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potterandpromises · 2 years

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Penance Is Also Kneeling in a Bathtub

About two years ago I posted what would have been the prologue from a canon divergence fic I’d shelved, in which Flynn isn't arrested and reacts to Lucy's kidnapping. (It is not necessary to read that first, but nonetheless it can be found here.)

That was the only scene worth finishing, but @ununpredictableme suggested writing more fragments for that fic, and so I’ve been slowly and periodically working on this piece for (according to my notes) a year and a half. Enjoy the whumpy aftermath of the heroic rescue.

Content warnings: drugging, field surgery of sorts, general aftermath of violence/confinement, and so. much. blood.

Also on AO3

"I need a room.”

The young but clearly long-suffering motel desk clerk looks up from his phone. Fortunately, he isn't bothered by Flynn's disheveled appearance. If he was, Flynn would have to consider killing him, which he would like to avoid if at all possible.

“One bed?”

“Two.”

The other man taps away on an elderly keyboard. Flynn hands him 90 dollars, receives a keycard, and goes to retrieve Lucy from the bushes up the hill behind the building.

His black bomber jacket camouflages her at a distance. She could be a discarded carpet.

The hill erodes with every footfall. He slips, once, twice, three times, His graze wound packs with muck and tiny rock shards. He bites his cheek. Not urgent, but he’ll need to slow on the descent. He will not drop Lucy.

He unshrouds her, exposes her closed eyes, her blank face. He balls up the mudded garment and places it on her middle. She could be a corpse if she were a better actress. Elevated breathing and week throaty sounds give her away. They’re new; proof, maybe, that whatever they assaulted her with isn’t permanent or fatal, but rather an attempt at deception. They thought he’d do what is trained into his heart muscle and abandon what cannot be saved.

His lag stings like crazy and he struggles to carry her even as the ground evens out. It takes far longer then he’d like to reach the door. He balances her weight on his good side, fumbles with the keycard and prays to God no one sees them.

“You’re safe now Lucy.” It’s not true enough but it gets his point across.

He sets her down on the bed with a thud, tries to catch his breath, a plan. Her eyes are open. She stares at him, profoundly focused, her mouth agape like a fish inhaling water.

“Welcome back.” Relief rushes his lungs, and though it is canine and unnatural, he cracks a smile. “I need to check you for injuries, okay?”

She gives no indication of consent nor protest; because she can’t. Whatever they drugged her with must have made her muscles week. She cannot speak. Gravity weighs her head to the mattress. Flynn’s fingernails dig into his dirt-specked palms.

(Her own mother.)

If they wanted her dead, they wouldn’t have wasted a moment. If they wanted to kill her slowly? He can’t dwell on it. There are simpler, more cost effective ways to permanently fuck up a human body, namely with a large stick, which means it will wear off, and someday, somehow they’ll have justice. If justice is not possible, they’ll have revenge. She will have a future.

He should say something comforting, restate his intentions to give her the best chance at understanding him. But his mind is silent and it nauseates him to look at her like this. Everything is silent save her breathing and the cars passing a world away.

He runs his hands over her body, gently but firmly, palm flat. She tracks him with her gaze. If it hurts her, he can’t tell. But her bones rest at the correct angles and his fingers don’t sink into her flesh and blood does not spontaneously gush into her clothes. It’s enough. He notes an almost healed cut on her palm and numerous scratches on her arms. They’ll need to be cleaned but it can wait until she’s wholly conscious.

She gasps, heaves for air or speech. A moment of observation suggests she isn’t suffocating. Her eyes are wide into him and his stomach twists. He can’t help with this, not when he’s him.

He snatches his jacket off the bed and promptly leaves her.

With the bathroom door open, Flynn sits on the closed toilet seat and rolls up his pant leg. Clumps of dried mud plummet onto the yellow-gray laminate. Lucy’s already digging a trench in his mind’s eye, but for the first time in weeks, he feels like he has a minute. He takes in the burgundy walls and the stains on the celling. He’s glad he doesn’t have to— knock on wood— but this would be a good place to deal with a corpse.

He washes his leg in the tub and probes at it with soaped fingers. The wound is shallow. He assumed as much. It’s still bleeding, but it will heal with minimal intervention, because he said so.

He takes off his shirt. With his pocket knife, he cuts two strips and ties them around his leg.

The sink turns brown with his efforts to clean his jacket. He puts it on over what’s left of his shirt, lest Lucy misunderstand.

In his peripheral, she raises her right arm. Flynn yanks his pants up. “What’s wrong?”

Her arm drops. He stands over her and assesses. She turns her head, the effort viable, and stares into him. Her tongue squirms between her teeth. She manages a few incoherences. Their grip on her is breaking. At this rate, it’ll wear off before sunrise.

“I did enough damage.” Satisfaction brims his tone. “They won’t be able to regroup tonight. You can save your strength.”

She half screams, half sobs. There are so many reasons for it: grief, hatred, frustration, fear. He can’t guess which scorched through her throat. Regardless, "I can’t help you anymore.” To his own ears, his voice is non-threatening, and incapable. “You just have to wait for it to wear off, then we’ll talk.”

“Flynn.” Her face is wet. It comes out raspy, and he wonders if she’s spent a long time screaming.

“I’m here,” he ventures, and squeezes her hand. She tries to pull away. The movement isn’t right and he drops her hand like it burns him.

“I need you to” —she coughs and sputters: “take it out.”

He frowns down at her. “I don’t understand.”

“Look.” Her eye contact is vehement, despite the tears. He doesn’t know what to make of her fervor, so he waits. “Look,” she repeats, “on my back... my shoulder.”

As gently as possible (it isn’t very possible), he flips her onto her back. His fingers brush strands of dark hair, her cheek, her nose, as he makes sure the pillow doesn’t smother her.

He pulls her loose-fitting shirt as high as it will go. She isn’t wearing a bra, and there’s a small raised scab on her shoulder blade. Like with her arms, much of the surrounding skin is raked with half-healed scratches. “I’m going to touch that bump now, Lucy.”

To his surprise, she does not flinch.

And the blood does not drain from his face. Lucy needs him to be calm for this. He will not fail that. He will not fail her.

The lump under his index finger isn’t hers. It isn’t human. He probes the capsule from all directions, desperately hopes he’s wrong, confirms it.

“They’re tracking us?” He has to ask, cannot assume, keeps his tone flat.

Her head squirms in a way that resembles a nod.

“Lucy?”

“Yes.” She sounds so week, so unlike herself. “They... yeah.”

“Okay.” He repeats: “okay.”

It’s not okay. Things will not be okay, between them at least. Rittenhouse made sure of that.

He stumbles to the bathroom. The man in the mirror doesn’t recognize him. He washes his hands until they don’t shake. He washes his pocket knife, grabs a hand towel, joins Lucy on the bed.

He tries to ignore everything outside of his task: her fingers grasped into the bedsheets, his heightened breath, the fact that this body belongs to her.

“I don’t care if you cry.” He sits on her lower back, doesn’t want to crush her, redistributes his weight to his knees. “But don’t scream.”

The knife isn’t sharp enough. Her cry is muffled, he thinks deliberately. He checks again that he isn’t suffocating her.

Flynn wipes the blood away, creates a red dot on the towel. Not too big— he hasn’t hit anything important, of course that’s also the problem. He probes the fresh cut, first with his fingers then with the knife. He was off, he realizes, he’ll have to make a second cut. That needed stillness washes through his bloodstream again and he gets to work.

She’s quiet now, still breathing.

