1. The Consultation
No one would mistake Thomas for a regular at the Locker Room Bar. The place is a favorite hangout for off duty cops, where they can swap stories and nurse beers among their own. Thomas can feel their eyes on him. His lanky 6’4” frame isn’t made for blending in, and his brown wool suit is a dead giveaway. But he’s comfortable here, even if he stands out.
He barely tastes the cold domestic beer, tonguing the foam from his lips.
Across from him at the scratched table, Frank empties his Budweiser. He’s a good looking man, strongly built, but his head of white hair betrays his age. He’s a sergeant, not long on the job, retirement on the horizon. Even with his eyes creased and some laugh lines, he has a boyish quality. The short sleeves are snug on his biceps, and there’s a thickness to his middle that presses against his shirt. A battered stainless-steel watch hugs his thick wrist, the metal band taut. He must have been a sight in his younger days, not that he’s without his appeal now.
“Thanks for meeting me, counselor,” Frank says. His voice is a low rumble. “My buddy, Miller, he says you’re the guy to talk to. And I… got a situation.” He gestures vaguely with a large hand, shifting his weight in his seat.
Thomas gives a small, controlled nod. “Mr. Miller’s a good man. Did some carpentry for me. The shelves will probably outlast the building. Glad I could do him the favor.” His voice is warm, but professional as his brown wool jacket.
He looks down, and then up again to meet Frank’s eyes. “And a cop on the force as long as you, with your record—you’re either a very good cop, or a very bad one, skilled at covering up. If it were the latter you wouldn’t need my help for a problem of this nature. So I choose to believe the former.”
Frank grunts, hunching over his Budweiser, eyeing Thomas with the kind of scrutiny that misses nothing. His eyes—a clear, no-nonsense blue—take in every detail, from the brown hair that flops on his forehead to the knotted tie to the handsome tank watch. Thomas feels the heat of that gaze, but doesn’t flinch.
Frank’s lips turn up into a smirk. “Appreciate the honesty. Most lawyers I deal with are a hell of a lot more cagey.”
For the next ten minutes, Frank lays out the details of his “situation”—a minor administrative complaint, buried in obscure language, but one that threatens to sideline him from a task force he’s keen to join, to coast into retirement.
Thomas listens, watching the flicker of tension in Frank’s jaw. Reassured it’s nothing distasteful—the kind of problem bad cops make for themselves—he interjects only once or twice, clarifying a detail, a clause in the city’s labyrinthine code.
Thomas senses the small trap—a subtle snag in the legal fabric that Frank, for all his street smarts, wouldn’t have noticed. Having heard it all, Thomas waits a beat, letting the relief settle. Thomas sees the solution immediately. It isn't about legal brilliance; it’s about understanding the unspoken rules of the game.
“I’m an attorney, Sergeant,” he says, “but not yours.” It’s a common disclaimer. But still, he explains it calmly, his voice modulating to match the ambient hum of the bar. He points out the specific phrasing Frank needs to use, pointing out the way to untangle it, all without ever saying, This is what you need to do.
“So,” Frank says, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across his jaw, taking ten years off, showing a glimpse of the younger cop he used to be. “That’s it? The whole thing? A simple trick of the light?”
Thomas feels a brow lift slightly. A surprisingly poetic turn of phrase. He registers the nuance; clearly, there’s more to the Sergeant than just the rough exterior.
“An apt term, Sergeant, but yes.” Thomas’s voice stays warm, polite. “Not an illusion, but… a shifting meaning, depending on how you look at it. A matter of interpretation.”
“And this advice... no fee?” Frank asks, his gaze sharpening, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“No, Sergeant. As I said, this is a courtesy to Mr. Miller.”
Frank shakes his head, a mix of relief and grudging respect softening his features. “You’re an odd bird, counselor. You see things a cop wouldn’t.”
“It’s not what you got in the uniform for, is it?” Thomas asks. “Dealing with paperwork traps?’
“No,” Frank says. He meets Thomas’s eyes, and the connection snaps into place like a lock tumbling. “No, it sure as fuck isn’t. I signed up to catch bad guys. Not to get tripped up by some pencil pusher in City Hall who’s never walked a beat in his life.”
It’s an admission he wouldn't make to a stranger. But Thomas isn’t a stranger anymore.
