Two Man Job

two man job

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia

Rating: Explicit. MDNI. This blog and its contents are 18+ always.

Word count: 4.1k

Summary: Santi has a new house and new plan to go alongside it. He needs Frankie’s assistance to start making it a home. But Frankie needs a helping hand, too.

Tags/warnings: Smut, kissing, frotting, Santi is a menace and Frankie is down incredibly bad. If I’ve missed anything let me know.

A/N: This has been gathering dust in my docs for months and my first time writing for these two so please, please be gentle with me. If this isn’t for you, that’s cool. Thank you to @for-a-longlongtime for betaing and for always being so kind to me. Attempt at dividers by yours truly. Further A/N at the end. Ily all. 💖

“Sound good?” Santiago asks the guys, perched on an old dining table like a king on the throne in a very shitty castle. He stretches his arms out wide, a wolfish grin spreading across his face - already patting himself on the back for a job well done though it hasn’t even gotten off the ground.

“Sure,” Will sighs and a piece of cracked plaster flakes from the wall he’s leaning against, landing on his shoulder.

“You’ll tell Benny, right? He better have a decent fuckin’ excuse for not being here.”

“Flu or something. He couldn’t even fight last night,” Will shrugs. “You know how he gets. Loves to act all tough in that ring but a runny nose turns him into a damn baby.”

“How about you, Fish?” Santi tips his head in Frankie’s direction.

Frankie shakes his own slightly before giving a half-assed answer. “Uh, yeah. I’m in.”

Santi’s brow knits together at Frankie’s less than enthusiastic response. “You sick too? Weren’t you with Benny two days ago?”

Frankie’s throat goes dry. Maybe he is sick. It would make sense. It would be the logical explanation for the heat brewing under his cap like his body trying to purge a fever. Sure, he saw Benny a few days back but it’s not the reason he’s finding it difficult to be excited about whatever new fast cash plan Santi has cooked up. But Santi has an infuriating habit of making things harder than they need to be. And right now, that includes Frankie’s dick.

Frankie drove an hour to Santi’s new place. His truck shuddered over and over as if every pothole in the world had come to be concentrated on the endless rocky driveway. It was downhill from there - he pulled up to a skeleton of an abandoned house that seemed like it should be condemned.

From what Frankie can see now, it’s all just scraps on the inside - a dining table but no chairs, windows but no blinds.

A month ago he endured Santi harping on about it. “Looks good,” he lied when Santi pulled up some pictures of the listing on his phone. They only showed the outside and maybe the realtors had taken off the “DO NOT ENTER” signs for appearances, but it didn’t stop Santi gloating about how much of a good deal it would be. Frankie thought it could have only been that cheap because it was so far removed from civilization that no sane person would buy it, but he didn’t speak it out loud.

No, he bit his tongue and just looked at how Santi’s eyes lit up when he read out the specs and fawned over the square footage. He even smiled along when Santi told him about wanting to plant some fruit trees on the land, “apples every summer, amigo.”

Frankie pinned his initial excitement on him being caught up in the idea of the whole thing, swept away by the final pretty picture with only the roughest of sketches to go by. He never thought Santi would actually put in a bid let alone follow through on a final sale but Santi acts first and thinks never and so here Frankie is, being roped into another half-baked money grab so Santi can afford furniture nevermind a pack of seeds.

Selfish.

The thought makes Frankie’s jaw clench so hard that he has to spit out another answer over the sound of his own molars grinding together.

“I’m fine,” he lies to Santi, throwing his head back to stare up at the ceiling beams. The angle forces a bead of sweat to break away from the curls at the nape of his neck and start to sting a hot path down his spine.

Since Frankie stepped over what remained of a threshold, he’s been hiding everything below his waist behind an old island in the kitchen. He should be listening out for any flaws in Santi’s blueprints but all he does is wonder - would it have really killed Santi to put some fucking trousers on?

This was probably one of those ideas that pieced itself together for him at 4am - that’s why Frankie and Will had woken up to the text that was nothing more than coordinates and a string of nonsensical emojis a couple of hours later.

Effectively summoned, Frankie is forced to distract himself at how polished Santi’s bronze skin looks against that scrub top mahogany table. But there’s almost nothing here, it’s a shell, and even if it was a palatial home or some grand estate, Frankie can’t shake the feeling that he’d end up marvelling Santi anyway.

