#ear-enjoyer-Vince

[chef-lamoree]

(ooc: omg it you !!!) *Vince stepped hesitantly into the Bistro, steps unsure and weary. This wasn't the Vince you knew, but he acted similarly enough that if he didn't look so different you could very well just call him your Vince. What made him so clearly different is his scars. The burn scarring raging all over his neck, face and arms, though the ones on his arms have been hidden by a shirt.* Is this.. what I think it is..? *He mutters to himself* *He sees Rody and confirms his thoughts* Oh- uhm hi? Y-you're a chef, right? Chef Lamoree? *He offers his hand hesitantly* I knew that if I found the Vince from your world well it was only a matter of time before- *The Matches. He see the matches, the same ones that Rody had once used to burn down his Bistro. The same ones that had scarred him and well.. Rody- and he just simply fiddled with them, casually..* A-ah.. *he pulls back his hand* W-why.. do you have.. matches, sir? -Vincent🔪💔🖤(ooc: :00!! @ear-enjoyer-vince haii!!)

[ rody flipped the match box around in his hand , holding it with his thumb and middle finger . The feeling of it hitting his hand repeatedly seemed to cause him to zone out , his face blank and resting ; no usual wide eyes and big smile . however he quickly snapped his attention to Vincent , this Vincent , the second he entered . ]

[ thought his only eyes opened wider and his (vaguely forced) smile only returned to his face he watched as Vincent approached . Rody continued to fidget with the match back , sliding the compartment that held the matches out and back inside over and over again .]

[ Chef lamoree knew this wasn’t the Vincent from his timeline , that was obvious . The burn scars and that look in his eyes gave that away instantly . Rody wasn’t that good in talking most times , but he was good at watching .. when he felt like it . Cause most times he doesn’t care enough to pay attention to little details.. he guesses he’s just …intrigued ? Vincent and his other versions cause he’s sure he’s never payed attention to anybody else this closely ,,, well maybe one person . ]

“ yep ! chef lamoree , that’s me ! “

[ he smiles big and wide at vincent , showing off his teeth . Intentional or not it was a little threatening considering this Vincent had already gone through the events of his timeline and knew how it ended (for the most part) ]

[ rody stopped fidgeting with the match box when he saw Vincent reach his hand out for a hand shake , though right when he was about to go and shake the man’s hand ; Vincent pulled his hand away .]

[ Rody’s gaze flicked up from his hand to look at Vincent’s face , he tilted his head to the side ; smile faltering just a little .]

“ hm ? Something the matter ?”

[ he stared at Vincent with a curious look , however it still felt vaguely threatening with how he held the matches in his hand .]

[ rody continued to stare at vincent , he hadn’t realized he’d stopped smiling entirely . Though he quickly realized this after hearing Vincent’s question , he straightened up and brought his grin back ]

“ why do i — .. ohh , sorry don’t mean to scare you or anything ! Having something in my hands to mess around with helps me focus ‘s all .”

“ and there’s no need to call me sir , just rody is fine — or chef .. or chef lamoree . Whatever is fine !”

[ he smiled at vincent , one of his more genuine ones . Sure he was lying just a little , but it wasn’t that big of a lie . He did use the matches to help him focus . ]

[ but it was also cause rody really enjoyed fire .]

#! chef rody speaks #! asks #ear-enjoyer-Vince #! ooc tags #HAIIII #WAVES SUPER EXCITEDLY AT YOU #can you tell I like writing big responses #every time I go to write a . huge response #I always have to stop myself bc I’m like #I CANNOT JUMPSCARE THESE VINCENT RP BLOGS WITH A HUGE WALL OF TEXT #but here we are with a big wall of text (at least on mobile) #also I LOVE ur writing style I don’t think I’ve mentioned this yet

[doc-pickles]

it’s enough to make a girl blush | adam larsson x reader x vince dunn

summary: after an accident, your husband helps vince apologize to you properly

warnings: alcohol mention, smut (oral f/m receiving, handjob, f/m, m/m, f/m/m, praise kink, threesome)

a/n: I actually have no answer for this one but i do blame @loulucifer for brainwashing me. so thanks. anyways enjoy!

xoxo

nina

Swedish Vocab:

Älskling - Darling

Raring - Dear

Skynda - Hurry

Adam’s guilty pleasure is that he loves hosting. A bit standoffish and broody, most wouldn’t assume him to be the hosting type but he takes great pleasure in showing off the home you two share and having his close friends within the four walls. 

Tonight was one of those nights where your husband took pride in hosting some of his teammates, cooking them dinner, and showing off the newly remodeled living room. The night had wound down to just a few stragglers sharing drinks in your living room, the room peaceful and enjoyable. 

“Älskling, will you grab some more wine,” Adam whispers into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Promise everyone will leave soon so I can take care of you.”

You respond with a nod and a kiss on Adam’s cheek, his fingers squeezing your ass just enough to tease what he’d do later. He’d slowly been teasing you all night, another thing he loved to do while hosting. 

Quickly, you refill your glass of Merlot before turning to bring the bottle out to the living room but instead run straight into a solid body. Red wine drips down your light blue blouse as you let out a shocked yelp. Thankfully you manage to keep both the bottle and the glass in your hands as the person in front of you mutters apologies. 

“Oh shit, I am so sorry,” Vince Dunn, Adam’s linemate, looks at you with absolute horror. He scrambles, grabs the roll of paper towels on the counter, and kneels to wipe up the liquid on the floor. “I wasn’t looking and fuck I’m so sorry.”

“Vince, it’s no big deal,” you place a hand on his shoulder and he looks up at you with wide green eyes. “I’m just going to run upstairs and hop in the shower. Seriously, it’s fine.”

“Älskling? Everything okay?” Adam appears in the doorway to the kitchen and looks between you and Vince who’s still kneeling on the floor. 

“All good. I’m going to wash off the wine,” you slip past Vince and press a kiss to Adam’s cheek before whispering to him with a smile. “Skynda, raring.”

You make your way upstairs and strip before stepping into the warm spray of the shower. The one thing you’d insisted on when you and Adam had looked for a house was a large bathroom with a shower and soaking bathtub. The shower boasted two shower heads, a sleek black tile backdrop, and a huge glass door. As you close the door, the warm spray of the shower washes over you and you gladly sigh in relief as your body relaxes. 

Not even fifteen minutes later the bathroom door creaks open and you smirk to yourself before calling out to your husband, “I’ve been waiting for you, raring. Thinking about this moment all night long.” 

“Älskling, Vince wants to apologize to you.”

You whip around and find Vince standing in front of the shower entrance, looking anywhere but at you. Adam stands behind him, a smirk on his face as his eyes stay locked on the younger man and his flushed cheeks. 

