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intheorangebedroom · 5 months

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Tonight you belong to me, prologue

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.

This is the beginning of what you wished had no end.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 See series masterlist for extensive a/n blurb and especially for trigger warnings. Tread carefully. Ily 🧡 Please be gentle, I'm terrified 🫣

Word count: 5.1k

[series masterlist] * [next]

Prologue: In The Beginning

He comes to you every Friday.

He gets in after dark. He is gone before dawn.

In this shady motel on the outskirts of town, where no one will recognise your car. The curtains are yellow, and the carpet is brown. There’s a dollar store painting of the Appalachian above the bed, and the tap runs either trickling and scalding or high pressure and cold.

You hated that in particular, in the beginning. Now you don’t care. You don’t wash him off your skin anymore. Not until you’ve got no other choice.

Because he can’t mark you, you’d been firm on that point, he likes to come on your skin.

When he’d finally spoke, that very first time, he’d told you he was Frankie, but you assume it’s not his real name. Which is fine, you didn’t give him your real name either.

“Frankie” had been far subtler than you, regretful, perhaps, you like to entertain the delusion, when he’d hinted that you couldn’t leave any trace on his body.

And, in the beginning, you couldn’t imagine that it would ever matter.

You were wrong.

You were wrong about a lot of things, in the beginning.

—

Friday night. Again.

The swinging door creaks on its hinges to let in the regulars at random intervals. Mostly men, mostly middle-aged, mostly unshaven. Mostly clad in the working-class uniform of jeans, boots and t-shirt. Few of them sit around the round wooden tables. The bar isn’t large, there’s only four of those.

When they come in small parties, the men favour the two pools on the right. They’re lined with blue felt. The casing is made of plywood. No one ever plays darts, no one ever feeds the jukebox. Its electric cord lays unplugged on the floor, coiled like a sad sagging tail.

If they walk in alone, they tend to sit at the bar. Head turned toward the giant television screen hung on the wall to their left, where younger men in more colourful uniforms fight, run, kick or throw balls in all shapes and sizes. Its noise is at the forefront, the middle-aged men’s conversations a low humming sound that falls into the background.

The long and angled bar itself takes up most of the rectangular room’s space. The counter is stripped-down to the bare minimum. Stainless steel, easy to clean, practical. Four beer taps and a gambling machine and beyond the counter, a large mirror with three rows of dusty liquor bottles.

Food is served, occasionally, as evidenced by the paper napkins dispensers and the two yellow and red plastic condiment bottles on each table.

The barman runs the place on his own. You drink here every Friday evening, and you’ve never seen more than six customers at once, you included. Admittedly, you might not be very observant.

Being observant requires endurance, far more than you possess and are willing to deploy and direct towards others. You’re not selfish, not in the least. But you’re tired. You’ve been tired for years. There’s no rational explanation for your exhaustion. No honourable, awe-inspiring, valid ground. You don’t even know what wears you out. It might be sadness, disappointment, or boredom. Or all three in equal parts. All you know is that, come Friday night, your head needs the support of the gray wall behind you.

The creaking noise on your left signals the arrival of another customer, stomping in with a sure gait. Your eyes stay shut. You don’t come to the very aptly named Hole in The Wall seeking the company of other people, whoever they may be.

You come here to hide for a few hours, between the styrofoam ceiling and the dusty carpeted floor. To drink your week away in peace, but not in nerve-racking silence. Alcohol, you found out at a young age, has interesting properties: it blurs out the sharp edges of your dark thoughts in just the right amount.

Back in spring, when you stepped in here for the very first time, you looked comically out of place in your corporate attire, and you did raise quite a few eyebrows from the other patrons. Five months later, they must have learned to see past the charade of your overpriced clothes, because none of them pays you any mind anymore. It’s better than anonymity: it’s casual indifference.

You loosen your grip around your tall cocktail glass and let the condensation drip down onto the cardboard coaster. Reluctantly, you lift your weary eyelids to locate the square napkin lying somewhere on the table and dry your fingertips on it.

That’s when you see him taking a seat at the counter, directly across from your small table.

Years from now, you will still remember the precise circumstances of your first, brief encounter, even though you’re not fully paying attention yet. Nothing indicates tonight will be any different. Nothing suggests you are about to live through a pivotal moment in your existence.

Details will stand out, however. Mostly visual, surprisingly, given the dim lighting of the place. The back of his trucker hat, midnight blue plastic mesh, flattening the dark curls on his nape. The washed out denim of his shirt, worked-in, greenish in the diffuse artificial light, pulled taut across his back, as he sits facing away from you.

The square shape of his shoulders is backlit against the bar’s mirror. Your empty gaze finds the solid slope of his broad silhouette, and you let it rest there, lazily following his movements whenever he picks up his glass. It’s the same comfort you find when you rest your empty head against the hard wall. It’s aimless, inconsequential.

Later, on different kinds of Friday nights, the sight of his muscles bunching as he tugs off his shirt will bring you back to this very moment. The thought will reshape into a sharp, wistful ache deep inside your heart. What would have happened, to you, to him, if he had chosen to stop for a drink at another bar, somewhere further down the road? What if you had done the same, back in April?

For now, your mind is blessedly blank.

Does he catch your reflection in the mirror? Does he feel your gaze on the back of his head?

After a while, how long, you cannot tell, he pivots slowly on his stool, grounded and dense. Slowly, like a mountain would if a mountain came to life and decided to walk into the ocean. He doesn’t turn around completely, just enough to look at you, one of his arms still propped on top of the counter.

The right side of his face is darkened by the shadow from the brim of his hat, but you can make out the pronounced crease in his brow. His eyes are black, and unfathomable, like the ocean at night, but alight with a bright glimmer. They find yours instantly.

Something shifts inside your rib cage, something close to the heart, close to pain.

You feel exposed, entirely bare. Your breathing subsides, you cannot move, trapped in a nightmare-like stretch of time as he glares down at you, immobile, impressive, gigantic. Dark eyes boring into yours. You’re drowning in them.

You don’t want it to end.

Inevitably, he breaks eye-contact, and swivels back toward the mirror. He sits still for a few seconds, before grabbing his glass to finish his beer in long gulps.

You watch him lift his hat and brush his hair to the side with a large hand, and he’s out the door less than a minute later, without so much as a glance in your direction, a conscious choice, given the minute proportions of the place.

He leaves you sitting there, with your brow pinched and your empty drink, struggling to understand the rippling effects of his massive presence on your body and your brain.

You bring your fingers to your chest and rub them over your sternum, where the shifting sensation continues to prickle.

Neither a second drink nor a third helps dull the feeling, but a fourth one is not an option if you want to get home without a DUI.

It follows you into the darkness of the deserted parking lot, on the drive home and into the glass prison of your clinically clean apartment. It’s there when you get into bed, when you lie wide awake at 3am next to your sleeping fiancé, and it’s still there when you wake up, hungover and sore, four hours later.

Nestled between your lungs. The memory of his cold hard stare. Of his soft sad eyes.

It bypasses your most foolproof diversions of painful pleasure and pleasurable pain. Your attempts at hard work and your compulsive distractions. It robs you of your appetite, of your lucidity, of your ability to rest. It corners you in the first floor toilet of your office building on a Thursday morning, on the verge of a panic attack, until you consider calling your sister for help.

Ava would figure it out. She’d get you out of that loop in which you’ve locked yourself up, she’d know what to say. With her crude words and her unforgiving formulations, she’d admonish your silly overreaction and dismissively rebuke your daydreams over a mundane interaction, probably throwing in something about your heteronormative fantasies.

Dude, you’re all worked up because of a staring contest with a rando in a dive bar? she’d say. She’d toss the rhetorical question at your face, you can hear her as if you’ve already sweated through the conversation.

She’s often harsh but she’s always right.

And normally, you’d be seeking that out. For your little sister to bully some good sense back into your nebulous brain.

But something has shifted.

Dark curls, thick fingers, flexing shoulders. Solid arms. Cold, hard stare.

He abraded something on the surface of your skin, and you don’t think you’re capable of withstanding Ava’s sarcasm in your current state.

By the following Friday, you feel so vulnerable you consider going to another place, or not going out at all.

Only, the alternative is worse.

You walk into The Hole in The Wall convinced that your unsteady gait is betraying your apprehension, squinting to adjust to the dim light of the place. The bar is nearly empty, as always, save for a couple of bearded graying men you vaguely recall having seen here before. They all look the same to you, anyway. Another thing you hate about yourself.

The barman tells you to sit while he prepares your drink. The gesture is kind but uncustomary, and it only serves to increase your uneasy feeling.

Within an hour of waiting, because that's what you've been doing, you register with an icy trickle of shame dripping down your sides, you realise he won’t be coming.

That man’s presence here last week is the very definition of sheer happenstance. Nothing more. Nothing else. If anything, you’ve been a nuisance to him, ogling him while he was simply trying to unwind with an afterwork drink.

You’ll never see him again.

And it’s fine. You’ll move on, drift back into drifting, avoiding at all costs to process what happened to you when you met his gaze. The tree hiding the forest.

When you walk up to the counter to order your second drink, the question slips away from you.

“Can I have the same thing the man in the trucker hat had last Friday, please?”

The barman looks up at you from the tray of clean dishes he's pulling out of the dishwasher and he huffs. He’s handsome, by most standards, you notice for the very first time. Very tall, and broad, green-eyed with a three-day stubble. He’s probably a couple of years above forty. His head is shaved bald. He’s manly in a burly, albeit fatherly way.

“Oh sweetheart, d’you know how many guys with a trucker hat I see here every day?”

It’s not meant to make you feel small, his tone is gentle. It’s a straightforward, factual answer.

“What do you wanna drink?” he asks when you don’t answer. “Tired of that G&T yet? Cos I got good beer. This is a beer place, you know? Wanna try a light blonde, to start? Something stronger? An IPA?”

What do you want. You’ve been drinking gin all your life because that’s what your mother always has. Starting at 5pm in the afternoon. Would you, indeed, like to try a light blonde? Something stronger? An IPA, to start?

It’s a brand-new world unfurling in front of you, a yellow brick road paved with what-do-you-wants.

“Sure,” you nod, “I can try an IPA.”

—

The barman goes by the name of Mark. He’s also the owner of The Hole in The Wall, you learn. Bought the place two years ago, after a painful divorce. A cliché, he adds, with a charming, self-deprecating smile.

The interaction’s short and altogether not unpleasant, and the beer, to your surprise, is fresh and enjoyable. It’s much tastier, in fact, than the cheap, tepid gin you’ve been sipping so far. It gets you drunk just as fast, but this time when you leave the bar, your mind is quiet, if not at ease.

The following week, a heatwave hits the Tampa Bay. The melting asphalt sticks to your leather soles, like your sweaty clothes to your clammy skin, like your brooding mood to your dampened dreams. In a couple of days eventually, August will draw to an end, but the summer won’t end with it. It never truly does. It taunts you all year round, a sweltering reminder of how much you hate living here.

And if it wasn’t for the humidity, you’d be jogging the short distance between your car and the cool haven of the air-conditioned bar.

You push the swinging door forward, eyes shut in anticipation of the blinding darkness and you stand in the entrance for a few seconds. The familiar and comforting smell of moldy dust mixed with beer yeast greets your senses as you take in the chill air grazing your naked arms.

And then you reopen your eyes.

He’s here.

Trucker hat, blue jeans, gray T-shirt. Different clothes, same silhouette. He’s sitting at your table, his position a magnified echo of yours two weeks ago, hand loosely wrapped around his pint, seemingly asleep with his head propped against the wall.

Mark looks at you and tilts his head in his direction, wiggling an eyebrow with a silent question of “Is this the guy you were asking about?”

Your breathing’s so loud you think everyone must hear it over the droning television. Mark’s brow furrows with incomprehension at the alarm widening your eyes, and you anchor yourself to his face, walking toward him in slow motion, climbing on the first high stool you reach.

“Hey. You ok?”

You stretch your lips in a wince of a smile.

“So? What will it be today? Wanna try a Free Dive? It’s local.”

You nod in silence, but then he grabs a large glass, and you ask tentatively, “Can I have only half a pint?”

Fuck, your mouth is so dry.

Behind you, to your right, you feel more than you hear the man shift in his chair.