Thomas allows a genuine, contained smile to surface. “It’s all in the language, Sergeant. Understanding how the game is played, even when it’s not the game you’re used to.” He pauses, his gaze dropping briefly to the collar resting against Frank’s thick neck, sensing the pulse beating there, then rising back to his eyes. “Sometimes, it’s about seeing from both sides of the street.”
Frank’s brow furrows, and he chuckles darkly, but the bitterness is gone, replaced by a warm, curious intimacy. “Both sides? All due respect, counselor, but you look like you’ve only ever walked on the paved side. The side with the doormen.”
Thomas feels a subtle pull, a loosening in his chest. This is it. The part where he explains, where he sometimes sees the mild confusion in the eyes of men like Frank, men who remind him so much of his old man.
He glances down, then back up. “Yeah, well,” he says, a faint, almost imperceptible softening in his tone. “My dad was a cop. A beat cop, actually. Back in South Philly.”
Frank’s pale eyebrows rise. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, the muscles bunching under the fabric—thick, capable arms that Thomas has been tracking peripherally for twenty minutes. “No kidding? Wouldn’t have pegged you for a cop’s kid.”
He nods at Thomas’s tailored appearance, the soft wool browns and chocolate tones. “You’re a long way from the beat.”
“I went to law school,” Thomas continues, his voice even, eyes set on the solid set of Frank’s shoulders, the rough hair on his forearms. “Dad had mixed feelings, I think.”
“Mixed feelings?” Frank asks, his gaze sharpening with a new curiosity. “How so?”
“He was a stoic man. Kept his distance,” Thomas replies, his eyes losing focus for a split second. “When I told him I was going to law school instead of the academy I thought he'd be proud. You know? Moving up in the world. But, he just looked at me and said, ‘You chose a different path.’ That was all.” Thomas turns his glass in a slow circle. “I felt so... adrift.”
He looks up at Frank, masking the vulnerability quickly. “I suppose in some ways we disappointed each other.” He looks at Frank, taking in the easy confidence, the rougher edges, the plainspoken honesty. It’s all there.
“What was he like, then? Your old man?” Frank asks, his voice low and sincere.
Thomas’s eyes drift past Frank. “He was plain spoken. Didn’t mince words. Liked his beer cold and his coffee black. Liked his… women. Loved football, especially the Eagles. Wore a watch like yours—nothing flashy, just reliable.”
Thomas’s gaze lingers on Frank’s broad shoulders, the way his shirt pulls across his chest. “He was strong. So strong. Built for purpose.”
He can feel the words weighing on his tongue, the subtle charge they carry.
“Like you.”
Frank blinks, once, then again. He shifts in his chair, unconsciously sitting up straighter, squaring his broad shoulders to fill even more space. He leans back, picks up his empty glass, and turns it slowly in his large hand. He looks pleased, despite himself.
Thomas feels a subtle heat rise in his cheeks. He’s exposed himself, just a fraction, but in here—to a man like Frank—it feels like so much more.
“Huh,” Frank says finally, the sound low, almost an exhale. He doesn’t look away from Thomas’s gaze. “Well. That explains a few things. Didn’t know you had that in you, counselor. Not that I’m complaining.” A corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but a hint of something amused. Maybe even intrigued.
Thomas’s pulse quickens. He watches the shift in Frank’s eyes, the way they linger, taking him in with a new kind of scrutiny—one that has nothing to do with administrative headaches. What does he see now?
“So,” Frank says, his voice softer now, less the sergeant, more just a man. “Another round? On me.” He glances at Thomas’s barely touched beer. “Or something you’d actually drink?”
Thomas offers a smile—not the professional one, but something looser, more open. “Bourbon, neat,” he says. The hum of the bar fades, leaving only the quiet between them.
Frank signals the bartender, orders, and in a minute two fresh drinks appear. He nudges the bourbon toward Thomas. “You’re a different breed, counselor. Cop's kid or not, you fit the suit. Most guys with your... pedigree... don’t give a damn about a cop’s little bureaucratic headaches.” He sips his beer, still watching Thomas.
“Everyone’s got their stories, Sergeant,” Thomas says. The polite, professional veneer is still there, but he can feel it stretching thin. “And ‘pedigree’ is a funny word for a beat cop’s son who got lucky with scholarships.” The corners of his mouth lift, just a little.