“He’s shaking like a leaf Adam,” you tut as you look over Vince. “It was just an accident, no need to be so harsh.”

“S-sorry about the wine,” Vince looks up from the floor and meets your eyes, not daring to look anywhere else. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“S’okay Vince,” you assure him with a smile. He seems to calm down but as you meet Adam’s fiery gaze over Vince’s shoulder you know that trouble is brewing. “Raring-“

“Vince needs to learn a lesson, älskling,” Adam's voice is commanding as he lays a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “Strip.”

“But I-“

“Strip, Vince,” Adam commands. “So you can properly apologize.”

To his credit, Vince only pauses for a moment before he strips off his dark polo and shoes. His hands shake a little as he unbuttons his jeans and slides them down his legs. He’s all lean muscle and long limbs, a stark contrast compared to Adam’s thick arms and legs and toned torso. 

“All the way,” Adam mutters once Vince is down to his boxers. “C’mon Vince.”

Finally fully naked, Vince looks younger than he is as he stares at you, uncertainty clouding his features as he meets your eyes through the glass of the shower door. 

“Go on,” Adam pulls the door open and pushes Vince under the warm spray. “Kneel and apologize properly to my wife.”

You take a step towards Vince, your hands gently, pushing his shoulders until he’s on his knees before you. His eyes flick to yours, wide and unsure through the green haze of his irises. 

“You’ve gone down on a woman before, haven’t you Vince?” you ask with a smirk on your face as his cheeks flush. Even with the dark blush marring his cheeks Vince nods and you smile at him, running a hand quickly through his curls. “Good. Then you can make up for ruining my favorite blouse.”

Vince hesitates slightly before one hand curls around your leg to bring your body closer to his. His fingers drift up your thigh and slowly run through your folds, his tongue following their path. You let out a gasp as he slowly drives one finger into your wet folds and his tongue teases your clit.

“Oh my god,” you breathe out as you let one hand drift back to Vince’s now wet curls. “So good… Just like that Vince.”

You watch Adam observe the two of you, his erection straining in his dark slacks. His eyes meet yours just as Vince’s tongue delves into you and elicits a deep moan from you. You maintain eye contact with Adam as Vince continues to fuck you with his tongue, his fingers teasing your clit as he moves.

“Vince. So good baby,” you moan as your eyes flutter shut. “Such a good boy on your knees for me. So good for me, aren’t you?”

Vince nods and sucks your clit into his mouth just as Adam steps under the spray, his hands coming to squeeze your breasts as he pulls you into his chest. 

“He’s so good with his tongue, raring,” you gasp as Vince circles your clit again, your head falling back onto Adam’s shoulder. “So- fuck. So good. Want you to feel him, Adam.” 

Adams' erection presses into your back as he holds you close. In the same moment, Vince plunges two fingers into you and your orgasm claims you, your mouth agape as you tremble with pleasure. Adam holds you up as Vince continues to tongue you through your climax. 

When you come back down from your high Adam is kissing your neck, Vince’s lips pressed to your thigh. Adam is rutting against your ass but you push him off and motion to Vince who’s still kneeling at your feet, “Vince will take care of you, raring.” 

You smile as you run a hand down Vince's cheek, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he looks back up to you. His bright eyes are no longer clouded with uncertainty but with lust now, “Won’t you, sweet boy? Take care of Adam like you took care of me? Use your tongue so well for him?”

Vince nods before he looks with uncertainty toward Adam, “I mean… If Adam wants.. Then I-“

Adam cuts Vince off by leaning down to cover his mouth with his own. The kiss doesn’t last long before Adam breaks them apart and nods at you, “You take care of our guest, älslking?”

You simply grin as Vince greedily takes Adam into his mouth, a string of Swedish curses falling from Adam at the motion. You kneel behind Vince, pressing your lips to his neck as you trail your hand down his chest towards his dripping cock. 

“Such a mess for me, baby,” you purr in Vince’s ear, eliciting a moan from him as you ignore his dick and slowly move down to cup his balls. “You want me to touch you while you suck off my husband? Can you taste us both on your tongue?”

“Raring,” Adam warns. “If you talk like that I’m not going to last long.”

You blink innocently up at Adam as you whisper in Vince’s ear, “Such a good boy, using your tongue so well for me, for Adam. I bet you can’t wait to swallow all of his cum huh? You want him so bad, don’t you?”

With a grunt, Adam grabs Vince’s face and holds him still as he comes down his throat. A strangled cry leaves Vince as his own release spills over onto your hands. Taking everything in with wide eyes you keep one hand slowly stroking Vince while the other gently strokes Adam’s thigh. The feeling of the two of them in your hold has your heart beating in double-time.

“Raring,” Adam whispers, a gentle coaxing. “Raring, time to get up. C’mon my love.”

Your eyes open slowly, taking in the surroundings that are definitely not the floor of your shower. When you finally look around you’re met with Adam’s smirk as he looks down at you, one hand stroking through your hair softly.

“Good dream?” Adam asks and your cheeks immediately flush as you hide your face in your pillow. “Sounded good to me.”

“Adam…,” you groan as you peek up at him.

“It’s okay, raring,” Adam soothes as he grins at you. “But maybe Vince can join us soon, if you’re a good girl.”

#vince dunn #vince dunn fanfic #vince dunn fic #vince dunn imagine #adam larsson #adam larsson fic #adam larsson fanfic #adam larsson imagine #nina writes #larsdunn

[tentacledwizard]

tumblr user tentacledwizard reviews: Employee of the Month

 

  So recently [read: a few hours ago], @cgtg hosted a sort of movie night. The movie was Employee of the Month, starring Dane Cook. I joined it because I am always willing to expand my cinematic repertoire and also cgtg’s Davekat stuff is really good. Like I don’t even ship Davekat that much but their content is excellent. And the Sandler rap perfectly encapsulates my opinions on Adam Sandler as an actor, because ever since my dad played Billy Madison my life has been ok I’ll just do the review now.

So okay, I was prepared to have an ironically good time. I was convinced the movie would be 100% shit tier, just like Dave Strider said. But I should have known that Dave is not a reliable source. Because this movie was fun. I had a great time. When it comes to official reviews, I’ve seen mainly lukewarm/frosty attitudes towards Employee of the Month but *clears throat* Whatever. 

Now, those who know me know of my passionate love for Home Depot. And if you didn’t know about this, now you do. I wrote a Home Depot/necromancy story in like 7th grade. Home Depot is paradise on earth. You could survive a zombie apocalypse in there. It has everything you need for survival- shelter, crops, energy drinks, etc. This movie basically takes place inside a Home Depot. I forget what the store was actually called. It doesn’t matter. You just need to understand that I love Home Depot so I will generally enjoy movies set inside Home Depots. That was a pretty big factor in my enjoyment. Never mind the fact that this was filmed inside a Costco.