So he does.

“Good. You can stick around and help me hook that thing up,” Santi points to his left.

A washing machine sits wrapped in cellophane waiting to be installed and Frankie didn’t notice it before. No, he’s much more taken with Santi’s crotch and how his quads ripple when he swings his legs off the edge of the table. The washer is new, shiny and looks out of place in this house - if you could call it a house. But maybe that’s the reason for Santi’s lack of clothes - they’re dirty. Maybe he just doesn’t care for Frankie’s welfare - likely.

Frankie nods weakly in agreement - of course he’ll help. He always does. His eyes catch Santi’s for a millisecond before his gaze is drawn back to Santi’s thighs splayed wide, black boxers hugging them tight. The same two legs that have been wrapped around his hips more times than he can count, all brawn and chiseled from years of brutal training and idealised missions, but they have the ability to wreck him at the worst possible time.

He feels nothing short of pathetic, because even with Will in the room, he gets greedy and his eyes drift up to admire the curve of Santi’s bicep peeking from beneath his short sleeves. He probably buys a size smaller to save pennies on material and to flash inches of tempting skin at the same time.

Frankie’s next non-communal answer is good enough. Santi nods back once more and Frankie is glad, because if he were to take a stab at opening his mouth, he’s sure a whimper would have broken free.

Will asks for more details about the job; timescales, what kind of gear they’ll need but Frankie tunes out, choosing to curse himself under his breath at his own building desperation instead. Santi scratches the back of his neck in thought as he answers Will, making his bicep bulge and right now, Frankie would do anything for those arms to surround him. But what’s fucking new, he usually does anything Santi asks.

“Jump, Fish.”

“Sure. How high, Pope?

Frankie could carry on spiralling about how well they’d fit around his waist or their weight draped around his shoulders but that energetic voice pulls him from another bout of very wishful thinking.

“Make sure you tell Benny, okay? I’ll call him later to check in,” Santi urges Will before hopping off the table to usher him to the back door.

Frankie can’t do this. But he can’t turn away despite himself, so he studies every leisurely step Santi takes instead of saying goodbye to Will or waving him off. Turning his head as he strides, he locks onto the swell of Santi’s ass and the sway of his hips. It makes his fingers itchy at his sides, the way can he drool over every flex of muscle in Santi’s legs and thighs, but he can’t touch.

Aching, Frankie stares up at the ceiling again, praying the termite infested beams are going to chime in and solve all of his problems once Santi inevitably starts bossing him around but they don’t. Deep down Frankie knows the island can’t protect him forever. Santi’s farewell speech to Will has to come to an end.

Once it does and Santi returns, it’ll just be the two of them. He’ll have to ignore the throb of his cock in his jeans. He’ll have to act like he’s comfortable despite the damp spot in his underwear. Worst of all, he'll have to act like he’s not completely ignorant to the goddamned plan.

He’ll be exposed.

And then the door clicks shut and Frankie’s blood turns thick in his veins.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Santi says, drenched in determination.

Outside, the tyres on Will’s truck kick up gravel and Frankie wishes that it was him driving away, making a break for it, when Santi’s hand lands between his shoulder blades. A friendly gesture. No big deal if he doesn’t dwell on how the imprint lingers.

Santi saunters over to the machine and starts to tear off the clear plastic wrapping, snarling as he wrestles with it. Frankie should be springing into action to help, but his knees are weak - he’s seen that snarl before.

Above him. Behind him in a mirror. Santi’s hips snapping into his own. And then Frankie isn’t in this house, he’s in a hot, cramped one man cot with Santi mewling in his ears about how good he felt - how good they felt. But he’s torn from that daydream too soon by an order.

“There should be some screwdrivers in that drawer behind you,” Santi calls out and gestures vaguely to the other side of the room but Frankie knows what’s coming and he hangs on to hear the triumphant sigh as Santi makes quick work of the plastic. “Mind grabbing them for me?”

Frankie takes a look over his shoulder at where he’s been asked to go, but he’s rooted to the spot. He’s heard that kind of sigh before, too. Santi’s chest labours with exertion but his balmy forehead isn’t pressed into Frankie’s shoulder this time. There’s no delicious scratch of stubble over his jugular either.

