First Sight | Frankie Morales x Black F!Reader | ~3.5k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.
Summary: Two strangers discover they’ve been swapping movies through a communal space, each leaving a note in return until curiosity forces a meeting.
Tags: meet cute kinda i think, drug use (smoking weed), the movie swap box is definitely inspired by little free library, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, pwp, smut, lust at first sight vibes, thigh fucking!, spanking, unprotected p in v, face riding, lil bit of dirty talk, pull out method strikes again, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!
A/N: helloooo this is my submission for @jolapeno's dear-uary challenge (i know i'm late pls...) so thank you jo for hosting! such a fun idea! 🖤 okay so i'm not usually a meet cute person but i wanted to challenge myself by writing it, which is why this took me forever to finish! i'm still a little iffy about the results and frankie's characterization—but fuck it, we ball! gotta start somewhere! shoutout to @mandaloriankait for reading over this as well when it was still in its early stages lmfao ummm i hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think! 🖤
Francisco stands at the edge of his uncle’s property, staring at the house he now owns. The old man had lived like a ghost in his final years—ex-military (like himself), a recluse, barely seen except for maybe an occasional grocery run.
Now that he’s passed, the place is Frankie’s problem.
He planned to sell it, take the cash, and move on. But after really assessing it, taking in the sturdy bones of its structure, covered in grime and dust but still holding strong, he changed his mind. Maybe fixing it up would be good for him.
Lord fuckin’ knows he needs something to get his mind right after all the shit he’s been through.
So that’s what he devotes his time to. He takes many trips to the local hardware store, flips through home improvement magazines to find tricks to make the process easier. On occasion, one of the guys will drop by to lend a hand, but for the most part it’s just been him.
It also helps that the neighborhood is quiet, houses spaced out just enough to offer privacy but close enough that it isn’t completely isolated. A large pond stretches out, shared by the community, and it’s the kind of place that could feel like home, if he lets it.
Needing a break from the endless cleaning and repairs, he decides to go for a walk. The nicotine-laced weed dulls the edge of old cravings, a quiet battle he fights every day, choosing this over the harsher habits he’s trying to kick.
He wanders without aim, hands tucked in his pockets, the low hum of insects filling the gaps in silence. Something catches his eye as he approaches the end of the street—a small structure, half-concealed beneath the spill of a streetlamp.
Curious, he ambles closer. The old newspaper stand has been given new life, converted into a makeshift movie and book swap. Inside, a careful arrangement of DVDs and dog-eared paperbacks wait to be discovered. His fingers trace over the spines, skimming titles until he stops on one—Blade Runner.
As he pulls it out, a green post-it note, scrawled in neat, looping handwriting, flutters to the ground.
Always a bittersweet watch (I cried this last time) but it’s a comfort movie of mine. Also helps that Harrison Ford is a hunk!
His brows raise in amusement, as if weighing the personality behind the words. He pockets the note and takes the movie home.
Later that night, he’s sprawled on his couch, half-buried in old blankets, takeout on the coffee table as the film plays. He watches as Deckard moves through the neon-drenched streets, the melancholic score settling into his bones.
He doesn’t cry, obviously, but he does walk away from this viewing with something different than when he had watched it back on base years ago with the rest of the other lost twenty something year olds in his cohort.
By morning, he’s still thinking about the movie and the note along with it. On impulse, he plucks one of the carpenter pencils from his toolbelt, tapping it against the counter before messily scrawling his reply on the corner of a random sheet of his notepad.
The movie/book trade idea had been something you created back in high school—before the cynicism of adulthood had shattered your rose colored glasses.
Now, after financial setbacks had dragged you back to your childhood home, bringing it back felt like the kind of mindless distraction you needed. Something to keep your hands busy (even if temporarily) when your brain wouldn’t shut up about how shitty things have been lately.
Most people just stream whatever they want now, so this is pretty useless, but you don’t get hung up on that.
There is something nice about the physicality of it. Of leaving something you enjoy behind for a stranger to find and potentially be into as well. So, you revamped the idea and set it up in a spot where it wouldn’t be totally ignored, hoping maybe someone out there would get as much out of it as you used to.
You check in on it one afternoon, expecting to see everything exactly where you left it. Instead, you find empty spaces where movies had been. A book was gone too.
Your heart skips, just a little. For the first time in a while, something doesn’t feel like a total waste of time.
You spot a note haphazardly taped to the cover of the Blade Runner DVD case.
Didn’t cry, but I respect the existential crisis. Also think I agree with the Harrison Ford statement.
A grin pulls at your lips, eyeing the messy handwriting. Someone was actually playing along.
Over the next few days, the exchanges continue. Each time the stranger returns a movie, they leave a note and a film of their own. It is exhilarating for no reason, getting to know someone in this way.
Disagree with your take, bad movie all around, but I see where you’re coming from.
At least you aren’t an asshole about it like everyone else…
…Didn’t expect to be into period dramas, but this hit different. You have decent taste.
I do have decent taste, thanks for noticing!
It became an obsession—checking the box first thing in the morning, wondering what he’d taken next, what he’d written.
Who was he? What did he look like? Most of the neighborhood was made up of older residents, so the idea of someone more your age participating in this felt strangely intimate, almost like a secret conversation no one else knew about.
You never ask for a name or anything, neither does he. It’s more fun this way. The animosity of it, but still, you can’t help but wonder what he is really like. Was it possible to crush on someone like this? Were you actually down this bad?
You finally meet him one night.
Movie in hand, he stands beneath the golden hue of the streetlight. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips that look almost too pretty for someone as rugged as him, framed by a patchy beard. His worn t-shirt clings to his broad chest and toned arms, the fabric stretched just right, hinting at the solid muscle beneath.
His cap sits low, his dark curls peeking out along the edges.
Your gaze drags over him, drinking him in. His eyes meet yours and the lust you feel in that moment threatens to disorient you.
“Hello,” his raspy voice breaks the silence first, also shameless in the way he checks you out.
“Hey.”
For a moment, neither of you move as the tension simmers, absentmindedly taking a step towards each other.
He shifts, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “You the one leaving those notes?”
“Depends,” you tease, tilting your head. “You the one writing back?”
His grin widens just slightly, a lopsided thing that sends the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. “Guilty.”
You cross your arms, attempting to play it cool. “I was starting to think I was talking to old man Paul or something.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle at the fact that you’ve named his now dead uncle. “Close enough. I’m his nephew, Francisco—call me Frankie.” He extends his hand to shake yours and you feel yourself getting hot all over from the simple, normal fucking interaction, giving him your name in return.
His hands are so big.
“Nephew? I didn’t know he had family.”
“Not really a family man. He passed away a few weeks ago and I was the lucky one he left his house to.”
You’re about to express your condolences, but it’s like he can feel it coming before the words even form on your lips. “Don’t—it’s fine. I hate that pity shit.”
You laugh, a little nervously, though his brown eyes seem to settle your nerves.
“Well, Frankie,” you say his name, as if testing it out, familiarizing your mouth with it. “Thanks for playing along with this,” you motion vaguely to the swap box.
“I like it. Keeps me entertained while I fix up the place...” He exhales, glancing at the smaller structure before looking back at you. “It’s weird, though. Feels like I already know you.”
You nod, feeling the same. It should be strange, standing here at night flirting with a man you really don’t know… but it isn’t.
He lifts the DVD in his hand. Heat—classic crime thriller. “I was gonna watch this tonight.”
The invitation hovers, your tongue flicking over your lips in anticipation.
“You in?”
A smarter version of you might have hesitated. Might have thought about the risks, the potential awkwardness. But standing here with Frankie watching you like he already knows what your answer is, hesitation isn’t an option.
You grin. “Sure, why not.”
Things escalate fast.
You’re sitting on the couch, the low hum of the movie playing in the background, the two of you exchanging quiet comments between drags of the joint he so effortlessly rolled.
The space between you shrinks. His fingers graze your thigh, intentional but unhurried.
You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him. But your bodies are pressed together, mouths hungry, hands wandering. His cap gets flicked off, curls spilling into your fingers as you tug him closer, inhaling the scent of smoke and tasting the candy he’d been snacking on.
The movie is forgotten. The joint smolders in the ashtray. You straddle his lap, rolling your hips down, and he groans against your mouth, gripping your waist.
Somewhere between deep drags of each other’s kisses and the slow, filthy grind of your pussy against bulge, he requests, “Let me taste you...” Biting at your lower lip, kneading your ass.
You’re not about to object to a man willingly wanting to go down on you. Nodding, you both quickly undress each other, your want for him only increasing with each layer that gets shed.
Now you’re here. Your thighs bracket his jaw, the arm of the couch supporting you as you sink down into the urgent heat of his mouth. The first slow, wet drag of his tongue at your slit makes you moan pathetically.
His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you down like he wants this—like he needs this.
The scratch of his scruff against your sensitive skin makes it all the better. He’s not gentle—he’s messy, hungry, eating you out like it’s all he’s been thinking about since laying his eyes on you. His tongue flicks, circles, then flattens as he drags it up through your slick folds, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking just right.
Your head tips back, a broken cry slipping out.
“God, you’re so good at this,” you gasp, rolling your hips against his talented mouth.
Frankie groans in response, the vibration of it sending sparks up your spine. His nose presses right where you need it, and you swear you see stars when he starts moving his head with you, matching your rhythm, letting you ride his face.
Your fingers tighten in his curls, tugging hard. He grunts as one of his hands slides lower, wrapping around his leaking cock. He strokes himself in time with his tongue working you over, his other hand gripping your ass, spreading you wider to get a better taste of all of you.
You don’t even realize how desperate you sound, whimpering… pleading. Your grinding then shifts as his tongue goes taut and you start bouncing softly against his jaw, your hips swiveling in ways you didn’t even know you could move, your body instinctively chasing after his mouth.
He doesn’t let up. If anything, he gets more into it as you do, his tongue fucking into you before moving back to your clit, his swollen lips working magic, sucking, teasing, wrecking you.
“Fuck, I’m gonna—”
Your words melt into a strangled whine as your orgasm crashes into you, your whole body shaking while you come apart on his tongue. Frankie doesn’t stop—he eats you through it, his grip on your hips tightening as you ride out every last wave of your orgasm.
Then—smack.
Your eyes fly open as his palm connects with your ass, the sting mixing with the aftershocks in the best way possible. He does it again, harder this time, a smirk tugging at his lips when you jolt.
The sting of each spank feels so fucking good that you start sobbing, damn near pulling the hair out of his scalp when he harshly sucks on your clit.
He’s been holding himself back from finishing in his fist, but suffocating between your thighs while hearing your pretty noises nearly undoes him.
Continuing to stave off his own release, he grips the girthy base of cock tightly. He needs more. Needs to feel the walls of your pussy squelching around him, pulling him in deeper.
And from the way you’re looking down at him, mouth parted, eyes shining with satisfaction, he knows you need the same damn thing.
He maneuvers out from under you quickly and efficiently, his dexterous training being put to use, pushing your upper half flat into the old couch while your hips remain in the air, thighs pressed together.
Francisco slides the fat tip of his cock through the swollen lips of your pussy, getting himself wet, groaning deep in his chest before pressing his heated dick at your silky thighs, the lubrication of your juices making it easy for him to slip between them, the pressure against his cock having him curse beneath his breath.
“So fuckin’ soft.”
His left hand crosses at your lower back to grab at your right hip while the other lands a harsh smack to your ass. You whimper, but the sound is muffled from how your face is buried into the cushions.
He soothes over the sting with his palm before gripping tight again, using the leverage to thrust between your thighs, the thick weight of his cock teasing you with every stroke, your clit puffy and dripping, needing to feel him inside you.
“Put in, Frankie, please,” you whimper, the squeeze at your thighs causing your cunt to clench around nothing, pushing more of your slick out, pussy drooling for him.
He grunts, pressing a firm hand to your lower back, arching you deeper, adjusting the angle. He spreads you enough to give himself room to line himself up.
“So eager for this dick,” he taunts, swirling the head of his cock at your clit before tapping it repeatedly, the evidence of your horniness clinging to him in a sticky web with every smack.
Frankie teases you by running it up the seam of your pussy, notching it at your fluttering and needy hole before pulling out and repeating the action, driving you crazy. “You always put out this fast?”
You grind back against him, pushing onto your elbows, voice breathy but flirty. “Could ask you the same thing.”
He doesn’t reply, a smug smile on his lips as he finally gives it to you, sinking into the wet cavern of your cunt, groaning out a Fuuuuuck as your pussy stretches around the intrusion of his cock.
You try to moan, to say something, but no sound comes out—just a desperate gasp, eyes falling shut, fingers clawing at the rough couch fabric as he fills you completely.
He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, savoring every squeeze, every tremble. His thrusts start slow, deep, rolling his hips just right, pulling out almost entirely before pressing back in, making you feel every thick inch.
“Fuck, you feel so goddamn good.”
The heat of his body blankets yours as he lowers himself, his weight pressing you deeper into the couch. His mouth is everywhere—kissing up your spine, nipping at your shoulder, his mustache scraping against your oversensitive skin. When he bites down you whine, your cunt clenching tight around him.
His thrusts speed up a notch, somehow getting deeper and harder—grinding into you just right, making your breath stutter.
“Yes—yes—right there,” you sob, turning your head to look at him… or well, try to look at him. Your eyes are glazed over with thick tears of euphoria, barely able to make anything out but you can feel him everywhere. His breath fanning against your face, a small amount of spit stuttering out as he grunts, burying himself over and over inside your tight, wet pussy.
Your nails dig into the old, tacky couch, trying to keep yourself somewhat grounded as he screws the thoughts right out of your brain.
It’s everything you’ve needed. Life has been fucking you over relentlessly as of late, it’s about damn time you finally get a pounding that’s actually worth it.
Frankie groans against your ear as he keeps up the brutal pace. “Pretty movie girl likes it deep, huh?” You could honestly get off by just the sound of his raspy voice. “Shit, never had it like this before, have you?”
You shake your head—not out of denial, but because fuck, he’s right. Nothing has ever felt this good.
His lips brush over your cheek and then he’s kissing you sloppily, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. You moan into his mouth as the pleasure at your pussy blooms again, your second orgasm creeping up fast under the weight of his praise, his cock hitting all the right spots, stretching you wide.
Frankie growls into the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he ruins you.
“Gonna make you come on my dick,” he mutters, gripping your chin, making sure you’re looking at him while he fucks into that one spot that devistates you. “And you’re gonna take every fuckin’ bit of it.”
And God—you will. You want to.
Because you already know this is the type of sex you’ll be feeling for days.
A few more relentless thrusts, and you’re done for. Your body shakes beneath him, muscles seizing, wails and sobs absorbed by the cushion your cheek is pressed into.
“Shhh just like that, doin’ so good—shit this pussy is amazing.”
Frankie holds you down, his weight keeping you exactly where he wants you. His grip shifts to the armrest, fingers curling tight, using the leverage to piston into you rougher. The couch jerks across the hardwood floor with each thrust, the force of it sending shockwaves up your spine.
The end credits song plays somewhere in the background, barely audible over the obscene sounds of your fucking.
His breathing gets ragged, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own high. He pulls out abruptly, chest heaving, and licks the tips of his fingers before spreading your pussy open, angling his cock right at your slick, swollen cunt.
Hot ropes of cum spill from his slit, milky and thick, painting your used flesh, dripping down onto the couch beneath you. The sight is filthy, so fucking erotic it makes his cock throb in his fist.
He groans at the mess, at the way his release pools against the cleft of your clit. He pushes inside again before either of you can think, his cum and yours mixing as he fucks into you, more fervently this time, dragging out the pleasure until his cock begins to soften.
You’re too spent to do anything but take it, too blissed out to care. All you know is that you want this again. Over and over and over...
“Damn,” Frankie chuckles, still breathless, his curls damp with sweat. His hands move lazily over your body, tracing the curve of your spine, your waist, your thighs, before he leans over to grab his discarded gray tee.
He doesn’t think twice before using it to clean you up, wiping between your legs with a casual ease.
You hum in response, floating somewhere between the high of the weed and the sex. You could crash right here, stretched out on his couch, and be perfectly content.
“You good?” The hot edge of lust has barely cooled when he’s touching you again, stroking his big, warm hand up and down your back.
You don’t nod, just manage a lazy, “Mhm… just need a second.”
He smirks and a wink is thrown in your direction before he stands, sliding his sweatpants on and fixing the couch to its original position before disappearing into the halfway renovated kitchen.
You stretch your limbs, pulling your clothes back on with no real rush. Your body is warm, loose. When Frankie returns, he hands you a glass of water, and you thank him softly, realizing how parched you are when you down the whole thing in one go.
“We didn’t finish the movie,” he muses, lounging back on the couch like he hadn’t just given you the best sex of your life.
“Bummer,” you tease, looking at him over your shoulder.
His gaze flickers from the screen to you, a glint in his dark eyes catching in the glow of the TV.
“You could stay the night,” he offers smoothly. “We could watch somethin’ else… maybe fuck some more too.”
His head tilts slightly, curls messy and inviting. The broad expanse of his naked chest gleams, rising and falling with steady, easy breaths. And then there’s the soft bulge in his sweats, evidence that he’s not nearly as spent as he looks.
Your mouth damn near waters.
You narrow your gaze at him, playful, challenging. Frankie mirrors the expression, watching, waiting…
Prompt: Two strangers discover they’ve been swapping items unknowingly through a communal space, each leaving an X in return until curiosity forces a meeting.
Summary: After discovering some unfamiliar clothes in your laundry (and losing some of your own in return), you begin exchanging messages with another resident in your apartment complex.
Word Count: 15.5K
Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Modern AU, unspecified age gap (Ezra is intended to be older, but use your own imagination on how much older), no use of Y/N, minimal descriptions of reader character, second-person POV, reader is getting over a recent breakup, mildly pervy Ezra, pleasure dom Ezra, SMUT (dry humping, vaginal fingering, squirting, biting, unprotected P in V sex, overstimulation, creampie, Ezra’s filthy yapping and filthy fucking).
Written for @jolapeno’s Dear-uary Epistolary Writing Challenge. Dividers by @saradika-graphics.
Read on AO3 | Main Masterlist
You have never considered yourself to be an especially domestic person.
Sure, you are a decent cook, but the handful of recipes you rotate between each week require little in the way of culinary skills. The ingredients are simple and cheap, the prep work is minimal, and the actual cooking involves nothing more than a couple of burners on the stovetop or perhaps a slow cooker if you’re feeling especially ambitious. The final products are always serviceable, but nothing more complex or skillful than what a college student might be able to achieve in their first apartment.
You’re a reluctant cleaner, as well. Your dishes tend to pile in the sink for days before you work up the gumption to scrub them, and you’re embarrassed to admit to the amount of time you have gone without vacuuming your carpets or mopping your kitchen floor. When you make plans to have friends over – or god forbid a date – you often have been guilty of racing around your apartment at the last possible minute, frantically cleaning things that ought to have been cleaned ages ago. It seems the potential shame of someone else thinking you lived in a messy home is the only motivator strong enough to get you into gear.
But there is perhaps one domestic task in which you find genuine joy. Laundry.
You love the ritual of it – the simple satisfaction of sorting, the methodical, repetitive action of folding, the tidy little piles of underwear and socks and pajamas and jeans spread out over the surface of your bed as you worked. You love watching the way your dresser goes from barren to pleasingly full as the soft drone of your current audiobook or a favorite podcast drifts through your headphones. You even love the scent of your detergent – it’s a small luxury, but you notice it every time you open your closet, and it never fails to make you smile.
Every Sunday morning, the routine is the same, and with it comes a meditative calm that always helps you center and reset yourself for the coming week. You’ve found yourself leaning on the consistency, the predictability of it all even moreso in recent weeks, which is why when you encounter a peculiar piece of clothing mixed in with your clean laundry, still warm from the dryer downstairs, you almost toss the thing straight into the garbage.
It's a large men’s sock – charcoal gray, crew length, and heavily worn. It sports two holes, one in the toe and one in the heel, and the knit fabric has pilled so intensely that from far away, it almost looks speckled. A ragged piece of clothing if you’ve ever seen one and nothing like anything in your own wardrobe. Instantly, you presume it must be his.
The mere thought of him leaves a bad taste in your mouth, and you eye the offending sock with reproach. Eight months of your life wasted on a man who could never seem to remember your takeout order, who called your master’s degree cute, who always had some new excuse to not introduce you to the gaggle of fellow finance bros constantly blowing up his phone and filling his evenings with cocktail hours and “networking events.”
Looking back on it now, you can be more honest with yourself about all the things you had ignored in the moment – all the little red flags that might have been passable on their own but combined with everything else painted a picture of a man who saw you as a convenience rather than a privilege, a little something to be kept on the side, held at arm’s length until he grew bored of you and moved on. And he had moved on, in the tritest way possible – with an intern from his office named Kyleigh.
You are eager to do the same, to pack the lackluster memories of him away in a box and shove that box so far into the back of your mind that you forget it even exists. This sock, sticking out bizarrely in the basket of soft creams and delicate blushes that you favor, has derailed those efforts. You’ve been doing so well avoiding thoughts of him.
You toss it into the paper grocery bag you have tucked into the corner of your bedroom, the one containing the handful of little things you’ve found around your apartment in the three weeks since his departure that you know belong to him. A blue silk tie. A bulky black phone charger that is incompatible with your phone model. A half-used tube of plain, unflavored Chapstick. A dogeared copy of Atomic Habits. And now this sock.
You have no idea how it ended up in your hamper in the first place, but it hardly matters, you decide. You refuse to let the thought of it – or the man it belongs to – darken your peaceful morning any longer. You’ll get the bag of stuff back to him at some point. Until then, he’ll simply have to make do with a missing sock.