The device is small. He sew prototypes for something similar when he worked with the NSA. Flynn presses the towel to the bloody area and leaves it there. He stands up and leaves her there.

Before he can meet the inviting metal door, he has to scrub her blood off his hands, lest the good people of Wal-mart call the cops. He rinses the chip, too.

She’s crying again. He tries to ignore it, tries not to look at the figure on the bed. He left her shirt pulled up to her shoulders, it’s dehumanizing. He can’t fix it, not without feeling more then he can hide. Besides, the monster can’t comfort it’s victim, that would be wrong.

Tight in his fist, the rounded tip of the microchip digs into the callus under his wedding band. The night’s chill fills his lungs, gets through to him, shivers his shoulders. He quickens against it, embodies his role as an everyday man crossing an intersection for normal reasons at midnight.

Given the on-fire status of Rittenhouse’s woodland mansion, there’s probably no one to track the chip right now. Of course, he’s underestimated them before. Emma told them what she knew of his plan ahead of time. It’s entirely possible they have someone in a separate location, and it’s entirely possible their tech is at least as good at finding people as a damn smart phone. It may be that none of his efforts matter. It may be be that they see the half hour stop at the motel, suspect what he did, and kill everyone in that building.

He’s going to kill Emma.

To throw them off, the chip should cover as much ground as possible. They don’t have time for this. He put a knife in Lucy’s back and left her to bleed; quite the team.

In the parking lot, no one takes him as abnormal. There’s a man in a suit slouched against a full cart, speaking loudly and frustratedly into his phone. Flynn opens his palm over one of the man’s grocery bags as he enters the store.

He blinks. There’s a basket in his hand. He’s between two clothing racks and someone is staring at him.

He spins around. She steps back, frightful, lifts her basket as if it were a shield. Guilt aligns his lips into what he desperately hopes is a placative smile. She looks, horribly, like his mother did before Gabriel died, although she’s at least two decades older.

“Are you alright sir?”

The fact she doesn’t walk briskly away like she should startles him. So, at least to her, he reads as a little kooky and a little in need; good to know.

“Yes.” His own voice is unfamiliar, raw and deceitful. “I’m, ah, buying for a friend in the hospital. I’m not sure what she’d like” —he gestures at a random clothing rack and gets lucky with T-shirts— “and these sizes are something else.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s too odd, too earnest to be recognized as a lie, apparently. Her gaze flicks to his ruined pant lag. Not for the first time, based on her lack of surprise. He’d forgotten. At the reminder, the wound stings again, the physical equivalent of a bell ringing.

“Loose clothing would be comfortable.”

It takes an abysmally long time to contextualize the words. “Right, thank you.”

She smiles, warm and sympathetic. The fear and suspicion behind her eyes has dissolved entirely. Perhaps she thinks she knows the sort of relationship he has, or the disorder that comes with a night like this. Whatever her reason, it’s... pleasant.

“Good luck.” With that, she walks away.

That could have been worse. He managed not to hurt or somehow fail her, like he does half the people he interacts with. He doesn’t think she’ll call the cops, either. Everything is just fine, will be fine.

He picks out a couple shirts and pairs of laggings for Lucy, and a pair of respectable, non-ripped, non-blood stained khakis for himself, as well as a new shirt. Also, a hoodie for Lucy. It’s chilly outside and besides, from now on they should try and avoid being seen by the cameras Rittenhouse, Google, and various governments use to surveille the public.

With his head a little clearer, Flynn puts together a mental list: multiple boxes of snack bars, bottled water, a first aid kit, a small sewing kit, and a tube of skin glue, so all his bases are covered. Vague notations of scurvy cross his mind. He adds a few oranges and a backpack to carry it all.

What he can easily conceal, he does, and pays for the rest with the money he tucked into his belt clip before the mission, in case of a situation like this.

Outside the motel, an old man smokes a cigarette and a teenage girl encourages a small dog to do it’s business, The door to their room is still locked and intact. Hope bubbles in his chest. They could still get away with it all.

Lucy isn’t on the bed. There’s blood stains on the carpet, like a corpse was dragged. An inhuman whine leaks out of him. He finds her in agonizing seconds, slumped against the wall at the end of her trail, previously concealed by the open door. He swallows his relief. Their eyes meet. If looks could kill, well, she wouldn’t need him.

He fights his own smile. She regained enough strength to drag herself across the room. She’s going to be okay.

(It occurs to him she was trying to escape. He tucks the thought away for some less hectic night.)

(It hurts.)

“Hey.” What else is there to say? “I brought us some food and clean clothes.”

This news is of little consolation to her. Her eyes shift to his backpack; could be a roast dinner, could be a loaded pistol. He can’t tell if she wants to cry or yell or both.

He steps closer. There’s blood on her fingers, balled into fists. Her dark T-shirt clings to her shoulders. His stomach turns. She must have twisted, rolled herself onto the floor, dug at the depth of the wound, tried to stop the bleeding.

They could have made due tonight, for another couple of hours at least. He shouldn’t have left her alone. He’s not that much of a coward.

(But Rittenhouse, Rittenhouse, Rittenhouse.)

“Is the drug wearing off?” He already knows the answer.

“Yes.” Her voice is scraped raw. “It’s happened before.”

Flynn sucks in a breath. He’s going to kill them all.

She coughs and it reverberates throughout her body. Even with the help of the wall— he suspects she couldn’t sit up without it— she leans precariously to one side. He makes for her space, half a step. At her injured coyote glare, he stops himself.

“Do you need help?”

“No.” There’s a huff to her response, as if the mere suggestion he could possibly help her is absurd.

She may be right, but they’re the only ones left.

What he does tonight is going to matter for the rest of their alliance. Longer, if he gives himself the credit. He understands that, so maybe the quest isn’t hopeless.

“How about just a hand?”

Just as light envelops a room, anger lines every part of her face. It tightens her fists and shines her dark eyes.

So, he waits; smooths out his jacket, gets dry mud on his palms, and tries to present indifference. People who don’t care aren’t a threat.

It’s his turn to squirm under her judgement, to flick his tongue. He shifts side to side, but holds her gaze. Of course she doesn’t want him to touch her, but Rittenhouse took their choices, mutilated and murdered them. Lucy tried, but she couldn’t end that.

He chances a step forwards, holds out a hand. She takes it. Her fingers ink him with her blood he caused, and he gives half his attention to that. Somehow it feels respectful.

“What happens now?” She missteps and loses her balance. Flynn grips her tight, too tight. Like a miracle, she does not pull away. Their eyes meet and her fury is dim. She’s just a wrack.

“Water, for a start,” he says. “No future without it.”

Still balanced by him, but instead with her own hands on his arm, she achieves a skeptical look.

“I can walk you to the bed and bring you some?”

“I can walk myself.”

“Not well.”

At her scowl, he smiles ruefully. Will she ever be able to trust him again? It’s not a thought he can afford to indulge. He can live without forgiveness.

He’ll need to work, anyway, be intentional.

They make it to the bed. He gets her a water bottle and undoes the cap. She takes it in both hands, drinks.

“I’m sorry.”

Her gaze snaps to his. Apologies are suspect coming from him, he understands, but when he doesn’t pull out a gun and shoot her in the face, the adrenaline fades. She looks down, crinkles the near empty plastic between her palms.

“I bought a first aid kit.” She looks up with an indignant, tired glare, not fear; a good sign. “And glue.”

There it is: the face of abject horror. Just great. “It’s perfectly safe,” he reassures her, “doctors use it all the time.”

“But are you a doctor?”

