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Born in the 1980s 18+ Minors DNI

[wordywarriorwrites]

SHE/HER | Born in the 80's | Multi-fandom

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[intheorangebedroom]

No love lost, chapter 2

Summary: Frankie lies to you and the two of you bond over a very healthy avoiding strategy. Absolutely nothing can go wrong.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute. Enough for me to realize I can't write slow burn for shit. Yeah, smut is here, so if you are, too, I hope you'll enjoy it. And if you're not here anymore, I get it, it's fine (never trust a Pisces who tells you "it's fine," btw. Just general life advice.) Byyyye! See you in the end notes! 🧡

Word count: 10.2k (bon voilà, quoi...)

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Chapter 2: Jersey Girl

The washer is turning at full power, tumbling your threadbare duvet cover at 900 revolutions per minute, your eardrums pulsating to the rhythm of the round vibrations. Over the comforting din of your cotton-scented cocoon, you pick up the unmistakable pace of his gait stepping down the staircase. Unhurried, deliberate, leisured. It’s almost a feeling, an intuition formed on a cellular level. 

Frankie.

It’s insane—frightening, really—how fast new habits form. How little time it takes for the human body to adjust and settle. How powerless the mind is in its rebelling against it.  

Four weeks is all it took. Four weeks since that embarrassing encounter on Veteran’s Day, when he found you with your face buried in his shirt; 28 days of nightly informal encounters in the laundry room. 

Four weeks, and the thrumming of that tense line between your sternum and your belly is now constant. Like a string made of steel, of pure electricity, a strung live wire buzzing low and intense. It’s maddening, but it’s become familiar enough that you can disregard its existence, redefine its meaning. Ignore it. 

That very first week, you meet twice. It could be happenstance, were it not past midnight. 

The following week, he joins you every other night. 

Thanksgiving comes and goes. Jules and her family travel to the Hamptons to visit her in-laws, a tradition established shortly after Anthony and she got engaged. 

Rita goes to Connecticut to spend the long weekend with her niece. Frankie drives her there, a pillow behind her back, a blanket over her legs. You help them down to the street, carrying the old lady’s leather suitcase. Standing alone on the concrete pavement, you wave goodbye until the Ford pickup rounds the block.

Frankie stays away for the entire duration of the extended weekend. There’s no BBC karaoke on Friday evening, no Sunshine or Grump to greet you by the mailboxes, not even 2B to aggravate you with his sheer presence. The building is deserted. 

Growing up, the holiday wasn’t a celebration. Your mother had never been the loving kind, but after your father’s departure left her stranded with you, her bitterness didn’t leave room for merriment. Thanksgiving was like most dinners; she would place a frozen dish on your lap, still cold on the edges but burning hot in the center from its spin in the microwave, and turn up the volume of the TV, dissuading any attempt at conversation. 

Chewing soggy corn, the cathodic light reflected on your face, you’d find a twisted comfort in imagining your father’s whereabouts. In your thoughts, he was far from New Jersey, sitting at a long wooden table, presiding over a bountiful dinner, his beautiful wife across from him, a pretty little girl between them to his right. The wife had neatly manicured hands and freshly pressed clothes. The girl had slick, shiny blond hair and a round-collar blouse. She’d smiled at him, happy, docile. He’d smile back with pride.

Through the years, the little girl grew with you, becoming prettier and more accomplished than you could ever expect to be. You’d invent her first prizes, sport trophies, and spelling bees. The vision eventually died out in high school after you met Jules, but its reality had long been anchored in your psyche, sharp like a splinter. Nagging and tenacious. 

This year, for the first time in decades, the day feels particularly lonely. Its emptiness like a vacuum chamber, inviting in your old daydream. The teenage girl hasn’t aged; her delicate beauty crystallized in her fifteenth year. Slick hair, round collar. Medals and trophies. Time has blurred the wife’s face like an impressionist painting. Under the white sheet, your father’s tall, lean figure disappears. Only you know the gaunt face it conceals. Hollowed cheeks, shut eyelids. Mouth gaping dark and wide like a cavern, like a silent scream. 

Your grandmother’s absence hurts like a fresh wound. A throbbing pain that never quiets. It’s been twelve years since she last held you in her arms. Memories are losing their shapes. You’re beginning to forget the sound of her voice, the inflections in her phrasing. Her warmth, her scent.

The new apartment has never felt so cold. Cold and inhabited, with that thing moving along with the shadows after nightfall. Trailing you to every room you walk into. It has no density, no consistency, but you know it’s there. Wafting cold air, with a sound of whispering fabric, a raspy breathing. You remain deaf and blind to it. 

Clawing cramps contract your calves with increased intensity. You resort to using the blow dryer to warm up your sore muscles. A strange lump forms in your throat, pressing down on your vocal cords, warping your voice into something unfamiliar and hoarse. It becomes permanent. 

December materializes before you know it, icy winds, first snows, and Frankie’s with you in the laundry room seven nights a week. 

It’s a second day that starts with the night. A second life. Adjacent, parallel. A life with him.

By now, you’re conditioned to wait, ears trained on the sound of his bare feet on the concrete steps, anticipation wound tight in your chest, that damn buzzing string. 

The workday has shrunk into a succession of automated tasks, muscle memory inherited from more proficient times. You’ve restricted your interactions with your coworkers to a strict minimum. When you come home, the name of the game is stalling. An exercise in patience as you try to read, tackle the necessary chores, or watch something. Enduring with frayed nerves and failing focus that presence inside your apartment that you refuse to acknowledge, before you can trade it for the one presence you’re longing for, down in the building’s warm entrails.  

Every night, there’s a particular time when the rustling sound gets closer, when the raspy breathing grows louder, closing in on you. That’s your cue. You head out with the basket that’s nothing more than a prop, a safety blanket, leaving your ghost behind. Alone, ignored, denied. 

Downstairs, underground, in the brightly lit, sparsely furnished room, you wait for him. Like clockwork, like a cursed dream, Frankie appears ten minutes before midnight.

Another woman might put in some effort, invest in her appearance. Eyeshadow, mascara, a hint of lipstick. Brushed hair and flattering clothes. A seemingly effortless, carefully crafted appearance.  

Not you. The fleece pajama pants and oversized sweatshirt reign supreme over your evening wardrobe. You don't even check your reflection in the entrance’s mirror before walking out the door. 

Even if you were pretty, which you’re not, there’s the case of your peculiarity. You make everything interesting, Jules will tell you every so often, which is her own affectionate way of saying you’re weird and don’t fit anywhere.  By now, you’ve had enough unfortunate experiences, ranging from comical to humiliating, to understand your worth. You know better than to expect anything from anyone, especially where men are concerned, your ego stifled down to the size of a dormant concept. 

Francisco Morales is no exception. 

You’re nothing more to him than a commodity, and you know it. Available, interchangeable. An alternative to a wandering drive. Another way to kill the empty night hours. Laundry detergent is cheaper than gas, nowadays. 

Four weeks, and you’ve learned to tame the searing memory of that first striking glance, when time and space folded around you. Somewhere deep inside, you know that pull is the same one that brought you to fantasize about your father’s alternate family. A danger zone where you will be hurt to feel alive. You will not give in. 

You ignore the ghost. You ignore the pull. You ignore the warning. 

You ignore everything.

His behavior towards you makes it easy. He’s nothing but pleasant and amicable, and the conversation flows easy, but the banter is just that: superficial. There’s a distance between you like a chasm, or rather, an avoidance on his behalf. It’s in the way he steers the exchange away from anything too personal. The way he maintains physical distance. It’s in the ever-present hat, Standard Heating Oil, brim low over his eyes, concealing his thoughts, his conduct resulting in an unsettling imbalance in your relationship. 

At best, you feel overexposed. Weakened by every little bit of personal information you sacrifice to fill the deafening silences, chipping away at your defenses. Where you grew up, where you work, where your mother lives. Your best friend’s real name, throwing in some of her secrets, too, when you’re running out of yours, and meanwhile, he remains a complete mystery to you. 

You’ve run an impressive, perhaps concerning, number of internet searches on that hat’s logo. Aside from outdated commercial registrations, the only useful information that turned up came from digitized 80s newspapers. Stories about stolen trucks and suspicions of money laundering. Something about a connection to a crime syndicate. The trail dies out in the early 90s with the demise of the company’s owner, a certain Abe Morales. Foul play. No further clue on whether Frankie, who by your approximate calculations would have then been a teenager, and he were related. 

You can’t bring yourself to ask any direct questions, and he gives nothing away. Four weeks, and all you’ve gathered are pieced-up clues based on the beat-up paperbacks he sometimes brings with him downstairs, the time he spends working on his pickup, the discreet gum he chews continuously, and the handful of graphic t-shirts he rotates on a weekly basis. 

It’s a strange form of intimacy, distorted and faulty, where nothing’s named, only tacitly agreed. Where you’re familiar with his preferences in underwear but don’t know what he does for a living. And least of all, what are the ghosts keeping him from sleeping. 

Some nights are darker than others, his mood somber, weighed. The ghosts push harder against the frail door of your shared sanctuary. Neither of you talks. On those nights, you know better than to fill the silence. You watch for the deepening crease in his brow, the tension in his jaw. The hanging clouds, the raging storm. You repress the desire to smooth them under your lips. 

Around 4 am, he goes back up to his apartment. There’s always one last thing for you to do, an excuse not to follow, a pretense under which you can stall and stay behind. Should he really care, he’d probably see right through you. Once he’s gone, you lie down on the table. Wrapped in your duvet, you sleep for a couple of hours before daybreak.

On Saturdays, you manage the strength to execute chores and run errands, but your Sundays are spent on the couch, sleeping in the daylight, when the apartment is, for a few hours at least, finally empty and warm.  

How long your body will be able to sustain this pattern is not something you’re eager to find out. At this point, you’re so caffeinated your sweat smells like ground coffee beans. You’re fractured, fragmented. Fractionated. 

You keep going, day after day, with the promise of the night and Frankie’s presence. Of Frankie, coming down the stairs, barefoot and ragged t-shirt, belt undone. 

The machine gets louder; the footsteps get closer. Your pulse trips and your heart somersaults, fidgety fingers rubbing away the twinge in your chest. 

The door swings open. On your tiptoes, you rush across the room toward the lined-up machines.

“Hey,” he announces himself in a quiet, even tone, crossing the threshold without a look in your direction. 

Compared to the frantic beating of your heart, his entrance is anticlimactic. Head down, his features are partly tucked in the shadow from his hat. The black, beaten rucksack hangs off his shoulder, and in his left hand, the one with the target tattoo, he’s carrying a little red plate with some pastries. 

Amid the artificial clean scent inundating the air, you identify the familiar sweet taste.

“Are those… quesi…” you start but falter. You can spell the word, you can certainly eat the thing, but you’re too self-conscious to butcher its pronunciation when you constantly hear him and Rita converse in Spanish.

“Quesitos,” he finishes for you.

“Yes,” you nod. Are they from Rita’s niece?”

“Yup.”

He drops his rucksack down on the table and strides over to you with the plate in his hand, simultaneously pushing a quesito into his mouth in a sequence of surprisingly graceful movements. Your mouth waters at the evocation of the delicately sour taste and layered texture. His lips round the pastry, crispy golden flakes falling onto the plate, some catching in his stubble, on his gray t-shirt. You swallow thickly, eyes riveted to the movement of his jaw, the bobbing of his throat. The tight string buzzes wild down your core. The effort you put into averting your gaze shaves 5 years off your life expectancy. 

“That’s not fair,” you say. “I can drive Rita to Connecticut, too.” Your shot at playful and casual would be successful if your voice didn’t sound exactly like you’re thinking about what you’re thinking.

“You don’t have a car,” he states in a flat, neutral voice. 

A rogue groan rises in your throat, an expression of your frustrations, plural, that you promptly stifle. 

“S’really unfair,” you grumble, at a loss for a more clever comeback. 

“Good thing I brought you some, then,” he says. 

There’s a flash of a playful grin. The furtive curl of his plush lips, the crinkling corners of his eyes, the dipping dimple in his right cheek. A painful reminder that he’s dazzlingly handsome, despite your best effort to be oblivious to it. 

He’s extending the plate to you, and you look down at the three little rolls of rich, creamy cheese wrapped inside their perfectly glazed doughy blankets, surrounded by crumbs of various sizes, some of which have grazed his lips. The thought fuses inside your brain, rebellious, uncontrollable. If you were to press the tip of your index finger to them and bring them to your mouth, would he register? 

You take the plate and go sit on top of the folding table. The first bite is heaven, crusty against your teeth, melting on your tongue, the sour cheese taste tingling your taste buds. Your eyes flicker shut for a brief instant of gustatory ecstasy. 

When you reopen them, he’s staring at you. You hold his gaze in return. The moment is brief, fleeting, but long enough to throw you off balance. The weight of his dark look, the intensity etched on his face and radiating from his frame, unreadable, pinning you down. Echoing inside you along that tense line. 

He moves first, revealing the stern crease that splits his brow as he lifts his hat to comb his fingers through his hair. That key that still eludes you. 

Turning away from you, he unloads the contents of his bag inside the washer as you chomp on your sweet treat. Something catches your eye, a garment you haven’t seen before. It’s a sport jersey, probably from a university. You make out the name MORALES flocked in bold, capital letters across the shoulders. Blue and gold, you make a mental note to search it later.

“I come bearing a message,” he starts, commanding your attention back. “Or a bargain, I guess.”