What begins as a singular sock, however, quickly becomes more as over the next several weeks, you continue to discover foreign items of clothing in your laundry.
First, another sock, this one navy blue and even more worn than the first, the fabric loose and shapeless with time. Then, a pair of maroon men’s athletic shorts with frayed, raw hems around the legs and worn-out elastic at the waist. A ribbed undershirt in age-patinaed white comes next, and then finally, a true treasure – the softest, most perfectly worn-in gray t-shirt. It is oversized (for you, anyway) and pure cotton, stretched and softened with countless washes and wears so that it pools like butter in your hands, and for the first time, it occurs to you that there is no way that these mysterious items of clothing are relics of your relationship that you had simply missed on your first pass through your apartment to gather his things. Your ex, for one, had had many flaws, but hanging on to shabby, hole-riddled clothing that was nearly falling apart was not one of them. And for another thing, you feel certain that you would have known if your ex had owned a t-shirt like this one while you were together. If he had, you would have stolen it for yourself a long time ago.
For lack of something better to do with them, the navy sock, basketball shorts, and undershirt all make their way into the paper bag anyway. The t-shirt, however, gets folded neatly and added to your pajama drawer. Some poor man in your apartment building may be missing it now, but in a building with over a hundred units and only one basement laundry facility, you cannot imagine the complexities of attempting to reunite it with its owner.
His loss will simply have to be your gain.
The week following the fortuitous discovery of the most perfect t-shirt known to man, you encounter another disruption to your sacred routine, though this time, rather than a mysterious item of clothing somehow joining your basket, it comes in the form of a hand-written note.
The laundry facility in your apartment complex is nothing to speak of, and for as much as you enjoy this particular chore, you prefer to spend as little time in the dingy, windowless room as you can manage. Two rows of stainless steel, coin-operated washers abut each other down the center of the linoleum-tiled square, while matching dryers stack two high and six wide against the far wall. The air there is stuffy, warm and humid and smelling strongly of bleach, and the constant hum and rumble of the machines is almost more than the noise cancelling in your headphones can handle.
Typically, you don’t choose to linger – you grab your favorite washers as quickly as you can manage, and you set a timer on your phone for the duration of the wash so you can return to your apartment to wait out the cycle. Today, however, as you are slotting your collection of quarters into your machines, something out of place catches your eye.
Stuck to the wall of dryers is a crumpled piece of lined paper, clearly ripped from a spiralbound notebook and scribbled on in haste. You cock your head at the sight, frowning. You’re certain it must have been left by a fellow resident, for any messages from the complex’s management would have at least been typed and printed out.
Internally, you roll your eyes – how often had a passive aggressive note left in a common area actually resulted in changed behavior? You came across them on occasion, in the mail room or in the lounge or in one of the elevators, and whatever it was the poster was disgruntled about only ever seemed to worsen after that. Still, once you have your washers going, you can’t help but approach the dryers to get a better look at the curious thing.
Your suspicions are quickly confirmed – it is from another tenant, written in a tight, hurried scrawl in dry, patchy blue ink and taped to the steel face of one of the dryers with a raggedly-torn piece of masking tape. It reads:
You find yourself quirking a puzzled smile as you read, the corners of your lips curling up at the writer’s flowery word choice. It’s almost comically formal for something clearly written in a rush, and the juxtaposition of the courtly language with the humble, jagged-edged notebook paper sparks your intrigue. Of course, there’s also the matter of the handful of mysterious garments you have been collecting. You can’t help but wonder whether this…loquacious neighbor of yours is the owner of the scruffy clothing items slowly collecting dust in the corner of your bedroom.
That would be another odd comparison, you think. That someone so meticulous with their words should be so careless with their clothing. You suppose you shouldn’t judge – perhaps he simply cannot afford to replace his things when they wear through. But still, you can’t reconcile the image you have created in your mind of the author of this note with the unkempt man who owns the clothes that keep ending up in your laundry.
It might be worth responding if only to satisfy your growing curiosity.
When you return to the laundry room to move your clothes from the washers to the dryers, you bring with you a bright pink, oversized sticky note from your favorite stationary set and attach it to the wrinkled piece of notebook paper.
Your curiosity drives you back down into the laundry room the next day.
It’s rare for you to deviate from your routine like this, but there’s something that feels almost fantastical about this nameless, faceless exchange. The author of that note might be someone you have encountered a thousand times without ever knowing.
The thought inspires your imagination, makes you think of fairytales and fate and all kinds of other childish things. Perhaps you have crossed paths with this stranger – with their funny, fanciful language and their unkempt presentation – in the mail room or in the elevator or outside the leasing office. You trade courteous hellos and the occasional polite smile with your neighbors when you see them, but you have never intentionally sought any of them out before. This person could be anyone, and that has you making your way back to the basement long before your next planned laundry day.
The moment you enter the stuffy, grimy little room, your eyes go straight for the wall of dryers where the last note was left. A smile splits your face almost immediately. The note from yesterday is gone, as is your bright pink reply. In their place, another torn piece of notebook paper has been left, this time stuck to the face of the dryer with a clear strip of packing tape. More secure, more intentional, like whoever had left it had intended for it to be able to stick in place for a long time even in the humid, poorly-ventilated space.
Drawing your lower lip between your teeth in anticipation, you’re thankful to be the only person in the room as you eagerly dart over to read it.
In the same hurried penmanship as the previous note, this one reads:
A rush of satisfaction floods you as you read. This is the mysterious owner of the clothes you’ve been finding! You must have a washer or dryer preference in common, you think, if his belongings continue to be mixed in with yours. You can see how it could happen, particularly if he was in a rush. A dark colored sock left in the bottom of the drum or stuck to the side after a spin cycle wasn’t unheard of.
Perhaps you ought to do a better job of checking your machines before blindly dumping your clothes in…
You also feel confident now that this is, in fact, a man that you’re dealing with, which makes his choice of vocabulary all the more intriguing. Not that there is anything especially feminine about his choice of words, but more that the men you find yourself spending time with tend to get their intellectual stimulation from manosphere podcasts and YouTube comedians. This man writes like a scholar, like a patron of the arts, like a Regency-era lordling. It is as refreshing as it is puzzling, and the sparkling prose combined with the mystery of the whole thing has you feeling rather enchanted.
And, perhaps the greatest victory of all, is that E makes no mention whatsoever of your new favorite t-shirt. The thin, buttery-soft thing has become a staple of your loungewear collection over the last few weeks. The way it falls over your skin so perfectly, the way it wraps itself around you like a friend – you can’t imagine parting with it now. Thankfully, it sounds like you won’t have to.
Pulling your pink pad of sticky notes out of your bag, you excitedly pen your reply.
Several more days pass before your now-daily trips to the laundry room finally bear fruit.
It’s Saturday morning, and rather than finding a new piece of crinkled notebook paper in place of the old, instead you find that someone has written on your pink sticky note, adding their own message to the bottom of the scrap of stationary. You recognize the handwriting immediately, though it’s even more irregular than usual. Scribbled in the lower right corner of the note, it reads:
In cramped, halting, angular strokes, a phone number has been added to the bottom of the note – even smaller than the words he somehow managed to fit on the same sheet of paper as your own. But by some miracle, with a squint and a turn of your head, you’re able to read it, and you pull your phone out of your pocket to quickly save it in your contacts.
laundry neighbor🧦, you call him in your address book with a smirk, and you decide to shoot him a text when you arrive back at your apartment. In the meantime, however, you are quick to yank both of the old notes off of the dryer, crumple them up into a ball, and toss them into the nearby garbage can.
As you catch the elevator back to your floor, you can’t help but wonder about the kind of man who was perfectly comfortable leaving his personal phone number in a public space for anyone to read and do with as they chose, but who drew the line at retrieving a small stack of holey, threadbare clothes from the same public space. You can’t imagine who in their right mind would want to steal the things that you had inadvertently collected from this man over the last several weeks; in fact, you feel confident that if you had ever seen them there while doing your own washing, you wouldn’t have spared them a second thought.
If anything, you think, if they had been left there long enough, I might have taken the liberty of throwing them in the trash.
Still, you suppose there’s no accounting for taste. And E had admitted to being superstitious about the shorts in particular, so perhaps this strange man was simply a creature of habit, one who did not part with such things easily.
A creature of habit who keeps strange hours and writes like someone from a different century. No matter how much you try, you simply cannot make heads or tails of this mysterious man.
Several hours pass before you receive a reply from the enigmatic E. You’re preparing to settle in for the night, a book and a glass of wine in hand, when your phone vibrates in the pocket of your pajama pants. Digging it out, you quirk a curious smile at what you see.
hi e! saw your response to my note about your clothes. when would be a good time for us to meet up so i can get those back to you?
Ah! Good morning, little bird!
I suppose I should say good evening, though it is my morning. Apologies for the delayed reply. As I mentioned, I keep odd hours.
I would be available to meet with you tonight after my shift, if you are amenable? I typically return home around 4 in the morning.
You make no attempt to smother the incredulous laugh that bubbles up in your chest as his suggestion. What kind of person tried to make plans for 4:00 in the morning? You couldn’t imagine dragging yourself out of bed in the middle of the night to meet with a stranger just to hand off a couple socks. Shaking your head, you’re quick to type out a reply.
4 am??? 😳 you weren’t kidding, those are some weird hours 😅
sorry dude i will def be asleep at 4 😪
how about this time tomorrow? if you work nights, would you be awake then?
Three bouncing dots appear at the bottom of the screen, flashing in and out of existence a handful of times before his message finally coalesces.
An astute observation and suggestion. Ordinarily, yes, I would. But unfortunately, I have already agreed to an extended shift tomorrow to cover for a colleague.
A frown knits across your brow, your thumb tapping against the edge of your wine glass as you ponder your options. In your mind, you run through your schedule for the week, matching it up against what little you know of E’s availability. It’s a challenging fit. A brief flash of irritation passes through you at the strange man’s stubbornness. If only he would allow you to simply leave the clothes in the laundry room – then he could collect them at his leisure, and the issue would resolve itself.
However, as you begin to type up precisely that suggestion (with no small amount of snark), you find yourself pausing.
If you leave the clothes for him to pick up on his own, you may never have the opportunity to meet him, to finally put a face and a voice to the person behind the notes. As it stands, you don’t even know this man’s name, but this odd little exchange easily has become the most entertaining thing to happen to you in a long time. It’s been a nice distraction from the absence of your ex, strangely making you feel a little less alone.
Drawing your lower lip between your teeth in contemplation, you delete the message you had been typing and compose another one instead.
You would put the ball in his court, put the responsibility on him to coordinate a plan for you to connect. The moment the message marks as delivered, you see those bouncing dots appear again. His reply is quick, as though he had been waiting on the other end of the line the whole time you deliberated. The thought has a strange warmth settling in your chest, blooming in your cheeks.
ok no worries. you wanna just text me whenever you’re free and we’ll see when our schedules line up? i’m pretty flexible but it sounds like we might work opposite hours 😅
Indeed, a common occurrence, I’m afraid, but such is the life of a bartender.
But yes, I will be in touch. I appreciate you looking after my things until we can arrange a meeting! I am in your debt for your patience.
Your flush deepens at the compliment, and you cannot fight the grin that tugs at your lips. Flatterer, you think to yourself.
not a problem! we’ll make it work eventually 😊
Not ten seconds passes, and then:
Looking forward to it, little bird. Enjoy the rest of your evening.
you too 😊 have a good shift
Good morning, little bird! The sun is rising, and I am preparing to retire. Do you perhaps wish to meet in the lobby before then? I’m unsure of your schedule, but I know many of the other tenants are departing for work at this time.
sorry e 🙁 I left about 20 min ago, got a workout class on monday mornings. sleep well!
Thoughts of the man who has ostensibly become your pen pal linger at the back of your mind throughout your work day. It’s been a while since you received a “good morning” text from anyone, though you are quick to scold yourself for the little flutter that thought sets off in your stomach.
You think of the appalling collection of socks and lounge clothes, now removed from the bag of your ex’s belongings and taking pride of place on your kitchen counter, right next to the entrance to your apartment. That, truly, is all you know about him, you remind yourself – that he wears socks with holes in them and shorts with no elastic and undershirts with pit and neck stains. Not exactly the most appealing prospect.
Not that there ought to be anything appealing about him. He could be barely out of school. He could be an old man. He could be married. If his glittering prose and flattering pet names have charmed you, then you have no one but yourself and your own fanciful imagination to blame.
Of course, none of these musings stop you from shooting off a quick text to him on your way home from work.
hey! i’m headed home now, you awake? could meet up downstairs in 15?
To your disappointment, your message remains unread for several more hours. It isn’t until you’re queueing up your third episode of your favorite syndicated reality show, wrapped in a blanket and cradling a late-night bowl of ice cream in your lap, that you receive a response.
Apologies once again, birdie. By the time I noticed your message, I was already in the car. Thank you for keeping in contact – your diligence for a neighbor you do not even know is admirable.
lol i try 🤷♀️ 😊
The next time you hear from E, it is early in the morning. You’re barely awake, eyes still bleary as you prepare yourself a cup of coffee, and the notification that greets you when you open your phone for the first time is two new messages from him, sent a couple hours ago.
I am certain you will not see this until morning, but be cautious using the northeast elevator tomorrow. It is making the most bizarre noise, and the door is rather sluggish on opening. Just now, I was nearly unable to fit through to exit the car when I reached my floor.
I have informed maintenance, but I am sure you know as well as I how long it takes that old codger to get anything done. If it is not blocked for use by the time you leave tomorrow, I would suggest waiting until the other is available.
Your chest warms at the consideration, that he would have such a harrowing experience and think to warn you against it. Fully awake now, you thumb a reply and send it off, hoping he sees it when he wakes tonight for his shift.
omg thanks for the heads up! glad you’re okay and didn’t get stuck!
Later, after safely making your way downstairs and over to the parking deck, you cannot seem to stop yourself from sending another.
there is an out of service sign on it now, thank god! have a good sleep e!
[Attached: JPG]
fyi reno crew in the lobby today. idk if you have your car in the deck but you may wanna take the side exit and walk around. the workers gave me a dirty look for walking on the unsealed floor lol
Awful rude of them. You couldn’t have known.
If management didn’t want tenants in the lobby today, perhaps they ought to have put up proper signage.
Thank you for the message, birdie. I will do as you suggested. I hope you had a pleasant day at work.
…what is it that you do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?
i’m a librarian 🤓 📚
!!!
Forgive my ineloquence. I was unaware I have been corresponding with a scholar!
lmao says the man who writes like someone out of an austen novel
I will take that as a compliment!
Do you enjoy it?
the way you talk or being a librarian? 😉
Clever girl. 😏 Both. Either.
yes very much! to both 😇
and how do you know i’m a girl? all you know for sure is we live in the same building. i could be anyone 👀
The way you speak is decidedly feminine, though you’re right, I should not make such assumptions.
I apologize if I have offended you. No disrespect was intended.
😂 you’re fine, just giving you a hard time. you assumed correctly anyway
how about you? do you enjoy what you do?
It certainly is not my first choice of occupation, but it pays enough for me to make my way through the world, which is a privilege in itself.
It also helps that I am quite good at it, if I do say so myself.
lol nothing wrong with knowing yourself!
what would be your first choice? if not bartending?
I would be an academic. I do love books.
well if you ever find yourself awake during normal business hours you’re welcome at the library anytime. we have a few of those 😉
Cheeky bird.
Things continue in this vein for several more days – courteous, neighborly messages about things happening around the complex that turn into brief, companionable conversations. Missed offers to meet, incompatible schedules, sleep and work and fitness classes and plans with friends somehow always seeming to come at the worst possible moments. You find yourself equal parts aggravated and entertained by what has turned into a never-ending game of phone tag with someone who you still, somehow, have never met. It wasn’t exactly what you had signed up for when you responded to the bedraggled little note in the laundry room, but you couldn’t say you were disappointed at how things had turned out.
At this point, the novelty of the clothes taking up space on your kitchen counter has faded, the little pile melting into the background and simply becoming part of your daily scenery, and every time you see E’s moniker and the little sock emoji come across your phone screen, you can’t help but smile. It’s been the best distraction you could have asked for, though a part of you knows that such a sentiment is leaning further away from whimsical and more toward delusional.
Perhaps that’s why when the charming, fresh-faced barista at your favorite coffee shop finally works up the gumption to ask for your number, you give it to him.
Perhaps that’s why when that same barista asks you out for dinner and drinks, you agree.
Little bird, I have tremendous news! The coworker whose shift I covered a while back has offered to return the favor. I am available this evening to collect my laundry from you. When would be best for us to meet?
oh e i’m sorry ☹️ this would have been a great night for it too! but i actually have a date. i’ll be gone most of the evening.
I see. Not to worry, birdie. I hope you enjoy yourself.
thanks 😊 i hope so too lol
You’re nothing but a lump of dry mouth and regret the next morning when the cheerful little buzz of your phone draws you out from under the downy refuge of your blankets. Your curtains are pulled tight, though a bit of the late morning sunshine still manages to spill through the gaps around the window frame, and you frown at it venomously as though your stare could will the light to dampen itself in spite of the idyllic weather.
Dragging the brightness of your phone screen all the way down, you open your notifications with a grumble.
How do you fare this morning?
[Attached: GIF]
Haha! That well? Not the pleasant evening you were hoping for, little bird?
date was boring
he was so boring
drank too much trying to make it fun
Ah, I see. In my experience, a good breakfast and an electrolyte-boosting beverage would do you well.
You glance over at your bedside table where two bottles of pale blue liquid sit, leaving rings of condensation on the painted wood surface. One is half empty, the other still unopened.
doordashed a couple bottles of gatorade. too hungover to make breakfast.
Less than 30 seconds later, another notification appears at the top of your screen.
Venmo: @Ezra-1982 paid you $20 “🍳🥓🥞”
Order yourself the “Farmer’s Combo” from the diner on 35th. Have them add cheddar to the scrambled eggs. You will not regret it.
Ezra.
His name is Ezra.
Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, forcing the fog from your throbbing head, you tap out your reply as quickly as you can manage.
omg you did not have to do that
Perhaps not, but you deserve nothing less after such a lackluster experience.
The unexpected generosity has you melting, as does the sweetness of his words. After the disappointment of your first foray back into the dating world, such kindness from a total stranger was equally surprising and moving. It makes you want to share it all with him, to explain in detail all of the various ways in which the barista had been a terrible choice. His stilted manner, his excessive fondness for vodka Redbulls, his awkward sense of humor…
ugh you can say that again
he sucked so bad e omg
idk why i said yes to him in the first place
His sloppy mouth, his grabby hands, his clumsy fingers, his complete lack of interest in making sure you came…
The way he had completely and utterly failed to keep quiet as he stumbled out the door in the middle of the night.
def should not have brought him home
You pause for a moment, the words of your most recent message staring back at you from your phone screen as though taunting you. The blush rising in your cheeks is enough to make your blankets feel suddenly stifling, and your stomach drops at the realization that E – Ezra, your neighbor, a man you have never met but on whom you are quickly developing a bit of a schoolgirl crush – is going to read it. The two of you have never discussed anything like this before. Even in your little occasional flirtations, there has never been even the suggestion of anything sexual.
This unknown stranger really does not need to know anything about your sex life, you decide.
However, just as you are about to recall the message, you watch in horror as the “delivered” status flips to “read.”
A wave of nerves floods your system, pushing out the last of the grogginess still clouding your mind, and try as you might, you can think of no excuse you could spin, no joke you could tell.
shit was hoping you hadn’t read that yet
Alas, little bird. There is no need to be embarrassed.
sorry idk why i’m trying to gossip w/ you like one of my girlfriends. plz forget i said anything
i don’t wanna make this any weirder
For a handful of long, tense moments, your message remains unanswered. You watch, vaguely nauseous, as the three bouncing dots appear, then disappear, then reappear again. After a breathlessly long time of no typing at all, another notification pops up at the top of your screen.
Venmo: @Ezra-1984 paid you $5 “☕”
Add a latte to your order from the diner. I find that everything looks a bit brighter after a good cup of coffee.
Even a night of disappointing congress.
Your cheeks flare to life once again, the flush reaching from the tips of your ears down your neck to your chest. “Congress,” he called it. What a classy, delicate word for the sweaty, inept fumbling you had experienced last night in this very bed.
Which reminds you. You need to wash your sheets.
💀💀💀
thank you e 🙈💗
[Attached: JPG]
holy shit this food is incredible. it’s bringing me back to life.
also 10/10 recommendation on the eggs and the latte. you’re the best e, thank you
You’re most welcome, little bird. Be gentle with yourself today.
i will 🤗
any chance i could grab you before you go to work tonight? feeling much more human, got your clothes all ready to go by the door
I have underestimated you, birdie. I must stop doing that.
I did not assume you would have any interest in social interaction today given the state you were in this morning. I am already at the bar.
ah ok no worries
i really will get your clothes back to you, e. i promise.
I know you will, sweetheart. I trust you.
You feel a bit crazed as you dig through the drawers of your dresser, rummaging through the neatly folded piles of clothing with such frustrated carelessness that you know you’re going to have to reorganize it all later. It isn’t like you to misplace something like this – you’re meticulous about your clothes, far more so than you are in any other area of your life (except perhaps your work). The idea of anything just up and disappearing from your wardrobe is unheard of.
Perhaps, if it were anything else, it wouldn’t bother you so much. Perhaps, if tomorrow was any other day, you wouldn’t mind choosing something else to wear. But it does, and you do.
You have another date tomorrow night.
