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Devil & Doll Hotel

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She wears cherry velvet lingerie.

The deep, lamb's blood red of it all makes her milky complexion stand out even more, startling in its severity. She’s nearly mannequin-perfect.

It's probably just the Hollywood airbrushing.

Jenny Jade, it says at the top of the framed poster Jared’s blinking at while he waits, bulky box tucked up under one arm. Aside from the fan of glitterdust rainfalling down from around her name, the backdrop is flat black and endless. It keeps her in sole focus. She probably would be anyway, though. Jenny is a classic. Wars have been started over less.

A skinny-strapped bra over a modest chest, cutouts in strategic places with sparkly-heart nipple tassels. Panties like old fashioned swimwear – high-waisted briefs with little pearl rose buttons up the sides – and they sit at the top of runway legs. The kind of limbs someone might take to a voodoo doll over, sick with helpless envy.

The heat's getting to him, he thinks. It's 2pm in the French Quarter swelter, air swamp-thick even indoors, and Jared almost doesn't even mind waiting for someone to come accept the package. She’s fantasy-girl stuff for sure.

She's got a long, 1950s silver cigarette holder in one hand and her crotch in the other.

“Help you?”

Jensen sees the tall shadow as he's coming down the steel staircase nearly hidden beneath all the glamour and gore.

The carnival flyers, antediluvian mirrors, the spread of animal skulls overlapping the back wall on all sides of the doorway Jensen emerges from. Some of the little bone-bodies are painted, others are zazzled with jewels and gems and draped with leftover Mardi Gras beads, doubloons.

It’s as gaudy-pretty as anything in this city.

The shadow’s true form makes Jensen go stiff, inventory reports fluttering clumsily in his hands. It’s the kid from Decatur Street.

And Jensen only knows him peripherally, in a 1994-eat-my-heart songish sort of way.

He works at one of the little tourist traps Jensen has no need to pass by almost daily but still does. He sells gator heads and doll trinkets and screen-printed shirts that he makes while mostly staring out the windows with a whimsical look on his blade-sharp face. They’ve never spoken but Jensen imagines a boy that big can do some damage on a body.

The shock of seeing him close up is almost agony.

“Oh, are those the props?” he strangles out.

It’s probably a good thirty seconds before the guy even turns and Jensen uses each one to soak him up.

The boy from Decatur is wearing baggy shorts cut and frayed below the knee, one black chuck taylor and one green, no socks, and his skin is summer brown. A faded Cure shirt with the sleeves lopped off, DIYed into a tank. Jensen can see his armpits and wants to die just a little.

The kid was cute through a glass window but here, in Jensen’s workplace, he’s a creamy sort of dream. Something out of a foghouse music video with heavy riffs and grunge-gravel voices. The kind that Jensen used to beat off to back in the day, eyes closed, floating on his waterbed.

He makes a little noise when he finally notices Jensen, eyes skittering away from where they'd been religiously dedicated to something on the wall. His cheeks come away naturally rouged, enough to make Jensen giraffe his neck to see.

Jensen’s been trying to get Manny to take that photo down for ages, use the slot for the Diamond of the Month instead. Manny refuses. Says it’s a selling point, Jensen’s blowup-doll face.

The boy smiles, awkwardly adorable, poisoningly pretty, and Jensen’s wet sigh is so out loud, but it either goes unnoticed or is gracefully sidestepped because Jensen's future ex-husband puts down the big cardboard box in his arms and kind of points to it, holds out a little handmade receipt.

Right. The venetian masks. The glow in the dark feather boas.

Jensen only sees it when he's handing the check over. The kid’s got his long hair thrown up in a loose topknot and from the temples down, his hair is buzzed off to maybe half an inch. The fleshtone hearing aid that loops snug over his right ear isn't hiding.

The boy from Decatur gives Jensen a two-fingered salute when he goes – thick-knuckled, spindly fingers like daddy long legs – and walks out of the club, back into the highshine of the day. But not before he sneakily gets in one last nervous-colt glance at the Jenny Jade poster.

Jensen ogles the back of the guy’s intricately tattooed calves until he’s no longer even a shadow, and Jensen knows he’s staring whimsically out the window now.

The Pink Pigeon Market gets a decent amount of foot traffic for being a tiny fart in the wind shop shoved between a much larger music haven and a big player candy store. But they don’t get a shitload of wholesale orders, least of all back to back. You can only sell so much Bayou Butt Burner cajun sauce in a day.