Now onto the actual movie. By rom-com standards, is this a good rom-com? Ehhh. No. The main romance between Dane Cook and “Blond Tart” was half-baked. I saw nothing that distinguished the fair-haired love interest from the other rom-com love interests before/after her, except maybe her big ears. The pair had like nothing in common, mainly because I don’t really know about their interests? Gotta say that Dane Cook had far more chemistry with the other blond tart (aka the antagonist). I wasn’t rooting for the main couple. This is also partly because of the movie’s intense homosexuality. I am not even kidding. Their date was cute though, I just wish they actually had some things in common and we learned more about the love interest.

So basically the plot is that this guy Zack (Dane Cook) works at Fictional!Home Depot and he seems like kind of a “slacker.” He is rivals with a smarmy blond Eminem cousin named Vince (Dax Shepard), who seems like a “stand up guy.” Obviously he is a douche bag who flirts with everyone in a very unprofessional way. There’s some kind of subplot about the store trying to beat another retail place. Then this new employee (Jessica Simpson) waltzes into the place. (I could say she “breasted boobily,” but nah.) Her name is Amy and she allegedly has a thing for employees of the month. So Zack falls in love, but obviously Vince starts making some moves on her. Now Zack has to win Employee of the Month to get the girl, or else Vince will. (There was nothing to worry about though, he dates Amy without even getting the position yet. Also Vince is super awkward/gay.) 

So let me just bullet point this. I’ll cover the characters/plot points/romance plots.

CHARACTERS:

Zack: The main character, Dane Cook. For everyone watching, there was this process of thinking oh no he’s cute and then falling in love with him. Look, he is actually pretty cute. I don’t make the rules. That dorky smile of his is great. He does have his flaws, like being focused only on his own problems. Dude just apologize. But they do get addressed. He’s a pretty good main character, and he really knows how to treat a girl. Home Depot date? SIGN ME UP. That’s going to be me some day, ok? I will meet some dude who shares my love for Home Depot and together we will wander the dusky aisles filled with all manner of appliances. Welp I kind of lost the plot. Anyway he has great date ideas. His little yellow car thing is a complete travesty but I will let it slide. Jorge has the better yellow vehicle but of course he does. Jorge is gangsta. 

(guy has that Kubrick stare)

Vince: The main antagonist besides the nebulous “corporate.” At first he seems like a blond flashlight that draws in the ladies like moths. He truly seems like a suave douchebag. As the movie goes on, you learn that this is untrue (the “suave” part). He is really awkward. Probably the only person in love with him is my main guy Jorge (Efren Ramirez). More on that at ten. Anyway, Vince is really good at cashiering. He does an unprofessional little circus act with the products that makes the ladies allegedly swoon. He gets Employee of the Month many, many times. Can Zack possibly usurp him?? Who knows! So yeah, Vince is a sopping and pathetic fellow. At some points you want him to shut up, but at other points you feel this deep well of pity for his plight. Negative points for using the r-word once >:( but also hey this is 2006. 

Amy: Uh. Ummm. Well she seems very friendly and… like a love interest. Uh… I’m sure there has to be more to her. Right? Oh well. Her big ears are pretty cute. Sadly, she doesn’t exactly have a personality or agency over the plot. I don’t really like plots that are just two guys fighting over a girl, except that turned out to not really be part of the movie so it’s fine. At least she called out Zack when he was being stupid, but that was mainly just to milk some drama. I think she and Lily should date.

Jorge: Jorge, the man that you are. Look, he is amazing and I cannot lie. What even is a salmon churro? The entire chat was yelling every time he was on screen. He first appears as Vince’s lackey, and he mainly helps out Vince with his various sabotage attempts. But he turns out to have more depth than that. He is like a short bug. He is willing to stab an old lady. Jorge is what we call “gangsta.” Everything he does is cool in a Jorge sort of way. He really made the movie. You can fight me on this. 

Lily: The Human Resources manager. Okay, so she doesn’t have dialogue (I think) but I wanted to include her here because she is cool and really pretty and I had a minor sexuality crisis once she arrived on screen (it happens every other day. Don’t worry about it). I like the lily in her hair. She was so real for accepting a bribe and eating that Butterfinger. <3

Grandma: She could be referred to as feisty. You could also say she’s bisexual. Kudos to her for keeping it real with Zack. The “seed of love” speech was…really dubious!

Boss man: Whatever is going on with him, it’s very gay. He outright says that he thinks/has thought about kissing guys. Maybe there’s something between him and the policeman? Anyway, I feel pretty bad that his older brother emasculated him. Not much else to say. He’s not exactly a paragon of professionalism, which is what makes this movie fun. He totally wants to be the fatherly boss but he fails. His lackey’s name is Dirk. Strider reference? You know it. (This was made 3 years before homestuck started).

BOSS Boss Man, aka Corporate Incarnate: Boss Man’s big brother, in the age sense. Okay, this guy kind of scares me. He is way less relaxed than Boss Man, and he certainly can drub people with canes. He runs a tight ship, so obviously he won’t stand for the main character mayhem going on. 

Iqbal: I don’t remember a ton of stuff about him, but he is like a lot of my family friends. He deserves good stuff because he had to put up with Zack’s crap for longer than necessary. Do I have to cover every single character? How about we move onto the main thing: shipping. It’s not really the main thing, but I'm going insane over it so for me it is.

SHIPS:

  Oh man okay, here we go. I already covered my very few thoughts on Zack/Amy so here are some ships that I find interesting.

Zack/Vince: Basically, the plot of the movie revolves around these two and their rivalry. I kind of doubt their hate is platonic. At one point Vince compares them to a pair of “old gay sailors.” Zack’s face really says it all, honestly:

Their scenes together had a ton of sexual chemistry. Intense Kubrick stares. Toreador-ish mop fights. Breaking into the other person’s house to make them late for work. You know. Like that. We all agreed that they are best summarized as “toxic yaoi.” Essentially, they are kismeses. Also, Vince is a complete mess around Amy but seems way more comfortable antagonizing Zack. I don’t think Zack is really into Vince, but it’s an interesting thought.

Vince/Jorge: Now this. THIS is the true romance of the story. You think I’m kidding? This is pretty much canon (or at least heavily implied). Where Zack and Vince had some sexual tension, these two have a Home Depot’s worth of romantic tension. They have so many little moments, like when they just kind of solemnly listen to music in a car (which turns out to be a bookend). They’re constantly around each other, and their relationship actually has an arc. Vince starts out kind of using Jorge as a henchman, but then Jorge goes against that. There’s a temporary breakup, and Vince kind of loses it. He has no one to talk to now. But he’s willing to pull himself together and give Jorge the space he needs to think things through. And THEN they have this big moment where they get back together as equals and it’s beautiful and okay it’s easier to just show you. 

