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intheorangebedroom · 1 year

Text

Pleased to meet you, chapter 8

Summary: Meeting Frankie again is nothing like the two of you imagined, and you both deal with it in whatever ways you can.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: This chapter tried to kill me, I shit you not. I'm not sure if I like it, but if I have to go through it one more time I think I might gauge my eyes out. I only survived thanks to @the-ginger-hedge-witch and @frannyzooey 's support, I adore them forever and ever, thank you for your patience, I don't deserve you. Good thing is, this one was so tough on me, I worked on the next simultaneously and it's almost ready (and a much lighter read). So please, if you will, stick with me. With them. There's a big part of that chapter that could be titled "Stfu Tom", and @fuckyeahdindjarin, nudge nudge wink wink.

Word Count: 4.3k.

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Chapter 8: Shuffle Your Feet

(👆🏻@nicolethered 🙌🏻)

The first thing you recall when you see him, flashing through your static brain at the speed of light, is the only thing you’d completely forgotten about. The last kiss, exchanged in the dim light of an early Monday morning under a threatening sky carrying heavy grey clouds, wind picking up and swirling around you in the quiet street. Downstairs, outside his building, when his sister came to pick him up. A sweet kiss with closed lips and closed eyes, as if the two of you were suddenly shy, after two days and three nights of obscene prospecting. As if outside the realm of the orange bedroom, different rules applied. Why had you forgotten about that? That chaste kiss spoke a thousand feelings.

Sunk into the passenger seat of Benny’s car, you’re crashing down from the adrenaline rush and everything hurts. A painful drumming is steadily increasing in intensity behind your right eye, the muscles in your shoulders strings of steel and the joints of your hips in a lock from sitting unnaturally up straight in that damn wooden chair all night, stiff as a plank, trying your hardest not to look dead on your feet, a shrunken shadow of yourself.

Peering through the window, you watch the city lights shining bright and blending into blurred rainbows with the speed of the car, the colours combining into an angrily rattling noise pounding heavily in your ears. You clench your eyes shut but it only makes things worse because then, all you can see is him, that damn hat, and his fuming glare.

Tomorrow’s Tuesday. You’ll be sharing tacos with Rosie. For the first time ever, you’re not so sure you want to be with her. She’ll be seeing right through you, and you can play that scene in your head as though you’ve already suffered through it. The first thing she’ll ask will be if you trust yourself to keep away from Frankie. And when you’ll hesitate a beat too long, she’ll advise you to walk away from it all. She'll say something witty, it’s a car crash in slow motion, or something along those lines.

You should listen to her and you know it. No, you need more time to process what happened tonight, to carefully choose what you will be telling her, and make it sound convincing.

You’ve made a point of not mentioning the orange bedroom these past years, although it’s constantly on your mind, because you’re neither blind nor thick and you were quick to notice her exasperated sideways glances and her short replies. You can’t resent her for growing tired of listening to you, rehashing the same details over and over again in masochistic delight. You don’t resent her, but it does feel lonely.

Besides, there’s been a shifting point in your life, one that crept up slow and steady in your mind through the years until it stood there, all encompassing, unavoidable: you were not sure anymore which fact was real and which was embroidered.

And all of a sudden, you have to confront a ghost, a recollection you’ve compared to and chosen over every single partner passing through your life, to Francisco “Catfish” Morales. You don’t even know what the hell catfish means. You realise Benny has been talking about him in passing for months, and you were none the wiser because of this stupid nickname. Your mind scrambles as you try to piece into place the scarce anecdotes and stories, to form the shape of today Frankie.

You see it so clearly now, how the idolised fantasy became a rampart, how a missed shot at happiness turned into an excuse to play it safe, never fully committing yourself to any relationship. Standing on the outside. Tiptoeing over the edge. It’s dizzying. Have you ruined your life over a memory?

Benny’s voice jolts you out of your thoughts.

“So what’d you think of the guys?”

The leather feels too hot under your thighs. You uncross your arms and shift on the seat, slightly shuffling your feet on the metal floor so that the blood keeps circulating in your numb limbs.

“You ok, baby?”

Car lights gleam over his handsome face, his eyes glimmering with a lighter shade of blue under his knitted brows, strands of thick blond hair sweeping across his forehead. You like to run your hand in there, brush them back.