“Clearly not,” Flynn says, against his non-existent better judgement. “Hippocratic Oath and all that.”

If it’s an olive branch, it lies broken on the ground, it’s carrier in the ditch being eaten by scavengers. Violence haunts the air between them. They stare at each other and he kneels, surprises himself and her. It’s instinct, almost involuntary, please.

“I promise I’m done hurting you.”

Tears prick her eyes. She looks away and he loses hope, because when has she ever turned away from him? Even surrounded by fire they stared at each other.

“What if...” He rubs his temple. He’ll find them a path forward. He will. “What if I were to clean and bandage your wound in front of the mirror in the bathroom?”

She turns back and there’s a rightness in being eye level. Water lingers on her cheek. Her mouth is a thin line. “I’m listening.”

“You could see what I’m doing before I actually do it.” He holds up both hands, as if his body isn’t a weapon to her. “No sudden movements.”

Her own movements give away only her searching his body, his face. For what exactly he could not guess. He wishes for her to find it, tries to pry himself wide and sincere, does not say there isn’t another option.

She nods once, a soldier’s nod. He offers his arm as a mobility aid. She squeezes his forearm as they hobble across the room, tests her own strength.

“It’s not like I didn’t ask you to do it.” He busies himself in the logistics of this wound tending, thinks only of the word bathtub. “I’ll get over it.”

Their gazes meet in the mirror. Flynn did not give his eyes permission. She blinks, looks vaguely towards the floor.

It’s not like someone can just decide not to be affected by something like this. He learned that years ago in therapy. Still, if she decides they’ll work together, they will. He feels no joy at the thought, just pressure lifting off his organs. Tonight it’s enough.

“Sit here. You should be able to see.”

She sits on the corner of the tub and leans into the wall, exhausted. “You feel stable? not like you’re about to fall over?”

“I’m fine.” It’s a silly thing to say, they both know it.

He turns to get the supplies. “Wait, what are you going to do?”

In the doorway, he pauses, wonders himself. “Clean it, for a start. I don’t know what else yet.” He takes the first aid kit out of the bag, wonders if he’ll be able to keep his hands steady. “Of course it’s not just my decision.”

She looks far too helpless— although he approves of her conserving energy, God knows she’ll need it in the coming days— but her eyes are hard. It’s a combination he’s seen in many bodies before. From her, it’s a sign she has become, will become, or has the will to become whatever is needed to stop Rittenhouse. That’s the only way they can win, the only way forwards. So why’s his throat so tight?

“The water might not warm up.”

Right, he feels bad for her.

“It’s fine.”

She’s curled in on herself, shoulders shaking, arms pressed stiff to her sides.

The washcloth is cold in his palm. It drips onto the floor, slow like blood. Fuck.

“It’s—” she hisses. He forgot to hide his face. “I’m not scared of you.”

It’s his stomach lurching. It’s her face growing red. “It’s the drug,” she says, breathes hard through her mouth. “This happens every time it wears off.”

He nods and anger settles into his core. It’s familiar, almost like having friends.

She presses her elbows into her ribs. It must hurt.

“Where are you going to stand?” she asks.

“In the tub.”

He controls every movement, every step, the way his breathes come as he gets behind her. He sets the kit down on the tub’s opposite corner, watches her watch him in the mirror, sees himself swallow.

Her shirt clings to the whole of her back.

(What has he done?)

“Would you lift your shirt up?”

She drags it up, the fabric reluctant, and reveals blood streaked skin.

It sticks just below the wound sight. “Do you mind if I—“

“Go ahead.”

Carefully, he pinches the fabric, a little stiff already, and exposes this thing he’s done.

It always looks like more then it is, he knows that. But her shoulder blade is covered in blood, as is most of her back. It streamed down and stained the curve of her spine. It’s wet and shiny in places, dry and caked in others. The wound is partly clotted, at least. He can probably take his time. He blinks at it, at her. “Flynn?”

“Can you hand me a piece of gauze from the first aid kit?” The rag slowly warms in his one hand, like antarctica melting, and he still holds her bloody shirt up in the other. Hers still shakes as she reaches across the rim of the tub. “This will probably sting.”

“Wait.”

He lets go, lets her shirt fall to her sides. She hands him the gauze and he crinkles, crushes the packet in his fist, presses his fingernails into his palm between tendons. He can’t kill the sight tremble, but she’s busy and doesn’t notice.

It takes him longer then it should to realize what she’s doing. For a split second, he considers making a joke about women undressing in front of him. He averts his gaze Instead, and faces the shower head, clumsy in the small space.

“Okay.”

She clutches the ruined fabric to her breasts.

In the mirror, Flynn catches himself from the corner of his eye, doesn’t look too hard, resembles an abusive husband. The thought is half silly. Whatever this is, whatever it will be, it isn’t a marriage.

He kneels, comes down too hard on his bad leg, stifles a groan. “Flynn?”

“It’s alright.” She twists around to get a better look at him. "You can still see me, can’t you?”

Although weary, her eyes are bright, curious, concerned. They flick down. He reaches, means to press on her wound, thinks better.

He drapes the wet cloth over her free arm. She blinks at it, detached. It’s almost cute, how she’s almost amused.

“We have limited resources,” a point that needs no reminder, “and we’re about to get that rag dirty.”

She shakes her head. “What do you want from me?”

He grimaces, wants inexplicably to lie to her again, brushes it off and reaches out, palm up.

“You were lying on the ground.” Something passes briefly over her face, pain or fear, not because of him. “Those scratches should be cleaned.” History, the world, all that they’ve been through and will go through and the sunlight she’s stood in is in her face, and something stirs within him again. “Let me.”

She shrugs. He washes her arm as gently as is practical, with a bar of motel soap that doesn’t lather. To her, it’s clearly not worthwhile, but she switches the hand that holds her modesty at his look.

The shadow of a smile presses his lips; quite the team.

She still bleeds when she moves. He still needs to make it stop.

He rinses the cloth thoroughly under the tap, soaks his pants and his makeshift bandage, rubs more five cent soap into the rag.

“Okay?”

In the mirror, she nods. She observes him as if he has nothing to do with her.

He presses firmly on her wound, accidentally pushes her forwards.

She inhales sharply. He pulls away, takes the cloth with him. Fresh blood trickles from her wound.

“Sorry.” His voice is calm, apologetic. Two drops flow in front of him down her back. His girls' blood is in front of him. She finds his gaze in the mirror and he doesn’t like the way it interests her. “I didn’t account for your lack of strength. I’ll be gentler.”

She scoffs. His frown deepens. “I wasn’t quite ready."

She straightens and stiffens her posture. As lightly as possible, he cleans the blood off her unbroken skin and the pink lines that divide it. He shifts more weight to his good leg to give his bad one a break from the excruciating surface, which makes that knee ache insistently even as it helps.

He murmurs a warning, and Lucy doesn’t cry out as he wipes away the old blood from his work. He’d prefer she did. In the mirror she bites her lip hard.

He considers reminding her of what he said before, how it’s okay to cry, but her moving would make this next part difficult, so he doesn’t.

He’s glad for the bruise he’ll have in the morning.

“Lean back a little.”

He rips open the gauze packet, lets the wrapper fall at his knees, presses the square into the wound with two fingers, and loses his balance.

Lucy jerks forwards. He fails to suppress his groan but catches himself with one hand.

“I was trying to get more pressure on the wound.” She’s twisted to look at him, alarmed... worried. He rights himself, sits on his legs.

“At least we have more of these.” He holds up the soaked gauze, half red, half pink.

