hotchssglasses

[hotchssglasses]

Hi love thank u for putting out all these fics and amazing writing! U don’t have to write this if it doesn’t speak to u I’m not sure if u write for sunshine reader but I would LOVE to see a sunshine reader with hotch

thank you!! boyfriend!hotch x sunshine fem!reader

cw mature themes mdni

Hotch can't help smiling at the sound you make when you hop into the shower. Your apartment isn't frilly, the shower a showerhead that's been installed inside your bathtub, curtain falling off the rungs. He can see a slice of your naked body if he looks, but he doesn't look. 

"Too hot?" he asks. He knows the sound well. The hot water hits your skin and you, a mixture of apprehensive and pleased, say, "Woah," or "Oh," or sometimes the less comprehensible, "Wohh." 

"It's really nice!" you assure him. "Are you sure you don't want to come in with me?" 

He's a thousand percent certain. You're lovely, but there's no time for standing behind you in the spray, shivering and trying to let you let him wash your hair or kiss your soapy shoulders. He's super late. You're even later. 

"You get paid better than this," he says, squeezing a dollop of toothpaste onto his brush. His, because you insisted and he practically lives here, a bamboo handle with purple bristles. It's strange, but you like them and he likes you. 

"Pass me my toothbrush, please?" you ask. 

Hotch squeezes toothpaste onto your brush and offers it through the gap in the off white curtain. You pop your head out, soaked, water running down your face and your arms. "What do I get paid better than for?" you ask, confused. 

"Your apartment, honey. I've had push bikes with more space." 

You put your toothbrush in your mouth. Conditioner has your hair glossy and darkened. You have the sense to pull the curtain to cover your naked body, though Hotch thinks sense isn't the right word. He'd wanted to say self-preservation, but that's too aggressive. The point is, if Hotch gets a look at you he might make you even later than you already are. 

"That's such a grumpy old man thing to say," you remark, beaming, toothpaste on your lip. You disappear back into the depths of your shower. In tandem, you finish brushing your teeth. 

"Hotch?" you ask. 

"Aaron. Call me Aaron, please. Hotch is work only, and you know that." 

"What about baby?" you ask genuinely. 

"Anything but Hotch." 

"Sugar pea?" 

"What did you want?" 

The water runs and runs, slapping the bottom of the tub and glancing off of your shoulders. "I really love you, you know? It makes me so happy to get to do this with you." 

The water shuts off. Hotch grabs your towel off of the warming towel rack and stands in front of the tub, barely enough room for you to get out and step down. He wraps the warm towel around you tenderly. 

"I really love you, too," Hotch says, wiping a missed glob of conditioner off of the top of your ear. "This is the best part of my day, even if we're like two sardines in here." 

You smile happily.

"I think I love you most like this," he says. "You look really happy." 

"Hotch, I'm always happy around you." 

"More like you're always happy. You're like a ray of sun," he says without drama. It's as true as saying the earth is old and grass is green. "But if you don't start calling me Aaron, we're going to have a problem." 

"What kind?" you ask, like this is a delight you're eager to receive. 

He ushers you out of the bathroom toward the bedroom so you can change before waylaying him anymore. He watches you get dressed, hands at his neck tightening his tie, and he knows how lucky he is to have you, how fortunate he is to get to watch you put your earrings in, tip of your tongue making a guest appearance between your lips in concentration. Eventually, despite all his willpower, and despite it being the really wrong time, he stops you in the middle of the bedroom and attempts to kiss you dizzy. 

"You really should've showered with me," you murmur happily, giving him two punctuating kisses in quick succession. 

"I really wish I had," he says. Even in your tiny, draughty, slip-and-slide tub. "Come on, before I make an unprofessional decision." 

You hold hands all the way to the BAU. 

[hotchssglasses]

the bees envy me ( a. hotchner )

hotch likes to protect you every chance he gets. you love it, for the most part.

or, five times hotch protects you, plus one time you protect him back.

7k words -> female reader, established relationship, unspecified age gap, mostly just fluff honestly, some angst, canon-typical cm violence (mentions of rape & murder from an unsub), implied sexual harassment from creepy drunk guys! this is my first time writing for hotch but i love him and i need my thoughts to be out there

~

1 — THE CROSSWALK

“Do you want to go out for lunch?” Hotch asks you, not stilling in his diligent grind over his paperwork, one hand splayed on his desk, other clutching a pen so gracefully it looks like a part of him.

You’re seated on his couch, legs curled under you, heels kicked off onto the floor. You’d only come up to drop off your finished paperwork from the last case, but his couch is so inviting and you’d let it pull you in. 

Just for a few minutes. Then you’ll go back to work on the building pile of cases that need your consulting. There’s something endearing about watching him work, back stick straight, worry lines between his brows begging to be smoothed over. If you had a camera, you’d take a picture — keep it on your desk to look at when the work gets dull.

You look up at him, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “Me?”

It’s a stupid question even to your ears.

Hotch looks up — makes eye contact with you — and you almost think he starts to smile. He’s almost immune to smiling in the office, but you get him sometimes. “Who else would I be talking to?”

Your face burns, and you swing your legs off the couch. “Yeah, I want to go out. Where do you want to go?”

Keep reading

[hotchssglasses]

the bees envy me ( a. hotchner )

hotch likes to protect you every chance he gets. you love it, for the most part.

or, five times hotch protects you, plus one time you protect him back.

7k words -> female reader, established relationship, unspecified age gap, mostly just fluff honestly, some angst, canon-typical cm violence (mentions of rape & murder from an unsub), implied sexual harassment from creepy drunk guys! this is my first time writing for hotch but i love him and i need my thoughts to be out there

~

1 — THE CROSSWALK

“Do you want to go out for lunch?” Hotch asks you, not stilling in his diligent grind over his paperwork, one hand splayed on his desk, other clutching a pen so gracefully it looks like a part of him.

You’re seated on his couch, legs curled under you, heels kicked off onto the floor. You’d only come up to drop off your finished paperwork from the last case, but his couch is so inviting and you’d let it pull you in. 

Just for a few minutes. Then you’ll go back to work on the building pile of cases that need your consulting. There’s something endearing about watching him work, back stick straight, worry lines between his brows begging to be smoothed over. If you had a camera, you’d take a picture — keep it on your desk to look at when the work gets dull.

You look up at him, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “Me?”

It’s a stupid question even to your ears.

Hotch looks up — makes eye contact with you — and you almost think he starts to smile. He’s almost immune to smiling in the office, but you get him sometimes. “Who else would I be talking to?”

Your face burns, and you swing your legs off the couch. “Yeah, I want to go out. Where do you want to go?”

He rests his pen down and stands, stretching his arm across his body like he’s about to do hurdles, and you watch him like he’s an artist before your eyes. “Wherever you want to go.”

“Really.”

“Mhm.”

You tap your fingers against the worn leather of his couch. Quantico isn’t teeming with restaurants, and you only have an hour, and your mind whirs with the lack of possibilities. “Burritos?”

He nods, shuffling his papers until they’re in a neat stack on his desk. “Perfect. Do you need your coat?”

You do, so you hop off the couch and head down the stairs to your own desk in the bullpen. Reid is the only one still working — Emily and JJ are eating in the conference room, and you think if you ducked your head into Garcia’s office, you’d find Morgan eating there too — and you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed at how you’re smiling as you pull your coat on over your sweater. 

Morgan and Emily are the first to tease you about your relationship with Hotch. God forbid either of you show PDA in front of the team (which he doesn’t, basically ever, and you try not to, but you fail sometimes) or even look at each other and they’re off like wind-up toys, making fun of you until you’re just about pleading with them to stop.

You don’t really care, though. You think Hotch does more than you do.

“Ready?” Hotch asks, and you nod, sliding your phone into the pocket of your coat. He has his own on, long and black and soft when you touch it, which you don’t yet. “Come on.”

You walk side by side to the elevators, and he holds an arm out in front of the door when it opens, letting you walk in first. Your skin feels hot when the doors shut, and once he’s pressed the button to the lobby floor, you hook your arm around his and lean your cheek into the fuzzy wool of his jacket and keep it there.

He looks amused when he turns his head to glance down at you, and then he lifts his other hand up to brush hair out of your face. It’s quietly intimate, his favorite kind to sprinkle onto you when there’s no one around at the office.

It’s different when you’re at home. You take what you get when you’re here — a love sponge.

“I missed you,” you tell him, which is ridiculous because you spend just about every waking moment with him, being driven to work and hanging out in his office and going back to one of your respective apartments when the day is over. 

“I missed you, too, honey,” he says, and the pet name makes you want to melt into a puddle on the floor. “Which burrito place are you thinking of?”

“Poco Loco,” you tell him, popping the p to watch the corners of his lips quirk up, and you feel vindicated when they do. “I think it’s closer.”

“We have time,” he says as the doors open, and you let go of his arm as you walk beside him out the sliding glass doors of the Academy. It’s snowing out — lightly, a dusting coating the sidewalk — but when you step into the biting cold air, the whiteness floats over Hotch’s dark hair, and it makes you smile. “I don’t have to be back until 1:30 for a meeting.”

It’s noon. Hotch rarely takes his full lunch break, and you want to beam that he’ll take even more time to spend with you. “I have nothing else all day,” you tell him.

“I saw a load of case files on your desk that would disagree.”

“I intend on pawning some of that off to Spencer,” you say, and that does get a smile to his lips as he leads you across the parking lot. He parks in the back lot — the employee lot, separated by a street — but no one else on the team bothers to park so far away except him. “He has a biological advantage, ‘cause he can read so fast. Can give me the SparkNotes of all of the cases —“

You take a step off the sidewalk to cross the street, and like a snapped rubber band, Hotch’s arm shoots out in front of your abdomen. You wobble — stomach hits his arm and you audibly say oof like a grown man — and his hand grabs onto your arm to steady you.

A car whizzes by just as you open your mouth to ask what the hell he’s doing. Your face heats up, and Hotch looks at you disapprovingly like you’re a kid he’s reprimanding.

“Look both ways,” he tells you, tone stern like he’s talking to a misbehaving officer, and then pointedly turns his head left and right before continuing across the street.

“Sorry,” you say once you’ve stepped onto the sidewalk on the other side of the road. You are sorry, because you really aren’t ditzy and you always look both ways —

But you were distracted. And you’re distracted now, because it had made you feel kind of nice to have Hotch do that. Not enough to not look both ways next time, but still nice.