Frank chuckles, a low sound that softens the rugged lines of his face. “Fair enough.” His gaze drops, almost imperceptibly, to Thomas’s lips, then flickers back up.
Thomas takes a slow breath, the bourbon warm going down. “Call me Tom,” he says. The name is an old one, a little foreign on his tongue now, but right. He watches Frank, sees the flicker of surprise, then something else—a warmth, slow and deep, spreading across his features. “Please.”
“Tom,” Frank repeats, testing it out. The name is low and rough in his mouth. It sounds different coming from him, more grounded, and Tom feels an immediate, sharp throb in his groin. Yes. That’s it.
Frank’s eyes are openly assessing now, no longer just curious but hungry. The bar, the drinks, the polite conversation—it all feels like prelude.
“You know, Tom,” Frank says, leaning in, his voice a quiet rumble, “this bar’s got more ears than walls.” He tips his head subtly toward the exit, his gaze holding Tom’s. “My place isn’t far. Or there’s a hotel a few blocks over. Clean enough.”
Tom weighs the choices. A hotel is quick, anonymous. Frank’s place is something else—a step deeper into the world he’s never quite left behind. He meets Frank’s steady gaze, feels the challenge there and the promise. The ache in his gut is a burn now.
“Your place,” Tom says, rising smoothly, already reaching for his wallet. “If it’s no trouble.” He needs that space, needs to strip away more than just his suit—needs the rawness that Frank carries like a second skin.
Frank just nods, a satisfied gleam in his blue eyes. “No trouble at all, Tom. Let’s settle up.”
2. Discovery
Frank’s building is nondescript—brick and three stories, tucked away on a side street. Inside, the apartment is exactly as Tom pictured it: neat, spare. Masculine. Standing in the entryway, Tom can take it all in: a living space that bleeds into a modest dining nook, and a kitchenette tucked against the far wall. Two closed doors likely lead to a bedroom and a bath.
There’s a worn sofa, a large, old television, shelves packed with paperback thrillers and a few framed photos. The air smells faintly of old coffee from the morning, and a sort of… lived-in man-scent. If there was ever a woman here, it’s been a long time.
Only fractured shafts of streetlight pierce the dark, carving sharp lines across the worn furniture. Frank reaches out of habit for the light switch, but Tom rests a hand on his, stopping him.
"It's perfect just as it is, Sergeant," he murmurs.
He moves in close behind Frank, pulling him back by the waist, his free hand sliding over Frank's chest, then down his hairy, muscled arms, feeling the solid give and tension. Tom buries his face in the warm, salty curve of Frank’s neck, inhaling deeply.
The scent triggers a cascade of sensory memories—of his own father coming home after a shift, weary and smelling of the city. He remembers sneaking into the bathroom while his dad showered, finding the discarded undershirt in the hamper, burying his face in it, breathing in the musk as his erection throbbed.
That memory—that aching longing for a connection to the rougher, truer side of manhood—attaches itself to Frank now. The broad back, the thick arms, a working man’s strength—all braided into Tom’s understanding of the standard he yearns to surpass. He feels himself stiffen against Frank’s rear.
"Do you bring… guests here often, Sergeant?"
Frank stiffens slightly, then relaxes. A low exhale escapes him. "A... few. Over the years."
"I’ll bet,” Tom answers. “A hot stud cop like you.”
Frank chuckles, a low rumble, but his back arches into the touch as Tom’s hands roam his torso over his shirt, teeth grazing the nape of his neck. Frank’s chest swells, puffing out slightly—the vanity of an older man realizing that he can still pull a man like Tom.
The buttons snap under Tom’s fingers. He’s still hard-bodied—just a little softer in his middle, but even that tightens under Tom’s hands as they slide under his undershirt, feeling the slight curve of his furry belly.
“Fuck yeah,” Tom whispers as his hand moves down to the hard mound in Frank’s crotch. His mouth opens on Frank’s neck, feeling rough fingertips reach behind to pull him closer.
Tom turns Frank in his arms, their mouths meeting, wet and hungry. Frank kisses back with a surprising, grateful intensity, his tongue rough and eager. Without another word, Tom lowers himself to his knees. As he descends, he pushes the white cotton up, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the swell of Frank’s stomach, tasting the salt on the skin, his nose brushing against the trail of gray and charcoal hair that leads downward into the denim.
