#text thread | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

officerwhitmore · 4 months ago

Text

Hey, Tony...

Monday hit Vincent like a bullet in the back. Just like last Monday, when he’d dolled himself up to get fucked by Tony, ended up with a hickey that could’ve ruined his life, and then ran out on him—an act that, if he were being honest, actually had ruined his life (which was admittedly melodramatic but didn’t feel any less true). And honestly? Vincent should’ve been far more fucking concerned about the fact that he’d haphazardly handed this one, very mysterious, insanely attractive, and large-dicked man from Texas the power to wreck him completely.

Was this why parents—including Vincent—warned their daughters to be careful with boys? That they weren’t all they were cracked up to be? That they could stumble into your universe, claim the center of it like they had a right, and then destroy it with their fists like the goddamn Hulk while you stood there slackjawed, powerless to stop the devastation because ’but Daddy, I love him?’ And really, this whole gay situation only made the equation more impossible to solve because, sure, Vincent knew he was the Hulk in Tony’s universe right now—but sometimes it felt like the roles were flipped. Sometimes it felt like Tony had smashed both of their worlds to pieces just by existing. Just by being so infuriatingly sweet, impossibly tall and muscular, dangerous-looking with that deep, southern molasses voice, those dark brown eyes, and that shark-toothed grin that radiated unfiltered sexual energy—<em>even</em> in a dirty apron or someone’s dead grandma’s step-uncle’s ancient flannel shirt.

It was 6:00-something PM, and June was in her bedroom upstairs, battling the after-school Monday blues by screech-laughing on Roblox with some friends from school whom Vincent had carefully vetted in his own time. You couldn’t exactly run background checks on children—because, like Tony, they had no records to check—but their immediate family members? Fair game. DUI in the ’90s? Happens to the best of us. A few bounced checks or a minor shoplifting charge from a decade ago? Not great, but forgivable. An arrest for public intoxication during a rowdy college football game? Annoying, but not damning. An old citation for disorderly conduct at a neighbor’s backyard barbecue? Not ideal, but understandable after a few beers. However, a domestic violence charge filed just last year? Or a police call detailing a heated, late-night argument that ended with property destruction and terrified neighbors? Those were the kinds of things that immediately nixed a kid from his approval-to-play-with-June list, no exceptions.

Even as he scrolled through public records on his work laptop late one night—his personal laptop shoved aside, guilty by association—he couldn’t stop the nagging discomfort clawing at the back of his mind. This was overkill. He knew it was overkill. The logical, decent part of him reminded him that most of these kids’ parents were probably harmless screwups, the kind of people who racked up parking tickets or got into petty arguments with their HOA over mailbox colors. Not predators. Not monsters. But then, the darker memories crept in—the ones he didn’t let himself think about too often. That case in Coldwater, the one that made his stomach churn even now, years later. It had started with a routine tip about an unpaid parking violation and ended with something so insidious he couldn’t even bring himself to say the words aloud anymore. He shuddered at the thought, the bile rising in his throat.

So, yeah. He knew he was abusing his power. It wasn’t the first time he’d wrestled with that ugly truth. He hated that he had access to these records at all, hated that being a cop gave him the ability to dig into someone’s life just because he felt like it. There was a rottenness to it, the kind that made his skin crawl, but when it came to June, his guilt didn’t matter. Not compared to the nagging fear that he might miss something—something small, something buried, something that could put her in danger. He couldn’t afford to stop. Not after what he’d seen. Not after what he knew. It wasn’t right, though, and he couldn’t pretend it was. He’d look himself in the mirror afterward and feel the weight of his own hypocrisy pressing down on his chest, hot and suffocating. But he told himself it was worth it. It had to be. If it meant keeping June safe, he’d carry that weight. Even if it made him sick. Even if it made him hate himself.

Another thing that made him hate himself? What he was doing right now, sitting on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, the screen dimmed just enough to be soothing but not enough to hide the shameful sheen on his face. His thumb swiped aimlessly through a femboy subreddit (on his porn alt, not his main, because he wasn’t a complete idiot), his left hand softly pawing at his cock through his sweats, willing it to come to life. The carousel of scantily clad young men in skirts and thigh-highs blurred together, their poses coquettish and calculated to entice. Normally, he might have felt something—a flicker of heat, a stir of interest—but tonight it was like trying to light a match in a downpour. Nothing. Just static. His chest tightened with a pang of frustration as he lingered on one photo a moment too long—a dark-skinned man with dreadlocks leaning back against the trunk of some sleek BMW with his short velvet skirt pitched high by a long, hard cock only <em>just</em> hidden beneath the fabric. Though it made something tickle in his stomach, his hand softly tightening around the shape of his length, the image did little more than remind him how hollow he felt.

