever been to you. It's like nothing he's ever felt. This is the kingdom of heaven, he realizes. On this beach. In your tight keep, and god is looking back at him through your eyes.

"¿Cómo te sientes?" he whispers, kissing your open mouth, "Cuéntame."

"So—" you sigh out, a breath held too long, "it's so—"

He kisses your gasping lips again.

"So good, b-but funny—"

He nods, gently urging you on as he holds you.

"Feels, so—like I'm being split in half. So full in my belly. I feel like…like God is…"

Frankie feels a rush of nerves, will you tell him this is a mistake now? Not save him with grace and tell him after?

"This is what God created, this…this feeling, and oh, it's wonderful."

Frankie pulls his cock out as his mouth covers your in urgency, eating your whines, as he begins fucking you—no—how did you put it? Makes love to you. You moan now, louder, unable to hold his kiss, your head is thrown back, and you're gasping, sobbing now in earnest, and he watches you like you’re a vision, fucking you into the sand, into the rug beneath you, your bodies carving a hollow the tide will erase by morning.

"You are so perfect, 'mor," he breathes, skin slapping skin, his cock growing and tightening. He can feel you fluttering around him.

"I've only ever wanted you," he says, "you're the only thing that's ever fucking mattered, my girl, mi amor, I love you,"

"I love you Frankie," and he realizes you're crying again, hands tight around his neck, "I love you so much—oh, I think I'm gonna—oh! Say it again, 'mor, por favor,"

"I love you, I love you, my sweet baby, you're everything, come on my cock, let me feel her, let me feel you, I need it, give it to me." his lips curl and he's baring his teeth, he can't help it, he's so close it's making him animal, "give it to me,"

Your eyes are wide, and he doesn't think it's fear, but maybe awe, because your body is tightening, your pussy latching onto him so hard he's barely able to move, and your back bends, he feels it under his hands. And your breasts, now slick with sweat, push into him and bear your neck to him as you come.

He follows, a raw sound tearing from his chest as he spills into you without hesitation. If it’s god’s will, he’ll give you children, ten more if you ask. The sensation stretches on endlessly, too much, too full, stars bursting behind his eyes as your body holds him.

He thinks he sees God.

Or maybe it’s just the way you look at him in the moonlight as you take everything he gives.

The world eventually comes back to him, the crashing sound of waves filling his ears, steady and eternal. The candles flicker low now, dripping down into the sand. He's breathing hard over you, still inside the circle of your body, but he's quiet, and you're quiet, both of you soaking in the moment. It's like the stillness after prayer, when you don't move, the silence almost holy.

Your chest rises and falls beneath his, uneven, your fingers slack in his hair now, petting lazy shapes against his scalp. He can feel your heartbeat everywhere—against his mouth, his neck, the place where your bodies are still joined.

He presses his forehead to yours.

For a long moment neither of you speak. There’s nothing urgent left to say, everything feels already decided.

"Frankie," you finally whisper.

"Yes?" he murmurs immediately, softly.

You swallow, your hand comes up to his cheek, thumb brushing along his mouth, slow and loving.

"If God…" you swallow again, "if He was watching…do you think He's angry with me?"

The question settles between you, fragile as breath.

Frankie’s chest tightens. He kisses your temple first, then your cheek, the corner of your mouth, gentle where his lips brush.

“No,” he says, low and sure. “No, mi ángel.”

You search his face, still unsure, your eyes still wet with question.

“I just—” Your voice trembles. “I don’t feel ruined. I feel…” You trail off, embarrassed by the honesty of it.

“Loved,” he supplies gently.

You nod, relief breaking across your face.

“Yes,” you whisper,

"Loved."

[bergamote-catsandbooks]

Come Undone | Frankie Morales x f!reader | 6,2k

Summary: You and Frankie navigate a relationship that isn't supposed to be one.

CW: smut (oral both m and f receiving, unprotected p in v but they talk about it, use of a sex toy, this is porn with very little plot). Reader is still dealing with anorgasmia, and Frankie is still being perfect about it. Frankie is a consent king, Frankie is a pussy king, this is my love letter to Frankie,

Reader is abled body and almost no physical description, she has hair that can be tied up, and that's it, but if you notice anything please let me know.

A/N: I got so many wonderful responses from La Petite Mort. I wanted to thank every one for this. And since this story also haunted me, I couldn't let these two go. This starts the day after and it will be less heavy on the mention of depression and way more fluffy. It can be read as a stand alone, I think. But you can give the first story a try.

Edit because I’m a horrible friend who deserves none of you. Thank you to @sawymredfox @iknowisoundcrazy and @petalsinblood for holding my hand and cheering me up while I wrote this (probably because I said there would be lots of smut. You depraved beautiful people)

I'm always happy for comments and/or reblogs, so please don't be shy !

Main masterlist | Read on AO3

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"So, what's your deal?" You cross your arms and lean them on the laminated plastic table.

"What do you mean?" Frankie mimics your position. You are both staring at each other in the small family-owned diner, only a block away from your place. People around you are minding their own business, grabbing breakfast before whatever they are about to do with their day.

"Well, you know that I'm depressed and medicated, that I use sleeping with guys as a coping mechanism, that I am emotionally unavailable, as well as hard to please in bed. I don't do sleepovers, I don't do next morning breakfast, yet here I am. And I don't know what your deal is. And let's face it, single people our age usually have something. If this," you gesture between the two of you, "is going to happen again, whatever this is, I need to know what I'm getting into. So I'm asking again, what's your deal?"

He smiles, and that damn dimple makes you want to grab him by the shirt and drag him over the table to kiss him. Instead, you look dead serious, and barely move when the waitress brings your food: eggs and pancakes for you, eggs and French toast for him.

"Are you suggesting this might happen again?" His eyes are twinkling with mirth. You don't know if you want to laugh with him or wipe that smile off his face. Maybe with a kiss.

"Don't play with me, Frankie. You made me come, of course, I want to see you again." You keep your stern voice, but let your mouth tug slightly.

He laughs and starts digging into his food. You are trying hard to rattle him, and you don't know why. Well, you know why, you just aren't going to get into it right now. But you have to give it to him, he seems to take it in a stride.

"I'm a veteran, an ex coke addict, barely two years sober, divorced, and father of a three-year-old daughter. I slept with my best friend on a regular basis and still see him, but just as a friend. I was unemployed for almost two years, and just got my pilot license back, a job, and a place where I can share custody of my daughter. I'm pretty much fucked up. So yeah, that's my deal."

He looks up at you, and even if he is playing along, even if he is laying out all of this like it's nothing, smiling between bites of eggs, you can see that little vulnerability in his eyes. It's not much, and most might not see it, but you do. Because you know it's the same he saw in yours when you tried to scare him away.

"I can work with that." You simply say, before adding, "I was married, dumped after three years because I didn't want kids, and he did. After, might I add, agreeing to not having any because, of course, we talked about it before. Surprisingly, he got his best friend pregnant. Before he broke up with me. I buried myself in work, got burned out, was laid off, and had to go live with my parents for 6 months. I got a job and a place about 6 months ago." You are daring him to leave.

"I didn't know this was a competition." He sips his coffee, eyes boring into yours, unbothered with everything you just said, and you can't help but smile.

"If it were, who do you think would win?"

"Me. You can't surpass drugs and active combat."

"Damn, you're right."

"Although I have to say what happened to you was very shitty, and I'm sorry."

"Thanks. You too."

"Yeah, mine was mostly my fault, but I dealt with it. I'm good. Well, better."

You both stay silent while you finish your food. You want to see Frankie again, for sex, sure, but maybe for more. You enjoyed his company. But you don't know if you can do it yet.

"Frankie." He stops eating, looking at you, sensing by your tone that this is going to be serious. "I do want to see you again. I had fun last night, even before the amazing sex. Don't look so smug!" you laugh when you see he can't help a smirk on his face, "But–" You shake your head, trying to find the right words.

"But you don't know if you are ready for it." He supplies for you.

"Yes, that's pretty much it."

"Look, I really did have a great time last night, and sure, the amazing sex is part of it, by the way, it takes two for that, so you are allowed to feel smug." God, he is so sweet. "I want to see you again, but as you might have guessed from my many attractive features, my life is a mess. I'm still learning how to navigate co-parenting, I'm working weird hours, and I try to go to NA meetings as much as I can, because my sobriety is still fragile." He stops and sighs. "I know I'm not selling myself right now."

"How can you say that? I think those happen to be your selling points." He laughs and takes your hand." What I'm trying to say here is that I'm OK with just hooking up if that's what you want. Sure, I might want more, but I'm definitely not in a good spot to start anything serious. So what I can offer is one step at a time, and checking with each other at each one of them to see how it's going."

"Wow, that sounds so adult. Who knew communication could be so hot in a man?" You make it seem like it's a joke, but you are actually impressed by his self-awareness.

"Yeah, funny how therapy actually does help." He smirks, looking at you expectantly.

You purse your lips for a bit, thinking things over. "OK, Frankie, let's do this."

"Let's do this." You both smile at each other, letting the comfortable silence envelop you.

"You sure you want to do this, baby?" Frankie's head rolls back and bangs on the door as you take him in your mouth as an answer.

"Fuuuuuck." You love it when he swears, when he loses all composure, when he lets himself go. He's always so good to you that sometimes you just want to do everything for him.

"Babe, wait, wait–" you hollow your cheeks, swallowing him deeper, and his sentence is cut short, his hand grabbing your hair, in a motion that half pulls you back, half keeps you there. You know the conflicted feeling he is having, and it makes you smile around his cock. You slowly pull him out, your eyes on him, with the most innocent look you can muster.

"Do you want me to stop?" Your voice is husky, and you are so wet you can feel your panties getting soaked.

His eyes are closed; it feels like torture to open them and look down at you. He looks wrecked, and you feel proud to be the one who did this. He doesn't answer, just breathes heavily. You could torture him, you could give him a taste of his own medicine, and tell him to use his words, or whatever he loves to whisper in your ears whenever he has you speechless and thoughtless. But you are too greedy, instead you slowly lick his length, your tongue tracing the vein that decorates it, until you get to the tip, and you put your mouth around it, sucking it like a lollipop. You hear the small sounds that seem to come from his throat, half-whine, half-growl, and you chuckle.

One of your hands grabs his base, working him slowly, while your mouth continues to play with his tip for a moment. The small pants and noises coming from Frankie make you feel so powerful, and also needy. You take him in while your other hand motions to grab his ass to bring him as deep as you can take him.

His moan is music to your ears, and you keep the exact pace, sensing his hips moving unconsciously, thrusting his cock deeper.

It doesn't take long until he comes in your throat, whimpering "Babe, no, no, oh, I'm, I'm coming, oh my god, yes, fuuuuck, yes."

You swallow around him, as his hips jerk from the aftershock of his orgasm, until you feel him slack on the door, spent, the hand letting go of your hair, and his fingers tenderly graze your cheek, your lips, his thumb tugging your lower lip once you pull his softening cock from your mouth.

"You little minx", he chuckles, as he helps you up and pulls you in his arms, his head nestling in the crook of your neck. "I wanted to fuck you against the door."

You let out a small laugh, your fingers in his curls, that damn hat on the floor somewhere. He shivers from your touch, and you let yourself breathe him and the moment in.

Dinner was fun, a laid-back burger joint, a walk along the bay, and then he brought you home to spend the night. Technically, a date, except you both never put any words on it. Ever since that breakfast, you had been clear. No labels for the moment, no pressure. Sex and fun, and you both took it one step at a time. It's been two months, and you didn't see each other that much; he had his work and his kid, you had your own work. But you texted, you went out a few times for drinks and food, you talked and laughed, and of course, you had sex. Sex like you hadn't had in a long time. Comfortable, fun, mind-blowing sex. And orgasms. So many of them. Always with the help of your vibrator, but still. Even when it took time, even when you felt frustrated, he was there, focused, persistent, but not insistent. When you said it wouldn't happen, he didn't pressure you and always made sure you were content in any way. He made it seem like it was normal, but the bar was so low you were still surprised by his basic decency. He never felt threatened by the fact that he couldn't make you come without help. You were the one who felt frustrated by the matter, never him.

Frankie untangles himself from your arms and pulls back his pants, without bothering to close them.

"Let's get you in bed and taken care of." He pulls you toward your bedroom, his deep voice making you shiver from need.

"It's not a trade, Frankie."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm going to have as much pleasure as I intend to give you."

His mouth is killing you, expertly destroying every part of your being, one lick, nip, suck at a time. Right now, he is destroying your soul with both hands pinching your nipples, and his tongue slowly circling your clit. You don't know where you are, or what you are doing, barely conscious that your knuckles are white from gripping the sheets tight, and uttering noises that are barely human. You feel it in the periphery, the orgasm taunting you. But once again, as soon as you sense it, your mind starts acting, thinking. Why do you have a fucking brain? As soon as it acts up, like a butterfly whirling in the wind, your orgasm flies further and further away. You can't help but make a small, frustrated whine.

And Frankie, ever so perceptive, sensing the change in your demeanor, slowly stops, "Everything's OK, babe?"

"Yes, sorry, just got… almost, but then I didn't. I'm sorry."

"Hey, hey, don't worry, it's OK. There isn't any pressure." He climbs over you, his eyes pouring into yours, to reassure you. But you can't look at him, turning your head to the side, ashamed that this keeps happening over and over again. He cups your jaw tenderly and brings your attention back to him, not letting your gaze wander.

"I mean it, if you want to stop, we stop, if you want me to continue, believe me, I will," Frankie lowers his head and rasps in her ear, "if you want me to take that vibrator and use it on you, I'm fine with it, but I also have an idea I want to try."

The whirlwind in your brain is shutting off. He just knows how to make you stop thinking.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I want to fuck you with that vibrator while I eat up that pretty pussy." Sometimes, he uses words so filthy you could blush; he has no filter. But when he does it like this, in bed, pining you down with his eyes black with lust, his arm caging you, it makes you feel liquid, a boneless being of lust and pleasure.

"Fuck." That's all you can say, you push him off you so you can get your vibrator and the lube, handing them to Frankie.

"Lie down, baby, I'm going to take good care of you." You know he says it in a way that is supposed to be hot, but you can't help the rush of emotions in your body and surge to give him a deep kiss, one devoid of heat but full of feelings.

"You always do, Frankie," and you lie down, knees bent, legs wide open. For a moment, he looks slightly stunned by what you just said, a sheepish smile on his face, and when his eyes start raking your body all spread out for him, his smile turns into a devilish grin. You watch him apply the lube on the toy, and he bends down to kiss your mouth before kissing his way down your core.

Closing your eyes, you concentrate on the sensation, willing your brain to shut up with the thoughts that sometimes plague you. You hear the buzzing sound and then feel the vibration applied softly on your folds.

"Is this OK?"

"Yes." You gasp when he slowly starts pressing the toy at your entrance. You are already pretty open, his fingers have done some work, your own pleasure, and the lube is easing it in. You feel it opening you up, the vibration is on the lowest setting, just giving you a small thrill as Frankie slowly pulls it in and out, each time a little deeper, until he gets it all the way in, and you let out a low moan.