“Francisco. Vamos,” Santi tuts, but his growing impatience only makes Frankie’s jeans tighter.

Frankie forces himself to turn on his heel. With his back to Santi and his bones feeling like they’ve been replaced with lead, he crosses the room to begin pulling at stiff cabinets with loose handles.

“Flathead or Phillips?” Frankie asks the drawer rather than Santi. If he’s not looking directly at him, this shouldn’t be a problem. He tries to convince himself that some distance is sure to buy him a couple more seconds of composure. But Frankie never mastered the art of persuasion quite like Santi - that’s why he’s here in the first place.

With one hand, he rummages through a mess of rusted tools, poking at mismatched washers and bolts. His other hand tugs at the taut material covering his crotch. Why? He doesn’t know, he’s still as hard as stone and it doesn’t make a damned bit of difference. He feels like a blind dog set loose in the woods.

This is hopeless.

“I don’t know, just bring everything,” Santi replies with a tinge of exasperation creeping into his voice.

Reluctantly, Frankie grabs a handful of metal. Whatever. Just get this over with, he tells himself. Go home. Take a shower. Wash whatever this is down the drain afterwards.

Frankie carries a couple of tools back to where Santi is focusing on the manual, keeping them at belt level to err on the side of caution. Though Santi’s eyes are narrowed at the pages, and he rakes a hand through his week-old beard as he mulls over the instructions. Frankie does all he can to ignore the familiar scraping sound of it and how it sounds identical to all those times Santi dragged his cheek along his inner thigh.

“Okay. Yeah - a flathead. Grab that pipe there,” Santi orders, pointing to the floor while he’s still absorbed in the booklet. Engrossed to the point his tongue is dragging absentmindedly back and forth over his bottom lip and Frankie has to seize an opportunity to find a new spot to hide his waist behind the machine. Easy.

Easy.

Like anything could ever slip past Santiago Garcia and Frankie can’t ever be that fucking lucky.

As if he can sniff out Frankie’s discomfort, Santi asks on cue, “Fish. Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”

“I’m good,” Frankie reassures him, offering up a screwdriver to Santi to placate him and shrug off his genuine concern.

“I said flathead,” Santi chides, eyes darting between the Philips screwdriver in Frankie’s palm and the sweat soaked strands of hair plastered to his forehead beneath the bill of his baseball hat. Santi’s tongue follows the slope of his upper lip this time before it clicks against the roof of his mouth. “Come here.”

Frankie didn’t come here to be ordered around but he didn’t come for an argument either, so he pushes the wet smacking sound that came from Santi’s mouth to the back of mind. Instead, he pulls focus to the panic rising within him, the overwhelming kind that makes him search for a believable excuse and leaves him unmoving.

“Can we just get this over with? I have to—“

“What?” Santi prods further without letting him finish, tilting his head to the side. He’s eerily calm with it and Frankie feels see through, dissected by those brown eyes trying to seek out everything he’s trying so hard to hide. “What do you have to do?”

“Stuff.”

Santi drops the booklet and walks a small circle around to where Frankie stands, brown eyes never leaving Frankie’s frame that’s started to rattle along to his jagged breaths.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Stuff,” Frankie repeats like a broken record, head bowing between his shoulders until his chin meets his chest.

Undeterred, Santi’s hand finds Frankie’s shoulder, urging him to turn towards him. He leans against the push, digging his heels into the floor so hard that it might collapse and send both of them falling through the cracks.

“Francisco. Digame.”

Santi purrs the command and his warm breath fans through the curls behind Frankie’s ear, breaking him out in a whole new veiling of sweat. But rather than stepping away and giving him room to explain, Santi inches closer to wait. The heat from his hand that’s keeping a firm grip on his shoulder quickly seeps into Frankie’s skin, and his heart slams into his sternum. So Frankie surrenders, weak when he twists his body to face him but certain that if he doesn’t, he might end up engulfed in flames.

When Santi meets Frankie’s gaze again, there’s a worry in it - something’s definitely up. Santi keeps going, letting his eyes skip the rest of the way down Frankie’s body, over the flimsy material of his grey T-shirt staining darker with sweat, until it comes to rest at his crotch. He chuckles in...delight? Amusement? Frankie can hardly tell left from right with him standing so close.

