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yezzbub · 11 days ago

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This is my first time posting sumth like this!! I had a lot in mind and just wanna pour it all out in writing HOHOHO basically just one shots no plot smut ft Molina characters – guilty pleasure y'know 🤭✨

Feel free to comment (???) or sumth…feedbacks and critiques are welcome (but I'm somft so kindly pls pls make it not too 🤬😡), and comments going AHHHHH🥰🤩😍🥵🥵 are very much appreciated!!

Okay sorry I was rambling!!! So this one's a Journalist!Reader x Andres Galan…something I've been thinking about since finishing Matador. And I'm still fixated with Andres😩

PS: English isn't my first language so excuse my grammar ✨

PPS: I might rewatch Matador and get some gifs that may be suitable for this fic but for now here's an old Andres, the cabrón (affectionately), gif.

PPPS: All of Andres’ underground shenanigans mentioned here are a mixture of canon and nonsense stuff I made up by just generating random goon and company names and shady sounding crimes etc 😭 (you'll know what I'm talking about)

Journalist!Reader x Andres Galan

You've been looking for the greatest scoop of your life. Something that will throw you into the spotlight and will enable you to get the income you knew you deserved while doing what you love – writing.

So when you reluctantly tagged along with your friend in one of the LA Riots match, because of course you had no love for sports and a testosterone-filled stadium, but you saw this very remarkable man dressed to the nines down in the VIP section…you thought well, that man is a good distraction from the football match you don't really have an interest in.

You learned that that man who looked like sin – if sin screamed in rapid Spanish with so much anger that even the benched players were flinching while his hand motioned wildly whenever the Riots missed a shot – is none other than the Andres Galan, owner of the LA Riots soccer franchise..

The corner of your lips quirked up a little as you watched his very own offended brows and very scowled scowl in his face before he took a deep breath, before he massaged his forehead…then he walked calmly back to his seat like storm and hurricane barely contained. Very dramatic, you thought.

So you plotted. Diligently did your research on that man because while he looked immaculate in his suit, you knew those kind of men. Rich. Dangerous. Those kind of men won't be able to get to the top without making enemies and allying with certain people.

And you found a lead. You are certain that this would be the greatest scoop that will change your life.

Now you found yourself in front of two big mahogany doors, his office, you were escorted by security up until the elevator door only. As if sensing you're doomed, probably, and he won't wanna be part of it.

Back straight, you willed yourself to calm down. You knew the rumors, baseless articles in the net, and information from fellow (and friendly) journos. If these information are right, then you are probably here to put a noose around your neck. But, if you play your card right…maybe, you can still live to see the sun rise tomorrow.

You knocked and heard him say Come in.

You were greeted by the city bleeding gold and grey behind him, skyscrapers glowing like embers against the dusk. He didn’t even look up when the door opened. He was reading papers, he had a pen in hand, his hair immaculately slicked back.

“Y/N L/N,” he said without invitation, eyes still on the documents in front of him. His voice drawled. “The only journalist foolish enough to request a private interview with me and then very brave enough to show up alone.”

You shut the door behind you. It clicked softly, like a trigger, you hoped not.

“Señor Galan, I figured if I didn’t come alone, you’d even never open your door.”

He finally looked at you and you had a small smile on your lips. Polite. Corporate smile. The kind of smile that certainly hides your nerves.

He chuckled humorlessly, “You’re right. Sharp instinct you had there, Ms. L/N.” Then he motioned his hand in the sofa in the middle of the room, “Please, make yourself comfortable. Don't want your nerves worked up even before our interview."

His smile sent a shiver down your spine more than the words he uttered.

You sat on the sofa that faces his desk and you set down your purse, took out your recorder and notebook. No assistants. Just your voice, your nerves, and your boldness.

“Shall we start, Señor?" You asked.

A beat. He was still staring at your face while he relaxedly leaned back on his swivel he's slightly turning left to right and right to left. As if he's comfortably swaying…but sitting. His elbow propped on the armrest, and hand below his chin – he seems disinterested – but he nodded.

“Go on, cariño."

And it sounded like a dare.

So you started, voice clipped, “You've been accused of using your communication satellites for very questionable and very illegal purposes. Deny or confirm?”

He stopped turning his chair. His brow lifted.

Yes you just went straight to the fire and he knew it.