It’s not very often that he picks up on your moods. You’ve never left him the chance, preferring to withdraw to the safety of your apartment whenever melancholy drags you down.

“Yeah, I’m okay, I think I’ve had too much to drink,” your voice sounds too high.

Could you use that excuse to ask him to turn the car around and take you to your place instead?

“Shit, you know, I didn’t realise you were so nervous until you asked for that whiskey.”

That fucking bourbon is sure lying heavy on your stomach right now, you can’t wait to brush your teeth to get rid of that cloying taste.

“I’m good, really, I’ll take something at home.”

At home. Meaning his house.

“So what’d you think of the guys?” he asks again, like a stubborn child.

“I like Yovanna,” you answer with a smirk, a hollow imitation of the way you constantly tease one another. It’s easier, however, to begin that conversation by enunciating something you genuinely believe. If things were different, you’d be thrilled to have made a new friend.

Benny chuckles nervously, the sound strangely unfamiliar, miles away from his usual booming bursts of laughter. Another pang of guilt churns your insides. Tonight was about him, it meant something to him.

“I liked them, Benny, really. Pope, especially, he’s good company.” You pause, but not long enough to hold back your next words. “Your friend Frankie didn’t speak much.” Your mouth goes dry around the name.

“Yeah, he was completely off, today, he got these moods, sometimes. I mean, he never talks much, but he’s fun. You’ll see. And what about Tom?” he adds, darting an anxious look your way.

Ah, yes. Tom. You know precisely why Benny’s asking about him in particular.

Yovanna’s warning was concise but accurate, and you already hate the guy. He wasn’t particularly nice to you, when he deigned to acknowledge your presence, that is, but you’ve got thicker skin than that.

The tallest and broadest amongst the five men, his commanding demeanour easily cued you in as to his position within the tightly woven group. Tom was their leader on the field, and he’s still the last one to talk on most topics, despite Pope subtly -and perhaps not intentionally, you can’t tell yet- challenging him now and then. He might have been handsome in his youth, charming even, but sleepless nights and far too much alcohol have taken a hard toll on his features. What transpires most, however, is his bitterness. Benny told you about his circumstances, how his wife left him after he had lost yet another job, how he struggles to make ends meet, how he hardly ever sees his kids. An accomplished officer, a failure of a civilian.

And even though you recognise the fact that you can’t possibly grasp an understanding of the difficulty of that particular sort of transition, you cannot abide his meanness. Three hours is the total amount of time you’ve spent in their company tonight, three hours during which your own life has been turned upside down and you’ve lost your bearings, and yet it is very obvious to you that nothing is ever Tom’s fault. Shit just happen to him, or so he seems to think. The man doesn’t own up to anything. Worst, he takes out his resentment on the people around him.

You know Will has incurred many injuries, both physically and figuratively. Wounded several times, shot in the head, he too lost his fiancée because of an invasive, crippling PTSD. You reckon they all have suffered, hell, Benny takes punches for a living. Disposable assets, now discarded by the very government they fought for, risking their lives and compromising their souls, you suppose all five of them, on some level, harbour a form of resentment. But none of them seem to let it govern their lives to the extent that Tom does. You have to assume it is constituent to his character. It’s always been there.

And every single time you managed to follow the ongoing conversation, you found him picking on his friends. On Frankie, more often than not, and you can’t shake from your mind the way his alarmed eyes flicked up to your face when Tom alluded to the “recent fuck up that got him grounded”.

The entire table fell silent. You felt Will uncomfortably moving on his chair as he crossed his arms on his chest, clearing his throat, silently signalling his friend he’d gone too far. The incident didn’t last longer than a few seconds, but a rightful wrath flared up in your heart at the sight of Frankie ducking his head, hiding his face under the brim of his hat.

You know he can fend for himself, but the words came out of your mouth before you could bite down on them.

“Yeah, seems to me like you’re one to talk,” you said in your mother’s voice, cold and unforgiving.

As Tom stared at you blankly, Frankie shot up from his seat, more than he stood, asking if anyone wanted another round. Pope spoke next, of course it had been Pope, smoothly steering the conversation into a different direction.

Now you’re left wondering who Frankie was trying to protect. Tom, you, or himself. What has he endured? What has he lost? What has he become? These are thoughts that you’ve cautiously repressed for years.

“I’ll warm up to him, don’t worry,” you lie to Benny.