But Jared's restocking the shelves and still thinking about matte red lips three days later when another bulk sale comes in. Boss says it's the same place as last time.

“That knockoff strip club,” he tells Jared, going over sales, not looking up from his desk. His business is dollar signs and dollar signs only.

So Jared smiles small, raps the doorjamb once, and starts loading up sequin fans and light-up I ♡ NOLA buttons from the backroom storage.




Devil & Doll Hotel, it’s called.

It’s not really a hotel, but it makes him think of a brothel. Maybe it used to be. Jared doesn’t know its history, he hasn’t lived here long enough.

Everything’s old timey on the outside like a lot of older Bourbon businesses, neon scarlet lights, crumbling brick. The teepeed sign half out in the road says LIVE JAZZ and STRIPTEASE, boasts the most beautiful girls in the world.

Jared might agree. He wonders which one Jenny is, a devil or a doll.

Jensen clenches his jaw, watching another group of wallets wander away.

Too many folks coming in with their yard cups, their sunburnt noses, trying to be edgy and asking about VIP, whether or not they can touch, if the dancers do extras. Jensen always finds his salesman smile, says Hustler is just a block and a half down that way, show here starts at 9 o’clock, bring cash.

“What’s up your ass, crabby?”

Manny's hanging a new strand of gold fairy lights around the front room, peeking over his shoulder at Jensen cracking his knuckles, his neck, his spine. Gonna be time to start stretching soon.

“Nothing, bitch.” Jensen over-sighs. “That’s the problem.”

Manny almost loses his footing on the creaky ladder steps. He grunts and recovers, goes back to his decorating. "Well, if you weren't so fussy over the admittance,” he says, quieter, half-shy. Mostly to himself but Jensen’s close enough that it makes him cackle, makes his brows lift around the frames of his chunky glasses.

Manny’s the frail, red-mustached, five-foot-five floor manager of the club who’s got severe child support debt and an unfortunate penguin walk and he’s had a painfully obvious crush on Jensen since, oh, forever. At least for the last three years Jensen’s been a performer here. He hired Jensen actually, and probably 95% on looks alone.

Jensen could hardly keep a child's hula hoop on his hips back then.

Subtly adjusting the zip of his pants, Manny tries clearing his throat, says kinda froggy, “That stuff you ordered should be coming in this afternoon, I think.”

Jensen's moth-heart stirs in its little cocoon.

“Even though it’s fifty bucks more than the usual place. You know, I only ordered that first batch when Dolores ran out. But she should already have her new shipment in. I oughta ring her. I don’t know how I let you talk me into ordering from this hokey shop again.” But he knows. So does Jensen. So does everyone. “Don’t see what’s so good about—“

A peculiar wind blows in from the street, noisy, and it brings in more than cigarette butts and old-garbage air. Jensen’s breath goes tumbling around in his chest, dumb. And he says, pillowy, too soft, "Oh hey," before he remembers and instead waves just as undesirably.

Manny looks over at the new arrival, then to Jensen, his damsel doe-eyes. Three-year-Manny stays quiet but the look on his face says ah.

The boy from Decatur has heavy looking metal rings in his ears, 18-eye burgundy doc martens on his feet, and his name is Jared. It said so on the receipt that Jensen traced his fingers over in lovelorn loops, again and again until it was gray.

Jared told himself that he wasn’t looking around for her.

Told himself it didn’t matter if she was there or not, that she probably hadn’t worked there in ages, that she had never really existed outside the walls of his hushed mind. It was just a poster. It didn’t mean anything.

All it meant was that Jared was being Jared again and developing crushes on more magazine-people. The overglossed creatures from TV land, side actors in a foreign film.

But of course it was a lie, everything was, because Jared’s face falls dolefully wooden the second he doesn't see her.

It’s not like he was expecting her to appear like black magick right before him, for him, dipped in gold and dripping pearls, but—

The only ones in the front lobby of the club are a waifish man in pleated pants with a spooked soul look, along with the same person Jared met last time – the tall dude in Buddy Holly glasses hiding under a slouchy knit beanie. It's an off-color mossy thing and it kind of brings out the gold spun in his eyes. Jared always notices things like that.

Today’s box is half the size of the first and he plunks it down on a chair shaped like a high heel. He goes to the counter with the receipt again, pushes some sweaty strands back behind his ears. Tries hard not to stare hopelessly at the fucking poster.

