#just kinda been laying in bed. rotting. crying. it fucking sucks

[imreszekeres]

I really do appreciate everyones support thru this; honestly even attempting to step out a bit of the murder fandom has been absolute hell. Its all Ive known since around 2017. Not to mention the stress of knowing I have to essentially rethink every single one of my OCs. Idk man this was kinda the last thing I needed :/

[babayagakeanu]

Sweet As Sugar*

Pairing: Wade Walker/reader

Summary: Wade gives you your first orgasm. ‘Nuff said. 

Warnings: smut, teeth-rotting fluff, virgin!reader

Wade has only been your boyfriend for about a year. You knew that he wanted to be closer to you in an intimate way, and if you were going to be honest with yourself, you were terrified. It’s the 1950s and you knew that sex before marriage was frowned upon, so if your mother ever found you two in your bedroom, you would never be able to see your love again. Alas, here you are, in Wade’s room, kissing you until your jaw was aching for release, and you decided it was time.

“Wade, honey, can we take a break?” You wish you didn’t have too, you loved the way he tasted as he licked into your mouth. “My jaw’s gettin’ kinda sore.” Wade smiled at you, kissing your lips one last time before he went to grab you both some water. You got up and threw on one of his spare flannels, the evening chill of the night raising goosebumps to your skin. It smelled just like him, and you sank into the warm cotton layers of the black and white flannel.  Underneath the flannel, you had stripped down to nothing, the flannel covering your breasts, but open enough for him to see the heavy swell of your breasts, and you had left your panties on as well. You looked like a sexy pin-up girl, and the boost of confidence was helping calm down your nerves. 

“Here, sugar! I got us some wa—” the cups come crashing down to the floor once he sees you lookin’ like that in his bed. “Hi, crybaby.” You put a seductive twist to your voice, and it seems to do the trick because you can see the large bulge forming under the tight leather constraints of his pants. “y-y/n, are you sure? If you aren’t ready, I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this for me. I want it for both of us.” You shake your head at your pretty boy. “No, baby. I want you, I’ve been dreaming about you ravaging me all night long.”  You see your crybaby’s eye practically roll into the back of his head and before you know it, he’s crossing the room and catching your lips in a bruising kiss, something that you love about Wade. Your tongues taste each other, Wade sucking at tip of your tongue, causing you to gasp into his mouth as you capture his lips again.

“Oh, baby... you’re sweet as sugar.” Wade comments, “couldn't get enough of you even if I tried.” You moan lowly as his lips leave searing down your neck, sucking fat purple marks into your skin. “Wade, my mother is gonna kill me if she sees this!” His chuckle against your skin vibrates. “baby, that’s why they make turtleneck shirts.” You swat his arm, and he laughs again, going back into your neck to taste more of you. “I can’t believe your all mine, and the fact that you’re going to be naked in my bed, for my eyes only.” His lips reach your open chest, peeling back the flannel revealing your hardened buds to his chocolate eyes. “Oh, Christ almighty!” He shouts, and you silently thank God knowing his grandparents aren’t home. Self-conciuosuly, you move your arms to cover your modesty, but he looks into your eyes. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever see, y/n. Please don’t hide from me, alright? I won’t hurt you.” He kisses you sweetly, “it’s all about you tonight.” 

You lower your arms only to watch as Wade takes a nipple in his mouth as he watches you. You’re convinced you’ve never seen anything sexier than what you just witnessed. He lavishes your bud, nipping it a little watching as you squirm under his touch. “Wade, please..” he snickers and kisses down your stomach, licking and sucking at your soft flesh. He gets to your panties, and looks at you, silently asking for your permission to remove the last piece of clothing separating you and Wade. You nod and watch as he peels your panties off with his teeth.

You had done some maintenance down there for this night so you were glad when he stopped what he was doing and stared down at you in awe. “You are an angel, sugar.” He strips down to nothing and you stare as his length bobs against his stomach. Your mouth instantly waters but you’re too scared to give him one of those blowjobs you hear girls talking about. He lays flat against his stomach on the bed and kisses up your thighs. Slowly pushing open your legs, he presses a kiss to the top of your mound, and you felt yourself growing wetter and wetter by the second. He takes a long lick up your cunt, growling as he tastes your sweet juices. “God, you taste like fuckin’ heaven, babydoll. Gonna get you all nice and worked up for me before I fuck you nice and good, baby.” He inserts a finger, slowly working your hole, and you arch your back, the pleasure you feel too overwhelming. He adds his tongue to the mix, slowly circling your clit, causing a tight knot to form at the pit of your stomach, and you remember that this is what your friend, Betty was talking about. 

Your first orgasm was approaching, and just as you feel Wade circle your clit and pump his fingers inside you one more time, you unravel before him, crying out his name and pulling on his formerly slicked hair. Coming down from your high, Wade kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Beautiful, baby. You’re absolutely beautiful, I love you.”

“I love you, Wade Walker.” You say, staring into the wondrous orbs of your boyfriend. He smiles, running a finger over your lips before pulling a shiny metal packet from his bedside drawer. It’s like he sees the gears in your mind turnin’ but he smiles at you, “baby, I won’t hurt ya’. I’ll go slow, I promise you.” He slips the condom on, and after, teases your entrance with his cock. He slips his head in, watching in sadness as he notices you wincing. To ease your pain, he kisses you once again, before slowly and sweetly bottoming out inside you.

“Ah!” You gasp, scratching your nails along his back, prompting Wade to moan lowly in your ear. He waits until your comfortable enough, and as you tap his shoulder, signaling your ready for him to move, he does, slow and encouraging thrusts in your sweet cunt. 

“Oh, fuck doll, didn’t know you would be this tight. Hugging my cock so good.” His lewd talk is working you, making it easier for him to slide in and out inside of you. “Fuck!” You gasp, watching as he hits the perfect spot, making you clench around his cock. “Jesus, doll. If you keep clenchin’ around me like that, I’m not gonna last long.” He pumps while he attacks your breast, sucking and biting at your nipples, throwing long licks at them to soothe the bite. 

It’s not long until your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, careening through your entire body, legs shaking against Wade’s waist. He follows after a few thrusts and empties inside the condom, plopping down against your chest as you both catch your breath.

——————-

You lay in the afterglow of your love, Wade’s fingers tracing circles on the side of your arm, as the tv casts a soft light inside the dark bedroom.

“I love you, crybaby walker.” You say, softly against his mouth.

“And I you, y/f/n, y/l/n.” 

[sunshine--writes]

Blood Bound

header image courtesy of one of the biggest Lady Dimitrescus simps i’ve ever met.

This is the first and last time i will ever write anything so be prepared. Also i’m not the best writer so some parts might be very rushed and sloppy sorry. Idk how to post on tumblr either and also i’m on mobile so sorry for weird formatting issues :)

A little background I wrote this as a presentation thing with my friends so it’s not gonna be good. Also this is the first time i’ve ever written smut so sorry i guess?

Warnings: NSFW of course, uh very kinky probably, swears in this warning, f! Reader, reader is a vampire pls let me have this, IT MAKES SENSE FOR THE STORY PLEASE LET ME HAVE THIS, vampires need sleep i guess idk just fuck let me live, fluff at the end bc im a whore for that kinda shit, probably ooc for Lady Dimitrescu but like idk her character other than dom mommy milkers so, blindfolds, binding arms? what is it called??

All of your senses returned to you very slowly. You didn’t know where you were, or why someone had taken you in the middle of the night, but for some reason you felt safe. You could feel the cold damp floor of the cell you could only presume you were in and you could smell rotting flesh and the wet metal that surrounded you. You could hear the dripping noises of falling water coming from somewhere in front of you, and the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. The only sense you never regained was your sight. You could feel the soft fabric that covered your eyes and made a reasonable guess that your host for the evening had blindfolded you.

“Have you awoken my darling?” Ah, speak of the devil. The person that belonged to that sultry voice was one Lady Dimitrescu -- the countess that you have met with several times before and every encounter has somehow ended the same way. You remember the first time you met the 9 foot tall woman. It was 1920, and as the child of a wealthy eastern european count, you were required to attend the galas that were thrown. During one such occasion you happened to run into Lady Dimitrescu, and had unfortunately uncovered her secret. At the first sign of danger a normal person would have run, but who were you to judge? After all, aren't you two essentially the same?