His car is close, and he follows you to the passenger side to swing the door open for you. He’s a gentleman, and your heart could burst, and you grab his pink cheeks with your hands to tug his face into yours.

You never kiss at work as an unofficial rule, but he doesn’t seem to care, holding the door open with one hand and dropping the other to your waist. You try to communicate things through the kiss — one for how much you love him, two for how you’re sorry you almost walked right in front of a speeding car (really, who goes 50 in a 25), three for how safe he makes you feel — and when you pull away, you feel satisfied with all you’ve said.

“Thanks,” you tell him, and he grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of your palm. “Sorry my hands are cold.”

“Like ice blocks,” he agrees, and you grin, ducking to clamber into the passenger seat, knocking flakes of snow off of your shoes before he shuts the door for you. 

2 — THE COFFEE

“Hey, handsome,” you murmur as you push open the thick curtain to the jet’s kitchenette. It’s only him in there — Hotch — and if there had been anyone else with him, you think you’d bite your tongue with the pet names.

Hotch stands at the counter, mulling over the sputtering coffee machine. For the hour it is (probably 1 in the morning, if you had to guess), he appears awfully put together, every strand of hair slicked back, suit pristine like it always is.

You feel like a mess flying home from cases — you do now, at least, hair tied up and wearing sneakers and not at all looking like the FBI agent you are. He still looks over at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your cheeks heat.

“Hi, honey,” he says, and he keeps his voice quiet until you tug the makeshift door closed, curtain swinging with the gentle movement of the jet. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was,” you say, leaning against the counter beside him, hands braced on the worn laminate edges. “I woke up ‘cause of the turbulence.”

“It’s been smooth for the past few minutes,” he tells you, and you shrug. “You should go back to sleep. It’s late.”

“So should you.” You jut your chin towards the coffee he’s brewing, his hands already reaching for a styrofoam cup to pour it into. He looks guilty even as he does it, and you smile at him. “I don’t want coffee. I just saw you weren’t in your seat and figured you were back here.”

Hotch smiles, too, a sight you’re growing more accustomed to since you and him became you and him. “Am I that predictable?”

“Very,” you nod, and then you feel a sudden urge to kiss him, so you do, leaning up to press a slight kiss to his jawline. He braces one of his arms around your waist so you don’t stumble over until you drop back down onto your feet, and then he doesn’t move his arm until the coffee is done and there’s no reason for him to linger without pouring it.

He pours his coffee into his cup, and you watch him thoughtfully. You like watching him do mundane things, like folding laundry or shaving or pouring his coffee, because you think he makes them look not mundane, putting the same amount of effort into every task as he does catching killers.

It’s impressive. You don’t think you’re the same way — not with stuff like this, anyway.

“I can make you tea, if you’d like,” Hotch says, pressing the plastic lid onto his cup. “There’s a packet or two left of chamomile.”

“I can make it myself,” you say, but he’s already reaching into the cabinet above his head to pull out another cup and a tea packet, and you know it’s a lost cause to argue. 

You help, though, heading over to the small fridge on the other side of the kitchenette and digging through it until you find the creamer you like — not to be confused with the s’mores one Reid uses or the soy version Emily prefers — and you shut the door behind you with your hip.

“One bag or two?” Hotch questions, placing the tea kettle over the stove. 

“One is fine,” you tell him, placing your creamer down on the counter beside the stove. “We have a while until we land, I think. I can make another cup if I need it.”

“Four hours,” he says, and you cringe. It’s surprisingly rare that jet rides home occur this deep into the night, but there had been a delay due to some storms, and all you can do is thank God that you don’t have to work tomorrow. “Maybe a bit longer because of the storm.”

“Sucks.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and then he smiles again. “Sucks.”

The tea kettle whistles softly after a beat or two, and Hotch cranks the stove off, grasping the silicone handle to begin pouring the boiling water into your cup. 

You lean back and let him make it. He knows how you like it by now, uncapping the creamer to pour just enough into your cup once the tea bag has bobbed for long enough. 

He blows on it twice before he caps it and hands it to you. You raise your eyebrows at him and take a sip, even though it’s hot enough that it burns your tongue, and you nod.

“Needs sugar,” you tell him, resting the cup down on the countertop to begin rummaging for it. “But it’s perfect.”

“Since when did you like sugar in your tea?”

“Since now.” 

You’ve opened the second cabinet above your head — the one with the boxes of coffee and tea — when it happens. You’re pushing past them to see if the sugar is there when the plane jolts forward,, and you’ve stumbled forward with a gasp when Hotch is grabbing your waist, tugging you back towards him where he stands on the other side of the kitchenette.

“What —“

Your back hits his chest as the cabinet door swings wildly, and you watch as one of the full boxes of coffee pods flies out of its spot on the shelf. It lands on the counter, completing its trajectory, and you know it would have knocked you right upside the head had Hotch not pulled you back.

The plane jerks again, and Hotch holds you tighter to him so you don’t stumble. You can feel his heartbeat against your back — his arm firm around your waist.

You’re not eager to move any time soon. You drop your head back against his shoulder.

When the plane steadies, Hotch lets you go. You turn to face him and he raises his eyebrows at you.

“Impressive,” you tell him.

“What?”

“You know what I mean.” 

He smiles, then. You bring your hand up to his face and smooth your thumb between his brows. You like to do that, sometimes, especially when he’s grinning — press against the evidence of all his worries in life. Wipe them away, maybe. Hopefully.

“Could’ve had a horrific coffee-related injury,” you muse. “Knocked me right out.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Hotch says, and your stomach flips because you know he wouldn’t. “The sugar’s in the next cabinet over. I can get it for you.”

You take a step back and let him.

3 — THE DRUNKARD

You’ve just barely slurped down the last drop of your Malibu Bay Breeze when Morgan is wrapping his arms around your shoulders, shaking your frame back and forth.

“Want to get us a round of shots, kiddo?” He asks, dazzling (and very tipsy) grin looking dangerously close to being shot-eating.

Everyone else’s drinks are gone. The team doesn’t get a lot of time to decompress, and it’s almost funny that the one Friday night you all have off in almost a month is spent with each other — drinking, of course, at some bar Garcia had scouted out that’s become your spot.

A bar is a bar. You’ll go wherever the tide takes you — or, more specifically, wherever Hotch leads you. It’s a nice way to live. 

You’re not tipsy like Morgan. You’re drunk, head on Hotch’s shoulder and fingers trailing the condensation of your glass. Not shitfaced, but having crossed the hair-thin line of inebriation a while ago.

“Why me?” You groan, but you’re already pushing yourself out of the booth, Hotch’s hand dropping off of you where it had been laying absentmindedly on your thigh while he’s talking to Rossi. He’s touchy when he drinks — you’re touchy all the time. 

“Youngest gets the round,” Morgan tells you, which you already knew because that’s how it always is. Normally, you’re a dash more sober when you do, but — “Go on, girl, before we start sobering up.”

No one looks anywhere close to sobering up. The only one close is Hotch (your boyfriend, and just thinking the word brings a smile to your face, though you wouldn’t dare say it aloud) and even then, his face is tinged red and you know he’s at least tipsy.

You clamber over Emily’s lap to get out of the booth. “If you pull your shirt down a bit, maybe you’ll get it for free,” she tells you, calling above the blare of the music as you begin walking towards the bar. 

You stick your tongue out at her, and her laugh follows you through the crowd.

You do tug your shirt down. Just a hair. You’d deny it if anyone asked.

It’s easy enough to push your way through the crowd to the bar, pressing your palms to the sticky wood of the countertop. It’s hardly a second until you place your order with the bartender — 8 shots, and everyone’s tipsy enough to not give a fuck what they’re drinking, at this point, so you get the cheapest on the chalkboard menu posted above the bar.

You’re drunk. Your head hurts a tad, and you lean forward with your chin on your palm, watching the bartender expertly pour vodka into eight identical shot glasses.

He’s on the fifth when you feel a hand on your back, low enough to make you feel confident that it’s not Morgan, so it must be your boyfriend, and you grin, turning to face him. 

“Hey, I’ve —“

And you pause, because it’s not Hotch and it’s not Morgan. It’s some random guy you’ve never seen, muscular and blonde, taller than you — a stranger, and the very tip of his pinky is on the curve of your ass with how far down his hand is.

“Oh.” You laugh, the sound strange and uncomfortable, and shift out from under the touch. “Um — do I know you?”

Rhetorical question. You know you don’t. Even if you did, there’s no one besides Hotch that you would be okay touching you where this guy was. 

“Do you want to?” He asks, leaning his face nearer to yours, and his breath smells like tequila in a way that makes your nose scrunch up of its own volition. It’s a cringeworthy line, and you tug the top of your shirt up on instinct.

“I’m — uh — here with my boyfriend,” you say in lieu of answering his question. It sounds lame to your own ears, and you can tell by how the man’s eyebrows raise that he doesn’t believe you an inch.

He’s big and tall, even taller than you, and he’s killed people before, and he’ll kill you if he sees your hand —

“Your boyfriend is sending his girl up to get shots by herself?” 

The bartender places your tray of shots down in front of you like he’d been commanded to, and you practically shove your card in his hand.

“My — my friends are here, too,” you say, pulling the tray closer to you, and you shift away from him when his hand twitches against the bar like he’s going to lift it towards you again. On any other day, you think you could fight him and win, but you’re drunk and tired, and he seems rather imposing in front of you, like you could shrink before him, and you don’t like the feeling.

“Your friends?”

You feel silly, now, and warm in a bad way, and you tear your card out of the bartender’s hand when he gives it back to you, holding the tray close to your chest. “Look, I’ve gotta —“

“Come back to my table —“

You’ve opened your mouth to protest again when there’s a warm arm wrapped around you — palm resting against your shoulder — and you could faint or cry because you know without looking that it’s Hotch, the most formidable presence you’ve ever seen with your own two eyes, looking at the man in front of you like he could rip his throat out with just his teeth.

“Is there an issue?” Hotch says, and his voice is low and stern like it is at work, and you lean into his body like he’s the force holding you upright. 

You could fight this guy on any other day, but you can’t now, but Hotch could. Hotch would, if it came to it, you know he would, could roll up his sleeves and knock this guy out without spilling a drop of vodka from the tray he’s pulling out of your quivering hands. 