It's a hypnotizing photo and the failure is palpable when the guy who slides over the check also slides over a little pink post-it note with an altering heart-wish. jenny’s performing tonight @ 10. come if you’d like?

Jared looks up, startled, thinks, oh shit and then oh god.

He reaches up to touch his BTE, fingers at it for a bit, rubbing comfortingly.

“Can hear,” he says, and then quickly so the guy doesn’t think he’s being snappish, “just – not a lot.”

“Oh,” he says, like sorry. “Well.”

“Maybe,” Jared tells him—

And rushes out to the sidewalk, rudely doesn't even say goodbye. He heavy-stomps the hot cobblestone back to work with his t-shirt shaped to the points of his spine. His guts feel gooey and his mouth is tasting so many complicated words.

She’s real.

Part of his job's anatomy is being over the top, bright lights and big boom!s, but Jensen’s not usually this princessy.

It never takes him two fucking hours to get his face on.

And he hasn’t even touched on what he might squeeze the rest of himself into. Something scarlet for the boy with the uptipped nose? Or maybe his fuck-me black lace number and ratty gray bruja wig, do his voodoo act and end the night full-nude and dead from a hex to bring in more tips? Dirty old men pay twice as good. They love Jenny.

He doesn’t even know if Jared will show.

Through tubes of mascara and wands of Chanel lipgloss, Jensen does kegels for his ass. Because he chooses to be optimistic. And because he’s a gutterslut with big dreams.

His reflection is wearing a lost little boy look. Forgotten at the merry-go-round on the pink unicorn, starting to sob.

Jared hates that look. Hates the fresh and constant feeling of it even more.

In his plaid bowtie and hair loose past his chin, tucked behind his ears the way he likes, he looks even younger and feels even older. He’s in a special occasion button-up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, topped off with an eggplant sweatervest with pockets. He thinks he looks like Howard Cunningham.

And he feels naked without his septum ring.

His little sister dressed him through a FaceTime call, swore he looked ‘instagram’, winked coy about a hot date, who’s the lady, wolf-whistle brow-waggle kissy-lips. Flushed and flustered, Jared thanked her mumbling and ended the faraway call, forehead sweating already.

But not before Megs, articulating clear and shaping the words so he’d see, said little-sis sweet, “You look real beautiful, dude.”

Jensen’s cock notices Jared immediately.

Even tucked and trapped between the cheeks of his ass under his green silk gaff-thong, it throbs interestedly. More than.

The big, beautiful boy standing near the back bar shifting from foot to foot is hard to miss. Beneath his mink lashes, Jensen's eyes go muzzy.

Jared’s wearing date-night clothes and this is the first time Jensen’s ever seen him with his hair down off the top of his head. Soft and gentle-loose and touched by whiskey when the low lights sweep just right, aptly haloing him.

Jared’s holding a long-stemmed rose in his giant hands, kiss-red, full bloom. A real rose.

Jensen would laugh, if it wouldn't ruin his lipstick, if he wasn’t already choking on his beating pulse.

Jared's heart finds Jenny right away.

He’s early, chump o’clock, stupid because he wanted to get a good seat, like that would change anything at all.

He has a fool’s flower between his trembling fingers that he bought on impulse from a dirty-nailed, kind-eyed man sitting on some gated steps at the end of Bourbon. There’s sweat behind Jared’s knees. There's no changing awkward.

The staff and performers and the house band are all hustling around at the side stage, getting ready for the next act. That's where he sees a peek of strawberry blonde. Painted mouth like a gash, marble-skinned. It’s just her profile but Jared feels a rush of desire so strong it's almost sick. He has to sit down.

He chooses a seat right next to the stage. He has to know her, even if it’s just for fifteen minutes while she dances.




The girls here aren’t just beautiful; they have the bodies of bronzed goddesses, faces like Greek fables.

Watching them up there, athlete grace and every curve in use, Jared is overwhelmed. It’s not all feathers and fringe, and nobody’s in a giant cocktail glass like he'd been expecting. Less titty porn and more shadowy film noir. It's an old movie, a sailor's magazine, and a picture book being flipped fast.

They start off Audrey and end up Marilyn.

Jared tips each dangerous dolly a respectable amount and waits patiently with his hands in his lap and his rose on the table.




She’s last, of course. Jared's girl. And it’s a chair act.

