#and then their age gap suddenly shrinked and now she's his boss and yet he /still/ insists on treating her as a friend | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writefightandflightclub · 2 years

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All bets are off: younger!Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!older!Commanding Officer! Reader

Summary: Santiago is a cocky lil fucker. Cocky enough to try to seduce his terrifying Commanding Officer? Come on, you already know the answer to that, don’t you? (No smut in this one so don’t get too excited! Let’s see if you like the concept and maybe I’ll continue it? 👀)

Warnings: very legal age gap, aged-down Santi (25), reader is older (age unspecified). Workplace romance technically - boss/subordinate. Flirting / steam / sexual tension; masturbation mentions. Erections. Hint of rank kink. Hint of femdom vibes. Alcohol. Swearing. Reader is subject of a bet. Innuendos.

Rating: mature for themes but no smut.

Author’s note: I love this concept though I haven’t executed it exactly how I hoped, hence why I was unsure about posting. BUT, this has been sat in my drafts for ages and you seemed to like the idea… so you may as well have it?! I hc that Santi has always been a cocky fucker and also that he would most definitely be up for a challenge, so I wanted to explore this dynamic a little bit. I’m not in love with how it turned out, but let me know what you think! 🧡

Reader description: fem!reader. mentions of having some light wrinkles, mention of being taller than Santi (easily ignored I think!). Reader called “ma’am”.

Gif: just ignore it’s not and imagine this is baby Santiago, okay? By @beydameron

“She’s terrifying,” Will shudders, still shaken, the man somehow paler and blushing following his semi-public humiliation. Moments ago, he had marched up to the bar and had attempted to woo you with nothing more than a cheeky quip and a swagger; one reminiscent of his younger brother Benny and not entirely Will’s usual style at all, the man typically more of a quiet, subtle hunter.

And you? His Commanding Officer?

You had eviscerated him, cutting him down to size right in front of everyone in the bar - the favoured military watering hole just off base. You had caused him to visibly shrink in front of the bar full of soldiers, generals, and civvies alike, armed with nothing more than your sharp tongue. And, oh boy - judging by the way Will’s licking his wounds, it had cut.

For now, Will has skulked back to the booth to join the other boys -Santi and Frankie- making his broad form as small as possible and attempting to blend into the upholstery of the booth.

Santi meanwhile, looks… invigorated, and he’s practically jostling to take his turn in attempting to win you over.

“Fucking terrifying, man,” Will repeats, still looking mildly traumatised, Frankie slapping him on the shoulder, his face crumpled in sympathy.

“Right?” Santi responds, arching a thick dark brow and grinning as if that’s a wholly desirable attribute. He stands, and there’s even an eager spring in his step. “I’m going up there.”

“Back out, man, it’s not worth it,” Will calls, as Frankie slices his fingers back and forth in front of his own neck, signalling Santi should abort his mission. However, it’s far too late for that. Santi is already sliding himself into the bar stool next to you, his boots hooked up on the foot rail and legs spreading wide.

Languidly, your eyes flick towards him and you exhale tiredly along with a single, slow blink. You are no doubt gearing up for a repeat performance; that is, primed to cut another overly-zealous, younger man down to size, and yet Santi is seemingly unphased. Perhaps even looking forward to it.

Pointedly, your movements minimal and efficient, you arc your head around to where Will is sat, looking back and forth at the pair -Miller and Morales, you recall- who attempt to disappear their chins beneath the lapels of their jackets the moment your stern gaze falls upon them. In contrast, however, their much more brazen buddy is contentedly taking up space next to you, sitting tall atop the stool and wearing a transparently cocky smirk.

Confirming your new companion is indeed part of that group, you transmit a steely glare across at their booth, at which point the two men -who find themselves so suddenly without necks- look to their friend helplessly and in horror. As if he’s caught in a blast radius and there’s nothing more they can do now. Too late. He’s done for. Dead to them now.

Well, he seems quite peppy for a dead guy.

Indeed, Santi fixes his eyes straight ahead towards the mirrored bar as you openly suss him out, a very deliberate pout emphasising his full lips. “Come to try your luck now, have you?” you ask coolly, running your thumb idly back and forth around the rim of your glass which rests on the bar, your sure palm cupped around it. “Didn’t I make enough of an example out of your friend? Or, is that you enjoy your ass being handed to you, because I don’t know where you did basic, but that’s not what we look for in our soldiers around here.”