Now he fully leaned back on his chair, shifting slightly as he folded his hands across his stomach. A beat. Then he chuckled, “That's the first question, cariño? Not even a warm-up?"

“I don’t do warm-ups, Señor.”

He tilted his head, like a predator studying its prey, “Then you should’ve looked into who you’re interviewing.”

You nodded, “I did too." You stared at him, calm. Unmoving. Unblinking even. Hoping he didn't see the way your fingers curled slightly on your pen or the way your crossed leg bounced once…or twice, very faintly. You were nervous but you knew you had to perform confidence.

“Y/N," He said softly as he now leaned his body towards his desk, his elbows propped on it, “Tell me, how old are you?"

You raised an eyebrow, "Is my age relevant to the worldwide security breach allegations?”

“Ahhh…” He chuckled and now his eyes are dark and he's now scowling a little at you, "Of course it's relevant to how long you think you'll survive in this industry if you ask men like me questions like that.”

“I really don't get scared easily."

"Of course not…” He softly said and you almost faltered as you swore his gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth.

He stood.

That got you freezing in your mind. Like you felt yourself stopped breathing for a beat. Found yourself asking if you've gone way too far, immediately and instantly.

He buttoned his coat as he circled his desk slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world, like a predator, like a lion sizing up something delicious.

You just realized how small you are in his office.

Then he didn't stop. He continued to circle the couch you're sitting on. Not touching, no. But he's close enough that you cannot deny feeling the heat of his body.

“Next question,” he murmured.

You swallowed. Then you add sharper, “You've been seen with a known arms dealer thrice this quarter. What business do you have with Zola?”

Andres still didn't answer.

Oh but he reached forward. Slowly. Unhurriedly. You almost didn't notice as you were busy thinking of ways how to make him answer since the man is tight-lipped, apparently. And he turned off your recorder.

“Hey—”

“Now, ask." He said.

“What?"

“Ask me again, cariño." He repeated. His voice now a low him against your nape. His hand on the couch’s head rest, inches away from your head. His own head having no business being that near to your nape. “Come on now. Without the recorder. Just…for…me."

You hear your heartbeat. It was like a drum. Or a gallop of horses. Or the type that you get when your mouth is getting dry and you're now feeling the actual danger of the situation that you are in.

“And what do I get? Do I get your answers?"

You almost flinched when he moved your hair off your shoulder with two fingers. Deliberately grazing the skin just under your ear, grazing like a ghost's the damn erratic jugular vein you had there

“A very honest one, cariño.” He said, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His fingers trailing your neck to your shoulder.

So this is it, you thought. No more recorder and no more rules.

You turned slowly to face him and found yourself now barely a breath from his. You could see the slightly crooked nose; so close that you could even see each and every trimmed beard he had in that arrogant and smug face; so close that you could see his lashes and even his stress lines; so close that you could feel his breath and smell his cologne, and it's scented like wealth, power, criminal, and something spicy; and his eyes, dark and blown pupils, staring at yours.

You kept your voice level even if your heart is nearly at your throat. You had to keep that determined and confident look, “What business do you have with Zola?”

His lips curled. His eyes glinted. And you scrambled your mind if you unknowingly given him something like a magic word.

Andres, who was bent at the waist, now braced his other hand at your other side. Now you're boxed in. From behind. With a man you now are sure that could kill you with his eyes or with a phone call.

“So you want the truth?" He murmured.

You hummed, gave him a nod, "Yeah, I want something worth printing.”

A beat. Again. And he stood up.

And you let out a shaky exhale you didn't remember holding.

You thought he was walking back to his desk and maybe would now give you the answers you wanted to hear but you have never been so wrong in your life. Because he turned. And in a blink of an eye, had lunged at you. On the couch. Boxing you in between his hands. One knee beside your hip. Trapping you there. You didn't even get to ask nor shriek nor push him away in shock.

Oh but you heard him just right and clearly…he said, “Then let me give you a better headline."

And then he was kissing you.

The man had no build-up. No tease. No dirty talk. No fondling. Just pure devastation and wreck.

His mouth crashed onto yours and your gasp, a very involuntary movement, gave him exactly what he needed — an entrance. His tongue tangled with yours, deep, unrelenting. His hand, now removed from the couch, had found its way to your hair, at the base of your neck, tilting your head not so gently, and inadvertently giving him more access to your mouth he was devouring. You couldn't do anything but close your eyes and clutch at his suit like a lifeline.