That was the first night, and the begging of a long mutual relationship between the two of you. A whirlwind of passion, anger, misery, and lust was the only way you could describe these past decades you have spent with her. Everytime you left her embrace, you couldn’t help but long to be in it again no matter how angry you were. This on again off again relationship had persisted through generations, and you would be damned if you would give up now. She had introduced you to your friends who had shared the same beliefs, and made you feel welcomed. She had been there during the downfall of your family's power, and she was there for every milestone. You had to admit, your life was tied to this woman if you had liked it or not. Every night you spent apart was agony, and every moment you spent together was bliss. You have eternity, so what's the use in spending anymore time apart?

This night felt different. It wasn't normal for her to seek out your company, so why has she all of a sudden? And since when has she been this gentle? If it was like any other night she would have already had her way with you and thrown you to the side. Tonight was definitely different.

“My dear turn towards me.” She demanded, and you obeyed, crawling your way to the direction you think she might be in. You found her in the corner of what you think is a cell. You could tell she was sitting in a chair so you sat on your knees in front of her.

“Ah, isn’t this better darling? Everything is as it should be.” You could hear the sound of her claws extending -- and then you felt as she dragged the nail across your cheek, across your lips, and down to your chin.

“My love, head up. This way I can see your beautiful face.” She spoke as she lifted your head with her sharp claw. “Ah this beautiful face, the one that has tormented my dreams for far too long. Isn’t this much better?” You nod, what does she mean tormented her dreams? Over these past years you understood that this relationship was not one out of love, so you never gave yourself hope that she might feel the same as you. Even as her words sounded like a declaration of longing, you refused to dream. An intimate relationship with her, even one without love, was enough for you. As long as you could remain at her side for the rest of eternity you would be happy.

She sighed, “No matter, tonight is somewhat of a celebration, and as I am in a good mood I have sought you out. So where shall we start?” You hear the claw retreat back into her hand and her start to stand up, towering over you. “Lets get you out of these clothes hm?” She grabs you by the neck forcing your body down to the ground, cool gloved hands start roaming all over your body, loosening and untying the thin clothes you wore to sleep that night. “Ah beloved, how I had missed this.” Her mouth descended onto your neck where you could feel the warmth of her saliva as she sucked on that tender spot. You whimpered, moving closer into the bigger woman, although this isn't the first time she has marked you like this, it still sends tingles down your spine. Your hands started to roam as Lady Dimitrescu moved her way from your neck to your chin, and finally to your mouth: enveloping you in a deep kiss. Your back arched to be closer to the woman on top, deepening the kiss. You could taste the reminisce of blood and the sweet wine she had been brewing for years. Tonight really was an important celebration. You couldn’t control yourself as both of your bodys moved in tandem, your hands moving down her back.

She pulled away, leaving you gasping for air, “Now now my dear, you know the rules. No touching without permission. Now let's get these hands out of the way hm?” You could feel as the warmth from her body moved away, leaving you semi-naked on the cold floor. You couldn’t tell where she had gone, nor how long she was gone for -- every minute without her felt like agony anyway.

Her footsteps finally came back, “On your knees,” she demanded, and you moved without hesitation. “Both arms behind you.” Again you moved without thinking, obeying every word. You could feel as some soft fabric was slowly wrapped around both of your wrists and then tied, you could guess that it was the same silk as the one around your eyes.

“There, isn't that better darling? Now lay back down, I will loosen you up.” A claw extended and you felt as the rest of your already loose clothes were torn off, including your slick underwear. “Hm?” she laughed, “Already ready for me?”

“Yes mistress.” you nodded, spreading your legs slightly.

“Darling you know I love it when you call me that.” Gloved hands traced their way from your neck, to your breasts, down your stomach, and finally rested on your thighs. “Hm? What should I do darling? Shall we continue?”

“Yes mistress.” You begged, wiggling your body hoping for her hand to end up in that place you wanted it. You begged for her to give you release, begged for the thing you missed the most over these years.

“Hm? Shall I grant you your requests? Maybe you should beg some more first.” Her hands suddenly moved, finding their way back up to your breasts, hands playing with your nipples. You squirmed, wishing that the woman would give you what you wanted.

“Please mistress,” you begged, pushing yourself onto her thigh. Your cries fell on def ears as she continued to play with you. You started grinding on her thigh, pleading with your mistress to take you. “Please Lady Dimitrescu, please help me.”

You felt her hot hands finally leave your chest, “Fine, I shall grant this one request to you my beloved.” Suddenly you felt a gloved finger push its way inside you, forcing itself deeper in, her other hand went back to playing with your breasts. You gasped, moaning as she started moving around slowly inside. You tried to move yourself down onto her hand, allowing sweet relief. Her unoccupied hand made its way up to your neck and she started choking you.

Her tempo picked up as another finger made its way inside. The sounds coming out of you were ungodly, she had you crying out in pleasure. “Do you like that my dear?” she called out from on top of you. You could only nod your head and cry out something akin to the word yes. She was moving even faster and you could feel the pressure inside of you about to explode, you begged your mistress to please release you, but she wouldn’t budge moving faster than she had ever moved before. You were moaning and screaming in pleasure, you silently thanked whoever was up there that you were in a castle otherwise you would probably have a noise complaint by now. Her movements had you writhing around, grasping for anything with your bound hands. You brought your legs and wrapped them around her, opening yourself up for her. You were desperately grinding against her hand, your walls tightening before you could come.

“Eager now aren't we, well my love shall I let you come?” Although you were blindfolded you could see her smirking face. You called out between moans, crying for her to let you. You were begging and pleading, you must have looked so pitiful but in that moment you wished for nothing more than to come undone by this woman's hands.

“Lets see how loud you can be.” You felt your walls close down on the fingers inside of you as you screamed out in pleasure, the pressure finally being released. You could feel your juices coming out as orgasms wracked through your body. The pleasure was too much for you to handle and before you knew it you passed out.

***

You awoke in a very comfortable bed, the feel of the satin sheets under you cooled your body and sent shivers all over. You had realized that both the blindfold and your arm restraints were gone, and your body had been cleaned up from last night's activities. You were wearing a thin nightgown that only accentuated how cold it was in this room. As you looked around you finally saw the face of the sleeping woman next to you. Strange, you had never awoken next to her, no matter how vigorous the previous night's activities were she always left before you woke up. You giggled quietly to yourself, last night must have been a special night indeed. You saw sunlight streaming in from the large windows on the northern wall of this bedroom casting itself onto her. She had never looked more beautiful in your long life. You reached out your hand and started softly stroking the woman's face and hair, careful not to wake her. You traced your way from her forehead down to her lips, pausing there slightly. Last night was different, it wasn't bad, it was in fact very good. It was just something you never thought would happen for the both of you. As you look at the face of sleeping Lady Dimitrescu in front of you, you couldn’t help but wonder what your life would be like if you two had a different kind of relationship. Your thoughts were cut short when you felt two arms snake their way around you and suddenly you were pulled into the woman's arms.

“What are you doing awake so early my little dove? You should rest some more, last night must have been very taxing on your body.” Lady Dimitrescu spoke. You were shocked to say the least. Over the decades you have known the Countess, you have never been in her arms like this. This is what you had dreamt of for so long, wanting to feel true, romantic love from this woman, and now that you are here you felt as if you could cry.

And cry you did. Before you could stop yourself you felt the tears falling down your face and onto the clothes of the woman holding you.

“My beloved what is wrong?” Lady Dimitrescu frantically spoke as she tried to wipe the tears out of your eyes, “What is the matter? Please tell me.”

“It’s truly nothing,” you finally croaked out after minutes of sobbing. You must have looked ridiculous like this. How could you really think that she would love you like you love her. You are nothing compared to her.

“If you are crying then of course something is wrong. Please tell me darling, I hate to see you so sad.”

