#pleased to meet you | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

intheorangebedroom · 8 months

Text

Pleased to meet you, a drabble

Summary: Frankie's a handyman.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader.

Set within the PTMY universe but can be read as a one-shot stand-alone.

Rating: explicit 🔞

TW: improper use of zip ties

A/N: Happy ❤️‍🔥Frankie❤️‍🔥 Friday, orange besties 🧡 This is the first, and probably not last, zip ties-inspired drabble, so be warned. Because I have a lot of thoughts. 🥖Anon, thank you again for the encouragement. As for you @dreamymyrrh, you know what you did. I love you. More. I literally wrote this shit in two hours in lieu of my usual two and half months weeks, it's unbeta’d, unchecked, uncalled-for. You’ve been warned twice. Please be kind.

Word count: 1.8k

[series masterlist]

Drabble: The ties that bind is

The first time is sheer happenstance.

A late Friday afternoon, sometime in September. You join him by the toolshed in the garden, where he’s working on a new headboard with simple, elegant slats, supported by two trestles. You want to make sure he’s wearing his dust mask –he’s not.

You step inside the small wooden shed to grab the cumbersome contraption where it lies unused on the workbench, and you notice a small stack of black zip ties, tied together by a wide orange rubber band.

“Hey, what are these for, Frankie?” you ask naively when you step back outside, holding the bundle of ties in your raised hand.

He tilts up his head, eyes lingering on his work, brow pinched in concentration, sweat dampened curls stuck to his forehead, and he has to squint to see what you’re talking about, but when his gaze focuses on what’s in your hand… a slow smirk lifts the corner of his mouth.

That smug smile hasn’t changed, not in sixteen years, not ever, it’s the same enthralling curl of his plush lips, followed by the same question, which is never really a question but rather a promise, an invitation to follow him, a little further every time, you wanna try this?

He lays down his hand plane and goes around the trestles, takes a couple of slow steps toward you, until he can husk in your ear in a voice so low it dives down all the way to your core.

“Want me to show you what it’s for?”

Comprehension dawns on you. The dip between your collarbone deepens as you silently gasp. His smile deepens too.

He’s gentle and careful, that first time, the black plastic tie that binds your hands together hanging loose around your wrists. Repeatedly, he tries to bite down his smug smile. When he lifts you up and props your ass on top of the workbench inside the crammed toolshed, when he prompts your knees open, when he slides your tied hands behind his neck.

It’s fucking useless. And you’re smiling too, with delight, nervousness, anticipation, giggling quietly until he thrusts into you, and you’re not giggling anymore, you give him that sound he lives for.

–

The second time is not exactly premeditated yet.

You’re coming home from Santi’s birthday party, and he’d be lying if he tried to argue he hasn’t been thinking about it all evening, with the sheer black tights you’re wearing, but he still loses it completely.

He wraps one end of the tights around your wrists and the other end to the leg of the bed, and you let him.

You let him.

It’s intoxicating, your complete abandon. Your trust, your faith.

And if you could find the words, you’d tell him. You would explain what it does to you, the way he never takes more than what you’re able to give, the way he always knows how much that is, the way he seeks you out inside your darkness to offer you his love, unwavering, uncompromised, undying.

If you could describe how it feels to be wanted by this man, his raw power barely restrained, his patience and his strength, the kindness in his eyes… you would.

But you can’t put it into words, so you hope he knows, and you find other means to express the certitude that you’d follow him anywhere.

You thread a new language between your two bodies for him to write his own verse. And wherever he leads you, it’s always through blinding pleasure.

In the weeks that follow the party, and what ensues, he becomes obsessed with a thought. An idea invading his system, pervading his mind. He grows restless, which you notice, of course, but don’t immediately question.

Until this one evening, when you come home from the bookstore to find the zip ties waiting for you on the fucking kitchen table.

You freeze, the key still in the lock, and suddenly everything clicks into place: his increasing agitation over the past few weeks, the sideways glances, dark from under the brim of his cap, the intense tick of his jaw. The shadow of a smug smile lingering on his lips.

In your haste to hang your coat on the rack, you miss the hook and it falls in a heap to the floor. It’s a clumsy fumble to untie the shoelaces of your Martens, your fingers numb from the November cold, grey and humid.

A few hasty strides, and you're in the bedroom, where you know you’ll find him waiting.

The eagerness that widens your eyes, widens the dimpled smirk on his pretty face.