On his knees, he pulls at the waistband of Frank's jeans. He slides the denim down Frank's thick thighs, freeing his heavy cock, which rises to full erection. Tom smacks it lightly against his palm, testing the weight of it. He looks up only briefly, to see the approval—and the need—written plainly on Frank’s face.
Tom takes him into his mouth, drawing him in with a deep, hungry suck.
Tom works him with a practiced expertise, his tongue a warm, wet slide, his lips pulling and releasing with a rhythm that Frank clearly hasn't encountered in a long time. Frank's hands loosen, fingers splaying in Tom’s soft hair as a groan rises from his chest. "Fuck yeah, Tom," he gasps, his rough voice now thick with pleasure.
Frank begins to pump his hips, a helpless, rhythmic motion, driving himself deeper into the sanctuary of Tom’s throat. Tom feels the twitch in the heavy muscle, the warning sign that Frank is getting close. Tom could finish him here without much more effort—go home with a load of cop cum in his belly.
But that would be too easy. Tom breaks the seal of his mouth with a wet pop, pulling back just as Frank tries to press forward. The sheen of spit coating Frank’s cop cock drips onto the carpet. He feels the tension in Frank’s hand on his head—the impulse to pull him back for more—and then the surrender as Frank realizes who is setting the pace.
Tom rises, meeting Frank face to face.
Frank’s kisses are, predictably, more open now, grateful to that mouth for the pleasures it brought him, undoubtedly eager for more. But Tom has other opportunities in mind as he begins the disrobing. His jacket shrugs off his shoulders, dropping to the floor. His belt unbuckles in a practiced motion, and then the brown wool slacks glide down his long legs with a soft woosh.
Frank joins him, frantic now. He shoves the denim down past his calves, stepping out of the heavy boots and kicking the jeans away in one tangled motion. He pulls off the already open top, hooks his thumbs under the hem of the undershirt, hauling it up and over his head. It leaves him exposing the broad chest, the hair gray against ruddy skin, catching the dim light. He stands there, his free hand stroking himself in a slow rhythm, his eyes darting over Tom’s frame.
Tom’s heart races at the sight. His brows knit as he lets his hands press into the firm pillows of Frank’s pecs. “Jesus,” he nearly whimpers, eyes lost in the chaotic pattern of fur. He sees a grin break across Frank’s face—a look of pure, satisfied ego.
Frank runs a rough hand over Tom’s torso. Tom is lanky and lean, a smattering of brown hair at the center of his chest, his own erection sprung free and already dripping—his cock longer than Frank’s by a head, unmistakably hungry. Frank’s thick cock, now fully hard and heavy, sways with a life of its own, a blunt instrument of desire.
Tom holds his hand to his mouth, clearly working up spit. Frank stops him with a shake of the head and a smirk. His own arousal hardened, his eyes still locked on Tom, he reaches to his end table for a tin.
It’s a hand salve—the kind a cop might use in the evening, seated on his worn sofa after a long day—on rough hands, or maybe at times on a cock starved for attention. Their eyes meet, a silent communication passing between them, a shared understanding of what’s about to happen.
Tom takes the tin of salve Frank offers. Without a word, he scoops out a generous amount, the opaque grease cool on his palm. Frank watches him, entranced. With a surprising aggression, Tom shoves his slicked hand between the firm cheeks of Frank’s cop ass.
The grease makes a heavy, wet squelching sound as he works it into the furnace of Frank’s crack. He pushes hard at the tight knot of muscle, feeling the ring snap back against his fingers, catching Frank off guard.
“Tom…” Frank begins, his grip tightening on Tom’s arms—a reflex, a sort of I don’t think so, but the look on his face is flattered, conflicted.
"You're saying you... never, Frank? Never?" Tom asks, his voice commanding, the Philly accent a rough undertow beneath the polish.
Frank pauses, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He looks at Tom, then down at Tom’s eager, leaking cock. The young, powerful man wants him. He relents. He turns slowly, presenting his back—there are fine silver hairs on it, over the ruddy skin and muscle.
"Is this what you want?" Frank murmurs, looking over his shoulder.
"Ever since you sat down at the bar," Tom answers.
Tom wastes no time. He presses Frank down so he bends at the waist, steadying himself on his sturdy legs, hamstrings taut. Tom coats his cock, watching it glisten in the faint light, then positions himself behind Frank. He pushes—slow, deliberate but insistent. He feels the initial resistance, pushes harder, murmuring low encouragement as he breaches Frank, inch by agonizing, stretching inch.