“What’s it?” you ask with your mouth full.

“Rita wants you to come to her Christmas party,” he says, straightening up, hand plunging in his pocket to rummage for change.

“Her… what?” you start in a small voice, slowly lowering the plate on your lap.

“Yea, it’s a building tradition, with a Secret Santa and everything. Everyone’s invited. Your predecessor never missed one. Rita wants you to attend. Said there’ll be all the quesitos you can eat if you show up. I guess she knows you well enough,” he finishes, facing you again before you have the time to polish your stunned expression.

It stings, a burning kind of unsettling hurt, the idea of Frankie and Rita discussing your social anxiety in your absence. Jealousy slices through you razor-sharp at the mention of this assiduous predecessor. 

“I don’t… I don’t do well at parties,” you say, talking around the lumps in your throat that strain on your voice. “When is it?” you add with a hint of hostility.

He winces. “If I tell you when it is, you can make up an excuse, and I failed my mission.”

“Well, I can’t come if I don’t know when it is,” you snap, but there’s no bite to your bark, and he knows it.

“Mmh. Twenty-third,” he relents, pulling a rectangular gum blister out of the back pocket of his jeans. He pops the last tablet free, puts it in his mouth, and tosses the empty blister on top of the machine. The logo looks familiar; you’ve seen it somewhere before but can’t quite place it.

“Are you free on the 23rd?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” you mutter. 

“That’s not gonna cut it, Leigh,” he says, shaking his head. “I need a firm answer.”

“You mean you need a yes,” you retort.

He looks at you with a bemused grin, chuckling softly. The sound of which gets on your nerves.

“I do. I need a firm yes from you.”

An image flashes through your brain. Anthony and his Nicorette tablets—Jules complaining that they're everywhere since Enoch was born, the kitchen island, the console in the entrance, the car, the dining table, even the nightstand. 

“I didn’t know you smoked”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“I don’t. I don’t like cigarettes.”

“Why are you chewing nicotine gum, then?”  

“Nicotine without the smell,” he shrugs, as if the answer was obvious, before adding in a softer tone, “I hate to press you, Leigh. Will you be there? It’s not just about the party. It would mean a lot to Rita.”

His expression is almost pleading, entirely new to you, squeezing your heart like a cardiac arrest. 

You can’t remember the last time you were included in something Jules hadn’t organized, or that wasn’t work-related.  

“Sure. I’ll be there,” you fold. 

“Good,” he says with a short nod.

There’s a pause as the tension around you dissipates. You gobble down a second quesito, holding the red plastic plate under your chin to collect the crumbs. He grabs the blister and walks over to the sink to discard it in the trash can.

“So how did your meeting go today?”

“Oh, it went,” you sigh, surprised that he pays attention to your rambling. Your mind quickly wanders back to your boss’s soporific two-hour monologue about cultural programming, which, as the saying goes, could have been an email. “I mean, it was bad, but I was so tired I zoned out for most of it.”

“Still sleeping like shit?” he asks, leaning against a dryer, arms crossed over his chest. His hands are so large, they could probably wrap entirely around your neck and still overlap.

Blinking away the intrusive thought, you take a bite of your last pastry. Stalling for an answer that wouldn’t be a complete lie, but not the naked truth either. Even if he ever noticed that you stay behind to sleep down here every night, you can’t—you won’t explain why you do so, no matter how uncomfortable the lull in the conversation. 

“It’s a struggle,” you timidly provide.

“You ever tried melatonin? Or sleeping pills?” 

So that figure under its white veil can sit on the edge of my bed and watch me sleep? Not a chance. 

“I don’t like the idea,” you say. 

He chews in silence for a second, head tilted to the side, eyes trained on you from underneath the brim of his hat. Another question is coming, ready to shoot through the walls of your comfort zone. You speak first, before it’s too late. 

“What about you? How do you manage with so little sleep? Doesn’t it… doesn’t it affect your job?”

You hold your breath. He keeps chewing his gum, calm and assertive, looking at you in silence long enough that you start wiggling with discomfort on your hard seat because, what if you’ve just made a terrible blunder?  

“I do need to be sharp,” he finally answers. “I’m a pilot. Although I don’t fly much these days.”

“Holy shit,” you whisper. A pilot. His stoic demeanor suddenly makes a lot of sense, not that you’ve met many pilots before him. “What—where?”

“I’ve been working for a flight school upstate for the past two years. As a ground instructor. But I’m used to short nights. I never really had the leisure to sleep long hours until now.”

In the depths of your brain, a small alarm sounds off. 

“Why’s that?”

“Irregular schedules. I was… on call, sort of. I had to be able to wake up in the middle of the night and just go, and immediately be alert and efficient.”

Your discomfort has shifted into something else, something far worse than social awkwardness. Repressed memories of your father reminiscing, rolling his metal tags between his fingers. Boasting about being an early bird, by trade and by necessity.

“You’re not military, are you?” you ask, cheeks ice cold, legs like lead hanging limp off the table.

The chewing stops abruptly. He lifts his chin and looks at you, eyes raking your figure up and down. Inside your chest, the thrumming string is still and silent.

“Why? Is that a dealbreaker?”

Your breathing itches in your throat. Sweat prickles under your armpits.

“I have a problem with people in uniform,” you articulate.

“Like nurses and Girl Scouts?”

“Like army men,” you clarify with a firm voice.

Frankie’s lips twist into a fleeting grimace before he fully stands, pushing away from the machine. Your heart is beating painfully hard in your pulse point. You feel the empty plastic plate on your knees, your fingers clutched on its rim, the clip pulling on your hair, the cuffs of your sweatshirt circling your wrists. 

He lifts his cap, runs his fingers through his curls. 

He’s watching you dead in the eye when he delivers his answer.

“No. No, I’m not military.” 

—

The following days, you briefly—but seriously—consider moving to another building. 

You hate Christmas even more violently than you do Thanksgiving, this national commemoration of a genocide, and here you are, committed to taking part in a Christmas celebration with virtual strangers, a dress code, and traditions that the other attendees are already familiar with. Rita knew exactly what she was doing when she sent Frankie with a plate of quesitos to request your presence. 

The prospect settles like an anvil in the pit of your stomach. 

A few days later, you luck out by drawing Rita’s name in the Secret Santa draft. The opportunity to treat the old lady to something nice alleviates some of your anxiety. Enough that, on the 23rd, you knock on her door right on time, wearing the mandatory Christmas sweater—borrowed from Jules. 

Rita seems relieved to see you, as if your attendance had been optional, but self-consciousness tenses your jaw, pulling your smile down. She’s clad head to toe in a velvet burgundy dress, her short pixie hairdo enhanced by a dazzling pair of ruby clips and an ornate gold cross, in lieu of her usual, more discreet one. Considering how good she looks like at her venerable age, it’s easy to imagine why some of her suitors once upon a time slept on her doorstep. If anything, it’s a wonder they aren’t anymore. Meanwhile, you’re appallingly underdressed in your ironic Christmas sweater and black corduroy slacks. 

Your feeling of unease only increases with Kate’s arrival, who looks both festive and stunning in a red midi skirt and a Christmas sweater that somehow avoids ridicule. Her silver-stranded dreadlocks are coiled in a thick braid around her head, held by a single, long hairpin adorned with holly. 

Frankie shows up shortly after, two folding chairs under his arm, in a black sweatshirt with a Xenomorph dressed in a Santa costume. The garment is tight around his shoulders, hugging his broad frame in a way that makes him look twice as massive. He's wearing jeans, you observe with a sense of relief. Your eyes meet briefly. He greets you with a short nod; you reply with a coy smile. Your gaze follows his movements as he takes off his hat and places it on the small mahogany console in the entrance. To your knowledge, a mark of respect he only ever extends to Rita. 

Envy pinches your heart, playing over that taut, thrumming cord that sings for no one but him. You resent the humiliating emotion, but the tugging thought remains. If only you could touch that cherished, treasured object. Brush your fingers over the rigid brim. Feel the plastic mesh, the embroidered patch. Trace the letters with your fingertips.

The reverie is interrupted by Mike and Jason’s entrance, in cute matching Jacquard sweaters. To your great surprise, they’re followed by 2A and her son.

Rita greets them personally, introducing them to your small assembly as Amy and Emilio. 

“Alright, everyone,” your hostess announces, “some of you already know it, there are only two rules tonight. The first one is no politics. I know everyone here shares the same values, but we would rather not bring up unpleasant topics as we’re gathered to celebrate.”

“That one’s for you, Mister,” Jason nudges Mike with his elbow, earning them one of Rita’s winks.

“The second rule, perhaps even more crucial than the first: no leftovers. Now, everyone, please enjoy the party!”

Seven pairs of eyes dart to the table at the center of the room, its top disappearing entirely under several and various dishes, each more appetizing than the others. There’s a moment of collective hesitation, until Mike takes a plate and digs in. 

Eight people would be a tight fit for any of the building’s small units, so it’s a crowd for Rita’s cluttered living room. The temperature rises to a stifling point, but nobody seems to mind, engaged in cheerful conversation, feasting on delicious food. 

Kate approaches you first, coming to sit near you by your corner of the table, engaging you in pleasant conversation, and before you know it, you’re bonding over the urban nightmare that is the Fulton St. subway station. 

As you should have expected, all the guests brought Rita a present. But yours is the only one she immediately puts on. The vintage Pierre Cardin bolero in black sequins fits her like a glove. The lump in your throat weighs heavier on your vocal cord as you remember your grandmother in it, mostly from faded photographs. You’d rather see it on your friend than let it rot in your closet, though, especially with whatever thing lurks there. When Rita asks about its provenance, you remain vague, blinking away your emotion. You will tell her, eventually, but you will choose your moment. Preferably when you two are alone.

Frankie steers clear of you. No one would believe the two of you spend so much time together, and perhaps that’s the whole idea. Maybe he's ashamed of your relationship, whatever it may be.

You watch him at a short distance, in the crowded living room, his entire face transformed with every smile, every laugh. Crinkled eyes and dimpled cheek, he’s like a sun, like a bright light you wish you basked in. You pick up bits and fragments of jokes, delivered in his deadpan humor, the smooth rumble of his timber an undertone to the joyful brouhaha of the room, playing over that electric string between your chest and your core. 

You watch him blush as he opens Jason’s present, a grayish, short-sleeve button-up, with a herons pattern. Or maybe they’re storks; you can’t tell from where you stand. The fluid material is unlike anything you’ve ever seen him launder. You push away the image of it brushing against his tanned skin, and help yourself to more cod stew. 

The whole gift-exchanging part of the evening is a trial on your nerves. You are cruelly under-equipped to be anything remotely approaching graceful amid these kinds of social situations. The realization is chilling, especially when everyone else, Amy included, seems to be at ease. 

When your turn comes, you’re relieved to find out you’re Kate’s giftee, but the feeling is short-lived as you unwrap the most beautiful cardigan you've ever seen. The wool is luxurious, downy and fluffy like a cloud with horn buttons. The label reads Woolridge; your eyes widen, face flushing hot. 

“Don’t panic,” she laughs, “it’s second-hand! I walk in front of that store every day, and this beauty was in the window, calling out to me… When I drew you, Rita mentioned your place is always extra cold, so I knew what I had to do!” she exclaims, clapping her palms. 

Rita refills your glass with the bottle of sherry she keeps in her sideboard for special occasions, the heat in your cheeks cranking up a notch. 

More food is brought in from the kitchen. Guests break into small chatting groups around the table, some of them sitting around the table, others standing. 

In different circumstances, you probably would have left already. Preferably without notifying your host. But you feel too good to leave, good and warm and welcome, enveloped in your luscious sweater that was bought with your comfort in mind, expensive sherry sloshing in your veins and slowing your movements. When you get up to crack a window open, you’re surprised by the weight of your limbs. You stand with your back against the cool glass panel, taking it all in. The food, the soft light, the warmth and the laughter. The chill air wafting in. The soothing torpor of your mind. The enjoyable company.

Frankie locks eyes with you the moment your head comes to rest against the lintel. He keeps them trained on you as he makes his way toward your vantage point. Whether to pin you in place or give you a chance to escape, you can never be sure with this man.  

“It’s nice you came,” he says with no preamble. “It meant a lot to Rita.”

“Of course, I came. I had promised.”  

Another lie. Breaking a promise has never stopped you before. 

“She’s very fond of you, you know.”

You can’t withhold his gaze. You lower your head so he won’t see your cheeks color. 

“Do you want me to come check the heaters in your apartment?” he asks in his round husk. 

You shiver. 

“It’s fine, I got a nice sweater for Christmas,” you smile tentatively.

His frown is so apparent without the protection of his hat. Ominous. You glance at the room over his shoulder and feel his eyes scanning your face. It’s very subtle, the way he’s standing with his hand splayed wide and large on the wall, a few inches from your head. Leaning ever so slightly over you, shielding you from the rest of the attendees. Keeping your conversation private. 

From this close, you can smell his skin. Amber and leather. You can smell the red wine on his breath. Your mind drifts, numb limbs and sloshing sherry. Would his lips taste like the wine he’s been drinking? What does it look like to the others in the room, the two of you whispering on the side? Has he told Rita about your nightly meetings? Has he told anyone? Is he keeping it a secret? 

“Are you here for the holidays?” His voice summons you back to the crowded place. 

“Erm…” you start, clenching your eyes in concentration. “I’m spending Christmas with Jules and her family. Much to her husband's delight,” you add with a sardonic chuckle. “But I’ll be back before New Year’s Eve.” 