Not a repeat of the disastrous liaison with the barista, thank god, but a friend of a friend, someone you encountered occasionally at parties or bars who often offered to buy you drinks and smiled at you a little too long to be strictly friendly. You had never taken his flirtations especially seriously, but after the unmitigated failure that was your last attempt at getting back into the dating scene, your ego admittedly is feeling a bit bruised. It makes you willing to give him a real shot. Even if it winds up being underwhelming, you feel certain that anything would be better than the fucking barista.
Which means that you need those god-forsaken panties.
They’re your favorites – the cheeky, lacy, baby pink pair that stretched over your skin so softly, that framed the globes of your ass so delicately you couldn’t help but feel every inch a woman in them.
Pulling them on over your hips is a one-way ticket to feeling your sexiest, most feminine self, and you can’t imagine going on a first date without them to boost your confidence. And you just washed them – they should be right at the top of the pile, nestled precisely in your top dresser drawer, exactly where they belong. And yet…they aren’t.
Collapsing onto your bed in an aggravated heap, you tug your phone out of the pocket of your lounge shorts. Opening your messages, you tap on your conversation with E and fire off a quick text before you can think better of it. The flush that follows arrives not far behind, part of you a bit mortified at what you’re about to ask your faceless neighbor. But you’re desperate, and you know he will help you if he can.
i have a longshot of a question for you
Please, shoot!
did you happen to do laundry last night?
I did, indeed! Why do you ask?
did you use the same washers and dryers you normally do?
I always use the same machines. You’ve got me terribly curious now, little bird. What’s this about?
would you mind checking your dried clothes for me? i seem to be the one missing something this time.
i know the chances of them ending up with you are slim but i had to at least ask lol
Of course, hold on a beat.
A few tense, nerve-wracking minutes pass as you stare at your phone, tapping your foot anxiously, chewing on your lower lip as you wait. You doubt he has them. What would be the chances? Your apartment building has over a hundred units – there was no way with all of the other residents whose faces you had never seen, whose names you did not know, that E had been the one to use the same machines directly after you.
And yet…what if he had?
What if your favorite panties are currently tangled in his laundry basket, all mixed up with his well-loved shirts and shorts and jeans and socks? What if he goes to check for them, and the little flash of baby pink peeks out at him from between the grays and the navys and the olive greens, all feminine and delicate and sweet?
What if this mysterious man, who calls you his “little bird” and who has managed to thoroughly charm you over notes and texts and money for coffee, was about to catch a glimpse of your underwear for the first time, and you’re not even there to see his face when he does?
[Attached: JPG]
You wouldn’t happen to be missing these delicious little things, would you, birdie?
And there they are – draped over a calloused palm, dangling from thick, long, achingly masculine fingers. The blushing pink color of the lacy fabric contrasts stunningly with his tanned skin, and although you wouldn’t describe yourself as being particularly petite, the size of his hand somehow manages to make them look delicate in his grip.
The flush in your cheeks spreads instantly, making your ears burn, your chest feel tight and hot. Low in your abdomen, something stirs, something that had woken a handful of other times before – like when he had called you a “clever girl” or a “cheeky bird.” You had wondered then – what this man looked like, what he sounded like, whether he was as attractive in reality as you pictured him in your mind. Even without seeing his face, you feel now you know with certainty. You don’t have to wonder anymore.
Anyone with hands like that would turn your head. Knowing they were attached to someone who spoke to you like someone out of a regency-era novel is the final straw.
omg e
Am I to take that as a yes?
yeah those are mine 💀🙈
Are you at home, by chance?
You frown, your heartrate picking up as it beats a tattoo against the insides of your ribs.
yeah i’m here. why?
Well, I am clearly in the building, as well. I will be for the rest of the evening. Would you be amenable to coming over? I would happily come to you if you would prefer, but I would understand if you wish for your precise unit number to remain unknown.
Oh, god.
You take a deep, steadying breath and will your hands not to shake at the sudden wave of nerves twisting your belly into knots. He wants to meet you. Finally. And right now.
ok. yeah i’ll come to you if that’s okay
Of course. I’m in apartment 802. Come on over whenever you’re ready.
The frown between your brows deepens. 802? You’re in unit 902. Is it possible…
Has E been directly beneath you this entire time? Is it possible that not only does he share a building with you, but he is your downstairs neighbor?
wait. 802???
…yes?
He is. E – Ezra, your correct yourself (if you’re going to meet the man, you ought to be able to call him by his name) – lives directly below you. At least you know precisely how to get to him, you muse as you type out your response.
ok just making sure. be there in 10.
The next few minutes are spent in a flurry – brushing your teeth, fluffing your hair, refreshing your perfume, and confirming that you haven’t accumulated any unknown stains on your favorite oversized gray t-shirt or your shorts. You contemplate briefly whether you should change your clothes before making your way down to Ezra’s apartment, but ultimately you decide against it. Your lounge clothes are cute, and wouldn’t it be odd, you think, to show up on his doorstep looking like you felt the need to dress up for something when he knows your routine enough by now to know that you wouldn’t be leaving the complex today?
As you tuck your bare feet into your favorite pair of slides, you consider that you might be overthinking things.
It takes you another minute to gather your phone, your keys, and the small stack of his clothes that you are embarrassed to note has started to collect a fine layer of dust. The sight serves as a stark reminder of what this really is, all it has ever really been – a neighbor doing a favor for another neighbor. The return of items lost, even though the loss was weeks ago now. That is all your acquaintance with Ezra really is, at the end of the day. It’s friendly, but it is also impersonal.
These reminders to yourself ring hollow in your mind as you make your way to the stairwell. You don’t believe them, and you can’t help but hope that Ezra won’t, either.
The man that answers the door of apartment 802 looks both exactly like and nothing like you pictured.
He opens the door with confidence, an open and charming smile splitting his face the moment he lays eyes on you. He takes you in with a sweep of his dark, soulful eyes, tanned skin crinkling at their corners as he grins, and nothing could have prepared you for the way your heart begins to race as you do the same. Fuck, he is so handsome. Wild, dark brown hair, shorter on the sides and back than on the top, sticking up every which way with a single shock of blonde directly over his right eye. A prominent, Romanesque nose perched over a pair of full, soft-looking lips. Patchy, scruffy facial hair. A thin, pale scar twisting across his left cheek.
He looks like a creative, like a scoundrel – an artist or an activist or a rebellious academic who refuses to play by the rules. Precisely your type, you think, heat pooling low in your belly.
As you take in his attire, it immediately becomes apparent that the clothes you hold in your hands are an excellent representation of the rest of his wardrobe. He’s barefoot, a pair of navy-blue athletic shorts hanging low and loose on his narrow hips, and the black t-shirt that stretches snugly across his impossibly broad chest is heavily faded with many washes and sports several tiny holes along the seams.
Another hole, this one much larger than the rest, reveals itself as he shifts to rest his arm high against the doorframe. Leaning over you with casual self-assurance, the man tracks the way your gaze immediately darts to his underarm with the move. You can see the thick, dark hair of his armpit through the gap in the fabric, and the strangely intimate sight almost instantly brings a flush to your cheeks.
“Well, now,” he croons, slow and long and with an accent that flusters you even more. “Either you’ve found yourself on the wrong doorstep, or you must be the mysterious little bird that’s been chirping so sweetly in my ear every day for the last month.” He drops his grip on the old brass doorknob and extends his hand to you. It’s the same hand that had been photographed holding your panties mere minutes before – big, broad-palmed, calloused. “Name’s Ezra. What’s yours, birdie?”
You accept the handshake with minimal hesitation, offering him your name in return. “I’m, uh. I’m glad we could finally make this work,” you stammer. “I was kind of starting to feel like I had taken your stuff hostage.”
To that, Ezra chuckles, and the warm rasp of the sound settles itself somewhere beneath your navel. “Your willingness to be so flexible and communicative is deeply appreciated,” he drawls. “I’m sure most people in your position wouldn’t have been so accommodating.”
The earnestness of his words has you feeling almost bashful as you quickly reassure him, “Oh, I didn’t mind, really. You were the one who had to go without your stuff for this long. It was the least I could do.”
“See, that is precisely what I mean. Sweet as sugar and twice as lovely.” The man winks, offering you another charismatic smile, and you can’t smother the flustered chuckle that bubbles up in your chest.
There is a moment then when the two of you stand in silence – just the span of a heartbeat where you look at each other through the archway of his apartment door, him inside, you outside, each of you sizing up the other, quietly putting a face to all of the little pleasantries you’ve exchanged over the past weeks. That moment stretches, becomes two, and you watch as something akin to a blush, the first vulnerability he has displayed thus far, blooms across the tips of his ears.
Just before the quiet begins to edge into awkwardness, Ezra claps his hands and steps back away from the doorframe, sweeping his arms in a wide, beckoning gesture.
“Well, let us not delay any longer, shall we?” he says brightly. “Come, birdie, step inside, and I’ll retrieve your own garments which have gone astray.”
You hesitate only a moment before accepting his invitation, and as you cross the threshold, he closes the door behind you. You think that perhaps the sound of the knob catching in its place ought to make you nervous – after all, you have never really met this man before today and now here you are, alone with him in his home. But instead, the way your pulse picks up speed feels more like anticipation than fear.
As you hover in the narrow entryway, you notice that the floorplan of his unit is perfectly identical to yours. The open kitchen, the modest living room, the short hallway down which you knew you would find a single bedroom and bathroom. You’ve never been inside another unit in this building before, and it feels almost surreal as you take in a space that bears so many resemblances to your own while still very clearly being inhabited by someone else.
Ezra seems oblivious to your observations. Instead, he is all business as he retreats without preamble down the hallway toward his bedroom. You stare after him, confused for an instant as to why he would just leave you alone, but then you realize –
Your panties are in his bedroom.
Trying desperately to distract yourself from that brain-melting thought, you allow yourself to glance around the place. Your first impression is of the almost overwhelming number of plants that take up the living space. You recognize a few – snake plants and ZZ plants in mismatched pots on every available flat surface, spider plants and pothos dangling from macrame hangers in front of the windows, a lush monstera taking up most of the western corner, a fiddle-leaf fig standing sentinel by the sliding glass door. The rest you couldn’t even begin to guess at, but the overall effect is one of a vibrant oasis of greenery, and you can’t help but be impressed.
“Wow, you have so many plants!” you gasp, wandering deeper into the apartment as you marvel at your surroundings.
Ezra’s voice is muffled as he replies from the bedroom, “Indeed. This side of the building gets such abundant sunshine during the day, but I don’t often have the opportunity to enjoy it. It somehow feels less wasteful to know that another living thing is reaping the benefits.”
“Huh. Never thought about it like that.” You feel a charmed smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe I should get a few.”
His decorating taste is clearly eclectic, almost every item found in the dusty labyrinth of a thrift store or at an estate sale. There’s a vintage sofa in burnt orange corduroy that has plainly seen better days, a cracked leather armchair that looks like it once belonged in the study of some wealthy professor, and an overflowing bookshelf stuffed to the brim with books of all sizes and levels of wear. Butted up against the kitchen island is a little 1960s dining table with a single chair, the surface of which is littered with several abandoned, half-drunk cups of coffee. You also can’t help but smirk as you notice the chunky green ashtray on the coffee table in the very center of the living room with a partially-smoked joint resting in the middle.
“It’s quite a rewarding past time. I would encourage anyone with the time and the interest to try their hand at plant guardianship.” He emerges from the bedroom as he speaks, the smallest scrap of pale pink lace visible in the clench of his right fist. “Does your dwelling get light such as this?” he asks, gesturing at the tall windows, the sliding door leading out onto the balcony, the streaming sunlight painting the room a pale gold.
The question jerks you back to the present, reminds you why you’re here and of the strange coincidence you had discovered just before coming down to meet him.
“Actually… You know, it’s funny. Mine is almost exactly the same.”
Ezra quirks a dark, prominent brow at you, his expression pleasantly interested. “Is that so?”
“It’s, uh. Actually why I wanted to verify your unit number.” You rub the back of your neck, suddenly feeling strangely self-conscious. “I’m in 902.”
The man goes still at your confession, and the look of intrigue on his face shifts to a frown. He’s quiet for a moment, pursing his lips, before echoing, “…902?”
You nod. “Yeah. I’m directly above you.” Pointing to the white, spackled surface over your heads, you add, “My floor is your ceiling.”
A pause, and then a slow, creeping grin spreads across his roguish face, warping the thin white scar across his cheek. His dark eyes shine with something like awe as he murmurs, “Fascinating.”
“I know! What are the chances, right?”
“You are the unfortunate neighbor who has such abysmal luck with men.”
All good humor leaves your body then, and you find yourself blinking dumbly back him. His unexpected words hang in the air for a moment, and as you take a deep breath, you manage to stammer, “…What?”
Ezra’s grin transforms into something closer to a smirk, a knowing gleam darkening his gaze. “There was a man a while back, a frequent visitor. I could hear the weight of his footsteps often.” With slow, even steps, he approaches you, closing the distance between you with every word he drawls. “And sometimes, on the weekends, I would be woken from my sleep during the day to the sound of your bedframe squeaking and scraping across the floor, directly above me. You put on quite the performance for him, all those little cries and moans.” His words have the gentle flush you’ve worn since he opened the door flaring to life once again, and you fight the urge to cover your cheeks with your palms, to hide your eyes from his.
“Did he ever figure out that they were all fabricated?” he rasps, leaning into your space as he comes to stand before you. He whispers the question like something asked in the strictest confidence, like the two of you are gossiping together over a bottle of wine or a pot of tea. It’s ingratiating as much as it is humiliating, and the casual intimacy is enough to have your stomach clenching in your abdomen.
“I-I don’t know what you mean.” Your words lack conviction even to your own ears. You have never been a skilled liar, but this attempt is truly abysmal.
Deep wrinkles form between Ezra’s brows as he frowns at you, his tone taking on the soft timbre of reproach. “Oh, come now, little bird. I know the difference between manufactured pleasure and the real thing. Now, the unfortunate boy you drunkenly brought back to your domicile a few nights ago, the one that you said, and I quote, ‘sucked so bad.’ You didn’t even attempt such a performance for him, though if I recall, he was rather loud.” He looks you up and down, that perceptive gaze tracing from the top for your head to the tips of your toes and back again. “And it’s no wonder you did not find your rapture with him, birdie, he lacked all sense of rhythm.”
Involuntarily, you are thrown back to that regrettable night – the awkward barista’s sharp, angular body hovering over you, his too-wet kisses, his grabby, wandering hands, his irregular thrusts, the barely-lukewarm interest all of it inspired…
You do cover your cheeks then, spinning on your heel to break his all-too-discerning stare. “Oh…my god.”
But Ezra is undeterred. He continues, “When we conversed the next morning, I did think it an odd coincidence that you should describe such an underwhelming night when I knew for certain my upstairs neighbor had had much the same experience. Imagine my surprise to learn that it was not a coincidence at all.”
Swallowing thickly, you shake your head, as though the motion might erase the last few moments and somehow bring you back to a time when you did not know that this man – your neighbor, your friend, the person you have been casually crushing on in spite of never having seen him before today – has not only been hearing you have sex for the last several months but also has known all this time that it was bad sex. Somehow that little detail makes it all the more appalling, though you aren’t certain you could explain how.
“This is mortifying,” you mutter, almost to yourself, the words coming out smothered and strange as you slip your fingers over your eyes, palms pressing against your mouth.
Before you manage to disappear into yourself, however, a large, warm, calloused hand wraps itself around one of your wrists and draws your hand away from your face.
“Nonsense, birdie, nothing at all to be embarrassed about.” His voice is low and gentle as he bids you to look at him. “If anyone ought to feel any humiliation in this scenario, it ought to be those incompetent fools granted the unparalleled privilege of getting the share the bed of a kind, intelligent, and heart-stoppingly beautiful young woman such as yourself.”
Your brows draw upward in surprise, and you drop both your hands, thoroughly disarmed and taken aback by his words. “T-Thank you, E. You’re sweet.”
Shifting on his feet, the man inches just that little bit closer to you, enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him, enough that you’re overwhelmed by the scent of him. Something woodsy and green, deep and fresh and colored with an inescapable undertone of sweat. You think it ought to be repellant, being this close to a strange man who undeniably smells like he didn’t bother to put any deodorant on this morning, but instead, it just makes you feel a little weak in the knees.
Ezra smells like a man, like a sweaty man in the middle of a dense, evergreen forest, and it makes some primal part of you, deep inside, ache and throb and want.
You startle softly as he gently takes ahold of your chin between his thumb and forefinger, the touch pulling you out of your reverie and forcing you to meet his eyes. God, his skin is so warm, his dark brown eyes so beautiful and earnest. You couldn’t look away even if you wanted to.
“Far as I can tell,” he croons, his accent elongating and softening his words in a way that has your heartbeat stuttering, “it’s been a tragically long time since you were properly satisfied. And that’s just a cryin’ shame.”
With the most delicate pressure, he slowly, tenderly tugs your chin forward and upward. You can feel his breath on your cheek, on your lips, hot and damp and smelling of spearmint. The sensation has your eyelids flagging, your mouth parting. He’s so close now, a hairsbreadth away. You wonder what his stubble will feel like, whether it will leave friction burns on the tender skin of your jaw.
You’ve never slept with a man with facial hair before, you think to yourself. Would he leave those same burns under your breasts, on the insides of your thighs, too?
The moment the thought crosses your mind, you rip yourself out of his grip with a gasp, practically throwing yourself backward and colliding with the edge of the coffee table. The edge catches against the backs of your calves, and you stumble, rattling the ash tray and sending the half-smoked joint rolling across the table.
“Birdie! Are you – ”
You brush off his concern, retreat to the kitchen in a flurry of excuses.
You don’t know this man, you remind yourself, willing your heartbeat to stop racing, the space between your thighs to stop throbbing. Prior to five minutes ago, you had never even seen his face, and you were about to kiss him? And not only that, but you’re already thinking about fucking him?
Sure, the E you knew was kind. Intelligent, well-mannered, thoughtful. Wickedly funny. All things you looked for in a potential partner. But was all of that real? Was this man – Ezra – the same man you thought you knew?
He follows you into the kitchen, handsome face pinched with contrition, dark eyes wide and shining. “I apologize if I – ”
But you do not let him finish. Instead, you gather up the little pile of clothes you had brought for him and thrust them in his direction. “Here – your clothes,” you say hurriedly, avoiding his eyes. “All the socks, the undershirt, and the shorts. So if I could just get my – ”
This time, it is Ezra who cuts you off. “Your lacy little unmentionables?”
He opens his fist, and you watch as your favorite pair of panties tumbles from his grip and dangles tantalizingly in mid-air, his thick index finger threaded through the gusset.
Abandoning his stack of laundry on the kitchen counter, you lunge for them, but he sees you coming a mile away. He yanks them out of your reach before your fingers can close around them, like a child on the playground teasing another with a coveted toy, and you stare at him incredulously.
“Ah, ah,” he tsks, his smile placid, almost smug as he watches your frustration and embarrassment grow. “You know, until I saw you on my doorstep, I wasn’t certain, but now that you’re here, I’m afraid there’s one more thing I’m going to need if you want these delightful delicates back.”
Unsure whether to blame your pounding pulse on anger, humiliation, or arousal, you can do nothing but blink back at him. “What?”
“Your shirt,” he specifies, gesturing to the oversized gray t-shirt currently draped over your frame. “Or, perhaps more accurately, my shirt.”
“This is my shirt,” you snap venomously. You are certain now – it’s anger. It has to be. The audacity of this man –
But Ezra is unperturbed, unmoved by your vitriol. His tone is calm and matter-of-fact as he replies, “No, little bird, it’s mine. Lost about the same time as the rest of articles you recovered from the laundry facility.”
You shake your head in confusion. “But…you never mentioned – in your notes, you always just said – ”
“I know, that it is true, but I was mistaken.” He glances down at the pair of underwear in his hand, allowing the intricate fabric to slip between his fingers and pool in his palm as he speaks. “You see, the shirt you’re wearing is not one I reached for often. It’s even older than those shorts you’ve been looking after for me. It took me well over a week to notice that it had disappeared from my wardrobe, as well.” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark lashes lowering as he studies you. “By that time, you had already established which of my items you had in your possession. It never occurred to me to ask if you had the shirt, as well.”
Your jaw works, mouth opening and closing as you struggle with how to respond. You think back to the day you found this shirt, tangled up in one of your bath towels fresh from the dryer, the same day you had found the sweat-stained undershirt. You couldn’t believe your luck, couldn’t believe the soft, perfectly-aged flawlessness of it – the way it had caressed your skin, the way it draped so effortlessly over your shoulders and skimmed your curves so delicately. It had never once occurred to you that this shirt might have been owned by the same person as the undershirt that had clearly seen better days.
“But… This is my favorite shirt,” you murmur despondently, all the fight leaving you as you run your fingertips over the hem.
Ezra’s gaze follows your touch, tracing across the edge of the shirt with an almost feverish gleam. “I can see why,” he rasps, his tongue coming out to wet his plush lower lip. “It is…enchanting on you. But I really must insist. You see, if I allow you to keep it, I will be plagued for the rest of my days by thoughts of you in this shirt – my shirt. And it will surely drive me mad.”
Your eyes snap to his, and for the first time, you feel as though you are able to glimpse a sliver of the man beneath the fanciful language and the slovenly clothes and the cluttered, eclectic apartment. Ezra has an edge to him, a ferocity he keeps well-hidden, but as he allows himself to take you in, you can see it – something animalistic, something raw and ragged and hungry. You watch as his hand clenches tightly around your panties, his thumb rubbing possessively over the little satin bow on the front, and all at once, the anger and embarrassment warring in your chest falls away, leaving only burning need in its wake.