"Easy there, Tom," Frank grunts, his voice strained but deep with desire. He reaches behind, hands gripping Tom's thighs, slowing but not stopping him.
Tom holds, but the demand from his own body makes it hard to not drive forward. He reaches around to rest a hand on Frank’s lower belly. His voice is already changing, roughening. "I can't wait to nut into that."
Frank gasps, and Tom pushes again—feeling the raw, hot glide into Frank’s depths, his shaft burying itself with a wet thud, deep and true. Frank lets out a sharp exhale, his body shuddering. Tom pulls back a fraction, then thrusts, slamming fully inside Frank.
"Fuck," Frank mutters.
Tom works up a rhythm. It’s tight—impossibly tight—the walls of Frank’s ass gripping him like a hot fist, milking the length of his shaft on every drag back. Frank grunts, the discomfort blurring into pleasure. The salve has turned to a hot, slick oil, and the wet sound of their bodies slapping together echoes in the small room.
"Fuck yeah," Frank pants, arching his back, grinding his hips. "Harder, Tom."
"You got it, Frank," Tom grits out, his voice deeper now, a rougher edge to it. His Philly accent shimmers through in the heat of the moment. "Gonna wreck that cop cunt."
The words put him nearly over the edge—too soon.
He shoves his hips forward, a driving force, pushing into Frank’s soft inside, wanting to feel him yield under his thrusts, wanting to bury himself even deeper.
Suddenly, Frank moves, bending over, planting one knee on the sofa cushions, opening himself more fully. Tom feels a surge of surprise, then a deeper power. Frank's strength was expected, but his willingness to take this position, to yield to Tom is even more potent.
Tom feels himself building, a tight coil in his gut. His pace quickens, matching Frank’s heat. Not refined, not kind—hes fucking a man who in the shifting light could be his father—that unscalable peak finally shaking beneath him. The smells and the strength, the raw masculinity.
He pumps faster. Frank reaches down with one hand to work his own hard cock. As he does, his ass clutches on Tom’s cock, milking him. The pleasure beyond pleasure hits Tom in a wave that leaves him shaking, breathless. In the dimly lit room, catching sight of the framed photo of Frank in uniform, a primal connection solidifies in Tom's mind. He feels Frank’s body tense, and as Tom takes a final, powerful thrust, a hot gush of cum explodes deep inside Frank, flooding his guts.
Frank groans, a deep, satisfied sound, and drops forward, Tom’s hands bruisingly tight on his hips, the still-hard shaft buried deep inside him. Tom wraps his salve-slicked hand around Frank's tense, rigid cock, making for a smooth, urgent stroke. He manages to pump his hips one last time as he strokes the cop cock, and Frank shoots, his body shuddering, crying out as his load surges into Tom's hand, legs trembling.
The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by their breathing and the distant city hum. Looking down, Tom can see grey-dusted hair on Frank’s shoulders, the powerful muscles of his back still clenched. His own cock, still heavy and slick with salve and cum, rests nestled deep inside Frank, in the warm, wet grip of his cop ass.
After a few more minutes, Tom shifts, carefully sliding out of Frank with a slick drag. Frank grunts in protest, but lets him go, his legs giving out.
He collapses, rolling heavily onto his back on the worn cushions. He sprawls there, hairy chest heaving, his legs falling open in a careless, exhausted display. He looks up at Tom, his blue eyes dazed, flushed, and unguarded.
Tom stands over him for a moment, looking down at the heavy, soft cock and the hair-matted thighs. Then, wanting to see the full extent of what he's done, Tom steps between Frank’s spread legs and crouches down.
He reaches in, his hands finding the heat there, spreading the cheeks slightly to get a clear view. He runs his hands through Frank’s furry dad ass. The crack is flooded, slick with salve where Tom fucked him.
As Tom watches, Frank’s wrecked hole gives a sudden, involuntary spasm. It pulses, and with a wet squelch, it pushes out a heavy, thick glob of Tom's hot white seed.
"No you don't," Tom whispers.
He presses his thumb against the hole, pushing the seed back in, sealing it inside the older man.
"Fuck," Frank mutters, back arching, shivering at the sensation. "Tom..."