You let him take it. The man stares at you for a beat too long. You feel uncomfortable — a piece of meat for him to salivate over — but Hotch is staring him down and he doesn’t even bother replying, just turning on his heel and vanishing into the crowd like he’d never been there to begin with.

Hotch drops his arm from your shoulders to your waist. He balances the tray of shots easily in one hand. You wonder if he’s ever been a server at any point in his life.

“Are you okay, honey?” He asks, and gone is the unsub-catching voice he’d been giving to your accoster, replaced by the soft one he reserves just for you. “Did he touch you?”

“Yeah,” you say absentmindedly, and Hotch’s eyes dart up to look for the guy in the crowd, but he’s gone, and you wrap your own arm around his waist. Bring him back to Earth — ground him for a moment. “It’s okay. You scared him.”

“I just asked him a question.”

“In a scary way.” You want to kiss him, so you do, standing on your tiptoes to press your lips against his cheek. “Thank you. Thank —“

“Don’t thank me,” he says, but you do anyway, murmuring it again as you press another kiss to his face. “Next time, oldest gets the round. Can’t see anything like this happening to Rossi any time soon.”

“Not unless we're getting a round in Sunday church,” you agree, dropping down to your feet as Hotch smiles, and you set off back into the crowd for your table.

4 — THE INTERROGATION

Brian Gleason is a power rapist and killer, almost textbook. He’s a lackey in his life and in a failing marriage and the only way he derives any power from his life is through the victims he dominates, and it’s your least favorite type of rapist — not that you have a favorite. You don’t. But you think you do have a least favorite, and you think it’s him.

The saving grace is that he’s practically scared of women in his day to day life, so it had been you who had gone with Morgan to make the arrest, because you’re in the age range of his victims and would throw him off his path. You’d waggled your gun in his face until he put down the knife against his throat, and you’d led him out with his hands cuffed behind his back, and you’d met his eyes when he was in the back of the cop car with something like disgust in your gaze.

There’s two bodies still out there.

He’ll only tell you where they are. He’s said as much to Rossi and then Morgan and then Emily. 

“Don’t entertain him when he tries to change the topic from the bodies,” Hotch tells you, voice quiet and arms crossed over his suit-clad chest. He’d fought against you going in — yada yada don’t give him what he wants — but interrogations have been going on for almost two hours and you’re no closer to any answers and you figure you may as well take your chance.

Hotch is going in with you. Rossi had wanted to, and Hotch insisted, and you appreciate it.

“What do you think he’ll change the topic to?” You ask, even though you have an idea, because you know Hotch likes to verbalize everything to you before you do something like this.

“He’ll call you pretty,” he says. “He’ll probably say something about wishing he’d gotten to you. He’s going to feel confident around you. Feed into it enough to get him comfortable, but not enough to make him think it’s reciprocated.”

You nod. Your hands are clammy, because you never interrogate anyone unless it’s a strategy like this is, and it feels like the weight of something awful on your shoulders.

“I’m going to be next to you, honey,” Hotch continues, dropping his voice even lower, and reaches for the brass doorknob of the interrogation room. “If you want to leave, tap me and we can come back out and regroup.”

“Okay.”

You wish you could hold his hand as he leads you into the room. Nerves beat in your chest and your legs and your arms, and you hope it doesn’t show in your face as you pull your metal chair back and sit down.

Hotch sits beside you. His knee knocks against yours — you think it’s on purpose.

“Hello, Brian,” you say to him, then, because Hotch had advised you use his name when you can. 

“Hello, beautiful,” is what he says in return, and you resist the urge to scrunch your nose. “How have you been?”

“I’d be good if I knew where the bodies of your first two victims are.”

Don’t meander around the request. Make it known — you’re there for a reason.

Brian pauses. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“You said you would tell me.”

“Maybe I don’t remember.”

You want to furrow your eyebrows, but you don’t want him to know he’s affecting you at all. Hotch’s knee presses against yours — you know he’s doing it on purpose, now, angling his body just slightly to the side.

You clear your throat. “I need to know where the bodies are.”

“Maybe you could jog my memory.”

You open your mouth and then close it. You’re not quite sure what the means, but then he leans forward, and you can hear the metal of his handcuffs jingling beneath the table. 

He’s cuffed. You still don’t like how he leans over the table like he wants to eat you whole, half standing like he wants to reach you across the table.

Hotch doesn’t like it either. His arm shoots forward, palm pressed to Brian’s shoulder, and he pushes him back into his seat.

“Sit down,” he says, or maybe the better word is commands, voice harsh. His eyebrows are drawn and his lips are pursed, and you would reach out to rest your hand over his knee to cool him off if you weren’t where you were.

Brian sits back down, and you’re glad. Your stomach feels lopsided and you think you can feel sweat cropping above your lip, but you clear your throat again and push it down.

“Tell me where they are,” you say again, clearer and louder, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze because Hotch said that’ll throw him off. He won’t know what to do with a woman looking at him like that. 

He’s confident, though. More so than you’d expected. He doesn’t crumble under your glare and he doesn’t even seem to be sweating, and if he was, you’d feel more comfortable.

“I told you, I don’t remember,” he says again, and you don’t lift your gaze. “You know what would help me remember?”

You don’t say anything. Neither does Hotch.

“Maybe if I smelled your hair —“

“Watch it,” Hotch says, just as you’d lifted your knee to hit against his, because you’re not scared but you don’t know where to go from here. You don’t want him to be looking at you like this — but Hotch is there, tone dark and frightening, and you think you would be scared if you weren’t you and you didn’t know him. 

You settle your knee back against his. It’s not a tap out. You can do it.

“I’m here because you said you would tell me,” you say, and hope you sound more confident than you feel. “Stop messing around.”

All in all, the interrogation — if you could even call it that — lasts all of ten minutes before Brian is sputtering out a location. A cabin — the woods — a mile east of the lake. It’s enough that you can piece the rest together and Hotch doesn’t let either of you linger for a second, grabbing your arm and tugging you up and out the door, metal chairs scuffing against the ground.

The door is shut and you slump against it, Hotch’s hand still grasping your arm, and you lean into the touch. It’s comforting and you have a pit of something in your stomach, and you don’t register anyone else around you.

“Good job, kid,” Rossi says, shaking your shoulder just a bit, and Morgan and Emily have already headed off to the SUVs to go to the site, and Rossi turns on his heels to follow suit.

It’s you and Hotch. You exhale, and Hotch doesn’t let go of your arm.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, low and coated in concern. You want to hug him but you try not to at work, so you refrain.

“Fine,” you lie, because you don’t feel awful — it had worked out and you’d only been in there for ten minutes, and it’s a win in your book — but you don’t feel good, either, and you don’t think fine is a good word at all. “Thanks for coming in with me.”

You mean it. His presence is all-encompassing and you never feel like you could be in danger when you’re with him.

He doesn’t say you’re welcome or anytime or anything like that, because he doesn’t have to. He just nods, a firm shake of his head, and you know what it means.

“Come on,” he says, and then he drops your arm. “We can go back and pack.”

5 — THE BULLET

Your ears are still ringing when Hotch finally comes up to you where you sit in the back of the ambulance — not being treated, because they’d cleared you, just giving you an ice pack to hold against your head where it’s been knocked against a door — just debriefing.

Thinking. Contemplating.

“Hey, honey,” he says, and you know just by him using that nickname at work that he’s worried about what you’re going to say to him.

No PDA at work. Of any kind. You think you’ve been breaking that rule a lot over the past few weeks.

You’re angry at him — you want to hit him in the face — but you don’t pull away when he presses his hand against your cheek. He holds it there, as if waiting for you to jerk away from it, not moving it at all.

“Hey,” you say after a beat. No handsome or anything like that. 

He waits for you to say something else, and you don’t, and he exhales.

“I know you’re upset with me.”

You scoff. “Really?”

It’s immature. You feel immature, especially because Hotch doesn’t even roll his eyes at your comment. He’s so pragmatic all the time and you like it, usually, because it keeps you grounded, but you hate it, too. Hate how you feel like such a child sometimes — teeming with emotions where he tries not to show them.

You would prefer him to get pissed off right back at you. At least then you’d feel like you’re on an even playing field with him.

“You don’t have to like the decision I made,” Hotch says, crossing his arms over his suit-clad chest, having already tossed his vest away the second you two had left the unsub’s house. 

“The decision?” You parrot, and you want to cross your arms back at him, but you’re still holding the ice pack to your head, so you glare instead. “It wasn’t a decision.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t,” and you hope you don’t start getting emotional, because you’ll feel stupid, and you don’t want to. “Hotch, you jumped in front of a bullet for me. That’s not a decision, it’s stupid, and you shouldn’t have done it because I can handle myself.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and while you wait for him to reply you replay it in your head — watching the unsub’s gun raise towards you, and then you couldn’t see it because Hotch had jumped in front of you so fast you’d thought he’d teleported, and when the shot rang out you couldn’t tell who it hit —

Neither of you. Just a SWAT member shooting the unsub. Knowing that did nothing to tame how you were feeling — still feeling — riddled with anxiety and feeling bile rise in your throat in the seconds after the shot had rang out, waiting for Hotch’s body to drop in front of you like a puppet with its strings cut.

“It was irrational,” Hotch finally says. “I panicked, honey. I saw the gun raise and —“

He pauses. Drops his hands until they’re on his hips, and you watch him timidly.

“You’re a great agent, and I know you’re capable of handling yourself in the field,” he continues after a beat. “Logically, I know that. Illogically, you’re also my girlfriend, and when there’s a gun pointed at you, my first instinct is to protect you.”

You feel some anger in your heart flake away because —

He’s never called you his girlfriend before. Not to your face, anyway. You’ve called him your boyfriend — to your friends outside the team and your mom — and you know you are, technically, his girlfriend, but the word seems so juvenile that you’d just assumed he wouldn’t think to refer to you like that. 

It’s endearing. You like it. You find it hard to stay angry at him when he called you his girlfriend and looks like he’s moments from walking away to go kick rocks.

You drop your hands into your lap, resting your ice pack against your thigh. Hotch watches you — you can feel it.

“Hotch, I don’t need —“ you pause and drop your eyes into your lap. “I don’t want you to jump in front of bullets for me. I don’t want to have to watch you get shot.”