You had never felt anything like this – this crackling electricity, this smoldering desire – with your ex. And certainly never with that worthless barista. This feels primal, a dangerous compliment to the silliness of the swooning, blushing infatuation you had felt for him before today.
How were you supposed to stand strong, to not give in to him when you had fascination, affection, and lust all working against you?
Did it really matter that you had never seen his face until this afternoon?
You’re certain that your conflict must be showing on your face because Ezra looks ready to charge across the kitchen and throw you up onto the kitchen counter at a single word from you. He’s twitchy and eager, his fingers spasming down by his sides, his fist clenching around your panties so hard you can see his knuckles turning pale.
“Come on now, birdie,” he urges, the stretch of silence almost seeming to cause him physical pain. “Have mercy on an old man and hand it over.”
His words have you swallowing thickly, a wave of heat flooding your chest and spreading to the apex of your thighs. You shift on your feet, pressing your thighs together in an unconscious search for friction, but he spots it – of course, he does. You watch as a muscle in his jaw jumps at the sight, his nostrils flaring as though to catch a whiff of your scent, and god, there’s that animal again – that feral savagery that you never would have known he possessed if you hadn’t coaxed it out of him. He’s beautiful like this, you think, just on the ragged edge of his self-control; it is that look that has you crossing your arms over your chest and drawing your t-shirt up and over your head.
The man blinks heavily, releasing a long, shuddering breath as you hold the shirt out to him by its collar. You dangle it from your fingertips, just as he had your panties, and he looks on with burning eyes as you let it drop to the floor in a puddle of gray cotton.
“Gods above, girl, look at you.”
You have no more words to describe the look on Ezra’s face. He looks enraptured, like a man in thrall, and you resist the urge to cover yourself. Your plain cotton bralette is easily one of the least glamorous underthings in your collection, but with the way he drinks in your figure, you would think that you had just revealed the most intricate, salacious piece of lingerie the man had ever seen. It makes you feel beautiful, powerful, and in control for the first time since you stepped through his door.
“Happy now?” you ask, your voice coming out weaker, breathier than you had intended. Your words are confident, almost taunting, but your tone betrays that you are just as affected by this game you’re playing as he is.
The smallest hint of a smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “I am, indeed. And yet now I fear I will find myself plagued by thoughts of another subject but a…similar flavor.”
With one last sweep of his gaze, the look like a caress as it trails across your body, he takes a step forward, then another, then another. When he finally stands no more than a handful of inches from you, he crouches down and scoops the abandoned shirt off the tiled kitchen floor. Heart in your throat, pulse in your pussy, you watch as he slowly rises back to his full height, brings the shirt to his face, and inhales.
“Goddammit,” he growls, eyes falling shut as he breathes in the soft fabric. “Smell so sweet, little bird. And it’s still warm.”
Your stomach bottoms out at that, the desperation in his voice like a drug that has your knees weakening beneath you. You’re so wet now; you can feel it slicking your panties, dampening your little cotton shorts.
“Ezra.” It spills softly from your mouth like a plea, unbidden and unashamed, and he nods slowly, eyes still closed, as though drinking in the sound of your need like water.
“I do so enjoy the sound of my name on your lips,” he admits. He makes no attempt to hide his own hunger anymore, and it calls to the one in you, stoked so confidently and carefully by his words. “Would you like me to see if I can make you say it again?”
Ezra kisses like a man starved. You’ve never experienced a need like his, the heat and the urgency of it a physical thing, dragging its silvered claws along your nerve endings, leaving you with no choice but to melt into him as he ravages your mouth. Desperation drips from his tongue past your lips, radiates from his hands into the very marrow of your bones. There’s something almost unhinged in the way he grips back of your neck, the way he runs his fingers through your hair, the way he eats at your mouth with a decadence that has you whimpering. It’s terrifying and thrilling in equal measure – that he could have such an effect on you so immediately.
He had lamented how long it had been since you had been “properly satisfied.” From the way he touches you, you wonder if he ever has.
“Gods, birdie,” he groans, dragging his mouth across the edge of your jaw to your ear, catching the soft little lobe between his teeth. “The sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. What divinity is responsible for bringing you to my doorstep?”
You can do nothing but sigh in reply, the heat of his breath on your neck sending sparkling shivers down your spine. You cling to him tighter, dig your nails into the cotton of his T-shirt, and he groans at the dull bite of them embedding themselves in the ropey muscles of his shoulders.
“Hnng – the delicate little bird has claws.” He drops both hands to your ass with a smack, each one taking a broad palmful of your cheeks, and grips you so hard you can feel your pussy lips start to spread with them. Your face burns as you realize that he almost certainly can feel your heat on his fingertips – he’s mere inches from the core of you, the only thing separating his touch from your cunt the thin, damp layers of your shorts and panties.
“You should know…” he murmurs into the soft, vulnerable patch of skin behind your ear. “I am going to wring every. last. ounce. of pleasure out of you. I want to savor every drop of it. And if you even think about attempting to placate me with one of those fake little cries I know you favor, I can assure you, I will know, and I will not stand for it. Do you understand?”
You nod, sliding your fingers up into his dark, unruly hair. “Yes. Yes, I understand.”
The scruff of his beard scrapes along your neck as he grins. “Atta girl. Now. Hold on tight.” And with little warning, Ezra slips his hands down to the underside of your ass cheeks and lifts you into the air. You let out a little yelp, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct alone, and the hum of his laughter sings in your veins as he carries you to the bedroom.
“There she is. That’s what you needed, isn’t it?”
“Ezra…!”
“Fuck, sweet girl, I know. Keep on grinding for me. Keep going ‘til I say so.”
He has you on his lap, knees on either side of his hips as you straddle him in the center of his bed. His torso is propped up on an abundant pile of pillows stacked artlessly against the wall behind him, and his hands haven’t left your tits in countless minutes. He has no headboard, you notice absently, just a thin photo-realistic tapestry depicting a moss-covered forest hanging at the head of the bed, but as off-putting as you would find that under normal circumstances, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Feels so good,” you whimper, head thrown back, eyes drifting shut, hips working, working, working over the sizeable bulge pressing insistently against your cunt through the fabric of your clothes. He’s so hard beneath you, and his hands – his broad, thick, calloused hands – are performing magic on your nipples.
He had long since pulled down the flimsy cups of your bralette, allowing the soft swell of your breasts to spill over the tops, and after drawing the tips of them into achingly hard points with his tongue, he has contented himself with endlessly rubbing, pinching, and tugging at them while you grind against him. The constant stimulation is driving you insane – every caress of his thumb is like a crackling arm of lightning arcing down your nerve endings to your slick, swollen clit, and every thrust of your hips has the leaking head of his cock catching on that clit, and god damn, you’ve never come just from dry humping before, but you feel dangerously close to doing so right here in this near-stranger’s bed, all over his lap.
And Ezra knows it, too. With a smug, filthy smirk, he nods slowly, encouragingly. “Yeah, it does. Can feel you soaking me through my shorts.”
You pant, leaning back to brace your palms on his knees behind you, shifting your angle, seeking more of his hardness. The moan that leaves your mouth as you find the perfect position would be embarrassing if you weren’t so far gone. As it is, it barely even registers. “Oh my god, oh my god – ”
Your neighbor shakes his head, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he traps each of your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and squeezes, making your hips judder. “No god here, baby. Goddess, maybe. Never seen anything that made me believe in the almighty quite so much as you.”
His praise sends a wave of heat through you, and you can feel sweat starting to bloom along your hairline, under your breasts, in the creases of your thighs. Fuck, your legs are burning, your hips are sore from being spread so wide over him, and god, why won’t he just fuck you already?!
“Ezra, please – ”
“You can come like this, birdie.” His voice is low, strained and rasping but somehow steady. “Come just like this, and then I’m all yours.”
And he’s right – it doesn’t take much longer for it all to become just too much. His torturous attentions on your tits, the low, rich, rasping drawl of his encouragements, the impossibly hard and thick length of him pressing so perfectly against your dripping pussy – all of it stokes the flames in your belly, winds that coil deep inside. In the end, all it takes the wet drag of his tongue against your neck and a whispered “let go, little bird, I got you” in your ear, and you are gone.
Ezra’s hand comes up to cup the side of your face as you come down, his thumb stroking your cheek with surprising tenderness as you whimper and sigh and shake under his grip. “There she is,” he croons, all gentle warmth. “How’d that feel?”
All you can manage in reply is a weak nod. You list forward, seeking his mouth with your own, and you feel him grin into the kiss as you slot your lips against his.
“Fuck, E, please?” you murmur, fingers finding the short, wild strands of hair at the base of his skull and tugging gently.
“Please?” He echoes the word into your mouth, his breath hot on your face as he traces the tip of his prominent nose along yours. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide, but they shine with good humor just the same. “Please what, baby?”
“Fuck me.” You sound petulant, demanding, almost childlike to your own ears.
With a warm chuckle, his slick tongue darts out to flick playfully at the seam of your open, panting mouth. “Soon. Very soon.”
“I dare not admit to how many times I thought about this. It would surely ruin your good opinion of me.”
You can barely string together enough brain cells to process Ezra’s words, let alone form a coherent response.
You’ve shed the remainder of your clothes, as has he, and you’ve traded places now – your reclined torso supported by the pile of pillows against the wall while your neighbor kneels on the mattress between your spread legs. He pumps his cock – even thicker than you had guessed, flushed ruddy and dripping pearls of precum – with one hand, while the other busies itself between your legs. The stretch of his first two fingers is incredible, the gentle, focused swirl of his thumb on your clit only adding to the sensation. It’s so delicious you can’t keep still, your hips grinding and thrusting to meet his touch.
Eyes fluttering with overwhelm, weak little moans dropping from your open mouth, you stammer, “Y-You thought about this?”
He nods, that blonde shock of hair over his right eye bobbing with the motion. “I did, indeed. Couldn’t help myself, gods forgive me.” His dark, burning gaze remains focused on your cunt, intent on not missing a moment of the way his fingers glisten with your wetness. The intensity of that stare makes you tremble. “From that very first missive I found in the laundry facility. That…precious pink stationary, with the strawberries around the outside. It smelled sweet. Damn near drove myself mad thinking about it.”
Fuck, his fingers – they keep dragging against something inside you – something along the front wall of your pussy, something you know exists but have never found a partner who was interested in seeking it out. The feeling is foreign but completely spine-melting, a pleasure so deep and round and full that you can barely keep your eyes from slipping shut.
“I wondered what you might look like, what you might sound like. I wondered if you got as much satisfaction from our correspondence as I did. I wondered whether you enjoyed it when I dared to flirt, even if it was just a little bit.” His gaze flicks up to yours briefly, his hand still working his cock, his fingers still buried in your wetness. “Did you, little bird? Did you like when I flirted with you?”
You nod, blinking heavily as you try to hold his eye contact. “Yes,” you sigh, the sound coming out high-pitched and whining. “I did, I liked it.”
“And what about now? Do you like this? Do you like how I toy with your captivating little cunt?”
You moan and nod again. “I do, yes, E, fuck.”
The desperation in your voice makes Ezra smile. “She’s so pretty, sweetheart. So soft and juicy, spilling down my fingers like a ripe little peach in the middle of summer.” He pulls his fingers from you then, and you yelp in protest, your hands flying to his wrist to try to drag him back inside you. But he brushes off your grip like a harmless pest. Instead, he sticks out his tongue and drags his pointer and middle finger across it, leaving a trail of your milky slickness across his tastebuds. “Sticky. Sweet. Rich,” he groans, eyelids dropping closed, losing himself in the taste of you for a moment. “Full to bursting.”
He seems to remember himself, to finally hear your pleas of protest, and it takes him no more than half a beat to slip his fingers back inside you once again. “I want one more moment of ecstasy from you, birdie,” he growls, and you feel your deepest muscles clench down around him at the sound. “Let me watch you fall one more time, and then I will give you this cock.”
You nod again, your head bobbling on your neck as weakly as a newborn’s, and the grin he gives you in return in positively filthy.
“Excellent.”
The stroke of his fingers changes then, no more drugging, hypnotic in and out, no more tender swirl around your over-sensitive bundle of nerves. Instead, he starts to press on that soft, spongy, elusive spot deep within you, the pressure strong and insistent. Your back arches at the sensation, your hands flying out to grip onto his bare, freckled shoulders to hold yourself steady, but even the heat of his skin under your fingers isn’t enough to ground you. Instead, all you can do is drop little rhythmic moans synched with the motion of his hand. He jacks his wrist up and down, quick and firm and unrelenting, his fingertips pressing releasing pressing releasing pressing releasing, and slowly, steadily, something begins to build in you.
It’s searing hot and molten, pooling in your abdomen and leaking into your bloodstream. Your chest flushes, then you neck, then your face, and you swear your limbs are going numb as the pressure below your navel ratchets higher and higher.
“Ez-Ezra,” you whine. “That feels – I – ”
Somewhere at the edges of your awareness, you can sense him nodding, can feel the heat of his stare as he watches you. “I know, I know. Don’t fret now. You can give in to it. Feels good to surrender.”
A bolt of adrenaline rushes through you as that pressure morphs, transforms into the sudden, immediate, and desperate need to pee. The feeling mortifies you, and you shy away from it immediately, hips squirming away from his touch as you try not to embarrass yourself in front of this man you just met, but before you can get far, Ezra abandons his grip on his cock and instead uses that hand to push down hard on your lower stomach, holding you in place.
“Ah! Ezra!”
“Don’t fight your rapture, girl,” he rumbles. “Give me all that sweet nectar.”
Your orgasm hits you like a freight train.
It bowls you over, knocking the wind from your lungs, robbing the voice from your throat, and you can’t even manage to cry out as that dam inside you breaks and you flood his hand. Liquid gushes from you with such force that you can hear it hit his forearm, his knees, his bedsheets. He groans deep in his chest, resonant and victorious, but it sounds far away to you, like you’ve dunked your head underwater or filled your ear canals with cotton fluff. You’re so lost to your own ecstasy, you can hardly be bothered to acknowledge him, but still his miraculous fingers fuck you through the throes of it.
As you drift back to awareness, as your eyes blink open, you find that your nails have left deep, blood-red crescents in the tanned skin of his shoulders, and Ezra is gazing at you with something like pride shining in his dark eyes.
Your throat is dry and hoarse as you stutter, “I didn’t know – I’ve never – ”
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, dropping a surprisingly tender kiss to the very tip of your nose. “Lie back now. I’ve got one last trick up my sleeve.”
“Shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.”
He’s so deep inside you now, thick and long and throbbing, and tears are starting to gather at the corners of your eyes from the stretch and the force of him. He has your knees hooked over his shoulders, your hands braced against the bare wall above you to keep your head from bumping into it, and between your legs, Ezra pants and sweats and grinds his teeth as he pounds into you with enough force to rock the bedframe.
“In all my time…on this green earth…never felt anything like you, birdie. What did this old man…ever do…to deserves something so sweet? So…soft. So wet. So fucking…tight, goddammit, sweetheart – ”
From the moment he slipped inside you, he hasn’t shut up. Not that you want him to, but you’ve never had a bed partner be quite so vocal before. You think it might take some getting used to, though if what you’ve experienced with him so far is anything to go off of, you feel confident that it would be worth it for the orgasms alone. This man treats your pleasure like it’s his, like he gets just as much out of watching you fall apart as you do experiencing it. It’s intoxicating, making you want to deliver for him just as badly as he clearly wants to for you.
Your pussy feels swollen and almost achy, your clit throbbing with the paired sensations of pain and pleasure with every grind of his pubic bone against yours. You’re exhausted, your vision hazy, your mouth parched, your hips sore. If he manages to make you come even one more time, you think you might actually pass out.
And yet, you fight to keep your eyelids open, to keep your gaze on him. Your cunt still drools for him in spite of your overwhelm, and you’re gripped with the bone-deep need to stay the course. You want to make him feel as good as he makes you feel. You want to be good for him.
He deserves it, you think. He deserves everything you can offer him and more.
“All those theatrical moans, those high-pitched cries,” he continues, voice dropping to a husky growl as he drags the tip of his nose along the soft, supple skin of your calf. “Where are they now, little bird, eh? Turns out when someone really fucks you right, you go almost totally quiet. Isn’t that so?”
You gasp out a soft, strained, “Mm hm.”
Ezra’s teeth flash as he grins, sweat dripping from his brow, slicking down both blonde and brown hair to the surface of his forehead. “I know, baby. Dick so good, you can’t even make a sound.”
He shifts slightly, bearing the weight of his upper body on one hand instead two as the other delicately brushes your wild hair out of your face. You’re sure you’re a sight, all folded up like this under him, drenched in your own sweat and his, your hair tangled and your eyes fighting not to cross in pleasure.
“Thought about you so many times, birdie. Thought about the girl that made those sounds, too,” he confesses. He’s breathing heavily, his pace never slowing, never stopping. You can feel the flex of his abdomen as he thrusts, can feel the delectable friction of the tip of his cock against your tender G-spot. “What cosmic alignment…what turn of fortune…that you and that girl should be one and the same.”
“E-Ezra. It’s – it’s so – ”
“I know, sweetheart, I know.” His fingertips are so gentle against your cheek, a spine-melting contrast to the rough, powerful, insistent way he pounds into your body. Fuck, his cock is so good – you clench down around him involuntarily, the weight and the girth and the heft of him pressing so perfectly against every swollen, over-worked nerve ending within you. “But I told you – every last drop, remember? And you’ve still got one more to give me. I can feel it.”
On instinct, you shake your head, a whine bubbling up in your throat as your vision starts to blur. “Can’t – it’s too much – ”
“You can.” Ezra’s voice is breathless but firm, leaving no room for negotiation.
“But – ”
He groans your name then, and the sound of it on his lips forces your eyes open once more. “I can feel this precious little pussy clamping down on me. She’s speaking to me, baby. She wants to come, doesn’t she? One more time? She wants to squirt her delicious nectar all over me, I can tell.”
You have no more brain power left to formulate a response. A weak, whining “fuck” is all you can manage.
“It’s all right, little bird.” The wicked smirk on his face is audible in his voice. “You don’t have to say a thing. I can do all the talking for now – you just relax.”
Before long, that pressure returns – that weighty, swollen, urgent sensation low in your abdomen, the one that makes you seize up on instinct, one of your hands flying to his hip as though to push him away. But you are entirely too weak and overwhelmed to have much of an effect. Instead, Ezra just nods knowingly and chuckles.
“Right there? Is that what this pussy needs to give up her treasures?” He holds steady, hitting the exact same spot over and over and over, and you can’t help but whimper through clenched teeth. “Breathe, birdie. Breathe deep and let go.”
You’re too far gone to even consider disobeying.
You do as he says – dropping your jaw, drawing a deep, soothing breath into your lungs, feeling your belly rise with it, feeling your diaphragm stretch, and like magic, all of the resistant tension in your hips and core releases, and you’re coming.
You’re thighs-trembling, neck-straining, hands-clenching, cunt-gushing coming. Your mouth open on a silent scream, you ride the tidal wave with half-awareness, barely hearing Ezra’s babbled praises, barely feeling the vital grip of his fingers around your hips, barely sensing the bloom of warmth deep inside you as he fills you with his cum. The only sensation that breaks through it all is the sharp pinch of his teeth biting into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. But you don’t mind – you think you might actually relish the bruise that is sure to come later.
The world is hazy as you come down – the late afternoon sun streaming through Ezra’s window casts long shadows across the bed, and you notice belatedly that the two of you have cast every single pillow and blanket onto the floor during your tryst. You shiver as the sweat between you begins to cool, and for the first time, you start to feel the sopping wet mess you have made of his fitted sheet as it sticks to you unpleasantly. You hope he has a waterproof mattress cover underneath it – otherwise, he is in for a very expensive steam cleaning bill.
Even in your growing discomfort, however, you cannot bring yourself to move. Every muscle in your body feels wrung out; every joint feels weak and wobbly. And your mind – your mind is blissfully, delightfully blank. You smile faintly, allowing your fingertips to trail leisurely over your chest, your stomach, your hips. You are entirely sated, and it is glorious.
Ezra, for his part, appears to feel the same. He braces himself over you with lax, rounded shoulders, his head hanging loose on his neck, his eyes closed, silent at last. His softening cock still rests inside you, but you don’t mind it – he’s warm, and you’re starting to chill. Not for the first time, you’re struck by how beautiful he is. So much more so than you ever could have imagined when you first responded to that crinkled little note in the laundry room.
When he finally withdraws from you, he lets out a soft, rasping groan, and between your legs, you feel the slick warmth of his cum dripping out of your swollen, sensitive hole. You catch him watching it for a moment, a faint smile lifting the corner of his mouth, before he collapses onto the bed next to you with a sigh.
“Well, birdie,” he quips after a moment of satisfied silence, “I suppose I have some more laundry to do, eh?”
His words surprise a laugh from you, the motion forcing even more of his cum to slip down between your ass cheeks. “Yeah, I think that might be a good idea,” you say with a tired smile, turning on your side to face him. “I can help, if you want.”
His grin broadens, and he shoots you a cheeky, crinkle-eyed wink. “No need, sweetheart. I know how to clean up my own messes.”
It’s hours later when your phone vibrates on your night stand, pulling you from your shallow, restless sleep. The time reads nearly midnight, but you rub the grit from your eyes anyway as you scan the message lighting up the screen.
The next time I fuck you, little bird, you’re wearing those lacy panties.
A delicious thrill trips down your spine at Ezra’s words. Drawing your lower lip between your teeth, you thumb a quick reply.