"Keep it," Tom says, wiping his hand on Frank's hip. "That belongs to you now."
3. Sealed Records
The silence that descends upon the room is heavy, punctuated only by the synchronized rhythm of their breathing and the distant, indifferent hum of the city outside. Tom steps back, looking down at Frank, sprawled open on the sofa. The evidence of their act is nestled in the tight, hot grip of the older man’s body.
Tom moves toward the small, utilitarian bathroom, the fluorescent light flickering to life with a low buzz, bleaching the color from the room. He turns on the faucet, the water rushing in a torrent. The salve won't do—not on his hands, and certainly not on his good clothes. His suit alone probably cost more than his father ever made in a month on the beat.
He finds a bar of white soap in the dish—simple, unscented, cracked with use—and lathers it between his palms. He puts his hands under the hot flow of water, rubbing, and watches the opaque grease swirl down the drain.
He looks up at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. His hair is tousled, his eyes dark. With wet fingers, he combs his hair back into place, smoothing the lines. He takes a breath, feeling a subtle recalibration within himself, like his heart is retreating back into the cage of his ribs, quieting.
He grabs a wad of toilet paper and performs a quick, efficient cleanup of his groin, careful not to smear his fingers again. It’s enough to protect the fine trousers, but leaving enough of the scent to keep the memory alive. As he dries his hands on a small, surprisingly clean towel, he hears the creak of the sofa springs as Frank shifts on the sofa.
He returns to the living room, where Frank is now propped on one elbow, looking at him with a face flushed with bewilderment. Tom walks to where his clothes lay discarded in a heap. He dresses methodically. He stuffs his semi-hard length—still tacky, still coated with the evidence of his own pleasure—into his boxer briefs, enjoying the friction. The shirt is tucked in, the belt buckle resting cool against his slim hips. His jacket feels familiar, cool, when he slides his arms into the sleeves. Finally, the tie, knotted loosely with practiced ease.
The transformation settles. The cop’s son is sated. The counselor remains.
Frank watches him, his blue eyes wide and searching. "Didn’t see that coming," he murmurs, shaking his head slightly as if trying to clear a fog. "Didn’t know you had it in you."
Thomas smiles, a slow curve of his lips. "You're a strong man, Frank," he says, his voice low. "I suppose I just wanted to see if I could measure up."
Frank lets out a rough, short breath—a ghost of a grin on his lips. "Reckon you did."
Thomas’s smile deepens, just a fraction.
He moves closer to the sofa, leans down, and presses a long, chaste kiss to the crown of Frank's gray-haired head, taking in his scent one more time—the salt, the sweat, the surrender.
He straightens, buttoning his jacket. His voice is soft, kind, but professional. "If you run into a problem with the paperwork, reach out."
With that, Thomas turns, walks to the door, and closes it softly behind him, sealing the secret inside.
He walks down the hall toward the main entrance. He adjusts the knot of his tie,, shifting seamlessly back into the attorney, the man who navigates the world with care and restraint.
At the exterior door, he pushes the heavy bar outward just as an elderly couple reaches for the handle on the other side, their arms laden with grocery bags. They startle, hesitating at the sudden movement.
Without missing a beat, Thomas steps aside but keeps his grip firm. He plants a polished shoe to hold the door wide, bracing his shoulder against the frame to take the full weight of the heavy glass so they can pass without effort. He reaches out a hand—the same hand that just handled Frank—and gently steadies the top of the man’s teetering grocery bag as they shuffle past.
The woman beams at him, a deep maternal warmth spreading across her face. "Oh, thank you, young man. Such a gentleman."
"Please," he says, his voice smooth as silk, a slight, deferential bow of his head. "After you."
Stepping out onto the street, the cool night air is a bracing contrast to the humid, musk-heavy warmth of the apartment. He lifts his hand to his face, feigning a scratch at his nose, and catches it—the faintest, lingering scent of the sticky salve.
He inhales deeply. The memory of Frank—the muscled body, the raw grunts, the way he'd yielded—soothes him.
He turns down the block, his footsteps clicking rhythmically against the pavement. The streetlights overhead cast pools of pale yellow between deep, stretching shadows. Thomas walks through them, passing from the light into the dark and back again. Illuminated, then hidden.
He allows himself a faint, private smile. It’s his own elegant trick of the light that will hold him steady. At least for a while.
END
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