"All OK, babe?"

"Uh uh, yeah, s'good, so good." He fucks you slowly, finding a nice rhythm and sets the vibration a little higher. The sensation is oh so good, even more when he twists the vibrator up, allowing it to hit that good spot.

Frankie is an expert, a man of precision, and you just know that if you opened an eye, you would see him watching you intently, checking your pleasure response. With a twist of his wrist, he hits the spot again, and your legs shake.

"Frankie." It's a whine that comes out of you, it's even better than when it's you using the vibrator, because you know he is doing it, you know he is watching you as you abandon every last part of yourself to him. You can feel the pleasure coiling inside you, in your lower abdomen.

"You ready for more?"

"Please, I want it, please."

You feel his tongue and let out a gasp, the few licks making your whole body shiver from the pleasure.

"Oh, Oh!" He takes this as encouragement, and you feel his whole mouth devouring you. He isn't here to tease or drag it on. He is a man on a mission, with only one objective. And God, you can feel it coming fast.

His thrusting doesn't falter, and the vibration is at its max, his other hand lying on your stomach to pin you down.

"Oh Frankie, oh Frankie, oh Frankie." You are barely conscious of what you are saying, as your hand presses on his head, fingers tugging his hair, mind empty.

And then it's an explosion. Colors and lights, behind your closed eyelids, deafening sounds in your ear, from you screaming, and Frankie moaning loudly, and then your whole body trembles, jerks, and falls back. You don't even get to the point of overstimulation, Frankie turns off the vibrator, and slowly takes it out, while kissing your stomach. You are still panting, eyes barely open, exhaustion suddenly hitting you like a weighted blanket. Or maybe it's the feel of Frankie who lies next to you, pulling up the covers on both of you, and holds you close to him.

"Thank you, Frankie."

"You don't have to thank me. Was it OK?"

"More than OK." You say this in a breathless laugh, still trying to get back to this plan of reality.

"Good, that's something we can do again then." He nuzzles your jaw and squeezes you tight.

There is something in the back of your mind, but you push it away; you are too tired for it. You feel him hard against you.

"Do you want to–" Your hand goes to his cock, but Frankie pulls it away and keeps it in his.

"Shhh, don't worry, you gave me the perfect blowjob. I'm fine. Sleep." You hum in assent and fall into a deep slumber.

A few weeks later, you wake up in Frankie's house, again. Since he brought you here, you can't help but want to go there every time. His house is homey, well-loved. It's a little old and in need of renovation, but he's been working steadily on it, and you can see the love and care he puts into it and how much he is making it a place for him and his daughter. Her bedroom is the best one in the house and the one that has been totally renovated, while his own bedroom still has the old and faded wallpaper. The garden is nice and well taken care of, with a small slide and swings. It's a place that makes you feel at home more than your own apartment in downtown Tampa, all modern and new, with no real charm, even if you've moved there 9 months ago. Frankie lives in a suburban neighborhood, in the historical part of Tampa, not very far from your place. But it's drastically different, almost like a village. He knows his neighbors, it's within walking distance to some restaurants and stores (when the heat allows it), and it just… feels good.

Both of you have been exploring the eating options around his place, you spending the night, and more often than not, staying the next day. It looks awfully like dating. Even if you still don't name it.

It's Sunday morning, and it's the second night in a row you've spent together, something you never thought you would do. And even sleeping together without actually sleeping together. Last night, you came back from a day's outing, hiking the nearby trail, stopping by the beach for a sunset, grabbing some pizza on the way back, and crashing in bed exhausted after a shower, which you didn't even share.

You are fucked. Because you know this is it. You have feelings, real ones, for a nice guy, who you slept with, who has a life you never interact with, not his friends, not his daughter. And even if you did manage to get together at least once, but more often twice a week, the ease and comfort and the shared activities that had been going on for the past three months, it felt more than just sex. It has never been just sex, if you are honest with yourself.

The bed is empty, but you aren't worried. Frankie mentioned he wanted to go on an early run, before the day got too hot. You think about making some breakfast for when he gets back, so you take a quick shower, air the bedroom, make the bed, and go to the kitchen.

As you are rummaging in the fridge trying to see what you can make with what's there and contemplating the idea of going to grab something out, when you hear the front door open, and Frankie walks into the kitchen. He looks delicious in his shorts, his large and worn-out t-shirt, and his hair a little wet from the effort. He is holding a Kraft bag in his hand and looks at you with an appreciative eye. You are wearing a t-shirt and some shorts, nothing fancy, but he always looks at you that way. And you never tire of it.

"What are you doing in the fridge?"

"Trying to see if I could make some breakfast, but I have a hard time deciding what I can do with the lone tomato, the bottle of ketchup, and that old piece of cheese."

"Yeah, I know you do wonders in the kitchen, but I knew this wouldn't work, so I grabbed sandwich bagels on my way." He comes close to you, puts the bag on the counter next to the fridge, and leans in to kiss you lightly.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer, deepening the kiss. You are hungry for more than bagels, it seems. Frankie starts wrapping his arm around you, but stops.

"Wait, I'm all sweaty and smelly." He makes a move to leave, but you grab him tighter and start kissing his neck, grazing it lightly with your teeth.

"You aren't smelly at all." He moans in answer, and you take the opportunity to pull his t-shirt. Without any complaint, Frankie helps you take it off, and you run your hands on his naked chest, feeling his hot skin on your palm, still a little humid from the exertion. Sweat should disgust you, but right now, it's a very potent aphrodisiac.

"You don't want breakfast first?" It's a question that doesn't need a verbal answer. Instead, you push him out of the kitchen, and he keeps moving toward the bedroom, never breaking away from you.

You both fall down on the bed, a tangle of limbs and clothes half discarded, leaving a trail behind you. Before Frankie can bring out the condoms from the bedside table, you stop his hand and decide to do something that you know might change this for good.

"Frankie, I, I told you I have an IUD, and we both mentioned having been checked right before we met, maybe–" You don't finish, but you can see in his eyes as he pours them in yours that there is one question that you have to answer first. He's above you, one knee between your legs, both elbows around your head, and he doesn't move. There is a hope in his eyes that makes you be brave when you finally say. "There has been no one else."

"You sure?"

"That there is no one else?" You smirk.

"No, no, that you," he swallows and looks away before saying, "that you want this?" This can mean a lot, you know, this can just mean sex without a condom, but it can mean putting a label, or maybe it's just another step, and you should stop overthinking.

"Yes." For a moment, he just stares at you, and a smile starts spreading on his face. He kisses you and reaches again for the drawer, for the vibrator he bought and surprised you with the first time you came over his place. At the time you you were stunned, that he went out to look for the same exact model to have just for you was such a beautiful act. But you stop him again.

"No, I don't want it, just you."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't want a complicated position, him concentrating on you, using the vibrator to make you come. You just want to feel him, you just need him. Even if you won't come, you just know having him over you, watching him lose himself, sensing him come in you, bare, will be pleasure enough.

And it is. It's slow and deliberate at first, with a lot of raw emotions as your eyes meet again and again. The feel of him pressed on you is bliss, the slow drag of his cock in you makes you want to weep, you probably do, you aren't thinking much at the moment, the way he starts to move faster, hips snapping, face pressed against your neck as he starts losing the rhythm and chasing his high, moaning, makes you feel powerful. You love when Frankie is in charge, talks dirty in your ears, praises you, or talks you through it. You just love his voice while you have sex. But you secretly love it even more when you render him speechless, when all he can do is feel and murmur incoherent words that are more noise than anything else. You relish in the feeling that he is going to come inside you so fast, just because you feel too good, this man who spends so much time bringing you pleasure, sometimes to his own detriment. You can give him that, and so you rake your fingers in his hair, let your nails scratch his scalp, down his shoulder, and you murmur all the words you feel: "Let go, baby, let me feel you come inside me. Let me make you feel good, as good as you always make me feel." And it's with a strangled cry that Frankie comes, and that you feel a pleasure that might not be an orgasm, but that is so much more in the moment. You are falling in love, and it feels terrifying but good.

As you both lie side by side, catching your breath, Frankie turns to look at you.

"Is it OK? You didn't come, I didn't–"

"Shh, it's fine, I wanted this." You stroke his cheek, looking at him fondly.

"But I feel so selfish."

"Frankie, you are the least selfish man I know. Don't worry."

You get up to use the bathroom, and while you clean up, an awful thought crawls in the back of your head, and is at once the only thing you can think of. Why does your brain do that? You are perfectly happy, enjoying a perfect moment with Frankie, and now all you can think of is, "When will he get tired of me?"

And it probably shows because when you get out, Frankie, who is still lying in bed, looks at you, concerned.

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." You start to pick up your clothes, without looking at him.

"You sure? You don't seem. Please tell me if I did something wrong."

Warmth runs through your chest. How do you deserve someone like him? You feel like crying and know that you have to say out loud what has been weighing you down for so long.

"What if I'm broken? What if I never can come normally ever again?" You finally let it out, looking down, avoiding his eyes. He gets up to you and takes your face in his hands.

"Oh, baby. I don't think so, but even if that happens, it's OK."

"But what if no one wants to go through the trouble?"

"I want to." He looks so earnest, you want to believe him.

"And if you get tired of it? Of me?"

"I'll never get tired of you, of what we have."

"You are sure?"

"I am. I promise. I like you. A lot, and I know I agreed to no labels, but I think we both know lately it hasn't been just sex. So believe me when I say it." He pulls you into a warm hug, and you cling to him, breathing in his neck.

"I like you too. I am still scared, but I like what we have, and I want to see what might happen next." You feel him let out a relieved sigh.

"Well, that's good." He pulls you away to look in your eyes again, "Now I think we need to shut off that pretty brain of yours. See, I didn't make you come, and now you've got way too many thoughts." His tone is sultry, and he wiggles his eyebrows, you can't help but laugh. You love that he just knows how to break the tension.

"I'm serious, though. I actually have something in mind I've been wanting to try."

"Frankie, you just fucked me, you are insatiable." You say this, yet you still let him guide you to the bed.

"I don't intend to fuck you, at least not with my cock."

"How can you be so sweet and so filthy?"

"You love it, baby. Do you want to hear my idea?"

Of course you do. His crude talk makes you want to feel him again, desire pooling in your belly. You nod, and he smiles.

"Do you trust me?" He sits you on the bed and kneels in front of you.

"Always"

"I want to tie you up, put a blindfold on you, and eat you up."

The idea makes you gasp, and his smile turns cocky. "I knew you would like it. Have you ever done it?"

"Never with the blindfold, just tied up."

"Are you OK with doing both?"

"Yes."

He makes sure you are comfortable, putting a pillow under your head and around you, kissing each of your wrists before tying them up. He uses silk ties because he doesn't have anything else in hand.

"I'm surprised that you even have one, let alone two! I thought you were going to be all feral and use zip ties."

"I don't have any, but–" He stops, his voice and eyes betray his thoughts.

"Maybe we can go buy some." You were teasing, but you are even more turned on thinking about it. And you have to admit that watching Frankie walking around, confident, naked, taking care of everything, it's hot.

He takes out a black scarf from a drawer and walks to you.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

He wraps the scarf with so much care, making sure he doesn't pull your hair, asking if you are comfortable, telling you he'll stop whenever you want. You don't think he would do otherwise, but you appreciate the reassurance. You've rarely been so vulnerable. Especially with someone you've known for such a short time. And yet, you feel more at ease, more yourself with him than with anyone else. The thought is scary but also exhilarating.

Soon, thoughts leave you, as Frankie trails little kisses and nips down your body, spending time on the places he knows make you melt.

You swear he has studied your body like an explorer mapping a territory, one first unknown, until every crevice, slope, and nook has been explored, noted in a part of his brain, and mastered. First, you neck, where you think he leaves a small mark, then a path down to your breasts, where he spends a little more time, both for you and him. He always seems hypnotized by them, loves to touch them, taste them, watch them bounce when he fucks you. Once you are a whimpering mess, once the small noises, gasps, and sighs turn to pleas, he trails to your stomach and then to the crease between your hip and thigh. But he stops when he gets to the part where you want him the most. And all at once, you don't feel him on any part of your body. A moment of unease, and your eyes that were closed under the scarf open. You see light behind the fabric, but it's still dark. You feel the panic rise, the thoughts of not knowing where he is and what he is doing rushing in your mind. Not that you don't trust him, you always will, it's more a sense of not having control that scares you. You hear a shuffle on the covers and two hands touch your hips. "You OK?" from the slight concern in his voice, you know he sensed the unease.

"I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yes, just a little panic, but I don't want to stop." You know he will ask, so you get ahead of him. For a second, you just feel his warm hands as they grip you a little, and then, without leaving your body, one hand runs down your thigh, calf, and lifts your leg, and you feel the pressure of his mouth on your ankle, then up your leg, your knee. He settles it on his shoulder, and from the position, you know he is kneeling between your legs. He does the same on the other leg, taking his time. He is quiet and apart from the sounds of the kisses and your heavy breathing, nothing breaks the silence. You feel like you are an alter, he is kneeling and praying too, all reverent and worshipful. You feel him shuffling to lie and feel his breath on your core. A slow moan escapes him, and he murmurs, "You are so beautiful." It almost feels like he is telling himself, like it's a prayer he let escape out loud.

You feel the desire sharpening, knowing he is so close, after the time he took taking care of you, you feel the need flow out every pore, it's more: desperation.

"Fuck." That is even more reverent than any thing he has said. He says it like it's paining him, like he is suffering. And when his mouth circles your core, and his tongue grazes your entrance, sighing with contentment, it feels like you are the cure to all his ailments.

He takes time to lavish you, licking and kissing every part of your pussy, but not touching your clit. It's a slow torture that has you fighting once or twice, you restraints, you want to push his face to the place you need him most.

He can hear your moans becoming almost frustrated, the slow chuckle he lets out that reverberates against you is part bliss, part torture. But he soon puts an end to your misery, with a lick, another, oh so light, too light.

Yet you cry out from the feeling. Louder when he kisses your bundle of nerves with more pressure. You know that now he is ready for a kill, using his magic, one that makes you arch underneath him, legs trembling.

When he brings both hands to your nipples and pinches them, it's like electricity runs inside your body, a jolt of pleasure so intense his name is a ragged cry out of your throat.

You can feel the pleasure, you can feel it climbing, the peak you always want to reach, but you never do. The pressure is almost perfect, almost what you need.

Once again, you fight your restraint, you want to show him what you need, you want to pull off the blindfold and watch him take you apart. It's almost too much; you are about to ask him to stop when something snaps in your brain.

It's as if it surrenders, it just decides that since it can't fight, it will go willingly. You feel a form of tension falling out of you, and you imagine the scene painted as if you are floating outside your body and watching from above: you opened up, legs now spread wide on the bed, unable to move, vulnerable, Frankie and his broad shoulder between your thighs, large hands on your breast, and you feel a shiver course through your whole body. You can't fight; you just have to let go and surrender to it.