Santi is shameless in his glare at the obvious bulge in Frankie’s jeans. That concern he wore earlier is replaced by a wicked smile swooping across his face as he drinks in the clear outline of Frankie’s cock straining behind the washed out denim. Even clothed it looks thick and heavy, and his curious eyes track over and back and over and back while Frankie looks away at what should be the living room.

To put Frankie out of his self made misery, Santi reaches for the tools in Frankie’s clammy hand, placing them on top of the washer. His arm brushes Frankie’s as he moves and his teeth graze his lower lip when he clocks Frankie’s nostrils flaring at the barely there contact.

“Hmm. Looks like you’re the one that should be going home to do dirty laundry, Fish.” Santi can’t resist the taunt. Not even once. He can’t bite down on the smug smirk either, despite the veins in Frankie’s neck swelling to the point they look like they might snap underneath his flushing skin with the strain of trying to keep pumping blood to his brain rather than his dick. “Might need a little more than detergent to take care of this…stuff you keep talking about,” he coos, taking another glance downwards.

“Go fuck your–,” Frankie exhales deeply, realising he’s been holding his breath the entire time that he was being inspected.

“Ah,” Santi sticks out his bottom lip and shakes his head.

No.

“Jesus.”

“You should have told me,” Santi says, placing a bare knee between Frankie’s thighs and leans in to crowd him. “I would have sent him home sooner.”

Santi’s plump lips are inches away from his own and Frankie’s knuckles are turning white as he grasps the edge of the machine behind him to exercise some self restraint. It works until it crumbles the second Santi grinds his hips forward, forcing a groan to claw its way up from Frankie’s parched throat.

That’s all it takes for Frankie to let go and raise his hand to flip his hat backwards on his head and reach for the back of Santi’s neck.

Their lips meet and Santi’s mouth opens instantly, letting Frankie pour all of the moans he’s held inside across his tongue. He doesn’t care if he seems greedy, he’s wanted - needed - this for the last hour on top of a string of lonely nights with only his hand and some memories for company. Frankie yields further, arching his body into Santi and he’s rewarded when Santi kisses him back harder.

Frankie’s fingers thread themselves into a mass of curls at the crown of Santi’s head while Santi fumbles with Frankie’s stressed belt and buckle. Urgent kisses grow sloppy, turning into nips and hungry bites, all uncoordinated over the tug of buttons and a stubborn zipper, until Frankie’s jeans are open enough for Santi to slip a warm hand inside his underwear.

Santi breaks away, pulling his own swollen lips from Frankie’s as his fingers brush over the silky skin of Frankie’s cock.

“Fuck, Francisco,” he whispers. His fingertips trace the thick vein on the underside of Frankie’s dick until he makes a fist around the swollen head. He squeezes then, applying just the right amount of pressure to make Frankie draw in a sharp breath. Precum wells quickly at the tip, coating his fingers to make the next stroke effortless. His own cock stiffens in his underwear every time Frankie’s hips buck up in search for more. “All for me? Or has something else got you hot?”

“Mierda,” Frankie hisses on a downstroke of Santi’s wrist, and with his body ten steps ahead of what’s left of his right mind, he’s digging his fingers into Santi’s ass and yanking his body flush with his own until Santi is pinned against his thigh.

“Want me to take it out?”

Mierda. Mierda. Mierda.

“What do you want, Francisco?” Santi asks, firmer now.

Stupid fucking question.

“Anything. Whatever. Please,” Frankie rambles, abandoning his pride and doesn’t bother hiding the needy whine that falls from his lips or the strangled groan of his name; “Santiago.”

With Frankie pleading with him, Santi finds himself scrambling to scan the room for a suitable surface. That dining table will crack and splinter with the weight of two people. He doesn’t trust the integrity of the island either and Frankie would laugh in his face if he found out he slept on a paper thin mattress last night. Even the floor is a no-go with a fucked up neck and two shot knees. There really is nothing here. Frankie was probably right about the whole thing and even though he didn’t dare say a word or fight him on it, his silence was deafening now.

Fuck it.

Santi hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Frankie’s jeans, pulling them down enough to free his cock. Frankie matches the action, tearing at the cotton of Santi’s dark briefs to yank them down his legs until his fingers dig deep into the meat of Santi’s ass.