Santi bides his time before responding, his tongue fleeting out along his lips and his lopsided flash of teeth signifying he’s a little too pleased with whatever shitty comeback he’s managed to muster. “Don’t worry about me,” he purrs, his voice deep and pleasantly scratchy from the smoke coiling around the bar. “I usually come out on top.”

“Oh? What a shame,” you respond levelly, and Santi’s cheeks drop his smile like a dead weight as he realises his flimsily charms are so far ineffectual. As he tries to figure out what on Earth you meant by that comment. But, before he can catch-up with you, you’re already moving on. “So, how much of the green stuff is riding on you getting inside my pants tonight, soldier?”

Shit. Santi clears his throat nervously, and rasps a hand over his day old stubble, raking the pads of his fingers and thumb roughly around the circle of his mouth.

You’ve figured out their little sweepstake then. The bet - which of the boys can come closest to wooing a superior - is in and of itself a juvenile thing. Something to kill the time. One thing in a series of ongoing trials where the squad aim to figure out who’s the best, fittest, strongest, ballsiest -whatever- jostling for their position and status in this newly cobbled together unit.

Call it team-building, or something.

Santi too is finding his feet. Testing his limits, in every sense. Right now, testing whether his capabilities extend to seducing you.

Santi sees no value in hiding the play however, even if it paints him in a less than appealing light. He has no doubt that you will’ve already seen just about every possible ill-informed and poorly concocted scheme or prank by now from your rotation of subordinates. You’re experienced, after your years of service on base and in the field - and, Santi imagines -quite vividly, and with an uptick of his lips- that you’re experienced in other ways too.

He knows you will have seen it all; or, nearly all because -Santi considers smugly- you haven’t met him yet. And, given that the world hasn’t quite beaten this young man down enough yet -has given him no reason to estimate his arrogance as in any way unfounded- he believes he can complete this mission. He believes he can be the one to win you over, with or without dollars at stake.

“The bet is a ruse, Ma’am. I wanted a reason to speak with you that the two dumbasses -over there- could get behind without too many questions,” Santi says, his tone subtly deferential but not feeble - still robust with confidence.

Then, in his next breath, feeling smooth as all fuck, he orders up a double scotch he can neither handle nor really afford, attempting to give off an air of maturity beyond his years - and salary.

You sip your drink, crunching a cube of ice in your teeth. “You know, soldier, many people find themselves quite capable of initiating a conversation without having to resort to gambling.”

Shit. You’re mocking him.

You’re mocking him, but he’s lasted longer than Will, at least. He still has a shot, and therefore, his smugness remains firmly in tact for now. Besides, he’s spent enough time with Frankie that he can handle a prolonged ribbing.

With a gummy but charming smile that creases his youthful skin, schooling his face as to where one day light lines will become deeper furrows, Santiago takes a sip of his drink, allowing his gaze to casually and openly sweep over you. You are sporting a crisp uniform and meticulous presentation. Your hair is scraped back from your face, which is lightly lined around your eyes and mouth, exhibiting your years in a way he finds he enjoys. Your expression is notoriously impassive and stern, your posture uninviting and closed-off, but Santi notices those soft, pillowy lips with intermittently quirked corners. Santi notices the way your eyes lightly dance with mischief on occasion. These details- the frayed edges of your composure- tempt him like a loose thread; one he feels he could unpick to unravel your sharp seams and to reveal the softness hiding beneath.

Santi imagines you’re soft beneath -has imagined your softness more than he might care to admit- but he can’t deny that your hardness and edge endlessly appeals to him too. Your confidence and competence which surpasses all of those around you and draws his eye to you time and again.

Santi tries to play it cool, to look half as assured as you. He tries desperately to exude a mysterious and rugged vibe despite his relatively baby-faced looks - the stubble, at least, doing him some favours in that respect. Even so, despite his best efforts and initial confidence, his tongue suddenly feels slack and heavy in his mouth as his eyes dance over you. He splutters a little as the drink he can’t handle burns his throat and sets his features into a subtle grimace.

Suave, you mother fucker.