You hesitated. Was it really alright to tell her the thoughts that have plagued you for generations? You didn’t want things to change between the two of you. Even if you were just treated as a play thing, as long as you could stay with her you would do anything. “I love you. I have loved you for years, and you will never reciprocate how I feel. I am nothing to you other than a toy you can throw away at a moment's notice. But still I wish to stay by your side, even If I am nothing other than that. Don’t let my feelings change our relationship. I only want to stay with you.” The tears came back but you wouldn’t let them fall. You were stronger than that.

You felt her hold on you tighten as she brought you closer to her, lips brushing over your forehead and over your eyes. Her mouth moved around your face, kissing away your tears.

“Beloved who ever said I never felt the same way?”

to those liking this at 2 am: 📸📸📸

[pinknatural]

Dean tries, really tries, to think of it as a present. Finally, his dad is letting loose on the ropes a bit, finally letting him hunt on his own. But it’s kinda hard to convince himself when his dad sent him in with the case already figured out, with everything but the manual labor already done. 

It’s more like an errand he wants me to complete, Dean thinks resentfully, digging his shovel into the soft dirt. Happy birthday, go dig up two graves. Have fun! 

Dean huffs and pivots to the grave beside the other one. According to Dean’s research, the nuns had wanted to be buried together, but when the convent found their bodies they hadn’t really gone for that option. They had been buried next to each other, though, which makes Dean’s job just a little bit easier. 

He starts digging, even though he hasn’t finished digging out the first grave. You gotta dig ‘em up at the same time, ‘cause if you gank one then her lover gets angry, and the last thing Dean needs is an angry ghost harassing him while he digs up a grave. He can’t help but think that those other nuns should’ve buried them together. Not just because it would make Dean’s life easier, but because they wanted it. Because they were in love, and they killed themselves, and the convent owed them that much. 

Dean inhales, then exhales, his breath escaping in a little white cloud. It’s chilly, ‘cause it’s January, but it’s not too cold. He’s not wearing gloves or anything but he can still feel his hands. He shifts to the other grave and starts digging. 

He remembers what Charlie at the last school said about what his dad got him for his seventeenth birthday--a new car. Lindsey got a fancy necklace. Jake’s birthday hadn’t come up yet, but he’d been hoping for a dog. All Dean has is blisters on his fingers and a sore back from when the ghost of Sister Felicity threw him into a bookcase while he was retrieving the prayer book the nuns’d passed notes to each other in. That book, which had notes in the margins of their love, is gone now. Dean burned it.

Tears sting at Dean’s eyes. He must’ve been too soft, about Jake. He must’ve--something must’ve given him away. Why else would he be punished like this?

He knows, Dean thinks. He knows, he knows, he knows. It becomes a mantra, moving in time with his shovel. He switches graves. 

It’s just that it’s his birthday. The message--the warning--would’ve gotten across regardless, Dean thinks. But why, of all days, why his birthday? Why can’t Dean have a fucking break for once? 

Seventeen sucks, Dean thinks, hitting the first coffin. He climbs out of the hole and switches to the other one. It supremely sucks. Sixteen you get a drivers’ license, eighteen you can, like, vote or whatever, but seventeen is nothing. Just a bunch of shit. 

He knows, he knows, he knows. 

Dean hits the second coffin and breaks it open. The bones are like the ones in Sister Perpetua’s grave--pale and gross, just like most bones are. Dean doesn’t know why he kind of expected different. He climbs out and throws his shovel aside, picks up the thing of salt. He dumps it on one grave, then the other. Lighter fluid, next. Dean’s done this before. Even if Dad and Sammy are usually here, Dean knows how this goes. 

He takes the matchbook from his pocket, strikes one and drops it, then the other. The graves light up, the flame flickering bright and warm, and Dean thinks he hears screaming. He drops to his knees and whispers, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He realizes that he’s still crying, that tears have run down his face, and for the first time on this supremely shitty birthday, he’s glad to be alone, kneeling between the graves of two women who were in love, twin fires burning bright on either side of him. 

-

Dean wakes up slowly, as he often does these days. There’s a warm blanket around his shoulders, and under that a heavy arm slung over his waist. Sometimes Dean remembers the days he was too antsy to even get under the covers, ready to jump into action at any minute, and it all seems so absurd. 

Light trickles in softly from the window across the room, and the arm around Dean’s waist tightens. Dean turns, slow, smiling already at the sight he knows will greet him. 

Cas is kind of awake, squinting at him but smiling, his hair ruffled and sticking out everywhere, and Dean feels sort of like he might burst. 

“Mmm,” he says. “Good morning.” He stretches his own arm around Cas’s shoulders and draws the man closer to him, Cas’s arm shifting from it’s loose hold to pull their chests together. 

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas says, his voice even lower, rough from sleep. Dean grins, tucks his face under Cas’s chin to hide it. 

“Every day’s my birthday when I get to wake up to the best present ever laying in my bed,” Dean says, even though that’s ridiculously sappy and also doesn’t make sense. 

“I am not a present, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean makes a ‘hmm’ noise. 

“I was talking about Miracle, dumbass,” he says, nudging the sleeping dog in question with his toes.

“Of course you were,” Cas says indulgently, like he’s just humoring him. Which is fair, possibly. Dean thinks that Cas spends a lot of time just humoring him. 

“Do you know what time it is?” Dean asks, shifting his arm to touch the back of Cas’s neck, right at the spot where his t-shirt meets his skin.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas says, holding him tighter like he thinks Dean will get out of bed, which is quite frankly an absurd idea. It’s a Sunday, and it’s his birthday. Dean has nowhere else to be.

“It might, since Sammy’s coming over today,” Dean says, even though Sam and Eileen are coming over in the late afternoon and it’s definitely still morning.

“Well, it’s not time for them to come yet,” Cas says. “We can get up later.”

Dean definitely agrees, and he snuggles back down into Cas, getting even more comfortable. He’s just thinking about falling back asleep, maybe, deciding that this is his best birthday ever, even though it’s only been like ten minutes, when he remembers his worst birthday and has to pause. 

“Dean?” Cas asks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m…” Dean noses against him, taking a deep breath. “You read my...my dad’s journal?”

“Yes,” Cas says warily. The journal is usually safe, but Cas can get pissy when John Winchester is mentioned. 

“You remember my seventeenth birthday?” Dean asks, and then all of a sudden his angel is trying to squeeze the life out of him. Dean appreciates it, even though he can’t really breathe. 

“I remember,” Cas growls, and Dean pats his shoulder. 

“I was just thinking about how that was the worst, and this is the best,” Dean says, and Cas relaxes his hold a little. “I, uh...that day felt like a huge warning. And now I’m here, with you, and, uh, it’s pretty awesome, not gonna lie.”

“John Winchester deserves to rot in hell for eternity for what he did to you and Sam,” Cas says. “But I am glad to be here with you, and I agree that it’s pretty awesome.”

“I love you,” Dean says, helpess as he always is in the face of Cas’s protectiveness. 

“I love you too,” Cas says, moving a hand to tenderly cradle Dean’s jaw. He begins to guide Dean’s head towards his, and Dean is so sorry to interrupt, but--

“Do you smell pancakes?” he asks, and Cas pauses, considering. 

“Yes,” he says finally. 

“Well, if I’m here in bed, and you’re here in bed, and Miracle, I’m pretty sure, can’t make pancakes, and is also in bed, then who…”

“Jack,” they say together, and Dean laughs. 

“Do we trust Jack with the stove?”

“He is God,” Cas says, but that doesn’t sound like a ‘yes’. They look at each other and then sigh, rolling apart so they can get out of bed. 

“We’ll continue this later,” Dean says, pointing at Cas, who nods. 

“Of course,” he says, and he reaches out and grabs Dean’s shirt, pulling him in for a sadly-brief kiss. “Happy birthday.”

Dean beams at him, and then they go downstairs to help their son make pancakes without burning the house down, Miracle bounding down the stairs beside them, and Dean can’t help but agree with his earlier assessment--that this is his best birthday ever. 