Mark sighs, his left hand paused on the tap handle.

“I don’t have beer glasses this small, sweetheart. Get a pint, the first one’s on me, okay?”

You reiterate your silent nod. He places the beer in front of you, and you swallow the first swigs too quickly. The back of your throat throbs with the fast flowing intake of the cold liquid, or perhaps it’s because of the frantic beating of your heart.

He’s getting up now, you can tell by the friction sound of the chair dragging on the carpeted floor, and your frightened expression turns downright pleading as you hear him close the distance between you.

He’s at your back, sliding his thick naked arm past yours to return his empty glass to the counter. His movements are slow, deliberate. You get a whiff of his scent, a masculine musk, with a faint smell of laundry detergent, it’s wholesome, safety, comfort. You turn your head. He’s looking at you. Looking at you with intent.

He’s so tall you have to lift your chin to hold his gaze. Hard cold stare, soft sad eyes, it’s swirling violently inside your exhausted chest and he’s leaving again already, walking toward the door like nothing just happened.

He pulls it inward and you watch him exit the bar into the dusk light.

Did he come back for you? Are you going insane?

Sixty-seven seconds. Sixty-seven seconds is the time it takes you to decide your next move. The one that’s going to forever change your life. The one that could be everything or turn out meaningless.

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Mark, sliding your handbag on the counter and you stand up to follow him outside.

The sunset sky is a pink shade of orange. Shadows are stretching long onto the asphalt, drawing a distorted world upside-down.

He’s not here anymore, you waited too fucking long. You quickly scan the parked vehicles on the other side of the road to your right, and the parking lot in front of you, but it’s empty, save for your anthracite sedan, a black truck and what you assume must be Mark’s old SUV, because you see it every week.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, pressing your fingers to your sternum.

You look to your left, where the parking ends. There’s a white utility vehicle advertising a plumbing service and a dark blue city car. Beyond them, the lot extends into a narrow stretch of gravel behind the small rectangular building. There’s a pile of junk, and the tailgate of a red truck.

Your hand drops to your side and you start walking toward it, going around the white van.

He’s there. He’s waiting for you by the front of the red truck, behind the building. His hands propped on his waist, head down, hidden under his cap.

You keep walking toward him, the sound of your shoes on the dirty ground grating your ears, but you stop short when he raises his head, fuck he looks even taller at this distance, with his elbows spread.

It’s like he senses your apprehension, or perhaps he shares it, because he folds his arms over his chest, hugging himself.

For the very first time, you can fully make out his face. Strong features, a strong curvy nose, a patchy beard peppering a sharp jaw, and plush lips. Your gaze follows the solid column of his neck down to his suprasternal point peeking above the V-collar of his worn-out t-shirt, before it’s drawn back to his eyes.

He stands there perfectly still for you to detail.

Above you, the sky has turned a rusty blue. The humidity is stifling. It’s Friday the 30th, 2019, 8.17pm.

“What do you want?”

His voice is deep, and low, barely louder than a murmur yet intense, his words full and round.

The question, however legitimate, hits you square in the solar plexus, right under your aching sternum. You fear that if you don’t speak fast enough, he’ll leave you again, alone with the memory of his soft sad eyes and his hard cold stare.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, and god, if it’s true, what are you doing here?

He huffs, and it’s the very sound of disillusion. His eyes grow dimmer, you think you’re not the one darkening them. Unfolding his arms, he removes his hat and takes a step closer, then another. You could touch him, if you reached out with your arm stretched.

He looks at you like he’s already seen how your story ends.

You could back away. You don’t.

He moves slowly, thick body thrumming with undiluted strength and unreleased tension, eyes searching yours, giving you the time to leave, should leaving be what you choose, should you turn around and run before the hanging threat breaks like dark stormy clouds and drench you soaked.

He slowly moves forward until he’s towering over you, until his chest touches your breasts, until the pilled cotton of his t-shirt catches at the satin material of your blouse. His scent floods your senses, he leans down into the curve of your neck and inhales you there, long, deep, unhurried. You hold your breath, still, in turn, for his exploration, nails digging into your palms, heart tripping.

And then, he touches you. With his lips, a feather-like caress over the soft skin under your ear. Your eyes flutter shut, your thoughts are suspended.

“This what you want?” he murmurs.

His words sink under your skin, they harden your nipples, raise goosebumps on your nape in the muggy evening heat.

“Yes.”

The cap falls onto the gravel. His hands go to your hips. Clutching you there with a rough grip and he’s tugging you closer, flush to his chest. He licks up a broad stripe along the line of your throat, pivots with you in his arms and backs you into the side of the truck, you have to grab his forearms to keep your balance.

A guttural sound catches in his throat, like a grunt he tries to hold back, for your touch, for the taste of your skin, for your pliant docility.

Your head rolls back, you’ve gone weeks without a skin on skin contact, and now this man is hunched over you, his body swallowing yours, this stranger who’s infected your dreams with his cold hard stare and his soft sad eyes, his mouth roaming the expanse of your throat, short beard prickling your skin, and the shifting sensation inside your chest drops to your core where it catches fire.

His kisses are lips, teeth and tongue, rough and scraping at you raw in all the right ways, they trail up along your neck, under your jaw, and when they find your lips, he presses you harder into him. He tastes like beer, unfamiliar, you want to get used to it.

The seams of your blouse strain when he pulls it out of your skirt with an impatient tug. His hands slither under the hem and find the naked skin of your back. His palms are strong, rugged and scalding and his fingertips calloused, they make your skin sizzle underneath their pressing, crackle like snapping wood, like fireworks at a summer county fair, like sweet candy wrapping.

You're leaking hot and sticky between your hips, responding with your entire body, opening up for him, letting his tongue in past your lips with pathetic grateful little moans, winding your arms around his shoulders, over the cording muscles of his back, musky sweat dampening his t-shirt. The thick, solid shape of him, that got etched behind your eyelids.

You’re a want and a need and an empty flutter, entangled with him, whoever he may be, his tongue swirling inside your mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, his splayed hands covering your back, his knee spreading your legs open.

He’s voracious, harsh in his own need, snatching from you what you’re already willing to give, angling your head with a sharp pull on your hair to deepen his kiss, grunting his approval when you moan at the sting.

Arousal keeps dripping down your fold where his thigh prods firm and brawny against the black material of your skirt that hinders the pressure.

He growls, frustration rumbling low and menacing inside his throat. He grabs your ass and squeezes, thick middle finger pushing against the fabric of your clothes into the cleft between your cheeks and you jolt, leaping forward further into him. His belt buckle bites into the soft flesh of your belly, right where you're burning empty and wanting and shameless for him. You feel him hot and hard against your hip, and he tightens his hold, cages you within him.

He’s big all over, larger than life proportions, you surrender to the fact with your lust-drunk mind, from the height of his frame to the girth of his sex, from his grip on your senses to the sorrow in his eyes.

It blooms inside you like pain, blossoms of mahogany red spreading along your limbs in relentless waves, the power he already wields over you and you don’t even know his name.

You buck between his arms, a first and very last attempt at freeing yourself, unconvincing with the scrap of your fingernails along the pebbled skin of his neck, and you press back into him again, squirming against his throbbing length, offering him some friction.

He pulls out all of sudden, breaking the kiss, and you're left panting, ankles swaying, you’d drop to the gravel without the support of the truck, still sun-warm in the early evening, yet colder than his feverish body.

He shakes his head with a silent no, his shoulders heaving, a wordless warning hissed through his clenched bared teeth. The simmering anger under the surface only makes you want him more, the unyielding restraint shining dark in his eyes.

But it’s over. You know it. He gave you this, and took it back. With shaky hands, you smooth down the wrinkles of your blouse where he’s bunched it in his fists. You lick his taste off your trembling lip. You will not cry.

He shakes his head again, you watch him through welling tears, confused, eyes flickering between his.

Behind him, the city car’s engine revs up to a start, aggressive headlights backlighting him. His throat bobs up and down in chiaroscuro as he swallows hard. You know what you must look like in the crude white light. Supplicant, dependent, awaiting. Disheveled by his hand. Tires grate on the gravel as the car reverses away from you into the night, and with it the headlights, leaving you standing in the brown city night, urban semi darkness, and you see him shut his eyes.

He smiles, a puzzling, sorrowful lift of his plush lips, and a new sort of ache washes over you. You raise forward on your tiptoes to peck a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. His entire frame quivers for you. A muscle clenches in his jaw, the deepening crease in his brow redefines his traits in shadows.

He leans into you, like he wants you but he doesn’t want to want you, like he’s giving in but not entirely, because giving in would be the end of him, of you.

The flat of his palm to the swell of your breast, and he kneads your soft flesh, slowly at first, growing urgent. The back of your head hits the truck’s window when he pinches your nipple, hard, with two fingers, and you bite down a moan.

He’s engulfing you again, lips latched around your other nipple, tongue swirling and licking through your blouse and your thin bra and you hold on to him, you cling to his frame when he bunches up your skirt around your waist, leather boot nudging your foot to the side, cock throbbing on your hip, slick dripping down your walls.

“Stop me,” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear. It’s not a dare, it’s not a plea, it’s your last chance to back down before the free fall.

Your pulse stutters, you arch into him without hesitation, but he pins you back against the truck with his chest, cupping you through your underwear and he curses into your neck at the sticky leaking mess he finds there.

Your naked leg hitches up rigid and tense against his leg, curled fingers, curled toes, and he hooks his index into the cotton of your panties.

A brief stroke of his knuckles into the soft, smooth dip between your sex and your inner thigh, unexpectedly tender, before he parts your soaked lips with his two middle fingers, coating them in your sticky slick desire, and he sinks them inside your empty cunt.

You crumble around the intrusion, forehead hitting his collarbone, slack-mouthed, a short exhale of a silent “oh.” He brings his left hand to the crown of your head and cradles you there, while his fingers pump in and out of your heat fast and rough. His thumb glides through your folds and starts rubbing at your clit, deft and precise, and you shudder between his arms, you slump into his hold.

He keeps stroking your hair, gentle soothing sounds murmured into your ear as he fucks you raw with his hand, attuned to your moans and your every reaction, gauging what you can take before his fingers curl deeper inside your cunt, merciless, thumb pressing tight circles on your bud at an increasing pace.

Your breathing comes in ragged and short while his intensifies. It’s pouring into your ear hot and overwhelming and you’re dissolving. Sweat beading at your temples, heat raising from his exerted muscles.

You focus on the sensation of his flexing muscles under your clawing hands to stave off your building orgasm, it’s growing bright and blinding, searing and violent but it’s inevitable, and soon, too soon, your release flows hot and sticky into his hand. Your whines resound inside his chest but he keeps going, low husks of shhh, come on now, that’s it, until your trapped body trashes with the overstimulation.

It’s like he can’t let go, pressing his nose heavily to the side of your face, and you struggle to resurface, blood thrumming in your veins, his angry cock pulsating against your hip.

You let out a dry sob when he slides out of you and the rubber band of your panties slaps your sensitive skin. You don’t miss the flat drag of his tongue licking your taste off his palm, you furrow your fingers deeper into his arm with a short clench of your eyes.

“Fuck,” your hear him quietly groan, and his fingers disappear into his mouth.

You want to stay tucked up against him, curled up into his hold. You could live the rest of your life there, you think, between his hands and his scent, between his chest and his truck.

You lock your ankles and your knees, hoping they will not fail you and you stand, pushing away from him and into the side of the truck. You readjust your skirt, slide it down, palm it smooth. Brush the damp hair from your forehead with the back of your trembling hand.

In your peripheral, he’s leaning down, picking up his hat from the ground and combing his fingers through his hair before he sets the cap back on his head.

You look up dazed and heavy-lidded and you brace yourself before meeting his gaze, cold hard stare, soft sad eyes, and he says,

“I’m Frankie.”