Christ, he’s seen the Generals drink this stuff like it’s water. He’s seen Miller’s oddly poetic baby brother drink this like it’s water, but it’s not going down half as smoothly for him. Besides, he fucked up and forgot to dispose of his chewing gum, his jaw turning it over casually, writhing his proud chin.

Still, where he lacks finesse he excels in raw charisma. He always has that to fall back on, doesn’t he? His natural charm?

“Look, Ma’am,” he says, a hint more smoothly than his scotch went down, with a tone of deft respect he doesn’t even need to feign - after all, he’s familiar with your service record and your character, your demeanour. You’re fucking badass. “Sorry about my buddies. They don’t know how to treat a woman like you.”

You narrow your eyes at him and hum, a throaty, dragged out noise which sends his blood south, and you take a slow, deliberate swig of the last of your drink. Your lips glisten with the amber liquid as they curl into a thin, impatient smile.

Under the intensity of your icy stare, he can’t help but squirm his ass up against the stool, trying to adjust so that the pinch of his swelling cock isn’t quite so harsh against the interior of his jeans.

Fuck, did it just get hotter in here?

Santi knows that your tongue is sharp enough to cut, but he imagines it’s soft enough to do other things too. He’s imagined that a lot too, even if he knows he shouldn’t have. Maybe because he knows he shouldn’t have.

Shit - a woman like you- that sounded corny as all hell. Maybe even offensive?

Santi gulps, and tosses a telltale helpless glance over to Frankie and Will who are currently rapt at the scene before them, instinctively scoping an exit route.

However, you seem very content to let Santi squirm for a while longer, your eyes openly appraising him this time. Oh boy. Santi enjoys attention, but it’s never burned under his skin like this. Never caused his brow to break out into a sweat. It’s only moments, less than seconds, but it feels like your eyes have been on him for an eternity, especially when your gaze becomes hooded and heavy, dropping briefly down to the subtly tenting arousal at his crotch, his pants becoming so tight they’re almost painful.

Then, there it is. That subtle hint of softness in your expression. Soft, like maybe you’d tell him he was a good boy while you sat on his face and rode him, those delicious pillowy lips flushed and-

Oh God, pants too tight. Holy shit, help.

He swallows a whine, but whether you are wise to Santi’s bulge or not you do not let on, your expression virtually unreadable.

Instead, you exhale a slow breath, delicious creases forming at the corners of your eyes as your gaze narrows in scepticism, your tone dropped and dark. “I suppose you’re about to tell me how different you are, soldier?”

Fuck, I’d do anything you asked me to.

Santi’s mouth is suddenly dry enough with nerves that for a moment even his hasty, masking sip of scotch seems refreshing, and he rolls it eagerly over his tongue.

“How exactly would you treat a… woman like me? Whatever that means.”

Fuck, this is awful and terrifying and… he’s having fun. Despite everything -the sweat sheening at his neck and chest and heating the cool dog tags nestled against his skin, and the fact he’s throbbing against the seam of his too tight jeans- Santi smiles at you, a cheeky, happy-go-lucky smile which inches slowly over his face.

It surprises you. And this time you can’t exactly hide it. It surprises you because he’s not defeated; not yet. And this only inspires Santi to prove it to you - that he can come out on top.

In his mind, he knows exactly how this is going to end, and it’s going to end well -very well- for the both of you.

He fleets his pink tongue along his lower lip and risks a glance at your mouth. At the swell of your chest beneath your uniform, and you don’t wipe him off the face of the earth for it either.

Look, Santi’s not an idiot. His darkly intelligent eyes promise that much, even as his smug smile screams dumbass. He’s confident and he knows he can back it up, but he also knows that despite his competency and his considerable promise, compared to you he’s still a little green. A little hot-headed. A little rough around the edges. A little too dependent on a wing and a prayer, unlike than the level, tactical head you display on and off the field which he so admires.

And you… you’re the picture of control, of command. He understands why you’ve risen to your position. He understands, in turn, that he will need to work hard to impress you.

But Santi is hard worker.

And so… even though the odds aren’t in his favour, he simply can’t seem to help himself.

Delusions of grandeur, Frankie calls it.

Will calls it pushing his luck.

Santi? Santi simply calls it flexing his talents.