“I know,” he says, and then he takes a step towards you, and you don’t resist when he grabs your hands — untangles them from each other, interlocks them with his. “I know, honey.”

You smooth your finger over the back of his hand. You’re not sure what else to say, exactly, and you hope he picks up the slack for you.

“I can’t apologize for wanting to protect you,” he begins, and you raise your eyebrows at him. “I always want to and I always will. But I’m sorry for making you feel like I think you can’t handle yourself, and I’m sorry for scaring you.”

You sniffle. “It’s okay.”

“Is it.”

It’s not a question — he knows you’re lying. 

You shrug, and then nod. “You scared me a lot.”

“I know.”

“I thought he shot you.”

He doesn’t say anything.

You continue. “I love that you’re protective of me, but not — not like that. I think I’d rather take the shot then —“

Hotch squeezes your hands, and you don’t bother finishing your sentence. He knows what you mean, and you’re not sure you could articulate it properly, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then he takes another step closer to you, and you drop your head into his chest. It hurts from the slight bruise cropping up over your hairline — your ice pack is forgotten on your thighs — but you don’t mind the pain. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you tell him, and you smile when he leans down to press a kiss to your head. And then, because you’re not in the habit of letting nice moments stay nice, you say, “your girlfriend?”

“That’s what you are, right?”

You smile against his chest, and you can’t see him, but you think he’s probably smiling too. “I guess so.” You pause. “You’ve never called me that before.”

“I have.”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

He raises a hand to your shoulder and just holds it there, thumb smoothing along your skin through your shirt. “I guess I’ll have to say it more often.”

“I guess you will,” you muse, and you want it to sound tinged with humor but it’s breathier more than anything, and he presses another kiss to your cheek. It’s soft and sweet — you like it — you like it so much you barely even register him reaching down to your lap to grab your forgotten ice pack, pressing it to the bruise on your head, and you smile.

+1 — THE THRILLER

You’re flipping through the dozens of movie titles Hotch has in his sitting room when he emerges from the kitchen. He’s just showered — you know because his hair is wet, but you can also smell his body wash, like mahogany and teakwood, distinctly him — and changed into one of his old law school shirts, and you try not to let your gaze linger on him.

You’ve stayed the night before, but seeing him like this, domestic and soft and the complete opposite of how primly put together he is at work, makes your face burn anyway.

“What are you thinking?” Hotch asks, and he leans over the back of the couch to see the DVDs you’ve set aside, and you inhale softly to take in the smell of him. 

“Halloween. Or Scream. Or —“

“All scary ones?”

You tilt your head to look up at him, and he looks pained.

“Do you not like them?”

He hesitates before shaking his head. “Not particularly.”

You look down at the titles, smoothing your fingers over Texas Chainsaw Massacre’s bright red font. “You’re scared of them?”

Hotch rounds the couch to plop down next to you, and instinctively he tugs your legs into his lap where they’d been curled up beneath you. He rests his hands on your calves, and you hope he doesn’t feel the goosebumps that crop up over his touch.

“I don’t know if scared is the right word,” he says, grabbing the stack of discarded movies you’d set beside you and beginning to flip through them. “But I don’t enjoy them.”

You narrow your eyes at him, and then you grin. “I think you’re scared of them.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” you nod, and he turns his head to the side to look at you, and the corners of his lips tick up like he’s trying not to smile. “You’re transparent. You wouldn’t reject my ideas unless you were scared, ‘cause it’s my turn to pick.”

He holds up two movies for you to look at. “Can’t you pick The Wizard of Oz? Or When Harry Met Sally?”

You like both those movies, but you look at them with faux disdain because you have ground to hold. “How can you catch serial killers for a living and be scared of Scream?”

“They wear masks.”

“That’s why you’re scared?”

“Not exactly —“

“Hotch, if you were there, you would figure out it’s Billy and Stu in ten minutes.”

He laughs, and you relish in the sound.

“Not before they killed Drew Barrymore,” he says, and you grin.

“Maybe not that fast,” you agree.

You glance at the movies he’s holding and the ones on your lap. “Maybe we can watch the first 10 minutes of Scream, and if you’re too scared, we can put in When Harry Met Sally.”

It’s a fine compromise, and Hotch leans forward, pressing a kiss to your lips that’s so gentle it makes your skin tingle. “Perfect.”

He climbs off the couch to go put Scream in, and you move all of the other movies onto the coffee table, clearing the cushions for you both to sprawl out on. You hold your arms out to him when he turns back around, and when he’s close enough, you tug him towards you. Pull him down until he’s practically on top of you, and he laughs, letting you curl your body into his.

“Don’t worry, handsome,” you tell him, pressing your cheek into his shoulder, tone sickly-sweet and teasing. “I’m here to protect you from scary Ghostface.”

“Be quiet,” he says, and you beam at him.

[hotchssglasses]

I miss writing for Santi/Frankie/reader so if you guys have any requests for them pls send em in ❤️❤️

[hotchssglasses]

‘Shh, there’s people in the other room’ and ‘make me’ for santi/Frankie/reader ? 👀

ask and you shall receive

The three of you are each a bit tipsy - even Frankie, who seldom drinks at any sort of family gathering - and especially Santi, who took four jello shots and two beers with Frankie's uncle and was batting his eyes at you all night.

You're somewhere in between - you'd had a few glasses of wine, courtesy of one of Frankie's aunts who kept pouring you more - but you're not so drunk on alcohol as you are on the feeling of Santi's cock, thrusting in and out of you with reckless abandon, fingertips digging dark bruises into the soft flesh of your hips.

You'd begun on all fours, back arched into Santi's willing touch, but it had gotten too much - your limbs much too weak - your head much too dizzy - and, at some point, your arms had failed you, leaving you with your head against Frankie's childhood comforter, gripping the patterned covers with a white-knuckled grasp.

"Shh, there's people in the other room," Frankie hisses - his fingers bury in your hair, lifting your head up with just enough force for it to sting at the back of your head, and the slight pain makes you want to cum on the spot. He's sitting before you, back against the headboard, hand lazily wrapped around his cock that's barely six inches from your face, legs bent on either side of your head. "Come on, princesa - quiet, baby -"

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as Santi grunts softly from behind you - his noises are more contained, the sound of his hips slamming into your ass far louder than the soft moans that escape his throat every so often.

It should be classified as torture, forcing you to be quiet when Santi is pounding you so well - brushing against that sweet spot inside of you with every glide of his hips - filling you over and over and leaving you a trembling mess beneath him. And you know it's necessary, Frankie's parents and a few straggling cousins and other relatives lingering in the kitchen downstairs from their Christmas Eve party - relatives who, for the most part, you've never met before, most of them living farther north from where the three of you reside in Florida. As it is, this is the first time you've seen Frankie's parents in almost a year, since one of his cousins got married last February and you made the journey up to the wedding.

Good impressions are vital - and having his relatives hear the three of you fucking each other like you're in heat is not a good impression, decidedly, but your body simply can't stop ripping moans from your throat.

"Bite the comforter," Santi exhales, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust of his cock into your dripping cunt, sopping wet with desire after Frankie had eaten you out hardly ten minutes before. Santi has known Frankie's family for years, since before you joined the picture as his friend, at first, and then eventually his boyfriend, and now only one of his lovers - he knows them, has more rapport than you do - cares less about impressions. "Come - on - fuck -"

You oblige his demand, opening your mouth and biting down on Frankie's childhood comforter, but the mouthful of fabric does little to alleviate the whimpers and high-pitched whines that pierce the sex-filled air of the bedroom. The drag of Santi's dick along your velvety warm walls is intoxicating, moreso than any drop of wine on your tongue could ever hope to be, and you want to fucking black out from it.

"Cariño," Frankie murmurs, and it's not as sultry as before - nearly a plead - as he strokes his hand through your hair. "Quiet, please, don't want them to hear -"

And it isn't supposed to be a tease, nor some way of being defiant towards either of your lovers - you lift your head, quivering with the force of holding it up as Santi presses a hand to your lower back, pushing it down into the mattress where you'd started pushing your hips up to meet his thrusts - and, with lust cracking through every syllable, you drop your head into Frankie's thigh and groan, "make me."

There's a split second pause - Santi presses his hips against yours - rolls them experimentally with a soft, throaty groan that all of you noticeably ignore - and then Frankie is gripping your hair again. Lifts your head up, and you open your mouth in surprise before he's gliding the thick, leaking head of his cock against your lips.

You accept it - wrap your lips around the the weeping, fat head - take it down your throat as far as you can. He's fucking big, taking up every square inch of your mouth and throat, and your desperate moans have no room to escape from the depths of your chest as Santi resumes an unrelenting pace, slamming into your hips desperately.

[hotchssglasses]

random question, but what would you guys envision santi’s job being once he leaves colombia and comes back to florida? i suppose he would work in law enforcement of some sort (maybe like a detective) but i’m not the biggest fan of it so idk what are your thoughts

[hotchssglasses]

&. 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  smut  /  nsfw  implied  sentence  starters  with  not  so  vulgar  language.  )

❛ i’ve been thinking about you all day. ❜

❛ you can kiss me, you know. ❜

❛ how badly do you want me? ❜

❛ i can’t get enough of you. ❜

❛ i’ve never done something like this before. ❜

❛ i like being close to you. you’re warm. ❜

❛ you look good like this. ❜

❛ you look like you were jealous. ❜

❛ i’m not jealous. ❜

❛ shh. there’s people in the other room. ❜

❛ say you want me, and i’m yours. ❜ 

❛ i won’t bite. unless you’re into that sort of thing. ❜

❛ i’m not wearing any underwear. thought you’d like to know. ❜

❛ would you like to go somewhere a little more private? ❜

❛ i’ll take care of you. ❜

❛ there’s so many things i wanna do to you. ❜

❛ take off your clothes. ❜

❛ i’m going to ruin you. ❜

❛ show me how much you missed me. ❜

❛ is this okay? ❜

❛ you know you love me. ❜

❛ i want you to feel good. ❜

❛ make me. ❜

❛ i want this. ❜

❛ come back to bed. ❜

❛ you’re such a tease. ❜

❛ want me to model these for you? ❜

❛ we have to make this quick. ❜

❛ what are you looking at? ❜

❛ it’s hot when you talk back. ❜

❛ you don’t have to be gentle. i won’t break. ❜

❛ don’t you know what you’re doing to me? ❜

❛ i really want to kiss you right now. ❜

❛ this is a one time thing. ❜

❛ you know where to find me. ❜

❛ did i say you could stop? ❜

❛ you’re soaked. let me grab you a towel. ❜

❛ i want to see you. ❜

❛ are you wearing my shirt? ❜

❛ no ones here. we can be as loud as we want. ❜

❛ you look good with my hands around your throat. ❜

❛ i’ll be good, i promise. ❜

❛ you’re really good at that. ❜

❛ shut up and kiss me already. ❜

❛ you better watch your fucking mouth. ❜

❛ don’t mind me. just enjoying the view. ❜

❛ tell me what you want. ❜

❛ here’s my hotel room number. ❜

❛ you can be rough. i can take it. ❜

❛ and where do you think you’re going? ❜

❛ if you called just to get off on my voice, i’m hanging up. ❜

❛ i shouldn’t allow myself to get this close to you. ❜

❛ what if i hurt you? ❜

❛ you could never hurt me. ❜

[hotchssglasses]

smutty prompt 10 with frankie santi reader?