He hums, like a purr, and your blood courses faster.

“What about you?” you risk in a little voice.

“I’ll be here, mostly. I’m working. Our fu–our boss refused to close over the holidays. Like there’ll be any traffic. So I let the guys with the families have the days off. Anyway, my sister lives too far for me to go visit just the one day.”

He pauses. You’re suddenly alert, brain working against the alcohol in your bloodstream to collect that precious, tiny bit of information and store it safely in your long-term memory.

“There’s this cool bar on Manhattan Ave, in Greenpoint. Enid’s. I’m meeting some friends there for New Year’s Eve. If you ever wanna come out of the laundry room…” he trails off, finally taking his eyes off you. 

“Oh god, no,” you exclaim, a little more vehemently than you’d wish to, skin burning from the neck up. “I don’t do well at parties,” you reiterate. 

“So you keep saying,” he grins, “but you’re doing pretty well at this one. Or is something terrible about to happen? Are you gonna get drunk and start singing Total Eclipse of the Heart on the table?”

A rueful smile tugs up the left corner of your lips. You shake your head in defeat.  

“You’re not that far off,” you start. “I either overshare or can’t talk at all, depending on my alcohol intake. And then I ruminate about it for centuries, as I lie awake in bed, and—”

“Whenever do you lie in bed, Leigh?” he cuts, his features hardening. 

The power this man could wield over you, should you let him, frightens you more than the thing that followed you when you moved into your apartment. Why, then, do you keep choosing him?

You stare back into the dark pools of his eyes, if only to prove to yourself that you can.

“When I’m spent. When I’m tired enough. When I can’t think anymore.”

“Alright,” Frankie says. The pink tip of his tongue peeks over his plush bottom lip. “Okay.”

—

Once, on New Year’s Eve, you went out with a man named Michael you had met on the subway. In retrospect, the stakes might have been too high for a public transportation meeting, but Michael was fairly good-looking, and if you had to be honest, his attention flattered you. 

Rookie mistake. Five minutes into the overpriced five-course menu, he solemnly introduced himself as a magician and proceeded to perform tricks for you, talking non-stop about his pet dove as if it were a woman he couldn’t wait to go home and lie with. 

Another time, you let Jules convince you to ring in the new year in a nightclub, on a blind date with her then-boyfriend’s cousin. Both men showed up already stoned, but your date went the extra mile by drinking an entire bottle of champagne and vomiting all over your brand-new velvet jacket. Eventually, Jules and you had to pick up their tab and walk all the way home, having no money left for a cab. 

And then there was also that one time when your date broke down in tears halfway through driving over to Ho-Ho-Kus, parked in front of a closed 7-Eleven, and spent the following two hours reminiscing about his late girlfriend. 

Throughout the years, those misfortunes have become fun anecdotes. To this day, you can use Jules’ guilt to your advantage with a simple mention of Ralph the Barf, and every once in a while, Magic Mike has her keeling over with laughter. 

If anything, time has given you the confidence to guard yourself, and the maturity to discern which societal rituals you don’t need to conform to, peer pressure be damned. 

On some occasions, it’s easier said than done. But tonight, your being home rings like a victory.  You are exactly where you want to be: sitting on top of a dryer in your building’s basement, wrapped in your new favorite cardigan, your faithful duvet draped over your crossed legs, and a Lee Miller biography on your lap. Making good use of the pricey bottle of champagne Jules’ parents got you for Christmas. 

The boiler’s bass droning rolls in steady and soothing through the side wall. Loud voices and 90s house music from Jason and Mike’s New Year’s Eve party bump against the closed door in muffled ripples. Their drunken, cheerful countdown breaches the sanctuary of your isolation. Absentmindedly, you count along with them under your breath until one, when the image of the Crain’s obscured windows emerges in your brain. The vision turns your blood to ice. You can’t fathom anyone living across this place, let alone partying in such an exuberant way. 

Shouts of “Happy New Year!” explode above your head, irreconcilable with the aura of the abandoned place, sitting there like a dormant creature, like a sleeping monster. A black, empty hole, swallowing light, reeking of death and oblivion, exuding decay. 

You haven’t taken any in a while, but your New Year's resolution will be to ask Rita about this place and about the Crains. 

Across various social media platforms, feeds are flooded with recaps, countdowns, and wraps. As always, you will not partake, although if you wanted, you too could take stock. This year, you have a count of your own. Zero phone calls from your mother. One dead father. Eight unanswered calls to your aforementioned mother. Thirty square feet of grave plot in the Hoboken cemetery. A hundred and thirty-two gallons of unshed tears. Fifteen thousand dollars in student debt. 

Six new friendly acquaintances. One new friend. Well, two, if you can count Frankie. 

And of course, one shrouded figure. 

It’d be easy to think of it as an extension of whatever is going on in the Crain’s unit. But you know it’s not where it came from. You brought it in with you. Brought it in from the Hoboken morgue, and it followed along. It seeped out of your nightmares to permeate the realm of the living. And now you have no idea how to get rid of it. All you can do is keep ignoring it.  

Lost in your thoughts, reading the same paragraph for the third time, you’re oblivious to the steps descending on the concrete stairs. 

The door creaks open, wafting in fresh air and laughs and music, and you jump on the dryer, startled, left knee knocking into the bottle of champagne before you can catch it. Some of the liquid spills onto your duvet. You rip it off your legs like it’s on fire, freeing yourself, ready to fly, mind scrambling to make sense of the intrusion, heart pumping pure adrenaline. 

“Did I scare you?” Frankie asks, closing the door behind himself. 

“Jesus Christ! I did not fucking expect you,” you croak, angry. “You scared the living hell out of me!” 

“Sorry, not my intention,” he says, wincing apologetically. 

The clock above the doorframe indicates 12:53. He made quick work of driving back here from Enid’s. 

He’s wearing a thick trucker jacket in midnight blue over a pair of well-cut 501s in selvedge denim, a rather elegant upgrade from his usual attire. No hat in sight at first, but as he takes a couple of steps in your direction, you notice it’s tucked into the right back pocket of his jeans. 

You’re frowning with incomprehension. Probably not a flattering expression, but one that certainly pairs well with your tangled braid and your dirty pajamas. 

“Am I interrupting your celebration?” he asks. “You’re looking pretty cozy.” 

He comes to stand in front of the dryer you're perched on. It’s distracting, how well you can see his face without the hat planted on his head. How deep the crease reaches between his brow. How permanent it seems. How plush his bottom lip, with its central divot. His curls are luscious.  

“What are you doing here, Morales?”

“I can fuck off, if you want.”

There’s no aggressiveness in his tone, merely a possible outcome.  

“No. No, I don’t want you to fuck off,” you say. “I’m just surprised to see you. I thought you were with your friends.” 

“I was,” he says. “But then everybody got drunk, so I took their car keys and I left.” 

Your eyebrows flash up to your hairline. 

“You did what?!”

“I’m the designated driver. With a little bit of luck, they can hitch a cab back home.”

You chuckle, incredulous. Finding a cab on New Year’s Eve in Greenpoint is going to require more than luck. His lips pull to the side in a grin, enough for the dimple in his right cheek to appear, and you quickly look elsewhere.  

“I think I got a little bit of champagne left, if you don’t mind drinking from my bottle.” A real class act. 

“I don’t,” he says, grabbing the bottle from you. It looks disproportionately small in his large hand. His lips round the glass neck, and he takes a swig, eyes on you throughout the entire process. 

Transfixed, you watch the bobbing of his Adam's apple as the liquid flows down his throat. 

“Happy New Year, Leigh Reinhorn.”

He hands you the bottle and you drink in turn, tipping your head back to get the last drop without breaking eye contact. 

“Happy New Year, Francisco Morales.”

He shucks off his jacket, revealing the shirt Jason gave him a week ago. The top three buttons are undone, exposing the plane of his chest. Storks. The birds on the pattern are storks. He’s standing so close, you can’t slide down from the dryer without risking stepping on his toes. Freckles spring like fireworks from the dip of his collarbone. Cranes. The birds might be cranes. What the fuck do you know about birds? He hasn’t really answered your question. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I keep thinking about what you said the other day, at Rita’s. And how relatable it is.”

“What did I say?” you frown. You’ve replayed the conversation in your head a million times in ten days. There was no material for concern. 

“About not being able to lie in bed unless you’re exhausted.”

“Oh,” you exhale, heartbeat speeding up, pulsating inside your wrists.

He lifts his right hand to his head before he realizes there’s no hat there for him to lift. A pause, and his fingers card through his strands. 

The live wire thrums between your chest and your core, vibrating tense and stubborn, impossibly delicious. 

“I think we can help each other.”

His eyes pierce through yours, and it happens again. This complete collapse of time and space, this annihilation of everything outside the connection between you. 

This must be what fate feels like, you think, until your father’s voice smothers the thought and the feeling. There is no such thing as fate. 

Licking his lips, Frankie hooks both hands under your knees, uncrossing your legs and sliding you toward him over the machine’s flat surface in one swift move, with controlled, restrained strength, the memory of which has never left you since he lifted you up from the ground.

Your heart lunges at your rib cage. 

“We can help each other by making sure we’re both spent by the time we go to sleep,” he says, cold and factual, as if what he’s hinting at were harmless and inconsequential. 

His words drip down your spine like flowing electricity, and everything inside you is jolting to life. Pressure pounds in your ears as you swallow hard. 

He tugs on the back of your knees, prompting you down, and you slide off your perch, stunned, docile, wedging your body in the narrow space between him and the dryer, hips knocking against his hips, breasts brushing against his chest. He doesn’t budge. Not an inch. He’s like a mountain, unmovable. Towering over you, looking down at you from his height, head slightly tilted back, teeth clenching. 

“What—are you saying we should…” you start, but you falter, betrayed by your body, lungs closing, shallow, heart full and thumping. 

“I’m saying we should fuck, Leigh.” The crude word rings out like an explosion, resonating in the back of his throat, echoing inside yours. “Get some release, empty our heads, and go to sleep.”

Three simple steps. A mere transaction. He makes it sound casual enough. Meanwhile, your brain is raging static. Your limbs go numb. Your sense of reality is slipping.

He tips his face over yours. Around his blown pupils, the irises of his eyes glimmer in rich mahogany circles. 

The color thrills along the live wire in your belly. Fire and liquid. You blink and nod. 

“S’that a yes?” he asks, leaning down closer, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. 

“Hum… Yes?” you breathe out. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, impatience skirting his tone, body swaying away from yours imperceptibly, and you chase his density, his warmth, his scent, nodding more energetically.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure,” you repeat, louder. 

His body swings back into yours, crowding you against the hard front panel of the machine. His hands reach for your hips, fingers splaying over the soft swell of them, digging into your flesh, and he breathes in. Breathes you in, long and deep, nose slotted into the spot under your ear. The air rumbles out of him like a growl, primal, terrifying. 

The string buzzes harder yet, the vibrations impossible to ignore. Arousal pooling down your core, molten, leaking down your thigh under your pajamas. You want him so bad, you’re honey and fire, losing yourself to the sensation, like you’ve never wanted anything until now. Like you’ll die if he doesn’t kiss you, and you’ll die if he does. It's overwhelming, your vulnerability, his strength, his mere presence; it bursts like pain in your chest as he lowers his lips over yours. 

“Wait,” you stop him. 

“Yea?” His voice is gravelly.

“No kissing,” you blurt out.

There’s a beat, a pause that lasts forever, the corners of his lips curved downward in a sullen pout. You’ve killed the moment, ruined it like you ruin everything. 

“Okay. No kissing where?” 

“On the mouth.”

He huffs a short laugh, breath tickling your face and torching your pride. 

“Alright. Anything else off the table?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I got a wild imagination, Leigh.” 

He makes it sound like a threat more than a promise.

“That’s not what I’m scared of.”

His grip loosens. A shadow briefly plays across his features, understanding setting his jaw, gritting his teeth. It’s over in an instant, and his grasp tightens again, fingers burrowing into your hips, tilting them forward. 

“Good,” he says, tugging your cardigan off you and leaning down so close you think he’ll ignore your plea, crush his mouth to yours. You grow rigid in his hold, giving in to your irrational fear. But his lips brush past your lips, skimming your skin to latch on to your jawline, where he bites down, hard. 

You jolt into the wall of his chest. His smile curls over your skin, large hands sliding over the swell of your ass to squeeze you flush into him, and you scrabble for balance in his tight embrace, fingers clawing his biceps. Tangled up in fear and want and what are you afraid of? It’s a contract. A transaction. Not a commitment.

He soothes his bite with an open-mouth kiss, trailing down the column of your neck, plush lips, searing tongue, scraping scruff. The sensations mix and combine, you’re floating above the tiled floor, mind falling, body anchored.

He breathes hot against your neck, a long exhale, an expression of relief, spanning his hands across your back, pulling you into him closer, so close your spine hurts. 

The first time you wrap your arms around the breadth of his shoulders, it’s a rising high tide. A quiet earthquake, a gentle landslide. Arched into his hunched body, it’s a perfect fit, a flawless shape. It’s unexpected safety, and you cling to each other with a shared exhale. 

Above you, the music is roaring, bodies dancing to the fast beat of a song you can’t hear. 

There’s only his panting and yours, the ruffling of his shirt under your feverish palms, his lips fastening on your pulse point, sucking in the tender skin. 