(ao3)

[angeltiddies]

Emphasis

2.1k

destiel first meetings, deancentric, potential for more story. cas is like barely in this

“death is promised to the bee whose sting protects the colony”

--

he’s 24, it should be gone by now, he needs to grow out of it but god dammit, there it is. a constant looming presence. the fact of the matter is, dean winchester has a severe phobia of wasps, bees—anything that buzzes past him that he can’t identify immediately— and he can’t help it. it’s irrational, he knows it’s irrational, in fact he kind of loves bees, he knows how important they are, how his mom used to love them, and dammit he’s an adult and he needs to get over it already. (it’s kinda why he loves hunting, they’re either in the car (dean keeps his windows rolled up) or out at night sneaking into some monster’s lair)

so it’s decided, dean’s gonna suck it up and find a therapist. he goes with the third one in the phone book, she looks kind (hot), and she specializes in anxiety disorders. dean sets an appointment.

he starts attending weekly, thanking the fraudulent card he carries that he’s not spending real money on this endeavor. his therapist, Lisa, is easy on the eyes, so it helps the sessions feel more palatable. he also ignores how, every time she asks him a question, he feels so vulnerable it hurts. he’s always on the verge of tears there, but he’d never admit it. he’s thankful his dad’s out on a string of solo hunts and he can keep grounded here, at least until he can wean off the sessions.

on a tuesday, dean finds a dead wasp on the windowsill of his motel room. he nearly bolts from the room, but something is keeping him grounded. he takes deep breaths like lisa recommended, he closes his eyes for a moment and just repeats “it’s dead, it’s dead, it can’t hurt you, it’s dead.” when he opens his eyes, and the wasp is still there, he feels a bit better. he doesn’t do anything about it, just cohabitates with it until his thursday session. he tells lisa about it and she quirks her lip up in a half smile. she has a glint in her eye that almost scares him, but after all this time, he trusts her, he honestly does. at the end of their time, she stands and tells dean she’s got homework for him. he almost groans, but he keeps it to himself. she pulls out one of her desk drawers and presents dean with a small mason jar. she places it in his hands and gives him a mission: get the wasp into the jar and bring it with him for next time.

he’s nervous already, but he nods, he wants this to work, he needs this to work.

when he gets back to the motel, he opens the door, peeking at the windowsill to make sure it’s still there before he pulls himself into the room. it takes him an hour of pacing, tears brimming, breaths shallow and panicked, before he finally gets the courage to do it. he grabs a pen from the side table and walks to the window. he holds the open mason jar under the sill, lines his pen up behind the wasp and squeezes his eyes shut as he sweeps his pen across the surface. 

when he opens them, the wasp is sitting at the bottom of the jar and dean nearly drops it, but he convinces himself to get the jar top and seals it with frantic, shaky hands. when the wasp is secure, he sets the jar on the sill and collapses into bed. it felt terrible, but he did it. he fucking did it.

on his drive to the practice that week, he puts the wasp in the passenger seat so he can keep an eye on the jar. even carrying the thing is torture as he ascends the stairs to lisa’s office. when he gets to her waiting room, she’s already got her door open and he enters, trying to keep cool as he sets the wasp on the table between them.

she grins like she’s so incredibly proud and dean’s heart swells with it for a moment. she asks him to tell her about the experience, which he does, watching her taking a note here or there, or asking a clarifying question. when he finishes, they only have a little time left, but she asks him to lay down on the couch and close his eyes to relax. he feels her presence by his side. she tells him to keep his eyes closed as she explains what’s going to happen next. 

“dean, with your consent, i would love to begin exposure therapy with you. all you’ll have to do today is hold the jar above you and observe the wasp.’

dean nods, his heart beat already quickening. he opens his eyes on her say so and she places the jar gently in his hands. he grounds himself, and then brings the jar above him. the underside of the jar is much more clear than the patterned sides. he can see the wasps body, dull with decay, but a wasp nonetheless. lisa asks him to describe it to her. he does. 

when he walks out of her office that day, he feels a bit lighter. he leaves the wasp with her because it’s nearly rotted and she’ll dispose of it properly. when he walks the path back to his car, a bee buzzes by, he flinches, but that’s all. no tears, no running, just a flinch. he grins. 

saturday comes and dean decides to go to the farmers market. he hasn't been in a long time, maybe not since he was a kid, but he figures he’ll show off his improvement to himself a little bit. when he gets there, the sun is hot and bright, baking down on the colourful tents out before him. his goal is to walk the whole thing, stopping to smell the roses along the way. it goes pretty well until he goes to pick out a peach for lunch and he spots a bee on it, basking in the sweetness of the fruit. he pulls his hand back fast and keeps his eye on it, his mind going blank with fear and silencing the sounds of everyone around him. suddenly there’s a buzz behind him and he’s running. it’s irrational, he knows it’s irrational, and yet he’s doing it, running back to baby. he makes it almost all the way until his adrenaline wears off a bit. he slows to a walk, but he’s on high alert. suddenly he can see everything. he can see the paper wasps floating above the grass, he can see the bee settling into a bunch of sunflowers, he nearly throws up when he sees one trailing behind a woman's leg, so close it’s nearly touching. he covers his ears, hoping that the loss of one sense will help deescalate the situation. it helps a bit, and when he’s finally at baby’s side and quickly getting in, he takes a breath. he lets himself cry then. head against he steering wheel. he was doing so well but suddenly he feels like he’s back at step one. he failed. his tears don’t let up until his energy is drained from the day. from the heat of the sun, from the rush of adrenaline, from the emotions pouring out of him. 

until the next thursday, dean stays in during the day. he doesn’t want to fail again. 

he tells lisa as much at their next session. she looks at him with sympathetic eyes. he hates it.

lisa says he is getting better, it just doesn't feel like it because its a process. she smiles. he frowns, trying to grasp that concept. it doesn't feel right to him. the validation, the praise, it feels unwarranted. he closes up a little bit and thats when lisa says it. 

“i can prove it to you.” 

he quirks an eyebrow at her, dejected face softening into interest. 

when the day is over, they have a plan. next week they’ll be meeting at heaven’s hives (dean thinks it sounds more like hell). 

-

it’s thursday and dean is driving, white knuckles showing from his grip on his steering wheel. he’s grateful the apiary is just fifteen minutes out of town, it means the anticipation can’t build up (not that it hasn’t been for an entire fucking week). when he turns onto the dusty road with an arch above it baring the apiary’s name and a few carved bees on the poles, he lets himself take in the sounds of the road below him. it’s like white noise, temporarily drowning out his fears. 

when he reaches the end of the road, it’s at a small white house surrounded by flowers. he can see some structures out by the side of the home, but he looks resolutely ahead and stalks to the front door. just getting there has his heart racing, there are bees buzzing all around him and he feels himself wanting to crawl out of his skin as he knocks on the door. suddenly, it’s quiet. his thoughts pause as he stares at the man who opened the door in front of him. he’s tall, just a few inches shorter than dean, and broad. his hair is raven black and effortlessly tousled. he has this big gummy smile and his eyes are crinkling up at the sides. his eyes. his eyes are so blue, they look like they could belong in space, planets hanging alone, away from time. he clears his throat finally to say hello. the man, castiel, opens the door further and invites dean in. 

lisa is already sitting at the table, drizzling honey into the tea she has in front of her. the first thing dean notices is that the window behind her is open, a soft breeze causing the delicate white cloth to blow into the house. he tries not the let it affect him, but when he takes a seat, he makes sure his back is towards a wall and his eyes can watch the window. 

castiel sits next to him and brings him a cup of tea too. he doesn’t drink tea much, but it would feel rude to reject an offer from their host. 

castiel reaches across the table to pull the pot of honey from in front of lisa. dean watches her observe the motion, but he’s pulled from her when he hears a low voice beside him. 

“dean. lisa has informed me of your situation.” he smiles and keeps dean’s rapt attention. dean is holding his eyes, not looking away. cas breaks it first, and says, “look” with a nod to his hands. dean’s mind would go elsewhere if he weren’t so fucking amped up with anxiety, but he looks. castiel’s left hand is holding the tiny honey pot and his right is stirring the golden sweetness. dean’s mesmerized as castiel’s voice narrates next to him. 