10. 'Jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you.'

frankie morales x santiago garcia x reader

warnings: literally not even smutty. this is a disappointment of a smut blurb because i wrote 2k words of buildup! just some mild heavy making out

You're really not jealous.

No, you definitely aren't - the swelling mixture of volatile emotions in your stomach surely doesn't contain that seedling - if only because that would be ridiculous.

You're not ridiculous, and you're not jealous -

You just don't like what you're seeing, one of Molly's friends tipsy and giggling and staring up at Santi like he's a piece of meat, fuck-me eyes on full display. Santi isn't giving her much to work with, and that fans the flames burning beneath your skin - he sips at his beer and leans away from her, boisterous conversation with Will and Tom and a few of their other friends overpowering anything else at the fight.

In your head, you know Santi would never give anyone except you and Frankie a second glance - he's told you more times than you could possibly count how you two are it for him, the light at the end of the tunnel of failed relationships - and that makes watching this easier to bear. You know the girl's attempts are useless, fawning over your boyfriend like she stands a chance, and you would almost feel bad for her. She seems nice, and surely has no inkling that Santi is spoken for by not one but two goddamn people - possibly the least single person on Earth, let alone in the circle of people she’s woven into.

There's the slide of an arm around your waist - you lean back in to the touch, knowing the calloused, gentle fingers to be Frankie's without even seeing him. He rests his beer on the bar beside you, and you don't turn to face him, even as he presses his chest to your back, kiss smacked to the side of your face.

"Watchin' our boy get loved on?" Frankie muses, and you can tell this isn't bothering him nearly as much as it's bothering you. He's probably more used to it, being with Santi longer than you've been with both of them, because you can't quite think of another reason he would be so nonchalant watching his lover get lusted over.

You nod, grabbing Frankie's beer and lifting it to your lips to take a sip. "Mhm."

"Don't let it bother you."

You huff, turning on your stool so you're facing Frankie, now. Your knees jut into his hips, bringing your hands up to grab at his forearms, just to feel the touch of him against you - if you can't have Santi at your mercy - if you have to suffer through watching another girl try to win his affections - then you'll use Frankie for all he has to give. His arm around your waist slides back around until he's simply resting his hand against your hip, smoothing his thumb against your skin through your jeans.

"It's not bothering me," you say, which is just a lie, plain and simple - Frankie exhales a chuckle, raising his eyebrows as if to tell you exactly how much he doesn't believe you. "It's just weird. It's weird to watch."

"He's not even looking at her."

"I know -" you pause, skin prickling slightly as you try to make some sense of the knot of emotions in your stomach - it feels like untangling a clump of necklaces, trying to pick each apart from each other - nearly impossible. "How aren't you annoyed? I want to go make out with him in front of her just so she knows."

"I'm annoyed," he tells you, lifting his shoulders up and down in a shrug. You furrow your eyebrows. "But it's okay, baby - he'll make it up to us."

The second part of his reassurance is spoken elusively, like it's some riddle you have to work out, and you squint at Frankie. You can't quite make sense of it, but he doesn't continue - just lifts his beer to his mouth and takes a slow sip. His eyes have drifted from where he was staring at you, now focused on a spot distinctly behind you, and you know what it is before you look back to check.

Your eyes meet Santi's, and a small smile blooms on the man's face. He lifts a finger to beckon the two of you over, and you want to hop up and run over without a second of hesitation, but before you do, Frankie holds up his pointer finger to your much-coveted boyfriend across the room.

Frankie leans in, then. His lips brush against your ear, sliding his hand up until it's resting over your waist, and when he speaks, you can smell the beer and spearmint on his breath and you want to kiss him silly - senseless - until you lose all meaning of time.

"Santi is really good with jealous sex."

Oh!

Oh.

You feel heat flush up your neck to your cheeks, leaning away from Frankie just as he shifts back, giving you a small smile as if he hadn't just set your goddamn skin aflame. It's easier, with Frankie's words, to decipher the tangled knot of emotions in your stomach - it's like untangling a clump of necklaces, pulling and prodding until one comes loose, and it's -

Lust? Arousal?

Fucking horniness?

It isn't jealousy as much as you'd thought. You whip your head around to look at Santi, whose gaze has left you and Frankie and is focused on Will as the blonde tells a story - the girl is still laser-focused on Santi, and then she reaches one manicured hand up to brush against his forearm, and he shifts it away.

You want to ruin him. Or maybe you want him to ruin you.

"We don't have to stay much longer, do we?" you hear yourself distantly asking Frankie, feeling a bit more distracted with the current emotional climate spiraling through your body.

"Benny's done - we can leave whenever you -"

You're already standing up and walking up before Frankie has finished his answer, and you can hear him bark out a laugh even as you stalk across the crowded room to where your friends and your boyfriend are sitting. When you're close enough, Santi turns his head to glance at you, and the goofy smile that plays on his lips when he sees you is sweet and soft, and in any other situation you would melt at it -

When you reach him, you press your lips to his, and it isn't sweet or soft by any stretch of the imagination - it's almost primal, certainly chalked up to you being a bit drunk by your friends, but you've barely had anything all night. No, you’re stone cold sober as you reach up to grab the sides of his face, feeling the surprise slide off of his features as he drops his hand to your waist, tugging your body closer into his.

You pull away after Tom barks out a laugh at your display, boisterous and crass, and, in your peripheral vision, you catch a glimpse of burning red cheeks before the girl beside Santi is sauntering away.

The boys and the rest of Santi’s friends ebb their attention away into a conversation, forming their own circle that excludes the pair of you, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. You can practically feel Frankie’s eyes burning into you and Santi from where you had just stood with him, and you love the attention - the show of it all.

“What’s gotten into you?” Santi asks, and his voice is raspy and kiss-drunk, hand trailing up and down your side.

“Frankie and I are ready to go,” you tell him, dropping your voice low and leaning your head closer to his. You drop your hands to touch at the side of his neck, and you can feel his veins pulsing beneath your touch in a way that invigorates you so heavily you could pass out. Santi raises his eyebrows, a smirk tugging up the corners of his lips, and you resist the urge to reach in and kiss it off. “Better say goodbye to your little friend over there.”

Pointedly, you jut your chin over to where Molly’s friend has worked her way into a new circle of people - Santi follows your gaze and exhales a soft chuckle.

“You two are insane,” he says, and you want to respond verbally but you can’t manage - just tilt your head back up towards his, pressing your lips against his, squeezing your hands against the side of his neck. He chokes a gasp into your mouth, hand gripping your waist tight as he pulls your body somehow closer into his, as if you aren’t pressed tight enough to him as it is - you feel practically molded into his frame, as close to him as you could possibly get, and it isn’t enough.

Santi’s hand has just slid down your lower back, palm pressed against the swell of your ass through your pants, before you very pointedly feel a third presence beside you. Reluctantly, you pull away from Santi, and the kiss-swollen sight of his lips almost has you leaning back in again -

You glance up at Frankie, staring at you two with a slightly amused glint in his eyes. He has one hand on the back of Santi’s head, sure fingers working through the dark curls, and Santi looks like he’s about to pass out at the attention you two are giving him - in public, no less - but there’s the juxtaposition of how he looks like he’ll just about die if either of you remove your touch from him.

You like it. You like seeing him like this - looking almost wrecked when you’ve done nothing but kiss.

Frankie’s holding the keys to the truck in his other hand, and you smile.

“Jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you,” Frankie tells you, the bastard. “Figured I should tear you two apart before you start fucking right here.”

“I’d do it,” you say, voice sounding throatier and more truthful than you intended. “Have her watch -”

“Alright, babe, enough -”

“You would, too -”

“Can we just go?” Santi interrupts your faux-bickering with Frankie, voice sounding strained, and you’re sure if you dropped your eyes to his pants you would see the beginnings of a boner straining against his jeans - but you’re also sure that, if you look at that, you’ll have to drag them both into the bathroom to alleviate you, and you’d rather make it home first. “You two can have your way with me at home.”

You give Frankie a maddening smile, sweet as molasses, and your boyfriend returns it with a roll of his eyes. “Sounds like a plan, darling.”

[hotchssglasses]

smutty prompt 10 with frankie santi reader?

10. 'Jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you.'

frankie morales x santiago garcia x reader

warnings: literally not even smutty. this is a disappointment of a smut blurb because i wrote 2k words of buildup! just some mild heavy making out

You're really not jealous.

No, you definitely aren't - the swelling mixture of volatile emotions in your stomach surely doesn't contain that seedling - if only because that would be ridiculous.

You're not ridiculous, and you're not jealous -

You just don't like what you're seeing, one of Molly's friends tipsy and giggling and staring up at Santi like he's a piece of meat, fuck-me eyes on full display. Santi isn't giving her much to work with, and that fans the flames burning beneath your skin - he sips at his beer and leans away from her, boisterous conversation with Will and Tom and a few of their other friends overpowering anything else at the fight.

In your head, you know Santi would never give anyone except you and Frankie a second glance - he's told you more times than you could possibly count how you two are it for him, the light at the end of the tunnel of failed relationships - and that makes watching this easier to bear. You know the girl's attempts are useless, fawning over your boyfriend like she stands a chance, and you would almost feel bad for her. She seems nice, and surely has no inkling that Santi is spoken for by not one but two goddamn people - possibly the least single person on Earth, let alone in the circle of people she’s woven into.