After all, he’s charming and good-looking, and he’s learning he can often get away with things because of it.

And if he doesn’t get away with it? Well, he’d be intrigued to feel the full force of your command come down on him just as much, if he’s honest. In fact, at this point, with his whole body thrumming and tingling and blood pumping south, he feels like he’d take whatever pleasure or punishment you’d be willing to give him. Sure, he knows he can be a smug-fuck and at times it can get him into trouble, but increasingly, he wouldn’t be opposed to being in trouble with you.

With a new-found confidence, perhaps from the buzz of the scotch or the feel of his big dick warm in his pants, he arcs a thick, dark eyebrow as he considers your question, rasping a hand through his sprouting five ‘o’ clock shadow. He looks a little too pleased with himself about something - as per usual.

“I have some ideas about that, Ma’am,” he grins smugly, and even though you sigh, half roll your eyes, you subtly shift on your stool, angling your body further towards him.

You look at him properly for the first time. Deeply, your gaze as cutting as he knows your tongue can be. Sweeping over the entirety of him with an impenetrable expression -hooded eyes, pouty lips, his sheened tan chest and corded neck, his sturdy muscled thighs- and still… Still with that infuriating, sexy-as-hell smirk on your pillowy lips. God, he could swear you leave a subtle sting beneath his skin everywhere your eyes snag, his skin humming like the neon bar signs for your touch.

He only wants more of you, this meagre distance suddenly infuriating. The air ignited and the bar suddenly stifling. His clammy palm smoothing up and down his own denim-clad thigh because God; his body is calling out for your touch and in the absence of it he has to feel something. Has to feel something because his skin is singing for you.

He so desperately wants to return the favour and leave a sting along your thighs from his stubble, if you’d like that too. Wants to make your body sing. Wants to turn your hard seams soft and reveal your frayed edges. To kiss them.

You don’t look as undone as he is. You barely look interested -not yet- but damn he wants to impress you - is so eager to. Especially as he studies your hands wrapped around your glass and idly wonders what they are capable of.

He’s seen you. Seen you pin men bigger than him in the training suite and… fuck, he would not mind having the opportunity to writhe under you, that’s for certain.

Some condensation pools on the rim of your glass and you swipe it up with the pad of your finger, bringing it to your lips and laving it away with your supple pink tongue, which he knew very well was capable of softness.

You hum contemplatively again, that delicious, husky sound, and then you slowly skim your tongue along your lips, captivating him. Your voice is thick with seduction when it comes back. “I’ll bet you have some ideas, soldier, but I prefer things my way. Can you handle that?”

Santi could swear all of the air is stolen from the room suddenly, as you speak to him like that. As you reach forward and your warm hand settles over his briefly as you lift his relatively untouched scotch from him, taking a sizeable swig down the hatch before slamming it on to the bar top, offering him a deliciously slow-inching smile.

Fuck, he’s sure you know exactly what you’re doing to him, and you are beginning to look pretty pleased with yourself now too.

Good.

This? This, this spark, he can work with. That spark signals that you may just be willing to play.

After all, you haven’t eaten him alive and spat him out… yet…

Maybe there’ll be time for that later. Holy shit, he hopes so.

Santi takes a controlled breath. Tries to steady his pulsing blood and quickened heart. Runs through his options. He’s already faring far better than Will had, but he’s not about to let his guard down any time soon - he’s already close to out of his depth and he knows it. He has to work extra hard to push his voice out, the sounds strangled in his chest. “I can handle that,” he offers with a suggestive quirk of his brow, fluttering his pretty eyelashes and pouting his full lips into the bargain. He’s not opposed to using whatever assets he has in his arsenal if it can give him an advantage. He knows he has to bring the big guns where you are concerned.

You look him up and down again, and you seem to be considering something, your brows drawing together to convey yet more scepticism. “I’m not sure,” you contest. “It’s a little inelegant to make a pass at your C.O like this. For the sake of a quick buck, don’t you think?” Shit, your voice is like honey, your tone dropped just a little lower in your throat. You sound thrillingly seductive, but nevertheless, you execute it with a precision. You’re subtle - a skill Santi has yet to finesse even if he’s trying dammit.