(Previous image) Here we have Jorge helping Vince with his dorky-ass heelies because Vince is trying to be a coolkid like Zack.

And then we have that whole moment over there. They’re holding hands! (Hurt/comfort moment tbh)

THEIR VICTORY DANCES?? HELLO?? This is adorable i can’t

Okay, this is blatantly romantic. The words “please, come home” imply that they share a home. Perhaps they are even… roommates? But look, the normally rude Vince is actually being considerate. And he calls Jorge “homes.” Jorge normally calls him that!

Full access to the cashier’s lounge? Jorge you mad lad. 

Awww-

Okay I gasped aloud at this part. They are married. Or like they will be at some point in time. “It just feels right” yeah they are SO married. Look at the height difference. They are everything, as of four hours ago. This is cinema.

I can’t do this man why did I start reviewing this. They use each other’s pet names. Shit. Fuck you, Dane Cook movies. I hate feeling emotion like this.

yes, Jorge and Vince were the real romance subplot all along. They’re literally the last scene of the movie.

Look at the smile on Jorge’s face. Jegus. This ship is everything. These two were the real emotional core of the movie. Without them, I’d just be like “eh whatever at least it was fun.” But damn, they really delivered on the romance subplot.

Uh… Yeah I can’t really think of any other ships that I like. Vince/Amy sucks and they had nothing to say to each other. I like the idea of Amy/Lily, though! I think either of them could make employee of the month. I guess Amy/Zack is good for now though.

OTHER THINGS:

That clubhouse is awesome. Probably a big hazard considering it’s on top of that big shelf. But hey I want a Home Depot buddy lair too!

Vince saying he can get a little anal…. >:? Sir what.

Amy’s really out there auspiticizing for Zack and Vince huh? She deserves good things for having to put up with that

Why did it suddenly turn into a sports movie for a few minutes? Why were they playing softball against another hardware store? We may never know.

Banger soundtrack. 10/10.

And that’s a wrap everyone, catch me crying over the hug or making “ironic” fanart of Dane Cook and co. I really enjoyed this and I will hopefully be there for the next flick. Wow I wrote a lot about this movie. Uh. Consider it ironic, I suppose.

#m writes #movie review #review #dane cook #employee of the month #movie

[smokechef-vince]

(PRETEND THIS IS @ear-enjoyer-vince)

He stares with ill intent

Small.

#dead plate vincent #dead plate #vincent charbonneau #dead plate rp #vince #vince.txt #dead plate rp blog #rp #vince.replies

[it-girl-hawkes]

✨Introduction post!!✨

RP blog run by @anxiousfrogdj2566 (Mod using They/Them) Just some simple rules -No nsfw (You can flirt with Hollie, she wont mind but keep it sfw) -No homophobia or anything that targets other people in an unwelcome way (No racism, homophobia, transphobia, and such) ... And uhh.. yeah. It's just like all my other blogs really #hawkes replies is the tag I use mostly Other blogs under cut

@the-better-psychic - (Glitchy I guess??) Mobile blog @the-talent-stills - Stephen Stills blog @negative-pastel - Negative Matthew Patel blog @ear-enjoyer-vince - (Other fandom than Scott Pilgrim) Dead Plate Vincent blog

#hawkes replies #into post #introduction post #introduction #blog intro #introductory post #ooc: haiii everyone :33

[burnt-rodylamoree]

God.. How many of you must I find, Rody.. Let your spirit rest.. PLEASE.

-Vincent 💔🖤🔪( ooc: this is a blog called @ear-enjoyer-vince hii)

"huh...?? you're vincent? but- how are you alive, we both died in that fire-" [Rody seemed a bit panicked.]

#dead plate #dead plate rody #rody lamoree #b!rody.rp #ooc; would you believe me if i told you ik you

[chef-rody-lamoree]

Oh hey- It's you- I'm.. uh Vincent, one of many as I can only assume you found out.. I just wanted to introduce myself, and leave a good first impression, yeah? *He chuckles awkwardly and offers his hand, it looked burnt and admittedly very unpleasant* I heard things about you! Heard you were skillful and very scary- -Vincent 🔪💔🖤(@ear-enjoyer-vince ooc: yayy!! hello!! :3)

he smiled

"pleasure to meet you!"

[original-character-championship]

Bracket D Round 1

Poll 30

Oliver Love (@noelle-tea) vs. Vince Skelter (@winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts)

251. Oliver Love (@noelle-tea)

They/she/zero/pup

they are a PATHETIC LITTLE MEOW MEOW mad scientist whos in love with their lab partner and their arch nemesis, they're gay, agender and intersex, they have adhd, they have the most fucked up gender ever, they are super silly, and they like MLP!!! a vote for oliver is a vote for silly mad scientists everywhere!! :D

They are black, fat, 6'7", they have curly black hair thats in a bun, bat ears and wings (they're half fruit bat!!), grey eyes, a scar on their right eye, yellow fangs, chin stubble, round gold earrings, goggles with spirals on them that they wear on their head, white gloves, a white short sleeved blouse, a pink medium length skirt, white socks, pink platform boots, and a blue apron with a bunny head on it.

252. Vince Skelter (@winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts)

he/him

Vince is a lil washed-up catboy! Meow Meow! Can shift between cat form and human form at will, but also can have just the cat paws, ears, and tail on demand, hellyeahhh. Enjoyer of fancy alcohol and tax fraud. He acts tough, but is super cuddly! He’s in a poly relationship with three very cool partners :D

Vote and uhhhh let the skrunkly lad have something to brag about to them hsdghsdjfs

5’ 9” ish, fair skinned and blonde, yellow-orange eyes, pointy ears, fangs n claws, usually wears a blue suit and red tie (with a leaf-shaped pin clipped to it), and a gold wedding ring (right hand ring finger)

#oc championship #tournament poll #round 1 #bracket d #251 oliver love #252 vince skelter

[jfks-phat-cheeks]

prompt 29 with jfgogh? im the anon from the 19 prompt sorry if im annoying i just really like the ship

#29 “Get on my shoulders, you’ll see better”

aaaa don’t apologize for sending stuff in! you aren’t annoying at all /gen <3 also they are at a hozier concert shut up /j Pre-established relationship, fluff (unedited)

“John I cannot see.” Vince yelled to their boyfriend, the music, although enjoyable, was quite loud. Quite loud and quite impossible to see due to the swarm of teens and young adults that had squeezed itself into the small venue. Live music was enjoyable and even better when one could view who was playing.

Jfk looked over at his boyfriend, staring blankly at him for a moment before his eyes widened and a toothy grin took its spot on his face. He looked around before pulling Vince closer, “Get on my shoulders, you’ll see better.” He offered, shrinking down to make it easier for Van Gogh to get on before he could even say yes. Vince simply agreed, too flustered by the look given to him and the consideration.