****

Bonus (having déjà vu? that's normal 😝 Gonna use this gif at the end of every first chapter I manage to yank out of my crazy in love brain):

Taglist (thank you 🧡 if you don't wish to be tagged anymore, just drop me a DM 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @nicolethered @littleone65 @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks @its-nebuleuse @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @all-the-way-down-here

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visit-new-york · 7 months

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Chrysler Building: A Shimmering Icon of Art Deco Elegance

In the heart of Manhattan's bustling skyline, one architectural masterpiece stands tall, capturing the imagination of all who gaze upon it. The Chrysler Building, a shimmering beacon of Art Deco elegance, is not just a skyscraper but a symbol of New York City's enduring spirit and architectural innovation. With its captivating history, exquisite design, and a touch of old-world glamour, the Chrysler Building continues to enchant and captivate, leaving an indelible mark on the Big Apple's iconic skyline.

The Chrysler Building, completed in 1930, was the brainchild of architect William Van Alen. Its distinctive design is a symphony of style, blending Art Deco with influences from the Machine Age. The tower rises to a staggering 1,046 feet, making it one of the tallest buildings in the world at the time of its completion. Its crowning glory, the iconic stainless steel spire, reaches even higher, ultimately soaring to 1,476 feet. This bold architectural choice, combined with the building's tiered setbacks and intricate ornamentation, immediately sets it apart from its contemporaries.

The Chrysler Building's spire is nothing short of a masterpiece. Composed of seven concentric stainless steel arches, it seems to ascend endlessly into the sky, a testament to human ambition and ingenuity. The polished metal glimmers and reflects the ever-changing hues of the New York City skyline, giving the building a dynamic and ethereal quality. The spire's tip is adorned with a spectacular sunburst design, a symbol of hope and optimism that encapsulated the spirit of the Roaring Twenties.

Beneath the shimmering façade, the Chrysler Building holds a treasure trove of architectural marvels. The lobby, in particular, is a breathtaking work of art. A soaring, marble-clad space is adorned with ornate, artful details, including intricate friezes, Egyptian-inspired motifs, and a magnificent ceiling mural by artist Edward Trumbull. The lobby's elegance and opulence transport visitors to a bygone era of sophistication and glamour.

The Chrysler Building's enduring legacy goes beyond its architectural significance. It has played a prominent role in popular culture, making appearances in numerous films, television shows, and works of literature. Its silhouette, unmistakable and timeless, is a symbol of New York City itself, representing both the city's storied past and its ever-evolving future.

Yet, beneath its polished surface and captivating design, the Chrysler Building harbors an air of myth and mystery that adds to its allure. One enduring legend is the tale of a secret spire race between the Chrysler Building and the Bank of Manhattan Trust Building (now known as 40 Wall Street), a nearby skyscraper under construction at the same time. This tale, though perhaps more myth than fact, only deepens the intrigue surrounding this architectural wonder.

The construction of the Chrysler Building was not without its challenges. The architects and builders had to contend with the limitations of 1920s technology, including the absence of modern safety measures and equipment. Nevertheless, the determination and expertise of the builders triumphed over adversity, resulting in an enduring symbol of human achievement.

As we look ahead to the future, the Chrysler Building continues to stand as a symbol of resilience and creativity. While no longer the tallest building in New York City, its timeless elegance and iconic spire remain a source of inspiration for architects, artists, and dreamers alike. Recent renovations and preservation efforts ensure that this shimmering gem will continue to grace the Manhattan skyline for generations to come.

For those who wish to experience the magic of the Chrysler Building firsthand, tours are available to explore its exquisite lobby and learn more about its history and architectural significance. Standing in the shadow of its gleaming spire, visitors can connect with the past, marvel at its beauty, and imagine the countless stories that have unfolded within its walls.

In a city that is constantly changing and reinventing itself, the Chrysler Building remains a steadfast symbol of New York City's enduring spirit, artistic excellence, and architectural innovation. Its shimmering spire reaches for the heavens, while its hidden treasures and legendary history capture the hearts and minds of all who encounter it. As an icon of Art Deco elegance, the Chrysler Building is not just a skyscraper; it's a living testament to the dreams and aspirations of a city that continues to inspire the world. It's a reminder that in the ever-evolving urban jungle of Manhattan, the Chrysler Building's brilliance still shines as brightly as ever, inviting all to partake in its timeless allure.

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#Chrysler Building #new york city #new york #new-york #newyork #urban #nyc #ny #manhattan #city #usa #United States #buildings #travel #journey #outdoors #street #architecture #visit-new-york.tumblr.com

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moodboardmix · 1 year

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“The Vertical Panorama Pavilion,”

The pavilion takes inspiration from the history of circular calendars and reflects the climate of the Sonoma Valley. A conical structure built from a stainless steel structure comprised of twelve columns, that emulate the months of a year, supporting the colourful canopy, which measures 14.5 metres in diameter and is made from 832 glass panels in 24 different colours

A winding gravel path leads to an area of outdoor seating. The sun, hitting the orange, blue, pink and red-clad structure with its rays, causes the reflection of glasses plunges the brick wall with a full spectrum of colours, in stark contrast to the surrounding landscape. 832 glass panels in 24 different colours.

Donum Estate, Sonoma Valley, California,

Olafur Eliasson and Sebastian Behmann’s Studio Other Spaces,

Photograph by Adam Potts.

#art #design #architecture #winery #sonoma #california #olafur eliasson #donum estate #pavilion #studio other spaces #sebastian behmann #stained glass #glassart #kaleidoscope #solar #radian

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spark-my-nature · 1 year

Text

The Thrill of It All - DRW & SFK

Now I know people say this all the time, but this honest to god started as a barely 500 word ramble about Sam getting flustered around Danny, but hours later and nearly 7K words later, here we are, so...

Summary: Danny notices something is bothering Sam. Ever the helpful friend, he ends up getting to the bottom of more than Sam's switchy mood. Fluffy, friends to lovers, unrequited requited love, smut, blush sweet boys.

Words: 6.6K | Pairings: Sam x Danny

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol & marijuana, language, slash pairings, graphic sexual content (nudity, oral: m-receiving)

It wasn’t even that late, for Kiszka standards, but the twins had long since retired to pass out in the other identical two-person sleeper cabin next door already, and Sam released a steady stream of air through pursed lips as he switched the half full garbage bag to his other hand. His hyperactive mind was unusually calm this evening, a lovely consequence of the joint he’d shared earlier with his brothers and the numbing, constant white noise of the invisible orchestra of crickets.

The memory of Danny’s folksy plucking at Jake’s miniature accoustic as he accompanied his cashmere-smooth voice, lulling Sam into a longing trance… well, it had that soothing effect on him, too.

As he puttered around, enjoying the residual high and tossing cans and wrappers into the bag like the responsible environmentalist (and holier than thou little sibling) he was, his mind wandered as it often did to the curly mop-headed boy who’d taken his leave inside nearly twenty minutes ago. They’d argued their way into occupying the main cabin, the one with the kitchenette and the stand-up shower, as well as a bedroom.

Bedroom, singular.

Everyone in the band was more than used to doubling up; it wasn’t even a factor in their booking anymore. Months on the road confined to a bunk at the rear of a bus will quickly strip anybody of any semblance of privacy. But as of late, Sam had found himself torn between the prickling hot, shameful desire to share very close quarters with Danny, and the desperate need for walls between them.

What used to be occasional, unwarranted… intimate curiosities about his friend had ramped up as of late into full blown, x-rated fantasies that had, on more than one occasion, manifested in a sticky mess in his flannel sleep pants, discovered in the wee hours as he shot awake, covered in sweat, and mortifyingly rinsed out and hidden in the laundry bag beneath t shirts and towels in the dead of night.

It was through no fault of his own, though, he grappled. Everyone at least thinks about it, right? What it would be like, your best friend’s lips on yours, his body warm, sweaty, pressed tight along your own as he-

A clang of silverware against stainless steel inside the nearest cabin alerted him to his bunk mate’s own restlessness. Not long ago, Danny had called it a night, helping Sam dump the bucket of sand over their comically small fire (one they were expressly told by the property management not to have at all), saying he was grabbing a quick shower and to not wait up. And Sam had, fairly enough, expected him to just crawl right into the comfort of the quilted queen bed after.

But as Sam struggled his way inside, fighting with the trash bag and the sliding screen door, he was startled, not by Danny’s presence, puttering around and tidying the kitchen, but by his completely inconsiderate, personal-attack-on-Sam, indecent lack of modesty, clad only in his towel. Wet ringlets dripping down his bare chest, the towel low on his hips, obscuring the pot of gold at the end of that dark treasure trail-

Letting the bag slip out of his suddenly sweaty fingers, Danny looked up from the sink at the sudden tinny racket it made with wide eyes, scrambling to sort out the unexpected racket. Catching Sam’s clumsy manoeuvre over the pile of spilled cans, his hand pressed to his chest as he willed his heart to settle down.

“Fuck, Sam, startled me,” he chuckled, winded, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned back against the counter, observing his friend crawling and reaching around the wooden floor while keeping his eyes rigidly to himself. As Sam shoved the trash into the bag for the second time, muttering to himself under his breath, Danny’s brow furrowed, already shifting into fix-it mode but baffled as to what could be wrong.

The bassist’s head shot up as the shuffle of Danny’s steps moved around the edge of the kitchen island. For no logical reason, his heart started racing, every part of his body screaming for Danny to stay away from him, but also to get as close as possible as soon as possible.

“Dude… I thought Jake was the one seeing ghosts, not you,” Danny half heartedly joked, his confusion starting to shift into true concern at the squirrelly, nervous energy his friend was emitting. “What’s the problem?”

You, Sam’s inner monologue shouted, you and that fucking towel, and your god damn naked chest and your perfect fucking face-

On the outside, Sam neutralized his features as best he could, attempting a wry smile as he tied up the bag. “No problem, just cleaning up their messes,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of his brothers’ cabin. He hoped Danny wasn’t observant enough to catch his fingers shaking and fumbling with the knot, playing it off with a dramatic, “there we go,” letting the bag lean against the door to be dealt with in the morning.

Danny watched, folding his arms over his chest as his eyes narrowed. Sam shifted his weight, holding the suspicious staring contest for a moment before shrugging and attempting to move past the drummer toward the bedroom down the short hall. The escape was foiled by a toned, tan arm extending in Sam’s path as Danny leaned against the wall by his head.

“Let me go, weirdo,” Sam chuckled nervously, his dodge under Danny’s arm blocked by his toweled knee lifting in front of him.

The sudden jerky movement loosened Danny’s already precariously secured towel, the white fluffy fabric slipping in slow motion before Danny’s corralling arm retracted to help protect his little remaining modesty. A rush of blood shot so quickly south through Sams body, it left him feeling lightheaded, and he darted past Danny’s failed bodily barricade, marching in the direction of the bedroom before he could embarrass himself with the pathetic whimper that almost just betrayed him.

Danny was hot on his heels, and for the first time, Sam wished his friend wasn’t such a god damn mother hen. The last thing he needed was an interrogation, not when the inevitable confession was centred around the curly headed detective.

“Sam-“ he followed the lanky man into the bedroom, now firmly into worrying territory. The bassist had been just fine when he’d left the fire to cool off. In fact, Sam had been visibly quite enjoying Danny’s serenading, and the romantic atmosphere became too much, toying with Danny’s feelings, a mere glimpse at the kind of evening he wanted with Sam every night. So he’d made his excuses and brought himself back to earth in a cool shower, and that was only half an hour ago at best. He wracked his brain as to what could possibly have set off the unpredictable storm of his friend’s temperament.

Sam busied himself by unzipping his bag, rifling a little too frantically through balled up socks and messily folded shirts as he kept his back to the practically naked Greek god standing behind him.

“Sam.”

“What, Daniel?” His head whipped towards his friend, immediately regretting the way his words hissed harshly past his lips, though Danny paid him no mind, well versed in Sam’s attitude by this point.

“What happened? Why’re you acting so… weird, all tense and shit?” He took a step closer, instinctively causing Sam to step back as well, the dresser now digging into the small of his back.

Their eyes met briefly, Danny’s gaze analytical and concerned, while Sam’s face began feeling uncomfortably warm.

Danny was among the most patient men on the planet, but Sam’s stubborn vow of silence was wearing thin, and he pushed once more, “Sam?”

Sam blinked, shaking his head and forcing his eyes away, anywhere but Danny’s bare torso, the remaining moisture of his shower catching the nightlight plugged into the wall and the moonlight streaming through the open window into the otherwise dark room.