Benny likes him, and you won’t hurt Benny. Not if you can help it.

You are so fucked.

“So you’ll be coming with me, Sunday?”

Your puzzled look prompts him to explain.

“Will’s having a barbecue at his place. For his birthday. You know him, he didn’t wanna do anything, but Pope talked him into it. I guess Yovanna will be there”, he adds, “I can ask if you want?”

Sweet Benny.

“Sure, I’ll come. I’d like to see her again,” your mouth’s gone drier and you swallow thickly.

See her, see them, see Frankie… Is this what your life is going to be like, from now on? A never-ending cycle of polite social interactions with the man you’ve longed for your entire adult life? Would Rosie be so far off? Shouldn’t you be heading to Newark right now, and board the first flight to Paris? Just run away from it all? Are you just going to sit in the car as it crashes in slow motion?

You know you shouldn’t. And you know you are going to. You won’t pass on another opportunity to see him, be near him, hear his voice. Whatever it may cost you. Because it will come at a cost.

It’s a hazard. Will’s onto you, you’re sure he is, all evening he’s been looking at you looking at Frankie.

You wonder if he’s ever told any of them about you. You’re not certain if you want to know the answer to that, or what you want it to be.

“What about the nicknames, you never explained?” You just cannot help yourself. “Pope for instance,” you add quickly,“ Santi, right?”

Benny finally lightens up.

“Santiago, yeah. They already knew each other with Frankie when we met them, but it’s Will who started calling him that. That’s cos he wants to save the world. Always giving these speeches, gotta take down all them bad guys, you know, there’s always one left to take out. He’s still down there most of the time, ‘cept he works private, now. That’s how he met Yovanna.”

“She told me, yes.”

“She’s nice. I like her. Old man scored himself a beautiful girl,” he muses in his musical, velvety voice.

You appreciate his sincerity, and the fact that he gives you enough credit to express his appreciation of another woman in front of you. He gets lost in his thoughts for a moment and you grimace unwillingly before you ask again, “And Catfish?”

There goes the booming laughter.

“Oh baby, I can’t tell you that!” he answers with a shake of his head. “That’s nasty stuff!”

Not that much credit, then.

Fucking hell.

—

The mouthwash burns the inside of your cheeks as you try to hold it in just a bit longer. Inconsequential physical pain grounds you rather efficiently, you discovered as a teenager. You used to do worse. You wish you still could.

You hear footsteps approaching on the tiled floor and you quickly reach for your phone to close the tab displaying your Google search before Benny joins you in the bathroom. Bare-chest, wearing only his navy-blue briefs, his tall figure towers over you, and as you avoid looking at his face in the mirror, your eyes briefly flick to the grim tattoo on his right shoulder.

“You coming, baby?” he runs a hand along your back under your thread-bare Petit Bateau t-shirt.

He drags it up around your side, up to your breast, kneading it softly. Your shoulders contract instinctively, imperceptibly. You spit out the blue liquid in the sink and run the tap, an innocuous routine that should be reassuring but feels like you’re stalling.

When you get into the bed, the sheets are cold against your bare thighs, every single thread of the fabric grazing your skin. You seek Benny’s warmth and curl up against his solid body, fearing he’ll mistake your intentions but desperately needing the comfort of his embrace. You can’t be lonely with your thoughts, right now. He wraps his arms around your waist and draws you in closer, hitching a leg on top of yours.

“Damn you’re cold, you want me to warm you up?”

You know this playful tone, and sure enough his mouth skates up the length of your neck, sucking in your earlobe softly, so you answer, as gently as you can, as evenly as possible, “No, I’m fine like this. I just want this. Please.”

His hesitancy sinks in your belly like a stone, one that his unexpected tenderness, as he brushes his lips to your forehead, telling you to “sleep tight”, does nothing to alleviate.

Sweet, sweet Benny.

Are you in love with Benny? Could you be? What’s love, really, anyway? Is it slowly getting to know somebody and easing yourself into a soothing domesticity, or spending half of your life obsessing over a near stranger with whom you’ve only spent a weekend? And what’s intimacy? The contentment you experience when Benny holds your hand while you’re watching a movie in his living-room, or the agonising ecstasy of Frankie’s taste on your tongue in the orange bedroom?