In a second they were back up, JFK’s hands holding Vince’s legs while he gripped onto his tall boyfriends shoulders. He was able to see everything. The glowing lights and singing crowds, the band playing their hearts out. Vince laughed like it was his first time seeing the sun, causing jfk to look up at him. “Thank you sunflower.” He whispered in his ear before tilting his head to give him a quick kiss.

This would be a concert to remember.

#clone high #jfk clone high #jfk #bi jfk #jfk ch #jfk clone #clone high jfk #ch jfk #van gogh ch #clone high van gogh #clone van gogh #clone high vincent van gogh #ch van gogh #jfgogh #jfk x van gogh #jfk x vince

[yourdemonic-waiter]

Heard you need deals you goof so why dont you bother that one guy @ear-enjoyer-vince most traumatized guy in the world. wont be hard to break a deal i think

>"Man, you anons sure are helping me make a good list!!! Thanks for the reccomendation!.."

#dead plate #dead plate au #rp blog #studio investigrave #dead plate rody #rody lamoree #🥩.ask

[the-bestest-waiter]

“ I mean … he sure was a guy !”

[ ft @ear-enjoyer-vince + @charbonneaus-bistro ]

#! ooc tags #! goop art #! mod goop #hey guys #I had the urge to draw rhis #grins

[derryqueenx]

Maybe running out of air, which causes a panic attack and makes it even worse? Love your writing 💕

Running Out Of Air.

Word Count: 2633

TW: panic attack

(I’ve added the blue to indicate what’s already been submitted so we can avoid any double ups! Whatever isn’t marked off or underlined is still available for your submission!)

Send through your prompts and any Noel/Julian related characters (if you have one in mind! If not I’ll just write whatever I feel works best for said prompt)! The Free Prompt square is if you want me to write a fic based on something that’s not already written! You can send them in and just say it’s for the ‘free prompt’ bingo. Let’s cause our favourite characters some hurt (with small comfort. I’m not a monster.)

Now that he was here, Vince didn’t understand the excitement.

When Howard had come back from being in Vince’s bloodstream to rescue him from the Spirit of Jazz, he went on all night long about all the amazing things he came across and all the different versions of Vince and how badass he had felt that he had saved Vince, but now that Vince was in a similar situation, he didn’t get the hype.

There was nothing to see – no amazing sights or exciting side missions, just an endless sea of blood and mystery organs that he would rather not ask what they were.

“This isn’t as cool as you made it out to be.” Vince sighed out in boredom, fiddling with a switch that was in front of him on the dashboard.

Howard briefly took his eyes off the steering to swat Vince’s hand away from the switch. “Be careful with that, you don’t know what it does.”

Vince blinked, looking at Howard. “Do you?”

Howard paused, swallowing. “No.” He admitted, eyes focused on the blank direction they were floating in.

“I’m bored.” Vince whined, swiveling in his chair as he threw his head back.

“Well tough – Naboo needs us to check this out.”

Vince groaned. “Bollo’s just got allergies is all, he aint dying or nothing. I don’t know what it is we’re looking for.”

“I think Naboo’s just worried is all. Bollo’s not been acting like himself these last few days.”

“Because he’s just got hayfever! We worked at the Zoo for years Howard, and I was Bollo’s primary carer. He used to get sick all the time, especially in Spring. He’s allergic to pollen, you know.”

“Maybe so. But we promised Naboo we’d check it out, so that’s what we’re going to do.” Howard finalized, earning another groan from Vince.

“Fine. But we’re at least listening to music to make this a little more enjoyable.” He said, leaning forward to play around with the radio. “I had Naboo make a few adjustments - installed a sound system. Pretty neat hey?” He grinned at Howard, who simply looked back at him bemused. Vince didn’t bother trying to get another reaction from the man as he pressed play on the system and the sweet music of Gary Numan came blaring in through the speakers on the roof, overwhelming their ear buds as the loud beating music filled the submarine. Vince started banging his head, bringing his hands up to dance them around eagerly as this trip had now instantly gotten 10 times better.

“Vince! Turn that down!” Howard shouted, bringing a finger up to stick into his ear to stop it from being burst.

Vince just ignored him, continuing to dance along as he mouthed the lyrics.

“Vince!” Howard tried again, watching as the smaller man paid him no attention. He contemplated just reaching over and shutting it off, before stopping himself as he registered that at least now Vince might not annoy him every 2 minutes with the classic ‘are we there yet?’. Biting into his cheek, he huffed out in slight annoyance, before making the decision to allow Vince to have his music so long as he left him alone.

Maybe this way they could both get what they want.

Vince cheered out, air guitaring in his chair and swinging his hair around like he was at a concert, as he brought his legs up to rest on the dashboard, crossing one ankle over another, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the roof of the submarine in a peaceful bliss.

They continued on for another 20 minutes; Vince leaving Howard alone and Howard letting Vince deafen him in the meantime for some quiet, until Howard heard something faint, something that sounded different to the loud tunes of Gary Numan.

“Turn that down..” He asked seriously, glancing around in confusion as to what the mystery sound was. When Vince ignored him, Howard reached over and shoved his shoulder, earning a glare from the other man before he cut him off. “Turn that down for a moment!” He said louder.

“I’m not putting on Jazz, Howard!” Vince whined, rolling his eyes at his friend.

“Would you just turn that down?!” He said more sternly. Vince huffed in annoyance, before leaning forward and adjusting the knob to lower the music, and Howard could hear it better now.

It was an alarm.

Now the music was down the alarm seemed so loud Howard wasn’t sure how he’d missed it. He looked at Vince in confusion, who just gave him the same look back as he now could hear it as well.

“What’s that?” Vince asked, looking around the submarine for any clues.

Howard just shook his head. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good…” He confessed, flicking the steering to autopilot for the time being so he could focus on finding the source of the mysterious alarm sound. He stood out of his chair and intended on walking to the back to investigate further, but he noticed something in the corner of his eye.

From his new higher position, he spotted a red flashing light coming from just under Vince’s feet from where they were on the dash. In a rush, he shoved Vince’s feet off, getting a cry of disproval from the younger man as he heeled boots hit the floor.

“Hey! What the he-“ He started, but Howard cut in.

“What is that?” Howard asked rhetorically, knowing full well that Vince wouldn’t have the answer, and not waiting for his response before he leant in closer. The flashing light was coming from a giant button that seemed to have been placed right under where Vince was resting his feet. The button was bright red, with one simple phrase written onto it.

‘Air Supply’.

“Vince, what have you done?!” Howard spoke accusingly, glaring at Vince who just looked back at him with wide eyes.

“How was I supposed to know that was there?!”