He kisses you everywhere but where you denied him, kissing your neck and your cheeks, the shell of your ear, the hard line of your collarbone, the soft slope of your shoulder, pulling down on your t-shirt to kiss your naked breasts, stitches ripping, hands roaming your back and clutching, flesh spilling out between his splayed fingers. You hang on to him for dear life, for what’s left of your sanity. 

He bucks into you, once, twice, letting you feel the hard length of his sex against your belly, where the live wire is sizzling. The denim’s harsh and stiff through the thin cotton of your pajamas; you moan into his chest, hitching your leg up to his, seeking more friction, pulling yourself up with a wanton clutch. The fancy shirt is balled up in your fists, and he’s grabbing handfuls of your ass, grinding you down on him. 

“Can I see it?” he mouthes against your clavicle, breathless.

You nod, clueless as to what he’s asking, too disoriented to think, fingers sliding up through the silk of his curls. You rake your nails over his scalp and he produces that sound again, that growl, that rolling rumble inside his chest. His teeth nip at your jaw, hand coming down your front to cup you between your legs.

You hitch a gasp, stilling. 

“Let me see it,” he repeats, fingertips stroking you with a light touch over the dampened fabric of your pants. 

Understanding dawns on you, eyes squeezing shut with embarrassment. 

“Okay,” you whisper, and he peels away from you, your arms falling limp at your sides as he kneels in front of you. You pray he doesn’t notice your trembling legs.

He watches you, pinning you with one of his stares as he tugs your shapeless pants down, teeth gritting, nostrils flaring, like you might flee his touch. Like you need to be tamed, as if you could resist him. His dark eyes travel down your body to your center, and you bite the inside of your cheek so your entire face doesn’t quiver. 

“Hold this up,” he says, lifting your stretched t-shirt. You comply with shaking hands, nerves like a million pinpricks tingling on your nape. 

His fingers part the dampened curls of your mound, exposing how soaked you are for him, sticky slick and reckless want. You’re probably going to faint.

“Fuck, it’s pretty,” he whispers, scorching breath fanning your delicate skin. Your hold on your shirt turns white-knuckled. “Fucking dripping, can I taste it?”

He doesn’t give you time to answer, lunging forward into you, slanting his open mouth over your cunt, tongue darting past your seam with a grunt to collect your arousal, and you bite down on a whimper, a long shiver running down your spine, delightful, terrible.  

“Shit,” he says, resting his forehead on your belly, long curls brushing impossibly soft over your quivering skin. He mumbles something else, something you can’t make out with the static in your head, before he shifts in his kneeling position, hooking your leg over the bulk of his shoulder. You struggle for balance, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface behind you as he licks a broad stripe through your folds with the flat of his tongue. 

Your head lolls back. You moan. 

He’s greedy, at first, voracious, pressing his entire face into your heat, fucking you with his tongue, chin pushing forward, fingers digging harshly into the curves of your tender hips, short bristly stubble abrading your skin. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening, it’s too sudden, too sudden and too real. 

A transaction, you repeat yourself with waning conviction, staring at the roughcast ceiling but not seeing it; a transaction, as you fail to control the twitching of your leg with every drag of his tongue inside your walls, the sharp ridge of his nose rubbing against your clit. 

It’s messy, frantic, and eager; he’s rough in his hunger, and the sounds around you are wet and sticky, wet and sticky like your slick and his spit that trickle down your thighs. His grunts grow shallow and frustrated until he surges upward, pushing you back on top of the dryer. You tumble backward, ass hanging off the edge, your back bent awkward and bowed, the back of your head hitting the brick wall.

 “Shit,” he grits, “you okay?” 

He looks wrecked, tousled hair, glassy eyes, shining chin. 

“Yes,” you nod, almost soundless. 

He slumps over you, his forehead coming to rest on the plump round of your belly again, trying to catch his breath. His mouth wraps around your skin just below your navel, teeth sinking, sucking in, pulling sharp and hungry and needy, and this, too, will leave a mark, you think, aching with it, arching into it, the pain and the hunger and the need. 

He breaks away, letting go of your skin, kissing the surfacing flecks of purple, breathing long, settling himself. His hands a steadying caress along your thighs, calloused palms, thick digits.

You reach down for his hair but he’s moving away, moving down, down into you again. 

Eating you slow and deliberate, this time. Thorough and measured. Flat tongue licking up from your hole to your cunt, teasing the thin membrane in between. Plush lips fastening around your clit to play with it. You chase it, squirming and writhing against his restraint, but he traps you in place, banding his arm over your belly. 

He’s in charge, spreading you wide with the flat of his palm on your knee; eating you out, tongue and teeth and lips, humming with contentment, burning mouth, commanding touch. Repeated motions, alternating touches. Bringing you close but never quite there, relentless, clutching hard and bruising against your rolling hips. The heels of your hands are pressed over your eyes so you won’t picture the working of his throat, the strong column of his neck as he drinks you in.

Until you give in and let go. Until you surrender and relax into it, into the building pleasure, the endless coil, sweat pooling in the small of your back. You let him take you apart piece by piece, kiss by kiss, stroke by stroke. There’s no more fear, no more consequences. Only his appetites and your needs, and the beautiful, wonderful ways in which they meet.

The room is saturated with warmth and humidity, filled with the lewd sounds of his ministrations.

Suddenly boneless and pliant, your legs slack around the breadth of his frame. Like an offering. Your fingers card through the curling strands of his hair, hand resting over the crown of his head, following his movements, a long whine rising from your throat in the heavy air, swirling above you, shaping into his name.

Frankie.

He pauses, just for a beat, the briefest moment, his smile forming between your folds, blooming into you. 

“That’s it,” he rasps, pecking a kiss at your inner thigh. “Like that. Good girl,” and you can’t help but clench at the praise. 

Cool air hits your feverish skin; he’s released his restraining grip. His hand travels upward to your breast, cupping the swell of it, kneading with measured strength, his calloused thumb a teasing stroke over the peaked bud of your nipple. 

“Frankie,” you whine again, louder, the name a stretching plea over the upbeat music coming from upstairs.

There’s a harder suck on your clit; he pulls at it, trapped between his lips, before releasing it.

“Okay,” he says, rueful, “alright.”

The tip of his finger ghosts over your seam, circling your entrance ever so lightly. 

“Please, please, Frankie, please,” you beg, your voice alien, blatantly needy, openly desperate.

“Yea,” he says, sliding his finger in to his knuckles. It’s too much and not enough, and you jolt, hips spreading open so wide the angle hurts. 

“Fucking wet,” he mutters, bending into you again before you can recoil with self-consciousness, lapping at your dripping cunt. His finger still sheathed inside your tight heat, he turns his hand upward and adds a second digit, and you can hear just how wet you are. 

His mouth wraps around your clit, tongue gliding over it like liquid warmth, the hand covering your breast pinching your nipple, the other curling his fingers right at your center, and you know you won’t last long. The pain is exquisite, the pleasure unbearable. He gives a few strokes, fast and weighted, thick fingers spread wide inside your walls, stretching your entrance, and you ascend fast, breath caught in your throat. He’s rough and precise, the tension that builds up inside your belly nearly overpowering, and when he starts grinding against that soft spot deep inside you, the live wire snaps with an explosion.

You come crashing hard with a cry of his name, cunt clenching with a frantic flutter, spine arching, head thrashing back, flooding his hand. 

Dry sobs rattle your chest with the magnitude of your release. Pressing a soft kiss to your clit, he eases out of you gently, making sure you don’t slide off the dryer while you’re struggling to remain conscious.

Slowly, the heaving ebbs, turning to labored breathing, easing into steadier breaths. The sound of clinking metal brings you back to the laundry room, to the hard surface you’re lying on, to the heady detergent perfumes.  

You feel him run his knuckles through your folds, careful, gentle. His breathing comes in ragged, there’s movement in your peripheral. 

A transaction. 

You bolt upright, sitting up with a cinch, disheveled, wild-eyed. Sweat has dampened your hairline. The neon light is blinding.  

His belt is undone, heavy buckle hanging like a dead weight. His black boxer briefs are pulled down. You blink your sight into focus, the ripples of your orgasm still blurring your vision. Deft fingers circling his slick-coated length, he’s stroking himself. 

And oh–he’s big, so big you first fail to comprehend; his cock thick and rigid in the loose hold of his pumping fist, long and girthy and shameless in what he’s doing, watching you watch him, that tongue that was inside you mere moments ago licking over his lips. The same density that applies to every aspect of him, his body, his gaze, his hold, applies to his fucking sex. 

The live wire tenses right back inside your belly as you stare, hypnotized by the shiny tip of his cock disappearing in a steady rhythm between his fingers, by the rippling muscles in his flexing forearms.

A transaction. 

“I can—” you start, but you don’t know what it is that you can, you’re exhausted, awkward, stupefied. 

“Don’t have to,” he says, his tone strained, a groan slipping under his breath. 

A transaction. 

“I want to,” you say. You want to do to him what it is that he just did to you. You want to prove to yourself that you can have that effect on him. Even though you know that you can’t. 

“Gimme your hand.” He sways closer to you, hand grabbing yours and you’re holding him, holding his sex, hot and throbbing, soft like velvet, so fucking thick you can feel every vein, every ridge under your clumsy touch. 

The silky fancy shirt is balled in your fist again as you cling to him, inching yourself closer to the edge of the machine, the up-and-down strokes felt in your palm and against your thigh.  

You’re out of practice, embarrassed by your eagerness to do well, to satisfy him, but his hand guides yours, easing your grip into a slower pace. 

“Fuck, that feels good, Leigh,” he rasps, his other hand sliding under your shirt to find the round of your breast. 

A drop of precome dribbles over your fingers; you risk a glance down between your thrumming bodies, too shy to ask him for a taste. Instead, you bracket your legs around his hips and look up at his face, matted curls over his knitted brow, pitch-black eyes, parted lips. It tears you apart, just how beautiful he is. How intense and needy inside your hand, against your chest. Layers of unfathomable depth you want to slowly unpeel, lose yourself inside him, never to resurface. 

His hand covering yours is going faster, the movement picking up speed and losing amplitude. A deeper groan vibrates in his throat and with your mouth, you reach for it, reach for his neck, corded with effort, the freckled skin warm and fragrant. Tentative kisses at first that grow bolder, wetter, more pointed, encouraged by his guttural moans, trailing up and down until you catch his earlobe between your teeth, lips wrapping around it, and you give it a hard suck. 

“Fuck, fu—fuck,” he grunts, squeezing your hand so tight it cracks your knuckles but you don’t care, he’s coming, his entire frame shaking with it, forehead dropping on your shoulder, come spurting searing and thick on your thigh. 

A long breath shudders from you.

The transaction is complete. You’re both spent. He’s not moving yet, and you won’t push him away, but it’s over, and he will be going soon. Peeling away from your embrace.

Voices spark from upstairs, tumbling down the staircase. It never occurred to you that someone might walk in on the two of you, entwined and engulfed in each other’s satisfaction. No one will. 

Down here, it's just Frankie and Leigh. Nobody will find you. Not even your ghosts.

****

Note: I recently found out Enid's doesn't exist anymore; it broke my heart a little. I remember a wild karaoke there, on September 10th 2001, just before all hell broke loose over New York City. The mention is a not-so-subtle nod to ptmy Frankie, whose orange-curtained apartment is around the corner from Manhattan Ave.

[wordywarriorwrites]

I can also be bribed with treats. But no kissing on the mouth?!?!? Why you gotta break my heart like this, @intheorangebedroom?!?!?!

[pedroncigarettes]

Pedro's pride post 🩷

[frannyzooey]

Francisco “Frankie” Morales x f!reader

Rating: E

an: it’s been a long time since I wrote this guy, so go easy on me! this was just an idea I had this afternoon, so I wrote it down. dedicated to @intheorangebedroom — she’ll know why ❤️

—

The movie ended about an hour ago.

The screen went black, and then the TV turned off, and the room was left in a dusky, liminal space, where nothing held its true color, only variations on the color that you knew existed.

The stripes on the worn blanket you were sitting on, the colorful skulls that hung on the wall from an exhibition you saw last month, the art you had framed – it was all tinged in a greyish-blue that served as a holding space for the tension steadily rising between the two of you, from your spots on the couch.

You had met him at a café – a lone American sitting at the bar while the locals sat outside. Your elbow had bumped into his when you went inside to pay, and your apology had turned into a conversation, and then into an offer to meet up.

He – Francisco, as he introduced himself – was traveling for a few weeks, and in a show of courage that had you surprising yourself, you offered to be his guide.

Maybe it was the glint of interest in his eyes. Or maybe it was the hint of dark curls under his hat, ones that had you wondering how soft they were. Maybe it was the look on his face – first an assessing, intensely soulful look that pinned you in place, then a surprisingly vulnerable one that held you there.

Whatever it was, you offered and he accepted. Day trips had turned into night walks, had turned into this meeting at your place for a home-cooked meal, which had then turned into….this.

This aching space, where anything was possible.

This muted space, that was devoid of color but so rich in other things: in the low, gravely drag of his voice, in the heady, masculine scent of his skin, in the gentle caress of his fingers playing idly with yours.

Slumped together on your sofa, shoulder to shoulder, a low pitch of conversation is exchanged between you in the dark room. Your breath is shallow, your heart racing, your mind hoping – yet you sit still and let him play: his fingers sliding between yours, his thumb brushing over your skin, his touch tracing your knuckles.

He is so close you can feel him talking as well as hear it. So close you can smell a whiff of the detergent he uses.