“I’m fine, Danny, seriously, leave it,” he mumbled, sounding unconvincing and small even to his own ears.

Danny shook his head, closing the distance further, reaching a hand to Sam’s shoulder, the smell of his earthy body wash drifting past his nose.

Sam rapidly shot his face towards Danny’s movements, reminiscent of a wild animal, and Danny scoffed, although there was no animosity behind the sound. “…’Kay, you never call me Danny, will you just tell me what your issue is?”

“Maybe if you’d stop chasing me around with no clothes on, I’d be able to think!” Sam blurted, his eyes widening immediately in regret.

Danny’s brow furrowed, his brain lagging severely with the mixed messages it was receiving. Sam’s issue was… him? His body? Since when?

The drummer’s face slowly shifted from confusion to a sort of timid, hopeful understanding. “Sam, I-“

Sam shook his head quickly, his face bright red and his chest tightening as he ducked down, anticipating his friend’s grabby hand swinging out to stop him.. His mind was reeling, his stomach feeling like it was through the floor in the wake of his unintended confession.

This time, Danny’s swinging hand grasped successfully onto Sam’s forearm, spinning him back towards Danny’s body.

Sam gaped up at his friend, those extra two inches of height really making their presence known in this moment of stunned silence. Danny simply gazed down at him, holding him securely, practically chest to chest, his warm stare working to calm Sam’s panic immediately, as it always did, even now when said stare was the source of the panic.

“You’re… bothered by me… in a towel,” Danny confirmed softly, his own cheeks tinting pink. Sam’s eyes fell down the column of his friend’s neck, sweeping across those broad muscled shoulders that carried him around, the sculpted but subtle pecs separated by the triangle of chest hair he had never been able to grow himself.

Sam chewed his lip, putting his trust in Danny’s unlimited understanding and caving a little.

“Maybe, a little. Yeah.” His wide eyes were quick to meet Danny’s, “But this doesn’t have to be, a- a thing, I don’t ever want to make it weird, we can just, just move on. Like this didn’t happen, yknow?” He rambled nervously, shutting himself up when he saw the hint of a smile tugging at the edges of Danny’s lips.

“Hmm,” Danny nodded, a cruel part of him enjoying letting Sam squirm a little. It wasn’t often his feathers were ruffled, and watching his cheeks flush bright as he got himself increasingly flustered, it was… cute.

Sam, after a pause that dragged on for longer than he could stand it, huffed out, “What? What’re you- what?”

Danny’s grin spread wider. “You’re cute.”

Backup. Refresh. Error 404, train of thought not found, system failure- Sam’s intelligent, articulate brain was a blank slate, wiped clean with the words that had just been uttered so casually.

“Cute?” Sam sputtered. “Excuse me, what?” Stampedes of butterflies swarmed mercilessly in his stomach, slowly unfreezing where he stood before Danny unceremoniously in the middle of the room.

Danny had the audacity to giggle at him, “Yes, cute. You’re cute.”

Sam squinted at him, fighting the incredibly strong twitch of his lips as they threatened to defy him in a bashful smile. “Shut up, don’t mess with me-“

“M’not, I’m not messing with you. You are. Like, always, in fact. Especially right now,” Danny confessed, too preoccupied with the endearing shock painted across the bassist’s face to feel shy.

Sam let out a short disbelieving laugh, letting the smile win its valiant efforts to take over his face, hand in hand with a deep blush in his cheeks.

“Oh,” he said simply, shyly dipping his face down. “…cool.”

Danny barked a laugh, his hands lifting to cradle either side of Sam’s face. “Cool? You’re such a dork,” he snickered.

Sam rolled his eyes, chuckling along. “Whatever, Daniel, you’re the king of dorks,” he unoriginally shot back, slowly becoming more and more aware, once again, of Danny’s clothing situation, or lack thereof.

The drummer watched in fascination as those heated brown eyes drank in his figure, still bashful but lacking the prior shamefulness.

“Well don’t start drooling on me, I did just shower.”

Sam shook his head quickly, huffing petulantly through Danny’s giggle, pushing away from his body.

“Nope, that’s fine, you can go fuck yourself, I should be getting to bed-“

A sudden tangle of limbs, a brief wrestling match, and a litany of strained curses found Sam pinned to the mattress beneath a pleased, half-naked Daniel Wagner.

“Jesus, dude,” Sam exhaled, blown out-pupils drinking in Danny’s far-too-smug face until his eyes blaze down his naked torso of their own accord. He watched, powerless to stop his own long, dexterous hand from slipping out of Danny’s grip and hesitantly placing against Danny’s pec, faintly digging his fingernails into the skin experimentally.

Danny bit down on his bottom lip as air whooshed into his lungs, shifting his weight on the arm beside Sam’s head to smooth a hand of his own down the soft fade of Sam’s shirt.

“You’re really driving me crazy, right now,” Danny quietly confided, hand now sneaking its way underneath the shirt’s hem.

“Good then, the feeling is mutual,” Sam whispered, blinking demurely up at him, scratching at Danny’s chest lightly as an outlet for his racing heart and heated lower half.

Danny’s hand flattened against his soft stomach, smoothing steadily up his lithe abdomen, pushing the t shirt up past his ribcage, until Sam curled a hand around his roaming wrist.

Slightly terrified, but in the most exhilarating possible sense, the two men lock eyes, searching each other in the dead silence of the room, deafened by their own heartbeats pounding in their ears.

One perfectly arched nose brushed against the tip of another more angular tipped up one, the oxygen fleeing the room suddenly as Danny’s lips loomed so close, so close to Sam’s.

“Kiss me.”

Looking back, it was rather a blur of who actually spoke the words, but it didn’t matter in the slightest.

Danny’s lips captured Sam’s pout in a searing, momentous kiss, the ache of longing finally quenched, relief seeping through Sam’s veins like an IV drip. Relief and carnal, animalistic craving. Sam was deaf to his own wanton moan, but Danny lapped it up in the figurative and literal sense, his tongue darting between Sam’s parted lips. The drummer groaned, every neuron firing left and right in an overwhelming chorus of take, give, need, provide. Sam felt drunk, his senses consumed with Danny’s greedy lips working against his own.

Lungs burning for a reprieve, Danny regretfully detached from Sam’s mouth for a gasp of air, Sam’s longing, pitiful whimper putting an end to remaining self-control.

“Oh my god,” Danny slurred in a whisper, eyes drooping heavily before he dove back in, lips feverishly massaging and dominating Sam’s mouth. Having freed his other hand at some point, Sam sank both sets of fingers into Danny’s luxuriously soft curls, damp but steadily drying in the heat of the summer air, stifled in the tiny bedroom. He tangled himself in Danny’s hair, cementing himself desperately to his body and to this moment they found themselves in.

Sam whined breathlessly as Danny licked into his mouth, mumbling what sounded like, “Fuck, baby,” letting himself be worshipped and mauled by Danny’s lips.

Parting from the escalating kiss, stealing greedy pecks as he mournfully pulled away, Danny panted, still supporting his weight on one elbow at Sam’s side. Even as his shoulder ached from the strain, Danny realized then that redistributing the weight of his body would require two things.

One, putting distance between him and the gorgeous boy laid out beneath him so submissively, distance he wanted little to do with from here on out.

Two, a delicate manoeuvre to keep his towel from completely unfurling from around his waist, a movement he wasn’t sure he had either the skill, nor frankly, the desire, to attempt.

Sam fluttered his eyes open, his pouty lips swollen, as he tried to determine the reason for the absence of more kisses. Letting a playful grin sweep across his face, he gave a questioning, flirty glance down the drummer’s bare torso.

Danny smirked, that single expression capable of melting Sam into a puddle, before cocking an eyebrow in a questioning tease.

“Can I help you?” he coyly flirted, leering at the suggestive looking bassist.

Sam narrowed his eyes, his smirk remaining in place.

In hindsight, he only meant to brush his hand down Danny’s abs, a tease in retribution for the unbearable, cruel torture Danny was inflicting, what with him hovering so tauntingly above him like the most forbidden treat, refusing to meet his lips again.

But as he felt the rippling flexing muscles under his fingers tensing, and heard Danny’s flustered inhale through that gorgeous nose of his, he didn’t stop his exploring hand from travelling south, breath held in his chest as he monitored Danny’s face curiously.

Danny, who’s towel was now dangerously close to falling away from his waist (given the extra girth his rock-hard erection provided) unexpectedly let out a pleading, cut off whimper. The sound choked in his throat as he swallowed harshly, leaning, pressing ever so slightly against his friend’s wandering fingers as they mapped out his abdomen.

Sam’s teeth sunk painfully into his bottom lip, steadying his hand against the unusual affliction of shakiness, and he continued silently searching Danny’s eyes for any sign to stop. He was consistently met with Danny’s rhythmic puffs of breath near his face, his expression needy and trusting, so Sam hesitantly rotated his hand one-eighty, to slide fingertips-first down his friend’s happy trail.

Danny shivered delightfully, eyelids fluttering shyly as Sam finally dipped his fingers beneath the taboo-checkpoint of the towel. Both boys inhaled sharply as callused fingertips mapped out the transition of Danny’s happy trail into his patch of dark curly hair.

“Hang on,” Danny whispered, rushed out in a tense exhale, causing Sam to freeze in place, terror gripping his chest with fear of having upset his friend, having gone too far, hurt him somehow-

Danny ducked down, stealing a soft kiss from the bassist’s parted lips, then lifted off Sam’s body toward the pillows. Holding onto his towel still, though he was starting to feel a little silly about it, he laid himself out against the cushioned headboard, holding an arm out in shy invitation.

Sam relaxed visibly, making Danny smile, endeared by his best friend’s nervousness. He decided he rather liked being the one to make Sam nervous for a change, granted Sam made him nervous more often from the reckless mischief he got roped into with his older brothers rather than… well, whatever type this was.

As Sam climbed up the bed, eager to lose any space between his body and Danny’s, Danny interjected softly. “Why don’t you take your shirt off?”

Sam paused, straightening on his knees as he grinned, tugging the threadbare tee shirt over his head. Smile broadening, Danny bit his lip as the shirt was discarded to the floor.

Sam sat back on his haunches, displaying himself to be admired. He thoroughly enjoyed Danny’s eyes raking down his bared torso, despite it not being close to the first time he’d been shirtless in his presence. He was looking at him now with new eyes, in this ambiguous but safe new development of their dynamic.

“So pretty,” Danny whispered, so mindlessly that Sam wasn’t sure he was even aware he’d uttered it out loud. He positively preened under Danny’s gaze.

Danny finally lifted his eyes to Sam’s. “You wanna c’mere?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed simply, smiling crookedly, not feeling the need for words when he planned on letting his actions do the talking. He encroached towards Danny, laying out on his side parallel to the drummer’s body, and Danny tipped up his jaw sweetly, capturing his lips in another needy kiss. Push and pull, the rhythm section of the band did what they did best and quickly established a rhythm. Danny sucked Sam’s bottom lip, releasing it gently for Sam to lick at his lips in return, each exploring the other’s mouth in the knee-buckling ways Sam had only ventured in his dreams.

When Danny’s tongue slipped hot and wet along his own, quickly followed by a muffled groan beneath his hand on Danny’s chest, Sam gave into the urge to get back to where they had been before the readjustment. Humming like a pleased housecat under Sam’s sensual touch, Danny paused his kisses when he felt Sam’s hand snaking once more beneath the cloth draped around his hips. On a mission, Sam simply moved his kisses from Danny’s stagnant lips down the drummer’s angled jaw, seeking that tempting patch of hair once more.

Danny moaned softly, Sam’s lips working diligently to unravel him, one nipped kiss at a time. Encouraged, and despite his thumping heartbeat, Sam felt himself rake his fingers through Danny’s hair, the way he’d fantasized about.

So often was Danny the subject of Sam’s nocturnal musings, his masculine build, the muscles, the hair, the broad shoulders and chest, all of it always conjuring filthy, forbidden images in his mind, scenarios he felt guilty about pining for. Well, up until this interesting development, that is, where he now realized that perhaps his filthy daydreams had more in common with Danny’s than he’d thought.

Danny brought him back to the present with the tiniest, most delicious grunt of withheld desire, jaw flexed in anticipation from Sam’s fingertips drawing nearer and nearer to the base of his erection.