There's the slide of an arm around your waist - you lean back in to the touch, knowing the calloused, gentle fingers to be Frankie's without even seeing him. He rests his beer on the bar beside you, and you don't turn to face him, even as he presses his chest to your back, kiss smacked to the side of your face.

"Watchin' our boy get loved on?" Frankie muses, and you can tell this isn't bothering him nearly as much as it's bothering you. He's probably more used to it, being with Santi longer than you've been with both of them, because you can't quite think of another reason he would be so nonchalant watching his lover get lusted over.

You nod, grabbing Frankie's beer and lifting it to your lips to take a sip. "Mhm."

"Don't let it bother you."

You huff, turning on your stool so you're facing Frankie, now. Your knees jut into his hips, bringing your hands up to grab at his forearms, just to feel the touch of him against you - if you can't have Santi at your mercy - if you have to suffer through watching another girl try to win his affections - then you'll use Frankie for all he has to give. His arm around your waist slides back around until he's simply resting his hand against your hip, smoothing his thumb against your skin through your jeans.

"It's not bothering me," you say, which is just a lie, plain and simple - Frankie exhales a chuckle, raising his eyebrows as if to tell you exactly how much he doesn't believe you. "It's just weird. It's weird to watch."

"He's not even looking at her."

"I know -" you pause, skin prickling slightly as you try to make some sense of the knot of emotions in your stomach - it feels like untangling a clump of necklaces, trying to pick each apart from each other - nearly impossible. "How aren't you annoyed? I want to go make out with him in front of her just so she knows."

"I'm annoyed," he tells you, lifting his shoulders up and down in a shrug. You furrow your eyebrows. "But it's okay, baby - he'll make it up to us."

The second part of his reassurance is spoken elusively, like it's some riddle you have to work out, and you squint at Frankie. You can't quite make sense of it, but he doesn't continue - just lifts his beer to his mouth and takes a slow sip. His eyes have drifted from where he was staring at you, now focused on a spot distinctly behind you, and you know what it is before you look back to check.

Your eyes meet Santi's, and a small smile blooms on the man's face. He lifts a finger to beckon the two of you over, and you want to hop up and run over without a second of hesitation, but before you do, Frankie holds up his pointer finger to your much-coveted boyfriend across the room.

Frankie leans in, then. His lips brush against your ear, sliding his hand up until it's resting over your waist, and when he speaks, you can smell the beer and spearmint on his breath and you want to kiss him silly - senseless - until you lose all meaning of time.

"Santi is really good with jealous sex."

Oh!

Oh.

You feel heat flush up your neck to your cheeks, leaning away from Frankie just as he shifts back, giving you a small smile as if he hadn't just set your goddamn skin aflame. It's easier, with Frankie's words, to decipher the tangled knot of emotions in your stomach - it's like untangling a clump of necklaces, pulling and prodding until one comes loose, and it's -

Lust? Arousal?

Fucking horniness?

It isn't jealousy as much as you'd thought. You whip your head around to look at Santi, whose gaze has left you and Frankie and is focused on Will as the blonde tells a story - the girl is still laser-focused on Santi, and then she reaches one manicured hand up to brush against his forearm, and he shifts it away.

You want to ruin him. Or maybe you want him to ruin you.

"We don't have to stay much longer, do we?" you hear yourself distantly asking Frankie, feeling a bit more distracted with the current emotional climate spiraling through your body.

"Benny's done - we can leave whenever you -"

You're already standing up and walking up before Frankie has finished his answer, and you can hear him bark out a laugh even as you stalk across the crowded room to where your friends and your boyfriend are sitting. When you're close enough, Santi turns his head to glance at you, and the goofy smile that plays on his lips when he sees you is sweet and soft, and in any other situation you would melt at it -

When you reach him, you press your lips to his, and it isn't sweet or soft by any stretch of the imagination - it's almost primal, certainly chalked up to you being a bit drunk by your friends, but you've barely had anything all night. No, you’re stone cold sober as you reach up to grab the sides of his face, feeling the surprise slide off of his features as he drops his hand to your waist, tugging your body closer into his.

You pull away after Tom barks out a laugh at your display, boisterous and crass, and, in your peripheral vision, you catch a glimpse of burning red cheeks before the girl beside Santi is sauntering away.

The boys and the rest of Santi’s friends ebb their attention away into a conversation, forming their own circle that excludes the pair of you, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. You can practically feel Frankie’s eyes burning into you and Santi from where you had just stood with him, and you love the attention - the show of it all.

“What’s gotten into you?” Santi asks, and his voice is raspy and kiss-drunk, hand trailing up and down your side.

“Frankie and I are ready to go,” you tell him, dropping your voice low and leaning your head closer to his. You drop your hands to touch at the side of his neck, and you can feel his veins pulsing beneath your touch in a way that invigorates you so heavily you could pass out. Santi raises his eyebrows, a smirk tugging up the corners of his lips, and you resist the urge to reach in and kiss it off. “Better say goodbye to your little friend over there.”

Pointedly, you jut your chin over to where Molly’s friend has worked her way into a new circle of people - Santi follows your gaze and exhales a soft chuckle.

“You two are insane,” he says, and you want to respond verbally but you can’t manage - just tilt your head back up towards his, pressing your lips against his, squeezing your hands against the side of his neck. He chokes a gasp into your mouth, hand gripping your waist tight as he pulls your body somehow closer into his, as if you aren’t pressed tight enough to him as it is - you feel practically molded into his frame, as close to him as you could possibly get, and it isn’t enough.

Santi’s hand has just slid down your lower back, palm pressed against the swell of your ass through your pants, before you very pointedly feel a third presence beside you. Reluctantly, you pull away from Santi, and the kiss-swollen sight of his lips almost has you leaning back in again -

You glance up at Frankie, staring at you two with a slightly amused glint in his eyes. He has one hand on the back of Santi’s head, sure fingers working through the dark curls, and Santi looks like he’s about to pass out at the attention you two are giving him - in public, no less - but there’s the juxtaposition of how he looks like he’ll just about die if either of you remove your touch from him.

You like it. You like seeing him like this - looking almost wrecked when you’ve done nothing but kiss.

Frankie’s holding the keys to the truck in his other hand, and you smile.

“Jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you,” Frankie tells you, the bastard. “Figured I should tear you two apart before you start fucking right here.”

“I’d do it,” you say, voice sounding throatier and more truthful than you intended. “Have her watch -”

“Alright, babe, enough -”

“You would, too -”

“Can we just go?” Santi interrupts your faux-bickering with Frankie, voice sounding strained, and you’re sure if you dropped your eyes to his pants you would see the beginnings of a boner straining against his jeans - but you’re also sure that, if you look at that, you’ll have to drag them both into the bathroom to alleviate you, and you’d rather make it home first. “You two can have your way with me at home.”

You give Frankie a maddening smile, sweet as molasses, and your boyfriend returns it with a roll of his eyes. “Sounds like a plan, darling.”

[hotchssglasses]

Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates, love u all and everything u guys have given me through this account and my writing

[hotchssglasses]

Smutty prompts 7 and 34 sounds hot- maybe with Santi?

7. "Is there some space left in that bathtub?"

34. "Oh, can you feel this?"

Santi knows exactly where you are the second he's shut the front door, toeing his boots off beside the umbrella stand, hanging his jacket on the hook mounted to the wall. There's a faint aroma of rose and bath salts wafting through the house, making him nearly lightheaded with how sweet it is and pungent, even as far as he must be, and there's the distant crooning of 70s music coming from somewhere above him.

It's your favorite thing to do on the rare occasions you have a day off that he doesn't. Tie your hair back - grab a face mask - lounge in the bath for hours. Reading, usually, either the novels you buy from Barnes and Noble or magazines you have a subscription for but don't peruse in any other context.

Nevertheless, it's endearing. There's a soft splash from upstairs, and Santi smiles, and he doesn't realize his feet are moving until he's halfway up the stairs.

He wants to surprise you. You might've heard him come in (he's not exactly quiet at shutting the door, and he can't remember if he accidentally kicked the umbrella stand or not) but you get into a zone when you're doing your self care - nothing matters but your face masks and lotion and it's all so fucking endearing he wants to die thinking about seeing you in action.

The door to the bathroom, attached to the master bedroom, is barely ajar, cracked open just enough to hear the music with enough clarity. Santi's palm is pressed to the wooden door, ready to push it open, when there's another soft splash - a labored breath -

And then you fucking moan, all gentle and keen, the noise getting choked in your throat.

Santi could pass out, then. He hadn't even had a bad day at work and yet it feels like the universe is rewarding him, handing him you soft and pliable and masturbating on a silver platter. He isn't even sure he deserves it - deserves you - all soft whimpers and gripping his arms and pressing kisses against his jaw to muffle yourself.

He doesn't give a damn if he deserves it, he decides. He'll take it anyway - and he pushes the door open, soft enough that it doesn't make a noise, as squeaky as the old hinges can be.

Santi feels his cock jump in his pants - your eyes are shut, chest arching into your grasp on your tits, other hand tucked between the juncture of your thighs. The tub is piled high with thick, cloying bubbles, concealing the peaks of your nipples, your kneecap visible where it's bent, jutting above the horizon of the water.

Yes - he feels very rewarded - loved by the universe and all above.

He feels like a stalker as he moves closer, socked feet padding on the tile of the bathroom floor and then the plush bathmat that you'd bought at Home Goods the month prior - it muffles his steps, giving him leeway to sidle up to the side of the tub. Squats beside it - wincing at the ache in his knees from the position - grabbing the edge of the tub with a firm, calloused grip.

"Are you trying to sneak up on me?" you murmur, and Santi grins. Leans in - lazes a kiss against the edge of your jawline - feels you tilt your head away to give him better access to every jumping vein and soft patch of skin. Your arm stills where he could see the muscles moving as you worked your cunt, and he wants to tell you to keep going, don't you dare stop, but he'll give you a second.

"How'd you know."

It's a rhetorical question - you answer it anyway. "Could smell your cologne," you tell him, and your eyes flutter open. "And you're not as stealthy as you think."