And then Frankie does something that makes everything go black. One large hand splays on your stomach, preventing you from moving even more, caging you on the bed, a weight that feels so good. You feel his other hand on your core, when two fingers slide inside you effortlessly, pumping a few times, until he adds a third. You feel the stretch, the curve, the thrusts, and combined with his mouth that sucks hard on your clit, lights and colors appear in your vision. It takes you by surprise. It's like you are already on the top of that mountain you were trying to climb. You were stuck mid-course, and Frankie pushed you to the top, and before you realize it, you are coming. Loud cries that sound almost surprised.

"Oh! I'm, I'm com– Frankie!"

And you jump from the summit and fly high, until you fall in bed, spasms shaking every part of your body, while you feel Frankie slowly, taking out his fingers, and kissing his way up to you, all while tracing his hands up your body.

"Oh my god, Frankie, I can't believe it."

You hear him laugh and can feel the pride in there, but also the happiness that you feel this way.

You feel him untying you, massaging your wrist and forearms, then take off the blindfold, and when you finally see, you blink to Frankie's face close to yours. He is a mess, uncombed hair, face slick with you, and a smile so big that his eyes crinkle. It makes you feel something you don't want to name yet, but you think it's too late to go back, as you wrap your arms around him to bring him close to you. He wraps his arm around you, and you lie for a while, basking in the silence.

It's too late to turn back; you have fallen deep and all the way. But you know that it's OK, you wouldn't want it any other way.

Thank you for reading ❤️

tagglist, also adding people who showed interest in the wip and the first story (please let me know if you want to be added/removed): @grogusmum @here-briefly @iknowisoundcrazyreads @javierpenaismyhusband @lillaydee @littlemisspascal @harriedandharassed @sunnytuliptime @picketniffler @sawymredfox @cuteanimalmama @baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy @vindictivegranny @half-moon16 @sin-djarin @whocaresstillthelouvre @hanahleah @missadangel @simpingforjoel @aurorawritestoescape @kirsteng42 @annwrites24 @vodkaandpizza @quinnnfabrgay @littlepedrito @ingoldthewizard @petalsinblood

[pedroscurls]

saved by you

series summary: escaping a toxic and abusive relationship, you book a one-way ticket across the world to start new life. and along the way, you meet a pilot named Frankie, and his group of friends, who leaves a lasting impression on you.

pairing: frankie morales x fem!reader series content warning(s): EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), eventual romance/relationship + smut, slow burn, toxic/abusive relationship (not with frankie), fate/destiny trope, angst with a happy ending (i promise!), hurt/comfort, descriptions of physical violence (abuse), reader has trauma, frankie has PTSD, minimal physical description of reader, POV switch (will alternate each chapter from reader POV and then frankie POV), no use of y/n. each chapter will have its own separate warnings! a/n: my number one pedro character - frankie morales will forever have my heart and i just had to write a story for him again. this idea came to mind when i was on a plane ride and imagined frankie sitting next to me to ease my nerves. i spent that entire plane ride outlining this 30-chaptered story. i will try to keep up with a schedule and post every other sunday! so stay tuned and most of all, hope you all enjoy <3

status: complete.

SCHEDULE: Every Sunday

PART 1.

PART 2.

PART 3.

PART 4.

PART 5.

PART 6.

PART 7.

PART 8.

PART 9.

PART 10.

PART 11.

PART 12.

PART 13.

PART 14.

PART 15.

PART 16.

PART 17.

PART 18.

PART 19.

PART 20.

PART 21.

PART 22.

PART 23.

PART 24.

PART 25.

PART 26.

PART 27.

PART 28.

PART 29.

PART 30.

[make-me-imagine]

Headcanons + Drabble: Flirting > Falling In Love > Confessing {William Miller}

Headcanons + Drabble: William Miller flirting with, falling in love with and confessing to the reader + First Kiss.

You can find a version of this for Benny Miller (here)

Pairing: William Miller x Gn!Reader

A/n: Trying to get myself back into the writing spirit with some headcanon/drabble stuff. Hope you like it! The writing might be a bit rough since it's been a while since I've written anything.

Words: Hcs 467; Drabble 583, Total 1,050

Flirting > Falling in Love

Will, unlike his brother, doesn't flirt with just anyone he finds a slight interest in.

He typically only flirts if there is genuine interest.

One thing that doesn't help, is that his flirting is a bit too subtle for you sometimes.

It makes it hard to really tell if he is interested, or just being nice.

Compliments, jokes, soft smiles and acts of service.

They always make your heart race, but you often convinced yourself it was just your crush on him, not that he was actually interested in you.

Now, Will is not stupid, the second he realized you weren't quite understanding his intentions, he made it more obvious.

The subtle flirting, became jokes or comments that made your cheeks hot.

The acts of service became romantic and clear.

Standing closer than necessary, when talking to you. He'd lean down and practically whisper in your ear.

Gentle and obviously purposeful hand touching when handing you something.

Helping you with very easy things, just to be near you.

As hard as you tried to convince yourself it was just you being hopeful, it didn't work. He was definitely flirting.

Now, falling in love, was a bit complicated for Will.

He admitted he had a crush on you, and genuinely wanted more.

But "Love" was hard for him to accept out of fear.

Fear he would mess up, fear he'd hurt you. What if he had to leave for a long period of time, leaving you alone.

But after conflicting thoughts and a final admission of feelings to Benny, he helped him understand that it was alright.

Afraid or not, love was worth it.

And the longer he was around you, the more he gave himself over to you, he realized he was definitely falling in love.

And he was okay with it, afraid or not, he wanted to be with you.

Confession + First Kiss

Once fully accepting of his feelings, confessing to you wasn't actually that hard for him.

He just needed to find the right moment.

You and the boys, ended up at the monthly market festival, wandering around, mingling with other's, eating, listening to the live local bands.

To celebrate summer, the market lasted all day and into the evening.

The promise of entertainment and fireworks in the evening along with a local bonfire kept a lot of locals coming back.

Throughout the day, Will had been staying close to you, brushing shoulders, buying you food, soft smiles and gently stares.

He had confessed to you a thousand times with just his eyes. All you were waiting for was the spoken truth, finally allowing you the strength to give in to your own feelings.

As the sun set, the others wandered off, later on you found it was Benny's doing, allowing you and Will time to be alone together.

Will's arm was pressed against yours as the two of you walked through the crowds together. The sound of music was getting closer as you gradually approached the main stage were a local band was performing.

The distant large bonfire cast a soft glow over the area, and sent the smell of burning wood over the crowd, the cozy atmosphere encased you.

Your heart jolted when Will suddenly leaned down, and spoke softly into your ear. "Dance with me."

Before you could respond, his hand slipped into yours as he gently lead you to the small crowd of people dancing along to the slow music playing.

Your heart was pounding as Will pulled you into his arms, initiating a slow intimate dance. He was smiling down at you as you looked somewhat bashful into his eyes.

You remained quiet for a moment, as he just gazed at you, before a soft smile crossed his face. "I wanna do this more often."

"Dance?"

He tilted his head a bit, "Dance, walk together, go out and have fun, spend time together, that kind of stuff."

"We do that a lot already." You said with a soft breathy chuckle.

He hummed with a smile, "We do, but it's different than what I want."

Your heart beat heavily in your chest, threatening to be louder than the soft tone of your voice. "How so?"

His grip on your hand tightened a bit, as his arm slid around your waist and pulled you even closer. Leaning down, his nose occasionally brushed yours as you continued to sway to the music together. He spoke just loud enough so only you could hear.

"We do it all as friends. But I don't want to be just your friend anymore Y/n. I know I haven't been exactly subtle with my feelings, but I want you to hear me say it as it is. I'm falling in love with you a little bit more every day, I have been for a long time. I adore you, and as much as I love being your friend, and will continue to be your friend for the rest of our lives, I also want to be your boyfriend. Hell, maybe even husband in the future if you stand me for long enough."

"Wow, husband talk already and I haven't even said yes to anything." Your cheeks were burning as you smiled along to his confession.

He chuckled, "Yeah well, I know we're meant to be together. I just hate that it took me so long to get to the point where I said it."

"I didn't say anything either."

"But you felt it, yeah?"

You nodded softly, "Yeah, I felt it."

"So?" Pulling you into his chest, he rested his forehead against yours now, as the two of you barely moved along to the music. He nudged your nose with his as he smiled, "Be mine?"

You smiled up at him as you whispered your reply. "I've been yours for a long time Will."

His smile turned into a grin before he leaned in, his lips brushed yours before he pulled you into a deep kiss. His hand clenched your waist lightly as his intertwined hand left yours, moving to the back of your neck as he deepened the kiss even further.

You melted into one another as you held each other closely. You danced slowly together for a while longer, nothing else around you mattering anymore. Just the two of you, together, finally.

xx

(Taglist Form)

General Taglist: @criminaly-supernatural, @imaginesfire, @rexit-mo, @onuen, @witchygagirl, @alexxavicry,

William Miller Taglist: @will-grammer

*Its been a while since I've posted, if anyone no longer wants to be on my General Taglist, let me know!

[lotusbxtch]

Restraint - Santiago Garcia x f!Reader

Pairing: Santi x f!Reader (this is a one-shot, but you can read it as the same couple in What's The Magic Word? if you'd like!)

Summary: Santi told you to be on your best behavior. You were not. Now he’s going to teach you to behave.

Word count: 4.6k

Rating: Explicit, 18+, MDNI!

Tags: PWP, course language, fingering, masturbation, unprotected P in V sex (please wrap it up!), semi-public sex, Santi only lets you have the tip, brat!Reader, brat-tamer!Santi, dom/sub dynamics, name-calling but they’re both into it, orgasm denial, pussy slapping, rough sex, hair pulling, one (1) bite, creampie (because when do I not have this in my fics lol), Santi talks you through it, almost getting caught, light exhibitionism and humiliation kink if you squint, bodily fluids, Spanish nicknames, established relationship; Reader is described as being able-bodied, wearing high heels, having biologically female anatomy and hair long enough to be put into a ponytail and pulled, but is otherwise undescribed (hair color/texture, eye color, skin color, build, weight, etc). Title graphic is only for vibes and not representative of Reader's appearance; Reader is you, boo!

a/n: LOOK. This all started because @for-a-longlongtime couldn’t stop being horny on main about those Oscar photos from the Venice Film Fest last year, so I had to indulge her (aka she will not stop asking when I’m gonna finish writing this). Santi is always a menace, and this fic is proof of that. (Bonus points if you can catch hints of Oscar’s Beirut reading that I definitely slipped in here because it is etched into the recesses of my brain forever. If you don’t know what I’m talking about: you’re welcome!)

Unbeta’d, we do it raw like Santi is going to in this fic lol

Banners and divider graphics by @saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

“Behave.”

It was Santi’s only request this evening. Already uncomfortable with the black tie dress code but sucking it up since it was his best friend Will who invited him, your boyfriend was on edge. This gala dinner to benefit the foundation Will worked for was not on Santi’s list of favorite ways to spend a Saturday night, and all week he’d been surly in anticipation. 

Santi smoothes the lapels of his jacket, then adjusts the collar of the silken shirt underneath. “I fucking hate suits,” he grouses. “Not enough range of motion.”

You nearly snort in amusement. “What are you planning to do, conduct a raid while you’re at dinner?” Rolling your eyes, you continue applying your makeup. “And it’s a tux, not a suit.”

A heavy sigh leaves Santi’s plush lips. “Worse. Can’t believe you talked me into this.”

Your mirth grows with the smirk on your mouth. “Incredible what you’ll agree to do when I’ve got my lips wrapped around your dick.”

Santi groans a bit, eyes skyward as if a higher power is specifically torturing him for his transgressions. “Behave,” he bites out. “That’s all I’m asking of you.”

Pearly white teeth show as your smile turns feline. “Or what? You gonna make me?”

Santi’s eyes flash in warning. “Fuck around and find out, bebita.”

Oh, you would definitely be finding out.

You absolutely did not behave. And you are fucking around and finding out.

Away from the commotion of the gala, in the far wing of the glitzy hotel, Santi has you bent over the back of a plush couch in the lounge area of the spacious women’s bathroom. Your knees are cushioned by green velvet while he stands behind you: right hand gathering your hair into a loose ponytail, left fingers gripping onto your corresponding hip, his slacks open and unzipped but his outfit otherwise undisturbed.

You, on the other hand, are an absolute mess. Lipstick is smeared past your lipline, your lips plump and red from Santi face-fucking you earlier, and your expensive chiffon dress is hiked up past your hips. Your panties lay in a ripped pile on the floor, while your tits spill out of the front of your bodice, dangling tantalizingly. 

“You want it?” Santi teases, the head of his cock slipping around your slick entrance, lighting your nerves on fire.

“Yes,” you moan unabashedly, hips grinding backwards. “Need to feel you.”

The hand on your hip tightens. His tip disappears from you, its touch a phantom memory. The whine that escapes your throat is, frankly, pathetic.

“Nuh, uh, baby,” Santi chides, smacking your ass in the process. A desperate moan rattles your throat as your head tips back, spine arching sensually.

“Just fuck me, Santi,” you beg fruitlessly. You know he won’t give up that easily, but you’re so worked up that you’ll try it anyway.

“Not when you can’t listen to simple orders,” he rumbles. As he predicted, you refused to heed his warning, pulling every trick out of your bag to get the blood rushing from his head to his… other head. Rubbing your ass against his crotch as you passed him; trailing a hand down his back to the base of his spine; flashing him a peek at your lace panties surreptitiously; running a finger teasingly down his increasingly engorged dick under the table - you did this all knowing full well there would be repercussions. A muscle feathered in his jaw every time you taunted him. His hands clenched into fists in his pockets. You could tell you were in deep trouble with him.

You wanted to play with fire tonight, though. That was one of the reasons Santi loved you so much.

“You fucking liked it, though. Don’t lie to me,” you respond. You lean forward and open your legs further, slipping a hand between your thighs to spread your entrance wide open invitingly, and his reactionary groan has a tinge of a growl to it. 

“Really need it that bad?” he asks. “You’re going to have to work for it.” Santi’s thick tip slips around your folds again, slicked up by your desperation. You whimper, pushing your hips back to pop it snugly inside of your heat.

A hum from deep in his chest vibrates the air around you. “I’m not moving my cock an inch. You wanna come so bad, you gotta do it yourself.” 

Your head whips to him (as much as it can with him holding your hair like this). “Are you fucking kidding me?” you hiss, annoyance flashing in your eyes. His face is all hard edges and stoicism, but you see that playful glint in his gaze. He’s toying with you like a cat with a mouse. 

Fine, you think. Two can play this game.

Leaning forward a bit, you start to push your hips backwards, until you feel Santi’s free hand stop the progression of your ass. “What the fuck, Santiago?!”

“Naughty, naughty,” he croons, “you didn’t let me finish. You can only use the tip.”

You growl in frustration, manicured nails clawing into the sofa’s upholstery. “How the fuck am I going to get off like that?”

“You’ll find a way,” Santi says nonchalantly. You roll your eyes. “Best get to it then, bebita. Or I can just leave you here high and dry.”