Sam instinctively curled his fingers in, withdrawing shyly from the point of no return, this part of Danny’s body that he’d never been privy to before, but Danny’s responding petulant huff was tinged with a barely vocalized whine, accompanied with a barely-there buck of his hips, and Sam wordlessly teased him with a smirk and an arched brow against his sweaty neck.

“Oh, can I help you?” It was exhilarating, throwing the drummers earlier tease in his face.

Danny huffed a breathy laugh, blushing and tucking his jaw against his chest, looking down at Sam’s roaming fingers and licking his bottom lip.

“Now who’s the cocky bastard?” He answered, voice low and smooth, rumbling out of his bare chest. His tone, much like him, was sweet as honey, and Sam was the owner of a very prominent sweet tooth.

That, and his curiosity never could be withheld for very long, least of all now, and given that he’d been waiting for this moment practically since their sophomore year, he felt his ability to joke around depleting by the second, replaced with the voyeuristic streak tugging at his brain and his stiffening groin.

This was his best friend in the world, though, and at the end of the day, not even his own insatiable need to scratch that itch would overcome his need to ensure Danny’s comfort. And so, Sam lifted his face from the fortress of Danny’s neck and captured his eyes with a bashful smirk.

With his hand still brushing featherlight circles through Danny’s pubic hair, he nuzzled his lips against the apple of Danny’s cheek in an uncharacteristically sweet and shy display of affection.

“Can I touch you?” Sam breathed, words so soft they reached only across the small space between his lips and Danny’s ear, before melting away into his raven hair.

“Sam…please.”

Two shaky, whispered words, flooding Sam’s mind with a rush of sudden, insatiable lust and a need to give his friend, his best friend, anything in his power that he could ever possibly want on a silver platter.

Throwing caution to the wind, Sam finally pinched the lip of the towel and uncovered Danny’s body fully, drinking in his swollen, throbbing erection resting patiently against Danny’s thigh.

“What the fuck, you’re so big,” Sam’s words coming out under his breath, hardly more than if he’d just mouthed them. He felt faint with need, considering for a second the slight size difference between them, though it was his first time fooling around with a guy, you couldn’t blame him for at least considering it. His mouth watered at the impressive girth, coupled with the obvious extra inch or so.

Danny blushed, feeling so exposed, but God if he didn’t feel desirable under Sam’s ravenous stare.

True to their nature, Danny weakly joked, “S’rude to stare, Sam.”

Sam bit his lip hard, groaning softly, moving his hand tentatively to curl around Danny’s thick base. “I’ll try to mind my manners, Emily Gilmore.” he sassed breathlessly, stroking his fist over Danny’s impressive length once.

Hips bucking into Sam’s touch, he gasped, “Oh-“ Swallowing harshly, Danny let his jaw hang open lazily, watching in awe as Sam’s fist begin to work his cock into a steady rhythm. “Feels good,” he murmured, bashfully catching Sam’s smug grin.

Sam shifted uncomfortably around his own painful erection, ignoring it in favour of his new toy between his best friend’s legs. “I’ve had some practice,” he deadpanned.

Danny snorted, distractedly flexing his fingers into the sheets. “Thinking about this, no doubt?”

Sam flushed, ignoring the teasing question in favour of lifting up on his hands and knees, releasing Danny’s twitching cock, letting it rest, leaking against his navel.

Danny watched him crawl between his thighs and settle unceremoniously on his stomach, taking a deep lungful of air in realization.

“Oh fuck, Sam,” he leaned up on his elbows, heart threatening to beat out of his chest as Sam, again, picked up his erection, “You don’t have to- ohh!”

Sam’s lips enveloped Danny’s velvety pink tip carefully, slipping his tongue from the delicate underside of the head, to over the little slit that leaked a droplet of precum. Sam’s eyelids felt heavy with lust, but he forced them open, unwilling to miss a single expression flicker across his lover’s face.

Danny watched, completely taken with lust and stunned grattitude, his lips parted attractively as he reached a hand down to sweep a tendril of chestnut hair behind Sam’s ear.

“Oh fuck, baby… shit,” he panted, giving in and letting his head fall into the pillows, panting at the ceiling as he let himself just feel.

Sam pulled back, taking a moment to breathe while he pumped Danny’s girthy cock in his hand. “You taste good,” he honestly told the blissed-out man above him.

Danny let out a tortured sob of a laugh, sinking his strong fingers into Sam’s hair both affectionately and dominantly. He mustered up the willpower to glance down to where Sam worked him, thumbing over his tip with an expectant, submissive face.

“Don’t stop,” he directed, gathering silky hair in his large fist, his stomach tensing tight as Sam’s lips enveloped him deeper than before with his own guidance. Swallowing him about halfway, Sam breathed shakily through his nose, the air tangible against Danny’s base as the brunette exhaled.

What with the thickness of his cock stretching Sam’s smart mouth so prettily, combined with the breaths and the gag reflex he struggled to control, Danny’s balls tightened, feeling his orgasm nearing embarrassingly quickly the longer Sam bobbed and sucked on him.

“Sam I- Babe,” he whined, head falling back against the pillows as his face twisted in arousal.

Sam hummed around him, blissed out with a mouthful of Danny’s perfect cock and the breathy, muttered praises and moans that drifted down.

The fist holding his hair back tightened, torn between the need to pull him off or shove deeper into his throat. Suctioning his lips tighter, Sam hollowed his cheeks and squeezed while twisting his base gently, his efforts rewarded with a high pitched cry.

“C-cumming- oh fuck Sammy, I’m cumming baby, please, please-“ Danny gasped, hips pitching forward erratically as he twitched, then gracing Sam’s tongue with warm pools of his cum.

Sam whimpered, face hot with his own arousal as he struggled to swallow down Danny’s load, coughing as he gagged involuntarily from the unfamiliar texture and taste.

Danny’s chest heaved, his eyes screwed shut. Sam panted, a proud smile suddenly stretching across his face. He watched Danny come down, his furrowed brows relaxing into place as he draped an arm lazily over his forehead.

Feeling a little unsure of himself, and ridiculously turned on, Sam kissed the inside of Danny’s thigh, his heart fluttering at Danny’s lazy, affectionate smile from the action.

Pushing up on his hands, Sam quietly moved up the bed, laying beside Danny. He purposely left a few inches of space, his rational mind forcing his lust aside for now.

He just made his best friend cum. While the thought made his own screaming erection throb, it also raised some very pertinent questions about the nature of their relationship. Sam’s brain struggled to process any tangible thought, the evening and the endorphins and his long-time crush spread out, naked and spent beside him, all tangled together in a fog of confusing feelings and uncertain outcomes.

Danny could practically hear the cogs turning in Sam’s head without even looking at him. He blinked his eyes open sluggishly, a relaxed smile permanently etched on his face in the afterglow of one of the most intense orgasms of his life. As he turned his body on its side to face Sam, he met the boy’s timid eyes.

“Sammy?” he quietly questioned, his brows furrowing at the face of churning anxiety looking back at him.

Sam raised his brows expectantly, licking his lips. “Hm?”

“Why do you look like I’m gonna beat you?” Danny chuckled humourlessly, his smile fading as the unwelcome feeling of worry set in.

Sam shook his head, offering a half-hearted smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just, y’know…” He shrugged awkwardly, curling in on himself and rubbing his arm.

Danny shook his head, shuffling toward Sam’s body, feeling a wave of relief when the initiation for cuddling was accepted. That was something at least.

“No, baby, I don’t know, talk to me,” he quietly prompted.

Sam huffed a short breathy laugh against Danny’s neck. “This, Daniel, you just called me Baby, we’re cuddling, I just had your dick down my throat,”

“Sam…” Danny’s cheeks flushed hot.

“…and up until an hour ago, I had no idea you felt anything like how I feel about you, I mean,”

“Sammy-“

“I still don’t, I- I didn’t want to assume you had, y’know, feelings for me, cause you’re my best friend, and if this is a one-time thing, then I’ll take it, I will, we can forget it happened if you want, but I-“

“Sam, shush,” Danny asserted, whipping out the harsh tone only to drag Sam back to earth. He pulled the pretty boy’s face out of his neck with two hands on his cheeks. Levelling with the, honestly, petrified stare Sam was giving him, trying to convey as much reassurance in his eyes as possible. “I do,” he confessed quietly.

Sam’s wide, vulnerable eyes peered back at him, tempting Danny to lose himself in their pools of warmth, in the beautiful face that belonged to the boy that made his heart race and his head melt.

“You do… what?”

“Have feelings for you,” Danny filled in, feeling his cheeks growing warmer.

Sam blinked, and Danny grinned hesitantly, gaging his reaction.

After a second, the bassist’s brain caught up, and once it did, his whole face erupted in his dazzling smile. “S-Seriously?”

Danny giggled, “Yes, dummy, seriously. I like you. In fact, I like-like you,” he joked, “as in more than friends.”

Sam let out an incredulous laugh, “You- Daniel!” he scolded affectionately, blushing himself now, but too wondrously happy to give a shit. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Danny shook his head defiantly, “Now hold on, that’s not fair, you never told me, either,” he protested, pitch climbing but not volume.

Sam buried his face in Danny’s neck, rolling his half-clothed body half on top of Danny’s naked one, grinning wildly. He made his confession in the safety of Danny’s collarbones, sheltered with mostly-dry curls.

“S’cause you’re so gorgeous, you make me nervous.”

He felt giddy, light as air. And as Danny’s bashful chuckle vibrated his sculpted throat, he felt more desperate than ever for his friend’s touch.

“Oh, whatever,” Danny dismissed, leaning his head on Sam’s shyly. He pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, delighting in Sam’s happy little squirm.

Then he felt the sting of a playful bite, the flesh of his shoulder reddening as Sam’s mouth soothed it with a wet kiss.

So quickly, he was flushed with warmth again, Sam’s mouth the most heavenly on-switch that had ever triggered his hormones before.

The smug culprit lifted his face from the evidence bruising his skin, and Danny’s jaw dropped slightly as Sam’s hips rolled into Danny’s thigh. Sam exhaled, slow and shaky, eyeing Danny’s face as he ground into him again, his erection prominent through the sweats he wore.

“Such a needy boy,” Danny’s eyes darkened with his deep rumble of words, flicking his tongue over his top row of teeth in a rather animalistic display. Gaze landing on the tented outline of Sam’s groin as it twitched in response, Danny huffed a low breath of desire and pushed himself up on his elbows.

Sam watched in rapt fascination, allowing his beau to manhandle him onto his back and crawl swiftly overtop of him. Before he could string together a coherent thought, his lips were sealed with a searing kiss, his mouth eagerly returning Danny’s hungry attack.

Tensing his stomach, he felt Danny’s fingers nimbly fumbling with the drawstring in his way. Impatiently, he lifted his hips and shoved his pants and boxers down as soon as the bow was undone, and Danny tugged them off his ankles for him as he laid back down.

Sam watched Danny’s eyes eagerly. They trailed up his thighs, landing on his stiff, near purple-ish cock bobbing impatiently against his stomach. Danny’s face drooped in lust, biting his bottom lip so hard the skin whitened. He swiftly closed in on Sam’s cock, kneeling between the boy’s legs and balancing on his left hand, his right reaching out and wrapping delicately around his length.

Sam shuddered, taking his lip between his teeth as his eyes flitted between the hand on his cock and the pair of lips longing to suck it in.

“Daniel, please,” he breathed, pleading with his eyes. “M’so hard, it hurts.”

Danny’s eyes flew shut, and he huffed through his nose. Lowering his body onto his belly, he pumped Sam shallowly a few times before he met Sam’s eyes again. “Relax for me, sweet boy, I’m gonna take care of you. Promise,” he sealed his words with a kiss to Sam’s thigh, above his knee.

Sam whined, losing his composure quickly after such a tenuous build up. He nodded quickly, putting his trust in his best friend like always.

Danny held eye contact, sparks flying between them as he lowered his face to Sam’s tip, pausing his lazy strokes to flick his tongue over the delicate slit glistening with pearlescent precum. The unspoken words exchanged through looks alone felt like a live wire of white-hot energy, threatening to snap any second. Steadily, though, Danny held Sam’s unblinking gaze, sinking his mouth partway down his cock. Even as his gag reflex faltered, pushing the limits of his throat, Danny blinked away tears and maintained their connection.