“Show me, Frankie,” you ask, handing him the zip ties, “show me what you’ve been thinking.”

Now, the plastic bites into the soft flesh of your wrists, tied separately to the slats of the headboard. The mattress dipping under your knees, you push your forehead from the smooth wood and arch your back until it hurts, seeking the contact of his burning mouth.

His soft chuckle makes you moan, and he rewards the sound with a hard swat on the swell of your ass with the flat of his palm. Then he spits on your folds, and this one’s really just to please you, because you’re soaking wet already, your come dribbling down along the inside of your thighs from your previous high, when he ate you from behind.

Messy broad licks, his tongue diving inside your cunt, curling around your clit, teasing, swirling, his plush lips pursed around your tight ring, sucking in. You came violently all at once, in your chest and your belly and your legs trembled.

They’re still shaking now, and you struggle to keep your balance but you know he’s not done, nor do you want him to be.

He straightens up and you threaten to fall on your side, the ties biting harder into your skin, but he catches you with a large hand gripping your hip.

The black, starless sky peers in through the orange curtains. It’s late November, but the heat is stifling in the bedroom. Beads of sweat are rolling down his spine; locks of your hair are glued to your shoulders and your nape.

Later, he will brush them and braid them. Gently kiss the secret birthmark in your hairline.

But right now, his hand slides down to your folds, spreading his spit over your lips, pushing it inside you with a thick finger, then two, and he’s about to add a third when you moan louder, arms pulling against your restraint. His gaze is drawn to the red indentation on your thin skin and he frowns, shakes his head.

“Want me to cut it off?”

“Fuck no,” you grit back in a beat, and you let out a heavy sigh of relief when you feel the round tip of his cock lining up at your entrance.

He thrusts in so ruthlessly you cry out and nearly hit your head on the headboard. He catches you again, of course he does, a bruising, splayed fingers clutch on the swell of your ass to slide you back on his cock.

You want to turn your head to the side, try to catch a glimpse of him, of his large frame, his broad shoulders, his messed-up hair and his pitch-dark eyes. But your bindings won’t allow you that much amplitude, and all you can do is reach your shoulder to wipe the sweat beading on your temple before your mouth goes slack. He’s drilling in so fast, sliding in and out easy with how wet you are, and your mind is reeling.

His hand moves to your hip again, using the grasp for leverage. This is just a fraction of what he wants to do to you, of what he’s got planned, what he kept playing in his head over and over again when he should have been focusing on work, on driving, on eating… But there’s time. And isn’t that the sweetest thought?

His knees push your knees further apart on the mattress, legs gliding against yours with your mixed sweats. His thrusts deepen, the fat head of his cock bumping into your cervix, and when his thumb comes to rest over your asshole with just the right amount of pressure, you don’t even get the time to warn him.

Your orgasm seizes you like an earthquake, like fucking lightning, blazing through you from your core, overwhelming, meteoric. You’re mewling, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, so brutal Frankie feels it too, the strong clutch of your collapsing walls pulling him in, and he bends double over you, hissing his pleasure through clenched teeth.

“Jesus fuck, Gabrielle–”

Chest heaving painfully, you’re about to slip out of consciousness when you feel his breath burning your skin. He straightens up and sits behind you. You whine, struggling to keep your balance on the unstable surface of the mattress.

The sensation of the cool blade sliding against your wrists makes your jolt, and suddenly you're free, your arms weightless, like helium balloons drifting away from your body, but it’s over in a heartbeat. He’s grabbed them, flipping you around like a rag doll.

“Can you take some more, baby?”

Tears have smeared mascara on your cheeks, you can’t seem to catch your breath but you nod, exhaling a feeble “Yeah.”

You weigh nothing between his hands, you’re limp, boneless, and his splayed fingers bruise your skin in their firm hold above your elbows as he positions you over him.

His movements are precise, quick, and deft, trained hands linking your arms behind your back, and the zip tie digs into your flesh when it slides shut around your wrists with its telling slithery sound.

Just like last time with your tights, his eyes are drawn to the odd angle of your shoulders, to the dip over your collarbone and the way it pokes out in the shadows of the night.

“Good girl,” he grunts, lying back between your folded legs, “you’re a good girl, Gabrielle, you know that? You’re my good girl,” he adds, lining himself up.