Turning your head in reply to something he says, your warm breath mingles in the shared space between your mouths. His breathing seems just like yours, a cross between holding it in fear of breaking the moment, and taking sips just to breathe each other in.

The room around you is pregnant with intimacy, with the occasional street noise that drifts in on the wind, and in this aching quiet, his hand lifts to cup your jaw, the tension between your bodies swelling to new heights….

And then, he kisses you.

His mouth is tender, exploring. Weighted, firm. His lips press fully against yours, capturing you in place, fingertips brushing against the hinge of your jaw. Your mouth parts to invite him in, and he accepts with a slow slide of his tongue, tasting, tasting, tasting. The kiss deepens with a sigh, your body melting backwards to pull him on top of you and he follows your guidance, seeking out your closeness and your flavor, his hands beginning to wander, just like yours.

The comforting, solid weight of his body presses you into the couch, his hips finding a home between the cradle of your thighs. You kiss, and kiss. Lips sealing together, mouths opening wide, tongues sliding together to savor taste.

The room sees it all – a blank canvas for the bright bursting thing happening between you two. The thing that’s been there from the start, finally coming to fruition. Everything drips – the grey walls bathed in intimacy, the muted tones awash with arousal, the clinging cotton covering your core.

Your laps grind together, your aligned bodies melding as his strong arms wrap around you to hold you close, and your ankles hook over his lower back. Your fingers slide through his curls and they are exactly as soft as you thought they’d be, like slippery silk.

You give them a tug, and are rewarded with his lowest, neediest groan yet.

Weighted with want, rumbled into your open mouth.

The movie ended an hour and a half ago, and his form joins the dusky tones of the room when he kneels between your bare thighs, your jeans and panties hooked around one ankle while it’s his tongue this time that sparks and lights, washing your body in arousal so strong it hurts.

He delves deep, licks wide, flicks and swirls and laps.

With your back arched, he devours.

His broad back is reflected in the black screen of your TV, the filthy image of his grey t-shirt pulling tight between his shoulder blades in his hungry hunch, his dark curls tucked between your spread thighs. Your fingers curl to grasp at the blanket beneath you and you roll your hips into his hungry mouth until your moans break the weighted silence, joining the night sounds from outside.

He joins you on the couch after that, even though it’s not big enough for what he has in mind. It’s a two seater, a small thing, but he makes it work when he stretches out on top of you and smears your own wetness against your mouth with his searing kiss, and reaches between the press of your bodies to unbuckle his belt.

There are other people in your building – a neighbor whom you share a wall with, who you only hear on football match days. A woman beneath you, the shouts of her children heard sometimes through the vents. Still more in the floors beneath them, and in the streets outside, and in the expanse of the city as it spreads across the earth – yet your entire existence is reduced to this one room when he opens your mouth with his just as he slides forward to break you open with a filling, weighted grind.

Your teeth catch his lower lip when you whine underneath him, and you can tell he likes it, this confirmation that he’s a lot to take. He grins against your mouth – decadent and filthy, slightly cocky and mischievous – and begins to fuck you on your couch like he’s been planning it since day one, from that first meeting in the bar.

He fucks with intent, with purpose. With experience, with competence. But also just like that first meeting, his intensity gives way to something more base, something feral and open and vulnerable. Like he can’t help the need that pours out, or the way he seeks your warmth.

His hips rock forward, demanding you take him in your pinned place underneath his body. His strokes are a rolled grind that has you lifting yours to meet his, forcing him deeper as your nails dig into his lower back, holding on.

The room absorbs every filthy sound: the humid panting of breath, the needy, low moans, his grunts that match the rhythmic punch of his hips. Filthy confessions pour from his mouth – your pussy feels so good, I wanted to fuck you the first time we met, bet your mouth was made for me too, your fucking pussy is so tight I’m gonna cum, you’re going to make me cum.

Every piece of praise washes over the sensitive hollow beneath your ear.

It’s like rebirth, like baptism. Like your life was as muted and dull as the small room around you and he found you and tugged you into the bright bursting daylight, plunging you into a colored life of sensation, of aching desire, of feelings too strong to be real.

When he comes, you join him, a tear sliding from the corner of your eye.

The movie ended two hours ago, and dawn breaks on the horizon somewhere outside. It trickles in through your open window, a slice of barely illuminated gold.

Sated and spent, he lays on top of you and your fingers drift mindlessly through his damp roots, over his soft shirt, along the firm planes of his skin. It’s a tight fit, an uncomfortable one that you don’t mind, when he shifts his weight off you to tuck himself into the back of the couch, holding you close against him.

While he dozes, you stay awake.

Bird sounds replace the quiet, light illuminates the darkness. From your spot crushed against his chest, you watch his pulse beat under his skin, strong and steady. Leaning in, you inhale his scent from the place on his body drenched with it – the hollow of his throat.

Slowly, lightly, as light slips into the room and brings color with it, you brush your fingers over the freckles that dot his skin just above his collar. There is a cluster you’ve been obsessed with since you first saw him, and you find them, dusted across his skin.

Resting your mouth against them, you let your eyes close as you press a kiss that lingers.

A full press of your mouth — one that lingers, then stays, as you fall asleep.

[wordywarriorwrites]

[vodkaandpizza]

The Before and After Kills Me.

Before:

After: 🐶🥺🐕

That man is right where he wants to be 😂

[sixhours]

let me go home

He should do anything but what he does, which is stay here, numb and leaking tears, and let Shane hold him. To take what he’s offering and pretend it’s not too much to ask for.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ (here be smut) Word count: ~2.8k Tags: Heated Rivalry, Game Changers series by Rachel Reid, Ilya Rozanov / Shane Hollander, spoilers for s1e5 I'll Believe in Anything, Tampa Bay hotel room smut, missing scene, angst, Ilya Rozanov needs a hug, Ilya Rozanov POV

Notes: My take on the missing Tampa Bay hotel room scene.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Lock me up tight in these shackles I wear, tied up the keys in the folds of your hair, and the difference with me is I used to not care, Stockholm, let me go home.

- Jason Isbell, Stockholm

He didn’t cry when he found her.

He didn’t cry at the funeral.

He didn’t cry. Period.

He shoved those tears down and took them out on some unlucky kid at the rink, slammed him into the boards and got a fist to the face for it in the alley later. If there was water in his eyes when he took a hit, when he threw a punch, that was acceptable.

But you don’t cry over accidents. His father's words ring in his head, something about spilled milk and tears not helping grief.

So he has no good reason to cry now.

And he sure as hell shouldn’t be crying in front of Shane fucking Hollander. Stupid perfect Hollander and his stupid perfect freckles and his stupid perfect face and those sad, brown, stupid perfect eyes.

But he is. And it suddenly feels like the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth is the weight of the other man in his lap.

He shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t want this, but he does. And that’s just the fucking problem, isn’t it?

But Shane is kissing him, kissing his cheeks and his eyes and his nose and his tears, kissing them away before they can fall, kissing him with those stupid perfect lips and his stupid perfect hands cradling his face like…like something precious.

He can’t remember the last time he felt precious. Wanted. For more than his fame or his body or his money. With Shane, he’s not Ilya Rozanov, the boy with the weight of his father’s impossible expectations on his shoulders and the entirety of Russia’s eyes on his back.

In this room, in these arms, he’s just…Ilya.

I think I like you a little too much.

This is dumb. They don’t have much time. Maybe Shane isn’t with Rose Landry, maybe he’s even gay, but that doesn’t mean some other guy won’t come along, some rich, handsome fuck who isn’t Shane’s arch rival, who doesn’t have a Russian passport and an endless list of reasons not to stay. If the whole Rose shitshow proves anything, it’s that it’s only a matter of time before he loses him again.

And yet, here he is: Weeping when he should be fucking Shane Hollander senseless, fucking him hard enough to get them through the next drought, however long it takes—maybe forever, because this is a bad idea, it has always been a bad fucking idea.

He should tell Shane to go. He should tell Shane to get on his stomach so he can finger him until he's moaning and backing into Ilya’s hand like a needy slut, begging for his cock, he should push him into the mattress and remind him who he belongs to, he should—fuck.

He should do anything but what he does, which is stay here, numb and leaking tears, and let Shane hold him. To take what he’s offering and pretend it’s not too much to ask for.

And it is too much to ask for, but that has never stopped Ilya from wanting impossible things. So he kisses Shane back, kisses him with all the feeling he can muster when his heart is a twisted, gnarled thing and the weight of it in his chest feels like it might kill him. He fists the back of Shane’s shirt, muffling a sob at his throat.

“S’okay,” Shane murmurs, fingers twined in his curls.

It’s not okay. Nothing has been okay in a very long time. But being with Shane makes him forget, makes him feel like maybe things could be endured, if only for a handful of stolen hours. His troubles melt into the shadowy corners of dark hotel rooms, burnt away with the ash of a post-coital cigarette. Sometimes, in these in-between moments, Ilya even feels…hope.

But hope doesn't win games. Hope doesn't win cups. Hope won’t keep his visa in good standing or get his brother off his back or pay for his father’s medication.

This thing—this terrible, wonderful thing between them—is a distraction at best and the end of his career at worst.

And still, he holds on.

Shane shushes him, rocking him like a child. It’s embarassing, but the tears keep coming and Shane is running his fingers through his hair instead of running away. He kisses him long and deep and Ilya feels himself getting hard despite the ache in his chest and the storm in his mind. Shane’s breath is at his lips, mumbling something stupid and polite and so very Shane, probably we don’t have to or I understand. It’s okay, I know, I have you.

“Please,” he grits out, barely a whisper against Shane’s kiss-bitten lips, hating the way his voice shakes. “Please.”

Shane pulls back, and for a horrifying second, Ilya thinks he’s going to stop. He’s said too much, needs too much. He’s a weak, pathetic, stupid little boy who doesn’t deserve something so good.

But Shane just gazes at him, strokes his thumb across the line of Ilya’s cheekbone, his lips, the graze of a kiss planted on the pad. Ilya searches his face for traces of pity, of fear, but he finds none. Just quiet acceptance. Shane leans down and presses their mouths together again and again, and there’s so much tenderness in it, Ilya thinks he might shatter.

It felt like we were something.

Then Shane is urging him down, hand to the back of his neck, whispering something Ilya doesn’t catch in between long, slow sips from his mouth.

“Please,” Ilya repeats dumbly, because he can’t think of a better word, can’t find the English for don’t leave me, I need you, I need you too much and I shouldn’t and it scares the shit out of me.

Clothes need to come off, but then Ilya would have to let go and he can’t do that, so he settles for roughly untucking Shane’s undershirt and rucking it up until his fingers meet warm, golden skin, sliding his hands up the long line of his back, fingers threaded between the lines of his ribs like interlocking puzzle pieces.

Shane’s free hand is working at Ilya’s pants, trying to pull them off with what little space Ilya allows between them. Somehow they manage, fumbling and panting in between kisses and touches that grow more heated with each passing second.

Please, Ilya thinks, wild and delirious. Please, please, please.

Maybe he’s spoken aloud because Shane wrenches himself out of Ilya’s desperate grip for the five seconds it takes to sit up and yank his shirt over his head and pull off his shorts, tossing everything on the floor. Later, Ilya will tease him—Mr. Perfect, so worked up he didn’t fold his clothes—and Shane will smile and call him an asshole and it will sound like love.

But now Shane is on top of him, naked, cradled between his thighs and holding his face in his hands and kissing him breathless, and all coherent thought is lost in the heat of his mouth. Their cocks slide together, already leaking for each other, and Shane moans softly against Ilya’s lips.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Shane whispers when he finally comes up for air, threads his fingers in Ilya’s curls and nips at the hinge of his jaw. “Missed you.”

Ilya can’t respond, stunned by this confession that sounds too close to something else, too close to the truth. He should move, should touch the other man’s dick at least, take back control—what is this, a fucking cuddle? But Shane is all willing flesh and muscle flexing beneath Ilya’s hands as he grinds against him, distracting him with that perfect mouth at his throat, lips skimming the line of his chin before he sucks an earlobe into the wet heat of his mouth and rolls it on his tongue. Ilya’s hips buck at the sensation, back arching as his hands slide down to grip at Shane’s ass, pressing them together in a rut.

“Ahh, fuck, Ilya,” Shane breathes as they find a rhythm, Ilya pushing up at the same time as Shane pushes forward, a seamless, steady rock.

We make a good team, Ilya thinks, the thought a little insane, a little unhinged, the rush of the ice and the rush of their bodies working toward a common goal. They’ve been doing this for so long, it almost feels like they’re one mind, one soul.

“Shane,” Ilya grits out, half warning, half plea as a delicious heat builds at the base of his spine. Too fast, too sweet, but he doesn’t have much self-restraint. It’s been weeks of silence and despair, and this whole weekend still feels like a fever dream, the inane inner ramblings of a lovesick mind. He doesn’t want it to happen like this but he’s powerless to stop it, pinned beneath Shane’s reverent attention.

“Yes, oh—fuck, Ilya, I’m here—”

Ilya lets out a sound that’s more whimper than whine, silences himself by chasing Shane’s mouth, captures his lips and drinks from him, tongue skating the perfect line of his teeth, noses brushing, stomach clenching. The soft, wet slide of Shane’s tongue against his mimics the roll of their hips and sends Ilya’s pulse south.