“this is honey. it is the product of bee’s hard work. it’s a beautiful thing, dean. pure honey can quite literally last forever. a bee works her entire life to produce this product that will outlast her tenfold, and that’s an understatement.” castiel huffs a small laugh and dean quirks a small smile, still watching the hand stir the honey. “your fear-- dean, look at me,” dean lifts his eyes, “your fear is valid. it is one of the most common phobias across the globe. however, your fear is unfounded. i would sacrifice myself to be stung a thousand times over if it meant we could keep honey. if we could keep the trees and plants that bees  pollenate and tend to. even if we could live in a world without bees, i wouldn’t want to, because they are small, and determined, and fuzzy and they are god’s most pure creation.” his eyes sparkle as he’s talking, dean is fighting to hang onto every word instead of drifting into the fantasy that is the man before him. “bees have a stinger to protect their colony. they will die to protect their own. i have a very strong sense that you are much like a bee, dean. i have faith in your abilities to overcome this.” 

dean doesn’t realize until it’s too late that he’s crying. tears are falling from his eyes silently, blurring the images of cas and then lisa as he turns his face from them. 

not once in all of their sessions did he cry in front of lisa, but now he’s overcome with a tidal wave of emotions and it’s all because castiel (bees)waxed poetic and compared him to his greatest fear. god the analogy hits so close to home it hurts. he finally turns back to the table where castiel and lisa are sitting patiently, waiting. 

“i have faith too.” 

[artificialqueens]

Crossing pt. I (Katlaska) - sebald

A/N: [4574 words] Sex is sex. The rest is just noise.

The fat dick lies limp in Justin’s hands, and a small part of him wants to cry at how utterly pathetic his sex life has become.

It's a sad sight, reminding him vaguely of the first time he’d tried to cook sausages in college. Having been completely unblessed with any culinary skill or instinct, and being deathly afraid of burning their mousehole of an apartment down, he had taken the sausages out after a minute in the pan. His roommate had thrown one at him after a bite, complaining that it was cold as a dead man’s cock inside.

He’d rather cold sausage than a hopelessly limp dick, but Justin tries not to look disappointed. Limp dick is still better than no dick, he convinces himself. And anyway, he’s a fairly polite person. He even pretends to ignore Clark's showboating moan when he finally begins half-heartedly sucking at the tip.

He wishes he’d turned the TV on. He could be watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians right now. The human turd that is Scott Disick would excite him more than this frankly insulting cock.

Justin can’t complain too much. He gets it. If he ever ended up naked in a hotel room with an equally naked Bette White, his dick would probably shrink down to the size of a tic-tac, if not just fall off and scamper away under the bed. It wouldn’t be because she’s a woman, but because she’s Bette Fucking White, and it would be more surreal than the one time he and Brian played Street Fighter II after sharing a tray of edibles. Point being, it would be overwhelming. Of course, Justin would never actually dare invite Bette to bed–not because he’s gay and about six decades younger than her, but because he’s smart and considerate enough to know that he wouldn’t be able to deliver where it counts. Unfortunately, the carousel of men he’s had in his carousel of hotel rooms have not been as smart or considerate. About 70 percent of Justin’s sex life these days consist of an impressive number of men with very unimpressive dicks. He wouldn’t even really mind if they were race chasers, he just wanted an erect fucking dick, goddammit.

Clark keeps groaning and moaning above him, putting on a full show, but his dick is still only barely upright. Justin is both appreciative and annoyed. He pulls off the salty tip and proceeds to lick long stripes right down to the balls, but Clark, apparently determined to cross the line between embarrassing and infuriating, suddenly grabs Justin’s head with his clammy hands and starts grinding his nuts on Justin’s face, slobbering out an unconvincing growl that sounds straight out of a budget porno on the “rough gay” tag on Pornhub.

Christ. Justin pushes away from him. “Easy, cowboy.”

For his part, Clark has the decency to look apologetic, even putting his large hands up like he’d just been served a warrant. “Sorry, Lasky.”

“Justin, please,” he reminds firmly, getting up from the bed and walking to the fridge. He always makes it a point to introduce himself as Justin, hoping it would help separate him from the whole TV persona, but it doesn’t always work. He pulls two bottles of water out and tosses one to Clark.

“Right. Justin. Sorry,” he says. He catches the bottle and thankfully seems to realize the implicit signal that comes along with it. “Guess that’s it for tonight, huh?”

We should be asking your malfunctioning penis that, he wants to say, but he told himself he’d be nice. “It’s getting late anyway. Early flight tomorrow. Sorry.”

“No biggie.“ Clark shrugs magnanimously, as if he’s the slighted party who’s willing to overlook Justin’s sexual incapacity. Completely unacceptable! Justin is a champion cocksucker. Even his drag is inferior to his cocksucking prowess.

Smiling stiffly, Justin bids Clark a firm goodbye. "Should I call front desk to get you a cab?”

Heeding his signal, Clark declines and says he’ll grab himself an Uber. In three minutes flat, he's dressed up and making his way out, wisely choosing not to say anything more than a “Have a good night.”

Justin washes his face and brushes his teeth, resigning himself to another night alone with his own hand. It’s not as if he’s addicted to sex or anything like that. Once or twice every few weeks–months, even–is enough to get him by. The rest of his days he’s quite content doing it all by himself. It’s more the warmth that he misses, and the Mobius strip of receiving pleasure from giving pleasure and so on. He’s not actively looking to land himself a boyfriend either. There are perks to living the prime of his life as a single gay man. Sure, he gets a lot of disappointing race chasers, but he’s also had his fair share of mind-blowing sex. So he’s far from unhappy.

Still, it’s hard not to feel so alone at times.

He blames hotel rooms. They’re not conducive to happiness, not with the way their bareness announces impermanence. He knocks down his shaving cream and deodorant sitting on the counter, seeing if the slight mess would take away from how sparse and clean and impersonal the whole set-up is. It doesn’t.

Collapsing into bed, he picks his phone up, intending to pull up the ever-reliable 50-Load Weekend and get his erection over with. He's welcomed instead with one message from Willam (“Bitch I took more trade dick today than Brent Corrigan ever did in his entire twinkfant life”) and a string of texts from Brian–six consecutive messages only saying “!!!” and a seventh one saying “Joanne!!!!”

He hits Brian back with an “?”, congratulates Willam on his success, and goes back to his search for porn. But just as he makes it to his porn folder, his phone pings with another message. Jesus must not want him to jack off today.

Brian: Forgive me mawma for I have sinned.

Justin: Elaborate?

Brian: I’m sorry I sound like I’m joking but I’m really serious. Please don’t hate me.

Justin: I already hate you. What do you want?

Brian: I want love. Tonight I wanted it in the form of a threesome. Which I might have jokingly suggested to Sharon and Chad. And which they might not have taken so jokingly. Which might have led to an actual threesome.

Justin raises a brow. It’s a thought he’s entertained in the past, being in a threesome with those two. For all their troubles, Aaron had always been good in bed, and Justin has the distinct feeling that Chad might enjoy railing him out of spite. But the waters are too complicated to tread for it to be worth a go.

His phone rings with a call before he can think up a reply. “Hello Miss Minaj,” he greets.

“Hey.” Brian’s voice is subdued. “I’m sorry. Are you mad?”

“Girl, no.”

“You have every right to be.”

“Honestly, Brian, it’s totally fine. Fuck all my exes. Literally. They’re all good lays.” He cackles a little. “So how was it?”

Brian hesitates. “It was okay.”

“I’ve slept with Sharon. There’s no way it was just okay,” he chides. “In fact she’d be offended at that tepid description and might never talk to you again. Spill.”

He can hear Brian relaxing on the other end. “Well, if you insist. Sharon was a mouthful, but Chad basically drilled a hole right through my pharynx and out the back of my head.”

“Bigger than Sharon? No way.”

“Oh, all the way, mawma.”

Justin whistles.

“Catch this though–I thought they might have wanted to get all up in my ass or something, because they give off that creepy domineering Dracula tandem vibe, right? But, twist of twists, we ended up spitroasting Chad.”

“Huh. That fucks up my threesome fantasies with them.”

“You have threesome fantasies with them?”

“Of course. Congratulations on living my dream.”