“Because it was right in front of you!” He shouted, waving his hands around wildly in frustration.

“Well, who the hell makes an air supply button? In what world would someone not want air supply?!” Vince quickly retaliated, his usual act of trying to pass the blame coming out.

“Gosh Vince!” Howard complained, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Once again you weren’t thinking of anyone but yourself and you’ve put me in danger because of it!”

“I told you lot that we didn’t even need to go on this trip! It’s your fault for bringing me in the first place!” Vince was standing now, shouting at Howard defensively.

“What, you can’t even take responsibility for your own actions?!”

“Naboo’s the moron that made that button in the first place. Blame him!”

“No, I’m blaming you!”

“Well, I didn’t mean to!”

“I don’t care! You still did it!”

“Yeah but it was an accident!”

The pair continued bickering, both momentarily forgetting the reason behind it, and more importantly, what the reasoning actually meant, until Vince opened his mouth to shout something sarcastic back at Howard’s accusation, and found himself struggling briefly to take in enough air in order for the shout to be effective, leaving him instead with his mouth open and the words caught in his throat as he sputtered, coughing like something was stuck.

“Don’t try and act like-“ Howard begun, before he too felt the same effects Vince was feeling. His eyes widened, head shooting up as the sudden realization of their wasted time sunk in. “Shit!” He gasped, jumping to action. He reached behind, grabbing the walky-talky that connected them back to Naboo in the flat. “Naboo!” He spoke harshly, voice already starting to sound a little rough from lack of oxygen. “Naboo, come in! We need to get out!” He waited, but no response came. “Naboo!” He tried again, feeling his chest begin to tighten as the atmosphere around him felt thicker.

Still, there was no response.

Howard went to try again, but the sound of Vince behind him got his attention instead.

“Howard…” His friend croaked out, and Howard turned to see him leaning onto the chair for support as his hand was gripping his throat, his eyes wide as they looked into Howard’s for help. “Can’t… breathe..”

Howard dropped the walky-talky, dashing over to Vince as he held him up by his shoulders, studying him intensely. “Hey, it’s gonna be fine, alright? Naboo will get us out.” He tried, unsure himself if that was the case. Howard could feel himself running out of air, but for some reason Vince seemed more affected by it much quicker? Howard wasn’t quite near desperate enough for air like Vince was.

“Can’t… breathe…” He repeated, his breathe starting to sound raspy as he wheezed, and Howard noticed how rapid his short inhales and exhales were coming, as well as they widening of his pupils as he continued to clutch at his throat, and Howard knew instantly what was happening. “Can’t...”

“Woah, Little Man, now is not the time for a panic attack, okay?” He tried to sound assertive, thinking maybe he could convince Vince enough to just hang out and think positively, before concluding that obviously wouldn’t work in this current scenario. “You need to hold onto whatever air you have right now, so you have to try and calm down..”

This wasn’t the first time Vince had had a panic attack in front of Howard, not that either of them would ever say that out loud or acknowledge it ever again. Vince was obviously very concerned about his status, and if word got around that Vince Noir was having panic attacks, that status would drop immensely. It was rare, maybe only ever happening three times before, but both times Howard was there and was able to calm him down with some simple breathing techniques that he’d read up on after the first panic attack had happened and threw him off guard.

Techniques he evidently couldn’t use right now.

Vince didn’t appear to be calming down, if anything his breathing was getting more rapid and louder, so Howard knew he needed a different approach. He not only needed to calm Vince down, but he also needed to prolong the inevitable until Naboo came back. He quickly glanced around the submarine, eyes darting swiftly for anything.

They settled on a cupboard near the back end and he thought there might be something in there he could use.

He guided Vince over to the wall, calmly and gently leaning him against it before helping him slide down to the floor. “Just- hang tight for a moment.. I’ll be back.” He panicked, noticing how Vince’s wide eyes managed to get even wider at the idea that Howard was going to leave him like this, but he had to. With a pained heart, he bolted over to the cupboard as fast as he could, his own tight chest starting to pain him as his throat started to become smaller and smaller, each breath stinging as his ears began to ring by lack of oxygen and the ever present alarm still going off.

As soon as the cupboard was opened, Howard would havescreamed with relief had he had the lung capacity to do so.

Inside was a single oxygen tank and mask.

As quickly as he could, he grabbed it, rushing back over to Vince whose eyes had started to water as sweat was forming on his forehead. Placing the mask over Vince’s mouth and holding it there tightly, Howard loosened the cap, hearing the hiss as the oxygen inside was released, and soothed Vince as best he could.

“Come on, Little Man, breathe…” He noticed the rise and fall of Vince’s chest, the slowing down of its movement as he took in air, the wheeziness behind it fading away as Vince’s hand shot up to clutch at the mouth-piece firmly and desperately, taking as many deep breathes as he could muster, and Howard’s own panic started to wear away. “That’s it.. You’re doing great… a few more breathes, come on-“ He was cut off by a loud, deep cough that escaped from his throat. Now that the panic of keeping Vince calm was gone, he was harshly reminded of his own suffering.

He needed air too. And quick.

Apparently, Vince understood as well, as the younger man removed the mouth-piece from his own face, holding it up for Howard to take with scared eyes, and a small part of Howard wanted to deny it, wanted to push it away and tell Vince that he needed it more. “You need it…” He croaked out, and the more logical part of his brain told him that yes, he really did need it.

After a small hesitation, he grabbed it, holding it over his own mouth and taking in a few deep breathes, immediately feeling the relief as the oxygen filled his lungs, loosening his throat and chest almost instantaneously. Once he felt satisfied with his own supply, he handed it back to Vince, and the two continued to share the oxygen between them, each taking a few deep breathes to satisfy their needs for the small moment that the other was using it, until it was their turn to have it back again.

They went like this for a few minutes, both trying to ignore the impending disaster of what would happen when either the tank ran out of oxygen, or the submarine was cleared of air, until Howard heard a cackling sound coming from the walky-talky.

“-Ward? -Oward! C-me in! -s Nab- Howard!”

Knowing this was their only chance, Howard handed the mouth-piece back to Vince weakly, both of them only just hanging on with the limited air they were sharing, as Howard managed to crawl his way back to his seat where the walky-talky lay forgotten. With shaky hands, he grabbed it, bringing it to his mouth and mustering up the last of his energy.

“Naboo… no air… get us… out…” He struggled, his breathe harsh and raspy, and that was all he had left in him before he collapsed, laying face down on the cold floor of the submarine, struggling to take in whatever air was left. All he could hope for was that Naboo heard him well enough to understand what was happening.

Before he passed out completely, he sensed some movement next to him, seeing a faint glimmer of sparkling silver as Vince crawled himself over to Howard, dragging the tank behind him to the best of his ability, and gently pressing the mouth-piece back to his friend on the floor.