“Yeah,” Shane says, low and throaty. “Yeah, gonna—fuck, Ilya, just like that—”

Jesus, he’s going to cum from nothing but this messy grinding of hips, like a couple of overeager teenagers. It's juvenile. It’s sloppy. It’s too intimate.

It’s going to bring him off embarrassingly fast.

The thought makes Ilya laugh even as he verges on tears, throat thick with all the things he shouldn’t say.

“Shane,” he says instead, drawing it out, a whine wrenched from his chest.

“M’here,” Shane pants. “I’m so—fuck, so close—”

Ilya can’t do much more than nod, tossing his head to the side and squeezing his eyes shut because it’s so much, so fucking much—

“N-n-no, look at me,” Shane says. “Please, Ilya, fuck please please, wanna see you—”

Ilya groans and forces himself to open his eyes, rewarded by a blissed-out grin and murmured praise—there, yes, yes—and Shane’s beautiful eyes, his pupils deep black pools ringed by rich dark brown. But the tears are threatening again, so close to the surface, so Ilya arches up and presses their mouths together. He swallows Shane’s hums and sighs and moans, makes a feast of all the little sounds until he’s dizzy. But fuck, he can’t look. Can’t—

“Oh, Ilya—”

The first hot slick spills over his stomach, and he doesn’t even know whose it is because he’s coming now, too, a breathless cry against Shane’s cheek as they shudder against each other, hips hitching, drawing it out, wringing them both dry.

His head buzzes with static as lazy kisses are pressed to his neck, his forehead, his nose. Shane raises himself up on his elbows and for a terrifying moment, when their sweat-slick skin parts and air moves between them, goosebumps rushing in, Ilya thinks not yet, please, not yet. He grips at the back of his neck, a desperate last effort to keep him, but Shane just grins, that dopey, post-fuck smile that Ilya wants to keep all to himself, and leans down to nuzzle at his chest.

Then he’s moving slowly, kissing down, down, tongue rolling over a puckered nipple, nosing at the soft curls of hair dotting his sternum, lower. He drags his tongue through the mess on Ilya’s stomach, tasting their combined release and groaning softly, dips his tongue into his navel and nuzzles the trail of dark curls further down to the softening heft of his cock. Ilya watches, entranced and love-drunk, as Shane takes it in his mouth, stroking with the flat of his tongue, humming around him, licking him clean.

“Oh, fuck,” he rasps, the sensation so unexpected, so erotic, so careful and tender. Eventually Shane pulls off, crawling back up until he’s draped over Ilya like a blanket, but not before placing a single kiss to the cross on his chest where it rests over his heart.

Emotion wells in the back of this throat, fast and ruthless.

He can’t keep doing this.

He can't live without this.

Would you want to? If we could?

Shane rolls them to the side, legs tangled, chest to chest and belly to belly, then tucks Ilya’s face into the crook of his neck. Ilya can only hold on, his grip fierce, Shane’s steady pulse throbbing at his ear. Silent tears leak from the creases of his eyes as stubborn hope glows bright through the cracks in his heart. A tiny ember, cupped between palms and coaxed back to life with a steady breath.

Oh, he’s so fucked.

Too much time passes. Ilya dozes, disassociates, waits for a fall that doesn’t come. He’s wrapped in Shane’s arms like…well, like a lover. Lips grazing his forehead, his eyebrows, fingers gently carding through his curls. They don't speak, the silence easy for once. At some point there is a blanket pulled up against the overchilled air, but Ilya doesn’t know anything but the warm hiding place at the hollow of Shane’s throat.

Eventually Shane pulls away, just a little, his voice rough-edged and tender.

“We’re disgusting.”

Ilya wipes his nose on the back of his wrist, gives a perfunctory nod. Tries to rearrange the pieces of himself into something whole. “Yes.”

“C’mon.”

Shane is the one to pull him from the bed, firm grip on his wrist, leading them straight into the shower. He pushes Ilya up against the tile, shielding him from the spray, and kisses him until they’re both light-headed and swaying. Knowing hands roam his body, wiping him of sweat and cum and spit, a perfunctory rinse that’s more about exploration than cleanliness. Shane turns him, runs the hotel soap over his back, his ass, slips his arms around his waist and holds on with his nose pressed to the base of his neck. Ilya should push him away, but he doesn’t. Can’t. Weak.

When the voice in his head gets loud enough to drown out the post-coital haze, he makes some excuse and steps out, leaving Shane to finish washing. He catches the hint of his softened reflection in the mirror, sees the shadow of his mother. A ghost.

The air conditioning stays cranked against the suffocating Florida humidity, the cold air on his damp skin a punishment for leaving the comforting warmth of the shower. The bed is a casualty, stripped of its defenses, the sheets rucked up by all their frantic scrambling.

Shane’s clothes are still on the floor, and without thinking, Ilya picks everything up, piece by piece, loosely folds and lays each article at the foot of the bed. Black CK briefs, undershirt, hideous beige shorts that are too bland-suburban-dad to be Rose Landry’s fault. Last is the button-down, which he brings to his nose on instinct, the collar rich with Shane’s scent; cologne and laundry soap and the salty beach air. His eyes drift shut and he breathes in deep.

He’s brought back to himself by the creak of the tap shutting off in the bathroom, lays the shirt carefully on top of the rest.

What the fuck are you doing?

Ilya falls into the bed alongside the neatly folded clothes, stares at the mottled hotel-room ceiling, the faint outline of a water stain in the corner.

Shane is naked when he emerges from the bathroom in a dying gasp of steam, and he smiles, a quirk of his lips as he notices the clothes tidied on the edge of the bed. He looks…comfortable. At ease in his skin in a way Ilya has never seen him before. It only makes him more beautiful. More dangerous.

Ilya props himself on one elbow, teases Shane about leaving his clothes a mess, gets the expected response. Lines redrawn in the sand…until Shane, still naked, crawls into bed and kisses him again.

And Ilya just…lets it happen. Again.

The ember of hope glows brighter, catches, a newborn wildfire waiting to burn their lives to the ground.

“So…two weeks?” Shane murmurs, so little space between them.

Ilya nods slowly, dazed.

Later, he watches as Shane pulls on his briefs, the ugly shorts, the undershirt, the wrinkled button-down.

Two weeks. Boston, a home game.

Home.

The sinking feeling in his stomach as he boards an eastbound plane. A late-night phone call, demanding money like a ransom for his continued existence. A father who will never love him no matter how many cups or medals he wins, and a mother who will never know the man her son grew to be.

The weight of the man in his lap, the warm shape in his bed, the hollow in his chest as that man stands at the door and smiles and says goodnight with Ilya’s name on his lips.

The door clicks shut.

He’s so unbelievably fucked.

[wordywarriorwrites]

[medrawawi]

stay-at-home dad ilya 🙇 (and shane at work)

[wordywarriorwrites]

@sixhours This looks familiar... 🤔😆

[experienceandobservation]

Pedro Pascal | The Puppy Interview | May 22, 2026 | 🎥 BuzzFeed Celeb

[notinamoodforsociety]

PEDRO PASCAL Meme, Myself & I

[frannyzooey]

Din Djarin Wild West AU

Set in a brothel in the late 1800's in a desolate desert town, you've only been working there for a month when Din Djarin shows up. A bounty hunter who makes his stops into town between jobs, he's known at the inn for his generous appetite and demanding preferences. Asking for you to be made available to him every time he's in town, neither one of you is ready for where this requests leads.

Rating: Explicit af - it's a brothel, friends 🥰

A/N: This is a complete revision of the previous story I posted in 2020. The original story was the very first thing I ever wrote, and this revision is truly the labor of love it deserves. Nothing is going to be removed from the original story -- this is an expansion and improvement on the original, hopefully for the better. To everyone who has been here since the first chapter all the way to the new readers -- I hope you enjoy! ❤️

--

The first time you see him in the brothel, you call dibs.

With your eyes fixed on the way his throat moves when he swallows his drink, the madam laughs.

“You’re too sweet for that one. He needs more experienced girls.”

From across the room, the two of you size him up together – your face curious, hers more knowing.

“He’s more generous than you’ll ever meet when it comes to money,” she confides, leaning in close. “But his appetite and size are also generous.” A lewd smirk graces her lips. “I’m not sure you’re ready.”

Giving her a skeptical glance, your eyes go back to the man. He pushes back from the worn bar top, tipping his head in a silent thanks to the bartender. Broad shoulders tightly encased in a worn but clean jacket, holsters slung low on his hips, trail dusted boots. Following his loose, confident gait up the stairs, you take in the way he moves with surety up the staircase, disappearing into a room.

“Wait. What do you mean, “his appetite”?” you question, turning back to the madam, but she’s already gone, cooing over someone else playing cards nearby. 

Giving one last glance at the door of the room he went into, you plaster on a smile and make your way towards the crowded tables. 

--

The next time he comes into town, the madam tells him you’ve been asking about him.

The settling of quarries, the payment of services, the collection of flyers among other useful pieces of information – he’s fresh from the sheriff’s office, his sparse patience running even thinner. His replies have become near one word responses while he drops a few coins towards the barkeep, in payment for a hot plate of whatever is available.  

“Is that so,” he asks, tipping his hat in thanks when the plate is set in front of him. A glass of  whiskey is poured next, followed by a tin cup of water. 

“Well,” she asks, leaning on his shoulder. “What do you think of her?”

Spearing a bite of food, he chews while his dark eyes study you from across the bar. Chatting with another girl, your face breaks into a smile at something she says. 

The madam’s head tilted in appraisal, her tone is thick with the sweetness of someone trying to sell their wares. “All the men love how sweet she is.”

“Sweet?” he questions, skeptical. Swallowing his whiskey in one go, he sets his glass down on the bar, giving her a side-long look. “I don’t think sweet –”

“Oh, hush,” the madam replies, swatting his shoulder with a fan. “Besides, the girls you had last time moved on. It’s been a while since you’ve been around.” She nods in your direction. “Give her a try. I think you might like her.”

–

He has a routine, the madam tells you. 

“Always two girls, always a bath first.” Opening the door to your room, she strides in, gesturing to a table in the corner. 

A girl of twelve scurries behind her, a maid. Placing clean towels down and laying a fresh bar of soap on top, she gets to work on filling the copper tub. The madam straightens the blanket on your bed, and you inwardly laugh. Like that thing stays straight. 

“Always the whole night, and the next day,” she continues. 

“The next day?” Gracie asks, her brows raised. “He keeps going?”

You laugh at the impressed look on Gracie’s face, and she gives you a wink.

“Most men only get an hour,” she muses. “He must be really generous if he gets the whole night.”

“The next day isn’t for him,” the madam replies. “It’s for you, so you can rest.”

Scooting the girl out of the room with an affectionate swat on her behind, your face sobers, and it’s Gracie’s turn to laugh. 

“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes. “They’d all like to think themselves so good.”

The madam gives her a knowing look. “You’ll see.” She starts towards the door, then turns around. “He’s one of our best customers. Make sure you give him what he wants.” With those final words, she shuts the door behind her. 

You immediately turn to Gracie.

“Think we bit off more than we can chew?” you tease, trying to hide the sudden nerves in your stomach. 

She waves your worries away. “We would have heard about him sooner if he was a rough one.”

That’s true. There are rough ones, and they are well known among the girls. 

One of the most popular girls since her start at the brothel, Gracie has been by your side since you started. Up for anything, she wasn’t fool enough to think she had actual agency in this world, but the little she did have, she used to the full extent. She knew she could reduce these men to nothing with the roll of her hips on theirs, with the whisper of her sweet words – and so she did. She didn’t take anything too seriously, and you loved her for it, especially in contrast to your natural inward nature. 

“I’ve only ever seen him that one other time,” you reply, testing the water with your hand. “Have you seen him before?”

“No. I would have remembered one like that. He is a handsome thing,” she replies, fixing her hair in the mirror. “He’s got tall, dark and mysterious written all over him. A bit dirty,” she shrugs, “but do at least he’s asking for a bath. More than most before they crawl into bed.”

Scrunching your nose, you agree. 

“I’m going to get ready,” she says. “Get him in the tub, and I’ll be back. Try not to have all the fun without me.”

Blowing you a kiss, she slips out of the room. 

Without the distraction of others, you fuss with the tub until it’s filled with hot water, steam curling above the surface. Shampoo, pitcher, basin. Towel draped to the side, and a sack for him to put his clothes in. The inn ran a laundry service that overnight visitors took advantage of, and you weren’t sure if he was the type to trust others with the clothes off his back, but you prepared for it just in case. 

Everything ready, you slip into a silk shift that skims your curves, and try to recall the anticipation and bravery you felt when you called dibs. The warning the madam gave has rattled you, and you wish Gracie were here to help distract. She’d help you shake the nerves free, crack jokes to help clear the tension from the room. 

Finding yourself fiddling with the edge of the blanket, you huff a laugh at yourself before a sharp knock has you straightening. 

He enters, and your greeting is automatic. 

“Hey there,” you smile with practiced sweetness. “Come on in.”

He tips his head in acknowledgment, and all bravado you had when you called dibs disappears, slowly replaced with hesitation. 

He’s so much bigger in your small room than he seemed downstairs in the main room, especially with the door closed. So much more intimating, his silence making it even more so. The amount of weapons on him doesn’t help. Hip holsters with two pistols, ammo slung low across his hips and attached to one of his boots. 

He looks dangerous – until he lifts his hat from his head, uncovering rumpled, dark brown curls. Dirty from weeks in the saddle, the sight of them is surprisingly vulnerable and helps take the edge off his appearance. He looks softer with them, even while working his holster open next, placing the heavy weight of his guns over the back of your chair. 