—

When Frankie pulls into his driveway, it’s a moment before he can unwind his fingers from the steering wheel, where his knuckles have gone white. He kills the engine, pulls the handbrake, and lays his head against the headrest, closing his eyes. He sits there until the light goes off in the cab, allowing the soothing darkness to envelop him. This is good. This is calm. He might just stay here all night, hiding in his truck from this new reality.

You’re here. You’re real. You came back to him and he doesn’t know what to make of it. You’re with Benny now.

Alright, this is not working. He’ll get in and get drunk. Get shitfaced and black out, what could possibly be worse than picture you with Benny? He saw plain as day how you recoiled from his touches all night. Recognised the panic in your wide, earnest eyes. Your eyes can’t hide shit. Not from him. He hates that he can still read you out so easily.

It’s not true, though, because he has no idea why you behaved like that. It doesn’t make any sense, doesn’t answer to any kind of logic. And that’s not true either. It does make perfect sense: you were ashamed, caught red-handed in your lie of “I’ll call you, I swear”, like hell you did, only underneath years of incomprehension and anger, it’s obvious to him now that he had never stopped hoping.

Never mind that you came back at Redfly the way you did. Doesn’t mean anything.

He takes off his cap and throws it on the empty passenger seat, running his fingers through his hair and his palm over his face. He has to take off the edge, somehow.

Izzy stuck her neck out for him, asking her ex to represent him in that bullshit suspension case, and it’s looking good, so far. Not that he really deserves it, but that woman’s a first-rate lawyer, and she might get him out of that shitty situation. He’ll be able to fly again. That’s all that matters, he reminds himself, he can’t risk that.

He knows exactly who ratted him out, that little shit Giovanni from tech support, who saw him that one time in a bar. He never showed up at work loaded, not once, he had this too under control. And when he told his friend about it, Benny offered to give Giovanni a lesson, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Cold sweat breaks on his back as it downs on him that Benny might have told you about that. The youngest of the Miller brothers can be chatty.

What do you know about him? What have you heard? What do you think? Is it too late to hope he might be able to curate the version of him you’ll get to see? Does it matter, anyway? He’s got no right, no claim on you.

Besides, the shock on your face had been genuine when you entered the bar. Most likely, Benny never mentioned him to you.

Unless… unless you had completely forgotten about him.

His hands fly to the steering wheel again, violently griping it. He bares his teeth with a growl, failing to withhold the roaring “FUCK” rumbling out from his gut that thunders in the truck.

He fishes out his phone from the breast pocket of his suede jacket and taps in the code. Anya is probably still awake, and if she is, she’ll give him what he needs. It’s not even a minute before he gets an answer to his text.

Not giving himself time to think, he puts his hat back on and starts the engine again, pulling out of the driveway in one swift maneuver. When he turns on the stereo, Grace Slick’s entrancing voice echoes in the cab through the crackling speakers and he quickly switches to another station with a tick of his jaw and a shake of his head. Huh-huh, the white noise of bad pop will do just fine.

It’s a short drive over to Anya’s small apartment and he gets there in less than half an hour, careful not to let his mind wander to anything but the road.

He’s still in the corridor when she opens her door, her sylphlike body wrapped in a flamboyant silk kimono, and he gets in briskly, greeting her with a grunt, hiding his eyes under the brim of his hat.

His tall figure looks massive in the cluttered living-room, lit by two table lamps covered with scarves. She surveys his tense frame with her slightly bulging blue eyes as he takes off his jacket and throws it on the back of a velvet easy chair.

“You look like shit, Morales. What happened, this time?”

It’s heartwarming, this collective effort to break his balls, tonight. The ever present arrogance in her deep voice generally bounces off his skin, but not today. Today it raises goosebumps on the back of his neck.

“I’m not really here to talk, Anya.”

His strained voice comes out too aggressive. She has nothing to do with it, he reminds himself. She might not be the nicest person but she always picks up her phone. It still requires strenuous efforts to speak in a gentler tone when he says, “I know I’m barging in on you, I’m sorry. I can leave, if you prefer.”

“No, I see. Straight to business,” she scoffs.

Her very gait exudes haughtiness as she closes the distance between them and plants herself in front of him, pinning him down with her extraterrestrial gaze, before cupping him through his jeans.

Fuck, he really doesn’t want to be here.

“Well? What are you waiting for, Morales, take off your clothes.”