“Are you okay?”

He lets her question, so sincere, hang in the air a moment too long. “Are you?” he says.

She scoffs again. It wasn’t a joke but it might as well have been, and he laughs a little, too.

“You’re still bleeding.” He says it so softly, so easily like he didn’t rip something from her body. He rips open a new packet and replaces the gauze, holds it to her shoulder blade. “I thought pressure alone might stop it but...”

“You and your glue.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

She reaches across the tub, plucks the tube of glue from behind the kit and hands it to him. He hands it right back. “You should read the instructions first, see it isn’t that bad.”

“I don’t really...”

“You don’t what?”

“... like to think about that sort of thing. The inside part.”

Despite the pain, he raises himself onto his knees, enough to meet her eyes in the mirror. He lifts his eyebrows.

She looks away, maybe embarrassed, sort of annoyed, almost smiling.

He chuckles. It feels sociopathic.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says. She still trembles, not as hard as when she first sat down. It’s cause could almost be mistaken for lack of food. “It’ll close on it’s own eventually, I just don’t want you bleeding through your new shirt.” Not to mention the scar.

“Whatever.” She runs her free hand through her hair. “I just want this to be over.”

“Is that a yes to the glue?”

She sighs, and Flynn’s struck with the realization that he doesn’t know her as well as he assumed. “It’s me telling you to do what needs to be done.”

“Okay then.”

She sits up straight, braces herself. The gauze dampens against his fingertips. He takes the glue from her, reads the instructions twice.

He’s ready.

Her resolve is cracking.

“It’s okay if you need a break.”

She shakes her head. Her face scrunches with unlet tears and she looks down into her lap, crosses her other arm over her chest and holds herself close. “Wyatt and Rufus are dead.”

“I’m sorry Lucy.”

She shudders, so different from the shaking the drug dealt, and a sob catches in her throat. “So it’s true then.”

“I did read about it, yes.” he confirms her agony. “It was an explosion at Mason Industries the same night they took you. Their own doing, obviously.”

“They showed me a newspaper.” He aches in a way he hasn’t in years, not for a living person. “Part of me thought that maybe it was fake.”

“Do you want...” He gets up on his knees, sets the glue down. She turns and they’re eye level. Her eyes shine. The words almost kill him but there’s no one else here and it’s what he’d wanted. “Do you want me to hug you?”

She nods, sniffles.

It’s an incredibly delicate arrangement. He keeps one hand on the gauze, she keeps a forearm pressed over the cloth on her breasts, and they twist to meet each other.

The fact she’s half naked registers too late.

She squeezes him hard with her free arm, a tiny act of revenge or just desperation for contact he can’t know. His own free hand finds the middle of her back and rests there, featherlight.

This might never happen again. He tells himself to enjoy it. He does.

The angle demands they part, so do his knees and the sting of his wound, but he waits until she’s ready.

He stands, still with one hand on the gauze, and tries to remember how he would have handled her grief three years ago. All he can think of is infection, all he remembers is fever.

“What is that?” She reaches out to touch his leg.

“Nothing to worry about.” He lets go of her for the first time in many minutes, turns on the tub faucet, soaks his shoes, scrubs his hands. In his peripheral, the bloody square plummets into uselessness.

Flynn dries his hands, reaches to dry her back of the blood droplets.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Ah.” His mind is empty of clever retorts. He’s left with mere honesty. “Minor gunshot wound— just a graze.”

She is, once again, thoroughly horrified. Clearly, he is not very good at reassurances.

Although her concern boggles his mind with the unfairness of it all, he is not that much of a hypocrite. He lets her fingers brush the edges of the ripped fabric.

“Just for you, I’ll cover it with a thick coat of glue.” Her light touch, something he’s never felt before, sends sparks into his core, nearly burns. “But, one thing at a time?”

She nods, releases him.

Flynn picks up the glue. He kneels and the ache growls within him. He welcomes it with a barely hidden grimace and a slight smile towards Lucy.

“That doesn’t hurt?”

“Not more then standing,” he lies, and half regrets both the lie and the position.

Lucy turns and straightens herself. The edges of her skin come a little closer together, even as blood leaks out. Flynn wipes it away. He covers that first regretful slice with a layer of glue, more comes out then he intends. With the second, deeper gash, it’s needed. “If I were a doctor, I’d tell you to sue me or at least file a complaint.”

She doesn’t respond. In the mirror her eyes are closed. It could be wishful thinking that he’d recognize it if she were on the verge of panic, but she looks restful. She’s fought alone for weeks and if there’s an end in sight to this war, they’re on the losing side of it. The tail end of this awful experience could be her last moment of relative peace for God knows how long.

She opens her eyes. “Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know.” He gives each cut a second layer. “My plan went to shit, Emma—”

“I know.”

He pauses, hand outstretched for the first aid kit.

She hugs the cloth closer to her chest, looks away from the mirror. “I couldn’t move, I couldn’t open my eyes, but I was awake the whole time.”

“Oh.”

Perhaps he should apologize for nearly dropping her several times.

Instead he lets the information hang in the air, lets himself imagine doing violent things to her mother and Emma and all the Rittenhouse members he saw but didn’t get a chance to shoot; and he places a protective bandage over her wound.

He does not let himself imagine how she felt: the fear and powerlessness and uncertainty. He thinks of a way out.

“I can call in some favors to get us out of the country while we regroup and find some allies, but there’s no telling what Rittenhouse will do with the Mothership in the meantime.”

"Agent Christopher,” Lucy starts. That name is in the journal, with cryptic references to her wife and kids. He'd also googled her, of course. “She helped us, and her name wasn't listed among the dead.”

“Will she throw me in prison?”

She looks at him over her bare shoulder, clear-eyed and alive with hope. “Not if it’s the only way to stop Rittenhouse.”

“Okay, I trust you.” He stands and feels all the choices he’s ever made and not made in his knees and in his wound. In metaphor however, he hasn’t been this light and free since the morning they were set to meet, before he told her to check for a trail, before she didn’t answer when he called again. “We’ll make our way to her house in the morning.”

He exits the tub, retrieves the bag with her clothing. “I’ll leave the room while you finish cleaning yourself up, but,” —he holds up two shirts— “burgundy or black?”

“Burgundy.”

#garcy #timeless #garcia flynn #lucy preston #fanfiction #my fanfic tag #Fic: Penance Is Also Kneeling in a Bathtub #it's not that i didn't try #but you get what you get in terms of medical accuracy #also assume rittenhouse has access to special drugs etc #my brain is mush #mush i tell you #i can't believe i'm finally posting this it's been 84 years

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romanarose · 2 years

Text

Leather and Lace: Chapter 10

Santiago "Pope" Garcia x fem! OC

Masterlist

Chapter 9: Chapter 11

Summary: This is mostly just fluff, smut and comfort. I just wanted to give them a day together <3

A/N so long. it's gonna go: smut, shower fluff and comfort, more fluff, more smut (idk what happened here I popped off), more comfort. There will be scenes cut into flashback of the night before, where Laci talks to Santi about what actually happened. These parts are potentially very triggering but I put them all in italics as I always do with flashbacks, so if you want to read but are concerned about that content, you can just skip over italics.

Also, to the anon who left this shitty ask, I assure you, people do care about this story, and they care about Laci. She is not a raped bitch, disgusting or an idiot. She's doing great.

WARNINGS: Usual fic warnings for rape, sex trafficking, abuse, etc. Rape while on substances, substance use, mentions of STD's, physical abuse and death, nightmares, smt, NSFW, fingering, handjob, masturbation, oral (f recieving and kinda m), cum eating, 69.... lmk if I miss anything.