🤭 on one condition
i want to wear the tshirt too 😜
Oh, you mean MY t-shirt?
no
MY tshirt 😇
summary: after having moved to rome for a fresh new start, you begin to receive letters from an unlikely stranger that you begin to develop feelings for... only to come to the heartbreaking realization that the two of you may never meet.
pairing: marcus acacius x fem!reader
content warnings: angst (with a happy ending), strangers-to-lovers trope (?), mutual pining, mentions of war and death, sorry - i've got a lack of historical ancient roman knowledge but trying my best lol, deviation from the film (lucilla dies before marcus - sorry, wanted marcus to be single / widowed which only fuels his hatred for the emperors), reader has a nickname (rose), excuse my poor attempt at speaking italian, no use of y/n.
word count: 9.4k
a/n: so i'm really stepping out of my comfort zone with this one, but i've been obsessed with marcus a since gladiator 2 came out (and honestly who else hasn't lol). also a bit of a tidbit - my first ever tattoo is with the latin saying ad maiora so i had to fit it into this story hehe. if the characterization seems off or if the historical aspect of ancient rome / dialogue is inaccurate, please bear with me - it's my first ever marcus a fic and first time writing in that time period... anyway, huge thank you to @jolapeno for hosting this "dear-uary" challenge <3. my epistolary is letters and my prompt is here. hope you all enjoyed this!
Finally settled in, you walk out to your small balcony and take a seat. It overlooks the famous Colosseum and despite the sounds of chatter coming from nearby, you have to wonder how this place looked centuries ago. Rome had always been a place you wanted to visit, but never did you think that you’d move here.
You don’t speak the language (yet), and the apartment you moved into was surprisingly affordable given the location. An elderly couple owns the small building and when you had approached them about a vacant apartment listing, they were more than eager to have you move in. It wasn’t at all luxurious–the apartment building. It was very dated, remnants of ancient Rome decorated throughout the building. It almost felt like you were transported back to that time period, given the decoration that filled not only your apartment but the entire building itself.
The couple could speak a little English, asking plenty of questions that a usual landlord wouldn’t ask.
American? Yes, you answered.
Married? No, you replied with a heavy sigh–memories of your last relationship flickering in your mind.
A beautiful girl like you, not married? No, you repeated–now trying to end the conversation in hopes that you don’t have to go into detail why you uprooted your entire life into one suitcase.
You had noticed the way the older woman’s smile drops, can see her eyes softening at the sight of you. It’s almost like she knows, like she can understand why you’re here. She’s the first one to say that you got the apartment–the brief meeting lasting only twenty minutes.
It’s yours, she said.
You had told them you weren’t sure you could afford it, given how close it was to the Colosseum and knowing that it was one of the hottest tourist spots. There’s a lot of foot traffic that surrounds this area and you’d be lucky to have found an apartment this fast.
Whatever you can pay, the husband had chimed in. We will accept.
Then, the woman had touched your arm–gentle, light, almost feather-like and you could have sworn the warmth radiated throughout your entire body. This place, this couple–it felt familiar, it felt like home.
You nodded in agreement and you shook hands with the husband before the woman hugged you gently.
And now, sitting in your new apartment, this didn’t feel real. You still feel like you’re running, like you’re looking over your shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But the sun begins to set, the sky soon turns a shade of orange and you let out a breath that you hadn’t realized you were holding.
A flood of relief washes over you.
You’re safe.
This is your fresh start.
And you remember what the woman had told you when they had given you the keys to your new apartment: Ad Maiora, cara mia, she whispered, eyes staring into your own. A fleeting gaze of understanding. You asked her what that meant and she smiled, patted your hand and answered, Towards greater things, my dear.
After finding luck with your apartment, you doubt that your luck would continue. But now, a month later, you have a steady job at a coffee shop that’s within walking distance and the elderly couple–Giovanni and Antonia–have begun teaching you Italian. Most nights, they invite you to their apartment for dinner where they ask you about your day along with a detailed lesson in learning Italian. Some nights, though, they ask you to teach them English–living so close to a famous tourist area, they encounter plenty of Americans and they believe it’d be good for business if they learned how to speak the language.
Rome starts to feel more like home as the days pass. Giovanni and Antonia have welcomed you with such warmth that they soon find out the reason for you moving here. You told them you left America for a fresh start–having just gotten out of a very toxic relationship and a very meaningless job. You wanted more for yourself and you knew that staying in America was only going to keep you complacent, stagnant.
Antonia had given you a hug at the end of that night–a hug that you had gotten so used to receiving, a hug that you found so much comfort in. They reminded you so much of your grandparents that had raised you–those were the only good memories that you dreamt of, a time where you could be a young girl again, running around in your grandparents’ home.
You feel much freer, more at ease, safe now that you feel fully settled in here. And one day after work, you walk up the two flights of stairs to your apartment and unlock your door. There’s an envelope on the hardwood floor–almost like someone had slipped it underneath your door. There’s no writing on it, no name addressed on it, but you pick it up anyway and notice that it isn’t sealed. You set it on your small rounded table and walk to your kitchen to pour yourself a glass of wine–this is routine for nights when you don’t have dinner with Antonia and Giovanni.
You take a quick sip of your red wine and then move to your bedroom, removing your clothes to change into much more comfortable clothing–shorts and an oversized crewneck, your hair now pulled into a messy bun. You’re barefoot when you walk back into the kitchen to retrieve your wine glass. As you pass the rounded dining table, you notice the envelope. Someone must have had to slide it underneath your door on purpose, right?
You take the envelope and then walk out to your balcony, sitting on one of the seats as you set the glass on the small table. Slowly, you pull the letter out of the envelope and open it, the writing in neat cursive. You shouldn’t be reading it, especially if this was meant for someone else.
Confused but intrigued, you continue to read.
Lucilla died today. I was not there to bid her goodbye. I had given her a promise–that this campaign will be my last. All of Numidia–for the glory of Rome… all for nothing. Writing this journal entry surely is treacherous–I could be punished for it, but what is the point of it all? This is not Rome. This is not the Rome I had promised to fight for.
Lucilla–I am sorry, my lady. I will love you for the rest of my days and cannot wait until we meet again. Your blue eyes, your smile… Your laugh and your voice–I will carry it with me, my love. I will speak with the Senate. I will–I will do what is right, what must be done.
For you. For Rome.
Acacius
You’re unsure of what you just read. Lucilla. Numidia. Acacius. Rome. It almost seems like this is a journal entry–the feel of the paper, the cursive writing. Maybe you shouldn’t have read it, but you’re curious. Something inside you tells you to write back–almost like a tug, a pull that you feel in the pit of your stomach. So, you grab a piece of paper and a pen and begin writing–not in cursive, though.
Dear Acacius,
I’m so very sorry for your loss. I’m not sure there’s anything anyone can say to make things better and I’m not even sure if time helps either… Shit happens. It sucks, and I want to say that life goes on, but it doesn’t. At least not for the person who lives.
I lost my grandparents when I was eighteen–it crushed my entire world and set me on a path that I’m still trying to fix. I know this isn’t the same as losing a wife or a partner and I’m not even sure if I’m making any sense. I just–I know what loss feels like and it fucking sucks.
Anyway, I think this might have been sent to me by accident and I’m sorry that I opened it and read it. It wasn’t my intention. So, I’m just gonna send it back to you–somehow–but… I hope things get better for you, Acacius (really cool name, by the way!).
Best wishes,
A stranger
You fold your letter and place it into the envelope with Acacius’s original piece of paper. You then close the envelope, grab your glass of wine and walk back into your apartment, setting the envelope onto your dining table so that it’s visible for you tomorrow morning to ask Antonia about.
The following morning after getting ready for work, you notice that the envelope is gone. You furrow a brow in confusion, beginning to turn over your entire apartment to find the envelope–contents of your letter along with Acacius’s journal entry inside of it. When you realize that you’re late for work, you decide to call in sick and quickly leave your apartment to descend the stairs to speak with Antonia.
She’s in the community garden, tending to the roses and when she sees you, a bright grin lines her lips. She stands and pulls you into a hug without hesitation.
“Cara mia, no work today?”
You shake your head and ask, “Antonia, there was an envelope in my apartment last night. Do you know who might have slid it under my door?”
“Envelope?” she shakes her head, confusion written across her features. “Like a letter?”
“Well, not really?” you answer. “It seemed like a journal entry. They talked about Lucilla, about Numidia–”
“Lucilla? My dear, she was the daughter of Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius.”
“Wait, that was centuries ago.”
Antonia nods. “And Numidia,” she sighs. “So very tragic.”
“Antonia, who’s Acacius?”
“General Acacius?”
“G–General?”
“Cara mia, cosa sta succedendo?” asks Antonia. My dear, what’s going on?
You shake your head. “Nothing. Um, I’ll have to skip tonight’s dinner with you and Giovanni. Mi dispiace.”
“Cara mia–”
You give her a hug and walk back inside your apartment, determined to find out more about Acacius.
Marcus returns to his chambers, distraught and overcome with grief. His bed–once shared with Lucilla–now remains cold and empty. He can’t bring himself to lie in bed, yearning for his wife who is no longer alive. After Numidia, he was more than ready to return home–returning home meant returning to Lucilla, but when news of her death finally reached him, he no longer found the need to go back to Rome, despite the emperors’ orders.
But Marcus was a man of honor. He would ask Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla for a period of rest from war, to fully grieve the loss of Lucilla. He can’t even think about attending the emperors’ ceremony that’s dedicated to his success in Numidia–how can he when Lucilla is no longer here?
He hears a knock on the door and he walks–barefoot–to open it. He sees a chambermaid on the other side–she has a look of sympathy across her features with a hint of fear.
“G–General,” she mutters. “There is a letter for you.”
“A letter?” he asks, confused.
She nods and extends her hand. Marcus takes the envelope from her and gives her a single nod, dismissing her silently. She turns on her heel and Marcus shuts the door, walking towards the candle that illuminates a small table. He takes a seat, pours himself a cup of wine before he begins to open it. He holds two pieces of a paper–one he’s familiar with and when he opens it, he realizes it’s the journal entry that he had written–and the other, much more smooth, less texture, more white in color. When he opens it, his eyes widen at the writing–all capitalized, not written in cursive.
He reads the first line and realizes that this is a letter to him. He reads it with interest, eyes still slightly widened at the choice of words that he’s not used to.
Shit sucks.
Cool name.
It’s signed A Stranger and he isn’t sure how his journal entry even got into the hands of someone else. He doesn’t have any information aside from the fact that your writing is unusual and the words you use are out of the ordinary.
But, he finds comfort in your letter. He’s known loss before–plenty of his men understand what he’s going through–but somehow talking to a stranger who doesn’t truly know who he is provides a sense of relief. He doesn’t have to be General Acacius in his response to you–he can just be Marcus.
So, he grabs a piece of paper and his quill and begins writing to you.
Dear Stranger,
Thank you for returning my journal entry. I am not sure how that fell into your hands and it is quite alright that you read it. However, for some reason, I feel some relief knowing that I am not alone. Maybe my journal entry was meant to find you… Do you believe in that? In fate?
Anyway, I am sorry for your loss as well. Loss is… Well, it is a part of life but that does not mean that it is pleasant either. I am sure the path that you are on now will lead you to greater things. There is a saying–if you are familiar–Ad Maiora. It means towards greater things.
Also, what do you mean by ‘cool name’? It is quite interesting that my name is associated with some kind of temperature… unless I am misunderstanding.
In any case, you may call me Marcus. If you are comfortable, may I ask what your name is?
I hope this letter finds you well, stranger. And I hope I get to talk to you again.
Best wishes,
Marcus
He re-reads his letter, furrows a brow and sighs. It sounds desperate–a plea to get you to talk to him again because he feels less alone when he’s writing to you. He isn’t sure how this letter will get to you, but he keeps his journal entry and your letter and places his reply back into the envelope.
Marcus spends the better part of his night drinking, having ended up falling asleep at his desk and the envelope magically disappearing by the time he awakes the following morning.
You awake the following morning, having fallen asleep on your couch with your laptop and notebook scattered on the coffee table. You had spent the entire night researching Acacius. Antonia was right–Marcus Acacius was a General for the Roman empire, serving under the rule of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla. Empress Lucilla was his wife, but had died while he was on his way back from Numidia. But all of this–it happened centuries ago. 211 AD. And Acacius ended up dying–right in the center of the Colosseum after he was forced to fight in the arena after the emperors found out his plan of treachery.
There’s no way that the person you had written to the other day was the same man you had researched–he was dead. Surely, you can’t be writing to someone from a different time period and to someone who is no longer alive. Right?
You sit up from your couch and notice the same envelope magically resting on your coffee table. Quickly, you grab it and pull the letter out. Same paper, same writing.
It’s from Acacius.
You read it quickly, a small smile lining your lips and a quiet giggle escaping you. You feel a wave of emotion when you read his reply; it’s obvious this man is clearly still alive but how could it be possible that you’re communicating with someone who lives in an entirely different time period? And how come the envelope is your only string tying you to him?
After you finish reading his letter, you grab your notebook and pen and begin writing your reply.
Dear Marcus,
You can call me Rose. It’s my favorite flower and I grew up helping my grandma with her garden, which was filled with roses.
You’re cute, Marcus. Cool name meaning… You have a nice name. I think that translates the same?
Ironically enough, Ad Maiora is something I’m trying to remind myself when I have tough days. A good friend of mine mentioned it to me when I moved here. It’s been something that keeps me going every day… the hope that I’m moving in the right direction.
And fate… I don’t think I believe in it. We all have free will and everything we do in life is a choice we make… like my choice in getting into a relationship with a really bad man. Would you call that fate?
I like talking to you too… and I feel less alone too. Can I ask a question, by the way? What year is it?
Best wishes,
Rose
You take Marcus’s letter and set it aside, folding your reply and placing it back into the envelope. You’re sure that it’s going to disappear during the night and you hope that you can wake up the next day with a response from Marcus.
Marcus attends his ceremony, dressed in white and gold as he feigns a look of pride, a forced smile when he’s standing in front of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla. It makes his blood boil–the fact that these two young men are parading him around like he’s done something so great, so grand. All he can see is the unnecessary bloodshed, the bodies burning in that pit. All he can feel is the emptiness in his soul–Marcus doesn’t want to be here.
And not once did they give their condolences over the loss of Lucilla. Marcus asks for a respite from this war, but they don’t grant him that luxury. He has a cut along the side of his neck due to Emperor Geta placing a sharp blade along his skin. As soon as the ceremony is over, Marcus retreats to his chamber where the envelope that disappeared that morning magically appears on his desk.
Still in his white and gold attire, he quickly opens the envelope and reads your letter. He lets out a breath of relief as he sits down and reads your words over and over again. It gives him comfort–something he desperately needs right now.
There’s something in the way your words put him at ease. He still has to put Lucilla to rest and he isn’t looking forward to it–that the next time he sees his wife will be in a coffin.
He grabs a piece of paper and begins writing to you.
Dear Rose,
That is a beautiful name and a beautiful flower. There are gardens filled with them here. Now, when I see a rose, I will think of you.
Cute–I have never been called cute before. That is certainly a first, thank you.
I believe in fate, Rose. I believe that everything happens for a reason… But I am sorry to hear that you had to endure a difficult relationship. It pains me to hear that you were mistreated and I surely hope that you are far from him now.
I believe that we have crossed paths for a reason. Maybe we will never know why, but I am surely glad that we did.
You can ask me any question you like and I will be more than happy to answer. It is 211 AD–do you not know the year? Also, I assume that you live in Rome since these letters are coming rather quickly.
The next few days will be… rather difficult. I am planned to bury my wife and I am not sure if I will be available to reply, but if you send me a response… I will do my best to write to you when I can.
I am not looking forward to saying goodbye to Lucilla. She was an amazing woman. She had to sacrifice a lot in her life–she was very brave, strong, resilient… I should have been there at her bedside. I should have held her hand when she took her last breath…
I failed Lucilla.
What kind of man does that make me?
If you choose to never respond after this letter, I understand. I just–there’s something in the way your words bring me comfort, puts me at ease, gives me a sense of relief…
Anyway, I must go now. Until we speak again, Rose.
Best wishes,
Marcus
He folds his letter and puts it back in the envelope, ensuring this time that he passes it along to the chambermaid.
Later that night, you come home after having spent dinner with Antonia and Giovanni. You’re welcomed with the sight of the envelope sitting neatly on your dining table. You set your things down immediately and grab the envelope, taking the letter out and sitting down on the couch.
Your heart breaks slowly as you read Marcus’s letter. You can feel his guilt through the words on the page and when he confirms the year he’s living in, it all but crushes you. This is a man that you’re slowly developing a friendship with and you know that it isn’t going to last long.
As you continue to read his letter, you feel tears sting your eyes. So, you don’t hesitate to begin writing your response back to him.
Dear Marcus,
With you, I’m starting to believe in fate. Would you believe me if I said the year I live in is 2025? I’m not sure how to explain how we’re able to exchange letters from different time periods, but… here we are. It’s possible. I just don’t have an explanation for it.
I can assure you that I am no longer in a relationship with that man and I am very much far from him. I moved to Rome about a month ago and I love it here. I can see the Colosseum from my balcony.
I’m sorry that the next few days will be difficult. I can’t imagine the pain that you’re feeling–losing the one person you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with. Lucilla sounded like a great woman, Marcus. I know saying sorry doesn’t change anything, but I don’t know if there’s even anything I can say to make things better.
I’m sure Lucilla knew… I’m sure she knew that you did your best to get to her. I’m sure she knew that you wanted to be there with her…
And you know, maybe you don’t have to say goodbye. The ones we love don’t ever really leave us, do they? We continue living to keep their memory alive.
You didn’t fail, Marcus. Sometimes, things happen out of our control. Not being there for her at the end isn’t a reflection of who you are as a person, or as a husband. I’m willing to bet that if you had it your way, you’d have been there for her. Maybe wherever you were… you wouldn’t have gone if you had a choice.
Finally, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, sorry.
I hope the next few days give you some closure, Marcus, and when you’re ready, I’ll be right here waiting.
Best wishes,
Rose
You take his letter and put it on the pile you’ve collected before you place your reply back into the envelope. You turn your back for a moment to grab a glass of water and when you turn back around, the envelope is gone.
Marcus awakes that morning to the sight of the envelope. He can’t explain how it just vanishes and reappears out of thin air on his desk. He pulls your letter out of the envelope and reads what you have written.
2025? Surely, that’s a lie. There is no way he’s exchanging letters with someone centuries into the future. He has to wonder if this is some sort of joke, if maybe the emperors put someone up to this. As he continues reading though, he feels tears sting his eyes, threatening to spill over. Your words–it provides a sensation of warmth that blossoms in his chest. He wants to believe you, wants to believe that he’s a good man.
Marcus rereads your last sentence repeatedly, commits it to memory as he begins thinking of what he has to do today.
I’ll be right here waiting.
He doesn’t have time at the moment to write you back, so he keeps the envelope and letter separate from each other. He takes one last look at your letter before he leaves his chamber.
The next few days, you’re anticipating a response from Marcus. He did warn you that he wouldn’t write back until he’s able, but you still can’t help the disappointment you feel when the envelope doesn’t appear for the next few days. Antonia and Giovanni notice a change in your demeanor since you’ve been receiving the letters–they notice the excitement in your eyes, a much freer spirit, but you tell them it’s because you’re finally feeling more and more comfortable here in Rome.
You learn more about Marcus through your research and you try to find someone who can explain the phenomenon that you’re experiencing. How is it possible that you’re communicating with a man from a different time period? Sure, there are theories about time travel but that never felt real to you.
At the end of the week, you’re already getting anxious. It’s been four days since Marcus’s letter. You have to wonder what he’s doing, how he’s doing. You know how his life ends, and you have to wonder what would happen if you told him. That would change so many things, right? It would not only change history, but it would ultimately change the trajectory of how the world is now.
On the fifth day, Marcus is exhausted. Saying goodbye to Lucilla had only fueled his anger for the emperors. He has a plan in place and he knows what end he will meet if he gets caught, but at this point, he has nothing else to lose.
After he buries Lucilla, he finds some time to ask around if anyone knew a woman named Rose. When someone would respond with a nod, there’s a flutter of excitement that he feels in the pit of his stomach but he’s left disappointed every time. Every Rose he’s met so far has no idea of the letters and he’s starting to believe that maybe you do live in the future–centuries into the future. It leaves him with an unsettling sensation in his chest, a sad reality that there’s a likely possibility that Marcus will never get to meet you.
Now, he finally has some time alone. So, Marcus sits at his desk, rereads your letter once more before he takes his usual paper and quill out to begin writing a response to you.
Dear Rose,
I am sorry for the delay in my response. The last five days have been very difficult for me, but every time I saw a rose… I thought of you and it brought me a lot of comfort that I did not realize I needed.
I want to express my gratitude to you, Rose. Your last letter–I kept it close to me at all times during the last few days here. Somehow, knowing that you’re waiting for me helped me get through each day… and knowing that I get to write to you again helped me through the difficult moments I endured. Ad Maiora, I suppose. Towards greater things… and I think that greater thing is you.
I buried Lucilla yesterday. She still looked so beautiful, but she looked… peaceful. She endured a lot of hardship in her life and there is some comfort that I feel knowing she’s no longer in pain. She no longer needs to fight… and I believe you are right. The ones we love do not ever leave us. We keep their memory alive and Lucilla will always hold a special place in my heart.
I must be completely honest with you, Rose. I am the General of the Roman army. I have a lot of blood on my hands… all for the glory of Rome, but you are right. If I had a choice, I would have been by Lucilla’s side from the start. I am conflicted… It is difficult to fight for this version of Rome. So much bloodshed, so many lives lost… all for nothing. I should not be writing this–it is certainly punishable, but I am exhausted, Rose.