Indeed, even though Santi is burning up under your scope, to everyone else in the bar the interaction is mundane - not drawing any attention at all, aside from the slack-jawed looks from his buddies the booth over. It appears, to all intents and purposes, as though you are having a casual, polite conversation with a fresh transfer, especially when considered against the comparative drama of your public rebuttal of Will. You and Santi could easily be talking shop. Discussing AKs or frags or the barrack cleaning rotas.

“I told you, Ma’am. I don’t care about that - the bet is a ruse,” Santi half-whispers, as if letting you in on a secret, taking the risk of leaning slightly closer. Not pushing you too far though - he takes pains not to be pushy, waits to be invited to make his move. Is careful not to fracture the bubble of personal space around you. Careful not to disrespect you. He would usually be far more bold -if the signals are right, if his participant is willing- but there’s something about you which has him rigid, in more ways than one. Has him not daring to make any move which you didn’t okay. “I’m playing a longer game than that,” he adds, injecting a measure of subtle flirtation -as far as he can manage subtle- into his tone.

Well, your expression gives nothing away.

Holy shit, you’re hard to read and truly, he has no idea how this is going.

Oh boy, he kinda likes that though, so help him. It’s a change of pace for him, honestly - usually so certain of the outcome of everything- and he can’t help but relish it.

He can’t read you and right now, this could go either way. He knows how one scenario ends - Will is testament to that side of the bargain, but God, his mind is awash with wondering how the other option might turn out. About the ways you might relieve him of the hardness in his pants. About how you might make it worse before it got better.

“Tell me, Garcia,” you ask, and he loves the sound of his name in your mouth like that. “Why did you participate, then? Do you get your rocks off from trying to make a fool of your C.O? Something to brag about on patrols?”

He swallows thickly, and he sees your eyes dip with it. You don’t miss anything. You likely aren’t missing a single sign. You’ve likely clocked his lust-blown pupils, the nervous sweat dampening his shirt. The need-laden bulge in his pants, and his hitching breaths.

But it’s going okay, right? It’s going not terrible?

At the very least you don’t seem to have an interest, so far, in writing him up for his juvenile games, which was always a risk. A warning for insubordination or something wouldn’t look great on his record. Your wrath and intolerance for that sort of behaviour is infamous - and fair enough too. Why would you want to be hassled by a gaggle of heart-eyed recruits, incessantly chasing you in the hopes you will throw them a bone? You must have picked-up on the gossip across base by now, right? Likely even tired of it. The consensus is that you’re hot and terrifying, and Santi, for what it’s worth, thinks the latter makes the former infinitely more true.

Of course, Santi believes that he’s different from your other hapless admirers; for some reason. That he is more than a nuisance. That he has a shot.

Christ. How does he make you see he’s worth your time? He’d usually have a line. He’d usually have his naturally tactile nature to fall back on. Hell, usually his face and a smile would be enough. But for you, none of that is going to cut it.

“I’m not interested any of that shit. Straight up. But I am interested in you. Figured it’s a good reason to talk to you without my buddies knowing what’s up, and you,” - he nods subtly towards the table full of your superiors - “you can easily brush this off as unwanted attention, if you wanna be discreet.”

You scoff, and you nip your lips in between your teeth, seemingly to stifle a full-blown laugh. And suddenly, Santiago feels… silly, a rare embarrassment heating his skin. Doubt begins to creep in, and he has to admit that the whole sentiment sounded a lot more suave in his head.

“How generous of you,” you intone sarcastically, “to go to such lengths to preserve my reputation.” Santi gulps nervously now, waiting for you to knock him back once and for all now, brutally -bracing against it- but perhaps you’ve tasted enough blood for tonight. Perhaps you take pity on him or something. So, you simply ask him a question, a challenge in your eyes. One which only makes his embarrassment deepen. Fuck, you have a way of getting so under his skin like no-one else. “Tell me, soldier. What makes you think this is anything other than unwanted attention?”

His mouth twitches wordlessly around… nothing.

No words.

No comeback.

Just a crooked flash of teeth, a contraction of his cheek, a jutting out of his shapely chin in some attempt to claw back a shred of authority.

Is it? Is this more than unwanted attention?