Santiago Garcia was luckiest man on the fucking planet. He knew that, the guys knew that, and after showing her off all night at Benny’s fight all wrapped in his arms and leather jacket, the whole town would know it too. Gossip spread fast. Santi had money, and although he didn’t waste it on extravagance, he knew he had the privilege of comfort and security. He had three of the best friends a man could have, three men who would have his back through anything, call him out on his bullshit and take care of the woman he loved. He had the most adorable little goddaughter on the planet, and although most of his blood family was dead, the life he built in this suburban Florida town was a happiness he never thought he was deserving of. Comfort, friendship, family.

Oh, and he had the prettiest girl had ever seen in his entire life, wearing his sleep shorts and his oversized Metallica shirt, in his bed, grinding her wet cunt on his thigh.

Luckiest man on earth, that was for sure.

“Fuck, Lace, you’re something else you know that?” His grip on her hip was tight, but she didn’t seem to mind. His other hand was wrapped around the base of her neck, fingers entangled in her hair as they guided her head to his for a passionate kiss, Santi licking into her and Laci biting on his lip whenever she had a chance. His boxers had ridden up, and he could feel her wetting his thighs. Santi ran the hand on her hip up to her breast, palming her through the shirt. His shirt. "All those men at Benny's fight eyeing you, watching you, but they don't get you, they'll never get to touch you, right?”

Laci’s hands massaged into his scalp. “Never, only you, wore your jacket, wanted to show them I’m yours, wanna be yours, only yours.”

“You’re mine, beautiful. And I’m yours, you have me, body and soul”

Her fingers tugged at his hair needing something to hold in the intensity building in Laci’s stomach. “S-Santi…” She whined out, one of her hands going to grip his shoulder for stability. Laci angled herself further so that his leg nudged perfectly against her clit. “Need more, need a little more.” She begged.

Santi moved both hands down to her hips again, pressing her body heavier down onto him, eliciting a choked out sob as the electricity shot through her. “That better, Munequita?”

A high pitched ‘uh-huh’ was all she could manage other than a slurred “s’good”, eyebrows pinched together as her shaky breath signified how close she was.

“Can’t believe I get to have you here with me, only I get to see you like this huh? Unraveling just from fucking yourself on my thigh? Think you can give me one like this, sweet girl? Soak my shorts in your come?”

Laci, despite tightly closed eyes and rapidly accelerating heart threatening to beat out of her chest, rested her forehead on Santi’s and took one of his hands off her thigh. He watched her carefully. She was still moving on his, but he made sure this wasn’t a signal to stop.

With a thrill that shot through his achingly hard erection in her boxers, Laci slipped his hand between his leg and her. She planted a light kiss on his sweaty forehead. “I think that ship sailed, baby”

Baby such a simple pet name and it just took his breath away. “Fuck, your soaked. Can I make you come like this, then lick you clean until you come again?”

“Fuh, god, fuck, Santi, please” her left over mascara was smudged from sleep, and Santi made a mental note to get make-up remover wipes so he could take care of her face after they got dressed up. (And they would be getting dressed up again, Laci deserved nothing but the best) but right now, he enjoyed how fucked out and wrecked she looked for him.

“Gonna come on my leg, Lacina? Gonna use me, show me how I don’t even need my hands to get you off, drown those shorts so they always smell like you?”

“Santi, so close, don’t stop” Don’t stop any of it, the way he ground her hips down, the way his filthy mouth just kept talking…

Pope was happy to oblige. “Wouldn’t dream of it, baby, love having you here, love waking up to you, loving having you in my bed and finally getting to taste you, better than I ever imagined.”

“You, hm” She whimpered, face all scrunched up.”You thought of me?”

Santi couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course I thought of you, Lace, I fell asleep every other night with you on top of me, you think I could know how you feel and not think of you? Think I tasted your mouth, and didn’t imagine what you’re pretty little cunt tasted like?”

Laci kissed along his neck, her grip on his shoulders seeming to tight with every drag of her pussy up his thigh. He continued talking, the sound of his voice alone about having her spill over.

“Thought of you too, Santi” She muttered, breath hot against his ear.

Santi had woken up hard, how could he help it when such a pretty woman was in his arms. “Oh yeah? That right?”

“Y-yeah. Would put a pillow between my legs and ride it just like this, pretending it was you. Imagined your fat cock up in me, claiming me as yours”

“Fuck baby, jesus christ” He sputtered out, incomparibly turned on by the sound of his sweet, innocent acting girlfriend saying such dirty words.

“All those nights we kissed, I wanted you to take me right there on the couch, wanted to wiggle my way down your body take off those stupid sweats that leave nothing to the imagination and take you down my throat, choke on you as you feel me swallowing you down .”

“Fuck! Fuck Lace, shit” Santi kissed her pretty little mouth, licking into her. He wasn’t going to last, that was for damn sure. He knew she wasn’t ready for penetrative sex and blowjobs yet, and that was fine by him. Right now, he felt like he could be content with this forever, the stimulation of her thighs rubbing along his cock as she rode him being more than enough. “I know you don’t want hickies, but you can give them to me, if you want” He felt her smile against his neck before she began sucking into him. A high pitched wine escaped her mouth, and when her orgasm came, Laci bit down right where his shoulder and neck connected, and dug her fingers into the flesh of his shoulder. The beautiful sting of her teeth being enough to send him over the edge, his large hands gripped her hips far tighter than he meant. “Lace! Fuck!” He shouted as he felt his release, warmth filling his pant leg.

She collapsed on him, his strong arms catching her, gluing her still-clothed body to him, rubbing her back one hand, her neck with his other. “Fuck baby, you did so good, thank you.” He kissed her neck. “Thank you, Lace.” He buried his face in the crook of her neck, her hair tickling his face.

“Why are you thanking me?” She asked, still breathless from her orgasm and finally being with him.

“For trusting me with yourself”

“But… I haven’t even done that. You don’t even get to have all of me, I’m not-”

He held her tighter. “This is enough. More than enough.”

“Hm” Was all she replied as she snaked her hand down his stomach, ready to jerk him off like the night before, when his hand stopped her, prompting her to look at him.

“That’s uh, that’s already taken care off” He smiled at her lovingly.

She stared at him, confused for a moment until the realization dawned on her face. “Oh shit” She giggled out, reaching back to feel the wet spot in his pants, then grinning back at him. “All that just from me riding your thigh?”

“There was some stimulation from your leg rubbing on my dick, but yeah” She grinned back.

Laci carded her hands through his graying hair. “You get off without even being inside me? That’s… that’s insane” She laughed out again, bewildered at the idea.

“Lace” Santiago cupped her face, bringing her lips in for a kiss. “You have no idea how you make me feel, do you? No idea how special you are to me. Sometimes I think I could cum just from watching you bring me pizza rolls”

She kissed the tip of his nose. “Yeah, but you really like pizza rolls”

Santiago pressed him for head to hers, hands skirting up her sides “I do really like pizza rolls” he started tickling her, laying her giggling form back on the bed “but I also really like you”

They got up to take a shower before going to the park. Jana had woken them up this morning calling Santi (he was usually up by this hour, but last night's activities and the woman he loved finally in his arms made for a good sleep.) It was her and Rosie’s first day back in town, and she wanted Frankie to see Rosie. The agreement had been that Santi would accompany Frankie for the first meet up or two, so Jana could make sure he really was getting sober. One of the guys or Jana had to be with Frankie while he was with Rose until Jana felt safe that he wouldn’t relapse. Jana had of course invited Laci along, wanting to meet her finally. Santi himself hadn’t seen Jana since before Laci came into his life, but they had communicated through text when one was worried about Frankie. He always respected Jana for never trying to alienate Frankie from his daughter.