Head spinning and needing release, you start circling your hips. Santi’s tip is big enough to stretch your walls nicely, so the pressure starts to light up your nerve endings. His hand pushes against you when your motions get too far up his shaft, and you settle into a rolling rhythm, little moans dropping from your kiss-swollen lips.

“Does that feel good?” Santi asks rhetorically, and you nod your head, tilting your hips a bit until the angle hits something delicious inside of you. A high-pitched whine escapes your throat.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Can feel you getting tight.” His warm hand snakes forward, finger swiping up some of your slick before circling your clit softly. Your legs twitch, another moan ricocheting around the space.

“Fuck, Santi,” you pant. He rubs harder, faster, and you feel your release coiling in your muscles. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna –”

Before you can get out the words, his finger leaves your nub and he pulls his hips backwards, leaving you empty.

“What the FUCK, Santi!” you nearly scream at him. “I was almost –”

Everything next happens so fast.

Santi’s large, warm hand grips your face and covers your mouth. “I have had enough of your shit attitude, baby,” he growls. His other hand pushes on your back to bend you over further, and then he swiftly fills you in one devastating stroke.

You cry out against his palm. You can feel him everywhere, your nerve endings singing loudly, that thick tip of his buried so deeply that he’s pushing right up against your cervix. Santi begins grinding his length into you, never pulling back more than a fraction before sinking in again, keeping that immobilizing pressure up. 

“Can’t do the one thing I asked you to do tonight, can’t say anything nice, just complaining over and over. Such a brat,” he chastises while his hips press into you. 

Santi leans forward and lays his body over yours. His lips brush the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to nearly a rumble. “I don’t wanna hear another word from your mouth for now unless it’s my fucking name.” The last two words are punctuated by upward snaps of his hips, making you shriek into his hand yet again. He holds himself as deep as he can, massaging every inch of your cunt, the pleasure building. But your rebellious streak rears its ugly head, and you do probably the worst thing you have the option of doing at that moment.

You bite his palm.

A shocked sound followed by a hiss leaves his lips. You bring your chest back up a bit, and petty rage fills your veins. “Maybe if you did a better job, I wouldn’t have to complain so much.”

It’s silent for a moment, just the two of you breathing heavily, and then the man actually has the gall to laugh at you. Santi makes a sucking sound with his tongue against the back of his teeth. 

“Wrong move.” 

Suddenly, your torn panties are being shoved in your mouth, and his hand is back over it. His other hand grabs both of your wrists, pinning them behind you at the base of your spine. He sheathes himself in you once again, the edge of a moan barely bit back in his throat. “If I’m so bad at it, then why is this pretty little pussy drenched, huh? Such a slut that you’re just dripping all the time?” He pulls out then feeds you just his cockhead, and the hand over your mouth moves back to the apex of your thighs. “You’re only gonna get to come when you apologize for your behavior.”

Whines muffled by the lace in your mouth can barely be heard as Santi massages the front wall of your cunt with his tip. He slicks up the pads of his fingers with your wetness, then starts circling your clit once again. This is not the first time he’s employed this sort of tactic with you; it’s so fun to be a brat with him and see what sort of pleasure he doles out with his punishment.

Unfortunately, you didn’t realize that all the teasing you did tonight also affected you – right now, all you can think about is how badly you want to come, and it pisses you off how fast Santi got you there.

“All you have to do is say you’re sorry, baby,” Santi sings in your ear.

Your stubborn streak flares up, though it’s tempered by your release starting to rise again. “Fuck you,” you mutter into the fabric. Retribution is swift: Santi pulls himself out of you, stops touching your clit, and spanks you sharply right on your pussy. Your head rears back briefly, your cry muffled. 

“You’re really just making it harder for yourself,” Santi tuts, then bends down to blow air over your sensitive folds. A shamefully whiny moan escapes your stuffed mouth, and you don’t need to turn around to know Santi is smirking like a bastard. “Be a good girl and get rewards. Be a little brat and get nothing. It’s not difficult.”

Furrowed brows and a heaving chest give away your neediness, but you stay silent. Another smack to your cunt lights up your nerve endings. You keen, thighs squeezing together, but Santi shoves your feet apart again and slaps your center again. Another cry, another wet slap, another cry. The sting singes your senses but has a delicious edge to it nonetheless.

His strong grip yanks your hair yet again. Full, soft lips graze the rim of your ear, releasing shivers across your pebbled skin as you moan uncontrollably. “Apologize, now,” he booms, his smooth baritone dipping lower.  You shake your head.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

Then, Santi steps back, letting go of you. The motion makes you wobble a bit on your gold stilettos. You hear the fabric of his slacks rustling and the rasp of the zipper as he tucks himself back in. His expensive black dress shoes click across the marble behind you, getting fainter. Panic surges up, swooping from your belly to your throat. He wasn’t joking.

“Wait, no!” you simper, spinning around and pulling your panties from your mouth hurriedly. Santi’s broad back, tapered waist, and shapely derrière halt, but he doesn’t turn around. Silence sits thick and charged around the both of you. 

“Please,” you beg meekly. He only turns his head to the side, his stunning profile temporarily rendering you speechless as the lust clouds your brain.

All he does is raise one brow.

The shame and frustration burns hot but makes your pulse kick into high gear with arousal. “I’m….” you start, then groan out loud. Your eyes flick to the ceiling, then back on your man.

“…I’m sorry.” Heat floods your skin.

A pause. “Sorry for what, bebita?”

A huff leaves your lips. His eyes drill into yours, staying quiet, until you can’t handle it anymore.

“FINE!” you exclaim. “I’m sorry for not behaving myself! There, happy?”

The corner of his sinful mouth ticks upwards before he schools it back.

“Good girl.” A purr, silk and velvet wrapping itself around your body, enters your ears and burrows into some feral, instinctual part of your brain. 

Santi’s warm, broad chest is pressed to yours in seconds, his fingers tracing curlicues and vines across your skin, and a whimper escapes your mouth when he traces a finger across the tip of your shoulder.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks you softly, voice dipped in honey with an edge of humor. He runs his lips down your neck, pink tongue kitten licking as he goes. They wander back up to your ear and he bites your lobe gently before continuing. “But you’re gonna have to do better than that. I don’t think you really mean it.”

You choke back a whine; if you complain more now, he’s going to walk right back out that door. You worry your bottom lip sharply with your top teeth to keep yourself in line. He waits patiently. 

“Tell me what to do, Santiago,” you beg. “Please. I need it. I need you.”

“Mmm,” Santi rumbles. “My name always sounds so sweet rolling off that talented tongue.” He grips your hips, then pivots you around to pull your body back against his chest. “I need you to listen to me and do exactly as I say this time.” Warm palms mold themselves to the flare of your ribs.

“Yes, sir,” you exhale, hands subtly shaking with desire. Santi hums his approval, then his warmth leaves your back. You bite your lip harder and focus on him through the mirror ahead of you. 

Don’t. Break. 

His steps click once again, this time towards the armchair kitty corner from the couch, and you turn your head to track his movement. Santi sinks back into it, a lion lounging, limbs loose and casual. Spread thighs beckon you invitingly. His elbow rests above his knee, assessing. 

He leans forward, eyes intense. A single word.

“Crawl.”

Unceremoniously, your hands and knees hit the cool luxury of unforgiving marble. All you can hear is your own panting breaths and the hush of your chiffon dress dragging along the floor while you slink slowly towards Santi. Shiny black leather shoes come into view; you dare not raise your gaze to his, yet.

A barely detectable purr from above you. “Let me see those eyes.”

Slowly, your vision drags from Santi’s feet, up the fine black wool of his pants, eyes catching briefly on the clear strain of his dick against his zipper. His cream tux jacket is open, revealing the white and black polka dotted silk shirt you insisted he wear “for a pop of something fun”. His golden skin sits under the contrasting black lapels, his pulse thrumming in his neck. You drag your eyes across his thick but trimmed salt & pepper beard, full lips, gorgeous nose, and then finally meet his espresso irises. The tiniest smile graces his mouth.

“Good girl,” Santi praises, and his words drip warmly down your spine. “Now, sit down and spread your legs.”

You scramble to a seated position, shoving your skirt out of the way huffily, your heels clicking on the marble when you get into position. Santi barely suppresses an arrogant chuckle at the way you put yourself on display for him.

“So eager,” he teases you. You bite your lip to keep your automatic, snappy retort at bay and breathe deeply instead. Santi audibly laughs then; your brows knit together in frustration. 

“You can touch yourself,” he says. A whine escapes your throat before you can silence it.

Santi’s eyebrows shoot up. “No? I’ll leave right now, and you know that’s not an empty threat. If you want to come, you gotta do it yourself.”

Silence hangs heavy between the two of you for a few moments as you weigh your options. He’s caved before when I’ve touched myself for him, you think, so maybe it’ll work this time, too. Your hand slides between your thighs, parting your sex for your boyfriend. Santi groans under his breath. Leaning on the other hand supporting you from behind, you press your shoulders back to put your breasts on display for him. Your thighs hinge open further.

“How do you want me to touch myself?” you ask breathily, pursing your lips a bit.

Santi’s eyes darken. “Slip your fingers inside of yourself like you want me to do.”

You bring your middle and ring fingers to your mouth and suck them inside to the last knuckle, swirling your tongue around them. Your eyes never leave his when you open your mouth and drag the tips of your fingers down your tongue. Santi’s demeanor stays calm, but his chest begins to heave a bit, betraying his arousal.

Swiftly, you slide your glistening fingers to the hilt. A broken cry tumbles from your lips. Santi’s hands grip the arms of the chair and his thighs tense. You begin to grind against your hand, your rhythm smooth and rolling, squelching sounds once again filling the space. Slick drips from you like a honeyed nectar, pooling down your wrist and onto the floor. Head thrown back, you add your pointer finger, keening at the stretch, but you can’t quite fill yourself as deeply as Santi does. You shift and whine, a soft sheen of sweat blanketing your skin. 

“Pobrecita,” Santi croons. “Not hitting your favorite spot, huh?” You nod desperately, fingers still working inside of yourself. You can see the gears turning in his mind, trying to figure out the best way to proceed, then he leans back in his seat.

“Come here,” he commands, and you crawl closer to him, fingers still wedged inside of you.

He bites his lip. “Do you want help?”

“Yes, please,” you moan.

“Mmm, such a nice request,” he replies. “Get up and take your fingers out.”

You come to your feet and pull your fingers from yourself with a wet sucking sound. Without a word, Santi grabs your wrist and slips your fingers into his mouth. The heat envelops them immediately, and you moan wantonly when you feel his tongue laving your juices from your digits. You feel the growl radiating from his chest, up his throat, through your hand. 

He sucks and licks until each one is clean, and then swallows greedily. His nostrils flare at your flavor.

Santi slips your fingers from his mouth. “Pull your skirt up and let me see you,” he commands. You don’t even need him to tell you what exactly he needs to see; you gather the diaphanous fabric with shaking hands, then place a stilettoed foot on the outside of his thigh to lewdly bare your glazed slit to him. 

Without warning, he slaps the apex of your thighs with long, nimble fingers, the sting pushing a cry from your mouth and coaxing more slick to coat your folds. 

“Did you learn your lesson?” he asks.

You nod your head desperately. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he praises again. Casually, he blows cool air across your clit, and you mewl, dripping more for him. His eyes meet yours.

“Unbutton my pants, pull them down, and sit on my cock,” Santi directs you. When you scramble to reach his waistband, he adds, “Slowly, bebita.” You acquiesce, dragging your movements out. Santi raises his hips to aid you in slipping the dark material down to his ankles, and his length springs free, causing him to hiss as the cool air hits it. Daintily, your knees bracket his while his hands ghost the curve of your hips. You waste no time gripping his base, lining him up, and easing his hardness into the tight embrace of your pussy. You both moan out in relief, and when the soft give of his balls hit your ass, you halt your movement. His eyes never break your gaze.

“Mmm, so good at listening all of the sudden,” he lilts playfully as you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from talking back. That damn smirk returns.

“Please,” you beg, not really knowing what specifically you want him to do.

Santi lips brush the shell of your ear while your arms wrap around his neck. “Here’s what we’re going to do, my sweet, behaved girl,” he explains. “I want to watch you work that perfect little pussy on my cock, right until you’re about to come. Do not come unless I tell you to. You’re going to hold off until I say so. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” you whine, shifting your seat for the tiniest bit of friction. You hear him huff a laugh into the crease of your neck.

“So eager,” he drawls, then bites your earlobe. You take that as permission to start, and begin to roll your hips over his, gasping at the delicious stretch of his shaft inside of you. As your motions pick up, Santi leans back further in the chair, brings his arms up and back, and rests his hands behind his head, fully enjoying the view. His abject brashness irritates you, but it’s forgotten as soon as the head of his dick hits that devastating spot deep inside of you that he practically owns. A gasp tears from your lips.

“Yes,” he praises, and you preen, moving your hips faster. “That’s it, show me how bad you wanna come.” His eyes are dark and hooded with desire.

Sweat drips down your spine and your walls pulse, sucking him further into you with every pass. Soon enough, you feel Santi’s hands return to your hips as he starts to fuck up into you. He hits your cervix and you shudder at the sudden pressure.

“You’re so deep in me,” you whine, dripping more slick into his lap, matting down the dark curls on his lap into a sticky mess. His jaw clenches as he feels you tighten further; he knows you’re close.

“Yeah?” he asks rhetorically. “Do you like me being deep in that belly? Feeling my cock in your throat?” He punctuates his sentence with a punch up into you, making you nearly scream.

“Yes,” you sob, bouncing harder on him. “Please, Santi, fill me up.”

You both begin thrusting and grinding in earnest and your orgasm quickly precipitates in your core. Your nerves pull taut as a bowstring, shimmering on the edge of oblivion. Every brush of his stomach on your swollen clit threatens your end.

“Please, may I come?” you beg, your thighs beginning to quiver. “Please!”

Santi lets out a shaky breath, and you realize he’s barely keeping his composure. “I think you’ve waited long enough,” he says. “Come for me.”

One more stroke of him inside of you acts as the match to your fuse, and you’re scarcely able to gasp in a breath before the tension snaps, radiating from the base of your spine and blowing searing pleasure outwards, ripping a ragged scream from your throat. You cling to him, cunt throbbing and clamping down on him, tears of relief trickling down your cheekbones, and cry his name over and over into his shoulder. It only takes him a few more seconds before your velvet vice grip sends him over the edge, a choked moan exiting through his clenched teeth as his cock swells and bursts deep in you, flooding you with his cum. His grip nearly bruises your sides as shudders wrack his body; your teeth sink into his strong shoulders while you both ride out the waves of ecstasy.

After your crests mellow into shallow tides, Santi’s hands relax, smoothing along your curves in a soothing manner. He kisses the top of your head gently, and in your delirious post-orgasmic haze, you jokingly pat-pat-pat the curls on the side of his head. Santi quietly snorts into your hair. You carefully dismount his lap, pressing your fingers to your core to stop the drip of his seed from you. His brows knit momentarily at the overstimulation. 

You flop onto the nearby chaise lounge that he bent you over earlier, and before you can suppress it, laughter overflows from your mouth. He looks over at you, rolls his eyes, and starts tucking himself back into his pants.