Tension rolls off of him, denser than a power line. He’s seen her thin, stern lips stretch over perfect, pearly white veneers in the past, but he’s never seen a smile reach her eyes. Perhaps his company is to blame.

Frankie reminds himself why he comes here, to this stone-cold woman. It’s a transaction that doesn’t entail money. He gets her off. She provides him with an outlet. She doesn’t really want to know, she never really listens, and he gets to go home weary enough to sleep a dreamless sleep, no harm done, no consequences.

Tonight shouldn’t feel any different. He came here before, burdened with things to forget and sounds to quieten, shotguns, absences, engines, your moans against his chest. But tonight your voice rings louder in his ears and it feels like a betrayal. And as he follows Anya to her bedroom, toeing off his boots and taking off his jeans and briefs, it starts feeling also like a descent.

He spits in his hand and roughly fists his cock, walking over to the vanity where she keeps her condoms while she unties her silk robe and sits crisply on the bed. She doesn’t let him bring his own rubbers, rather making him wear some fancy, organic ones. Extra thin, and expensive, and it does feel better, only on some occasions, like now, he could do without this kind of realism.

When he walks back to the bed, still not fully erect, she knocks his hand off and takes him in her mouth, licking broad, messy stripes, stroking him forcefully up and down.

Frankie lets his head roll back, his eyes clenched, focusing on the sensation of his cock swelling inside the wet hot cavern of her mouth, blocking her voracious moans, until he's hard and heavy, grabbing her thin hair in his large hand and taking over, deep-throating her in short, rapid thrusts until she gags on his length.

“Oh man, you have the sweetest fucking dick in town,” she croons in a raspy voice, looking at him provocatively from under her pale eyelashes and wiping the spit off her chin with the back of her hand.

He handles her with brisk yet measured strength when he turns her around and positions her on all fours on the edge of the bed. More often than not, Frankie finds it hard to look at her face while he fucks into her, especially tonight with nothing more than two pints of beer in his system. She likes it best this way too. It serves a double purpose. The faster she comes, the sooner he’s out.

After deftly rolling the condom down his length, he quickly lines himself up and shoves his cock inside her all the way down to his base. If it’s too much, she doesn’t show, and he starts moving fast, drawing out completely and sinking back in brutal strokes.

Sweat’s dripping down his back, his dampened shirt glued to his frame with how harshly he’s pounding her. Hands braced on the emerald green satin comforter, Anya’s meeting him thrust for thrust, and he tugs her ass upward with a bruising grip for purchase as he fucks her faster.

“Yes! Morales, fuck, just like–”

Frankie clasps her mouth with his left hand, the sound of his hips snapping brutally against Anya’s bony ass louder than his husky groans. Staring at a dark spot on her shoulder, he doesn’t let his mind wander, focused on the rhythm of his thrusts, on staving off his release just long enough so that she’ll come first.

Frankie’s down for pretty much anything, but she has a way of taking it that makes it feel wrong giving it to her.

—

When he arrives back at his house, half an hour later, he doesn’t take the time to take off his jacket or his boots and rushes straight to his living-room. Next to the beat-up brown couch stands a large, handmade wooden bookshelf supporting books of all kinds, meticulously lined up by topics and sub-categories, novels, non-fiction, textbooks, magazines. There are two rows of European fiction, top and second shelves, and in the one below, a small indentation in the alignment. He reaches up and plunges his hand behind the books, where he finds it immediately. Like muscle memory.

His shoulders finally drop as he looks at the big black cat in a white bow tie holding a gun on the book cover. A slow, long exhale, and he opens it, on the right page. There’s no miracle to that, the back of the book bears a deep crease from having been stretched opened so often on that exact same excerpt.

The midnight ball.

Tonight he thinks he might just take that damn book and burn it. But he’s thought that before. And the book is still here, following him everywhere he goes like regrets.

The red imprint is slightly smeared from that one time he ran his thumb over it, like he did over your lips on the last night, silently asking you to open up for him. Pleading, more like it. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? With you he didn’t need to ask, he didn’t have to plead. You gave him everything. He chose you, and you chose him.

Fuck. Why did it have to be Benny?

His movements weighed down by weariness, Francisco Catfish Morales returns the book to its hiding place, having made it through another day.