His silence is unusual. Most men are vocal, demanding, crass. They come in and take what they want, knowing full well they only have an hour to get it – though most of them only need about ten minutes. They are full of boasting pride, of rushed lust, or in the worst instances, poorly disguised condescension. They paid for the hour, which means they paid for you. It comes with a natural assumption that your body is theirs to do as they please, and it often brings loud-mouthed attitudes with it.

Piquing your interest, the man in front of you says nothing, continuing to get undressed. 

Maybe he wants seduction. Come on, you scold yourself. Give him what he paid for.

You stand, the thin strap of your shift slipping down off your shoulder. “Want some help?”

Stepping closer, you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. 

It’s unforgiving, but not unkind. Bold, unashamed, assessing. His eyes are a deep brown, almost black in the dim, romantic light of your room. Fringed with thick lashes, creased at the edges from the sun, showing evidence of living life in the saddle. A strong nose, a pouty mouth, a dark mustache with scruff that covers his cheeks. 

Handsome. Definitely handsome. 

He continues to look, curious, with a slight lift of his chin like he’s testing you. A natural arrogance, you assume, from having to navigate the rough world outside. There is a thrum of tension between your bodies, one you don’t usually feel with customers. Unsure if it’s his quiet confidence, or just his handsomeness you’re drawn to, you use it to bolster your own forwardness. 

Standing on your toes and bracing yourself on his chest, you lean in, whispering just under his ear. “I heard you like to get clean…so you can get me all dirty.”

Pulling back with a mischievous twinkle in your eye, you let your touch slip down the front of his shirt. “That true?” 

He waits a beat before answering, his darkening eyes rovering over your face as his expression relaxes slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. Like you’ve passed his own silent test. 

“It is,” he answers, in a rough baritone. 

“Well then,” you reply. “Let’s get these clothes off.” 

Keeping your eyes on his, you start with his vest, working the buttons free one at a time.

–

He waits in the bath, watching as you undress. His arms stretch wide along the edge of the tub, his broad chest and shoulders taking up space. Admiring the quiet strength held in the way he holds himself, you smile at the naked hunger clear on his face as you climb into the tub, lowering yourself onto his lap. 

“So,” you make conversation, “What do you do?”

“I’m a bounty hunter.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Sounds dangerous.”

“For some.” The reply reeks of confidence, of the implication that he isn’t one of the people he’s referring to. Relaxing, he sinks lower into the tub, closing his eyes. 

“How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?”

A low sigh of relief slips out of him, his voice low. “Too long.”

Lathering the soap, you start with his hand, slipping your fingers between his. You work each finger, comparing the size of your reach against his. His palms are rough and calloused, worn from handling rope. Massaging as you go, you work your way up – over his thick forearms, up along the muscles in his arms. Your fingers dig into the firm rounds of his shoulders, and he lets out a grunt of appreciation. 

Sneaking a peek at his face, you’re startled to find him openly looking back at you. His dark eyes rake over your face and shoulders, dipping low and sweeping back up. His expressions – lust, blended with curiosity – aren't guarded at all, like he’s not used to hiding them, and you suppose his job has made him this way. The sensation is unfamiliar, and unmooring. Most don’t care enough to look as much as he has. None have ever studied you the way he has, that’s certain.

You swallow, reaching for the soap again. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

The bar in your hands, his blunt words make you look up, meeting his eyes. He is earnest, sincere. His statements have been blunt and to the point since he’s walked into the room, with right now being no exception. And somehow, that lets you know he’s telling the truth. 

Your own practiced expression slips before you can catch it, open vulnerability displayed on your face before you quickly reel it back in. 

“I know,” you reply, though you don’t – and he knows it. 

His head tilts to the side, waiting. Patient, letting you come to your own decision. After a beat, you dip your chin in acknowledgement. 

Confirmation at your reassurance, he closes his eyes and leans back, letting you continue. 

The tension broken, you resume. The quiet makes the situation seem so much more intimate than usual; the trickling of water, the soft sweep of your touch over his skin. Your thumbs work the base of his throat, your palms sliding over his firm chest. The sparse collection of hair along his sternum catches suds, and you soap under his arms, and along his ribs; his body releasing tension with every smooth glide of your hands. 

You can feel him harden underneath you, but he does absolutely nothing about it…and for some reason, that makes you relax around him even more. You can feel the evidence of how much he wants it, have heard from the madam how demanding he can be…but yet he waits, savoring this part. You suppose weeks without a bath will do that to a person, and you’re determined to reward him for the wait. 

Pouring shampoo into your palm, you lean forward to start on his hair. Pressing your bare front against his own, the sensation gives you your first real reaction since he’s entered the room – a low hum of appreciation, deep from within his chest. Lifting the corner of your mouth with a smile, you become bolder, and let yourself slide down, dragging the pressed weight of your slick breasts over his skin. 

He lets out a shaky breath, and dropping his hands from the edges of the tub, they find the meat of your hips under the water with a squeeze. Lifting onto your knees, you lean your weight into him again, lining your front with his. Breast to chest, stomach to stomach, hip to hip – the sensation of his firm, warm, wet skin pressed against your own has you distracted for a moment before you slide your fingers up through the curls at his nape, working the shampoo into his hair. Your nails drag across his scalp, your fingers twist in his curls, and he simultaneously melts underneath your touch while tightly bundled tension rises between you. 

“Feel good?”

“Yes.” His answer is immediate, low with desire. His hands squeeze your hips, hard, and he kneads your skin under the surface, his touch becoming bolder. Stretching his arms to reach your ass, he grabs greedy palmfuls, tugging you against his lap. 

The warm weight of desire fills the cradle of your hips, and reaching for a jug to rinse the shampoo from his hair, you yelp when he surprises you by gripping your waist to hold you in place and sliding down to submerge himself underwater. Suds float to the surface as he quickly scrubs the soap from his hair, and when he sits back up, you’re laughing – a sound that brings the first smile you’ve seen on his face. It’s quick, yet no less devastating, with two deep dimples in his cheeks that make you want to press your thumbs into the divots. 

A smile that makes you want to kiss him. 

Wiping the water from his face with a broad sweep of his palm, he slicks his dark strands off his face and the effect is startling. Still handsome – so handsome – but the vulnerability of the rumpled curls is gone, replaced with dominance. The hunger in his hooded eyes darkens, and feeding off the tension gathering between your bodies and greedy for another groan or smile, you grab the soap. 

Arching your back, you put on a show as you reach behind and slide your soapy touch up the length of his legs. Over his shins, behind his knees, up the top of his thighs. Stopping short right before his groin, you straighten again and reach the soap, but he plucks it from your hands. 

“Hey!” you protest, biting a grin. 

Keeping his eyes on your face, you watch as he slowly lathers it between his large hands and lets it drop into the water before splaying his hand across your sternum. Whether it’s the hold itself or the way he’s looking at you, you sense the shift of power in the small space as it transfers to him. Sliding his hand to the side with an appreciative hum, he palms your breasts, covering them with soap. He cups the weight of them, smearing his thumbs over your nipples with a slippery glide until they pucker under the suds, teasing them with exploring, needy touches that have you arching your back, leaning into his touch. 

Desire trickles down from the tight peaks along your spine, settling between your hips. Slick and warm, you begin a slow roll over his lap and dip your hand beneath the water in search of his cock.  When you find it with a firm grip, he sucks in a sharp breath. 

“You ready to get out yet?” you breathe, your hand stroking him root to tip. He’s thick, a heft to his cock that is more than most and your cunt clenches with anticipation. The space between you is filled with steam, with the slick warmth of the water, with the weighty charge of electricity. He swallows hard, the bob of his tanned throat calling for your lips and leaning forward, you press your mouth to his skin. Warm and wet and fragrant under the press of your mouth, you open up wider, your tongue slipping out for a taste.

The sound he lets out is delicious.

A rough scrape of need, a low growl as his touch grows needier, his hands scooping up your breasts with a squeeze. The soap aids in a slide of his touch down to your hip, his other hand curling around the nape of your neck as he guides you back, and your neglected chest heaves; your hand still working under the water. 

You want him. A rare feeling with clients, always fleeting on the rare occasion it happens, you can taste the edge of your arousal, the spark of it burning bright. He’s handsome, but there is also something about his patience and his attentiveness that has you feeling more comfortable than you have in ages. Usually, at this point, you’d be faking your interest just to get the hour over with. Right now, you’re surprised by how much you want it. 

“You just gonna stare at my mouth, or —“ Your words cut off with a gasp when he drags his thumb over your bottom lip, your question finishing in a whisper. “Or are you gonna kiss me?” 

Pulling you in, he does. Fuck, he does. 

The first press of your mouths together is sure and firm, his need leading your mouth. He tastes you like he’s been dying for it, like you’re an oasis in the middle of the desert. Fitting your mouth against his, he devours the whimper that you let out, drinking it down. His hands splay in their hold around your waist, sliding up over the smooth skin of your back and abandoning his cock to scoot closer, you wind your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. 

Grinding down against his lap, the steamed air above the bath fills with the sound of ragged breath, of low groans, of the gentle lap of water as your mouths taste and part, only to seal again. He meets your need with his own – savoring, full sweeps of his tongue over yours, kisses that are lazy until they’re not. Breaking the kiss to taste your neck, his teeth scrape over the delicate skin before he sucks, groaning against your throat. His tongue smears over your skin, and you reach for the soap, wrapping your arms around him to wash his back. 

“Stop, he groans, his lips brushing against your skin, and you pause.  

“You don’t want me to wash you?”

He growls low in his throat, cupping your jaw with his hand. He slides his thumb over your lips again, pushing against their plush softness and when you suck on the pad, his eyes fixate on the sight. He shakes his head slowly, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip. 

“I want you to get on that bed, girl.”

Girl. 

The word should be demeaning, but it’s not. It slips through your torso, shivers along your spine, the weight of it curling low between your hips. The word is like the man – forcing you to yield. He’s been lying in wait this whole time, letting you believe you have the advantage until you get comfortable, letting you come to him…just like you assume he does with his quarries. You fell for the trap, and you don’t even care. 

Scrambling out of the tub, he follows you — and that’s when Gracie walks in. 

“Oh,” she breathes, openly appreciating the size and breadth of his nude body. Her eyes drag down and back up again, a pleased smile playing at the edge of her lips. “Aren’t you a sight.”

He jerks his head towards the bed. “Get in here.”

“Whose in charge here, mister?” she teases, and he replies without hesitation. 

“I am.” 

“Yes, sir,” she coos with a little shimmy, shutting the door behind her. 

–

That night, you learned who he was. 

Not only his name – Din Djarin – which was exchanged in the middle of the night, with your body draped over his, but who he was, as a man. Blunt, straight forward, used to being in charge. Your bodies sore, spent and sated – he had spent hours putting you through your paces, and your eyelids were as heavy as your limbs as you relaxed into the warmth his bare skin radiated. 

Gracie curled into his other side, the reasoning behind two women became evident after that first night: he was touch-starved, with the desire to be immersed in skin to skin, buried underneath someone or within them. Two women at once allowed him this luxury, while also providing him ample resources to expend his excess...energy. 

You also learned that he seemed to care about your pleasure. Needed it, in fact. Demanded it from you, pulled it from your body even when you thought you couldn’t give him any more. He pushed and pushed and pushed you, and that night, you understood the madam's earlier comments. 

He didn’t seem satisfied until you were just as wrung out as he was, and afterwards, he left you sated and sore, thoroughly used – and thoroughly asleep. 

He had spoken to the madam before he left the next morning. 

“I always want that one. Make sure of it.”

–

Since that first night, he’s shown up a few times. 

Always weeks apart: saddle weary and dusty, worn around the edges and ready for a softness that only you could provide. 

Tonight, when he gets to your room, you’re already in the bath with Gracie perched on the side, soap and rag in hand. You take turns with him: you, washing his body from your seat on his lap, Gracie leaning over to offer her mouth. His kisses are demanding and deep, his hands reaching to hold her in place while his mouth tastes everything she gifts him. When you interrupt to wash his hair, he shifts to you, cupping your breasts to latch that same hungry mouth onto the peaks. The swirl of his skillful tongue is distracting, decadent, and a hum pours from your throat when his nose brushes along the length of your neck, his mouth sampling the hollow under your ear. His hand travels down your back and over your hip, his thick fingers pressing between your legs. 

“I’ve been dreaming of that cunt of yours,” he confesses, his voice like gravel. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his middle fingers parting you under the water, sliding through the slick wetness he’s pulled from you already. “Let me taste it.” 

It doesn’t take long until he stands, pulling you from the water and guiding you backwards onto your bed with a push. 

“You’re going to get my bed all wet – oh my god,” you moan, arching into the wet heat of his mouth. From the bath to his knees, he’s found his way between your thighs with a rough jerk of your body to the edge of the mattress. His shoulders spread you wide, his mouth devouring your cunt in a wet, decadent kiss. Gripping behind your knee, he shoves it up to open you up wider, and his tongue smears and licks across your spread center as he groans, savoring the taste.

Kneeling on the floor next to him, Gracie wraps her hand around his thick cock with a stroke, an action that has him pressing his face closer. He’s messy, open mouthed and hungry, like he’s starved for it and you roll your hips against his greedy mouth, losing yourself in the sensation.