He mines the evidence in his head, and it suddenly feels… weak. Shit, lying in his bunk at night it had been so easy to build things up in his head. He could have sworn you looked at him in some kind of way during drills, for example. Didn’t you check out his ass one time? Didn’t you smile at him just a little more kindly than you did at the others? But now that all seems absurd. Imagined. Wishful thinking.

He could have sworn that he had some reason to believe you might like him that was based on more than his personal fantasy, right? But now he’s coming up empty.

His mouth feels so suddenly dry, and he feels a cold sweat prickle over the back of his neck as your intense, beautiful eyes needle him, waiting for his response, facing him down. He’s never felt this before outside of the field. Stuff like this doesn’t phase him; usually. Talking to people? Making connections? Getting what he wants? Who he wants? It comes naturally, doesn’t it? No training required.

Fuck, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but the strange thing is, that he’s not even mad you’re making it difficult.

It’s… kind of a thrill? It kind of makes him want to please you more? To work harder for you. The man enjoys a challenge, after all.

However, even so, he’s all too suddenly bottling it, all of his confidence crumbling.

Inside he is screaming give her a reason. Give her a reason to want you, for fuck’s sake, but all he can do right now, outside of the comfort and distortion of his daydreams and fantasies, is to worry that he is bothering you. To worry that his attention is unwanted. To worry that the attentions he’d imagined you’d been paying him were nothing more than misjudgements on his part.

That he, in fact, is just another of your fanboys. No different.

Yes, his confidence is waning, and it’s disconcerting because this never happens. He can charm his way out of a paper bag, but you’re making him… shy or some bullshit.

He’d just thought…

He’d thought he had a shot, but not even he can come up with a damn reason you might be interested in him.

You’re so…

So fucking perfect.

“No really,” you press. “I’m interested to hear your thoughts.” You cross your legs, folding your hands around your knee and looking slightly down your nose at him. “You came over here all confident, so you surely can back up the talk, huh, hotshot?” A pump of your eyebrows. “I mean, to me, you’re simply a plucky young buck who’s figured out he has a pretty face and, likely,” you nod briefly towards his crotch, “an average dick with a basic understanding of how to use it. So, I’m inviting you to tell me, what am I missing? Enlighten me, sweetheart. Why should I want your attention?”

Santi laughs nervously, his forearm bracing along the edge of the bar and his hand gripping the rail until he white knuckles. You drop your chin then, looking up at him sternly from beneath your lashes, but if Santi was looking -if he could bring himself to look at you right now- he’d see a subtle crease of amusement at the corner of your eyes, your expression not as harsh as it may first appear.

He sees it eventually, when he drags his gaze back up to you, showing that he’s not willing to be defeated yet. It’s almost like you’re rooting for him. Almost like you see some potential in him and want him to succeed. At least, that’s what he’d like to believe.

He wants to tell you why he’s worth your time. Wants to lead with some bravado about the things his tongue could do to you. About the way he could make you clamp down on his cock. But, Christ, the words are dying in his throat and he feels… he feels like he’s under a microscope. He feels tiny, like you could crush him under your boot.

God, he thinks he might like that too.

In the face of his silence, you let out a long, exasperated breath. A sigh that indicates that he’s wasting your time. That he can’t keep up with you. Your voice is patronising when it comes back to him. “Shame. I’m sure there are other women on base who are a little more your speed, soldier. Who may even have time for your games. I, however, am a busy woman.”

Jesus, this is it. You’re fobbing him off. It’s the end of the line. He watches you push your empty glass further towards the barman with the back of your hand and a thin smile, clearly preparing to leave.

But dammit, Santi needs you. And he thinks he could be good for you too. He could be really good for you.

Let me be good for you.

So, if you don’t want games? Fine. Santi will cut straight to the chase.

In fact, he looks at you, and he suddenly feels like everything is very straightforward indeed. In fact, he feels like pushing his luck just a little further.

So, he stands. He takes a rousing swig and empties his scotch, but this time he finds it invigorating, just like you are. This time, his cockiness is back. This time, you watch it glisten on his lips and your mouth parts slightly, a breathy sound slipping out. He thinks about how he could shove the taste of it over your tongue with his, if you wanted that, and he smiles knowingly at the thought that you might like that, actually, given the way your teeth ever so briefly dig into the pillow of your lip.