“Are you happy with yourself, Giggles McGee?” he teases. 

You nod, grinning loopily, then lay your head back. “God, I really ought to misbehave more.” When you glance over at Santi, he’s glaring at you, though you can see he’s barely containing undeniable mirth.

Santi just shakes his head. Just as his mouth opens to retort, the door to the bathroom and powder room jiggles.

Your heads snap in the direction of the entrance, then at each other in a slight panic. 

“Get in one of the stalls,” you hiss, “then leave once they come in.” Santi rushes to the nearest bathroom stall and locks himself in as you scramble to right your outfit in a presentable manner. A series of knocks shakes the entry door. 

“Hello?” the stranger calls out. “Is there someone there?”

“Oh! Just a minute, so sorry!” you nearly shriek, hurriedly searching for your panties, only to realize that Santi must have pocketed them earlier. “That bastard!” you curse under your breath while wiping away the lipstick smeared past your lipline. 

Tottering over to the door, you flip the lock and push the door open. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” you apologize profusely to the woman. “I thought it was just one stall, but turns out I was very wrong!” Sheepishly, you grin at her, hoping she accepts your story, and relax in relief when she buys it with a slightly confused expression. When the latch to her stall shuts closed, you hear Santi exit his stall behind you. You spot him over your shoulder in the mirror while you fix your hair. 

“Behave,” he mouths at you, then sends a cheesy wink towards you while straightening his shirt collar. Santi swings the door open before you can even roll your eyes at him. 

“What a bastard,” you mutter under your breath. Pulling out your lipstick, you swipe on a fresh coat, then freeze.

An irresistible idea materializes. Checking briefly to make sure the other woman is still in the stall, you ruck up your skirts just enough to access your dripping pussy, and quickly swipe your thumb through your and Santi’s combined releases. You then hustle towards the exit.

Weaving through the gala crowd, you spot your man walking up to Benny and his girlfriend Mandy, neither of them the wiser about your bathroom antics. Santi claps Benny on the back and hugs Mandy warmly.

“Hey sunshine!” Benny looks past Santi and greets you enthusiastically. You lean in for a hug, careful not to touch him with your hand, and do the same to bubbly, sweet Mandy.

“Oh, babe, you have something on your face,” you chide with fake concern, turning to Santi, then swipe your anointed thumb across his lips. His amusement falters, and he goes stock-still as he registers what you just did. 

You smile deviously at him. “All better,” you chirp innocently. The telltale muscle feathers in his jaw as his eyes lock on yours.

“Santi, are you wearing lip gloss?” Mandy pipes up. You all stare at him as he licks his lips, fire in his eyes, no doubt tasting the evidence of your earlier escapades.

You give him your best Cheshire cat grin.

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please reblog so others can read it too! I love praise so feel free to drop some love in the comments or my inbox :) xoxo

Tagging folks who might be interested (NP): @penvisions @for-a-longlongtime @mountainsandmayhem @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @campingwiththecharmings @missdictatorme @almostempty @almostfoxglove @h4untedsp3ctor @kokoluwie @whocaresstillthelouvre @perotovar @cosmickid-inmotion @qveerthe0ry @sp00kymulderr @arcane-fox @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @ivystoryweaver @simpingforjoel @reallyrallyauthor @rhapsodyofdarkness @kedsandtubesocks @baronessvonglitter @gothcsz @oonajaeadira @jessthebaker @ghotifishreads @ghostofaboy @musings-of-a-rose @absurdthirst @wardenparker @dizthemonster @evolnoomym @faretheeoscar @grandtheftaristotle @gasolinerainbowpuddles @hoeruiness @im-poe-dameron @julesonrecord @lavendertales @max--phillips @ozarkthedog @writefightandflightclub @wannab-urs @yopossum @yorksgirl @aria725 @just-ashlee @mysticalmoonb3ams @steven-grants-world @julesonrecord

[jjdaddywrites18]

Not ready

Willam Miller

ꪆ୧ William miller x black reader

ꪆ୧ contains: slight angst, struggling with feelings, some fluff, relationship struggles, light kissing.

ꪆ୧ Jen’s notes: Rewatched triple frontier recently and writing for William has been heavily on my mind so you know I had to write for him. I was going to do two parts, but knowing myself I would’ve got an idea for another story and would lose focus on this one, so now it’s just all together. Also got a little lazy towards the end😭 Reader is black coded but anyone is more than welcome to read. Enjoy :) also sorry in advance for any grammar mistakes.

The steam from the master bedroom washroom was thick and hot, but it couldn’t warm up the coldness that settled between you two over the last eight weeks.

William Miller. The man you’d known for eleven years, loved for eight years and married to for three pushed the glass door open as you heard his pants drop to the floor. The coolness from outside the shower hitting your wet skin.

He stepped inside joining you, the spray lightly hitting his face as he moved behind you. You didn’t turn around. You stayed under the shower head, eyes closed, letting the water drown out the world. Not even flinching when his calloused hands settled on your curvy waist.

Remaining still, you didn’t move. He ignored the tension as he leaned down, his hand coming up to move your curly hair to one side pressing his face in the crook of your neck. His scruffy beard scratched your soft skin as his lips trailed kisses all over your neck down to your shoulder blade, slightly nipping at it.

"I missed you tonight" he murmured against your soft skin. Voice deep. After months of him coming and going straight to sleep, months of "I’m too tired sweetheart, not tonight" the sudden affection felt jarring.

"Why were you at the strip club William?" Your voice was flat, cutting through the sound of the rushing water. His mouth on your skin paused, his lips hovering your collarbone. He let out a long heavy sigh that puffed hot against you, feeling slightly nervous at the fact you called him William instead of Will.

"Just a night with the boys honey, nothing major" he spoke trying to place another kiss on your shoulder. You finally turned facing him, the water hitting the back of your head, revealing the hurt you couldn’t hide.

"Why didn’t you tell me? I’m your wife. I had to find out from a group text that you guys were heading to Pink pony." You looked up at him, seeing his jaw clench slightly as he looked off to the side.

"Cause it wasn’t a big deal!" He stepped back an inch, lifting his arms causing water to splash. "It was just noise and drinks. I barley paid attention to the stage, I swear. I just…I just needed to be out" wiping his hands down his face.

"You could’ve been out with me" you spoke softly, you voice slightly rising. "You’ve been avoiding me for two months, William. You don’t touch me when you come home. And then you go out there? To a place where you pay to get attention that you don’t even give to your wife?"

"It’s not about that!" He snapped, his jaw tight. "I’m not looking for attention, I’m looking for a god damn break!"

Confusion hitting you like a brick. "A break from what? A break from me?"

"Yes! Because you’ve been so exhausting" he groaned his hands coming up rubbing down his face.

The words coming from his mouth hitting you like a punch in the gut. You fell silent. Your lips slightly parting before closing again as your heart hammered against your ribs. You felt dizzy, like the steam in the bathroom was suffocating you. But he didn’t stop.

"Every day it’s the same thing. You tracking your cycles, talking about nurseries, you’re pushing me to be ready. It’s all you talk about. I can’t even have a conversation with you without it circulating it back to a baby"

"We agreed" you whispered, tears now blurring your vision. "Two and a half months ago, we laid in our bed and you told me that you were ready. That I’d be an amazing mother." You pointed a finger in his face.

"Well I don’t want it anymore!" He yelled his voice echoing off the tiles, slicing through the water. "that was just talking after sex talk. I don’t want a kid right now. I don’t want that pressure"

The silence falling after was deafening. As you stared at him, seeing a stranger in his eyes as they locked on yours. The man you loved so much, the one who always used to put a smile on your face, the man who promised to build a life with you. Gone. Without another word you reached out and twisted the shower handle, killing the water.

"Baby…" Williams voice dropped into a soft tone, the anger quickly evaporating as he saw hurt etched across your face, watching as a tear rolled down your cheek. "Sweetheart, wait—"

"Don’t!" Voice cold, you ripped your arm away from his hold as he tried to grip it. Stepping out as you grabbed your towel wrapping it around you, not even bothering to dry yourself. You didn’t wait for him as you quickly bolted into the master bedroom, a trail of water droplets following you.

Walking into the closet you threw on whatever shirt and pants you could find, not caring how uncomfortable the clothing felt clinging to your wet skin. Quickly you reached up grabbing a duffel bag from the top shelf.

William called out for you again, trailing close behind as he held a towel secure around his waist. "Hey, what are you doing it’s midnight." He spoke as you ignored him, pushing past him marching towards your drawers, him hot on your trail. "I didn’t mean it like that. I was just frustrated—"

"You meant it." You said shoving clothes and other random shit in your bag with trembling hands. "You’ve been punishing me for months because you were too much of a fucking coward to tell me you changed your mind. You let me hope" your voice slightly cracking. "You let me dream and talk about us as parents while you were busy resenting me" dropping the filled bag on the bed as you zippped it closed.

"I don’t resent you! I love you, fuck I love you more than anything!" Trying to grab the bag from you, his eyes slightly glassy with guilt. "I didn’t cheat, I would never-"

"I know you didn’t cheat! That almost makes it worse. You just started to avoid me and stopped being here." Slinging the bag over your shoulder, chest aching. Looking up you saw William who looked so distraught. But you didn’t care. You put you through hell the last two months. "I’m staying over Kimora’s. Referring to your close friend. "Don’t call me."

Stepping passed him you walked out. William sat on the edge of the bed. His elbows on his knees as his hands intertwined, his eyes looking towards the dresser where a picture of the two of you sat. Your wedding day. The happiest days of both of your guys lives. His vision blurred as his head flung down, body shaking as cries left his body.

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

Four days. Four days it’s been since you’ve seen him or heard his voice and god did you miss him. You should’ve been used to the distance since he would go a lot, with him being in the force and everything. But this felt different.

Laughter and chatter filled the air as sun beamed down in the big backyard. It was your nephews second birthday, and all your cousins, uncles, aunties and other relatives were around. You were exhausted, the dark circles under your eyes from the lack of sleep and stress were masked by some concealer and powder, but you were trying to smile for the family.

You were having a conversation with a few aunties all of them asking where your husband was as you lied and told them he was busy. You continued talking until you heard your uncles and some cousins sound excited as you heard the gate to the back yard open. Turning around you saw him.

Slight shock ran through you seeing William. He wore a tight fitted white long sleeve, his jeans slightly baggy matched with a leather jacket. He looked so good, but were still too pissed of to focus on that right now. Your eyes landed on his face, looking like he hadn’t slept, just like you. It wasn’t weird that he showed up, he was close with almost everyone in your family and they all loved him.

You caught his eye, immediately making you look away as he started to cross the lawn to get to you his feet coming to a halt as one of your uncles walked up to him. "Hey, what’s up my man" dapping him up as the other males followed up. Making him become occupied as they made him come and sit with them.

An hour passed and he kept trying to drift toward you, but your family kept interrupting him. You kept yourself on the other side of the yard at all times. You had a plate in your hand filled with bqq ribs, baked Mac n cheese, collard greens and some corn bread. Quickly calling your brother over as he walked by.

"Marcus, come here" you waving him over. "What’s up?" He replied as you passed him the plate. "I already ate sis, I’m good"

"It’s not for you. Pass this to William, I haven’t seen him eat yet" pushing the plate in your older siblings hand as he raised a brow at you. "Why can’t you give food to your own husband?" He pressed.

"Can you just stop asking questions and do what I say?" Groaning he took the plate walking towards his brother in law. "Aye yo Will. Come here bruh" getting up William walked to him near the fence where only two chairs sat.

"Yeah what’s up?" Williams asked sitting across from your brother, as he took the plate he offered. "Oh thanks, I’m surprised you knew what to put on my plate"

"No, I ain’t do all that. My sister did." Your brother spoke as William paused his bite on the meat. "Speaking of my sister, what’s going on between y’all? Y’all haven’t interacted once, y’all showed up separately and don’t try to lie to me either."

Williams sighed, using a napkin to wipe the grease off his mouth, looking defeated. "We had an argument. A bad one."

"About what? You didn’t step out on her…right?" As close friends him and William were, your brother wouldn’t think twice about punching the shit out of him. Even if he knew he would lose the fight between them.

"What? No? Never." Putting his plate down he rubbed a hand along his head, letting out a breath. "It’s the baby stuff. I told her I didn’t want one. I sorta snapped on her"

Marcus frowned. "You don’t want a child? Since when? You used to talking about wanting a whole squad."

"It’s not that I don’t want one" William paused, his voice dropping down to almost a whisper. "I’m scared man. I’m terrified." Marcus softened, nodding slowly, encouraging for him to continue. "Scared of what?"

"Everything." William admitted, eyes fixated on his boots. "What if I’m a terrible father? What if I’m like my old man? I’ve spent my whole life in the dirt, in the mud, holding guns. I don’t wanna be hard on my kid, I don’t know how to be soft or how to raise a human. I’m scared I’ll fail them. I’m scared I’ll fail her."

Marcus let out a short laugh. "You don’t think I was terrified? When Nina told me she was pregnant with Jordan, I went to the bathroom and threw up. I didn’t think I was ready. I didn’t think I had enough good in me to be the father he deserves. But when you have the right woman by your side, I promise you can get through anything and past those feelings." He smiled softly pointing towards the lawn. "Look"

There you stood in the grass holding Jordan. You were spinning him around your dress slightly flowing as your laughter mixed in with his high pitched giggles. You looked radiant. Your curly hair fanning against your face, looking like a halo. Even through your sadness he knew was underneath that you hid quite well, but he knew better. Knowing you were hurting just as much as him.

He watched as you placed your nephew on your hip kissing his forehead before whispering something in his ear, making the young boy squeal in delight. William eyes never left your frame.

He didn’t see the "exhausting" woman he said you were. He saw you. His wife. The woman who saved him a thousand times when he was doubting or too hard on himself. He saw the way you naturally held the child, the smile on her face as she watched Jordan try to speak and tell her something.

Visions flashed through his head, imagining you with a swollen belly as he rubbed it, you and him with your child. He saw a future where he wasn’t just a soldier and a husband, but a father too. "You need to talk to her will" Marcus voice cut through. "Before she starts having even further doubts."

15 minutes passed as he got off the chair. He searched around the yard, but he didn’t see you around. He walked towards the house heading inside assuming you maybe went to the washroom or something.

It was quiet inside. He heard faint voices coming from down the hall, following the sound once he heard your voice. He stopped at the door that was half way open, peaking inside.

You were sitting in a rocking chair, Jordan fast asleep in your arms. Your sister in law Nina sat on the floor by your feet, rubbing a comforting hand on your knee as you spoke.

"He doesn’t want a baby with me Nina" your voice was thick with emotion, trying to hold back tears. "He said I was exhausting. What if…what if he wants a child with someone else? What if he fell out of love with me and this is his way of pushing me out?" A low sob broke through you, trying to be quiet so you didn’t wake up the toddler.

Nina rushed to her feet pulling you into a hug, making sure not to wake her son. "Oh, honey no" Nina murmured. "Will loves you more than anybody. More than himself."

