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When Santi first met you, he was enthralled. You had a sweet countenance about you— you never yelled out of anger or surprise; hell, Santi wasn't even sure you had the ability to be angry. And if you were surprised, a startled squeak was all that you could do. You were quiet, reserved, ridiculously shy, and kind to anything and everything. When he asked you out, you were a blushing, stuttering mess; he's pretty sure your brain glitched there for a second. But he thought you were cute, and he was certain there was more to you than met the eye.
His first hint that he was right came on your third date, when you gave him permission to take you to a shooting range to meet the boys. Assholes as they were (affectionately), they thought it would be funny to let you try.
Needless to say, the whole place was quiet when you shot a round from a handgun with expert precision. "What?" Your cute little shrug while holding a 9-mil was completely contradictory.
His second hint came on the fifth date. It was like since you were getting more comfortable with him, you'd started showing more of your true colors, more of yourself, and he was loving every minute of it, seeing these new sides of you. When the waitress saw how you were acting— shoulders hunched, gaze averted from her, no words to be said— she immediately took advantage of the situation. Or, she tried to. Santi thought no one could compare to your beauty, but he also knew that you compared yourself. He knew that you were comparing yourself to the waitress— whose slutty advances made her insanely less attractive— just like you compared yourself to every single woman that walked by. He hated it, but despite how many times he'd tried to tell you, you didn't stop.
When the waitress— who had, no shit, gone into the bathrooms and come out with freshly done makeup that was way too much, and had undone the first few buttons of her shirt to make cleavage, which she then bent a bit in his direction to show it off— came over to the table, ignoring you, to give him her number, Santi didn't have to reject her.
You— sweet, lovable you— went from zero to sixty in a millisecond. "You fucking whore-ass bitch," was the first thing out of your mouth. "You've really got no fucking dignity, do you? Get your ass away from our table before I report you to the manager after I kick your ass so hard you won't be able to find the edges of your lips to outline your bad lipstick job."
The waitress looked at you like you were crazy— and she looked a little terrified— prompting you to slam your napkin on the table before scooting your chair back a bit as if in preparation to storm after her. She took off, leaving you to calmly return your napkin to your lap, clear your throat, and take a sip of your wine. "What were you saying?" Your little eyebrow raise over the top of your glass sent your whole look overboard.
Santi almost came in his pants right there.
Your protective side wasn't surprising— it was always the quiet ones— but the revelation was hot as fuck. Santi told you that, making you smile and blush and go right back to your shy side.
He fucking loved your duality.
His third and final hint that, yes, he was right, you might be sweet but are also tough, snarky, and a badass, came somewhere around your eighth date.
"You... wanna come back to my place?"
Santi had been over to your place about a million times already, and vice versa. But it was the way you asked that made him realize you weren't just asking for cuddles and a movie. The way you averted your eyes and said it hesitantly, so quietly that he could barely hear you, he knew what you wanted.
At least... He's pretty sure. He didn't want to assume. So he just said yes and drove you both there. He was nervous about asking you— what if you thought that was all he wanted? So after you'd arrived, when Santi asked, "...Did you wanna head to the bed?" It sounded more shaky than he'd intended it to.
When you turned, your smile went straight to his crotch. "That's exactly what I wanted, Santi."
Santi was usually the one to make the first move. But with you, for some reason, he let you lead. He let you tell him what to do. He let you pull his clothes off and kiss him senseless and push him back onto the bed. You whispered filth into his ear that made him blush, and he allowed you to make him keep his hands above his head as you nipped and bit at him and edged him until he couldn't see straight and blindly agreed to anything you said. His spine shuddered when you called him a good boy, when you told him he deserved a reward for being so good for you— you'd climbed up to straddle him and rode him painfully slowly, and despite the death grip he had on your waist, you were the one setting the pace. He let you fuck him the way you liked, let you make him beg and writhe and whimper until you finally gave him permission to cum.
And then you launched into aftercare, cleaning you both up as Santi tried to remember who and where he was. You cuddled him close and kissed all over his face as he returned to himself. "Holy fuck, baby. Didn't see that coming."
You blushed. You. Who just nearly sent him into subspace. "Was it too much?"
Santi pulled you closer with a beaming grin. "No, not at all. You're the only one I've ever let do that to me. You can keep doing it... I love it."
The next morning, your shy smiles and blushing face contradicted the side of you that had made him beg for release last night. You were full of surprises and contradictions, complicated and easily underestimated.