Laci and Santi had spent much of the night talking, Laci opening up about what had happened to her more and more.

“There was one guy, I don’t know where we were at the time, but it wasn’t where you found me. He was nicer. His name was Jaimie, younger than most of the others, younger than me. He was really nice most of the time.” Laci sat between Santi’s legs, he held each of her hands, squeezing the left, then the right, one after the other. “For a while I thought he was a safe person, we got along, he taught me some spanish. Snuck me food when the others were seeing how long I lasted without it. But when he kissed me, I tried to say no. In the end he was just like the others, he just didn’t beat me.” She tried to focus on the gentle squeeze of her hand. In therapy, if she was getting anxious or over whelmed, her therapist had a machine that Laci would hold two items in her hands and they would alternate vibrating. When Laci started to freeze while she tried to talk to him about what happened, she asked him to holder like this, to which he happily obliged, picking her up and plopping her in between his legs.

“That must be really difficult, thinking you had someone you could trust in all that, only for him to hurt you too” Santi tried to say enough to show he was listening, to show he cared, but to allow her all the talking she needed. He continued alternating squeezes.

“I think that’s why I was so hesitant when you guys found me. I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart, no.” He wanted to hug her, but he kept on his repetition movement. “You had no reason to trust us. You were right to have been on guard.”

Laci scoffed. “Maybe if I had been on guard, I wouldn’t have been in that position in the first fucking place. The investigator was right, I never should’ve crossed the border with someone I barely knew.”

“Laci, no-”

“Don’t say it. Don’t say it’s not my fault, just let me be miserable.”

Santi crossed their attached hands across her chest, turning her slightly to look at him. “You can be miserable if that’s how you feel, but baby, I will never hesitate to tell you it’s not your fault. Ever. Because it isn’t, none of it is. And I hope you know I don’t blame you, neither do any of the guys.”

“I know.”

Santi peppered her with kisses as he undressed her, kneeling down as he pulled down his shorts that barely hung to her barely-there hips, glancing over the scars that were sporadically litter across her skin, but pausing at the bruises.

She watched him trail the pads of his calloused fingers over them. “Santi, are you oka-”

He looked up at her. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no baby…” That was a lie. “You could never hurt me.”

He shook his head, going to stand up, but his knees wobbled a bit. Laci caught him and helped him up. He sighed, gently holding her face with one hand and trailing the neckline of his shirt on her. “I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful next time”

She stopped him, “Santi, don’t you dare apologize for anything that happened last night. You are perfect, last night was perfect. I’m going to bruise a bit, I’m pale and underweight.” Laci winced a bit at the mention of her weight, something that had plagued her long before she was taken, and something they never talked about. “And, baby, I like the bruises.” She kissed his softening features. “Reminds me it was real, that you’re real, not just another dream.”

Santi relaxed, smiling. “You dreamed about me?” He stripped off her shirt, taking her perfect body to him again, and he knew then that she’d never stop

A bright pink flushed her cheeks as she looked away. “Shush”

Not wanting to embarrass her further, he didn’t push it, only smiling as he started the shower and peeled off his sticky pants, leaving him bare. Santi reveled in the chance to care for her, using his shitty body shampoo and wondering if he still had some lotion he could rub on her afterwards so it didn’t dry out her skin. Laci keened into his every touch. So responsive for me… he thought to himself, and wondered what she’d feel like taking all of him… shit, fuck, not the time, not the time. Her back pressed against his chest, she rested her head back against him, melting into his touch. She reached for his shampoo, but Santi grabbed his hand.

“Can I take care of you?” Santi asked softly. I’m

“You always take care of me”

“And I never want to stop, muñequita”

Their peaceful moment was only briefly interrupted as Santi massaged her scalp, her short height making for easy access. Santiago inadvertently knocked over the almost-full shampoo bottle, causing a loud, echoing thud, Laci immediately turning to cling to him, her arms clutched to his chest as he wrapped his arms around her in turn. For a moment, she was shaking in his arms as Santi rubbed the skin exposed to him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I know that was loud, I’m here, you’re okay.”

She knew that, of course. He was her rock, her safety, her home. She signed. ‘I’m sorry’

“Hey, hey no, don’t be sorry.” He cradled her head as the warm shower fell on them. “Will and I can’t do fireworks, Benny is scared of dogs because he was attacked in his teens, nothing to be sorry for.” Santi looked down, she was still staring at the wall, looking vacant. “Hey, baby, come back to me.” Santi gently lifted her face up to him. “Do you want to talk about anything?”

“I met him at a bar” Laci focused on his hand squeezing hers. “I don’t remember exactly what I was on that night, not anything heavy, coke was the worst of it. Molly maybe? Or maybe it was just acid. Who knows. But he took me home that night.”

She felt Santi’s chest rise dramatically at that, knowing what had happened. She didn’t remember much as that night, just vague flashbacks to sweaty bodies.

“That should’ve been my warning. But that morning he held my hair as I threw up, bought me food. No one had really taken care of me since my brother died… I was between places at the time, so I stayed with him... I don’t really want to go into that relationship right now, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, Lace, whatever you’re comfortable with”

Still rested up against him, Laci made a gun with her hand.

“They shot guns around you?”

She motioned it shooting over her head and on either side of her head.

“Oh, they’d threaten you? Shoot them by you to scare you?” He held her tighter.

She nodded, then motioned loading a barrel, spinning it and firing.

“Russian roulette?”

She nodded again, sinking back into him.

Santi patted her hair down. “I’m sorry baby, that sounds horrible” He kissed the top of her head. “Do you want to talk more, or would you rather get ready to meet Frankie and Rosie.”

Nodding her head to the side, she cued to him that she was ready to get going. As Santiago and her dressed for the day, she seemed to have recovered from her flashback, starting to talk again in the little bits that she did when she would when she was gaining her voice back. Santi tried to act normal. Laci had opened up a lot the last few days. She had forgiven his mistakes, let him into her heart and body, and he knew it was very important to not let her notice. There was a familiar fury that was flowing with his blood, and he hoped to god she didn’t sense it, and if she did, he hoped she didn't think it was at her. But he couldn’t tell her what he was actually thinking.

Many times in these months, Santi had found himself glad that everyone in the house he found her in was dead. Sometimes, throughout his career, there were people he felt guilt over killing; Will remembered the exact number. But these men were the kind he didn’t feel bad for about, even going so far as feeling borderline pride. These were bad people who hurt women and children, the kind that beat, tortured, and raped them, and now they were dead, so that not only was Laci safe, but anyone else that came in their path.

But the boyfriend. Her boyfriend. The one that sold her into sexual slavery, he was still out there, and was likely still doing it to others.

He was going to have to leave her. Not now, and not for long. The guys would help. Benny had a lot of connections and Frankie was good at tracking people down.

They were going to find him, and Santi was going to kill him.

The afternoon was warm, gearing up for the hot, muggy Florida summer. Laci just had to break out shorts. She almost always wore dresses; pretty dresses that fluttered around her thighs, tempting him all these months. He never thought someone could look so, so good in just a pink tank top and white washed denim with white lace. She did seem to like lace… was that because of her name? Or was it just a physical representation of her soft femininity, going along with the pink and the pastel and the skirts…

And she just had to walk in front of him. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get her back home and bury his face between her thighs again.