Sam’s mind, normally buzzing incessantly as his brain tried to process every piece of stimuli, felt soothed, quieted. As though Danny’s mouth had the power to flip the off-switch to every frenetic thought, leaving only a melty, viscous puddle in his wake. His mind consumed with Daniel, Daniel, Daniel.

Danny finally fluttered his eyes closed, working Sam’s length with determination. His lips sealed as tight as he could manage around the salty, soft skin, and he pushed his limits again, sinking down farther as his hand left the base of his cock to cup and fondle his balls.

Sam cried out brokenly, tossing his head back, his hand shooting forward to hold Danny’s head firmly in place.

“Fuuuck-uh,” the curse flying from his lips an octave higher than his speaking range. His hips bucking in time with Danny’s rhythmic suction, Sam’s forehead began shining with sweat, chasing his orgasm in the warm, wet heaven of Daniel’s mouth.

“Gonna- gonna cum, almost there,” he panted, brows knit tightly at the centre of his forehead. Danny moaned around him, steadfast in pleasing his best friend.

“Sooo so so so fucking good, Danny, shit-“ Sam babbled. His orgasm taking hold quickly, he huffed a whine through his nose, arching his back into Danny’s inviting mouth. “Ohh- fuck, please- Danny, yes-“

Interrupted by the sheer force of his orgasm, Sam’s mouth dropped open in a silent moan, cumming violently across Danny’s tongue. His fingers flexed, white knuckles as he gripped the bedsheets, crying out his release as he began to slowly come down from the high.

Danny pulled away, and as Sam peered down with blissed-out eyes, he winked up at him.

In a display that stole Sam’s breath, Danny parted his lips, letting Sam’s cum drool out of his mouth as he lapped up the length of his dick, coating him base to tip with his own release. Sam whined breathlessly, gritting out, “Oh, my fucking. God.”

Danny hummed in smug agreement, sinking his mouth around Sam once more and slurping up the mess he’d made, swallowing with a filthy lick of his lips.

Sam stared down at him in stunned, aroused shock. “…You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

His breathless declaration made Danny chuckle, climbing back up to Sam’s level, and flopping beside him. “You also taste good,” he softly flirted, smirking at Sam’s pitiful groan.

“Shut up,” Sam insisted, rolling over and curling bonelessly around Danny’s warm body. “You’re a menace.”

Danny giggled, wrapping his arms snug around Sam’s lanky figure, content and sleepy.

“Maybe I just like getting you all riled up, huh?” He pressed a lazy kiss to Sam’s face, unable to see the resulting little smile playing at Sam’s lips from the simple display of affection. “S’pretty cute.”

Sam let out a dismissive ‘psshtt’, half-heartedly swatting at Danny’s face. “I said shut up.”

Danny hummed amusedly, nodding his agreement, if anything just to pacify the sleepy boy cuddled up against his thrumming ribcage. Absent fingers toyed with his small dusting of chest hair, the two of them soaking up the affection and comfort that being held in each other’s arms was bringing.

After a short while of comfortable silence, Danny was roused out of his near-sleep by Sam gently, shyly tapping a finger against his chest.

“Psst,” came his hushed voice.

Danny smiled to himself, gleeful all over again. “Yeah, baby?”

A hesitant pause.

“So are we… boyfriends now?”

Danny’s grin spread wider, full fledging across his face. He whispered sleepily, “I mean… I know I wanna be.” His eyes fluttered closed again, patiently awaiting Sam’s response.

A gentle nod. “I’d like that.”

Another pause, then a timid whisper.

“…I love you.”

Danny squished his newly-deemed boyfriend into him, heart swelling with warmth. “I love you, too, Sam.”

Sam’s chest tightened with the reassurance, the confirmation of Danny’s requited feelings making his head spin. Dizzy with happiness, he let himself drift willingly with the gentle waves of sleep, his heart on his sleeve, and his favourite person by his side.

☆

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jjmichie · 22 days

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In Too Deep Chapter 6

Just some Friday Stone-smut for ya! NSFW - 18+ only. Finally updating my fic . . . enjoy!

_____________

Stone fumbled with the crinkled sheet of notebook paper where Molly had scrawled directions to her cabin. Squinting at curvy hand-writing, while trying to shield his eyes from the glaring sun and glaring snow, he struggled not to lose control of the steering wheel.

“Turn left after Bear Gap Tooth? No, Bear Gap Trail . . .?” he tentatively read aloud.

There. There it was.

A gorgeous cabin nestled in the pines and the snow, with gentle tufts of purple smoke rising from the chimney. Cabin? More like a luxury chalet, Stone thought to himself. The early afternoon sun streaked through the trees, reflecting the beauty of the mountain scenery in floor to ceiling windows. He checked the address on the paper once again. All correct. And, Molly’s jeep was there, shiny and white as the snow beneath it, parked to the side, as if to make room for his ugly station wagon. This must be the right place.

Was it?

Leaving the safety of his station wagon, he breathed in the chilly pine-scented air and felt the snow crunching beneath his feet as he walked to the door. A solid redwood door with a deep rich stain welcomed him.

As he was about to knock, the door opened. His hand awkwardly pounded against thin air, as it fell away.

“Hi Stone!” She greeted him with her usual bewitching smirk. “You actually found it . . .”

Her blue eyes met his, complemented by a long baby blue cashmere V-neck sweater. It snuggled against her hips, leading down to her shapely legs, which were clad in tight-fitting faded jeans with a hole in the knee, and finally . . . bare feet! Bare feet with pale pink toe nail polish.

“You look cold,” she informed him, and ushered him in, pulling him inside, into the warmth, away from the flurries that had come from nowhere to begin swirling around them.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I thought I looked hot.”

“Ha ha!”

He loved it when he could make her laugh. She had the cutest laugh.

“Do you want a drink?” she asked, still smiling.

“Wow . . .” Stone was taking in the view. The interior of the cabin was equally beautiful as the outside, much more modern than rustic, with stainless steel appliances, open floor, soaring ceilings and glass block accents. But cedar lined walls and an enormous stone fireplace offset the modern austerity just enough to lend a cozy warmth. Not to mention the stairway with a railing made of logs, leading to a loft overlooking the whole scene. And across from the open kitchen, a huge wall of windows showcased a deck that spanned the entire length of the living room. And beyond that, views of the snow-capped Cascades.

God he loved Washington.

“This is beautiful.” he felt compelled to say, even though he was totally stating the obvious.

“We like it.” She handed him a lowball glass, with what he imagined was very expensive scotch swirling at the bottom.

“We?”

She smiled at him. But didn’t answer. Instead she reached up and unraveled Stone’s damp scarf, which he had wrapped around and around his neck.

“Can I take your coat too?” Still smirking at him, she hung up his coat and scarf, and returned to the kitchen. Stone watched as she began effortlessly preparing a cheese plate.

“My family has a cabin near here too,” Stone told her, still admiring his surroundings.

“Oh?” she looked pleased.

“They ski. I grew up skiing. I’m not very good at it though. Not as good as my dad.”

“What?? And here I thought you were good at everything.” She smiled and tossed some smoked gouda slices onto the platter.

“Do you ski?” Stone asked, letting her comment slide by.

“Not really,” she shrugged. “Not much time for it. We’re always in the city, just not able to get out to the mountains that much.” She placed the platter on the granite counter between them. Stone noticed she had somehow included fig jam and hazelnuts on the platter without him even noticing.

“Well, maybe now you and James will have time.” Stone picked up a gooey wedge of brie and licked it off his finger slowly, making sure she noticed.

“Maybe James and I will . . .” she leaned forward on the counter, watching his motions closely. The v-neck of her sweater dipped slightly as she did, making Stone’s eyes flicker downward. She opted for a chunk of chevre.

Why did she have to be so hot? He could smell her hair, the strawberry-scent of her bob that swung just above her shoulders when she moved, or walked, or made a cheese plate. The aroma blended with the cedar wood, and the gentle smokiness of the fire that warmed the room. He wanted to lunge across the granite counter. He wanted to melt into her eyes and her hair and her body and forget what she had just said. But he couldn't. He had been waiting for an opening to talk about James, and she had just given it to him.

“So . . .” he began. “Speaking of . . . James . . .”

She didn’t flinch. She continued to meet his gaze, waiting for him to continue.

“Speaking of James,” he repeated, “when is he going to be joining you?”

“Next week.” She grabbed another piece of cheese and took a gentle sip of scotch.

Stone waited for any sign that she was going to elaborate. There was none.

“But . . . I mean . . . I don’t want any trouble. What’s going to happen when . . .?”

“There’s some weed here, if you like.” She abruptly stood up straight and opened a drawer in the center island, revealing a baggie, paraphernalia, and several lighters.

“Oh! Nice! Didn’t know you smoked.”

It was unsettling how easily Stone could be distracted. He grabbed one of the delicate glass bongs from the drawer, while his questions about James dissolved from his mind. He picked up the baggie and a lighter as well, and took them all over to the couch to settle in. He wasted no time in packing the pipe, and taking a hit.

“Want some?” he tried to ask her, while holding his breath.

“Thanks,” she smiled, coming over to sit cross-legged on the couch with him.

Stone let his breath out, letting the blue smoke twist around them, and handed Molly the pipe. She took a long drag as well.

“Mmmm,” she smiled as she breathed it out. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you invited me . . .”

They both let the moment settle over them, the curling pungent smoke rising in the air, blending with the smoke from the fireplace, the sun filling the room with an angelic glow. The warm room contrasting with the distant icy mountains and the swaying pines outside the window. Stone noticed for the first time that there was jazz music coming from somewhere, one of the few genres of music that he wasn’t all that well-versed in. But at that moment he loved it. It was the most beautiful music he had ever heard. He let his head rest on the back of the couch.

“Mother Love Bone is going to get SUPER famous, right?” Stone asked, his eyes beginning to feel bleary.

“Yes. Absolutely.” Molly leaned her head back too and blew smoke high into the air.

“I can’t wait.”

“It will happen. But for now, I think you should take another hit.”

Never one to refuse, Stone giggled and took the bong again. “Shit, this is strong!” His head was starting to buzz and the sun was looking even more beautiful and the fire seemed to have a multi-colored halo around it, and he suddenly realized he wanted to eat the entire cheese plate.

“Stand up,” she suddenly commanded, lifting her head, interrupting his reverie.

Opening his eyes as best he could, Stone stood up, wobbling a little. “Okay. I’m up.”

“Now . . . go in front of the fireplace.”

“Yeah . . . did you notice that too? The fire’s got like, this halo . . . do you want me to throw another log on?”

“No . . .” Molly paused as she took another hit, and slowly blew it out. “I want . . . you to strip for me.”

Stone froze. He almost burst out laughing.

“Uhhh . . . you want me to . . .what now?” he giggled.

“You heard me. Start with your sweater.”

He looked at her. Looked right into her eyes, which were wide and bright, despite the disorienting effects of the weed. She bit her lip and her nostrils flared just slightly. She meant business. He stopped giggling.

He pulled at the bottom of the heavy wool sweater he was wearing, and pulled it over his head. His hair crackled with static electricity as his scrunchy came loose, spilling his hair around his shoulders. He still had a T-shirt on.

“That next,” Molly said, looking at his T-shirt, not wasting any time.

“Umm . . . okay,” he heard himself mumble. He peeled off his t-shirt and let it fall to the ground. A chill hit his bare chest and he shivered. He crossed his arms and rubbed them with his hands, partly because of the cold, and partly because he suddenly felt shy. And vulnerable.

“Now, Stone,” she whispered. “Please take off your belt and bring it to me.”

He felt his heart starting to pound. And his breathing was becoming heavy. He slowly undid his belt and snaked it through the hoops of his jeans until it was free. He looked at her, and at the belt in his hand, and walked towards her, extending his arm.

“Thank you,” she snatched it and put it beside her on the couch. “Now, your jeans.”

He felt his cheeks flushing, the chill gone, as he slowly undid the button and zipper. He looked up to meet her eyes. She nodded at him. She was slightly flushed too, he noticed. He inched his jeans over his slender hips, and pushed them down, down past his knees, leaning forward to awkwardly pull them over his feet, hopping a few times to not lose his balance.