"I don’t know that anymore" your body shook harder with cries. "He doesn’t touch me or show me any affection. He barley even looks at me. I think…I think it’s over."

Williams heart broke hearing the words coming out your mouth. He loved you more than anything. Not being able to listen to your cries anymore he pushed the door open stepping into the room.

The door creaking made you and Nina look over, before you quickly turned your head away wiping your tears. But Will didn’t miss seeing your face. You looked so torn, heartbroken and fragile.

Nina stood up gently taking Jordan from your arms. "I’m going to put him to bed upstairs" she softly spoke, giving your shoulder a squeeze, before nodding towards William leaving and shutting the door.

You sat there continuing to wipe at your red eyes, refusing to look at him knowing it would break you. William didn’t speak at first. He moved forward sinking to his knees in front of you, your eyes still not meeting his.

"Baby" he choked out, reaching for your hands. You tried to pull away and stand up but he held on gently and firmly. "I heard what you said. Please, look at me." You didn’t look his way until he softly grabbed your jaw making you look towards him.

Yours eyes met his seeing they were also red and glossy like your own.

"I do want a child with you" he said, his voice trembling as you shook your head, replaying the words he told you in the shower. "B-but you said you didn’t want one anymo-"

He shook his own head, his words cutting you off. "I’m scared" your mouth shut as you stared at him confused. "Truth is Im so fucking scared, I didn’t know how to tell you or handle it So I’ve been avoiding is which was so stupid, and I regret it so much. I’m scared I won’t be a good enough father. I’m scared that our child will hate me, like I hated my father." He expressed.

You searched his face. "Will…why didn’t you tell me?" Your thumb wiped his tear away, as he leaned into your touch.

"I’m supposed to be the strong one. I’m supposed to be the one who isn’t afraid of anything." He whispered, another tear escaping and rolling down his red cheek. "I’m so in love with you baby you don’t understand, I can’t live or breathe without you. I didn’t avoid you cause I didn’t love you. I was avoiding you because I was spiralling. I’m sorry for what I said, I didn’t mean any of it. You are not exhausting, you are my life."

You let out a relieved sigh, leaning forward until your forehead rested against his. "Honey, you are going to be amazing father, you are nothing like your father. You’re are the most protective, loyal and caring man I’ve ever known. Our baby would be the luckiest one in the world."

He let out shaking breath, a small smile on his lips. His hands moved to cup your face his mouth claimed yours into a soft, passionate kiss. Slowly pulling away as you both smiled softly.

"I’m ready. I don’t wanna be scared anymore. I want this with you, I want to see you pregnant, be there for you and our kid, to hold them. I want it all."

You let out a watery laugh, happy tears building in your eyes before you let out a gasp. William pulled you forward off the chair as you landed in his lap straddling him, as he landed on his butt. His big hands immediately landing on your now bare thighs, do to your dress pooling around your hips. His hands wrapping around you holding you tight. You immediately relaxing in his hold.

Placing a kiss on your lips, cheek and jaw he whispered in your ear. "I love you so much, I’m sorry again"

You played with his hair looking at him placing another quick kiss on his lips. "It’s okay, I love you too. But please next time you have doubts about anything. You tell me, okay?"

He nodded his head. "I will. Can you please come back home now?" he asked a soothing hand rubbing your thigh. "Yeah" you replied hand pulling the hairs on the nape of his neck. "Let’s go"

A wide grin took over his face, swiftly standing to his feet your legs wrapping around his waist as he ran you both down the hall.

[bobafetts-princess]

Bee Stung

Pairings: Benny Miller x Fem!Reader x Santiago Garcia x Frankie Morales x Will Miller

Word Count: 8.3k (I cannot even explain what happened. My fingers started moving and never stopped)

Warnings: Sex pollen. Dubcon because of sex pollen. PiV, little butt stuff, oral (fem!receiving), love bites. There’s a little boy on boy action.

Is not killing Tom a warning? He isn’t on our mission but he also isn’t dead so

A/N: This is 100% inspired by @/charnelhouse’s Bloomverse. Char is an incredible writer and I can only hope to live up to her writing standard 🙏🏼

(She also has a book out, you should definitely check it out)

“Are we all in?” Santi asks, glancing around at his brothers. Brothers in arms, brothers in life, brothers in every way but blood.

“I’m down,” Benny says, jumping at the chance to be in before Will.

“I’m in,” Will shrugs, “so long as Fish is in.” The eyes around the room glance at Fish as he contemplates.

“I’m trying to get clean, man,” he says, palms up.

“No drugs. None for us. Recon and get the fuck out,” Santi says, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice. They can’t do this without Fish. Their pilot. Their way out. Fish nods before dropping his head. It’s silent for several minutes as he thinks, Pope’s breath caught in his throat. He’s about to try to plead again when Fish glances up and nods.

“I’m in.”

Santiago lets out a heavy breath. He’s got three of his four on board but his toughest test has yet to come. You.

“We can’t do this without her,” Will muses, hand on his stubbled jaw. “We need her,” and Santiago knows. He fucking knows okay?

Will is their leader, their planner. Benny is their cheerleader, he’s got their backs no matter what. Frankie is their escape. Their way out, always. Santiago is the glue that holds them all together. But you? You’re their anchor. When shit goes south and Jesus it always goes south, you hold them together. Figuratively and literally. You’re their medic, you’ve saved their lives more times than they can count. You’re also their sharp shooter. You’ve taken as many lives, if not more, than the rest of them.

Honeybee, sometimes known as Honey. Sometimes known as Bee, depending on the situation. When you’re patching up their bullet wounds or knife cuts, you’re Honey. When you’re 500 feet away and sniping an enemy, you’re Bee. When you’re sugar sweet and smiling at them as you do a shot of tequila, you’re Honey. When you’re spitting mad and cussing because they’ve done something stupid, you’re Bee. That time Benny lit your truck on fire because he ‘was curious about whether metal burned’, he got Bee and boy did Bee sting. But when Frankie needed someone to bail him out of jail because he got busted, Honey showed up without a second thought.

Santiago can’t do anything but think about that awful mission 2 years ago when everything went sideways. When they almost lost you and because of that they did end up losing you. It’s a long drive to the farm where you live now and Santi can’t stop his racing thoughts. He told the other three to follow a half hour behind him, give him time to apologize and soften up their Honeybee before they descend and ask the unthinkable.

——————

You know who it is the second you see a truck turn down your driveway. Who it is and why he’s here. Not the specifics, of course, but you know why he would show up on your doorstep nearly 2 years to the day after he last spoke to you. He steps out of the truck, as disarmingly handsome as he smiles at you.

“Hey, Honeybee,” he greets you like he last saw you a week ago and it pisses you off.

“Pope,” he used your call sign, you’ll use his. He can’t see all of you, only your shoulders and head because you’re hidden in your garden.

“How are you?” He asks like he doesn’t know. Like he hasn’t been keeping tabs on you. Of course, you have connections too and they tell you when Santiago checks up on you. When you step out from behind the tomato plants and stalks of corn, he’s almost knocked over at the sight of you. You’re as stunning as ever and Santi gulps down the sight of you.

“Fine,” you’re short with him. And he knows you have every right to be.

“I’m sorry,” he says, stepping towards you and stopping when you move your basket from your hip to in front of you. A clear sign for him not to get closer.

“For what, Garcia?” You prod. You both know what he’s apologizing for but he’s the one that needs to admit the wrongdoing.

“For that mission,” his head drops in shame and your eyes narrow at him.

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

2 years ago, you’d been on your final mission as Delta Force. Redfly was set to retire and be followed by Ironhead and Catfish. Benny followed his brother into everything and wanted to start his boxing career. The level of respect that was given to you by these five was hard to come by, so you retired too. Pope was the only one who couldn’t give it up. Couldn’t stop. ‘One more mission’, he’d say, every time. But this one really was the last mission as a team, a unit. One that had spent nearly every waking hour together for 10 years. (Not really, but it felt like it some days) Some, like Redfly and Ironhead, had been together longer than that.

Pope had been charged with watching your weak side, your job was to snipe their sharpshooter, make him disappear while the others take the operation down from the inside out. But Pope got distracted, eyeing something and went to investigate. While he was gone, the enemy had managed to get someone behind your lines, intending to stop you. Their footsteps were quiet and you had your eye through the sights, drowning out everything else. By the time you heard them it was too late for you to do anything except roll. The knife intended for your neck embedded in your ribs instead.

“Honeybee down,” you remembered saying through your comm, right after putting one bullet through the skull of your attacker. There was so much activity over the comms, shouts from Ironhead and curses from Redfly and Benny. Fish, unknown to you, was already on his was to your location and Pope, Pope was frozen with fear and shame and guilt. You heard his voice over the comms, taking responsibility for the situation as you tried to remember your medical training.

Keep pressure on the wound. Don’t remove the knife. Fuck. Where’s my med pack. Jesus this hurts. Damn, I missed my target. This is going to blow the entire mission.

Catfish found you first, gently removing your bloodied hand as he pulled supplies out of your med pack and bandaged you up as best as he could. Ironhead was next, whispering gentle words in your ear as you bobbed in and out of consciousness. Benny and Redfly came together, Benny cussing up a storm and demanding you stay awake as he gently cradled your face. The wound was deep and you were bleeding like a stuck pig. Which, to be fair, you kind of were. It took all of them to get you and your shit out of there without you dying, but it was close. By the time Pope arrived, you were out, your body protecting itself from the pain and blood loss.

But the thing was, you weren’t even mad at Pope because he abandoned his position. They’d all made mistakes and they’d all gotten injured before, it was part of the job. But what pissed you off was the fact that he never called. Never checked up on you himself. He did it all through the others or through your doctors when they got you to a hospital. You’d scraped by, the wound nothing but an ugly puckered scar now. The true pain lay somewhere in your chest when you thought of them. Thought of all you’d given them and they’d given you. And the fact that none of them called anymore, none of them stopped by or checked up. Even Redfly, who was always the most unattainable of the group but also the most reliable, quit contacting. And that shit hurt. You’d given them 10 years and they’d given you nothing in return. You knew life was hard, they were all learning to live without the army.

Shaking your head of the memory, you focused on the man in front of you, the one hanging his head in shame and finally speaking to you.

“I mean, what the fuck Pope?” You snapped, taking a step towards him.

“I made a mistake, I left my position,” he said and you sighed out loud.

“You’re a fucking idiot, do you honestly think that’s what I’m mad about? You’ve got a thick skull,” and his head lifts to look at you.

“You’re not mad you got hurt?”

“Fuck no, I’m not mad I got hurt!” You explode, 2 years of hurt and anger flying to the surface. “I’m pissed because you never checked up on me. When I got medically discharged, everyone but you was there. No letters no phone calls, no get-well flowers, just silence,” the rage in your bones is making the scar on your ribs twinge and you subconsciously rub the skin there. Santi winces as he watches you, taking the tongue lashing he deserves. “Don’t you remember that time I missed a shot and alerted an enemy to Fish? He almost died because I fucked up and Fish forgave me without a second thought. I didn’t even have to forgive you for making a mistake, Santi, because it happens to the best of us. I’m not ready to forgive you for choosing to shut me out the next 2 years.”

“I’m sorry,” he says once there’s been several beats of silence between you. “I was so embarrassed and ashamed. Redfly ripped me apart for making that mistake and I couldn’t handle the guilt of knowing I was the reason that you nearly died. I-,” he falters for words, his palms up in defeat. “I just couldn’t handle feeling so responsible,” he nearly chokes on his words as he remembers that day, in a different light than you do.

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

He saw a shadow, he would swear by it to this day and in fact he did when the army investigated the situation. You were so damned capable, so smart and aware, there’s no way you could get hurt if he checked it out, right? He gets there and there’s nothing but another shadow, a little further off. He follows again, gun at the ready and his senses in overdrive. He hears a pop and the shadow darts into an opening and it’s just a fucking alley cat and he thinks ‘Bee got her shot’.

But then your voice comes over the comms and its scratchy and breathy and not at all like the rich one he’s used to hearing. “Honeybee down,” and his brain explodes and his body freezes. He’s supposed to be watching your six, your back, keeping you safe. The comms explode with noise, all five men dropping their individual missions to make their way to you. He hears Redfly come over the comms demanding to know who fucked up and Santi’s hands shake as he takes responsibility. He’s closest, he should get there first but he can’t fucking make his feet move. Fish is the only one not speaking and Santi knows that he’s already on his way. Ironhead is shouting, demanding to know what the fuck happened and Benny is cussing up one side and down the other. Santi knows how he feels about you but in that moment he knows how the others feel about you too. Well, except for Redfly. He’s married and sees you like his baby sister, but the other four? They see you as something more.

Catfish comes over the comms and confirms that he’s got you but you’re in a bad way. Your attacker got you with a knife and didn’t hold back. You’ve done a damn good job of keeping pressure on and Santi feels a rush of pride that you’re so good at your job that you’re saving your own life. A feeling that is immediately followed by guilt as he remembers that it’s his fault. Ironhead is next in and Santi would never tell him this but when he leans over you, he presses your comm and broadcasts what he’s saying.

“Come on my sweet girl, stay with me. Let me see those beautiful eyes, that’s it. Look at me. Stay with me. Please,” he’s pleading and then here comes Benny’s voice.

“Honeybee, you’d better fucking be awake. You’d better fucking stay with me, goddamnit. We’ve done too much for this to be the thing that takes you out. You’re fucking tougher than that knife,” and the longer Benny talks, the more desperate his voice gets and that’s finally what gets Pope’s feet moving. He gets there as they’re putting you on a makeshift stretcher and his gut twists as he looks at you, unconscious with your breath rattling in your chest. They told him later that you had a punctured lung that nearly collapsed and you’d lost a significant amount of blood and he donated so much he almost passed out. Santi shakes the memory away, bringing himself back to the present as he looks at you.

“I’m so sorry,” he says and this time he uses your name. The way his tongue curls around it makes something go hot in your bones and you nod at him. He’s not truly forgiven but you also know Santi and know how responsible he feels. Anything that will make him feel something that deeply needs to be pushed down or it might overtake him.

“Your apology isn’t quite accepted but you’re moving in the right direction,” you smile at him and it’s disarming. He hasn’t see that smile in too long and it nearly knocks him over. He takes a step toward you but then a noise distracts him. Before he can get to you, wrap you up in a hug, run his fingers over the softness of your thighs, he hears the rumble of a truck. It’s the guys, his half hour must be up.

“I knew you were up to some shit, Garcia,” but your tone isn’t one of anger, in fact, you sound almost amused. The guys get out of Frankies truck, heading to you but Benny, sweet fucking Benny, can’t contain it and he breaks out into a full run to get to you. He’s wrapping you up and you’re laughing, Benny’s hands clasped under your ass as he spins you in a circle. Will is next, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug before he cups your jaw and takes a moment just to look at you. Frankie is next, burying his face in your neck as he inhales your scent, holding on just a beat longer than the others. You look at them, your boys, and catalog how they look.

Santiago has more gray in his hair than you’ve ever seen, his beard speckled with grey as well. He got his call sign early in his time with DF when one of his informants told Redfly that he fucked so good she saw God every time he came around. He’s got wrinkles by his eyes and he’s so undeniably handsome.