“Eh, it was just all right. It was hot in theory, but they were both way too into each other for it to be anything remarkable on my end. I felt more like a volunteer called up to stage by a magician. Like I was there participating, but it was a kinda detached, voyeuristic participation, and I wasn’t in on the magician’s secret. And in this case there were two magicians, and them chuckling at things I didn’t understand and sending sticky glances to each other the whole night was kind of a boner killer.”

Justin shrugs off the slight sting he feels to hunger. He hasn’t had a proper dinner, has he? Yes, that’s what it is. “Well, that’s better than flaccid trade, girl.”

Brian lets out a whoosh of air in sympathy. “Sorry. Tonight?”

“Yep. Some budget John Stamos dude I picked up at Flaming Saddles.”

“Chaser? Or just another lonely stranger?”

“Chaser, definitely. Bought me a drink to congratulate me on All Stars, and then kept calling me Alaska after I’d insisted he call me Justin thrice. But he looked kinda hot and the last I got laid was like a month ago, so I took a chance.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Limp dick. Rubbed his nuts on my face like I’m a fucking towel. It was hopeless. I more or less kicked him out.”

“You didn’t come?”

“Nope.” He toys with his dick. It’s dead weight in his hand now, his erection having died down. “Maybe later. I’ll think of your threesome. But maybe with me in Chad’s place.”

“That already sounds hotter than how it really went. Think Sharon will be up for it?”

“Sharon, maybe. But Chad would only consent to it if you and Sharon were fucking my rotting corpse.”

“Now there’s a hot image. My dick’s getting stiff again.”

Justin laughs. “Fuck off.”

“I should fuck off now, actually. I realize that it’s three o'clock,” he concedes. “Brenda just wouldn’t let me go to sleep without telling you.”

“Well, tell Brenda she doesn’t get to impinge on my sleep schedule either.”

Brian cackles. “Like you were sleeping. Fifty bucks says you were rubbing it out to Dawson.”

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner,” he says, while unsuccessfully suppressing a yawn. “Unfortunately it’s not my dead erection.”

“Shall I talk you through? My university guidance counselor told me I could be the most successful phone sex operator in Boston if I put all my time and effort into it.”

“I dunno, you sound like a dying grandfather at your sexiest. Talk me to sleep like my Grandpa Joe used to, though. I’d appreciate it more.”

Brian wheezes, and Justin smiles sleepily.

“You’re a fucking cuntwhore, you know that? But actually, yes, I do have a story to torture you with.”

“Thrilling.”

“Shut up. So yesterday I arrived in Pittsburgh, and Lola was supposed to pick me up, but of course she overslept—”

“Or pretended to have overslept. I have a text from her saying her ex came by yesterday morning with a very moving oral apology.”

“That bitch. Well anyway she left me sitting in the airport feeling like Joan Crawford, except I didn’t even have a Mamacita to keep me company. So I sit next to this old Asian lady knitting some pattern, and what do you know, it’s a fucking ‘Make America Great Again’ scarf. So I’m all confused right, because Trump hates immigrants and all, but I remembered what you said about not cutting ties with Trumpers and republicans, because that’s not gonna get us anywhere, right? So I very politely try to engage her in conversation, but she didn’t speak a lick of English—”

“Or was pretending not to,” he says through a yawn.

“Yes! Exactly my thought, so I persisted, asking her why she was making the scarf and even complimenting her on skill—which, I know shit about knitting, so she could probably tell that it was all bullshit. After a while, I think she got tired of me and she finally said, in very broken English, that she hated Americans like me, because she worked very hard to become a legal American citizen while I got born in this quote unquote great country, and now I’m wanting to open it up to the rest of the world all willy nilly, when I know absolutely nothing about immigrants. And then I kind of just shut up, because she’s right, I don’t know anything beyond broad liberal ideals, so even if she’s politically and morally in the wrong she’s still one up on the ladder of understanding the plight of immigrants more than my white ass ever can. But there’s got to be a middle ground, it can’t just be, I dunno, I’m white and she’s Asian, so I automatically lose the debate—it’s not even about a debate, I just want to understand. I left her alone because she wasn’t having any of my questions anymore, and—”

Justin grunts and hums in the appropriate pauses, still awake enough to make a mental note to tell Brian how he’d sorta patched things up with is republican aunt, but not awake enough to vocalize his thoughts. He picks up on flashes of Brian’s monologue, at one point talking about his sad airplane food, and much, much later, about how pretty Pittsburgh is and how he sees why Justin stayed there for as long as he did. Justin imagines that he was able to give an enthusiastic response to that, but perhaps he was dreaming it.

The next day, when he wakes up, he has three texts. One from his manager, sending him his flight details. One from Sharon, telling him of the threesome. And one from Brian, billing him for the cost of the call and for his professional service as a storytelling grandfather.

Justin: I'd pay you 10k via PayPal but I already donated to charity this year. How about a ten-dollar dinner when we’re both in LA? You can spill the threesome’s sordid details in your full breadth of expression.

Brian: Bump it up to $20 and call it date. I get home Saturday.

Justin: Me too. $18 and tip’s on you.