****

Taglist (Thank you 💕): @nicolethered @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine

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intheorangebedroom · 1 year

Text

Pleased to meet you

The random HC edition!

Happy Frankie Friday, everyone!

I am very sorry this next chapter is taking so long. You can blame the fucking holidays that played with my mental health like it was a Kendama. It may not look like it, considering the length of this silly post, but I'm actively working on it.

As I've stated before, I have way too many HC about this story. Here are some, completely random, no one will care about. Enjoy!

[series masterlist]

(and please, why is his fucking belt UNBUCKLED)

Frankie

If you really want to know my Frankie, you can read this near extensive love letter, which was originally closer to a 10k ramble. Here's a few extra details (there are many more stored up in my sick brain).

Frankie will tell you that his favourite book is not The Master and Margarita. Don't believe him. That's a lie. Instead, he'll argue that it's In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote, All Quiet On The Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque, a close second (which is a nod to myself about my next story). He also loves Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He used to read a lot more when he was in the Army, nowadays not so much, somehow.

His favourite movie genre is science-fiction, and his favourite movie of all time is Close Encounters of the Third Kind (can you guess why?) He also has a particular fondness for Solyaris, Sunshine and Monsters. And in a couple of years (PTMY is set in 2014-205) he will love Prospect (do I need to link that?). He also loves documentaries, especially the science ones.

His favourite bands are Jefferson Airplane (Grace Slick's voice does things to him) and, well, Fleetwood Mac, which is a sort of fandom consensus for P boys that they all like FM, right? His favourite song is Dusty Springfield's Windmills Of Your Mind, which he never told the boys because they would give him hell. It reminds him of his mother.

Izzy would like him to be more in touch, culturally speaking, with his Argentinian roots. But it's a very complicated topic for him. Argentinian cuisine is, however, by far his favourite (he loves good meat).

Frankie has a thorough, obsessive mind. When he gets into something, anything, he wants to know everything about it, understand how it works, break it down and rebuild it entirely, and he will spend months, sometimes years, fixated on the same book/movie/object/painting... woman.

Benny

Benny has never been much of a reader. But he's a music connoisseur with eclectic tastes. He's always looking to discover new music, and his favourite app is Radiooooo. Please don't talk to him about CDs, he will hurt you, vinyls are the only way to listen to music if it's not live. He has far too many favourite bands to list (and even I don't know most of them, they're too obscure).

His favourite movie genre is HORROR (capitalised because when he tells someone, it is always excitedly, and in a very loud voice) and his favourite movie is The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (close second: An American Werewolf in London). I have it down to his favourite scene, in case you're wondering just how crazy I am.

Don't let the golden retriever demeanour fool you, he's a very sharp, insightful movie watcher, he can break down any given scene for you and he has a passion for makeshift special effects.

He'll eat quite literally anything, especially if it has eggs or cheese in it (he's actually a very good cook, but you don't want to clean after him), but his favourite dish is his mother's mac & cheese, because he's cute like that.

Will

A word on my Will. He's a very refined, educated, sensitive man. A man of cold logic and rich inner world, complex thoughts and curated emotions. Will is an iceberg. We only see 10% of him. There is this original wound in his childhood only Ben knows about (it's a family thing), but one day in the near future he will tell Reader. He's a dreamer, and a romantic, as well as a very practical man, which in his unique case is not mutually exclusive. He and Reader are very alike and insanely close, I cannot stress that enough.

He enrolled after 9/11 because he thought it was his duty and he sincerely believed he was going to make a difference. He crashed so hard when he realised what was what. Still, he soldiered on, pun intended, because he had committed himself to the job. He is, as he himself puts it, a warrior, but he would have made a damn fine architect or artist.

When Jean left him, she broke his heart. It didn't make him bitter, however, on the contrary, he developed more empathy (which might come in handy... 👀). He is the only one who acknowledges the traumas they all went through and sought treatment for it.

He's not too big on movies, but his favourite is Citizen Kane (which Reader ADORES. I have so many HC about her, because I suck at reader's insert and she's a complete OFC without a name and a writer with the courage to formally declare her such). He likes classic rock and Debussy and trusts his little brother to make him discover new sounds.

ETA: His favourite novel is Anna Karenina.

Seriously? I've never loved a man so much while being not remotely attracted to them.