There wasn’t much air left, Howard could tell by the amount he was getting with each breathe. His eyelids fluttered heavily, and right when he thought that this breathe would be his last, something changed.

It was as if the world got clearer, and Howard felt a gush of wind. Wind. Air!

Both he and Vince began coughing profusely, each taking in extensive breathes as the sensation of air filled their lungs, and Howard had never been more grateful for such a basic human necessity. He and Vince laid on the floor, trying to sense the world around them again, when they heard Naboo’s voice ringing through their ears, noticing their small shaman friend and his gorilla standing at the now opened doorway of the submarine that was no back at the flat.

“Get in here and help me, ya ballbag! Forget the walky-talky, I’ll fix it later!”

“Bollo coming!”

“Yeah, look at you move now that Vince needs ya. Were you even dying to begin with?!”

“Bollo just allergic to flower.”

Vince took in a ragged breathe. “Told ya.” He coughed, looking at Howard smugly and Howard merely rolled his eyes.

-

Thanks for the prompt anon!! Very creative! Sorry if the ending was shit. I didn’t wanna stay too long on the non-important part of the adventure so just quickly cut it when the interesting part was done hahah

#hurt bingo #fic bingo #noel fielding #vince noir #julian barratt #howard moon #aooo #fanfic #the mighty boosh #boosh #angst #hurt comfort #panic attack #fanfiction #archive of our own #howince #noelian

[mattzerella-sticks]

Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

           His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

           “That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

           The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

           The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

           If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

           “Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

           They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

           Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

           Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

           “You wanna go to a gay bar?”

           Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

           “Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

           “I don’t know,” Sam told him.

           “You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

           “Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

           Dean nodded, “Like what?”

           “Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

           “I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

           “Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

           “Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

           “I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

           “No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

           “To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

           “Trevor?”

           “Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

           Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

           One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

           “I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

           Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

           John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

           But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

           “My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

           “You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

           “I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

           “He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

           “Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

           “And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

           Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

           “Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

           Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

           Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

           Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

           He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

           “Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

           “What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

           “Sure.”

           “But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

           Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

           “Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

           “Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

           “That won’t happen.”

           “You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

           Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

           “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

           “Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

           Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

           Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

           “If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

           He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

           He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

           “What if I don’t want a different fella?”

           “Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

           Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

           Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

           “No one does.”

           “Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

           What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

           Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

           Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

           As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

           It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

           Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

           Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

           On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

           He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

           What?

           “What?”

           “Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

           “His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

           Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

           He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

           Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

           “Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

           Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

           “Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

           “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

           “That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

           “’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

           “Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

           “Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

           “He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

           “Why you wanna know?”

           “Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

           “You make a habit of this, then?”

           “No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

           Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

           “Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

           Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

           A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

           “Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

           “I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

           Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

           “Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

           “Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

           “You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

           “It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

           Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

           Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

           “Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

           Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

           “Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home.  “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

           “Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

           “Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

           “You’re a good brother.”

           “I try my best.”

           “Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

           “That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

           He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

           That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

           Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

           “No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

           “Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

           “I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

           He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

           With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

           You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

           A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

           “But for this?” Dean asked.

           “Definitely this.”

           Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

           He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

           The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

           Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

          ��Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

           While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

           That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

           He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

           Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

           “It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

           “I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

           “Are you sure?”

           “I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

           Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

           “Yeah.”

           “Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

           Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

           “Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

           It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

           “It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

           “Where are you taking me?”

           “Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

           He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

           Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

           That isn’t what he wants.

           Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

           And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

           Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

           Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

           This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

           This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

           A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

           “Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

           His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

           Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

           Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

           “…Thanks.”

           “Good night, Dean.”

           “Night, Cas.”

           He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

           He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

           No one speaks for half their journey.

           They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

           “Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

           Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

           “Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

           “Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

           He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

           Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

           Look out for Sammy.

           Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

            “Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

           “It’s okay.”

           “It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

           They might have died.

           “Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

           “What?”

           “I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

           Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

           “Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

           He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 [phone]: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

           Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

           Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

           He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

           Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

#spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #sam winchester #sam winchester is an ally #john winchester #john winchester's a+ parenting #fuck john winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #tw: abusive parent #tw: garden-variety homophobia

[jardinsdeminuit]

I feel what you say about Roland, and for having play to his route he's pretty much like Kanato except than he does not scream into your ears like a hysteric. But his route is still more enjoyable than Vince for sure, i won't spoil you but he have far more traumas than that and this is the main reason why i was uncomfortable with his 3P and find it quite inappropriate. Overall Lyla is a pretty dumb game, probably the funniest otome than i play in my life. The characters do bullshit everytime.

Hey! (Assuming you're the same person who commented on AO3 xD Apologies for being slow with replying to my inbox over there)

To be honest, I still haven't played Kanato's route in full in either HDB or MB, the two games I own (Grand Edition gang rise), but I definitely know what you mean from drama CDs. Is Vince's route really that bad? I've heard a lot of people say it's their least favourite. From what I've seen so far, he seems like a misogynistic piece of shit, but not that bad? (Kishou Taniyama voicing him adds a point xD) Now I'm nervous for the rest of his route lmao.

Since I want to properly understand everything that's going on, and I've heard European Night is pretty politics-heavy for an otome game, I'm translating everything word-for-word. The positive is that it's helping my Japanese a lot. The negative is that it's slooow. I'm still on the common route for European night, so I haven't gotten onto Rolan's route yet, but I'm really curious as to how his situation can get even worse than what it already is O_O

(I don't mind spoilers, so if you want to tell me why you were uncomfortable, that's all cool!)

I think I'm looking forward to Arabian Night the most because ライザール hnngh (I have no idea why his name is romanised as Lizaru? I've been using Laizel xD) But the Korei brothers also seem hilarious so far, so I'm really looking forward to their night, too.

Thanks for this ask! I'm always down to talk obscure otome, though sadly I think this one will remain obscure in the West, since I can't see it being localised anytime soon because of certain issues :') Honestly, I'm completely cool with mad otome games, as long as they have a unique setup. Definitely shoot me another ask or message anytime you want to talk about it more! I'll probably share more on here as I go along :') <3

#jakou no lyla #ask #anonymous

[burnt-rodylamoree]

OOC: ARE YOU IN MY WALLS- /j

(@ear-enjoyer-vince blog owner)

[ooc; yes /j /nsrs]

#b!rody.ooc #ooc post

[trashi-bee]

Sugar Pt. 2 ~

Pairing: Sugar Baby! Reader x Sugar Daddy! Vince 

Warnings: 18+ (smut), non-con type action, oral (male receiving), rough penetrative vaginal sex, breath play?, swearing, degradation, some kitten play if u look rly hard

Lil Summary: Vince decides he’s no longer a fan of your disobedience and teaches you a lil lesson

Word Count: 1.3 k 

Tbh both parts of sugar can stand on their own and don’t rly need to be read together but, fuck it I guess, here’s the fic I’ve been putting off for months and mostly wrote manically in one day AHAHAHAHAH, enjoy daddy Vince n pls give feedback u whores. Also sry if there’s issues I edited this high lol

Awoken by the illumination of dawn, you stretch to find yourself in an empty bed. The body that held you so close hours before now gone, the unkempt sheets the only indication he had been there at all. It doesn’t take you long to figure out where he had gone off to, as his voice echoes through the nearly void hallways of the unreasonably large home. 