He shoves himself into you to the hilt, and in this straddling position, the air is punched out of your lungs. Without your arms to keep you balanced, you can’t control anything, certainly not the depth of his thrusts, and he’s ramming into you deeper than he’s ever been.

“Wanna see your pretty face when you come on my cock again,” he says, and you snap, you surrender, limp and boneless. You let him fuck up into you with his feet planted on the mattress and his strong arms shoving you further down onto his cock, your tits bouncing, your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Gonna pump you full of my come, baby.”

Limp, boneless, exactly how you want to be.

****

80 notes · View notes

intheorangebedroom · 6 months

Note

Can we just pretend that this is Frankie whispering I love you to you?

I hope you are feeling better. I miss harrassing you with asks 🧡

@deadmantis my LOVE, I always feel good when you’re in my notifs. This one has kept me awake and drove me crazy, but anything for you. They’re so stubborn, and when they don't want to cooperate... Anyway. I'm not entirely satisfied, but I don't want to keep you waiting any longer. I did my very best for you, I always do, I love you so, so much 🧡 Happy Frankie Friday to you 🧡

Summary: Three words. It's not that complicated.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader.

Rating: explicit but no filth, just my gothic heart 🔞

Word count: 1.5k

[series masterlist]

Drabble: To Bring You My Love

He enjoys driving home to you nearly as much as he loves staying home with you.

Tonight’s no different, and when Mick Fleetwood’s voice comes up on the truck’s stereo, Francisco Morales smiles to himself in the bright city night.

He kept his promise. He fixed it. Fixed everything. Or close enough, anyway.

Friday evenings are spent at the bar again, the same dim yellow lights, the same moist, yeasty cheap beer smell. The same table.

And Tom’s chair, loudly empty.

Most likely thanks to Will, if he had to guess, and probably on your account more than his. But even Ironhead’s unwavering loyalty can only abide that many faults before his hard, cold rationalism takes over and prompts him to take action.

If Tom’s absence is a consequence Frankie hadn’t anticipated, it’s one he doesn’t regret. He’s heard the man has moved down to Florida, but he doesn’t really care. The further away from you, the better.

Pope doesn’t seem entirely dissatisfied with this new order of things, either.

As for Benny, well Benny just follows suit, like he always does.

The air is still a bit chill between him and Frankie, but they’re getting there, step by step. Frankie’s resentment receding along with his friend’s heartbreak, one drink at a time.

It’s been only two years, and overall, there’s a refreshing, easy balance to their group.

And yet, however meaningful, Tom’s departure is not the most important change.

On Friday nights, like tonight, he’s driving back to you. Whether he’ll find you already sleeping or parking your small Ford after an evening out, you’re here. For real. For good.

He’s nearly home when his phone lights up on the empty passenger seat. His gaze rapidly flickers between the road and the screen, that glares in celadon green in the cabin’s relative darkness. It’s weather alert, forecasting heavy rainfall tomorrow, he’ll have to fight the urge to drive you to the bookstore himself. Maybe he can get away with picking you up at the end of your day? Maybe you’ll let him. You can be stubborn.

He should change that impersonal default lock screen. Put a picture of you, like Santi suggested. Santi, who proudly exhibits Yovanna’s gorgeous smile and luminous beauty to just about anyone who might look at his phone’s screen.

Well, Frankie tried. Turns out he can’t. Not that he doesn’t have any pictures of you in his camera roll. At this point, he has hundreds. And you’re dressed in most of them.

But putting you on display simply feels inappropriate. For years, you’d been his secret. A ghost, a memory. A feeling akin to a curse. He had kept your name silent, protecting the possibility of your existence and the reality of what had happened in the orange bedroom.

Distracted, he re-emerges from his recurring thoughts to find himself at the front door. He considers retracing his steps to check if he locked the tuck before getting into the house, but he can’t bring himself to care. He needs to see you. The living-room’s dark but the bedroom lights are on; he takes off his jacket and gets rid of his boots before walking briskly down the carpeted corridor.

He finds you sitting in bed, the warm glow from the bedside table casting soft orange hues on your soft face. You’re leaning over a thick book, wearing your favourite t-shirt of his, a shapeless grey cotton tee with red letters that spell “Buenos Aires” across the chest. A gift from Izzy, when he was still in the military.

He pauses briefly on the threshold; a broad smile dimples his cheeks.

Your eyes are still lowered on the page when you greet him in a light, happy tone.

“Hey, gorgeous!”

“Hey, querida.”