He shakes his head. He would defend his honor - cite his sneakiness on the field, how silent he can be with his team when he needs to be - but instead, he trails his eyes down your body, covered in suds and aromatic bubbles. "Is there some space left in that bathtub, baby? Might be too small for -"

"Yes," you rush to say, the answer immediate and rushed without any semblance of attempted nonchalance. You're excited, Santi can tell, and it makes blood rush to his face as you move your hand off your tits to grab the edge of the bathtub - water droplets flow down the side of the tub, your skin glistening with rose-toned sparkles, surely from your bath bombs or salts or whatever the hell else you have. "Please?"

You didn't have to plead for him to oblige but he appreciates it - stands, undoing the buttons of his shirt with a practiced ease, littering it on the ground behind him. You're watching him so intently, eyes wide and filled to the brim with the desire, that Santi would almost get self conscious under your gaze that nearly looks scrutinizing, but he can't bring himself to. Just drops his hand to the front of his pants, tugging down the zipper and the button before shucking them down his legs, socks coming off with them.

He's already half hard, which is almost embarrassing considering he hasn't even seen your tits yet, but when he pulls his boxers down and lets them puddle around his feet you're looking at his boner like you want him to fuck your throat which - is probably true, now that he thinks of it. Maybe he'll do that later - hand on your jaw and the other in your hair, hips driving in and out of your mouth -

But that's later, and you're willing and needy in front of him now, so he decides he'll focus on that.

You pull yourself forward, practically folding into yourself, chest to your knees, so Santi can clamber into the tub behind you. The water is nearly burning hot and entirely too damn high for two people - it rises dangerously close to the top of the tub, and Santi pretends not to notice as some pink-tinted water spills over the edge of the floor onto your beloved bath mat. His skin is prickling with heat and desire when he slides his legs on either side of your body, bent next to yours, before he's reaching up to grab your waist and tug you back into his chest until you're slotted into his body.

You two fit together like puzzle pieces - like two goddamn peas in a pod - and Santi loves it. Loves how you dip your head into his shoulder, and when he tilts his head, he nuzzles his nose into your hair - inhales your shampoo - presses a kiss to your damp locks.

If there weren't bubbles blocking his view, Santi would demand that you show him how you touched yourself, princesa, exactly how you worked that little clit - but, as it is, he'd rather feel your slick beneath his fingers than watch you writhe before him as you touch yourself.

It's a toss up, mind you, but the former wins, in the end.

"Touch your tits," he tells you, and the quiver in his voice betrays his excitement. To an outsider's perspective, he's sure he sounds like some dorky virgin who's never seen a naked girl before, but you make him feel like that all the time, no matter how long you've been together. "Both hands, play with your nipples."

You oblige without hesitation, bringing both soapy hands up to your chest, and Santi pushes away some of the bubbles so he can watch as your fingers enclose the hardened peaks of your nipples, pinching and squeezing them. They're so sensitive that you're already arching into your own grasp, whining quietly at the sensation, leaning your head into the warm curve of Santi's neck.

He wants to wait until you're begging for him to put his fingers on your clit, but he physically doesn't think he can, so he slides his hands down the wet, smooth expanse of your stomach, resting his palm over your mound, fingers simply splayed over your folds. There's the soft prickle of hair beneath his palm that he loves, dipping the fingertips of his pointer and middle finger in between your folds, and even underwater, he can feel the warm slickness beneath his touch.

Your bottom lip is tugged between your teeth, and when you moan, it's a gentle hum of a noise. He hasn't touched your clit yet, though the top of his palm brushes the nub slightly with every glide of his fingers through your cunt, but you're still preening into him as though he's finger-fucking you already.

He likes that. Likes how he can drive you dizzy by hardly touching you - but he wants to touch you, to have you drunk on the feeling of his fingers, so he slides his hand up to your clit. Strums his fingers against it, just gently, and your reaction is -

Immediate, and fucking gorgeous, bucking your hips into his hands and then back against his hips, his cock sliding against the bottom of your spine with just enough pressure that he moans into your ear, the noise low and depraved, and it's like a domino effect, a whimper shooting out of your mouth and piercing the air over your soft music.

"Santi -" you moan, tilting your head so you can press your lips to the side of his throat - he can feel you suckling at the smooth canvas of his skin, surely trying to imprint a dark purple mark on the unblemished surface, and he doesn't complain. It'll be a bitch to cover, and he'll surely be requiring your help to mix your makeup products to cover it come tomorrow, but it's still so sexy that he simply tilts his head and lets you. "Fuck, Santi, you're hard."

Your voice is muffled against his throat, and you pull away from his skin only to cry out as he hardens his touch against your clit, circling the nub deeper with his fingers. "Oh - god -"

Santi slides his other hand down your body, wrapping his forearm around your waist as he pulls you back into him, slippery bodies sliding against each other as he forces your hips back, hard cock fitting right against your ass, rubbing against your soft skin. "Oh, you feel - this?"

He ruts himself into your ass again, fingers increasing in their pace, smooth against your slick clit.

"Yes," you gasp, adjusting your leg so it's resting overtop of his, giving him more room to rub you to orgasm. "Will you - please fuck me, baby, please?"

And Santi -

He isn't sure whether to indulge you instantly, to pull his hand off your cunt and line himself up and fuck up into you so hard that more water ends up outside the tub than inside of it - until you're digging your nails into his thighs, shouting with pleasure so loud that the neighbors will surely complain -

Or to make you cum on his fingers, burying his digits inside of you, curling them until your hips are bucking up into his hands without you even realizing, digging your head back into his shoulder. He loves how you look when you're so needy like that, eyes fluttering shut and cunt clenching around his fingers, cumming so desperate and coying.

He'll decide soon - for now, he simply presses his fingers further against your clit, your sweet moans sounding more like music to his ears than the tunes coming from your phone.

[hotchssglasses]

‘BLONDIEBARNES' MASTERLIST

** = explicit content

TRIPLE FRONTIER

santiago garcia

oneshots:

drabbles:

bath sex with santi **

frankie morales/santiago garcia

oneshots:

𝗜 - in the air tonight **

it’s the little things, more than anything, that drive frankie crazy - and you and santi are full of them at will’s barbecue.

𝗜𝗜 - good gettin' used **

you’ve never tried taking santi and frankie at the same time this early into your relationship, but you figure now is as good a time as any.

𝗜𝗜𝗜 - baby blue **

frankie finds you and santi asleep together after a rough day at work, and you decide he needs a bit of stress relief.

drabbles:

‘jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you’

‘shh, there’s people in the other room’ / ‘make me’

MARVEL

bucky barnes

𝗜 - mirror image **

you and bucky’s growing attraction for each other comes to fruition at a sparring session.

bucky barnes/steve rogers

𝗜 - in the middle **

steve and bucky just got home from a tough mission, and you’re determined to make them feel good.

[hotchssglasses]

Smutty prompts 7 and 34 sounds hot- maybe with Santi?

7. "Is there some space left in that bathtub?"

34. "Oh, can you feel this?"

Santi knows exactly where you are the second he's shut the front door, toeing his boots off beside the umbrella stand, hanging his jacket on the hook mounted to the wall. There's a faint aroma of rose and bath salts wafting through the house, making him nearly lightheaded with how sweet it is and pungent, even as far as he must be, and there's the distant crooning of 70s music coming from somewhere above him.

It's your favorite thing to do on the rare occasions you have a day off that he doesn't. Tie your hair back - grab a face mask - lounge in the bath for hours. Reading, usually, either the novels you buy from Barnes and Noble or magazines you have a subscription for but don't peruse in any other context.

Nevertheless, it's endearing. There's a soft splash from upstairs, and Santi smiles, and he doesn't realize his feet are moving until he's halfway up the stairs.

He wants to surprise you. You might've heard him come in (he's not exactly quiet at shutting the door, and he can't remember if he accidentally kicked the umbrella stand or not) but you get into a zone when you're doing your self care - nothing matters but your face masks and lotion and it's all so fucking endearing he wants to die thinking about seeing you in action.

The door to the bathroom, attached to the master bedroom, is barely ajar, cracked open just enough to hear the music with enough clarity. Santi's palm is pressed to the wooden door, ready to push it open, when there's another soft splash - a labored breath -

And then you fucking moan, all gentle and keen, the noise getting choked in your throat.

Santi could pass out, then. He hadn't even had a bad day at work and yet it feels like the universe is rewarding him, handing him you soft and pliable and masturbating on a silver platter. He isn't even sure he deserves it - deserves you - all soft whimpers and gripping his arms and pressing kisses against his jaw to muffle yourself.

He doesn't give a damn if he deserves it, he decides. He'll take it anyway - and he pushes the door open, soft enough that it doesn't make a noise, as squeaky as the old hinges can be.

Santi feels his cock jump in his pants - your eyes are shut, chest arching into your grasp on your tits, other hand tucked between the juncture of your thighs. The tub is piled high with thick, cloying bubbles, concealing the peaks of your nipples, your kneecap visible where it's bent, jutting above the horizon of the water.

Yes - he feels very rewarded - loved by the universe and all above.

He feels like a stalker as he moves closer, socked feet padding on the tile of the bathroom floor and then the plush bathmat that you'd bought at Home Goods the month prior - it muffles his steps, giving him leeway to sidle up to the side of the tub. Squats beside it - wincing at the ache in his knees from the position - grabbing the edge of the tub with a firm, calloused grip.

"Are you trying to sneak up on me?" you murmur, and Santi grins. Leans in - lazes a kiss against the edge of your jawline - feels you tilt your head away to give him better access to every jumping vein and soft patch of skin. Your arm stills where he could see the muscles moving as you worked your cunt, and he wants to tell you to keep going, don't you dare stop, but he'll give you a second.

"How'd you know."

It's a rhetorical question - you answer it anyway. "Could smell your cologne," you tell him, and your eyes flutter open. "And you're not as stealthy as you think."

He shakes his head. He would defend his honor - cite his sneakiness on the field, how silent he can be with his team when he needs to be - but instead, he trails his eyes down your body, covered in suds and aromatic bubbles. "Is there some space left in that bathtub, baby? Might be too small for -"

"Yes," you rush to say, the answer immediate and rushed without any semblance of attempted nonchalance. You're excited, Santi can tell, and it makes blood rush to his face as you move your hand off your tits to grab the edge of the bathtub - water droplets flow down the side of the tub, your skin glistening with rose-toned sparkles, surely from your bath bombs or salts or whatever the hell else you have. "Please?"