Catfish, who got his call sign because he refused to shave and Redfly said that he looked like he had catfish whiskers under his nose, has put on weight. It looks good on him, the way his shirt stretches just a little bit around his midsection. His hair has gotten long, curling around the edges of his hat as he smiles at you and it makes your heart thump.

Will, who got his name Ironhead from actually getting shot in the head. A bullet ricocheted off a piece of metal and lodged itself in the back of his skull and if he gets really drunk he’ll let you touch it. He’s still fucking stacked, you can see his muscles under that little polo he’s wearing. He’s golden, the golden boy of Delta Force, their face if they needed one. His facial hair is longer than he used to keep it and it makes your chest ache.

Then there’s Benny, who followed his big brother into everything in life. He’s grinning at you like you hung the sun and maybe for Benny, you did. Benny had a call sign once upon a time, he was Baby Miller until he got hammered once and admitted to you that he hates it. You made everyone stop using it after that, sticking with only Benny and even though he’s never thanked you outright, you know he appreciated it. His hair has gotten long too, you can see it when he moves his cap to run his fingers through it.

They’re all so devastatingly handsome and you have to do something to distract yourself. “No Redfly?” Tom got his call sign because he was like a fly on the wall. He seemed to always know what the enemy was doing and how to handle it.

“Nah,” Will says, scratching a hand across his jaw in a way that’s so familiar that it makes your chest ache. “He had that back surgery last year to repair a disk and it didn’t fix the problem. He has to have another one in a few weeks. He sends his best though.” Tom was the only one you’d kept up with, until the last six months or so, he was a good man who has had some bad breaks. A soft silence settles over the five of you and while you don’t mind it, there’s an elephant in the room.

“Why are all of you on my farm?” You ask, eyes flicking between them. Benny and Will share a glance and Frankie’s eyes narrow at Santi. “What are you not telling me? I know y’all didn’t show up after all this time just to look at me like I’m a ghost.”

Santi swallows, “there’s a mission…” you knew that, you just wanted him to admit it. So you cut him off with a raise of your hand and start dishing directions. You may not lead them into a mission, but this is your home and you give the orders here.

“Pope, grab my basket please. I’ve got some steaks we can grill tonight. I made fresh bread this morning and I just picked tomatoes and basil, so I’ll make the bruschetta if someone can cook the steaks,” you tell them and almost laugh at the way they jump into action. “You can tell me about this mission over cocktails,” you say, heading up to your house, “which I’m not making.”

It’s so easy, you notice, to fall into a rhythm with them. Will grills and Santi tells him everything he’s doing wrong. Frankie washes all the vegetables you harvested and Benny makes sure that everyone’s drink is always full. You eat on your patio, everything but the steaks from your farm, and the boys are sure to compliment you on it. You spend the evening catching up on everything you’ve missed as a group and once everyone has a full stomach, you give Santi a pointed look. He explains everything and you listen intently, throwing a leg over the arm of your chair and letting your red toes dangle. “Can we do this without Redfly?” You ask and Santi nods.

“We don’t have a choice. He wouldn’t miss this unless he absolutely had to,” Will says and the group nods at you.

“Who runs point?”

“Ironhead,” Santi confirms what you already knew. It makes sense, he was Tom’s second hand and watched the way he worked more closely than the rest of you.

“And you’re all in?” You ask, looking each man in the face and wait for them to confirm. A soft hand lands on your ankle before it moves up and wraps around your calf. It’s Will’s and you breakout in goosebumps at the feeling of his warmth on your skin.

“We can’t do this without you, Honeybee,” He says and the other three murmur their agreement.

“I’m in,” you say and Santiago breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m also not cleaning up,” you tell them, gesturing to the food on the table. I’m going to sit here and watch you four do it,” and as you watch them, you can’t help the thoughts that sprint through your mind. Wondering what it would be like to have them all here with you, in this house. How fucking soft and domestic it would be. An image flashes in your brain at them in your bed and you quickly shake it away. You’re heading out on a mission where there’s a real chance you won’t all come back, you cannot get distracted.

The five of you chat and hang out, drinking until well-past dark and you’re the first to call it quits and head to bed. You’ve barely gotten to sleep when your bed dips and you know who it is without opening your eyes.

“Benny,” you whisper as he curls around you, just like old times. Benny runs warm and the two of you always ended up together on nights you had to cold camp.

“Couldn’t be in the same place without some tactile cuddles,” he says and you open your eyes just to roll them.

“We don’t need to snuggle for warmth in my house, Ben,” you say and he shrugs.

“I’m already here, might as well stay.”

You both drift off, Benny snoring softly in your ear, but before you get into a deep sleep the bed dips again. “Can I join?” Frankie’s voice rasps, his hot breath fanning across your face and you nod, keeping your eyes closed. He kisses your cheek and then flops down, making Benny grunt and hold you tighter. You reach out to Frankie and he takes your hand, curling your fingers in between his and he’s out in seconds.

A little while later you hear the door open but you’re so damned tired that you don’t even look up. A pair of soft lips press against your temple, Will’s, and he whispers a ‘good night, Princess’ before you hear the couch in your bedroom strain as he drops his weight on it. Another pair of lips press against your cheek moments later, the stubble rubbing gently against your skin and Pope is the only one it could be. The rocking chair that sits beside the couch creaks gently when he sits in it. You wait until you hear the soft breathing of all four of them then you relax completely and drift back off into your own sleep.

——————-

Pope, leave it to fucking Pope, lied about this mission. It was initially recon, like he said, but it quickly morphed into something else. Instead of passing intel over to the national government, Santi said to just use the intel yourselves and kill the bastard in charge. “We would never have to work again,” he pleaded. “Lorea is ruining this country and no one will question why he’s dead. We can have money and this country can have freedom.”

So, here you are, strapped down with guns and your med pack, stalking through the house looking for this guy. He wasn’t where Santi thought he should be, so you offered to sweep the house while they loaded the money. You’re the quickest shot anyways. Turning a corner you see movement, and slow your steps, lifting your gun. You and Lorea catch sight of each other at the same time, but you already have your weapon ready while he has to reach for his. It takes one shot and you communicate that over the comms. You move towards him, grabbing the plastic ball on the table next to where he was and inspect it. It’s not a bomb, too flimsy, but there’s definitely something inside it. When you gently squeeze it, it explodes in your face and you scream.

Santi’s stomach drops when he hears that scream, it’s one he’s never heard from you before. Not when you’ve been shot or stabbed. Not that time Benny threw you in the pool fully clothed or that time Fish scared you so bad you peed yourself. It’s gut-wrenching and they all drop what they’re doing to run to you. Benny reaches you first, skidding across the floor on his knees as he grabs your face and you can see the panic in his eyes. You’re covered in white powder that smells sickly sweet, like the scent of dying lilies. “Fuck, Honey, talk to me. Are you okay?” The powder burns your sinuses and makes you go cross-eyed as you try to spit and snort it out. The extra hangs in the air and settles on the skin and in hair as Benny tries to wipe everything off your face.

“Load up, time to go,” Will says, sniffing the air and Benny is already on it. He’s got you hauled over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and Frankie is so worried, his brain so focused on you, that he doesn’t notice another ball on the floor. He steps on it and it explodes, launching more of whatever it is into the air. It settles in the air as they load up, leaving a sick scent and haze in the air.

They’ve all got white powder in their hair, on their clothes, tracked in the treads of their boots. They don’t know what it is or how anyone is going to react to it and all Santi can think about is how they’re probably going to have to burn their clothes. Will can’t stop checking behind him, Benny’s face wrenched up as he tries to cough it out of his lungs. You’re choking on it, trying to get it out of your mouth and your nose and your eyes and you can’t concentrate on anything except the fucking scent.

“Safe house, we have to get to the safe house,” Santi is saying as they get to the van and Will and Benny are tending to you. Frankie is driving, trying to remain calm and rational as Santi gives directions and not glance back at you every two minutes to make sure you’re okay. A burn starts low in your belly as you try to focus on Will, his blue eyes and golden hair filling your vision. You get a flash of what you think those blue eyes would look like in between your thighs and have to shake it away. He hands you a water bottle and you dump it over your head, keeping your eyes open so you can wash the substance out. You feel better, but the substance fucking reeks. Benny is there next to Will, raking fingers through his long hair as he panics. He’s rambling, he tends to do that when he’s scared or nervous and it takes everything in Santi not to tell him to shut the fuck up.

“That’s why you’re not the team medic, Ben,” you say with a laugh and it seems to calm them all down. “No good under the pressure of a medical emergency,” you tell him, smiling, and Benny exhales deeply. It can’t be that bad if you’re cracking jokes and poking fun at him. “How long to the safe house, I want to wash this all off,” you say but as you finish you get a hot flash. Without thinking you start to strip yourself of all your tac gear and get some air. The burn starts to take over your body, the flush creeping up your neck and when Frankie calls your name from the drivers seat all you can think about is how husky it might sound when he cums.

“What’s going on?” Will asks, taking your vest as you get it undone. Your sweatshirt is next, followed by your long-sleeve.

“I’m so hot,” you tell him, that burn intensifying as you take a deep breath. Everyone begins their descent into panic again with every layer you strip off. You’re down to tac pants and a tank and Will can see your pebbled nipples through the material.

“Pope, any idea what the fuck that powder was?” Will asks, fear lacing his voice. He’s never seen you like this, you’re always in control. But Santi shakes his head.

“Nothing I’ve seen before. How do you feel, Bee?” But you can’t answer. You’re looking at all of them and contemplating the repercussions of your next action. You’re slowly losing your grip so you need to make your mind up and quick. You want them, all of them, and damn everyone who might not understand.

“William,” you purr in a voice that sounds so unlike your natural that Ironhead whips his head back to you.

“Pope,” his voice is full of worry as he watches your pupils dilate and your face flush. “I need some answers,” but then you’re pressing up against him and his voice falters. You settle over his lap, rubbing your face against his neck like a cat. You call his name again, your voice husky and needy and he’s really panicking now. His hands are in the air, away from you and god he wishes they weren’t. He wants to settle them on your hips, press you down on himself but he doesn’t think that’s the right choice.

“Captain,” you purr again, and he’s so scared but he gets a hard flash of lust too. But he’s scared about what will happen if he gives into desire, scared about what that powder was. Scared for you. But he’s taken too long to make his decision and you’re off and moving to your next target.

“Benjamin,” you say in that same sultry tone and his eyes are wide and nervous. You straddle him and his hands come up instinctively around your back, cradling your head as you run your tongue along the column of his throat.

“Fuck-“ he stutters, jerking his hips upwards. “Pope, what the fuck is happening?”

“I-goddamnit. It’s a rumor down here! I didn’t think it was real!” He shouts, and Frankie is driving faster now, unable to keep his eyes off the scene in the back of the truck but needing to keep them on the road. “There were rumors that some of the drug lords were making an aphrodisiac powder, you could snort it like cocaine. I didn’t think it was real! We’ve never encountered anything like it!”

“Fuck,” Will says, they’ve been hit with an aphrodisiac powder? Who comes up with this shit? You took a face full of it so god knows how you’re going to react. He glances over and you’ve got your tongue shoved down Benny’s throat, making these hot little whines as you grind down on him. “We have to get to the safe house, now.” Benny took a good bit of it too as he attempted to clean you up, and Frankie stepped on the other one and shot more in the air.

“We’re here,” Frankie says two minutes later, his eyes starting to dilate as he pulls the truck into an underground garage. All three of them are hard as glass listening to you and Benny rut against each other. Santi and Will manage to get the truck covered up as Frankie wrestles you and Benny inside, limbs so tangled up in one another that he can’t tell who’s who but he knows he needs his hands on you. Will starts to feel the heat you were talking about and tries to tamp down the jealousy as he watches Fish and Benny sandwich you in, Benny’s hands on your ass and Fish’s on your tits. Santi takes a look at Will, in all his movie-star handsomeness, and knows this is going to change all their lives.

You feel like you’re under water and Benny’s mouth is the only thing keeping you afloat. You’re drowning in the need, the desire. But then Frankie is behind you, his soft lips on your shoulder as he tugs at your tank. You gasp as his hands find your tits, pulling and pinching and twisting at your nipples.

“Frankie, baby,” you cry out, breaking your kiss with Benny as you twist to shove your tongue down Frankie’s throat. Frankie growls, shoving at Benny, trying to make him back up and Benny snarls. “No, no fighting,” you plead and the desire starts to make your stomach cramp. “I need someone, anyone, everyone. Fuck, please,” and Benny sets you down so he can yank down your tac pants. He can’t get your shoes off, doesn’t have the concentration for that, so he spins you instead. He enters you in one thrust and you both sigh in heavy relief. Benny’s hand is on your hip and his head drops between your shoulder blades as he breaths you in. “Benny,” you plead, “Move. Please,” and he gives you exactly what you ask for, he can never refuse you. His pace is quick and you’re clenching hard around him, savoring the relief his cock is providing.

His pants in your ear sound pained as he moves inside you and his hand cups your tit, thumb and index finger pulling at your nipples. He’s speaking to you but you’re drowning in the feel of him and you don’t know what he’s saying. His hand slides up to your jaw, cupping it and twisting your head so he can shove his tongue in your mouth. Your combined breaths are heavy as your tongues tangle and you can feel Benny’s hands flexing as he reaches his end. His mouth is all over yours, his teeth nipping at your jaw and earlobe with his fingers digging slightly into your skin and you’re so close.

Just as you are about to hit your peak, a soft tongue pokes its way through your pussy and you cry out. You look down to see Frankie looking up at you, his mouth glued to your pussy, his tongue flicking your clit and timing up with Benny’s thrusts and you come. You come so hard that Benny stutters before he shoves all the way in, coating you with his come.

His head drops between your shoulder blades again and he whispers into your skin, “I love you, I love you. Loved you first, before the others,” but you can’t concentrate on that right now because Frankie has pushed him back and replaced Benny’s cock with his fingers and you can’t stand. You collapse and Frankie rolls you, slides into the opening of your thighs, catching your tac pants with his elbow and pushing them down to your ankles. There’s a ripping sound and a rational part of your brain hopes they’re still wearable after this but the non-rational part of your brain is focusing on Frankie. Then his mouth is on you and he’s got two fingers shoved inside you and you can’t think of anything else.

“Frankie!” You cry out and here’s Will, strong dependable Will, and he shoves his tongue down your throat to swallow your cries. You’re all in it now, so deep in the throes that you don’t know how you’ll find your way out but you don’t care. “Will,” you say and he looks down at you with love and adoration partnering with the lust in his eyes and you open your mouth and stick out your tongue out to convey what you want.