He lifted you so effortlessly from the couch, made few steps, and placed you quite unceremoniously on his wide desk with a thud. Papers flew to the floor, the pens rattled from their holder, the monitor shook violently in place – he didn't mind.

Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. His mouth found your neck, trailed fire and saliva down to your shoulder, pushing the strap of your dress aside, which exposed your skin he so enthusiastically kissed and bit. He unzipped your dress and pulled it down with hurried hands as if he's outright offended it was ever there.

He unclasped your bra with expert hands before throwing it over his shoulder and away somewhere in the room and he grabbed and massaged and fondled your breasts while he greedily sucked your nipples one after the other. You could barely breathe at the actions and you could only gasp and moan into your mouth. You may have said Oh God or maybe Fuck or maybe Andres and maybe Fucking coño – and he may have chuckled and just groaned and just kept littering you chest with his bites.

Then he stood upright and pulled up your dress.

And you thought you could now breathe.

He said nope and his mouth found your slick pussy. Between your thighs. Hot. Ravenous. Hungry. Feral. Claiming.

“GOD—” You gasped, hands scrambling for support. Anything. Anywhere around his polished desk. Found nothing. And you just tilted your head back and tried not to cry out loud in pleasure and give him the satisfaction.

He hummed. He may have nodded, you felt the movement. Then you felt his tongue in you. Then on your clit. Then in you again. Teasing you. Prolonging. Just as you are trying so hard not to writhe and throw your dignity away for this man. He knew he's in control and you hate it and you hate it that you love it.

You feel your climax. You were close. You were so close.

And then– nothing. Nada. Empty.

You looked down, dazed, shaking, gulping. You flinched slightly when you feel his lips and his damn beard brushed your inner thigh, “I answer how I want, remember?"

You glared. Cheeks and neck flushed, “You're an ass. Coño."

Andres grinned at you, raising one eyebrow amusedly, as he stood up, "And you're dripping on my desk, mi puta.”

You could only try to catch your breath as you watched him ditch his coat, loosened his tie, before he unbuckled his belt, “Yes go on. Watch me, cariño." And watch him you did.

You saw the bulge already. He wasn't trying to hide that. So you watched him as he unbuttoned his pants and unzip it. And before you could fire back something, maybe you wanna insult him – though his cock is already very endowed and not worth it to demean – maybe you wanna just push his buttons but you never had the chance because he had slammed into you in one perfect, painful, and pleasurable, punishing thrust.

He was thrusting so slowly, agonizingly slow. Hips rolling deliberately, teasing you with the edge of pleasure like you're tethering from the edge of the cliff.

Then he gained his speed. You cried out. His name yes. A curse too. Something in between. And he just moved like he owned your body. Sharp. Relentless. Pounding. Gripping your thighs, letting his fingers dig into your skin, as he groaned deeply. It left you clinging to him for dear life, nails dragging down his clothed back, your eyes tightly shut, your mouth in a silent scream.

He then gripped your chin a bit forcefully mid-thrust, forcing you to look at him, “Still want answers?"

You could barely breathe but you nodded and choked out, “Yes—shit—yes!”

“Ask me again, cariño."

"Your — business with Zola – what was that?”

"No.” He then laughed wickedly, his cock in you, so deep, in and out so quickly.

You felt yourself snapping, your face contorted in half-pleasure and half-rage that you reached for his shoulder and gripping him there, “You coño–”

"You want info?" He chuckled darkly not missing a pace in his thrusts, “Then fucking earn it, mi puta.”

“Zola—” You gritted your teeth, " What's the deal – with him?"

“Not yet," He purred – PURRED – lips brushing your throat, his beard adding to the stimulation he's giving you, “You haven't convinced me yet."

He bent over you, hips grinding deeper, hitting you on that spot. You shuddered in pleasure.

You knew he's playing you. Pushing you to the brink and maybe, maybe, he's expecting you to forget asking questions and just bask in the fucking. But no. You were enjoying the fucking yes, but you're furious.

You dug your nails into his clothes back. Hard.

Still, no answer.

So you did what you had to do. You yanked his hair, fingers tangling at his nape, and pulling his head back so hard and so forcefully that he groaned through gritted teeth.