You didn't have to plead for him to oblige but he appreciates it - stands, undoing the buttons of his shirt with a practiced ease, littering it on the ground behind him. You're watching him so intently, eyes wide and filled to the brim with the desire, that Santi would almost get self conscious under your gaze that nearly looks scrutinizing, but he can't bring himself to. Just drops his hand to the front of his pants, tugging down the zipper and the button before shucking them down his legs, socks coming off with them.

He's already half hard, which is almost embarrassing considering he hasn't even seen your tits yet, but when he pulls his boxers down and lets them puddle around his feet you're looking at his boner like you want him to fuck your throat which - is probably true, now that he thinks of it. Maybe he'll do that later - hand on your jaw and the other in your hair, hips driving in and out of your mouth -

But that's later, and you're willing and needy in front of him now, so he decides he'll focus on that.

You pull yourself forward, practically folding into yourself, chest to your knees, so Santi can clamber into the tub behind you. The water is nearly burning hot and entirely too damn high for two people - it rises dangerously close to the top of the tub, and Santi pretends not to notice as some pink-tinted water spills over the edge of the floor onto your beloved bath mat. His skin is prickling with heat and desire when he slides his legs on either side of your body, bent next to yours, before he's reaching up to grab your waist and tug you back into his chest until you're slotted into his body.

You two fit together like puzzle pieces - like two goddamn peas in a pod - and Santi loves it. Loves how you dip your head into his shoulder, and when he tilts his head, he nuzzles his nose into your hair - inhales your shampoo - presses a kiss to your damp locks.

If there weren't bubbles blocking his view, Santi would demand that you show him how you touched yourself, princesa, exactly how you worked that little clit - but, as it is, he'd rather feel your slick beneath his fingers than watch you writhe before him as you touch yourself.

It's a toss up, mind you, but the former wins, in the end.

"Touch your tits," he tells you, and the quiver in his voice betrays his excitement. To an outsider's perspective, he's sure he sounds like some dorky virgin who's never seen a naked girl before, but you make him feel like that all the time, no matter how long you've been together. "Both hands, play with your nipples."

You oblige without hesitation, bringing both soapy hands up to your chest, and Santi pushes away some of the bubbles so he can watch as your fingers enclose the hardened peaks of your nipples, pinching and squeezing them. They're so sensitive that you're already arching into your own grasp, whining quietly at the sensation, leaning your head into the warm curve of Santi's neck.

He wants to wait until you're begging for him to put his fingers on your clit, but he physically doesn't think he can, so he slides his hands down the wet, smooth expanse of your stomach, resting his palm over your mound, fingers simply splayed over your folds. There's the soft prickle of hair beneath his palm that he loves, dipping the fingertips of his pointer and middle finger in between your folds, and even underwater, he can feel the warm slickness beneath his touch.

Your bottom lip is tugged between your teeth, and when you moan, it's a gentle hum of a noise. He hasn't touched your clit yet, though the top of his palm brushes the nub slightly with every glide of his fingers through your cunt, but you're still preening into him as though he's finger-fucking you already.

He likes that. Likes how he can drive you dizzy by hardly touching you - but he wants to touch you, to have you drunk on the feeling of his fingers, so he slides his hand up to your clit. Strums his fingers against it, just gently, and your reaction is -

Immediate, and fucking gorgeous, bucking your hips into his hands and then back against his hips, his cock sliding against the bottom of your spine with just enough pressure that he moans into your ear, the noise low and depraved, and it's like a domino effect, a whimper shooting out of your mouth and piercing the air over your soft music.

"Santi -" you moan, tilting your head so you can press your lips to the side of his throat - he can feel you suckling at the smooth canvas of his skin, surely trying to imprint a dark purple mark on the unblemished surface, and he doesn't complain. It'll be a bitch to cover, and he'll surely be requiring your help to mix your makeup products to cover it come tomorrow, but it's still so sexy that he simply tilts his head and lets you. "Fuck, Santi, you're hard."

Your voice is muffled against his throat, and you pull away from his skin only to cry out as he hardens his touch against your clit, circling the nub deeper with his fingers. "Oh - god -"

Santi slides his other hand down your body, wrapping his forearm around your waist as he pulls you back into him, slippery bodies sliding against each other as he forces your hips back, hard cock fitting right against your ass, rubbing against your soft skin. "Oh, you feel - this?"

He ruts himself into your ass again, fingers increasing in their pace, smooth against your slick clit.

"Yes," you gasp, adjusting your leg so it's resting overtop of his, giving him more room to rub you to orgasm. "Will you - please fuck me, baby, please?"

And Santi -

He isn't sure whether to indulge you instantly, to pull his hand off your cunt and line himself up and fuck up into you so hard that more water ends up outside the tub than inside of it - until you're digging your nails into his thighs, shouting with pleasure so loud that the neighbors will surely complain -

Or to make you cum on his fingers, burying his digits inside of you, curling them until your hips are bucking up into his hands without you even realizing, digging your head back into his shoulder. He loves how you look when you're so needy like that, eyes fluttering shut and cunt clenching around his fingers, cumming so desperate and coying.

He'll decide soon - for now, he simply presses his fingers further against your clit, your sweet moans sounding more like music to his ears than the tunes coming from your phone.

[hotchssglasses]

One-Liners - Dialogue Prompts

Romantic Part 1

“I could listen to you all day.”

“Have I already told you how cute you look?”

“One kiss is just never enough.”

“Not to sound cheesy, but your smile really lights up the room.”

“I cannot find the words to describe how I feel about you.”

“Being happy, fortunately coincides with making you happy.”

“Call me when you get home, so I know you’re safe.”

“Tonight was just perfect.”

“However many years we have left, I want to spend them all with you.”

“I have the feeling that you’re trying not to kiss me and I give you permission to just do it.”

“You remembered my favourite food.”

“Sometimes, being with you feels like a dream that I don’t ever want to wake up from.”

“Being half-asleep is a very good look on you.”

“You can always talk to me, I will always be here for you.”

“I’ve missed you so much.”

Smutty Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3

“I dreamed of your legs wrapped around my waist.”

“Don’t act innocent when we both know where your mouth was two minutes ago.”

“We should probably leave, before we start a scandal.”

“Stop looking at me like that or my knees will not hold me any longer.”

“I think you lost your underwear somewhere.”

“My tongue still remembers the way you taste.”

“Is there some space left in that bathtub?”

“The way your eyes get darker when you get aroused, is making me lose my mind.”

“I want to count every one of your freckles with my lips.”

“Jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you.”

“Oh no, there is only one bed, what will we do now?”

“I could make you feel better.”

“Get back down here, we’re not done yet.”

“Later you will definitely need to tell me where you learned this.”

“I know I should care about the reason why you’re naked in my bed, but I will just enjoy it for a moment.”

“You’re a lot more flexible than I thought.”

“I want to please you.”

“Tell me what you would want to do, if you were here right now.”

“Your shirt got a little dirty, how about we take it off?”

“I want to give you a hickey, so everyone can see how I feel about you.”

“Oh, I love that sound you make.”

“Do you want to take it off or should I do it for you?”

“I never imagined you to be so sensitive, but I love it.”

“Maybe you could use that mouth for more than just talking nonsense.”

“If we weren’t in public right now…”

“Your hand feels much better than my own.”

“As soon as we’re both sober, we can do every dirty little thing you ever dreamed of.”

“Come on, you have to work for it.”

“I’ll take it that you like what you see.”

“Your moans will wake everyone up and I’m oddly fine with that.”

“Your eyes are already saying yes, now I just need your mouth to tell me the same.”

“I can never seem to get enough of you.”

“How about we continue this somewhere more private?”

“Oh, can you feel this?”

“We won’t be missed for a couple hours, we should take advantage of that.”

“I went to the gym, so I will be able to hold you up even longer.”

“How about we get really dirty before we shower, so that it’s actually worth the effort?”

“Reality is even better than my dreams.”

“I told you, you would eventually start begging.”

“You always know so well what I like.”

“Oh, you’re such a tease!”

“I’m not necessarily hungry for food right now.”

“You’re so tense, do you want me to make you more relaxed?”

“Hmm, is that a threat or a promise?”

“Who would have thought that this is something that you’re into?”

Physical - Part 1 and Part 2

“Your hands are always so soft.”

“I would love to run my hand through your hair.”

“Come on, let’s take a nice bath together.”

“I think your legs were made to be wrapped around my waist.”

“You know, I prefer you naked, but that dress also looks breathtaking on you.”

“Do what I say or I will mercilessly tickle you.”

“I’m in love with your voice.”

“Did you know that your eyes change colours when you look at me?”

“I’m obsessed with the way your hand fits in mine.”

“You smell amazing.”

“I don’t think I have ever felt safer than in your arms.”

“Tough day? Do you want me to give you a massage?”

“Let me wash your hair for you.”

“The taste of your lips is like a drug.”

“You have a million freckles and I want to count them all.”

“Your lips are just too damn kissable.”

“That colour looks perfect on your skin.”

“Sometimes when we hug, I don’t ever want to let go.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“Should I comb your hair for you?”

“Your body fits perfectly with mine while dancing.”

“Come on, take my hand.”

“Those legs of yours look like they go on forever.”

“Your hands are so cold, let me warm them up.”

“Did you know that you have a million freckles on your shoulders?”

“That look in your eyes means nothing good.”

“Is that a blush I see?”

“Can I braid your hair?”

“Ah, your feet are ice-cold!”

“I can hardly wait to put a ring on that finger.”

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[hotchssglasses]

[hotchssglasses]

in the air tonight

summary: it’s the little things, more than anything, that drive frankie crazy - and you and santi are full of them at will’s barbecue.

pairing: francisco ‘frankie’ morales x santiago ‘santi’ garcia x reader (mostly frankie x reader, but exists in the same timeline as my other fxsxr fics)

warnings: some fluff, explicit smut, spanking, fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, not too frisky though

Keep reading

[hotchssglasses]

in the air tonight

summary: it’s the little things, more than anything, that drive frankie crazy - and you and santi are full of them at will’s barbecue.

pairing: francisco ‘frankie’ morales x santiago ‘santi’ garcia x reader (mostly frankie x reader, but exists in the same timeline as my other fxsxr fics)

warnings: some fluff, explicit smut, spanking, fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, not too frisky though

Keep reading