If you do live in 2025–which does not seem possible–how does Rome look like then? You say you moved to Rome. Are you happy here? I also tried to look for you. Asked around about you, but I did not get anywhere. There isn’t anyone by the name of Rose that knows about these letters. Do you really live in 2025?
Lastly, tell me more about you. I want to spend as much time as I have getting to know you, Rose. I hope that is okay.
Best wishes,
Marcus
He folds his response and places it into the envelope. Right before his eyes, it suddenly vanishes and Marcus is sure that he must be hallucinating. He’s exhausted and hasn’t had much sleep since he’s gotten back, but he has no other explanation for it.
You awake the following morning to see the envelope on your coffee table. Excitement fills your veins and you quickly walk over to the envelope, carefully taking the familiar piece of a paper out. You begin to realize the letters you have begun exchanging with Marcus are becoming longer and longer–it brings a smile to your face and heat rising in your cheeks.
You sit on the couch, pull your legs underneath you and grab the blanket to drape over your lap as you finally read Marcus’s letter. He thought of you–the last five days and he thought of you. When he finally tells you the truth about who he is, you feel a sense of relief. You had been afraid that you’d accidentally let it slip that you know who he is, despite already telling him that you live in the future.
The last sentence in his letter brings you back to reality. You feel the pit in your stomach drop at the realization that this is as far as you’ll ever get with him. Sooner or later, this letters will end but you can’t help the feelings you’ve begun to develop for a man you will never meet.
I want to spend as much time as I have getting to know you, Rose.
It’s almost like he knows what will happen to himself–maybe he knows that the plan he eventually comes up with is a death sentence once the emperors find out.
You know you shouldn’t get attached, but you get your notebook and pen and write back to him anyway.
Dear Marcus,
I must say, it’s such a relief to hear from you. I wish I could have been there for you, with you… supporting you. If I’m being honest, it’s hard to hear that you’re going through a difficult time. Makes me want to go back into time and pull you into a hug. Do you think that’s possible? Time travel?
You sure know how to make a girl feel special, don’t you? You make me blush sometimes with the things you say. Are you sure you’re real? A lot of the men here certainly don’t talk like you do–you can definitely teach them a thing or two.
I'm starting to think our saying is Ad Maiora, isn’t it? Moving to Rome led me toward a greater thing… one after the other, and it finally led me to you. I’d say that’s fate, wouldn’t you?
And General Marcus Acacius–sounds so formal, so official. You must be very important, aren’t you? Like I said, I wish I could pull you into a hug. I hope, at least, knowing that I’m here to listen is enough though. Also, if talking about this is punishable, then maybe we should be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you…
Yes, I live in the year 2025. I’d be surprised if someone lied to you and said they knew about the letters we’ve been exchanging. Rome is… different than what you’re used to. There are no emperors. The colosseum is no longer in use–there aren’t anymore gladiators. I’ll attach a photograph of me and my balcony, maybe it’ll help you believe me.
Well, what do you want to know? I’m an open book, Marcus. Ask away.
Can’t wait to hear from you again. I have missed you.
Love,
Rose
You sign the letter without thinking, but you don’t bother to change it or rewrite it after you realize the word you used. You hope it isn’t too forward or too insensitive. You grab your Polaroid camera and quickly walk out to your balcony. You face the camera to yourself and smile, pressing the button to take the picture. Once it develops, you go back inside and fold your letter. After a few minutes, the Polaroid develops and you look down. It’s a good picture and gives a good view of the colosseum in the background.
Placing the letter and the Polaroid into the envelope, you close it and surprisingly see the envelope disappear.
“So it is real,” you whisper to yourself, a smile lining your lips as you already begin counting down the time before you receive a reply from Marcus.
Later that same night, Marcus sees the envelope on his desk as he gets ready for bed. He sits down instantly at his desk and uses his candle to illuminate your writing.
But he sees the Polaroid and takes it out of the envelope. Marcus lets out a quiet breath when he sees you. He isn’t sure what exactly he’s holding or how this managed to capture a realistic photograph of you but he’s distracted by your beauty to even notice the colosseum in the back. He’s still reeling over Lucilla’s death, but there’s something in the way your smile and your bright eyes somehow puts him at ease.
“My lady,” he mumbles. “Lucilla, if you can hear me, please forgive me. This woman–She is helping me through this, through your loss.” Marcus shuts his eyes, guilt and desire mixing together. Guilt because he’s still dealing with the grief of losing Lucilla, and desire because you are absolutely stunning. Marcus isn’t even surprised–this is exactly how he pictured you when you began exchanging letters with him.
Marcus turns his gaze to your letter, but his eyes flicker to your picture repeatedly. You really do live in the future and you will always be so out of reach.
Then, he sees the word you sign your letter with. A warmth washes over him. His lips curl upwards just slightly and he begins to write.
Dear Rose,
This–This picture, it is you, yes? I cannot explain how something like this exists, so it must be true that you do live in the future. So far into the future.
But you are breathtaking, Rose. Absolutely beautiful. Your smile and your eyes… there’s a kindness and warmth to them. The man you had been in a relationship with before truly did not realize what he had because any man would be lucky to have you.
The colosseum in your photograph–it looks old. If what you say is true, no gladiators and no emperors, then can I ask… is your world a better place than what it is here? I think I will dream of this, of you, of a different life. This is not to say the life I currently have or have led is not great, but a man can still dream, right?
A hug from you sounds very nice. I imagine that I would feel even more at peace with my arms around you. I am not too sure about time travel, but if these letters are any proof of what’s possible, then maybe time traveling is too. Though, if anyone is doing the time traveling, I would rather it be me. I do not want you to be in this time period here, Rose. I do not want you to be around such men because there are bad men here too. Maybe more worse here than there.
If I may be honest… I cannot stop looking at you. I believe I’m going to keep this very close to me from now on. I am sorry that I cannot provide the same type of picture of myself–we do not have this here… but maybe I can think of something else…
An open book, hm? Well, I know your favorite flower. I know that you are starting fresh here in Rome… I suppose I should ask what do you like to do then? If you are living in the future, what is there to do?
I am unsure if you have experienced this yet, but this envelope… it seems to be the reason why we are able to exchange letters. It vanished before my eyes the other day, Rose. I cannot explain how or why that happened, but maybe this is fate. Exchanging letters across time sounds impossible, but for some reason, the Gods wanted us to meet. That sounds like fate to me.
I will wait for your next letter, Rose, and I have missed you too.
Until then.
Love,
Marcus
He quickly folds the piece of paper and gently slides it into the envelope, not bothering to wait for it to disappear because his attention is pulled to your photograph. He brushes his thumb across it gently–wishing you were here.
The following morning, you’re awake far too early but excitement fills your entire body when you see the envelope sitting on your dining table. You make a cup of coffee and open it, having grown accustomed to Marcus’s neat cursive. You can feel the heat rise in your cheeks when he compliments you, can feel the butterflies in your tummy.
I think I will dream of this, of you, of a different life.
You feel your heart tug just a little–the harsh truth that you will never get to meet him becomes more and more real as you continue to exchange letters with him.
He’s seen it too–the envelope disappearing without a trace. You can’t explain how it’s possible and there is a part of you that no longer wants one. Time travel–there isn’t a way that’s possible and even if it was, how would it even work?
You grab your notebook and quickly begin writing to him, setting your cup of coffee down. You lift the cup away from the paper, taking note that it left a coffee-stained circle at the top corner of the page.
Dear Marcus,
You are very sweet… I’m sure there are more pretty women there. I’m just… me.
But Rome… it’s beautiful here. It’s always been a place I wanted to visit. I never did think I would end up moving here and now, I can’t even imagine ever leaving.
Considering your time period, I would say the world now is much better. I think you would like it… it might take some getting used to–it’s so very crowded here, but I think you would like it. I suppose that’s all we will have, isn’t it? Dreaming of a different life… Or maybe I’ll learn how to time travel and bring you here.
I love the beach. I love the water, the sunsets… It’s calming, almost peaceful to me. There’s just something about the sounds of the waves, the feel of the water, the sight of the sky that just puts me at ease. The beach was the one place that I felt like I could get away from everything. It became my safe haven, my safe place…
What about you? General Marcus Acacius–what do you like to do?
I have also seen this envelope just disappear. I don’t have an explanation for it either, but maybe you’re right. Maybe there is a reason why we’re able to communicate across time. Do you think we’ll ever get the chance to meet face to face? You know, if I learn time travel…
Sometimes, when I go to bed, I pray that I dream of you. I think it’s the closest I can get to ever meeting you. I imagine what you would look like, what your voice would sound like… How it would feel like to be in your arms. I would assume I’d feel like how I would if I were at the beach–safe, calm, peaceful.
If by some miracle I’m able to time travel, may I come visit you instead? I think it would be much easier for me to go back in time rather than you come here. Some things might change if you were to leave your time period and come to mine…
Looking forward to your next letter, Marcus.
Love,
Rose
You fold your letter and place it in the envelope, already counting down the hours until you receive Marcus’s reply.
Marcus finally sits at his table after an exhausting day at the colosseum. He doesn’t find the violence entertaining like everyone else. It’s unnecessary and he wants no part of it, but he has to put on a facade for the emperors. He still plans on speaking with the senate, to conjure up a plan to somehow overthrow Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla.
However, he’s conflicted with so many emotions. The grief and loss he feels over Lucilla lingers in his chest, but he feels hopeful–excited whenever he sees the envelope on his desk. If he goes through with his plan and he ends up getting caught, Marcus knows what the consequence will be. He knows that it’s ultimately a death sentence if the emperors find out, but his mind drifts to you whenever he thinks about what his end might be.
His eyes drift to your picture on his desk, a small smile curling his lips. He dreamt of you last night, after he had written his response to you. He dreamt that he was in your world, somehow lying in a bed with you in his arms. It was the first time since losing Lucilla that he had woken up with a feeling of ease–just dreaming about you brought him that sense of peace.
Marcus takes your letter out and reads it with a smile. Once he finishes reading, he begins writing back to you.
Dear Rose,
I dreamt of you last night. The Gods answered me and I dreamt of you. I dreamt that I was in your world, sitting on that balcony in the picture I received from you. I have this image of you–smiling and laughing–ingrained in my mind. It puts me at ease. Talking with you has been my safe haven, I suppose. Things have been difficult here ever since I got back and it’s lonely without Lucilla. I am sorry to bring her up.
These letters have been able to get me through each day. Your picture, too. Lately, I have been dreaming of a different life than the one I am living. I have been a soldier for most of my life, Rose. I do not think there’s a day that has gone by where I have not fought… And it is tiring. The beach sounds like a great place to just get away from it all, I agree. Here, though, I like to go to the gardens. More so now than before. I am usually surrounded by roses and it makes me feel closer to you.
I am ready to retire, Rose. I am ready to spend the rest of my days in quiet–possibly far, far away from Rome. Maybe near a beach, hm? That would certainly be another place where I can be reminded of you.
I will pray to the Gods for a miracle that we get to meet one day. I didn’t think it would be possible to exchange letters with someone from a different time, so maybe being able to meet face to face may not seem so out of reach… I imagine that I would feel safe and calm with you near too.
Your beauty, your words… The way you have made me feel… It all reminds me of Lucilla, but in your own way. I am a man of honor, Rose, and Lucilla will always have a piece of my heart, but… you have become the reason why I am able to get up every morning. I look forward to the next time I see this envelope because it means I get to talk with you.
Maybe tonight, we can meet in each other’s dreams, Rose.
Until then, my lady.
Love,
Marcus
Days turn into weeks and your letters with Marcus become more and more frequent. You’ve tried to teach yourself the theories of time travel, but you’re just as confused as when you first started. The more you talk with Marcus, the more you begin to realize the magnitude of your feelings for him. You try to tell yourself that developing feelings for a man you won’t ever meet–a man who’s already dead–is only going to set you up for heartbreak.
But despite knowing how this might end, you still exchange letters with him anyway.
Marcus is set to meet with the Senate tomorrow and he knows that if he gets caught, it will be his death sentence. There won’t be any way that he will be able to get out of it. He holds onto your letters–and especially your picture–when the days and weeks become more difficult for him. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla require his presence at the colosseum and Marcus finds it increasingly exhausting to sit there and feign interest.
When he gets back to his chambers every day, the envelope is there waiting for him. He reads your letters repeatedly before he can even write a response. The way you talk about your world–it helps him escape his reality. He begins to realize just how deeply he feels for you and it saddens him because despite how strongly he feels, Marcus knows that you two may never get the chance to meet.
Later that night, you see the envelope and feel the excitement rush through you. However, once you open the letter and begin reading the words on the page, you feel your heart drop–tears building at the corners of your eyes. This feels almost like a goodbye…
Dear Rose,
I am set to meet with the Senate tomorrow. In secret. I realize that this might be the last letter I will ever write to you, but I will be praying to the Gods that it won’t be, but if it is… I wanted to write to you one last time.
You have given me hope, have made me feel alive when I had lost everything. Coming back to Rome after Numidia, after losing Lucilla–I could not find the will to live, but then I received your first letter. It was fate. You saved me, Rose. You continue to save me.
I wish I could see you. I wish I could touch you. I wish I could hold you. I know I said in a previous letter that I would want to spend the rest of my days in quiet… but I think that has changed.
If I had it my way, I would spend the rest of my days with you. I imagine what my life would be like with you. I imagine a lot of laughter. I imagine that we would be at the beach or maybe at the garden and we would have plenty of meaningful conversations. I imagine my mornings would be one of my favorite times of the day because I would get to wake up every morning with you by my side.
If this is the last time I get to speak with you, just know that you now also have a piece of my heart, Rose. I will carry your photograph with me forever. I will hold onto the conversations we’ve had and the letters we’ve exchanged.
If I do not make it… please remember that you deserve all of the good things in the world. You deserve to always be happy. You deserve to live your life the way you want. You deserve to be with someone who will cherish the very ground you walk on because you deserve nothing less.
When I sleep tonight, I will dream of you… like I always do, Rose.
Yours forever,
Marcus
You know what he means when he says he’s going to speak with the Senate tomorrow. You’ve read what will happen–after all, you know exactly how history plays out after having researched the history of Ancient Rome and Marcus.
You can feel your heart breaking–the ache in your chest beginning to throb almost painfully. You know how Marcus’s story ends, but you can’t let him go. You had been hesitant before–altering history–but you have to tell him. You may never get to meet him, but you don’t want this to be the end.
Grabbing your notebook, you begin to write your response. Almost fifteen minutes later, you fold it in half and place it inside the envelope, watching it disappear yet again before your eyes.
Marcus awakes that morning with a knot in his stomach–his eyes glance over at your photo before he catches the envelope. He sits up from bed and walks towards his desk, pulling out your letter and reading it carefully.
Dear Marcus,
Don’t. Your last letter feels like a goodbye, and I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to say goodbye, not yet… Not ever. I shouldn’t be telling you this because I’m sure it’s going to alter my own reality, but I don’t care. I don’t want to let you go.
You’re going to get caught. No matter how many times you’ve rehearsed it in your mind, you will be caught. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla will find out and they–they will not take it lightly. They will make you fight in the colosseum and that is where you will die. I know how your story ends and yet, I made a choice to continue exchanging letters with you. I knew that our story would only end in heartbreak, but maybe… Maybe there’s still a chance for us.
I am begging you, Marcus… Please do not do it. Don’t go to the Senate. Just–Just leave Rome. Live the rest of your days in quiet–away from war, away from the bloodshed, away from the emperors. You no longer need to fight and I understand… I understand that you made a promise to Lucilla, to yourself, but I cannot lose you and maybe this makes me selfish, but– You saved me too, Marcus.
I will spend the rest of my days figuring out how to transcend time… to find a way where you and I can finally meet. Fate brought us together, right? We will figure this out. I will figure this out.
This is not the end of your story, Marcus Acacius. Do you understand me? And this certainly isn’t the end of ours. At the end of the day, we still have a choice…
If you decide to still go through with it, then I will understand. I know you are a man of honor, Marcus. And if you do decide that you will go to the Senate tonight, then I hope you know how deeply I feel for you too. I didn’t think I would ever love again, but you… You nestled your way into my heart and made a home there. I go to sleep dreaming of you. When I wake up, you are the first person I think of.
I love you, Marcus.
Yours forever,
Rose
He sits at the edge of his bed, rereading your letter over and over and over again. You know how his story ends and you know exactly what will happen when he goes to meet with the Senate tonight. He should have known that you’d be aware of his history–you live in the future after all.
Marcus isn’t afraid to die–in fact, it’s something that he’s come to terms with a long time ago, but for once, he doesn’t want this to end yet. He doesn’t want to let you go either and maybe, maybe you two will never meet, but he would rather die an old man exchanging letters with you.
He reads the last sentence repeatedly and he can’t help the way the words stir something in him–the butterflies he feels in the pit of his stomach, his heart beating faster–you love him.
Marcus knows what he needs to do now.
The rest of the day seems to drag on–the minutes trickling by ever so slowly. Even at work, you can’t concentrate. Antonia and Giovanni pick up on your distraction, but you reassure them with a fake smile and tell them that you’d just rather spend the night alone.
You know it was selfish to tell Marcus the truth, to practically beg him to stay, but you couldn’t imagine continuing to live your life with the possibility that you could save his life. You had only been exchanging letters with him for a little over a month, but you couldn’t help the feelings that you had begun to develop for him. The way your heart races faster when you see the envelope, or the way your stomach flips when you read his letters.
In your free time, you had been trying to learn how to time travel. It seemed almost impossible, but you didn’t want to quit. You couldn’t explain how you’re able to exchange letters with someone who lives centuries in the past–and if that was possible, then surely it was possible to time travel.
Somehow.
You enter your apartment later that night–you can feel the nerves settle in the pit of your stomach when you slowly open the door. You can hear your heart beating in your ears, heart rate slowly picking up when your eyes scan the dining table.
No letter.
Your stomach drops, so you close the door and then move your gaze to the coffee table.
Nothing.
Tears begin to pool at the corner of your eyes and you realize that Marcus had made his choice. You sit on your couch, bring your legs to your chest and cry into it. The sob builds and builds until you let out a quiet whimper, tears now streaming down your face.
He was gone.
Forever.
A week later and you finally get the courage to go back to work. When at work, you fake a smile–feign happiness, but when you get back home, you cry yourself to sleep.
Antonia and Giovanni leave you dinner at your front door, but you don’t bother to open it. You aren’t hungry–you haven’t had an appetite since Marcus’s last letter. You wonder if he ever received your letter and if he did, did he read it?
And if he did read it, what went through his mind?
And when you admitted that you loved him, did that scare him away?
When you open your front door later that night, you set your things down and begin walking into the living room until you finally see it.
The envelope.
Your heart leaps out of your chest.
You waste no time in opening the envelope, quickly taking out the letter and breathing out a sigh of relief when you see his familiar cursive writing.
Dear Rose,
I am sorry that I have not written back to you. I had a change of plans after your last letter and had to strategically plan how I would be able to execute it.
I am no longer in Rome. You were right–I no longer need to fight. I faked my death–with the help of some trusting men of mine–and am far away from that place.
I am living the rest of my days in the quiet–I now live in a small village where no one is familiar with who I am or what I have done. It is almost like a fresh start–a chance for me to live a different life… a life that I might have chosen from the beginning if I had the choice.
I want to thank you, Rose. For telling me the truth, for warning me. I am much happier now than I have ever been, and I am more than ready to spend the rest of my days with you. Traveling to this village was not easy, but you gave me the strength–like you always do–to keep going.
I love you, Rose. I wanted to tell you that once I was safe–once I was finally settled in. Ad Maiora, right? Towards greater things...
So, my lady, what do you say? Shall we continue our story together and maybe–one day–finally meet?
Yours forever,
Marcus
📧 a max phillips one shot for @jolapeno's dearuary challenge
RATING: Explicit (18+) | WORD COUNT: 2.6k
PAIRING: Max Phillips x f!Reader
PROMPT: A long-distance relationship blossoms through emails, but the tension of being apart grows.
CW: This is pretty goofy, a tiny bit sort of almost angsty, but mostly just silly. Reader uses a fake name.
SUMMARY: When you reply to a bizarre craigslist ad, a stranger on the other side of the country charms his way into your life.
read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs @foxglovenotifs
Hello! Hoping to work out if you’re a weirdo or if the ad you posted here is serious. I could use the money, but would like to pass on being murdered in some random basement or finding out the hard way that this is code for some weird sex thing.
Thanks for reaching out. I can assure you the ad is very serious—unfortunately it is not “some weird sex thing” (sounds a little judgy, if you ask me), and my basement happens to be full up at the moment. And on the other side of the country, if that’s any comfort.
I need the package shipped ASAP. Looking for serious applicants only. Payment will be transferred when tracking information has been shared. Can you confirm you’re interested and available this week? Tomorrow would be best.
Max Phillips
Sales Manager - BB Corporate
Salesman of the Year Award Recipient 2010, 2011, 2012, and 2013
Cool. Tomorrow’s fine with me, I’ve got an appointment in the afternoon but if it’s not too far by bike I can grab the package and mail it in the morning first thing. Can you share the address?
Just a heads up—I will be sending it to my roommate so she can, you know, follow up if I don’t make it home. Your email and ad too. I took screenshots. And I carry mace. For the record.
Dawn
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Tue, Oct 2, 2014 at 7:01 PM
To: Dawn <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Re: Craigslist Ad
[Sent with 1 attachment]
Dawn,
Sorry, got held up in a meeting.
