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prolix-yuy · 3 years ago

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He would like to do both of those things with...much vigor.

He is such a big freakin softie dating this sassy girl. (he loves it)

I am DYING for you to meet the TF boys Amy, I keep forgetting you don't know them because you haven't watched the movie! They are a treat but Frankie is my favorite meal.

The lopsided smile...gurl, me too. Ruin every pair of underwear for me.

Pope is my favorite to write, he's got some great energy (and is played by Oscar Isaac, hence the little "selfie" video I used for the chapter header) and him and Frankie are very close. The big brother energy is strong in Part 2.

I am slopping the cute into a big old bowl for you and then ringing the dinner bell. I normally use the bell to summon the thirst squad but it can also be used for fluff too!

I love a good Nic Cage callback, Frankie would fucking LOVE National Treasure. Just imagine trying to get all flirty and he's like "Babe, they're about to do the escape, we gotta watch this part."

I loooove a good drunken boys night. Those guys would go HARD. and I loved making her the instigator. She would absolutely be the kind to drop the full plate of fries into a flock of seagulls and watch the madness.

YES MS JACKSON! It came to me in a flash and I love my little Ms J now.

Frankie calling you "his girl" might fully fry my hard drive. Whoops.

Oh she only suffered for a minute or so, Frankie's been bragging about her for weeks, he's ready to bring her along.

I'm so glad you like this so far! Frankie warms my little heart so, and I am so excited to show you what he has in store. ILU more than National Treasure, Amy!

Chapter 1: Rebook

Pairing: Francisco “Frankie” Catfish Morales x F!Reader

Summary: The debt.

Word Count: 1700

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, Sex Worker!Frankie, implied other Triple Frontier Boys!Sex Workers, watch me make up shit about sex work, allusions to sex with clients (past, non-descriptive), mentions of drug use, discussion of the aftermath of military service, fingering (F receiving), fuzzy feelings in abundance.

Notes: Welcome back :) I've been chomping at the bit to give you more Frankie, so let's dive back in and see what they're up to...

Cross-posted on AO3

Something More Masterlist

Sex Worker!Frankie AU Series Masterlist

After the first couple of “real” dates you and Frankie went on, he mentioned that some of his military buddies (who he’d subtly hinted at being his sex worker buddies as well) go out on Thursday nights for drinks at a shitty dive bar and bust each other’s balls.

You sipped at your drink through one of those too-small bar straws thoughtfully.

“Pope go to those things?”

Frankie nodded and blushed a little bit at your question. You hadn’t gotten folded into any events yet, hadn’t met his friends, but you also weren’t 21 anymore, and the whole “Meet my friends! Meet my parents!” song-and-dance wore off after you hit 30.

“Well I better start paying my debt back then,” you said, taking your wallet out. Frankie’s eyebrows furrowed as you pulled out a twenty and slid it across the bar to him. “Buy Pope his drinks at the next one and tell him they’re from me.” When Frankie looks at you blankly you sigh and lean in closer. “He didn’t charge me for our hour, remember?”

Frankie was almost purple by now, coughing into the back of his hand as you sipped coyly. The ice had watered down your whiskey but you weren’t in any hurry to get drunk. Nights with Frankie were much more enjoyable sober.

“Okay, um, yeah, yes, I’ll…do that,” Frankie says, picking up the twenty like you put your panties on the bar. You wave your hand at him.

“If he refuses you can let it go, but I think it’ll be funny. Maybe endear your friends to me,” you say. Frankie pockets the twenty and slips an arm around your waist, turning to the live music playing at the other end of the bar.

“So you’re trying to bribe your way in then?” he asked. “Pope’s got a lot of experience with that, he’s gonna see right through you.” You turn your head to Frankie, your nose brushing against his strong one. He gives you a lopsided smile, all squinched-up eyes and dimples. You kiss him fully and sweetly, unable to resist.

“We’ll see.”

+ + + + +

The next Thursday you got an email at about 9pm while you were home watching some weird dystopian show on Apple TV. It’s got Adam Scott in it, and Christopher Walken, so you thought you’d give it a try.

It was from the same email address Pope used to send that cute revelation - that Frankie was smitten and you should absolutely ask him out for dinner. One dinner turned into several and suddenly you had an almost-boyfriend, in all senses except the name.

You paused the show (Patricia Arquette is scary in it too) and opened your phone.

Fish told me you’re buying my drinks tonight? I was just kidding but I’m not going to turn you down.

You laughed to yourself, shooting off a quick message back.

For introducing me to Frankie? I’ll keep a tab open for you.

Frankie called the next day to tell you Pope got exactly one Patrón shot and toasted you to the other boys. And that the rest of the night they spent calling you Sugar Mama, mostly to make Frankie blush. It made you blush too, sitting at your desk at work and smiling into your chest thinking about it.

The routine continued; you sent some cash with Frankie whenever he went out with the boys, and Pope would message you back about it. Sometimes it was a silly tally of how much of your “debt” is left. Other times it was a recount of what you bought him. After the third time Pope asked you to send him your phone number so he wouldn’t have to open Gmail with clumsy thumbs.