You glared. Breathing deeply. You glared like he owed you money and the bastard isn't paying.

And he chuckled, his eyes darkening, “He lets people rent his men for a price. I use them to clear lands…” He gasped, "In three countries, cariño.”

"Coño.” You hissed.

And you moaned, slightly louder than you were doing before. He's buried deep inside you, so deep, so thick, and never misses all the pleasure spots you didn't think you had. He fucked you in perfect rhythm, with city lights behind you.

Your back is arched on the desk. Dress bunched at your waist and your legs shamelessly locked tight around him. Your recorder laid forgotten on the floor, your notepad somewhere useless on the couch. Oh but you held on. Still relentless. Still gonna get that scoop of your life and so you pushed past the moans.

“Why—why was your name — fucking hell — in that shipment to Algeria?”

He laughed and devoured your lips, still not breaking his rhythm on you. So you pushed him just enough for him to stop from kissing you and he even smiled, "We're really still doing the interview?”

Then he pounded you slowly, so slowly, that you hissed, "You said off the—the record." And your fingers dig into his arms, “Answer it."

He grabbed your hair, and kept the merciless slow fucking rhythm, “Keep going." He growled, “You want answers? Make me bleed for it."

You tilted your head back and moaned. Fine, you thought. He likes pain? Fine.

You reached for him and grabbed onto his loosened tie and yanked it hard towards you, with the force of a girl chasing her orgasm and the truth, closing the cloth hard and quick at his neck that you heard him choke and gasp.

“I said– shipment — and Algeria, Galan. What was in that shipment?”

“Ohhh…” He coughed, his teeth bared, but he wasn't angry. In fact, to your horror, it seems like he wanted that…”Those were military-grade drones.” Thrusts in and out of you slowly now, holding your hand that's holding his very tight tie, "I rerouted them to a friend in Marseille…gonna be used in some—kind of war.”

Your breath stuttered as you let go of him. Trying not to lose your thoughts and your questions which was damn hard when he's fucking you like there's not tomorrow.

“Y/N." He groaned, completely removinh his tie before pulling your hips closer to the edge of his desk, closer to him and you didn't think he could go deeper but there he was, “Funny you came here chasing a monster…and now you're letting him fuck you on his desk…like a cute little puta that you are.”

You grabbed his shoulder for support before biting him hard on his neck, “Still fucking chasing."

He shoved you back where you were and he pulled his cock just enough for you to feel the emptiness before he mercilessly slammed himself back in you.

“Then ask."

"What's your connection with the Worm — in Nicara — Nicaragua?”

He shook his head, “Not enough. Come on. You're better than that, Y/N."

You bucked your hips against him, desperate for answers and desperate for something else. Both of you flushed and soaked in sweat.

So you clenched your pussy hard. And watched him stutter in his rhythm for a minute, his teeth gritted. He grunted, sweat staining his shirt, his hand bruising your hips now, "Fine. He owed me land, cariño. Cocoa…good for business, too much money."

"No more games, Galan. Ah— fuck…what was in that Damascus — shipment?” You were chasing your orgasm like a high as well as the greatest scoop of your life.

He fucked you harder now, his hips slamming on you. He was silent. Focused on fucking your wet pussy.

So you slapped him. Open palm. Right across his smug face.

Andres groaned, “Chemical reactors…processors…” He choked out, "Repurposed for biotech…also…not mine."

“Fucking liar—"

“No," He growled, slamming into you harder now, “It's worse…it's not mine anymore.”

“How bout — the one from Germany? The man there, Santos?”

“My man inside…hacker, good fellow…but he died now yes…and so did the leverage. Now it's just my storage site for…for surprises.”

“What fuckin — surprises, Galan?”

He laughed darkly, "Lots… People…Tech…Mistakes people wanna bury.”

You moaned and choked when he grabbed you by the throat and pounded on you like a piston. Brutal rhythm. You're seeing god or perhaps the devil – his hair was slicked back but now it falls down his face as he leaned down and bit your lips.

Then you gasped as he let go of your neck, “Cariño, do you know…how many people have tried to get this close to me?” He rasped.

"Dozens! Maybe more—"

“And do you have any idea how many of them I've let inside here, let alone inside–”

"Fucker. Tell me the truth —" you moaned as he bit your neck now.