“Good . . .” he heard her say as she took another hit. Her eyes were roving over him, the way they had that day in his parents house.

Standing there in only his boxers, he could feel his cock pushing against them, growing in anticipation of her touch.

“Now what?” he finally asked, his voice barely audible.

“Now I want you bare-naked.” She motioned with her finger that his next instruction was to pull down his boxers, to take them off completely.

He was totally hard now. He knew she could see it through the delicate silk of his boxers, and that she was about to see everything. He couldn’t hide the effect she had on him. He took a deep breath. He suddenly heard Andy’s words again – they seemed to be haunting him. I can’t let you do this! Why was he doing this? Why was he taking a risk like this? But then he looked at her, her beautiful body, her beautiful teasing smile, her bright eyes. She wanted him. She was asking him to strip for her. How could he NOT do this?

“Hey . . .” she said softly. “I gave you an order. Are you going to make me come over there?”

Stone bit his lip, his cheeks red and his dick throbbing. Slowly, slowly, he slid his long fingers around the elastic waistband, and started to lower it. He looked down at himself as his pubic hair was exposed, and then his long shaft. It was sticking straight out at her.

He heard her breathe in sharply, and then saw her get up and come towards him out of the corner of his eye. He was still looking down at himself, at his boxers clinging to his thighs.

“Mmmm, is that for me?” she cooed.

He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes, and nodded. He felt his boxers sliding down his legs. She had a hold of them and was pulling them down. He stepped out of them when they reached his feet. He felt her hands running up his legs, and then around to his ass, and finally up to his stomach, as she stood up. But she didn’t touch his hardness. Not yet. She left him dying for it.

“Stone . . .” she whispered in his ear. “Bend over.”

He immediately did.

And he felt the slap of the belt against his bare bottom.

“Oww!” he cried in surprise.

“You like that?” she asked.

“Umm . . .”

Another slap.

“Yessss,” he hissed. “Yes!”

Another slap. Harder this time.

“Good boy,” she began rubbing his ass gently, where she had hit him. “You’re nice and red. Now I want you to lie down.”

He immediately got to the floor, and laid down on his back, looking up at her, his cock still standing straight up.

She smiled at him, at it, and took off her own sweater, the blue cashmere sweater that had outlined her body so beautifully. To Stone’s amazement and delight, she had nothing on underneath it. The soft yarn had been playing against her tits this whole time. Stone couldn’t help but wonder how that felt. She squeezed her arms together slightly, giving him a delicious view of her bare chest, and then she undid her jeans as well, sliding them down over her hips and feet without any of the awkwardness Stone had encountered. She never lost her grace or elegance. No panties! She had been completely nude under her sweater and jeans.

And then she was straddling him. She took hold of his cock with one hand, and rubbed it against her wetness for only a few seconds before pushing it in deep. Really deep.

Stone couldn’t help but cry out. She felt so fucking good.

He opened his eyes and watched as she started riding him, the sunlight now creating a surreal halo around her, her eyes boring into his, her mouth open. She leaned forward and took hold of both his wrists, pinning them to the wood floor beneath them, while she fucked him harder and harder.

“Oh god,” she moaned. “Stone you are huge. I knew I’d love your cock in me.”

“Ahhhhhmmphfhh,” was all he could say.

#fanfic #grunge fic #stone gossard #original character #in too deep

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proteksystem · 2 months

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dcbbw · 1 year

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Suburban Housewife

I have no idea what this story is. What I do know is it isn’t TRR related (that I know of) but leaving the characters to reader’s choice/imagination.

Huge THANK YOUs to the folks who read this over; the feedback and idea-bouncing was amazing, as it always is.

THANK YOU to any and all who will read this; your likes, comments, and/or reblogs are appreciated more than you realize. I really hope you enjoy it!

Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. I did a decent proofing and edit … but it’s me, guys. If it makes any difference, MS Editor rates this story as 98% error free.

Rating is M for Mature

All characters belong to me

Song Inspiration: Safehouse, Collar

Word Count: 2,033

Content Warning: implied/alluded to animal abuse

The woman quietly entered her kitchen through the back door, careful to shut and lock the door behind her. She flipped the light switch, bathing the room in soft light. The house, like her neighborhood, was blanketed in darkness and filled with stillness and quiet. The furnace kicking on confirmed what she already knew: the early morning was chilly on this dawning autumn day.

She carried a pair of running shoes in one hand; they were dirty and needed to be put in the washing machine. A quick glance at the hoodie and yoga pants she wore told her they needed to be tossed in as well. The woman didn’t like dirty clothes.

The girl’s eyes were squinted tightly against the fluorescent lighting as she was led from what was termed “the cubbyhole”, a small, tight closet with no light or toilet. She had been there for three days, and her meager clothing was soiled and stiff with urine and feces. Her voice was hoarse from screaming obscenities, crying, and wailing pleas for release. All of which had gone unheard.

Freeing her hair from the loose ponytail she had pulled it back in, she silently traversed her way into the adjoining washroom where she quickly stripped herself of the outerwear, placing the attire atop the waiting load in the washer. She liberally coated everything with detergent before setting the water temperature to cold and beginning the cycle.

Clad only in a pair of navy-blue boyshorts, she made her way back to the kitchen, pausing at one of the counters to pull a banana from a wooden bowl filled with fresh fruit. A glance at the microwave clock showed her it was just 5:30; she decided to prepare the day’s lunches. Chewing slowly on the fruit, the woman opened the refrigerator, her eyes surveying its contents.

Her husband would have last night’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes; the children would have deli meat sandwiches, chips, juice boxes. As she pulled the ingredients, the woman also made a mental note of what to add to her grocery list besides what she needed to make chicken tortilla soup for that night’s dinner.

They were low on milk and lunch meat; she planned on cooking her family a hot breakfast that morning, so more eggs and sausage. Juices. Pasta and sauce. Potatoes. Bread. Produce. Maybe a roast for Sunday dinner.

As she prepared the noon meals for her family, the woman looked around her cozy kitchen with satisfaction. Neat, clean, orderly and painted in a soft green color with gray accents, stainless steel appliances. The entire house had been painted in soft neutrals: beige, grays, greens; the woman didn’t like the color white.

The hospital had been all white: walls, floors, doors, sheets, uniforms.

Straightjackets.

All gleaming harshly and austerely beneath 24-hour lighting.

Her gaze paused at the butcher’s block filled with knives. One was missing; she would need to replace it.

Soon.

Once the lunches were prepared and packed away, she placed them on the top shelf of the refrigerator. She pulled out the eggs, placing the carton on the counter.

She looked around, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything; the silver-colored dog bowls in the corner caught her attention. The woman absolutely loathed the dog; he ate her shoes and shitted all over the house. When outside, he tore into her azalea bushes and rummaged in the garbage cans.

Her family loved the animal.

She emptied the day-old food into a plastic bag, tying it tightly before placing it inside the kitchen trash can; the water she poured down the drain. She placed the bowls back where they belonged before exiting the room; she made sure to turn off the lights as she went.

She was a silhouette as she crossed through the living area, the only illumination coming from the streetlamps barely visible through the closed blinds. The woman passed the groupings of family photos on end tables and the fireplace mantle without glancing at them; she wanted to shower and dress before anyone else woke up.

In her bedroom, she paused in the doorway to stare at her still-sleeping husband. He lay on his side, facing her; his strong features were softened, almost vulnerable in repose. The stubble covering his jawline and chin was thicker. He would need to shave today; the woman would leave his razor on the sink’s ledge as a reminder.

In the bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet for toothpaste; her medication stared back at her. The woman exhaled a small sigh; it was no longer as potent, as evidenced by her middle-of-the-night awakening and recurring dreams. She should tell her doctor, but she was fine. She had a real family now and was loved by them.

It was all she needed.

The wooden frame house was engulfed in flames so bright, it lit the small community as if it were sunshine. Plumes of thick black smoke curled against the night sky, obliterating the stars. Firefighters battled the blaze while neighbors wondered if there were any survivors other than the young, barefoot teenage girl clad in a white cotton nightgown at the forefront of the crowd. Her hair hung in a straight curtain, framing her face and hiding the cruel smirk that curved her lips.

When questioned by local police officers the girl, through tears and in a quavering voice, cited a childhood filled with a promiscuous mother who subjected her to physical, emotional, and psychological abuse. She claimed her mother prostituted her out to the many men who passed through their doorway.

It was all a lie.

The faded bruises and open wounds on the child’s body were determined to be self-inflicted, and a gynecological examination found the girl to still be a virgin. Her mother was happily married to her college sweetheart, the girl’s father.

The girl was sentenced to the county’s psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane until such time she could stand trial.

The woman was toweling off when her husband appeared through mango-scented steam. She smiled brightly at him.

“Good morning!”

He dutifully kissed her cheek, but his expression was troubled. “You left the bed at 3am. I thought you were taking the sleeping pills?”

He had no idea her sleeping pills were actually a grade-A level anti-psychosis medication to suppress her homicidal rages. The woman took great care to ensure he would never know.

Her eyes searched his face quickly. “I forgot last night,” she lied. “I woke up wide awake and couldn’t get back to sleep. Decided to go for a run.”

Her husband nodded slowly. “You’ll take it tonight? We both know rest is important to you.”

She nodded. “I will. Promise.” She gave him a quick kiss on his lips.

The woman felt a sliver of fear coil in her belly. She loved her husband, loved her children. She didn’t want to lose them, lose the security being a wife and mother offered her.

It was a good life, for the most part: Friday night football games at the neighborhood high school, followed by pizza and ice cream; chores on Saturday, and church on Sunday. Backyard barbecues, bike riding in the nearby park, family game nights.

This house was their fourth move in six years; she and her husband both liked and enjoyed the home immensely as well as the neighborhood: lots of children, leafy trees, friendly people, and close to necessities and amenities. But just as in their previous neighborhoods, incidents began happening.

Missing pets, small fires, vandalism upon neighboring houses.

Her husband hadn’t heard the rumors and whispers, thank God. He was a trusting man, not a stupid one.

Abruptly she turned, pressing her naked body close to his as she wrapped her arms around him. She sighed in relief when she felt him return her hug. She wasn’t ready to let go of what she had built.

But she was prepared to.

While her husband showered, the woman hastily dressed and made their bed. She took care to tuck the fitted sheet closer to her side of the mattress than usual. Her husband trusted her implicitly, but so had others. And still she had been found out.

A half-hour later, her family was seated at the kitchen table, eating their hot breakfast of sausage links, scrambled eggs, grits, and toast. The children were giving their father one-word grunts in answer to his questions about what would be happening at school that day. He soon gave up and continued to eat his meal quickly and quietly.

Her daughter looked around in puzzlement. “Mom, where’s Toodles?”

Toodles was the dog.

The inquiry caused her father and brother to look around the room expectantly, anticipating the pet to appear at hearing his name.

The woman was rummaging in the fridge for the lunch sacks. “He ran out when I went for a jog this morning. He’ll return at some point.”

“What if he gets hurt?” her daughter asked in a panicked voice.

“He won’t. He’s smart,” the woman assured.

Her husband rose from the table, preparing to leave out. His wife admonished her children to hurry up, the school bus would be arriving soon before following her spouse to the front porch. She kissed him sweetly, with just a touch of tongue. He returned the kiss, a tad more deeply.

“You get some rest today. I’ll bring home dinner.”

She nodded, a small smile playing about her lips. “Chinese?” she asked hopefully.

“You got it, kid,” he winked at her over his shoulder.

The woman stood on the porch, watching his dark blue Maxima back down the hilly driveway. He had just pulled off up the street when her kids came tumbling through the doorway, shrugging backpacks over their shoulders.

Her eyes darted between her son and daughter.

“Homework?”

The children nodded affirmatively.

“Lunches?”

Again, they nodded.

She held her arms out to give them hugs and kisses. “You are brave and kind and smart and good-looking. Have a GREAT day!”

The kids gave her kisses on her cheek before walking down the incline the house sat on; her son looked back uneasily at his mother. The woman watched carefully from a porch chair as her children talked and joked with the neighborhood kids as all waited for the big yellow bus. As she always did, the woman waited until she saw her children board the bus, and the bus turn the corner before entering the house.