She strokes him harder, faster and breaking his kiss to your cunt, he circles the nape of her neck, tugging her in for a kiss. You watch, his glistening mouth meeting hers, his other hand still splayed with a grip on the inside of your thigh to hold you in place. Slipping your fingers down across your soft belly, you find your clit and swirl a practiced circle over it – until his hand swats yours away. 

“It’s mine,” he orders. “That cunt belongs to me.”

“Then take care of it like it’s yours,” you challenge. Your tone is sweet and soft, but the lift of your chin tells him it’s an order.

He likes the way you push against him, you’ve come to find out. His need to make you submit is only satisfying if you push back, if you play at fighting against it. It needs to feel hard won for him, but not in a way most men like to win. Not with harsh, demeaning words and cruel orders. No – he needs to overpower with pleasure, needs to make you succumb because you can’t fight it anymore. Begging, pulling against restraints, pushing against the weight of his body as he forces you to take it – those are the ways he likes it. 

Giving you a look that pins you in place, he spreads you wide as his hands grip and pinch. He bends, his mouth sucking and biting at the soft skin of your thighs, soothing it with wide sweeps of his tongue. Your head tips back, a moan pouring out of your throat towards the ceiling and you feel the bed dip beside you as Gracie crawls onto it. Reaching over to you, she tips your chin towards her and pulls you in for a kiss. 

She’s so much softer than the man at your feet: her lips lush and pliant, her breath sweet. Her hand cups your breast with a gentle squeeze, toying with the peak while taut pleasure fills the cradle of your hips. His eyes on your face, you can feel his possessiveness in the way his mouth devours, and the combination of her sweetness mixed with his intensity pushes you closer and closer to the edge. The attention is all consuming, your thighs trembling with the release he’s building deep inside you. Breaking away from Gracie, you beg him for relief. 

“Fuck – Din,” you moan, threading your fingers through his dark curls with a tug. Letting yourself drop back into the plush mattress, you reach for Gracie as he moans into your spread cunt, and she holds your hand while your back arches, your heels digging into the firm muscles of his back. “I’m – you’re going to make me cum.”

Your voice breaks when you do, a bright wave of taut warmth spreading from your core outwards. He licks you through it, sliding his tongue through the gush of wetness, focusing his efforts on your swollen clit. Your hips jerk and you whimper, a sound Gracie hushes with another kiss. 

Focused on her and still floating, you don’t notice he’s stood up until you feel his sure hold slide up over the top of your shins, guiding your knees back against your chest. He steps forward, and you can feel the thickness of his cock pressing against the slick dip of your entrance. 

“You ready, girl?” he asks, grinding his hips into you. His breathing is ragged, pent up, his chin glistening and wet. 

You can feel how soaked you are, his movement smearing your wetness into the curls at his base, over his thick shaft. He positions the weighty, blunt tip of his cock in place, groaning when he feels you clench against it. When he breaks you open, your lips catch against Gracie’s, your hot whine fanning over her mouth. 

He’s so much – so filling, so thick, the slide inside so satisfying it makes you want to cry. He reaches further than most, pushing forward with a grind and though Gracie has your mouth, he leans to focus your attention on him. Pulling out and sliding back in with a firm roll of his hips, he breaks your kiss with a grip of your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

“Look at me,” he commands, another slide out, another grind in. Another, another. Trying to match your rhythm with his, you can’t move your hips with how he has them pinned in place, forcing you to take it. 

“So –,” he hisses, pulling out to slide back in, “So fucking wet. So tight,” he groans, picking up pace. You bounce lightly with the motion; the muscles along his ribs rippling with the action. “Gracie, look at her gorgeous tits. They look neglected to me.”

The smile she gives him is affectionate and sweet, though the situation is anything but. Crawling to you, she bends and licks a wide stripe up the soft underside of your breast, before giving it a lingering kiss. 

“Din –,” you beg, arching into her wet mouth. He’s already building something low in your tummy, ratcheting it higher with every thrust of his hips, even higher with the unrelenting grip he’s using to pin you in place.  

Gracie switches breasts with a wet path from one to the other, nibbling at the stiff peak of your nipple. The two of them work in tandem: her sweet mouth with his unrelenting pace, her softness paired with his strength. 

She pulls back and Din bends forward just enough to give you a rough, hungry kiss, one that has your knees pressing into your chest and then he’s fucking down into you, his hips pounding into your ass, your mouths hovering over each others as you drink down his panting, ragged breaths – 

“Gracie,” he tells her, a soft grunt between each word, “Show me your fingers. That’s right,” he praises her, as she dips them inside herself with a sigh. “Get yourself nice and wet for me – you’re next.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Gracie rolling her hips against her hand, her soft thighs spread wide, the silk nighty she’s wearing twisted around her torso while her eyes glaze over watching him fuck you.

You whine underneath him, earning yourself a quick, breathless kiss. “You can take it, girl. I know you can.” He gives a couple of particularly rough thrusts, groaning over your higher moan. “Go ahead, girl. Tell her how good it feels. Tell her –”

Before he can get the words out, you pull his head down to seal his mouth with yours, breaking again underneath him with a hoarse moan. Stronger and more intense than the last one, your cunt squeezes him so hard you feel him stutter a grunt against your mouth, trapped in place. Everything is so wet: your sore cunt, his lap, the sweat that clings to his lower back and along your hairline, the kiss you share with him, as you come down from your peak. 

Pausing to let you catch your breath, he’s tender with his touches, brushing your sweaty hair back from your face. “You did so good for me girl. So good,” he murmurs between kisses. Giving a final caress to your cheek, he gently eases himself out of you. “You stay there and rest – it’s Gracie's turn.”

So tender and soothing with you, his rigid cock betrays his yet unsatisfied need as he shifts his focus to her. She looks delighted at the sight – a desperate Din, his muscles rigid with tension, his stomach taut with effort. Limp and pliant, you lay still while he gently eases your thighs open with a sweep of his hands to look at your cunt. His expression clearly torn between tasting the sticky, slick mess you’ve made for him and leaving you be, he wets his bottom lip, before sliding two fingers through the mess, feeding it to Gracie. 

Radiating dominance and tightly wound need, he watches as she sucks on his fingers like it’s nourishment, scrambling up on her knees to pull him towards her. He jerks the neckline of her nighty down, palming her bare breasts with a squeeze and her hand reaches for his cock, eager for him to fill her. Pushing her backwards, the bed bounces with the weight of their bodies falling together and bracing himself on his forearm, he reaches down to slide into her in one, brutal stroke. One hand fisting into the bedding over her head and the other roughly massaging her breast, the flesh of it spills out between his fingers as he pounds into her, needing to be rough. 

It’s a lot, even for her — but you can tell she loves it. Worked up and waiting for her turn, her fingers dig into his ass, pulling him into her as her hips grind against his. Reaching for her wrist and pinning it into the mattress above her head, he presses his weight into the hold while his hips shove into hers, over and over. 

Everything about the way he fucks is so filthy and base. Almost feral, frantic with need. He demands so much from both of you, but also of himself. Edging himself until he’s exhausted. Seeing just how long he can go and how many times he can make you come before he allows himself the same pleasure. 

“What do you think, girl?,” he asks, looking over at you. “Can she take it?” 

Gracie moans loudly at a particularly rough thrust and he turns back to her, clamping his hand tight over her mouth while continuing to push her further. Her dazed eyes widen above his broad hand before rolling back, her brow bunching when they slide shut. 

Pressing a kiss over the top of his hand where her lips would be, he shushes her. “Shhh. It’s okay, filthy girl. I thought –” he groans, “ – I thought about making a mess of your pretty little cunt, but I – fuck – I think I want it in your mouth instead.”

At this, Gracie comes – her legs squeezing tight around his waist, her whines still muffled by his palm as her body arches underneath him. Digging her fingers into his bicep, he holds himself still as she sobs underneath him, trembling with her release. 

At the edge himself, he pulls out of her and quickly climbs up over her body, he pinching her cheeks together until her mouth opens up. Fisting his cock with an audible stroke, he rests the tip between her lips and cums, hard. 

There is so much of it. Coating her lips and tongue, his release pours into her mouth, dripping down her chin. She sits up, eager for more, swallowing him deeper and he hisses, his hips jerking forward to chase the wet heat. She looks up at him with a warmth of adoration, eager for praise, as his hands cradle her jaw while his hips roll lazily against her mouth. Staying there until he’s too sensitive, he slips out and slumps forward, catching himself on the bedframe. 

“Fuck me,” he pants, the tension in his muscles slowly ebbing away. Sluggish, he moves like he’s drugged and the two of you shift on the bed to make room for him. Him in the middle, he gathers you into his arms, while reaching back to ensure Gracie is tucked tight behind him. 

The first time he held you in his arms, you fell asleep immediately, exhausted from all he demanded from you. He slept like the dead as well, finally being able to let his guard down. Tonight, you resist the urge to close your eyes, savoring the warm weight of his arm curled around your waist, and the firm, solid tuck of his body behind yours. Delicately tracing his knuckles, you think about how no other man has ever held you like this. So used to them taking what they want and then leaving, you know you shouldn't get too attached or read too much into it…but it’s nice, the weight and comfort of his warmth. 

In the small hours of the morning, you wake to the sensation of his nose gliding up the nape of your neck, his lips peppering kisses along the top of your spine. The room is dark, before dawn, and rolling over to face him, you see Gracie curled up behind him, dead to the world. 

He’s achingly soft with his handling of you: sweeps of his palms over your soft skin, kisses that have you aching for more. It’s hard to see him in the darkness of the room, but that only makes every sensation more heightened. You focus on other senses: his low, rumbling hums, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth. His hand teases down the slope of your body, finding a home between your legs. Cupping your cunt, he preps you to take him again. 

Swirls over your clit, fingers slipping inside to draw out slick wetness. Bringing the digits to his mouth, he coats them thoroughly with his saliva before bringing them back down to your cunt, easing them into you. 

Half awake, everything feels like a dream, saturated with sensation. The weight of his body on yours, the filling push of him inside. His warm breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his mouth along your jaw. 

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, his forehead sliding against the soft skin on your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin. “You always take me so well. You make me feel so good.”

Your fingers thread through his curls, guiding his mouth to yours for a kiss. Deep, just like his achingly slow thrusts inside of you. Deep, like the aching feeling in your chest at his tenderness. 

Swallowing your moans, he breaks the seal of your mouths just long enough to make whispered promises in the dark: that he’s going to come back in a month, that some day he’s going to settle down in this town. That someday, he’s going to build a house and take you home with him, just to keep you all to himself.

At the last promise, you let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back into the pillow as he runs the bridge of his nose against your throat, nuzzling the soft skin. 

“They all say that,” you tease. 

You feel him smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Knowing that he’s going to have to leave soon, you shift your focus on giving him everything he asks for – your legs hitching high on his hips, your thighs squeezing him tight as he rocks into you, deeper, harder. With every grinding slide, he makes you repeat his words back to him, each statement sounding needier than the last: 

No one fucks me like you do. 

I can’t think about anything else when you’re deep inside me. 

I’m your girl. Only your girl. 

When you both come, he rests his head on your chest for a while, listening to the rapid thrumming of your heart as you stroke his soft hair away from his temple. The sun begins its ascent outside, the room slowly becoming hazy with dawn. 

With one last kiss for you, and a kiss placed on Gracie’s temple, he pulls himself from the bed. 

You watch as he searches for his clothes, his belt, his boots. 

Your eyes sliding shut, you listen to him slip from the room, shutting the door with a soft click as you roll over into Gracie’s warm heat and go back to sleep.

[wordywarriorwrites]

@frannyzooey I wanna wrap TMTC around me like a warm blanket and just snuggle into it FOREVER.

[wordywarriorwrites]

Pedro Pascal's Puppy Interview.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

A Picture is Worth 1000 Words

WRITING CHALLENGE

Alright, the results are in and you guys have spoken - the pictures will be randomly assigned to all who want to participate. Here's how it's gonna go down:

Whoever wants to play just needs to send me an ask or a message with the challenge name.

I have compiled a collection of image prompts and numbered them. I'll put the numbers into a picker wheel, and pick one for you in the order that I get your ask or message.

Once you get your assigned image, write a 1k word (not a hard word count, but try to aim for 1000) drabble to go with it for the character (or characters) of your choice.

Post your story whenever you please! There's no time limit and no closing date. As long as you tag me in it, I'll be sure to add it to the event masterlist.

You can play as many times as you want, and I will keep replenishing the random photo picker wheel as needed!

That's it! Very chill, very few rules. Except for these:

Be cool.

Tag accordingly.

Have fun.

If anyone has any questions please feel free to let me know! If not, then come get your pictures!

tagging a few lovelies who seemed interested: @newpathwrites @bergamote-catsandbooks @oonajaeadira @sawymredfox @din-cognito @grogusmum @savedyounine @kokoluwie @maggiemayhemnj @sin-djarin @aurorawritestoescape @604to647 @burntheedges @sizzlingcloudmentality @insomniamamma @sixhours

OPEN TO ALL WHO WANT TO PLAY!

[a7estrellas]

PEDRO PASCAL and Julia Louis-Dreyfus at the Late Show with Stephen Colbert

[a7estrellas]

PEDRO PASCAL arriving at the Late Show in New York

[wordywarriorwrites]

He looked goooooood.

[kokoluwie]

"I got jealous!"

[ozarkthedog]

I’ve never been more attracted to someone.

[muthwoom]

MY HUSBAND ASKS WHY I NEVER WRITE ABOUT HIM | L. E. Bowman