Brian: Fine. See you, snake lady <3 

~~~

The only thing Brian loves more than his mother’s Christmas peppermint cookies is a warm, pert ass to cushion his face against as he dives in to explore new horizons with his searching tongue–as a respectful visitor, of course, and not an oppressive white colonizer staking his loveflag on unmarked territory. He has lost two seasons of Drag Race, but really, he’s still a winner, and his prize is a multitude of very willing bedmates across the globe. (Well, across the northwestern hemisphere anyway, and then confine that to only the major cosmopolitan centers. The neocolonial claws of American gay culture only extend so far.) With a mix of fascination and envy, he listens to Willam's detailed story of a threesome with two closeted Afro-Asian sportswear models in Tokyo, to Milk's vague allusions to a hookup with a local volunteer in Zambia, and to Justin's tragic retelling of how he sadly had to turn down a Filipino stripper offering to blow him in a club because his show was to start in five minutes. But Brian doesn’t allow himself to be too sad about the limits of his sexual map so far–it just means there’s more beautiful men for him to explore in the future.

Tonight’s ass is new to him, but the face and the place isn’t. He almost laughs into Justin’s asshole when Justin predictably whines for him to get in with his dick already. He ignores the pleas and slows down even more, spreading his cheeks further apart and rimming his entrance at a torturous pace.

“Fuck, Brian,” Justin pants, instinctively moving his ass away from oversensitivity, but Brian grips his hips and pulls him back. He can feel him quivering under his tongue. “Go fucking slower, by all means." Brian is impressed by how he manages to say it with enough sarcasm, even through his shaky breathing.

"Patience, you petulant child," he chastises, slapping Justin's ass lightly before moving his head up to trail his tongue along Justin's spine while finally pushing two fingers in. Justin actually mewls and shivers as his back dips in a concave, and Brian has never understood the perverse allure of bestiality, but he almost comes right then.

"I’m so open, fuck. Please," Justin pleads, his arms going out under him, his body now forming a steep slope, ass at the apex. Brian marvels for a moment about what a long and endless stretch of a human being Justin is before finally deciding to take mercy on the poor, shaking boy—and on himself, really, as he feels about ready to come untouched just from the sight and sensation of Justin’s hole crudely clamping around his fingers.

"All right, since you asked so nicely,” Brian says playfully. He gently retracts his hand and drops a kiss on top of Justin's almost concerningly prominent tailbone before tumbling down from the couch. He twists himself over to reach for his discarded jeans under Justin's messy coffee table, burdened by their empty pizza box—fancy veggie pizza from a fancy trend-cashing hipster place down the street actually, and Justin paid the tip before Brian could take out his wallet. Justin threw a water bottle at his head when he started chiding him for the overpriced pizza choice.

“Oh my god.” Justin huffs at the pause in action and collapses down onto the couch, turning sideways to watch impatiently as Brian fishes through his pockets for his wallet. He starts stroking himself, the insatiable whore. While it’s a stunning visual that Brian stores away in his mental porn archive, right under “Video: Chubby Bear Takes Hit From Bong Dildo Lodged Up Hipster Twink’s Ass," he tuts and bats the hand away with a stern look.

"No. You’d come way too early and embarrass us both.”

“At the rate you’re going, neither of us are ever going to come,” Justin grumbles, but he keeps his hands away. "Edging is purgatory. I’d like the sweet release of paradise someday.“

Brian grins and goes back to his wallet, but there is only a Chipotle receipt in the spot where his condoms usually are. He looks up at Justin sheepishly. "Bad news, Dante. I’m out. Where do you keep yours?”

“Oooh. The lady is a traaaamp,” Justin sings teasingly, pulling his plastic lips back in a parody of a sensual smile. “Bedroom. Nightstand drawer. You get it, I’m not standing up.”

“Aye, aye, cap'n,” Brian says with a salute. He gets to his feet and begins walking out of the living room. "Hurry up!“ Justin calls after him, and Brian looks over his shoulder and grins wickedly as he slows down. He gets a pillow thrown at him for his efforts, and he cackles and speeds up to avoid it.

He’s only been inside Justin’s room once, and very briefly at that, when he and Courtney crashed Justin's apartment after a gig together in downtown LA. Courtney was wasted beyond help, and Justin’s place was close by, so Brian rang him at three in the morning and asked if Courtney could rest his pretty little Australian bird wings for the night. Justin waited for them at his steps, and together the two of them hauled Courtney from the Lyft to the bedroom. There was really only room for two people on the bed, so Brian bid them goodnight and faceplanted on the couch for eleven hours straight.

Justin’s room is a drag dump. Brian wades through piles of shimmering fabric and spiky heels before reaching the bedside drawer, which is surprisingly organized. There’s a basket of condoms, a bottle of lube, three black pens, and two notebooks. Nosily, he peeks into the notebook on top, and he’s met with sketch after beautiful sketch of cartoonish women–or woman, perhaps, as they seem to be varied iterations of Alaska, all big-haired and possessing of that unearthly hourglass figure. While the features are constant, their expressions run the gamut of human emotion. Some are, predictably, fierce and modelesque. Others are bright and toothy-smiled. Others are in tearful telenovela hysterics. Others still are grotesquely furious, only heightened by Alaska’s already excessively arched brows.

The one that stands out the most to Brian is the one where she’s expressionless, depthless. It’s the same size, same features, same ink, applied with the same weight as all the other sketches, but it seems smaller, less present somehow. Blank. It’s unsettling.

Brian doesn’t go farther than that, pushing the drawer shut and making his way back to Justin.

"How generous of you to remember that I’m sitting here, ass loose and buck-ass naked,” he quips. He’s got his long legs crossed and hanging off the arm of the couch, his Mae West smile a bawdy intrusion upon the grace of his equine features. All thoughts of the sketches evaporate from Brian's mind at the ridiculous sight.

“Your room is messier than the group-on dressing rooms we had at BOTS.” He massages Justin’s rim and then prompts him to turn over and drape himself over the arm of the couch. He gamely obliges. “Let’s pray your anal cavity isn’t half as bad.”

“Don’t worry, I douched. I thought I might meet someone at The Abbey tonight.”

Brian rubs the tip of his condom-clad dick around Justin’s entrance, and Justin’s back muscles melt at the gesture. “Hm. Too bad you’re stuck with me.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, only barely. “You’re fucking terrible.” Brian pushes in then, reducing Justin to a surprised moan.

Justin relaxes quickly, opening up to his thrusts and receiving them with abandon, like he has faith in Brian and believes that he would give nothing but the best fucking that he could. Brian moves his hips in small circular motions, experimenting and trying to find that one spot that would send Justin keening. In the process, he has to grip the base of his cock to keep himself from coming before he finds Treasure Island. It’s difficult, with how tight and warm Justin is around him, not to mention the the way he’s running up and down the scale from deep grunts to breathy whimpers. It’s like every inch of Justin’s rectum—hell, his entire body—corresponds to a unique noise. It’s an impressive range Brian has discovered so far. If he fucks Justin long enough, he’s sure Justin can dethrone Mariah Carey.

They’ve spent too long sending each other into near-orgasm for this to really last a respectable amount of time, and soon Justin is a trembling mess beneath his equally trembling hands. He pulls out and stumbles down on the sofa, pulling the panting Justin over his lap and kissing his comedown away. Justin kisses back gamely, like he hadn’t just been fucked over to the next plane of existence.

Justin laughs into his mouth and then pulls away. He rests his head on Brian’s shoulder and talks to his neck. “I feel like a fucking teenager.”

“You come like a fucking teenager,” Brian confirms. He wipes Justin’s hair off his forehead, but Justin shakes his head like a dog and sends sweat flying toward Brian.

“Better that than your slow-ass grandpa thrusts.” He smirks. And then, as if to prove his agile youth, he jumps off Brian in one clean motion. It’s hardly an impressive feat, but Justin, who has all the grace of a fumbling fawn, looks mighty proud of himself. Brian smiles, until Justin offers a hand out. “Time for your bath, gramps.”

Brian kicks him but takes his hand. “Is this how you won All Stars? Gerontophilia?”

Justin taps the side of his head with a finger, like he’s passing on some wise secret. “Gotta know how to play the game.”

Brian nods as he gets up and lets Justin pull him to the bathroom. "I’ll keep it in mind for All Star 3: All-Star All Stars, where I duke it out with Raven for second place.“

"Oh my god.” Justin halts walking and buckles over in laughter, tears collecting in his eyes. Brian has to drag the dysfunctional Laughing Track of a human being to the bathroom and push him in the tub.

“You’re a handful,” Brian sighs as he settles in the tub as well, facing Justin.

“I’ve been told.” Justin reaches up behind him and gets the warm water going.

“Can it, Joanne. Not bigger than Chad.”

Justin shoots him an intrigued look. “Is he really?”

“Bigger? Yeah. Although size is immaterial for bottoms. And you’re a much better bottom.”

Justin preens and shakes his imaginary peacock feathers. "Thank you,“ he inflects in Tatianna’s voice. "Don’t tell Sharon, but I think you’re a better top.”

Brian laughs. “You whore. You’ll say anything to get dick up your ass.”

“Playing the game, I told you.” Justin shrugs. He swirls a finger in the two inches of water collecting around their feet. “Honestly though? I don’t care too much for it. Sometimes it’s more work than it’s worth.”

Brian cocks his head to the side. “You coulda skipped douching. I’ve never tried scat, but I’m open to new possibilities.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t,” Justin observes teasingly. He reaches behind him for a bar of soap and runs it through the water before sliding it across his legs. “I’ll keep it in mind next time.”

“Next time?” Brian asks, smirking. He reaches out to steal the soap for his own use. “I know you like this cock.”