“Despertarse, hermano” Frankie's voice broke him out of his daydream

“Sorry” Santiago was not sorry.

Jana and Laci were walking ahead, Jana allowing Frankie time with his daughter without feeling like he was under supervision. Santi wondered what they were talking about, nosy shit that he is. Laci started out so quiet, barely able to talk,it was nice to see her able to talk to people other than him, Frankie, Ben and Will. She was nervous in the beginning of course, wanting Jana to like her, since she spent so much time with her daughter.

“I’m so happy to meet you, you must think I’m so weird, always being with Rosie and you’ve never met me…” Laci started after Frankie introduced them.

But Jana is a warm person, greeting Laci like an old friend. “Would it be okay if I hugged you? You can say no, I just feel like I know you already”

Laci grinned and nodded, hugging Jana back.

Santi pushed the stroller, but Frankie was holding Rose, not wanting to be separated after so long apart and struggling with sobriety. As long as Frankie hadn’t gotten high behind their backs, he was two weeks sober.

“Ow! What the hell, Fish!” Santi exclaimed as Frankies free hand stopped him, turning his chin.

Laci turned around, a pointed glare at Santi “language!” She had a strict rule around swear around Rose.

Laughing, Jana patted her on her back. “You tell ‘em honey, glad Santi has someone to keep him in line” and stuck out her tongue. Fuck, those girls were going to be trouble. It occurred to him that although Laci had Ben, she didn’t have any female friends. He hoped Jana would be that for her. There was something powerful in feminine friendships, a set of shared experiences and understandings that Santi simply could not know.

They walked further ahead, allowing Frankie room to tease his best friend.

“You look like you took a vacuum cleaner to your throat” He said, referencing the litany of hickies on his neck.

Santi couldn’t help the shit-eating grin on his face. “Yeah, she didn’t want me to mark her, but boy, she didn’t mind giving them to me” They began to walk again, talking quieter.

“So that means you guys finally sealed the deal?”

“Uh, no, not quite.”

Frankie gave him a look to keep going.

“I don’t want to kiss and tell, but there was some mouth and hand stuff.”

Fish smacked his arm, laughing. “Mouth and hand stuff? Are you a fucking teenager?” Laci definitely can’t hear them, she would have chastised Frankie for swearing.

“I feel like one! This morning I came in my fucking pants just from her riding my thigh”

“Jesus" Frankie balked. “So, you guys haven’t had sex yet.”

“No, we almost did, but she’s not ready. Honestly, with some of the things she’s told me, I’m not sure she’ll ever be.” He watched his beautiful girlfriend, sun glowing on her golden hair that she parted into pigtails that reminded him of Bubbles from the Power Puff Girls, face slightly turned as she talked. She was smiling, she was happy. That’s all he needed.

“You gonna be okay with that?”

“Frankie…” Santi sighed out with a bit of a laugh. “If you experienced what I did last night and this morning, you’d be okay with that too.”

“The first place I went it was just one man, and it wasn’t the worst. I mean, it was awful, but compared to how things went later it just, I don’t know, I’m not mitigating it.”

“I know what you mean, sweetheart, it’s okay.”

“I don’t even know how many times I was sold, by the second person I just got… passed… It was multiple… well there was multiple people, I couldn’t really keep track of who owned me.”

Santi wanted to interrupt her, tell her they didn’t own her, no one ever owned her, but he knew that wasn’t the point. He wouldn’t get hung up on semantics, but he would do his best to help her reclaim her autonomy.

“I remember thinking, and this just… this a weird thought, what a weird thing to think.”

“It’s not weird, whatever it is”

“It was just… multiple men. I kept thinking ‘How do they not all have std’s?’ Well, turns out I was right about that. I thought ‘Oh my god, I’m going to die of syphilis like Al Capon’ which is just a strange dot to connect” Laci breathed out a small, nervous laugh. She had been put on antibiotics as soon as she had her initial exam at the doctor at the embassy. Everything cleared up fine, she was fine, but Santi knew she was humiliated on top of everything. “When it would happen, you just kinda… you go somewhere else. Just try not to exist in the moment, which probably sounds insane.”

Santi shook his head. “It’s not exactly the same, but in the military I’ve seen a lot of things and there’s some stuff you just… you can’t do anything about, you just have to get through it, so you go somewhere else mentally to get through it.”

She squeezed his hands back in reassurance.

Santi was knuckled deep in Laci, the moonlight shining and illuminating her skin, bare and open for him and he laid beside, grinding his erection against her soft, soft thigh. “You ever sat on someone's face?”

Laci burst out in a quick laugh, before realizing he wasn’t joking. “Oh. Uh, no. People actually do that?” She smiled nervously.

“Oh, people most definitely do.” He kissed into her neck. “Wanna try?”

“How do you breathe?”

Santi shrugged, grinning. “Suffocating between the legs of a beautiful woman is how I’ve always wanted to die, baby”

She smacked his chest with a blushing laugh. “I’m serious! I don’t want you to die, dummy.”

Slightly more serious, he reassured her. “I always do, Lace, I can breathe fine. We don’t have to, don’t worry.”

Laci seemed to be considering it for a moment. “Santi?”

He cupped her face gently, kissing the crease in the corner of her mouth. “Yes, Lacina?”

“What do you get out of this?”

The question caught him by surprise. “Out of you sitting on my face?” He pulled his fingers out of her wet pussy.

She shook her hand. “No… when you…” Laci squirmed a bit. “No, when you go down on me, I don’t see why you do it.”

Santiago sat on on his arm, still holding her close. “I know the people you’ve been with probably have been too full of shit to realize it, but you are a gift, Laci. The way you look, the way you laugh, the way you smile, fuck, the way you smell and the way you taste.” Santi brought the wet fingers to his lips, sucking them and really emphasizing the moan he couldn’t help but let out. “Fuck baby, you taste amazing, why wouldn’t I want eat you out?” He teased, and watched her smile, but continued. “I know you aren’t ready for sex, I don’t want you to worry about that for a second.”

“I don’t know when I will be…”

Santi kissed her deeply, nibbling a bit on her lower lip and dragging it out as he pulled away. “That’s okay, it’s okay if you never are. What we have now is all I need.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Now, will you sit on my face, or should I eat you like this?“

She grinned widely. “I’ll do it”

He wanted to make her say it. “Do what? Say it baby, say what you want?”

Despite being the only people in the house, Laci leaned in to whisper. “I want to sit on your face”

Without further ado, Santi lifted a squealling Laci up and over his head. “Don’t just hover, sit down.”

Laci complied, sitting down fully and nearly-automatically moaning at the feeling of his tongue attaching her cunt, his large nose nudging against her clit “Fuck, fuck Santi shiiiit!” She leaned over, bracing herself against his firm chest. Fuck, was he smiling under there? Smug bastard, he knew what he did to her. How had she gone this long without him? Now that she knew his touch, Laci couldn’t imagine being without it. “Santi, more, please?”

Happy to comply, Santi gripped her hips, albeit softly, pulling her down. Laci knew he was holding back, concerned about the bruises he left on her before. She placed her hands over his and forced him to grip the meat of her hips. When she let go, he did not, massaging along her thighs and he vigorously licked into her, lapping up every drop he milked out as she rocked her hips back and force for the stimulation she needed on her clit, his five o’clock shadow perfectly rubbing against her folds. Laci’s view from here was divine. Her eyes trailed over the body in front of her; strong arms, strong chest, brown skin and writhing legs. She remembered their night in the forest, Santi taking off his over shirt to give to her (fuck, he was thoughtful) she saw a peak of his stomach as the long sleeve pulled his t-shirt up, showing off a firm stomach. That had changed. He had definitely gained some weight alongside her, despite his mini home gym of weights and a treadmill he bought when she moved in. Laci was in love with the way he looked, his body was so fucking perfect, he was perfect, everything she ever wanted.