Boys’ Thursdays became your second favorite night, your first being your Friday-Saturday-sometimes-midday-Sunday dates with Frankie. You’d order takeout on Friday, “watch” a movie (you’d only finished one so far and it was National Treasure, “because it is a National Treasure, babe”), and Frankie would spend the night panting into your skin as you drew pleasure out of each other. Sprawled under your covers, you’d sleep either tucked up into Frankie’s chest or him curled around your back until one of you woke the other with touches and murmurs. Then long lazy mornings melted into sweet afternoons and repeated evenings and by Sunday you’d be bemoaning how quickly the time passed.

Thursdays, however, were a peek into a Frankie that you weren’t close enough to know yet. Pope didn’t text a lot, but he’d send you pictures of the drinks you bought him (last time was a scorpion bowl), or the wings he got for the table (covered in sauce from wrist to fingertip). Your favorites were the group ones. You’d come to learn who each person was from face alone - Benny, Will, Pope, all incredibly handsome, what the hell - but Frankie’s relaxed happy face was your favorite.

One Thursday after having an especially bad day at work, you Venmoed Pope $200 and told him to treat the boys to a wild night. As you drank your own bourbon on the couch you got increasingly unhinged texts from both him and Frankie detailing the rounds of drinks, pictures of the table of apps they devoured (it looked like a crime scene), and messages that became harder and harder to read. Frankie’s were messy finger mashes that almost made sense

Hey bby thr boys think your awesome and they gave you a cllsign

A what?

Clsin

Call

Dammit

Callsign

What’s that

Like m Catfssh, that’s my clll

Dammit

My call sign

Haha ok what’s mine?

Ms Jackson

Because of the twenties?

Oh shit that mks sens now

But it was the selfies Frankie sent that made you curl up in your bed and smile, screen illuminating your face. His hat a little askew on his head, eyes half closed and hair a mess around his temples. He looked so happy it made your heart clench.

He sent one last text at midnight.

R u sleep?

Door’s open big guy

He was coming up your stairs twenty minutes later, peeling his clothes off before finding your face in the dark to kiss and lick into. He tasted like spice and beer and you guided him between your legs and draped him over you, his weight comforting. You didn’t have sex, him grumbling about whiskey dick, but he rutted gently against you while laying hungry kisses along your neck and face. His arms wrapped around you, you stroked your fingers through his hair and basked in the glow of his attention. Then you basked in the afterglow when he gave you a slick little orgasm with his thumb on your clit.

“Can’t let my girl go unsatisfied,” he’d mumbled into your neck when you came down, sliding off to the side as you felt sleep taking him.

“Your girl?” you hummed, finding his cheek in the dark to stroke.

“‘Course,” he said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

His girl.

You both called out of work the next day.

+ + + + +

On Monday after you and Frankie spent your long weekend together, him helping you make some shelves for your garage, you cooking dinner and trying to watch the new Dune movie (and failing, even with Jason Momoa as incentive), Pope messages you.

Ms Jackson, the Millers are having a BBQ this weekend. You should come.

You stare at the message. Frankie hadn’t said anything about it. You weren’t sure if he was ready for you to meet the boys. It had been a little over four months, it made sense that people might expect to see you. However neither of you had brought it up.

One of the refreshing things about Frankie was how open he was with you. About the work he used to do, both in the military and as a sex worker. It’s not like he could hide the latter, you being his “client” to start, but he’d also been direct when you’d brought up things. When you asked about the coke, he looked wistful but spoke candidly.

“I was a mess when I got back from the service. The coke made it feel easier, like I could be my old self. And then when I got in too deep, needed it more than just a little fix, I worked for Pope, which scratched a few itches for me. I made decent money, I liked the work more often than not. But Pope caught me high with clients a few too many times, and he couldn’t turn a blind eye to it anymore. He took me off and got me to talk to someone.” Frankie’s eyes shone with gratitude, his hand squeezing yours where you’d been holding it. “The therapy helped a lot, and Will helped me with getting my job at the shop, which has been…honestly great. I relapsed once, about a year ago, and since then it’s been…not exactly better, but easier?” He’d looked into your eyes with trepidation, but not with secrecy or deflection. Your acceptance made his shoulders relax, and he spent the rest of the afternoon holding you on the couch and smiling at nothing with the TV droning in the back.

With Frankie, the big stuff felt easy. It was the little stuff you were worried about. Was accepting this invite stepping into a secret boy’s club you were only allowed to be outside of? Would it be too much like you’re the odd one out, in-jokes and military service putting a wall up around them?

You didn’t have to stress much longer. A text from Frankie slid down at the top of your screen.

BBQ with the guys this weekend? They’ve been dying to meet you.

You can’t stop the smile from spreading across your face. Maybe the little things could be just as easy.

Sounds like fun. Should I bring anything?

The chat bubbles bounce back and forth for a minute.

I like everything you make, I can’t decide.

You take a moment to swipe back to Pope’s conversation.

I would love to. I’ll bring the cornbread.

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