“You sure?” And you can’t answer, you can only nod as Frankie pushes another finger inside you and you cry out his name, spasming around his fingers. Will places his cock on your tongue and you suck him down, relishing in the sound of his groan. The cramps worsen in your belly and you can’t think, can’t speak but Will notices. “Fish. Fuck her, she needs it.” Frankie pushes up, lining himself up with you and pushes in. Even though Benny already fucked you, Frankie is a tight fit and you relish the burn as he splits you open. His mouth sucks marks on every part of your body that he can reach and you can’t concentrate on Will anymore. Which is good because he’s gone anyways but then someone is untying your boots, stripping you of your pants and you know it’s Will. Your rock. The one you can always count on. You almost smile but then Frankie sinks his teeth into the soft outer flesh of your breast and it almost sends you over the edge. Your hand comes up to twist in his hair, knocking his hat off as he pounds into you and he growls your name. Santi appears and shoves his hands between your bodies, gathering the slick from you and Benny and Frankie and rubs circles on your clit, his cock pressing up against your cheek as he shoves his tongue down Frankie’s throat. That part sends you spiraling and you cry out, coming as Frankie fucks you stupid. Santi breaks from him, bending to shove his tongue in your mouth instead. Frankie watches you both so intensely that Will worries about him, but then his brow furrows and he groans your name as he cums inside you, dropping his head to rest in the crook of your neck as he whispers in your ear. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he tells you and god, you really cannot unpack this right now.

Will replaces Frankie between your thighs, his beautiful blue eyes full of concern as he presses in. You sob and Will is there, “what do you need?”

“God, harder. It’s starting to hurt,” you tell him and are so thankful when he obliges. Will ruts into you, even in his lust-filled haze he’s calculated, and he brushes up against that patch of nerves with each stroke. You drag his mouth to yours, hearing the sounds of the others as they try to fuck the powder out of their system.

“Benny isn’t the only one who’s loved you,” Will breathes into the hot cup of your mouth. “He loved you first, but he’s not the only one,” and his admission makes you clench around him. God, you love them too, more than just brothers in arms. More than should be legal. “Fuck your pussy is so wet,” he groans, moving you so that you’re on your knees for him. He slides back inside you, groaning about how fucking hot and tight you are for him and you bear down. The feeling of drowning only seems to intensify the longer and harder they fuck you and fuck each other, but all you can concentrate on is Will. Will, with his lists and tallies and need to keep track of everything. Will, who is making you see stars with every punch of his cock into you. Will, who is asking so sweetly if he can stick a thumb in your ass and there’s no way on this Earth that you’re going to tell him no. He does and you’re so full of William fucking Miller that you collapse to your chest, hips held up only by the hand on your waist and that fucker has the audacity to chuckle. You’re close, so close and when Frankie crawls back to you, his lips wet and swollen as he shoves a hand between your thighs to pinch your clit, you’re gone again. Will fucks you through it, Frankie talks you through it.

“That’s it baby,” he says, “come all over Ironhead’s cock. Soak him, princesa. Let him feel how good that pussy is.” Frankies words have an effect on more than just you and Will finishes, gritting his teeth and saying your name. He takes gentle fingers and runs them down your spine but his hand is knocked away by Pope’s, coming to take his turn.

“God, I’m so horny,” you whine, pressing back against the length of Pope.

“It’s the powder, sweet girl,” Will says, still hard as he presses up next to you.

“Poison, more like,” you groan as Santi presses the head of his cock against your clit. You can’t think, can’t breathe, unless someone’s, everyone’s hands are on you. Benny’s come to slide across your ass and Fish’s fingers toy with your tits. Will’s fingers slide in your puffy cunt, fucking you open while Santiago rubs his cock across your clit. You’re so overwhelmed by them, so entranced, that you don’t even realize you’re speaking to them.

“I love you. All of you. Have for years. God, I’ve dreamed of this,” you say, the head of Santi’s cock catching at your hole. You press back onto him and he hisses, his hands working around Benny’s and digging into your skin. You start your own rhythm, fucking back on Pope’s cock and from the sound of his moans, he likes it. Words drop from his lips, his fingernails digging into the soft skin of your hips.

“That’s it, princesa,” he snarls, his voice thick and husky with lust and need. “Fuck yourself on my cock, show me how bad you want it,” and god do you want it bad. They’re overwhelming you, hands and mouths everywhere as you fuck Santi. It still hurts so much, makes your nerve endings catch fire and your pussy so slick and when you say that out loud, Pope takes over. He’s so strong and he beats your pussy up with long, hard strokes. You come once with two of Benny’s fingers in your ass and then another time when Fish manages to get his face in between your thighs and lick your swollen clit. Will never leaves your side, his cock red and weeping. You try to suck at him once or twice but you can’t seem to concentrate enough to get him off. Pope has stamina and it feels like it’ll never end and right now you’re glad for it.

After what feels like hours, Pope pushes everyone back and flips you over, hitching a leg over his shoulder as he bends down to kiss you. His lips are soft but insistent against yours, his tongue dipping into your mouth as he fucks you. His hands come to rest on your ribs and his fingers touch the scar there. “I’m sorry, for everything,” he tells you, bending to kiss the spot. It’s such a touching moment in the heat and sweat and slick of the powder that it cracks your heart open. Then Pope is back at it again, moving quicker and all softness is forgotten. Santi still hasn’t come and the feel of him pounding into you sends little shocks of relief into your nervous system.

You briefly think about what that informant said and snort a laugh, which makes everyone stop. It’s the only lucid moment you’ll all have for several hours.

“The fuck are you laughing at?” Benny says, pulling his mouth off Frankie’s cock.

“Thinking about that informant. That one that told Redfly that Pope made her see God every time. I see what she’s talking about,” Santi huffs a laugh in your ear and you know you’ve inflated his ego but the longer he pounds into you, the more it makes sense.

“You’re going to make him insufferable, sweet girl,” Will says in your ear, pulling at your nipples. You gasp and clench, which makes Santi groan.

“I’m going to cum, fill up this pretty pussy with all our cum and then fuck it back out of you,” he grunts and you like the sound of that. Santi screws up his face and buries his head in your neck as he cums, pressing as deep into you as he can get. He kisses you as he comes down and then all four of them are there, taking turns capturing your lips. “I love you.” You don’t know who says it and who doesn’t, you only know that you say it a thousand times but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

It goes like this for hours, them taking turns fucking you until slowly you all come back to yourselves. Santi and Will are first, making sure to ply the rest of you with water and protein bars and MRE’s after they shower. Frankie is next and he joins their little party in the communal space, letting you and Benny work out the last of the poison. You two had it the worst, the effects are lasting. They don’t speak but they can hear the grunts and moans coming from the only bedroom in the place. Eventually, the noises stop and they wait patiently to see if they’ll start back up again.

Finally, it’s Will that speaks. “Do you think we ought to check on them?” Santi nods, getting up and grabbing water and a couple MRE’s from his pack. He comes back shortly, wrappers in his hand.

“They’re both out. Or they were, until I woke them up. They had a full bottle each and some food. I’d be shocked if they didn’t fall back asleep.”

“When she wakes up, are we going to talk about this?” Will asks.

“I don’t know,” Santi says, his face in his hands.

“I think we all told her we loved her. Fuck, she even said it back,” Frankie says. He’s not sure he said the exact words but you knew what he meant, right?

“Yeah but this is unconventional. Normal people don’t do this.”

“Since when are we normal, Ironhead?” Pope snaps, but Will isn’t offended. He knows that lashing out is Santi’s way of showing fear. “We killed people for a living. That was our job,” and Will nods. He knows. He was there. But then there’s motion down the hallway, a soft shuffling sound and you appear, Benny hot on your heels.

Will catalogues you as you come in, you look exhausted but also content. You managed to get dressed back in your tac pants and tank but you’re barefoot and braless as you pad into the room. He counts 6, no 7, hickeys on your neck and chest and he knows Fish left at least a three more on your breasts. And when you turn to grab a chair and sit he sees a bite mark on your shoulder blade that’s already purpling. He’s pretty sure that one was Santi.

“Hey,” you say softly to them, sitting in a chair backwards, your legs spread around the back of it. Benny grabs a chair and shoves it up behind you, keeping his body as close to yours as he can get. Will searches for the jealousy in his bones from earlier and is surprised but relieved when he doesn’t find any.

“Hey,” Pope replies, his hair mussed from shoving his fingers through it. “Are you okay? I’m sorry I didn’t know what it was,” and Will hears the helplessness in his voice, that feeling of being out of control. None of them are accustomed to that but at least they’ve been out of the life long enough to adjust, Santi hasn’t.

Frankie watches as Benny drags his lips across your shoulder, his hat backwards, and Frankie feels a hot shot of arousal through his spine. How the fuck is he horny right now? They just fucked for literal hours and you and Benny fucked for at least another hour after that. But he watches Benny watch all of them with hooded eyes, his arm wrapped around your waist, and Frankie wants to press you between them again. He wants to see if you make the same pretty noises that you did earlier before they lost track of everything. But then you’re speaking and he’s got to focus on your words.

“So,” you start and everyone leans forward, anticipating your next words. “That was……interesting,” Benny barks a short laugh from behind you, nosing your hairline.

“That’s a good word for it, Honeybee.”

Frankie clears his throat and four pairs of eyes slide to him. “Did anyone say….anything….they didn’t mean?” He asks, choosing his words carefully. He knows Benny and Will and Santiago all told you they loved you and he said something close, or at least he tried to. He looks pointedly at you because this whole thing hinges on you and how you feel about this. There is no them without you.

“You don’t have to give us an answer right now, sweet girl,” Will tells you, dragging a hand over his jaw. “But I don’t care how strange it may seem to other people, I’m in.”

“Me too,” Frankie says.

“I am as well,” Benny says, nosing up against your jaw, whispering an ‘I love you’ in your ear that no one else can hear.

Four pairs of eyes slide to Santiago and he drops his face in his hands and you move to go to him but Benny’s arm keeps you caged. “Let him figure it out on his own,” he whispers.

“I’m going to fuck something up,” Santi finally says after several moments of silence.

“To be fair, Garcia, I think we’re all going to fuck this up,” you say as you snort a laugh. “This won’t exactly be easy.” Santi lifts his head to look at you. “We’ve known each other so long. We’ve been through so much together. This, all of us, feels…natural?”

“Yeah, there’s so many things that could go wrong. So much we could fuck up,” Benny says. “But we all love our girl here, right?” Three other heads nod at him. “And our girl loves us, right?” And you nod your head, which is a little difficult because Benny has his cheek pressed up against yours. “Then fuck it, I don’t care what society or other people think. Let’s make this shit work.”

It makes sense, Benny’s little speech, and everyone is nodding and agreeing and you only have one thought and you huff a laugh when you think it.

“What are you laughing at this time, princesa?” Frankie asks.

“I’m so glad Redfly couldn’t make it on this mission.”

[beloved-by-the-moon]

Tired

Pairing: Santiago Garcia х gn!Reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: >900

Summary: you take care of your beloved tired soldier, who has returned from another mission.

Warnings: Santi is slightly wounded; hand job, hair pulling.

Author's note: written for "Santiago in the tub" challenge. Thank you @for-a-longlongtime @beefrobeefcal and @lotusbxtch for this idea!

Barely stepping over the threshold of your apartment, you realize that Santi has returned home. You see his heavy army boots by the door, an unpacked travel bag thrown nearby. Your heart makes a joyful somersault: you haven't seen each other for almost a week, and you terribly missed him.

After peering into the kitchen first, then into the bedroom, you finally find your boyfriend in the bathroom, where he soaks in warm water: his head is thrown back, eyes are closed, muscular arms rest on the sides of the tub. Despite the incredibly hot scene presented to your eyes, the first thing you notice is how many bruises and already healed cuts there are on his body. On this mission he got a good thrashing.

Coming closer, you crouch down next to the tub and press your lips to his battered knuckles, caressingly stroking his hand.

- Hi, - Santi tiredly smiles, looking at you from under heavy eyelids - it seems he managed to doze off.

- Hi, - you coo, giving him a smile in return.

You want to ask him what happened, but usually Santi doesn't like to initiate you into what's going on at his work. So now, seeing the undisguised concern in your eyes, he's in no hurry to explain anything.

- I'm fine, - he affectionately touches your cheek, - I’ll just get some rest, and will be as new again.

Pushing your anxious thoughts away, you nod and rise to your feet, but Santi suddenly catches your wrist.

- Don't go? Stay with me a little more, - he goes silent, and then quietly adds, - please?

You lean down and kiss him.

- I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to change and make us something for dinner. Get out of here when you're ready and join me.

Reluctantly, he releases your hand and nods.

Leaving the bathroom, you leisurely pull off your clothes, and then, after a little consideration, you reverse your decision.

Fortunately, the tub in your apartment is large enough to accommodate both of you.

Trying not to cause a flood, you carefully dip into the water behind your man, grabbing a shampoo from the shelf.

As you begin to work on his hair, Santi quietly moans. Smiling, you place a kiss on his shoulder, and then continue to gently massage his scalp, washing his short-cropped curls, which have more and more silver threads in them over time.

- Does that feel good? - you whisper, lightly touching your lips to his earlobe. Obviously, you already know the answer; in the time you've been in a relationship, you've gotten to know each other as well as it is possible to.

Santi's jaws are tightly clenched, he only sighs deeply and curtly nods; his eyes are closed, fingers are gripped to the sides of the tub, muscles are tense, veins bulging on his forearms. To say you love his arms is to understate it. The arms of a warrior, trained to hold a weapon, to fight. Trained to kill. But he's capable of touching you in a way no one else could, ever. 

You notice how heavy his cock gets. The sight echoes with the warmth that spreads through your lower belly. Reaching for the shower head, you carefully rinse off the foam, making sure to get less of it on his face and in eyes. Santi exhales slightly disappointed, but, feeling your lips slide down his neck, he realizes you're not done yet. Underwater your arms wrap around his torso; despite his army physical training, the strong muscles of his abs are hidden by a slight softness - and to your taste, it's sexy as hell. Your palms stroke the insides of his massive thighs, rise higher, and you feel the faint, impatient movement of his hips.

By the time you finally softly wrap your hand around his cock, it already insistently demands attention. Santi lets out a low, guttural sound, reminiscent of a quiet growl, and damn, it's one of your favorite sounds. Knowing exactly how he likes it, knowing how to pleasure him in the best way possible, you yourself enjoy the process almost as much as he does.

Santi turns his head, finds your lips with his and greedily kisses you; feeling his flesh pulsing beneath your fingers, you realize he's close. Your other palm, which has been roaming his body all this time - tummy, chest, thighs, playfully stroking his testicles - moves to the back of his head; you softly pull his hair. Cumming, Santi moans into your mouth.

The water in the tub is almost completely cold. Santi peacefully snoozes, resting his head back on your shoulder.

- Baby, - you whisper, affectionately kissing his cheek.

- Mm-hmm, - he murmurs vaguely.

- I think we should get out of here.

He doesn't react.

- Wake up, soldier! - you command with a smile, a little louder this time.

Santi slightly flinches, his eyes widening. It takes him a split second to realize where he is.

- Don't do that, - he warns, reaching under the water and lightly pinching your ass.

- Sorry, - you smile and kiss him again, - let's go make dinner. I'm starving.

- Yeah. Me too.

- I know you're tired. We'll go to bed earlier tonight.

- We'll go to bed earlier, - he agrees, - but we definitely won't sleep.