She locked the door behind her and turned on the television to a local new station for background noise. She placed pans, plates, utensils, and glasses in the dishwasher before wiping down counters and the kitchen table. She wrote out her grocery list, deciding she would go to the store tomorrow after the kids were off to school.

As she did her tasks, the woman decided she didn’t need to call the doctor; despite her body’s newly-found complacency with the medication, she was still fine. Nearly fifteen years since her release, and she was both wife and mother to a family that was very much alive and well, happy and healthy.

No, she didn’t need to call the doctor for herself.

But her son was a different story ...

She yawned heavily; she was beginning to feel tired. A daytime nap would be a good thing.

But first, she had to bury the damn dog and dispose of the missing knife.

She was a good mother.

Tagging: @jared2612 @ao719 @burnsoslow @marietrinmimi @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @cmestrella @liamrhysstalker2020 @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @phoenixrising0308 @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @foreverethereal123 @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @lady-calypso @emkay512 @jovialyouthmusic @21-wishes @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @queenrileyrose @alj4890 @yourfavaquarius111 @motorcitymademadame @bbrandy2002 @eversoaringqueen12 @queenmiarys @choicesficwriterscreations

#dcbbw writes #original fiction #suburban housewife #cw: suggested pet abuse

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rabbitcruiser · 1 year

Photo

16th Street Mall, Denver (No. 6)

Shaped like a cube and facing the 16th Street Mall south of the Wazee intersection, this historic building was built to house Charles Boettcher’s newly formed Great Western Sugar Company after a merger of six Colorado sugar producers created the cooperative. The front portion of the building is clad in buff brick and housed the company’s offices while the rear of the building, made of darker brick, acted as a warehouse. The company grew quickly and added two stories to the office building just six years after its completion and two stories to the warehouse four years after that.

The Historic Sugar Building is Denver’s earliest example of famous American Architect Louis Sullivan’s Sullivanesque style.With its vertical window bands, distinctive three-part organization (top, middle and bottom) and its ornamentation in geometric and stylized foliage forms, it possess the hallmarks of the movement.

The front façade has pavilion-like end bays and is complemented with corbelled brick pilaster capitals, drop pendants and foliate forms, similar to the roundels of the cornice. The main entrance stands centered in the northeast, under a terra cotta “Sugar Building” sign. The additions blend with the original building in style, and in the window arrangement. On the Wazee side of the building, there are three bays and the ornamentation matches that of the 16th Street side of the building. Notably, this building houses an old Otis birdcage elevator that is one of the few of its kind still in use in the western United States.

Behind the Sugar Building and facing Wazee Street one finds the recently completed SugarSquare project by developer Urban Villages. Conceived as an addition to the Historic Sugar Building, SugarSquare fills in a long standing gap in Denver’s urban fabric with a distinctly modern building that respects the context and rhythm of the historic Wazee streetscape. At four stories above grade, SugarSquare provides a transition between the six-story Historic Sugar Building and the adjacent two-story buildings along Wazee Street.

SugarSquare is clad in blackened stainless-steel panels with a highly transparent glass and steel storefront that celebrates and frames the historic brick walls of the Historic Sugar Building. Sugar Square functions as a private entrance for a tenant who has leased several floors in the Historic Sugar Building. Spaces in the Historic Sugar building flow freely into SugarSquare, significantly increasing the floor plate size of Historic Sugar.

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ourladytamara · 2 years

Text

Bad Habit

(1.7k)

@_proletkvlt 7/19/2022

CWs: beefy dickgirl POV, cis domme, breeding, implied institutionalization, lightly-implied snuff, captivity, medfet-y/corporate-y vibes

You can’t help yourself. After all, you think, as your digits graze the twitching surface of your meaty, flared shaft, who could blame a work animal for over-excitement?

Locked in the tiny, sterile chamber, devoid of stimuli as you wait for the plexiglass window, separating you from the mares, to drop and release you. Minutes became hours in your fluroescent-lit prison, the latex and neoprene of your uniform straining as your half-hardened cock begins to push out and upwards.

Working the breeding stables was a difficult job, and for stud-girls like you, it was perhaps most difficult of all. It was a large building, holding hundreds of gyrating, undulating mare-girls in the large central stable. Each of the myriad cow-print-bikini-clad mares – you were told not to think about why “mares” would be wearing cowprint – was a mouthwatering example of bodily ecstasy. Heaving breasts, jiggling thighs, meaty, pillowy asses beneath sagging bellies so accustomed to pregnancy… you wipe the drool away from the corner of your mouth.

In the corners, trapped behind cruelly-magnified plexiglass, were the stud pens, stainless steel boxes designed to drive the testosterone-addled women within utterly mad in minutes. The walls were covered in erotic imagery, a convenient cock-hole located on each of the walls in case the urge to rut became too great to bear. Above each, a red siren light – though you’d never seen it used, its purpose wrapped in mystery.

Despite this apparent hospitality, the reality was far crueler; the pens are barely large enough to move around in with your musclebound form, and certainly not enough to get a satisfying stroke going on any of the wall-sleeves. Harsh fluorescent light pours in constantly, so bright even clenching your eyes shut offers no reprieve.

What offered even less reprieve was the massive electromagnetic ring around the base of your cock. It restricted your equine shaft too tightly to allow you to so much as fantasize about cumming; the mere thought was almost painful, and every time you’d tried you’d been left with ruined orgasm after ruined orgasm – not to mention the unbelievable pain in your pent-up balls.

Skin tenses against your black-and-white stud-girl uniform, pathetically-inadequate boxers straining to contain your rapidly-growing cock. Your free hand, unrestrained by the allure of your member, adjusts the floppy clip-on ears atop your head. Fuck, just staring out at the mares was too much; every throb only served to get you harder, and getting harder only served to make the device around your dick even more painful.

They kept you like this for hours – days, sometimes, if your handlers had a large impregnation order to be filled. Stud-girls worked best like that, they tell you. Frenzied, panicked, possessed with adrenaline-fueled rage and restrained like race horses in hormonal blinders. Perhaps there was a shred of truth to it; after all, you were practically unstoppable when the electromagnet in the ring popped off. Confidence surges to your addled mind, mixing into deadly poison with the testosterone flood waters. Rational thought and the impulse for obedience slip beneath the deluge, and for a moment, a really, really good idea strikes your last remaining brain cells:

Jerking off would feel soooooooo good right now.

It doesn’t take much convincing beyond that singular thought to drop you to your knees. It would, wouldn’t it? The mares could wait; you had plenty of cum to go around, after all, as you knead your heavy cantaloupe-sized balls with ginger, delicate movements. Soon, both of your hands are stroking up and down all over yourself, gliding over the thicker, meatier skin where your sheathe turns to smooth, glistening cock. Each vein pulsates and throbs, invites to draw you closer and closer to that final, long-awaited relea-

Both of the red lights in your cell blink on, a deafeningly-loud alarm blaring behind them. It immediately catches you off guard, startling you into dropping your now steel-hard cock. By the time you spin around in surprise, the back door of the pen – the one you’d come in through, hours ago – slides open.

“WHAT-”

A gloved hand slaps you across the face before you’re able to notice who it’s attached to.

“-THE FUCK-”

Another loops a finger through your collar, pulling you backwards and onto the ground.

“-DID I SAY-”

You stare up at your handler’s breasts, tucked beneath her well-kept scrubs.

“-ABOUT UNAUTHORIZED SELF-PLEASURE!?”

She’s being less curt than usual. You always thought she had such a pretty voice, each syllable helping coax the first bead of pre out of your equine tip. It doesn’t take her long to notice it – and even less time for her to fly into another rage.

“EVERY TIME YOU CUM IT COSTS THE DEMESNE 32,000 RUBLES!” she barks, slapping you across the face again. “Do you even know what the fuck you’re doing, you big, stupid animal? DO YOU?”

You shake your head. No, not really, but you wish she’d slap you a few more times – you were getting close.

“UGH! All of you stupid fucking studs are the same – all cock, no brain. It’s really fucking disgusting that I even have to keep dealing with you brutes. If only you weren’t so good at your sole purpose in life we’d get rid of you – lucky you, huh?”

You weren’t listening to anything she was saying. Every capacity you had for intellect was either soaked in cum and hormones, or being beaten to a pulp by the blaring alarms in your ears. Whatever remained was softened and soothed by her pretty face and prettier body – and soft was just how she liked you. One of her gloved hands wraps tight around the base of your cock as the other grips her skirt – pulling it up and giving you an excellent view of her cunt. Freshly-shaved little bumps cover her skin, the soft outer lips practically pouting at you; fuck, fuck, fuck, you couldn’t take it anymore. You instinctively fidget with the lock on the cock ring, your toes curling up, lip turning white as you bite down on it with force.

“Fine – maybe you’re too overstimulated to remember your instructions. Good-for-nothing beast.”

Your handler wastes no time in straddling you, positioning her juicy, delectable pussy mere inches away from your enormous member. With a click, her fingers slide an RFID chip into your restrictive cock cage – popping it free almost immediately. Before you can even grunt in the pleasure of release, she’s got your shaft in a death grip – and begins working her fingers up and down, up and down, up and down.

“You like this, huh?” she teases. You can’t hide your agreement, writhing and rutting and whinnying at her slightest touch. “You know how much more of this you’d be getting from the pretty mares outside your pen?”

You nod violently, shaking your head so fast you start to make yourself dizzy. God, you wanted nothing more – you needed nothing more! Every cell of your being starts to scream out, begging desperately for release. Your uniform strains and begins to rip, as throb after powerful throb rocks your member, tiny splits in the fabric forming where the force is strongest.

The handler, grunting a bit as she adjusts her position, manages to squish the tip of your cock into her pussy. It’s a tight fit, as evidenced by the terse expression on her face – and even tighter for you. It’s impossible to keep your cool even just sitting motionless; your legs twitch, toes curling, your hands balled into fists tighter than any you’d made before. As soon as she begins stroking you again, you explode.

She seems disgusted by how quickly you came. In no time at all you’re blasting rope after rope of pearlescent jizz into her most intimate anatomy; the first few slam into her back wall as she closes her eyes tight, the rest successfully bloating her snatch to the point she looked nearly pregnant. The rest of it spills out of her in long, sticky globs, dripping down her thighs and onto your half-nude body. It soaks into your uniform like spilled craft glue, clinging in long strands to everything around you.

“...ugh. Good thing I’m on the fucking pill – wouldn’t want to deal with another one of you fucking dumbasses in a few months.”

You don’t react to her words, the orgasm having so thoroughly rattled your brain you’re barely able to breathe.

“That being said, though, you’re obviously spent – too bad, huh? You waited all that time for your pretty little mares and you couldn’t even hold yourself another few seconds.”

With that, the alarm announcing the lowering of the plexiglass stud-pens sounded three times. The machinery embedded in the walls stirred to life, and soon, the central stable was filled with the cooing and gasping of mares as they watched the three other studs burst free of their captivity.

Except you, of course. The exterior wall of your pen, on the other hand, remained locked as tightly as it’d always been. A grunt starts to escape your lips, but your handler stifles it with a hand across them.

“Shut up. Don’t act like you don’t deserve this kind of treatment – how are you going to learn better in the future without a little discipline? Stupid horse.”

She smears the cum dripping down her thigh onto her hand, then spreads it all over your face. Your own juices drive you mad, to say nothing of her own that’d been mixed in with them – and without saying much of anything at all, she rises from your cock. It flops out of her with a wet, sticky pop; she pulls the speaker of her radio closer.

“Yeah, stud #4 is going to be held late today. Couldn’t handle herself – yeah, yeah, I know. Just put her on.”

She presses the RFID chip into the back door of the cell, the stainless steel surface sliding up and out of the way for her once again.

“Next time do your fucking job,” your handler says, “and we’ll maybe consider taking you off the butcher’s list.”

She leaves the pen, door sliding back into place and leaving you alone in your fluorescent prison. Outside the window, you watch as the mares, your beautiful, decadent mares, are bred thoroughly and forcefully by the other studs.

Your cock twitches. Post-orgasmic clarity fades again.

Surely they wouldn’t get TOO mad if you went for round two...

#subscriber stories

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