Very much noticeable, also, was his hard cock standing at attention, shit, she did all that to him? Just the taste of her got him that hard? Fuck, she wanted him in her mouth, she wondered if he’d taste as good as he thought she did… just a taste… Laci walked her hands down further, taking his cock in her hand as Santi’s mouth faltered. It looked so perfect, so pretty. A full blowjob with all 8 inches made her nervous, but she knew Santi would be okay with whatever she gave him, so she started with little kitten licks at the tip, tasting the pre-cum that was leaking out

She felt hip lift up her hips enough to talk. “Laci you don’t-”

“I know, Santiago, I want to. Can I take care of you?” She echoed the words he asked her in their shower this morning.

“You always take care of me.” He echoed her reply right back, and returned to his mission.

Fuck, he was good at what he did, that was sure. Santi moved her wherever she needed to be, depending if he wanted to suck on her clit or lick into her folds.

Santi was in fucking heaven. He tried his best to focus on her pleasure but if was hard when she was licking up and down his shaft, mouthing over him, sucking over the tip. Laci never fully put him in her mouth, he didn’t think she would, considering, but fuck if she didn’t feel amazing, and christ, the way she tasted. He never had a woman taste so sweet. Her ass was right in his eyeline, he wondered if she’d let him, move his mouth there, put a finger- you're getting ahead of yourself there Santi, put your fingers back in her cunt first.

A loud groan escaped her as she felt his large fingers reenter her. “Shit Santi, so close.” She sat back up, hearing a little whine escape him. “Touch yourself for me, Santiago, wanna see you come”

He loved hearing her say his full name; well, when they aren’t fighting anyway. It sounded so pretty rolling off her perfect pink lips. Santi did as he was told, fisting his cock tightly, hips bucking up at the feeling of her spit on his hand.

The sigh of Santi jerking himself while eating her almost sent her over, but she wanted him to go first. “Come for me Santi, let me see your perfect cock come all over your hand.” Laci didn’t know where these words came from, she never talked during sex before but fuck if he didn’t bring it out of her, him and his dirty fucking mouth. His breath against her cunt was hot as he cried out, his white spend spilling out, covering his fist and painting his stomach in warm ropes. Fuck, he comes hard, that’s the kind that could easily get her preg- fuck fuck fuck, no, don’t go there. Too late. The idea of him spilling inside her and filling her up sent her over the edge, collapsing back over him and her orgasm washed through her, her face pressed against his cum covered belly. As Santi licked her up, she didn’t know what possessed her; Laci started licking his stomach. He cleaned her, she’d clean him.

When Santi felt her lick him, it took a moment for him to realize what she was doing. For a second, he thought she was just licking him. Alright, he’d roll with that, whatever she was into; certainly not the strangest place he’d been licked.

Then he realized what she was licking, and his cock began twitching back to life again. Santi pulled her off him, sitting her up as he joined her, looking at her face covered in his come from where she rested on his stomach. “Lace baby, your face looks so good like this…” Santi takes the hand that was inside her, using the same two fingers to wipe against her cheek, tapping on her lips for her to open and she obliged. Putting his come soaked fingers in her mouth and the taste of her on his lips, Santi attached to her face, sucking and licking his spend off of her, only pulling back when Laci was clean and removed his fingers muttering “See how good we taste together?”

Santi was woken up that night to Laci thrashing in his arms, whimpering as sweat dripped down her face. She was having a nightmare. Santiago gently shook her awake. “Laci, Laci it’s me baby, you’re having a night-” When her eyes shot open, she gasped awake and immediately clung to him, gripping onto his life a lifeboat, her rock in the storm.

“Light” She pleaded.

“Oh course.” Santi start to sit up to get the lights, only intending on moving away from her for a moment when she shouted no and glued herself to him. “Okay…” with one arms, she held onto her crying and shaking body, and his other arm awkwardly and slowly scooted towards the lamp to get her light.

He let her cry it out first, then, she spoke. “There were other women. I never saw them for very long, but there was one girl. She spoke Russian, but we became friends. She tried to escape and they beat her to death. They made me watch.”

“Jesus christ, Lace, that’s fucking horrible”

“I have a lot of nightmares, but tonight was about her. I think Jana reminded me of her.”

Santi was not happy by any means that she was suffering so badly, but he was glad she was opening up to him and could still talk. Overwhelming emotions usually resulted in her not talking, like earlier today, but she was able to speak, tell him what she was feeling.

“You have a lot of nightmares? Fuck, Laci, I’m sorry I didn’t know-”

“I didn’t tell you for a reason. That’s why I’d always sleep on the couch with the TV. You can’t fix this, this is just how I am, I’m sorry”

Santi brushed her short blonde hair away from her face. “It’s okay, Munequita, it’s okay. I’m here for you if you need to talk, or just be held, we can get a nightlight if that helps, or we can get a TV in here too. Or we can sleep on the couch? Any time you want. I want to help if I can but if you and the nightmares are a package deal, I’ll be here for you”

“I know” Laci snuggled up to him, already feeling sleep pull at her. “I know”

**********

Anyway I hope you guys liked it even though it was long! I put off doing my spanish for this so lets hope I can get the practice test done before midnight lol. This took hours to write.

Two chapters left! Next chapter I think will be shorter, Laci/Benny focused, as Santi has a *mission* lol, then chapter 12 is completely fluff/smut wrapping everything up! Then, I start on my Will story <3

Hope that last sex scene was good I've never written 69 before!

That last anon left me feeling really shitty for a while, I hope you guys actually do like this work as it means a lot to me, either way, i love writing it a lot

Would anyone be interested in my thoughts for laci and the boys love languages? What do you guys think is there love languages. I think Santi’s is touch primarily ☠️ comment below! I’d love to hear what you think!!

Finally, I'm looking to write a few winter fics! If y'all have any requests you'd like to see with Santi and the guys, please send them to my ask box! (which I will be widdling down more asks after this week, so if you have an ask in there, dont mind me lol) Ice skating, getting a christmas tree, sleding with the team, sex by a fire place etc, if you'd like to see a leather and lace specific winter short, send away! I know most of you probably know I am converting to Judaism, but! I was raised catholic, don't worry if you'd like to see christmas specific fics. The Millers were at least canonically raised in a semi-christian household, and since no one is canonically jewish, im totally cool writing christmas works, more religious based or just basic christmas.

Love you guys!

@littlenosoul @bensolosbluesaber @milkymoon2483 @gogh-with-the-flow @itspdameronthings @trinkets01 @p0edameronswife @welcometostayingawake @spxctorsslxt @username21mk @lucianadraven32 @sgt-morgan @xaestheticalien @howaboutcastiel

Please reblog to spread, and your comments mean the world!

And I knowwwwww the gif is bad bc blue is bad but my god it’s just so tender and she’s got the short blonde straight her just like laci it was perfect

#santiago garcia #santiago pope garci #santi garcia #santiago garcia hurt comfort #santi garcia fanction #santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #triple frontier fic #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #hurt/comfort #comfort #santiago garcia smut #santiago garcia comfort #santiago garcia fluff

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