yeeeeeeeah, here's some more puzzling smut I wrote in class today, front and center. I mean, I like it, but the football player who sits next to me doesn't haha.

Ohh man, thank you for putting up with me.


Tap Water

You let your hands settle on the hot, somewhat sticky skin of his ribcage, your palms snaked under his shirt and the backs of your wrists graced with thin white cotton fabric. He doesn't react, too far off to even have your touch register. You're glad it doesn't register, knowing that were he to feel it you'd be in the floor, and the room would spin like a plastic top. Or, maybe you'd be on the floor feeling this, what he's feeling, only without the drugs. Were he to find you here, he'd do to you what something neither of you can remember did to him a few hours earlier. He would throw you to the floor and completely lash out, snapping more than half your ribs as brutally as possible. He'd have you on your knees, gasping, choking, fighting the urge to become physically sick, knowing that would only hurt more. He'd have you stuck, stuck with an unbearable catch until he could drug you, and make you forget everything.

The surface of his chest is raised, puffy, bruised so deep that it's less red, and more of a deep, almost charcoal shade with a tinge of purple here and there that mutes any and all color on his skin. There are small ridges with stitches, stitches you ever gently threaded with shaking palms and fingers swollen from subzero temperatures. There are bigger ridges about his middle marking, defining, the near super human layers of muscle. They're almost a mirror image of yours, only his have something different about them, something special, and something new-something enchanting. Your hands are like magnets, clinging to him with a force too strong for you to fight, something keeping you from pulling away. You glance briefly up at him to make sure he's still out, then proceed to suavely pull he fabric over his head. You throw it onto the floor, getting up on your knees to look down on what you then swear to be sheer and utter perfection.

You want it- you need it.

You want him- you need him.

You need this warmth, this perfection, this sweet and sugary half coating you feel growing on your palms. It's a residue, a residue that you've felt only with heavy, breathy, hardcore sex. So, you think, not realizing how utterly sick the string of thought is. Touching him is like sex.

It's sick, the only thing that can describe it is sick. It's sicker though that he's completely unaware of the entire thing. You wonder for half a second how you can live with yourself knowing what you're doing to this brutally traumatized mess of a brother. You wonder how you can consciously defy morals and sexuality with this brutally traumatized mess of a brother. You have no morals, no sexuality, no sense. You have nothing. Nothing aside from him. He's all you have. He's all you want. Not awake, not responding, not okay-just this. You want this, and this is all you get.

It's dim, the only light coming from street lamps and headlights out the windows. Through it, though, you can see how his eyelids dash rapidly back and forth, You can hear through the dull white noise of heaters and engines his sweet sighs and shallow gasps you'll periodically induce via your hands and only your hands. Well, your hands and the occasional creak of weight shifting on the mattress. You hear his breaths squeak faintly from the blunt trauma, and then you hear him groan softly. Panicked, you try and throw yourself off him, but before you can get very far he takes a hold of your arm, and looks up at you with glassy drugged eyes and a breezy drugged smile. "Hey, Sammy," he says in a faded and sleepy voice. "Whatcha doin'?"

You stare at him in return, eyes huge with terror as you anticipate his reaction.

"Tryna have a little fun?" His words are slurred, all strung together from heavy chemicals and half consciousness. You'd say it's cute, but it's not cute.

It's absolutely adorable.

"That's cool." He's talking to himself, rambling on even though he knows you won't respond. It's like he knows how adorable he is, and is using it to push you to your limit. "That's cool, but I need your help."

Awkwardly, you pull your hand back, trying to slip away before his brain becomes dead set on having a conversation with you.

"No," he whines, taking your hand back. "No, you need to help me."

You pause. "With what?"

Dean reaches over to the bedside table and holds up to you the plastic bottle you filled up with tap water a few hours later. It's empty, completely empty, and you know exactly what he's getting at.


"Sammy," he drags on your name like he's five years old, tugging on you gently. "I can't feel my feet."


He tugs on your arm a little harder. "You had no problem feeling me up before, come on, I'm about to explode."

You pause, staring at him for a second.

"You don't want me to explode, do you?"

With an exasperated sigh you pull him out of bed and drag him into the washroom, where you hold him up as he drops his shorts. With one arm around his chest and the other hand just below his waist, covered gently by his, you feel a level of awkward heavier than you've ever felt with him. "I hate you," You tell him, averting your gaze from where his is fixed.

"Oh please," he argues. "You want this."

You deny it, but it's a false denial. You do want it. You want that sweet residue and that sticky skin. You want to keep him this way. You want to dope him a little more. You want to give him pills, and you want him to wash them down with more tap water.

A lot more tap water.


daaaaaamn, what just happened?