Your head shoots up at the unusual term of endearment. He steps quickly into the room and turns his back to you to hide his embarrassment, wincing as he undoes his watch and places it on the dresser across from the bed.

��How was the evening? How’re the guys?” you ask, and he can feel your eyes boring into his back.

“Good. All good. Will asked me to tell you Sunday works for him. Apparently you’re supposed to know what that means,” he adds, pulling his plaid shirt above his head.

“Oh, neat!” you exclaim, lying your book face down on the table, wiggling your feet excitedly under the sheet. “The Guggenheim has an exhibition about early 19th century Parisian painters,” you explain.

He smiles to himself again, and proceeds to take off his belt. The heavy buckle produces a metallic thud when it hits the wooden top of the dresser.

Behind his back, your voice comes in suddenly very thin.

“You don’t mind, do you? I never asked.”

He turns, frowning, “Mind what?”

“Me. Being friends with Will. You’re not… jealous or anything, right?”

He’s about to laugh it off, a quip on the tip of his tongue, but something stops him. Something striking, unsettling in its past familiarity and its recent scarcity. It’s in the earnestness of your tone, the sudden solemnity of your gaze.

“What if I am?” he asks instead, pivoting to face you. “What would you do? Would you stop hanging with him?”

“If you asked me, yes, I would.”

“Jesus, Gabrielle, no,” he sighs, and the sting in his chest is equal part anger and regret. The consistent stab that tears at him whenever you unwillingly reveal what you put yourself through.

He crosses the bedroom in two strides to come sit by your side on the edge of the bed.

“I’d never even consider asking you something like that, baby. Why would I–”

He trails off at your hardening face.

You’ve straightened up in his t-shirt, and his eyes dart to your legs; with two fingers, he pinches the white sheet covering them to pull it down, revealing your underwear, and a purple mark in the shape of a pear that his mouth drew on your inner thigh this morning.

He looks at it when he says, “You’re a free woman. And I know you’re mine.”

The contradiction settles like placid water in the amber light between your two bodies, inexplicably logical, perfectly natural.

And the words come up in his chest, from his gut, an ancient rising tide.

“I love you, Gabrielle.”

They ring out around you in the quiet bedroom, incongruous, not unpleasant. Warm, intimate, orange.

He loves you. Of course, he does. You know he does, you’ve always known. You’ve always loved him too.

You’ve loved him young and carefree when it was easy and it was just the two of you. You’ve loved him to safety through countless godless nights. You’ve loved him back to you, you’ve loved him sinful and hurt, you’ve loved him without shame.

Yet, your breathing stops, your eyes widen. You remain silent.

He lets out a disheartened chuckle, before the crease in his brow deepens and his whiskered jaw gives that telling tick that you dread. You follow his dark gaze, it’s strained on the mark on your thigh, and he swallows thickly, licking his lips and you can’t feel your legs.

“Please,” he murmurs, so low, nearly silent, and it’s right there, bright and burning against your ribcage, but it won’t come out, your mouth is too dry and your lips won’t open.

He doesn’t lift up his eyes, instead his hand goes to your hip. He gives it a little squeeze, and you register the sensation, it travels up your body in slow ripples.

He pulls you in, sits you in his lap in a straddle, his hands roaming over your sides under his t-shirt. You let him seek the contact of your skin, how many times have the two of you sat like that? On the bed, on the floor, on the couch. In the truck or under a tent...

His denim feels too rough under your soft flesh. You recoil from the heat of his palms when he cups your face, but he catches you, firm and strong and he will never let go.

His eyes are alight with unshed tears, or perhaps it is yours, because your vision blurs when they finally meet.

“I need to hear you say it back. Please.”

In that tiled bathroom with the yellow light, all those years ago, you had nearly said it. To tame the wild look in his dark eyes when he had realised and briefly got scared. So early but not too soon, and the words had felt far too small in comparison to the feeling itself. You had chosen to soothe him with your touch.

You’d been the hopeful one, then, trustful and fearless.

Today, he is guiding you. With a light pressure of his thumb on your lower lip, the sharp edge of his nose brushing along your temple, his hand at the base of your neck grounding you, so you won’t go missing again.

“It’s ok, baby,” he says, and you feel his words more than you hear them with the white noise filling your brain, “I know you do. Just say it. I got you.”

You close your eyes, inhale his scent. You take his hand.

“Je t’aime.”

****

59 notes · View notes