Santi

I'll be honest here, Santi is a bit of a mystery to me, and I spend just as much time trying to decipher him as I spend imagining Frankie's or the Millers' childhood (don't worry, I will spare you. For now).

We know what kind of music he listens to. Music for motivation, if you ask me. It's less about the tune itself than setting the mood in which he needs to be.

I believe he likes food. Good food. He will not, unlike Benny, eat anything, very far from it. His job is his life. But he does like to travel for leisure. Also, total lack of imagination on my behalf, here, but he's from Guatemala.

He and Frankie met first, at the very beginning of their military careers, but Frankie became very close with Will and even more so with Benny when they met later on. Santi and Frankie have a deeply rooted yet looser bond. They can go for months without talking to each other, but will very naturally pick up where they left off. Benny is Frankie's best friend. For now, at least.

Tom

Name one person who cares. Not me.

***

Now ok, I hear you, you're screaming at your screen "did I just read a shittone of useless stuff I never asked for in the first place???" And please, mind you, I'm sparing you the HC on Izzy, Rosie and Yovanna. I'd just like you to know that Izzy's bi.

So to atone for that, I will tell you how the PTMY boys fuck.

Frankie

Frankie fucks with a vengeance. It's an outlet. A necessity.

However, nothing will happen until he's got his partner's explicit consent. Another consensus about Frankie, he is very respectful of women. It's in his nature, and Izzy did a very good job educating her little brother as a feminist.

His first kiss was Brionna (you better believe he got the girl he wanted. And she never regretted having him as her first kiss either) and his first time was with one of his sister's friends, Selena. He was a scrawny 15-year-old, however already very... charming, and... motivated. She was 19 and slightly condescending at first, like “ok, you cute, I'll take your virginity.” Let me tell you, she was in for quite a surprise. She certainly didn't expect him to make her come. This hard. Twice.

Like I said, obsessive and thorough... When he started being into girls, he downright studied the subject so he could master it and be the best. Not competitively, though. He's too selfless. He's a very tactile, sensory person. He needs to taste, inhale, touch. When he cares, his hands are on his partner, always.

Oh and Izzy got super pissed at him for fucking her friend.

Yes, his favorite meal is 🐱 and yes, he will make his partner come multiple times before he does anything else, but when he's done with that, he will turn them over and fuck into them at a punishing pace. That's why, in the darkest period of his life, he favoured intercourses with professionals. Who he also treats with the utmost respect. Over the years, 🐱 eating has become a quest. He's always and forever looking for your taste. And as he does, he'd rather not see his partner's face, so he can forget he most likely will never taste you again...

But it wasn't always like that. In college, he was literally drowning in 🐱, as word quickly got out of his prowess. And he was exceptionally soft on Pilar, the Mexican girl, the only woman he really ever had a relationship with, and boy, did he break her heart when he left. He had no intention of hurting her, and he tried his best to be gentle, but he felt like staying with her was being dishonest.

And of course, there's you.

Ok, one more for the road, because it makes me sweat.

Benny

Benny's quick (compared to the other ones) but deadly efficient. He's got stamina. He's playful. Sex with him is simple, and fun, and good. Very good. He will make his partner feel soooo good about themselves and their body. He's talkative (likes to let them know what's on the menu before he starts), and he'll be into whatever they're into. He. Is. Game. Toys? Alright! You wanna be tied up? Why not! You want him tied up? Let's go!

Oh and he's a tits man. And he likes ALL of them. Any shape any size any colour.

Will

Ah. Will. Will would rather be in love. But, you know. You can't always be. This said, no matter the circumstances, he will be entirely cued in to his partner, careful to please and to pleasure. Completely selfless as well. Also great stamina. Guess it runs in the family. But when he's in love? Phewwwww... When he's in love, his moves belong in a museum. It is ✨art✨

Santi

Santi is in for the performance. He's a showman. Which at times gets in the way of the result, despite him being a very good partner. Yovanna exposed him, on this one, though. Saw right through the bs and told him as much. And thus made him a much better lover...

I mean. Look at him strut... 🙄😏

Tom

Has a micropenis.

Alright, that's it! Are you still alive? Thank you for reading!

Trying my best to have chapter 13 ready by next Friday.

Taglist (thank you 💕): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos

#pleased to meet you #frankie morales #francisco catfish morales #ben miller #benny miller #will miller #william ironhead miller #santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #and tom #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader

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