Still wrapped in barely-there silks he had bought for you on a previous occasion, you rise to search for him, being lured towards his voice like an ignorant sailor follows the enchanting song of a siren. Cold, bare feet thump against the unforgiving wooden floors, alerting him to your presence at the entrance of his ‘office’, another room he was unsure of how to furnish, deciding on an excessively lavish desk and confusingly expensive art pieces strewn around the room. He sits on a plush chair, phone in one hand, the other raising, a silent gesture for you to leave. A foolish decision, considering your reputation for being a brat.

A devilish smile crosses your face, the invitation to defy him too alluring to pass up. Dropping to your knees, you slink towards him, waving your hips in an attempt to catch his attention, but all you get in return is the roll of his eyes and a soft scoff. Just as you reach the spot beside him, he covers the phone, looking towards you with annoyance present in his features, “It’s getting really hard to deal with your unruly attitude, y’know that?”. Faking confusion, you tilt your head as to play dumb, unaware of why he would be even the least bit irritated. A chuckle is barely audible as he ignores your presence, bringing his attention to whomever was on the other end of his oh-so important phone call. 

The lack of attention spurs you into action, a devious hand making its way up his jean-clad thigh, resting once it meets his crotch. The slight shimmy of his hips once you’ve situated your palm above his clothed groin has you ecstatic, although Vince likes to play the part of an unbothered, assertive man, he was undoubtedly vulnerable to your every touch. 

Moving just the slightest bit, your fingers play with his zipper, hovering around it for a moment before swiftly pulling it all the way down, then moving to unhook the button just above it for unrestricted access to his boxers. Surprisingly, he’s done nothing further to halt your actions, continuing to act as if you’re no longer there. That changes once your hand makes its way to his nearly stiff member. Hurriedly, he covers the phones mouthpiece to scald you once again “get your hand out of my pants or you’ll regret it kitten, I fucking mean it.” His threats were undoubtedly real, punishment something he enjoyed delivering, but you were never one to consider consequences, the power you had over him in this moment was immensely gratifying. With a swift movement of your wrist, his cock springs from its confines, standing tall and aching for further attention. 

Continuing with your act of idiocy, you toy with his length, faintly connecting your lips to his tip, slowly making your way to his base, all the while barely moving your hand up and down his girth. Your act of innocence displeases him, his free hand finding it’s way into your disheveled mane and pulling on your strands, a definite sign for you to drop the act. With a giggle, you decide to give in, opening your mouth and welcoming his intrusion, the taste of his arousal salty on your tongue. His pattern of speech now altered, slight sighs and low groans barely audible as he fights the pleasure you’ve begun to give him, the phone call now seeming a little less important. With a grunt of defeat, he offers a sudden goodbye to the unaware party on the other end of the line, ending the call and slamming his phone into the mahogany desk with frustration. 

“These behavioral issues you have, have been ignored for far too long-”, now gripping your hair with both of his hands, he forces you to your feet, bringing your face level with his “-and it’s about time you truly learn to conduct yourself in a more respectable manner, kitten”. Swinging you around with his grasp, he harshly pushes your frail frame into the unforgiving edge of his desk, forcing your head downwards, placing you in a position of submission. Your groan brought on by his unusually rough treatment doesn't go unnoticed “little kitty can dish out the torture, but can’t take it?”, his increasingly rude comments bringing a smile to your face and a fire to your groin. Provoking him into giving you what you craved was almost too easy. 

“Now I know I’ve never had a sugar baby before you- but it’s to my understanding that as long as I keep you pretty and polished-”, his hand now dancing along the waistband of your little silk shorts “you’re to be my sweet, submissive, compliant little toy, right?”, you slightly loll your head to the side, peeking at his form standing behind you, “I suppose so-”, his eyes make contact with yours, fire evident in his glare “and you’ve been nothing of the fucking sort, right?”, you scoff, tired of his questions “yes, daddy”. A fake smile rests on his face, venom dripping from his mouth as he replies once more “Exactly-”, ripping the delicate fabric from your thighs, he kicks your legs apart “and that’s why you’ll receive absolutely no mercy from me today”. 

Your uncertainty was quickly dispelled once you felt the cruel invasion in your unprepared cunt, a sudden, hoarse squeal leaves your lips, your fingers quick to dig into the nearest material. Bringing his hands to your face, one covering your mouth and the other plugging your nose, he brings his mouth towards your ear, fanning warm breath onto the side of your face “Disobedient cunts like you don’t deserve oxygen”. The continuous, sudden and unrelenting pace he’s set is far from forgiving, and the lack of air entering your lungs only adds to the ferocity, howls of pain and faint pleasure were muffled in your throat, barely able to be heard through his hand. Forced to accept his girth, your abused sex begins to produce the proper fluids to make this punishment enjoyable, allowing your body to now graciously accept his severity. 

After what feels like an eternity, he releases the grip on your face, leaving you gasping for air, your abandoned lungs stinging once they’ve taken all the oxygen they can accommodate. The next place his hands explore are your hips, taking them into his clutch as to allow for more control, his rolling hips and the slap of his body colliding with yours was audible throughout the room and down the hallways. The sweet, rhythmic feeling of his member entering and exiting your body was beginning to take its toll on your insides, a familiar feeling of release well on its way. 

“Please Vince- please let me” your voice diminishing as your pleasure increases, mouth hanging wide open as you chase your climax. “Please let you what, kitten?”, now acting as foolish as you had earlier, he pushes you to finish your sentence, annoyance evident in his tone. “Fuck- please let me cum”, he laughs at your embarrassing attempt to speak, entertained by your lack of cogency. With a few final, powerful thrusts, he pulls out of your unchaste hole, leaving you exasperated and unfulfilled. 

The sound of his zipper being pulled up into a proper position makes you look back towards him, where you’re provided a view of an arrogant Vince staring at your form with a conceited grin on his face. With one last glance at your spent body, he moves to leave the room, “Remember this feeling of disappointment the next time you misbehave, maybe if you learn some fucking manners you’ll earn back the right to cum.” 

#Motley Crue #Vince Neil #vince neil imagine #vince neil fanfic #vince neil x reader #motley crue fandom #Motley #motley crue fanfiction #MotleyScrew #daddy vince 😫 #glam rock #fanfic