“I’ve never prided myself on having good taste,” Justin retorts, sticking his tongue out. He kicks the bar of soap out of Brian’s grasp and into the water. Brian chuckles and picks it back up as Justin settles down and continues. “I was about ready to whore myself out downtown tonight. I never did get around to coming since that night you called me.”

“I actually was going to let Trixie set me up with a friend of her boyfriend for drinks after our little artisanal pizza dinner—” another kick, dangerously near his balls this time. Brian shields himself and continues, “but your skeletal system allure was too much to resist. I texted the guy and told him I had the runs.”

“You’re not being subtle about your scat fantasy, are you?”

“Well if there’s anyone I trust to make me see the merits of scat, it’s your filthy ass.”

“Okay, I’ve never done scat and have no particular desire to try.” He slides down and submerges himself in the water now that it’s filled up half the tub.

Brian’s surprised at how easy it had been for him and Justin to fall in bed together. Well, couch. One minute they were having a kiki over Sharon’s insane come control, the next Brian was demonstrating some random trade’s sloppy grandpa kisses on Justin’s mouth. And then it was the most sensible thing to start making out heatedly, until they were both naked and sucking each other off.

That’s three Ru girls down. Brian quite enjoys sleeping with them, he decides. No pressure, and no overwhelmed, limp dick. Maybe he’ll ask Trix and her boyfriend if they’re down for some three-way fun times next.

In the meantime, when Justin emerges from the water, Brian’s there to greet him with a soapy kiss.

[ghoulluck]

When she dropped Julien off at class, Coté would ditch the expensive car and run the streets to find things to do. She had her hoodie pulled over her head to hide her beaten face. It made people uncomfortable. Hell she didn’t want to look at herself either. Her boots hit the concrete hard and fast as she tracked through the rougher parts of the neighborhood. She was in Bowery King’s territory, someone she trusted enough to feel safe in but not enough to trust all his people.

She could hear rapping in the distance. The cold wind made her face feel hot as she stopped a minute to listen. He was good. Coté crossed the street. It was coming from the alley way. Finding the source, the actress was surprised to find a homeless man in a wheelchair at the end on a street corner panhandling for some cash. He was beating his hands on his wheelchair with a hat sitting in his lap to keep a rythm.

She closed her eyes to try to figure out where she knew the song from. She could hear it better when she danced to it in her head. She stood with her back against the brick digging into her spine. Coté had to channel her energy into hurting herself in different ways. Picking fights and making enemies was probably the easiest way to get hurt especially now that she had killed a prominent figure in the shadowy realm of the assassin's guild. Now she was just waiting on the consequences of her actions. She just hoped it killed just her.

She wiped a hand down her face as she thought about the thin arms that had wrapped around her. That had been a mistake.

Coté breathed in the sharp cold air. There was a clicking sound in her head and the accute sound of the wheel chair hitting the ground followed it. Her eyes snapped open as her feet moved without thinking further. Her boots hit the ground as she chased after the man. She managed to chasie him into an alley way and lost him. Breathing heavily, she felt eyes on her.

She didn't quite feel like she had lost her target. Taking a step back as her eyes scanned the garbage before jumping into it. Her fist hit skin and she wailed on the fucker. A sharp pain erupted in her side and he got a few feet away. "Fuck," Coté grumbled as she managed to grasp the bag to yank it away from the thief. She threw it clear of the fight and jabbed the fucker in the eyes before she was kicked down.

Coté felt dizzy and she heard the thudding them running away. "Shit," she murmured softly as she breathed in deeply. She could feel the distinct gurgle of blood in her lungs. Managing to sit up, she breathed in deeply and it made her feel like she was drowning. She pulled her phone from her back pocket with a grunt as she noted it was cracked beyond use. Frustrated, she pocketed it and made her way down the street. The man was on the ground still, struggling with trying to get back into his wheelchair.

Coté's vision wavered as she noted a wet patch of blood on the concrete. "Shit--" Digging through her pockets, she found a few gold coins. She felt her knees on the hard harsh cold and wet concrete as she grasped his side, "Hey--" She clasped the coins to his bleeding side. He looked weirdly familiar. Her blackened eyes studied him as that same hand touched his bearded face. His name was on the tip of her tongue. His breathing was ragged. She clutched his wound as she looked at their surroundings.

There was a homeless man looking at her. She clicked the coins deliberately. "I need help," she managed to say weakly, "He fucking owes me." The static of the radio echoed in her ears as she drew strength from the blood that was spilling rapidly from his side. "Mama?" her eyes dropped back down to him as his shaking hand came to grab the hand that kept pressure on the bleeding.

Coté felt the little energy she had sap from her as she dropped down to sit next to him. She shook her head. She wasn't sure if she heard him right when he spoke again. "Coté?" The chilean girl cradled his head. His hands were trying to grasp her's. Was he crying? Her eyes were big and predatory as the coins rolled out of her hands to be collected by Bowery's people.

The black man sat at her side. His hand was just under his chin. His dark eyes were critically dissecting her like they did everyone's. "Haven't seen your bitch ass since you were fourteen," he commented before his eyes smiled a little, his mouth stayed pressed into it's ever sarcastic and sour expression as she rolled on her side to look at Mr. King with a light grin of her own.

The past was coming back to haunt her the deeper she sank into the belly of it. Sitting up slowly, she rubbed her sore eyes. She couldn't feel a fucking thing. She touched her side only to find thick bandages. The asshole had stabbed her where Indy had gotten her a few years back. The scar always made her cry if she looked at it. Wiping at her face, she pushed down the urge to break down.

"Is the guy---?"

Bowery nodded, "Yeah. Next room. You're gonna owe me a few more coins for him." She saw his expression subtly become more serious as he put his fingers on a stack of papers. "Is he gonna live?" Mr. King nodded with a suck of his teeth. "Can I see him?" The black man's face twitched as he held out his hand. He wanted payment. Coté grimaced as she reached over to a pile of scabby and black clothing to dig for her wallet. She handed over Edmund's unlimited black card, "Take it all if you want."

King sucked his teeth again as he noted the name on the card. "How deep are you in the game?" Coté licked her lips as she subconciously reached to scratch harshly at the back of her scarred neck as anxiety began to dredge up, "The boogeyman owes me." He sat back, his expression grave as he flicked the card at her. He didn't want any part of that. Coté put the card back into the leather wallet as her mouth pulled into a grin.

"Looks like I'll just put a tab on you girl."

"Smart choice. Can I see him now?"

Bowery nodded as he adjusted himself in his seat, "Go. Come back. We've got some talkin' to do."

The Chilean girl nodded as she tried to get on her feet. The ache in her body became obvious and she bit into her tongue to keep herself up right instead of collapsing. Refusing to be seen as weak, she stumbled with her hand against the wall into the other room until the door was shut behind her. A weak sob of pain escaped her and she breathed in evenly until the world around her wasn't blurry anymore.

"You okay?" she felt a hand just brush her arm and stop short of much else. Coté wiped her face roughly despite how much it hurt her beaten face, "Yeah. Just fucking peachy." She couldn't help the sarcastic grin to reinforce the idea that she was okay.

Her eyes snapped shut as she thought of Julien. She carted a hand through her short pink hair as she breathed in deeply. "Fuck." The psychic was probably worried sick no doubt. She'd owe the other girl a fuck load of cuddles and bubble baths for all the worry she caused and her broken promises would require a lot more effort then she was prepared to put in.

Hiding out at the contientnal seemed like a good idea for a few weeks.

"Hey--" His voice made her stop scratching at her neck as she put her bloody fingers in her lap to stare at her hand numbly. "I'm sorry I didn't get your stuff back." He blinked. He had steel blue grey eyes and some rotted teeth. She studied his heavily tattooed hands. "It's cool, ain't nothing worth dyin' for in that bag," he stated. He was studying her. He held so much fucking familiarity and it was killing her.

"You look a lot like my ma," he stated after some silence and he turned more on his side even if it hurt.

Coté's mouth twitched a little. She didn't remember her mom anymore. Or what she looked like. What she was like. A lot of faces were a blur in her memory. The only ones that matter right now was Paulina, Julien and Zedd. Survival without them was like not being able to breathe.

He gestured to her face, "Why you all beat up?"

She snorted a little, "Why you been stabbed?"

His laugh was relieving, "Why /you/ been stabbed?"

She shrugged as she leaned closer to him as she started to feel tired from the medication and the adrenaline of seeing King wearing off. "Kinda my M.O. or whatever they say." He nodded with a grin," Nah man, iss becaus' you a cabrona." Coté rolled her eyes a little. The smile faded off his face. The more he was looking at her, the sadder his eyes were. She looked down with a sharp exhale, "Nombre, soy chingona."

He laughed, then caughed and he turned to lay back on his back when breathing got too hard. "M'name's Manuel." She turned her head to look out at the bleak New York sky line, "Jose Maria." He nodded, "Coté. Lil cody." Her brows knit as a voice in the back of her head spoke. "Yeah--" She wasn't sure where she had heard that before. Bad things were scribbled over good memories like sharpie on a photograph.

"Get some sleep," she told him with a soft grunt of pain as she got up.

"Ey, you gonna be okay?"

Coté shrugged, "Yeah, you?"

Manuel reached out to steady her on her feet as best as he could given his physical limitations, "maybe you need to stop being a cabrona for five seconds." Coté leaned heavily on the bed. She felt weak and tired. She breathed in as she sat on the edge. "Thank you, cabrona." She let out a breathless laugh to stop herself from crying, but she cried anyways.