“I don’t know,” he says with regained confidence, his eyes sparking with a gentle heat and not down-trodden yet. “There are other women on base but they can’t touch you. You’re beautiful as hell. Most interesting woman I’ve met. Terrifying but…” his mouth lilts into a disarming smile “…I like that. So, why should you want my attention? You shouldn’t. I know you damn sure don’t need it, but, holy shit, you have it. I know I’m still a young buck, with ideas above my station, but I give everything I’ve got, and I’ve got a lot to give. So, Ma’am, it’s your choice. It always was. I know there’s no game I’m gonna win with you. But, if you feel like giving me some attention I don’t think you’ll regret it. If you don’t, then I’m sorry to have bothered you, and I won’t bother you again.”

Santi nods then. Indicating he is done. You blink a few times, nostrils flaring slightly and the pads of your fingers snaking in a self-soothing gesture down your hot throat, as though the earnest nature of his flattery has taken you by surprise. Maybe even got you hot under the collar, a little.

You stand then, perhaps feeling the need to reassert your own authority, and the reminder that you’re a little taller than him makes Santi’s pants tighten again, so help him.

But, as you look at him with a gentle heat brewing in your eyes, he suddenly doesn’t feel silly.

Instead, he feels like he’s given a decent showing of himself. And, he feels like for once, he’s not obsessed with coming out on top. Not concerned with playing games.

“Santiago,” you purr softly as he dips his head and prepares to retreat from you, in a weighty tone which sinks all the way to his core - makes his dick full and heavy, and he looks up at you then, as though you’re about to give him an order, his whole body standing to attention out of habit. His eyes big and pretty as he looks up at you from beneath his long lashes. “Get your jacket, tell your buddies you struck out, and then go to my office.”

Santi’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, questioningly, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly around a hundred questions which come out only as stuttered syllables. “Wh- Y- d- Ah.”

You raise a mildly suggestive eyebrow, and it’s beautifully subtle, the way you dip your mouth ever so slightly closer towards the shell of his ear. “Forgotten how to follow orders, soldier?

Stupefied, he shakes his head until your lips quirk into an amused, self-satisfied smile. Then, you sweep out, without looking back.

Hell. Santi doesn’t know what this all means, but holy shit he wants to find out.

And so, willing his cock to soften enough that he can make it over to the booth, he gives you a head start before slinking back over to his buddies, hanging his head low as though in defeat.

“You crashed out, huh?” Will says bluntly, he and Frankie seemingly much more beer-merry than when he was last at the table.

“Yeah, fucking brutal. Look, gentlemen,” he says, gathering up his jacket and cap from the seat and giving Frankie a rousing pat on the shoulder. “I’m done, gonna call it a night, okay?”

He rasps a hand over his stubble, nodding decidedly at the men and barely waiting for their answer.

Will snorts. “Leaving with your tail between your legs, huh?”

“Shit, you okay man?” Frankie commiserates, words slurring together slightly.

“Yeah. Yeah. My ego is bruised, hermano,” Santi says efficiently but with little feeling, his legs already carrying towards the door and his thoughts already elsewhere. “See you in the AM?”

“Take it easy,” Frankie waves, about two seconds behind everything in his beer-addled state. Then, he turns to Will to see what he makes of it all.

Slowly, over a stunted series of moments, the smile drops from Will’s face, a deep frown taking its place. “Fuck,” he says, slapping a hand to Frankie’s shoulder. “Fuck, I bet he gets laid.”

Frankie’s eyes bug, followed by a slow blink as he contemplates his buddy. “No wayyyyy?”

Will just nods slowly.

“Fuck,” Frankie says, his voice extra gruff. “The little shit. I bet he does as well.”

THE END

Thanks so much for reading!

If you enjoyed this I’d be over the moon if you let me know! 😁 Comments, asks, and reblogs are always received with endless gratitude! 🧡

I have loads more Santi / Triple Frontier / Oscar + Pedro character stories. You can find all my masterlists in my pinned post. (Also my ko-fi link is there too in case you’d like to fuel me with caffeine through the long writing sessions!)

If you enjoyed this story and want more where Santi pulls against the odds, you might enjoy Gone(r) in 60 seconds; or Ride or Die!

Thank you! ☺️🙏🧡

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #triple frontier fanfiction

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