Share whatever information you need to. Smart girl with the mace, though it won’t be necessary. Still, bring it along! Always best to be cautious. However, I am concerned about your “bike.” Surely a car would be much more efficient. The pickup location is a little outside of the hustle and bustle, if you will. It’s very important I receive the package on time.
Perhaps you could scrounge up a more reliable vehicle for the morning?
I’m attaching the address of the pickup location here. Please send confirmation.
Max Phillips
Sales Manager - BB Corporate
Salesman of the Year Award Recipient 2010, 2011, 2012, and 2013
A meeting? If you’re on the other side of the country, isn’t it like… 10PM where you are??
Also, my bike’s just fine, thanks. I can leave early and make it work. Wait - how do I know you’re actually gonna pay me? I feel like I should get half up front as a symbol of, I don’t know, good faith or whatever.
Yeah, actually. I’m gonna need half now. My paypal uses this email address.
Send tracking info when you have it, and I’ll send over the rest. Don’t make me regret it! Oh—I should mention, it’s very important you do not open the package. It’ll be wrapped and addressed, so you just need to pedal it over and make the drop, got it? You can ask for Victor when you pick it up, he’ll be expecting you.
Also, have you ever considered working in sales? I’m always hiring.
Max Phillips
Sales Manager - BB Corporate
Salesman of the Year Award Recipient 2010, 2011, 2012, and 2013
From: Dawn <[email protected]>
Date: Wed, Oct 3, 2014 at 10:04 AM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Sent your weird box
[Sent with 1 attachment]
Max,
You’re lucky I’m strapped for cash. Maybe I should’ve backed out when you insisted I not open the package (super suspicious, by the way!), but I went ahead and cycled 27 miles to, oh, what’s that? A FUCKING CEMETERY.
No, I didn’t open your stupid box, but it was fucking heavy. If I’ve just mailed you someone’s head, I swear to god I’ll find your ass and take yours as reparations. Also, the guy was a total creep. Victor? Whatever. Not gropey, but like, I think I’ll sleep worse knowing I live in the same city as the fucking crypt keeper. So thanks for that!
Here’s your tracking info. I’d like the rest of the money now.
Hmmm… let me think. Two years since you swindled me into cycling in the pouring rain to meet the scariest man I’ve ever seen in my life? If you’re trying to build suspense, you really shouldn’t put the answer in the subject line. Just saying!
But let’s not count our ducks too soon. Victor’s only the scariest man you’ve ever seen in your life so far. Still plenty of time for me to claim the title when you set eyes on me.
You know, you talk a big game for a man who won’t send me a photograph of himself. For all I know you could be gorgeous. Or extremely average. Completely forgettable.
Anyway. Guessing you need another shipment. I’ve got a couple days off this week and can go pick it up. Also, do I get a gift for two years of loyalty? Feel like I oughta get a commemorative mug or something.
It’s for your own good, sweetheart. One photo of me and our professional relationship would go up in flames. Would hate to mess up a good thing.
Re: Gift—I will not be making you a commemorative mug. You know how many of those corporate sends out? Garbage, all of them. Got anything better in mind? A little more exciting?
I wanna know what I ship you every year. Please know that if it turns out to be someone’s head or any other body part, my promise to cut yours off as payback still stands.
Hey, I thought about it some more and I guess I’ve decided that if you were going to stalk and murder me you would’ve done it by now (or you’re playing like… the world’s most boring long game), and it might be nice to put a voice to the name. Maybe you have a cool accent?
aRe you asleep? You better be aslepe. But if youre awake, call me. I like your voice,
Think this guy was rpetty drunk. Maybe high. Tha’ts my bad. HOpe my autocorrect is saving this but I mean it if you’re awake I wanna hear your voice, Okay?
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever received a drunk email before. It’s much better than a drunk phone call - these screenshots will live forever.
Anyway, I’m guessing you’re asleep right now (you better be) but you’re probably gonna feel like shit whenever you get up. I nonetheless expect a full report on my desk of all your debauchery tomorrow. Your coworkers seem rowdy as hell. I don’t know how you get anything done.
Sorry, honey. Tales of my debauchery are far too scandalous to be immortalized in writing. All disclosures must be done in person, off record, so you’re shit out of luck—serves you right for your little screenshots. So mean.
You can pout all you like, Maxwell. You like the sound of my voice and I’ve got cold hard proof. Can’t take it back now!
Okay, but really, that’s gotta be the best email I’ve ever received (you’re competing against newsletters I don’t remember signing up for and updates from my cousins about their ten thousand offspring, but still, the title stands).
And you’ve got a pretty nice voice too, I guess. I can see how you swindle all those unsuspecting civilians into forking over their life savings!
Got plans tonight, but I could call tomorrow if you wanted. You can keep me company while I, gasp!, fold some laundry. Pretty exciting stuff for a Monday, I know.
Har, har. I do have a life, you know, that doesn’t include being your dirt-runner once a year. Shipper? Smuggler? I kind of like smuggler. Sounds dangerous.
I’d like to think you know you’re more than a “dirt smuggler” to me. Aren’t we friends? Three years isn’t nothing, you know. I don’t keep just anyone around.
Jesus, Max. You make it sound like I should be fucking thanking you for talking to me. That feels pretty shitty.
From: Dawn <[email protected]>
Date: Mon, Nov 10, 2017 at 7:47 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Ugh ignore my last email, sorry
Sorry. My night was shit but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I know you were joking. If you still want to call, I wouldn’t mind hearing your voice. And I really do have laundry to fold. I could use someone barking at me to do it.
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Mon, Nov 10, 2017 at 11:08 PM
To: Dawn <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Ugh ignore my last email, sorry
I meant what I said, honey. That guy has no idea how bad he’s missing out, and I’d be happy to pay him a little visit on your behalf. You’d be surprised how intimidating I can be, when the need arises. Very scary.
Don’t be shy, hm? Always happy to boss someone around.
I don’t joke about airfare, honey. Ticket’s real and all yours—we’re long overdue for a little meet-up, don’t you think? Wanna see my smuggler’s pretty face in the flesh.
I’m picturing you in your late 60s, with a beer belly, comb-over, and black teeth. Am I close? Wait - don’t tell me. I want it to be a horrible, hideous surprise.
Thanks, by the way. I don’t really know what to say.
You were a stranger on craigslist!! This is a burner email so I don’t get stalked and chopped up into little pieces when I reply to sketchy ads. I didn’t know we’d end up friends. I never knew how to slip that in casually. My bad.
But you can’t be mad at me on my birthday. So don’t be mad.
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Sun, Jul 22, 2018 at 5:41 PM
To: You
Subject: Visit
Hi. Just got word a company-wide conference has been moved up to next week. Mandatory attendance, blah blah blah. Boring. Turns out they can’t have the boss of the highest earning branch playing hooky. Boo :-(
Can we move your flights to next month? Want to give you my undivided attention—promise I’ll make it up to you.
From: You
Date: Sun, Jul 22, 2018 at 5:43 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Visit
Wait, for real? My flight’s in like… 5 days. I booked the time off work two months ago.
I don’t mind if you’ve got work stuff while I’m there! Sorta figured you’d be working at least part of the time I’m in town - I’m happy to entertain myself. We can just hang out whenever you’re done.
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Sun, Jul 22, 2018 at 5:50 PM
To: You
Subject: Re: Visit
Afraid these conferences tend to run a little… late into the night, and daylight hours aren’t exactly my specialty. Sort of a night owl.
Would hate for you to come all this way and not get to enjoy you. Don’t want any interruptions.
Next month?
From: You
Date: Sun, Jul 22, 2018 at 9:21 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Visit
Right.
I’ll have to check if I can move things. Can I let you know?
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Mon, Aug 15, 2018 at 4:11 AM
To: You
Subject: Call?
Can I call you this week? Hate that you’re mad at me. I’m sorry about our visit, baby. Just talk to me. What about next month, could you come then? Is your sister still in town? You could still come now, before end of quarter ramps up!
From: You
Date: Wed, Aug 17, 2018 at 11:24 AM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Call?
I told you I wasn’t able to get my vacation time back. If you want to see me so badly, maybe you should fly here. It really sucked when you blew me off.
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Wed, Aug 17, 2018 at 7:51 PM
To: You
Subject: Re: Call?
Travel doesn’t agree with me. Too much sunlight. It’s complicated. Plus I wanna show you my place. It’s very swanky, you know. Has a huge tub. You’d love it. And I’ll get you all your favorite snacks, hm? Won’t have to lift a finger—I’ll take care of everything. Just need you to come here, okay? I can explain in person.
I’ll call after this meeting wraps. If you send me to voicemail, I’m just gonna try again. I can be very persistent, you know.
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Sat, Aug 19, 2018 at 1:32 AM
To: You
Subject: Please
This whole ignoring Max song and dance is getting old. Forgive me already! Work was out of my hands, but I miss talking to you. Like getting your little emails, even when you’re teasing me. I miss calling you. We don’t have to talk! I can listen to you fold your laundry and you can hate me the whole time.
Feeling a little pathetic over here, baby. Put me out of my misery.
From: Lily of the Valley Florist <[email protected]>
Date: Fri, Aug 20, 2018 at 3:00 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Your order has been delivered!
From: Lily of the Valley Florist <[email protected]>
Date: Fri, Aug 27, 2018 at 2:15 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Your order has been delivered!
From: Rocky Mountain Chocolate <[email protected]>
Date: Tue, Sep 18, 2018 at 12:49 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Your order has been delivered!
From: Lily of the Valley Florist <[email protected]>
Date: Mon, Oct 3 2018 at 12:49 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Your custom order has been delivered!
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Mon, Oct 3 2018 at 3:59 PM
To: You
Subject: Today
Hey, you know what today is?
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Tue, Oct 6, 2018 at 7:03 PM
To: You
Subject: Miss my smuggler
I know you’ve put me on ice—would still really like to talk about that, by the way—but it’s coming up on refill season, so to speak…
Need to talk to you. I know you’ve blocked my number and that the flowers are arriving. Do you like them? Are you allergic? I had to guess. Thought you might be a ranunculus girl, but I’m open to notes, you know. I’m very trainable.
Just tell me what to do to make it up to you. Let me take care of you.
From: You
Date: Fri, Oct 9, 2018 at 9:47 AM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Miss my smuggler
[Sent with 1 attachment]
Sent your box. Here’s the tracking info.
The flowers are beautiful but please stop sending them. I don’t have enough vases and it’s getting a little ridiculous.
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Fri, Oct 9, 2018 at 6:03 PM
To: You
Subject: Re: Miss my smuggler
So what I’m hearing is… you liked the flowers?
From: Lily of the Valley Florist <[email protected]>
Date: Mon, Oct 12 2018 at 2:47 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Your custom order has been delivered!
From: You
Date: Mon, Oct 12, 2018 at 4:30 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: *waving white flag*
Okay, I’ve unblocked your fucking number. Please stop sending flowers. I surrender. Oh my god.
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Mon, Oct 12, 2018 at 4:39 PM
To: You
Subject: Re: *waving white flag*
It’s the ranunculus, isn’t it?
From: You
Date: Mon, Oct 12, 2018 at 5:10 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: *waving white flag*
What’s the ranunculus?
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Mon, Oct 12, 2018 at 5:11 PM
To: You
Subject: Re: *waving white flag*
Your favorite flower. I guessed it right.
From: You
Date: Mon, Oct 12, 2018 at 5:14 PM
To: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: *waving white flag*
Shut up.
Please resume groveling on the phone. And no more flowers. I mean it.
From: Max Phillips <[email protected]>
Date: Mon, Oct 12, 2018 at 5:19 PM
To: You
Subject: Fwd: Your flight has been booked!
No more flowers. Cross my heart.
One little tweak—how about I do that groveling in person? Snagged a seat on a red eye.
dividers by @saradika-graphics! thanks again to jo for hosting the dearuary challenge - this was so much fun.
Joel picks up the list on the kitchen table. He's on his to way out to see his brother, no patrols for them today, and is going to pick up stuff for dinner. He doesn't need a coat anymore, the weather is nice, not to hot, just the perfect blend of heat when you stand too long in the sun but perfectly warm when you walk around. A nice day to be out the walls on a patrol he thinks. He looks down and smiles at the distinct handwriting and tone of the note.
The first time he saw this handwriting was on a notice board before his first patrol meeting. The paper was put up moments ago, he didn't see by whom, and showed the pairings for the week's patrol :
Old Eugene / Baby Jesse
Babysitter Tommy / Baby brother
Jack Sparrow / Mad Max
The list went on, jokes about names, reference to pop culture, mostly movies, odd pairings and what seemed to be privates jokes, that sometime made it hard for him to understand who it was about.
He didn't like it, he didn't think it was particularly funny and patrols were serious matters, not something you could joke about. But mostly he didn't like that he was acknowledge as the "Baby" brother and a baby needing a sitter. Although he wasn't going to admit it.
Especially since everybody seemed to find the whole thing funny. Actually, he realized weeks after weeks, everyone seemed to be waiting to see the list, what new references or jokes would be put up. Even if they weren't easy to understand by the younger ones. He had to explain to Jesse the Obi Wren / Ken(neth) Obi one. Definitely someone who was an adult during the outbreak. He just couldn't figure out who it was, and didn't really want to. He disapproved and wanted people to know it, so he would always grunt and mumble while reading the pairings each weeks.
Which owed him a change of nickname, no longer being Baby Brother. Now him and Tommy were referred to as Grumpy & Sunshine. He didn't get why Maria laughed so hard saying that would be a rom-com she would watch, but he really didn't like it.
He also noticed the same writing on the logs of the outposts.
November 12th:
Saw a murder of crows, a family of foxes and Bambi & Thumper,
Killed 2 infected,
Was cold.
How could anyone find it fit to write those things in log ?
January 11th:
Nothing happened. Boring shift.
- fixed the whole on the blanket
- fixed the squeaking dresser's door and fell into Narnia
- ate one emergency ration (boredom is an emergency) and will restock next time
This was ridiculous. And borderline reckless.
He needs to get eggs and milk. He will get them on his way to Tommy, that way he is certain there will still be some left, dairy being a little scarce right now, as they were waiting for the chicks and calves to grow up. There was no need for rationing, but still, sometimes stock went down. The rest he can get later, he thinks, while checking the list again, smiling when he remembers how he found out who was responsible for those writings that he used to find so infuriating.
It was during a particular spring patrol meeting. The meeting had been called to list the repairs and restocking that needed to be done on the outposts over the warmer days.
You were taking notes listing everything and sometimes would repeat things every once in a while to make sure that nothing had been forgotten. Towards the end of the meeting, Tommy asked you to read the list out loud so every one could make sure it was complete.
Joel wasn't paying much attention, his eyes were wondering around but when he heard people starting to giggle his focus shifted.
Mountain View
- Repair the lock on the back door
- emergency rations
- magic mirror
- first aid kit
- flying carpet
- blankets
He shouldn't have been surprised when he thinks back. It's not that you were the life of the party. You were a little on the quiet side during meetings. But he did notice you liked to make funny comments here and there. And when you were around a smaller group, people were always laughing. You weren't shy, just not extremely opened, and certainly not to him. But you were hard to miss. You were on the council and you were also part of the patrol committee. You were in charge of keeping the maps up to date and he had seen you talk strategy with Maria when there was a sensitive issue.
He had also noticed you at the Tipsy Bison a lot, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone reading.
He once heard you say that the apocalypse was a great way to finally read all the books you wanted to, only now they were hard to get by.
Still, this wasn't serious. Although he had to admit you were not someone who would jeopardize patrols or do anything dangerous.
And the thing was, you were funny. He couldn't help a twitch of the lip, or sometime even a laugh. But he had never wanted to show it, because he was the serious guy, the grumpy one. Why had he been so angry with that nickname ? Ellie called him an asshole every other day and he never said anything, he knew it was kind of true.
And then, one day, you sat next to him at the counter. Chairs were scarce so that was the only place left. He nodded a hello and you said sweetly "Hey Grumpy Miller". You didn't talk, you were reading a book and smiling, until you laughed out loud at some point. He had been spying on you and couldn't help but ask what you were reading
"The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, even if I read it before it's still makes me laugh"
"Ah yes ! The ultimate Question to Life, the Universe, and Everything"
"Damn Grumpy ! I didn't know you had such good taste !"
"Why'd you keep calling me that ?" Joel wasn't angry when he asked the question, even if he had felt a little annoyed by the nickname. You seemed a little taken aback and even looked a bit ashamed.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was upsetting... it's just, you barely say hello to anyone, except to your brother. You never mentioned it bothered you, although I did hear you grunt a few times. And Tommy was getting such a kick out of it" you were rambling and he found it to be extremely cute and couldn't help the smile on his face.
"I'll stop Joel, but it's a shame, I was pretty proud of my grumpy sunshine joke ", you added when you finally noticed he wasn't angry.
"I guess I deserve it. I'm just not used to people being friendly, I haven't been here long, I like keeping to myself. I guess I should try a bit, Ellie keeps calling me an asshole."
You laughed at that, " Well I wouldn't say I'd call you an asshole, or maybe just the first few days, but even if you aren't the friendliest person, you're respectful, and a good patrol partner from what I've heard, helpful and all. So Grumpy seemed to fit better. »
That day, he decided your jokes were funny.
He told you he didn't mind the grumpy nockname, but you answered that now you had actually spoken with him he wasn't that grumpy and you'd have to find another one.
So he became Older Miller for a bit and then Uncle Miller when his nephew was born.
The funny log entry continued, and he sometimes added his own. He was delighted when he saw you would answer them, hoping he made you laugh. He really liked to hear you laugh.
And it seemed you enjoyed hearing him laugh too, you made it a challenge you told him one day, while you were hanging together at the Tipsy Bison, you had to make him laugh at least once a day.
The place had become a regular spot for you two to meet a few times a week. Until you started needing a little more intimacy. That's when he started being " Sweet Miller" on the notice board.
As Joel checks the list one last time he remembers how he had been teased by other patrol partners about that particular nickname that seems to have stayed.
Hey Sweet Miller, can you bring back on your way home :
- milk
- eggs
- apples
- your cute butt
- a bottle of your finest whisky
- and plenty of kisses for your bride to be
21/05 : Edited to change the pictures banner to make it inclusive, and added dividers
Summary: Pero regrets getting into a group chat with your friends.
Warnings: None! All silliness and fluff! Reader's friends are a bit extra, but it's all out of love 🥹 Pero's nickname for reader is Cookie (established relationship).
A/N: This is for @jolapeno’s Dear-uary event! I love, love epistolary fics so much, I decided to write two 🤭🤭 (This is the first, my other entry will be for Tim). The characters in this are from Mi Galleta, but it can be read as standalone. Reader doesn't appear, only her friends 🤭🤭 (Also congrats to Tom and Zendaya - I am unhealthily invested in their relationship 🫠🥹)
Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Series Masterlist
Tip for reading: click on the first screenshot, and swipe/tap to go to the next 🥰
Tagging @maievdenoir because you know why 🥹😘
If you like epistolary fics, I wrote two for Safest with You: 2 More Days (sextfic) and Holiday Remix (holiday fluff). Please check out all the other Dear-uary entries!!
Summary: Some time away from your best friend forces you to confront your feelings.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader
Rating: T
Word Count: 3.5k
Tags/Warnings: fluff, idiots in love, best friends to lovers, Frankie is a mechanic post TF (that’s my head canon for him), slightly non-canon (no lady, no baby), reader is able bodied and shorter than Frankie, no other physical description of reader is given. The photos in the moodboard are for aesthetic only.
A/N: Here it is. My contribution to the lovely @jolapeno Dear-uary challenge. I was given the task of creating something for my favorite guy, which also happens to be her favorite guy too. (No pressure right? lol). I hope you enjoy this little slice of fluff. Thank you to @maggiemayhemnj for giving this a once over.
P.S. No shade to the city of Minneapolis. I’ve only been to Minneapolis once but it is a very nice city. Reader is only a little unhappy about being there because she doesn’t like the cold.
Moodboard, dividers and banner by me.
Frankie’s texts in bold, readers texts in italics.
Your bag hits the floor with a dull thud. Seven days in Minnesota, in the fall, is not your idea of fun. It was your job to get the Minneapolis office on board with the new changes within the company, so here you are. At least it wasn’t snowing, that was something to be grateful for.
The last conversation you had with Frankie keeps replaying in your head. He said he’d miss you. It wasn’t only the words that had you thinking; it was the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice…it just felt different. Why did it always seem like he was trying to tell you something when everyone else was around, never when the the two of you were alone?
The two of you had been best friends for years. All the guys teased both of you about the way you flirted with each other, but that’s all it was. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. But lately, it had felt like more, and it was getting harder to ignore.
Tuesday 4:41 pm
Made it to the hotel, safe and sound.
The city view is spread out before you. The skyscrapers jut into the clear, cerulean sky and you can see the Mississippi River and a clock tower that reminds of Big Ben from your window.
You miss your condo and your bed already. You miss Frankie, too. Was he missing you the same way you were missing him?
Frankie hears the chirp of his phone and wipes the grease from his hands, smiling when he sees your name on the screen. He’s been waiting for your text to know you made it safely.
He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you since you said goodbye last night. The way your eyes sparkled in the moonlight on your deck almost made him confess everything to you. He came so close to telling you that he was falling for you and he wanted to be more than friends, but the words got stuck in his throat. He was always so tongue tied when it came to you. The cold, hard truth was that he was a coward, and he was afraid of losing your friendship. He’d rather have you this way than not at all.
There’s my girl! Glad you made it safe
The way he calls you ‘his girl’ makes you smile. Of course he would call you that now. You’re a thousand miles away and you can’t make him have a serious conversation about it.