With a sharp exhale, he backed out of the page, his thumb finding its way to another subreddit. This one presented him with slim-muscular men: taut torsos, sharply cut jaws, and those broad shoulders he always gravitated toward, faces that exuded confidence and a touch of arrogance. The first few photos were strangers, all technically attractive, but as his thumb scrolled, their features started to shift. His mind twisted every sharp brow, every smirking mouth, every shadowed jawline into Tony’s. Every image became Tony leaned back against that green leather couch, his broad chest stretching the fabric of his red button-down, his sharp, lust-drunk eyes cutting through Vince’s defenses like a knife.

It wasn’t long before Vince stopped scrolling, his hand falling limp in his lap as he stared blankly at the screen. The air in the room felt heavier, his throat tight as if his body were trying to ward off the memories threatening to overtake him. But it was useless. Tony was everywhere now, inescapable, his image burned into Vince’s mind with a ferocity that made him ache. The screen was paused on a post—some curly-haired fitness model with a cock hard enough to knock down Sears Tower—but it wasn’t his broad shoulders or the careful line of his abs that Vincent saw. Instead, he heard Tony’s voice, low and rough, murmuring something that wasn’t even sexy but still made Vincent’s stomach tighten. He closed the app with a sharp flick of his thumb, frustration bubbling in his chest as his mind betrayed him again. “Fuck this,” he muttered under his breath, tossing the phone onto the bed.

That led to the inevitable, didn’t it? The restless pull in his stomach, the ache that settled low in his body, and the gnawing need to exorcize Tony’s ghost any way he could. He jerked off like a man trying to erase a memory, forcing his focus onto something explicit—anything explicit—but it didn’t work. Not really. The man in the photo was there in his mind, sure—thick blonde curls and long, blushed cock—but it was Tony’s crooked smile that burned in the back of Vincent’s mind, the thought of his hands rough but steady on his hips, his broad chest warm and unyielding. When it was over, Vince let out a heavy sigh that sounded more like defeat than relief, staring at the mess he’d made and feeling emptier than before—just like it had the three other times he’d done it that day, numb and waiting for June to return so he’d have something to do other than jerk off and daydream about killing himself. He didn’t even bother cleaning up right away, just leaned back into the mattress and dragged a hand over his face, muttering, “You’re pathetic.”

Fifteen minutes later, hands washed, stomach cleaned, still feeling like total garbage, Vincent wandered downstairs and flipped on the TV out of sheer desperation, settling on a Bulls game because it was live and required no commitment. He let the mindless buzz of the commentators fill the room, his eyes tracking the movement of players across the court. It worked, for a little while. He could almost convince himself he was engaged—until one of the players stepped up to the free-throw line. Tall, muscular, with a cocky air and a predatory focus that practically radiated from the screen. Vincent felt his chest tighten, his mind whispering that familiar, unbearable name.

Goddammit, Tony.

Vincent’s jaw clenched, his fists pressing hard against his thighs, knuckles white as if bracing against the unbearable tension in his chest. He couldn’t take this—couldn’t sit here, drowning in his own head, as some random athlete on the screen reminded him of the man he’d spent the past week trying and failing to forget. The dull, pounding headache from the morning—courtesy of last night’s gut-wrenching sobs—had lingered all day, making everything feel muted, gray. It wasn’t pain anymore, not exactly. It was a heavy, numbing ache that pressed against his skull and made it impossible to focus on anything but the void gnawing at his insides.

His phone sat next to him, black and silent, like it was mocking him. It hadn’t buzzed all day, not with anything meaningful, and certainly not with the response he’d been stupid enough to hope for. He’d woken up that morning feeling gross and clammy, the fabric of his boxers uncomfortably sticky against his skin, and had immediately snatched his phone off the floor where he’d thrown it the night before. Nothing. No reply to the Kyle joke, no acknowledgment that he even existed. Tony’s silence had been like a slap to the face, but worse than the slap was the absence of surprise. Why the hell would Tony want anything to do with him after everything he’d put him through?

But now, hours later, with the dim glow of the TV casting strange shadows across the room, that stupid little device might as well have been alive, daring him to pick it up. His heart thundered in his chest as he grabbed it, opening their chat before he could think better of it. His fingers hovered over the blank message box beneath Tony’s name, his breath catching as the pressure in his chest tightened into something unbearable. Vince knew he should stop—knew he should leave Tony alone and save what little shred of dignity he had left. But self-control had never been his strong suit, and the urge to text him again, to say something, anything, was an iron grip around his lungs.

And then, against every ounce of logic, he started typing.

Hey… 🙃

Just wanted to check in and see if you're doing okay. Also! Any luck on the jacket hunt? 👀 I know some places around town that have a good selection. I'd be willing to drop you an addy if you like. (That means address. 😜)

@tex-mex-tony

#anthony castile #Cedar Point #maplewood lane #vincent's house #text thread #hey tony...

7 notes · View notes