Santi chases his mouth at the touch, spurred on by Frankie’s two large hands pawing and groping mindlessly at him. Somehow, Santi manages to slide a hand between their heated bodies to grip both of their cocks in one hand. It moves easily, slick with precum. Under his long lashes, Santi stares down at the smoothness of his strokes and he chokes out a groan of his own that sounds like pure sex to Frankie.

“Feeling better yet?” Santi says hoarsely over another perfect pump. He knows Frankie passed the point of no return already. He can barely see those dilated pupils for the desire clouding them.

And none of this is new. Not Santi’s feigned mockery, not Frankie working himself up to the point he feels helpless. But Santi has always had a certain finesse when it comes to handling him - he knows how to touch Frankie just so. Santi could break him down and piece him back together - he has - but now Frankie just wants. And he gets, in spite of being peeled back to fragile gasps and quaking muscles by Santi’s fist.

It feels good. Too good. Too fast and Frankie is chomping at the bit for a head rush that’s so close he can almost taste it.

“Pope. Pope,” Frankie warns so breathlessly that his voice breaks beneath a sweep of Santi’s tongue across his Adam’s apple, but Santi refuses to relent with the rhythm of his wrist. He can’t - his own body is thrumming in time with Frankie’s now, both dialed into the same thrill. The salt of Frankie’s skin across his taste buds is addicting, the low moans that slip from between his lips when his thumb swirls over the head of their cocks is so sweet - he dove in head first and he’s plummeting as deep as his friend.

“I know, I know. Dámelo,” Santi murmurs into the hollow of Frankie’s throat, tightening his grip around their cocks. He’s aware now of the sweat peppering his hairline, his balls drawing tight and for once he doesn’t want to play the long game.

Frankie’s thighs tremble and his breathing stutters to the point his ribcage is having trouble keeping up. All that and a blazing heat pooling in his gut is spreading out his limbs. It builds against the tempo of Santi’s hand - precise, firm and maddening.

A cool breeze replaces the wet heat of Santi’s mouth on his neck. Through a heavy lidded gaze Frankie opens his eyes enough to find Santi staring back, pupils blown and brimming with lust. Though Santi’s own nerves are on fire and his brain is close to short circuiting, he manages to bark out one final order.

“Morales,” he growls. “Dámelo.”

Finally, Frankie obeys. That’s what he needs: his eyes fall shut and his cock pulses in Santi’s grip. The rough and commanding tone of his voice alone is enough to spark his orgasm. He marks Santi’s black T-shirt with pearl-white streaks, one after another. He shakes through the waves of it and what should be a satisfied cry comes out as a frustrated grunt that echoes off every single exposed brick in the house.

Seconds later, a surge of dopamine is firing through Santi’s nervous system and he’s shuddering, a fresh warmth coating his knuckles following it. He bends forward with the force of it, gritting his teeth against Frankie’s collarbone - just like before.

If Santi makes a sound, Frankie doesn’t hear it, his ears are still ringing from sheer relief.

Relief. That’s what usually happens when any blissful torture ends and it leaves them both completely spent against this fucking washing machine.

Silence creeps back in and chases the frenzied breaths away. It’s only interrupted by a steady drip, drip, drip, falling from Santi’s hand and fingers onto the grey stone flags between Frankie’s boots. Frankie's eyes flutter open and he becomes hypnotized by the drops forming a tiny puddle as his heart rate slows to stop bordering on critical.

Santi lifts his head and a rush of sated air leaves his lungs to break the quiet.

“It’s…this is a hell of a housewarming gift, Frank,” he tells him softly but it’s laced with seriousness. “I should have known you wouldn’t have come empty handed.”

Frankie swallows down the river of saliva that’s flooded his mouth. There’s still a tremor in his hand as he reaches up to turn his hat back the right way round, suddenly eager to cast a shadow over his burning cheeks to mask them from reddening any further. Santi meant what he said. An almost-thank you. Frankie thinks he’s the one that should be screaming out in gratitude, for making his suffering come to a blissful end.

“Do you think he’ll actually tell Benny? You know, about everything. About what you said. Earlier.”

Santi blinks slowly. “I don’t know but,” he breathes before flashing Frankie a sated grin. “The more I think about it, the more I think that it’s a two man job. I think we probably have it covered.”

A/N: If you made it to here, thank you for reading! Turns out you can draw inspo from anywhere - I got a new washing machine at the end of last year and well, this is the result 😂