It’s too cold here. I miss the Florida heat.
Frankie laughs out loud then looks around to make sure he’s alone. You were always cold, always borrowing a flannel or a hoodie from him.
What’s the temperature there?
55 degrees. Brrrrrrrr. I should have stolen one of your hoodies and packed it in my suitcase.
Frankie shakes his head. He’s honestly surprised that you didn’t steal one of his shirts. You did that all the time. The only reason he let you get away with it was because they smelled like you when he got them back.
That’s not so bad. You’ll survive.
He was right, you knew that. You packed a few different blazers and light sweaters. It wouldn’t be too bad, but you still missed the weather back home.
It could be worse, but I miss the palm trees and the beach already.
This week will go by fast, Clover. You’ll see.
You know he’s right. Work will keep you busy enough and there’s got to be something fun to do in this city. You have a weekend to yourself to explore but exploring isn’t as fun when you’re alone.
I know. I’m just complaining to complain.
You? Complain? Never lol
You stick your tongue out at your phone even though he can’t see you.
Shut up lol
You haul your suitcase onto the bed and start unpacking. Most of the clothes you brought needed to be hung up and the last thing you wanted to do was spend time ironing in the morning.
Your phone chirps again from where you left it on the bed.
What are you doing on your first night in Minneapolis? Besides missing me.
I’m having dinner with the management team here. The manager called and invited me.
Have a good time and try to act normal, okay? Don’t snort if anyone makes you laugh.
The sound of your laughter carries over the television you have on for background noise. He was the only one who could make you laugh like that.
Thanks, jerk. Talk to you later.
The first few days flew by as quickly as you hoped they would. The team here seems to have their shit together and it’s been a fairly seamless transition in getting them onboard so far.
Daily conversations were a normal thing for you and Frankie, but the distance between you only makes you miss him that much more. Every time he says something flirty; you just want to reach through the phone and shake him.
The two of you have been skirting around the truth for months. It’s just as much your fault as his. You don’t want to ruin your friendship if things go wrong. Maybe you’re reading too much into all this. Maybe you’re the only one with feelings here.
8:12 pm
Are you at Will’s?
Just got here, but maybe I should have stayed home. I’m missing my good luck charm so if I lose big tonight, it’s your fault.
If you were home, you’d be at Will’s too. You’d be hanging out with the guys and their girlfriends, having a few drinks.
The last time the girls were allowed over for poker night, Benny had teased Frankie about calling you Clover. He dared you to sit on Frankie’s lap for the last hand to prove that you were good luck. You saw the bob of his Adam’s Apple, heard the slight stutter of his chuckle; but Frankie, the well trained solider that he is, kept his composure and won the hand.
He whispered in your ear that you had always been his good luck charm. That’s when you knew for certain something had changed, at least for you. This was more than just harmless flirting. When you tried to question him about it, he tried brushing you off, but you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.
Would it help if I wished you good luck?
It’s worth a shot
Good Luck!!
Thanks, Clover.
The hot tub was calling your name, a perfect way to relax after a long day. The bathing suit you packed was the one Frankie liked most…how ironic.
Soaking in the hot water was just what you needed. Your muscles relaxed under the heat and pressure of the jets. Thoughts of Frankie kept your mind from relaxing. The two of you were more than friends, that fact was clearer to you than ever. If only you could say it out loud.
Safely back in your hotel room, and freshly showered you check your phone. Frankie should be heading home from Will’s anytime. You should go to bed, but you can’t…at least not yet.
11:36 pm
Did you clean the boys out tonight?
Not exactly lol
Sorry. Maybe next week.
You’ll be home so my luck will change.
The three bubbles danced on Frankie’s screen. Did he say something wrong? His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he waited. There was so much he wanted to tell you, but he didn’t know how. It was so easy to flirt and joke with you but when it came to a serious conversation, any words he had didn’t feel like enough. He didn’t want to ruin your friendship. You’d been there for him in ways that no one else had. He couldn’t lose you.
I’ll be there next week. I think I’m going to turn in early. The time change is messing with me.
That was a slight exaggeration, but what else could you say? You couldn’t tell him that you were tired of pretending there wasn’t something between you, at least not over text.
Frankie’s free hand went under his hat to scratch his head. It wasn’t like you to cut a conversation short. Something was off with you; he could feel it. He wanted to call you out on it, but he was afraid of what you’d say.
I should get to bed too. I’ve got a big shot with a ’78 Camaro coming to the shop that needs some work done. Good night.
Good night
You drop onto your bed and close your eyes. Today made up for all the previous days with no issues. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and now you were exhausted. You thank the universe that you only have two more days to get through.
Tonight was going to be about wine, comfort food and cheesy movies. Pepperoni pizza with extra cheese was calling your name.
You shower and change into your sweats while you wait for your pizza. Frankie is all you can think of. He’s the one you want to talk to after a rough day.
Frankie had looked at his phone so many times today that Will had threatened to break it. He tried to assure himself that you were just busy, but it wasn’t like you not to at least send a quick text or two throughout the day.
After grabbing a quick bite to eat, Frankie couldn’t take it anymore. He picked up his phone and typed out a quick text. He had to know you were fine.
6:36 pm
Is my girl okay?
The ping of your phone made you jump. You’d been so busy that you hadn’t texted Frankie all day.
I’m okay. Today was a rough one.
Wanna talk about it?
Its just work bullshit. You know how it goes.
Frankie smirked. He could picture you now, sitting cross-legged on the bed with one hand rubbing the back of your neck. You always did that when you were tense.
Yeah, I get it. Pepperoni pizza and wine tonight?
You rolled your eyes and smiled. He knew you so well. You took a sip of wine.
Pizza is on its way
The two of you chatted more while you waited for the food. The wine was going down good…too good and it was making you feel brave.
What are you up to tonight?
I’m just hanging out at home.
You move the pizza box to the desk and stretch out on the bed. The movie in the background was all but forgotten.
Are you watching Bridesmaids right now? That movie always cracks you up.
Yeah, I’ve got it on.
Good. I wish I was there to cheer you up. I’d do anything to make you feel better.
Three bubbles dance on your screen.
I miss you
You clamp your eyes shut. You can’t do this anymore. You can’t pretend like the two of you are just friends.
Before you can stop yourself, your fingers are furiously typing a response.
Why do you always do that?
Do what?
This could blow up in your face, but you couldn’t take it back. You opened this door, and now you had to walk through it.
Drop these little hints. You only tell me the truth when you think I won’t hear it.
The silence stretches as you watch the bubbles dance on your screen then disappear and reappear again. It wasn’t something you should have said over text, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was way past time the two of you had this talk.
Frankie almost dropped his phone in his lap. He knew exactly what you meant. He thought he was doing a good job of keeping his feelings hidden. He didn’t want to risk your friendship. You were his best friend.
What is that supposed to mean?
All these little comments, the way you look at me like I’m the only one in the room. I’m tired of dancing around the truth.
Frankie swallowed hard. This was the last thing he expected you to say. How could he tell you how he felt?
What truth would that be?
The truth that we’re more than just friends. There is something more between us.
Again, those three little bubbles dance on your screen. Your heart hammers in your chest. Either he was going to tell you the truth or you lost a friend forever.
Can we talk about this when you get home? I promise we’ll have an honest conversation then.
Yeah, this isn’t something we should talk about over text anyway. We’ll talk when I get home.
You toss your phone onto the bed. You shouldn’t have said anything over text. Now both of you were going to freak out until then. Slamming your fist into the bed, you clamp your eyes closed. The feeling that you just ruined everything sits on your chest like an elephant.
You didn’t text Frankie again, what else could you say now? Acting like everything was okay wasn’t possible. Staring out at the city lights, all you could do was let the silence sit between you and hope that it would all work out the way it was meant to.
You toss your bag in your bedroom and start going through your mail. Thankfully, it was mostly junk and nothing urgent that you needed to worry about.
Frankie stood outside your door. Everything was about to change, and his heart hammered in his chest. He raised a trembling hand and knocked. He’d promised you a serious conversation when you got home, and he was keeping that promise.
“Frankie, what are you doing here?”
“I, um, promised you we’d talk… so here I am.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. His heart pounded in his ears as he stepped through the door.
This was it. It was now or never. Every stolen glance, every touch that lasted too long to just be friendly had led to this. He grabbed you and pressed his lips to yours without another word. He kissed you like he needed your lips to breathe, pouring everything he couldn’t put into words into that one action.
The need for air was the only thing that broke you apart. You stood foreheads pressed together, panting and inhaling each other.
“What was that?”
“The truth.” he answered.
You blink several times. That kiss had stolen everything you wanted to say.
Frankie looks at you. The sweat collects at his brow. This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? Maybe he shouldn’t have come on so strong. Maybe it was too much, too soon.
“Say something…please.” He whispers.
His soft, brown eyes plead with you to not leave him hanging. The silence between you is deafening as you try to find your words.
“When the pressure’s on, you really jump in with both feet, huh?”
The corners of his eyes wrinkle as he smiles. You love that smile, live for that smile. There is something almost boyish about his grin and it always leaves you weak in the knees.
“Was it too much?” he stammers. “It was too much.”
The light in his mocha brown eyes begins to fade. He should have taken it slower, maybe asked you out on a date before he crammed his tongue in your mouth. He could never think straight around you.
Your brow furrows as you watch him, seeing the look of defeat mar his features.
“It was perfect.” You whisper.
He cocks a brow at you as the sparkle returns to his eyes.
“Really?”
You nod your head. He was always perfect in your eyes, even when he was being an idiot.
“Yes, really. I think I should put pressure on you more often if it will make you kiss me like that.” you tease.
A rush of air caresses your face as he exhales. His throaty chuckle reaches your ears, and he pulls you closer.
“I don’t think my heart could handle that, querida.”
You lean in and brush your lips against his. This kiss isn’t headed and passionate, it’s slow and honest. It’s a kiss to make up for all the time the two of you spent denying what was in front of you the whole time.
The need for air is the only thing that makes you break apart. You stand together, foreheads touching under the bill of his hat, your breath mixing together.
Frankie swallows hard. He’s never been more scared in his life. Any mission, any tour overseas was a cakewalk compared to this moment. He had to do this right. He had to make this work. He couldn’t lose you.
“I want to take you out on a date.” He panted softly. “A real date with flowers, opening doors for you…the whole thing.”
Your soft laugh flitters through the air. You shouldn’t have expected anything less from him. When Frankie finally made a decision, he was all in.
“You want to take me on a date? Seriously?”
The corner of his mouth raised into a half smile.
“Yeah. I want to take you out. I want to do this right; treat you like you deserve. I want to make up for lost time.”
You can’t stop smiling. Why did you wait so long to confront your feelings? You wasted so much time.
“I’d love to go on a date with you.”
This time you get Frankie’s genuine smile, the one where his eyes practically disappear and the lines around his eyes are so pronounced.
“Good.”
He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. You are the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he will always kick himself for waiting so long to tell you how he felt.
“I know you just got home and haven’t even had a chance to unpack, but how about tonight? I’ll pick you up and we can have dinner.”
You blink a few times and smile. This is really happening; the two of you are finally going to give each other the chance you were always too scared to take.
“Tonight works for me.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked grin. A small part of him was worried you’d say no; that all those things you said to him while you were gone were just a moment of weakness. His heart pounds in his chest as he looks at you.
“Yeah?”
His voice is barely audible as he pulls you even closer. His scent invades your nostrils: fresh and woodsy with a faint hint of motor oil. It’s a smell that’s uniquely him and one you will always associate with comfort and protection.
“Will you wear that purple sundress?” he whispers as he brushes his nose against yours. “The one you wore to that barbecue at Will’s this summer.”
You raise your brow. Your chest grows warm as you stand together, locked in each other’s arms.
“You remember that dress?”
Frankie chuckles softly. He remembers a lot of things about you; your favorite color, the way your tongue sticks out a little bit when you're concentrating really hard…he’s memorized so many details.
“Hell yeah. You looked so pretty in that damn dress; I almost dropped my beer when you walked in.”
You opened your mouth to speak but the opening notes to “Enter Sandman” blare from his back pocket.
“Shit.”
He grins sheepishly and relaxes his grip on you before putting the phone to his ear. Now that he’s got you in his arms, he’s not letting go.
“You have impeccable timing, Benjamin. What’s up?”
You rest your head on Frankie’s shoulder. The vibrations of his chest as he talks to Ben tickle your cheek. Being in his arms feels even better than you ever could have imagined. Frankie had always been home to you, but now home took on a brand new meaning.
“That sucks, man.” Frankie sighs. “Have the tow truck take it to the shop. I’ll meet you there and we’ll get it fixed.”
You lift your head as Frankie disconnects the call. Your nose wrinkles as he sighs.
“Sorry, querida. I gotta go. Benny busted a tie rod on his truck, and he needs some help getting it fixed.”
Leave it Benny to get himself in a jam. At least he’s not hurt or in jail.
You smile and raise up on tiptoes to give Frankie a quick peck on the lips. He would do anything to help a friend, and that’s one of the things you love so much about him.
“Go help Benny. He needs you more than I do right now.”
Frankie squeezes you and kisses your forehead. If he kisses your lips again, he’d be too tempted to leave Benny hanging. This will have to be enough for now.
“I’ll text you later.”
“You better.” you tease.
He finally pulls away and you miss his arms around you already.
“Frankie.”
You call out to him as he reaches the front door. He turns back to look at you with his hand still on the knob.
“Make sure you wear your cowboy boots and that ball cap tonight.”
Summary: You met The Dieter Bravo last night, but does he remember meeting you?
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. smut, handjob, f!oral, unprotected PiV, mentions of drug use, reader has hair long enough to tug, smoking
a/n: This was written for @jolapeno Dear-uary Challenge and I received this prompt. Thank you to @peepawispunk & @80ssong for their beta reads! 😘 I hope you enjoy!
word count: 1,744
ao3 | ml
Dieter groans, turns onto his side, and opens his eyelids to find two ibuprofen tablets and a glass of water on his bedside table. He's unsure how he even managed to get to his bed. He can't remember much of last night; as usual, he drank too much, smoked too much, and snorted too much. He knows he needs to get his partying under control; he's not keen on another stint in rehab or being the subject of more tabloid fodder. His team would be grateful, too. But he enjoys it too much. He loves hosting parties at his house and having access to beautiful men and women who want to shower him with adoration and attention. Aspiring actors, writers, and producers all want a piece of him. It's not easy to give those perks up—one of the benefits of being an actor in high demand.
The tablets are sitting atop a slip of paper. He picks them up and throws them back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, emptying the glass of water in a couple of gulps. He picks up the slip of paper, his thick thumb and index finger grip the note, and he admires the neat handwriting as he reads:
image text: D- you may not remember much, so let me refresh your memory. This may be where I left you, but we’ll start where we first met. Even with the stroke of a hand and gripping conversation, this place is the pits.
Dieter, confused, rereads the note. Who did he meet last night that would have left this note? As usual, his house was overflowing with people. Most were friends or people he'd worked with in the industry; surely, it wasn't one of them. His friends tend to bring along their friends, and those friends bring their friends, and soon, his Hollywood Hills home is overrun with strangers.
He pulls on his green robe and exits the bedroom, traipsing over the remnants of the night before. Dodging obstacles of empty glasses, discarded clothing, ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and roaches, coffee tables dusted in white powder, and rolled up hundred dollar bills. A record spins around the player, scratching and skipping with each rotation. People in various states of undress are scattered across the floor and couches.
He finally reaches the conversation pit—avocado green cushions accented with cream and mustard yellow pillows. He descends the carpeted stairs, still unsure what kind of wild goose chase he's being led on. As he straightens the pillows, a slip of paper dances through the air when he moves them around. Dieter bends down to pick it up after it floats to the ground. Suddenly, a flash of recollection races across his mind.
A vision of you and him, bodies close together, barely any space between you two. Your arm draped over his shoulders, and your hand in his lap gripped tightly around his cock. Your hands make languid strokes along his length as you purr into his ear, teasing him. He's impossibly hard, and his eyes scan the party to see if anyone has noticed his precarious situation. A rush of heat skates up his chest to his neck as the risk of getting caught arouses him. You coo, "Baby, you're so hard, I can barely wrap my hand around you."
A moan falls out of Dieter's mouth, his gaze occupied by your grasp on his length. He watches as you continue your lazy strokes, the waistband of his pants resting just below his balls. Your movements are hidden by his fluffy teddy bear coat that he has positioned over his lap but not shielded from his view. He's mesmerized by the lacquer on your nails and the reflection of light that bounces off them with each pass along his cock. He feels arousal roil in his belly, and his balls begin to tighten.
Breathily, he spits out, "I'm going to cum."
Squeezing him tighter before you quickly release him, "Not yet, you aren't." You lean in and kiss him on the cheek, "I need a smoke." you giggle as you tuck his still painfully hard dick back into his pants and pull away.
He hears that sweet sound in his mind, and his cock twitches at the memory. Eager to find out what's next on this salacious tour, he reads the note:
image text: orange and bright, this is the perfect place to get a light.
Dieter was drawn to this home because of the mid-century modern architecture, and he leaned into the aesthetic. Much of the decor is original to the house, including the burnt orange malm fireplace on his back patio.
He heads outside. The sun is now high in the sky, having slept the morning away. Dieter squints to avoid the torture of the sun's rays on his brutal hangover. As he approaches the seating area around the fireplace, he spots a slip of notebook paper under an ashtray littered with discarded butts and blunts on the table.
It prompts his memory. After you left him with blue balls in the conversation pit, you dragged him outside for a smoke. He walked closely behind you with his hands on your hips to conceal his erection as you navigated through the party crowd. His dick was aching, desperate for release. But his curiosity to know more about you was enough of a distraction for now.
He observes you taking a drag from the cigarette between your soft lips. "How long have you lived here?" you inquire as you purse your lips to exhale the smoke up and to the side, away from his face.
"Um, a few years now. I bought it after Cliffs Beasts 6." His eyes rake up and down your body, taking in your curves and the disarming smile that spreads across your face.
"I liked that movie."
Dieter scoffs, unbelieving someone like you would enjoy the movie, let alone see it. It was a flop, an example of a studio trying to milk everything out of a franchise at any expense. There is no way you actually liked the movie.
"No, really, I did." There's that smile again; he knew then that he was done for, his body warmed by the sincerity in your eyes.
Chuckling to himself at the memory, he looks down at the slip of paper, which reads:
image text: I cried out, with your tongue inside, while the Kid sang about Nikki.
Dieter enters his music room, eyeing the wall of his record collection. His fingers dance along the spines of the album covers until he finds Purple Rain. Carefully, he pulls the record out of its sleeve and watches as another slip of paper falls to the ground. He replaces the spinning record and gently places the needle onto the vinyl, A-side up.
The castle started spinning
Or maybe it was my brain
I can't tell you what she did to me
But my body will never be the same
The images of last night in this room flood his mind. You, on your back, laid across the faux fur rug. It was as vivid as if you were there with him right now. Your shapely legs stretched out in front of you, with your perfect pussy glistening in the dim lamplight. His body prone with his face between your thighs, inhaling your scent. He laps into your sweet heat, his tongue teasing through your folds and flicking over your clit. His forearms wrapped around your thighs to hold you in place when you begin to writhe, pushing your core into his face, chasing your orgasm.
Oh, her lovin' will kick your behind
Oh, she'll show you no mercy
But she'll sure enough, sure enough
Show you how to grind
He laps at your release while you cry out his name, unable to control the rutting of his hips against the rug, searching for relief from his aching, throbbing cock. He's been on edge for the last couple of hours, patiently waiting for his release.
At the memory, he realizes he can still taste you on his lips. It's faint, but it's enough to make his cock move. Having sobered up a bit more, he's intrigued to find out where he'll be led next and picks up the piece of paper:
image text: you’ll find this journey come to a close in the place where you like to powder your nose…
Dieter walks down the hall to his bathroom. Vintage aqua blue tiles cover the floor, shower, and halfway up the wall, trimmed in navy blue tiles. The mirror above the matching pedestal sink is covered in writing—a phone number in red lipstick with handwriting that matches the notes—your phone number. Thanks to you and this little scavenger hunt you sent him on, he's slowly pieced together his night with you. He may not remember it all, but his senses help, recalling the feel of your soft, silken skin, your floral perfume, and the way you taste. And he's transported back.
He pictures you bent over the sink as he slides down your panties. Tugging your hair as he slides his cock inside you from behind. Remembering the gasps and moans, you couldn't help but release as he thrust into your warm, wet heat. Rubbing your swollen clit as you approach your second climax, nibbling on your ear, which finally sends you over the edge. Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing his cock so tight he had to pull out quickly to paint his spend across your bare ass. His sweaty brow meets yours, the both of you gasping to catch your breath as he leaves a chaste kiss on the tip of your nose.
His dick was now half hard at the memory.
He pulls his phone out of his robe pocket and opens the camera app. He points it toward the mirror as he takes in his disheveled state: hair tousled and astray, light brown curls pointing in every direction. He notices a stain down the front of his grey tunic and his striped pants slung low on his hips. He does little to improve his appearance before he snaps a picture, tongue wagging, eyes wide, making sure his semi-hard cock is captured in the frame.
He types the number you left on the mirror and attaches the photo.
"I found you."
A couple of minutes later, his phone pings, "It's about damn time; I've been waiting all morning for you. 😉"
Thank you so much for reading! I’d love to know what you think. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. 🫶🏼
tagging a few folks who may be interested in reading: @baronessvonglitter @almostempty @ak-vintage @kilamonster (lemme know if you prefer I not clog your notifs)