“Then take it from me, cariño. While I fuck your pretty little cunt."

His hand found your cunt. Thumb pressing where you needed it most. It made your whole body jerk and tremble. But you held on for the next question. Failed. And it came out as almost a shriek, “What was — the deal about – fuck – Petronova’s blackout — there right there — in Istanbul!”

Andres growled in your ear, whispering now, voice low and rough, his rhythm erratic, “I paid their CEO to shut it down…for a few hours…you should know how NATO scrambled, it was fucking fun…then I..I bought the building during the chaos.”

Your eyes rolled back.

“Gosh–”

"Cum for me, cariño. I'll give you the rest, everything.”

He kept rubbing your clit, still not ceasing his pounding. So naturally, you came. Hard. Trembling. Gasping. Shouting his name. And you nearly sob in pleasure.

But he didn't stop. Didn't even soften. He fucked you through your orgasm, his laugh, his voice sounding like pure sin wrapped in velvet or dipped in honey, “That's what the truth feels like, cariño."

You were gasping. Overstimulated. Bruised. Marked. Boneless and utterly wrecked and ruined. Then he finally groaned your name and his mouth find yours and he growled in your mouth as he spilled his warm seeds inside you. He collapsed onto his forearms above you like he hadn't just confessed to a dozen federal crimes mid-fuck and mid-orgasm.

Seconds passed or was it minutes? You weren't sure anymore. You lay still on his desk

The air was still thick with sex and sweat as you reached out for your dress, wobbling slightly as you pulled it down your thighs. Your hair’s a mess and your thighs slick with him, and there's triumph in your eyes.

After all, you already did your research. This interview was only confirmation. You reached for the forgotten and very off recorder from the floor, your lips are bruised, you feel the soreness in your legs. You fixed yourself as best as you could, wearing back your panties, keeping him inside you. No talks. Ohh but your chin's tilted up like you've won something big.

Andres had laid back to his chair now, still zipping up his pants, shirt ruined with sweat stains, chest still rising and falling. Still catching his breath. And still watching you with a look.

Then he had to open his smug mouth, “You'll be back, Y/N." He said, casual, his back laid comfortably on his chair, “You left your dignity somewhere here in my desk.” And he even vaguely motioned in his desk.

You just rolled your eyes and he shrugged, completely unapologetic, completely arrogant, “You came for answers and left full of me instead. Hope your editor likes that headline."

You saw your reflection on the window and you're quite satisfied with your almost decent look. You turned back to him and walked towards his desk. You nodded thoughtfully, understanding he must have felt like he won because you let him fuck you. And you had no proof and no recording, poor you, he must have thought.

“Right, I have deadlines to meet and headlines to write…” You bent down, just enough to meet his very smug, very arrogant, very stupid face, very handsome face.

Then you pulled your phone from your lil purse, tapped the screen, and the voice recorder app glowed.

He went still, you saw it.

Play.

“Chemical reactors…processors…Repurposed for biotech…also…not mine."

“Fucking liar—"

“No, it's worse…it's not mine anymore.”

“How bout — the one from Germany? The man there, Santos?”

“My man inside…hacker, good fellow…but he died now yes…and so did the leverage. Now it's just my storage site for…for surprises.”

“What fuckin — surprises, Galan?”

"Lots… People…Tech…Mistakes people wanna bury.”

He shifted in his seat. He's now leaning on his desk, his elbows on top of it. His face shifted. Not fear no. You know this man doesn't fear anything. Oh but maybe it was something very close.

“Sorry…” You sweetly said, smiling even as you fixed your hair, combing it through your fingers, "Forgot to mention I always record redundantly.”

"Oh…" He now chuckled lowly, “You wouldn't print that."

“Of course not!" You chirped, “I'll keep it to myself in case I need a big favor or two…or three…or lots?” Then you leaned closer, your lips close to his, whispering against his, "I think it's better to keep now…maybe I'll get everything I want from you through this.”

Then you stepped back. Quickly. As he was gonna grab you. You even tsk-ed and shook your head disappointedly like you would do to a naughty and misbehaving dog.

“Bye, Señor. See you when I see you?" And you gave him that sweet smile and a flying kiss, as you walked out of his office.

#alfred molina #andres galan #molina-verse #matador #one shot

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