The others have done light bondage routines, pink handcuffs and feather ticklers, some rope work under a spotlight, glitzy numbers with fun props, requests from the audience. A pretty redhead tiptoed out in full nun regalia and gave a racy recitation of Catholic scripture while removing pieces – the coif, the scapular, the crotchless panties underneath.

Jared couldn’t pick up much of what she was saying, but the words were projected on a screen behind her, crooked and erratic. Slasher film font. A top earner, if tonight’s tabletop riches were anything to go by.

But Jenny is different, less overt.

And Jared dreams and dreams in his silent film.

She’s in black satin opera gloves that she takes off with little fang-teeth. Shiny heels that could gut a man. Corset absinthe-green, matching bra, little swishy skirt that she moves up her thigh as soon as she’s on her throne. That’s the seat a Queen sits on and Jenny rules with a manicured fist. Jared's not the only dope wearing a stabbed-heart face.

She peels away her stockings, points bare toes in the air, movements meant for motel mattresses. Jenny doesn’t quite grind the chair but Jared feels fucked either way when she touches her body and kisses her fingers.

In her skimpiest underthings, she comes to the edge of the stage, dangles one everlong leg over the rim. She leans back, lets him look at her knees, her belly, and gently begins to undo the pancake braid she wears hung down in front. Jared's had hardcore sex less fulfilling than this.

He can see everything up close.

The diamonds on her bra, the gold twinkledust above and below her lashes, every swirl and spin of the tattoo on her shoulder. The little sun-dots spilling across her chest.

She sits up and spreads million-dollar thighs, reaches down and back with a practiced arm. The moment is fast, unshy, and by the time she’s popped it off and tossed it on the piano behind her, her long locks have tumbled down in mermaid waves, in little covering curtains.

Jared doesn't care. Even her tummy has freckles. He's smitten-senseless.




Her crowd adores and the music dies and she ends her set by doing the splits on her little chair, backwards, pulling her asscheeks apart around her thong and covering her shocked-O mouth, oops!

When the house lights dim, she crawls on all fours back to him.

She sees his flower. He sees her red mouth. It says, "Is that for me?" and Jared doesn't hear her at all.

Jenny pops it behind her ear, takes a barefoot bow for her people, waves like a pageant queen. Barbie hand, cupped palm.

Dreamgirl smells like summer cherries. Jared's just a ghost in his skin.

He doesn’t get turned down for sex a lot. Jensen’s not sure if he ever actually has, before. Not even when he was slim as a toothpick and just as ready to be spit and chewed between a man’s teeth.

Before he’s even back behind the curtain, he decides to go for it. He’s gonna fuck that kid’s cock tonight. Soon as he wipes off his paint.

Jensen, in his jeans and glasses and fresh stubble-free face, has big plans to go out to the carpet area, sit down at Jared’s table unannounced. He’ll keep the rose-head behind his ear though, and Jared will know. He probably understands silences. He'll look and see. Inside, Jensen’s still Jenny. And both whore-minds want that boy.

Bow-tie Jared's gone, of course, by the time that Jensen’s scrubbed and lotioned himself back into a boy-shape.




Jensen’s new reason for nightly fingering is back for the next three performances.

The light-up retro marquee out front lists Jenny’s current schedule rotation. He’s not Dita or anything, but he’s made something of a name for himself in this heart of hearts city. The King of Boylesque. He kind of likes the little label, doesn’t mind so much when he hears the references.

Minds even less when his lil’ city, big-name fame brings treasures hard found.

Jensen does a starlet routine, pin-curls and pearls and high church choir voice. He does some circus style sword swallowing – a long rubbery dildo he fashioned with a grip and handle just for this, when it hit him that the kid might be a new Jenny Jade regular – and it goes over well. Jared squirms, at least.

On the 3rd night, it's Jensen’s southern belle bit.

He watches delightedly as Jared rakes his hands through his hair and very calmly loses his shit to see Jenny twirl her umbrella, untie her floppy hat, throw her sweet-puff leg garter right onto his lap. It’s white like virgin intentions and soaked in thigh sweat.

He discreetly pockets the dirty little wad and Jensen wonders if Jared’s gonna hold it to his face later, breathe deep, palm his pornstar dick and think of a little drawling doll.

Once Jared's disappeared the way he does after each show.

On stage with his frilly panties and good-girl soft makeup, he realizes that Jensen might have a more difficult time getting his hands on the prize. But Jenny wouldn’t. It’s already spun around her demure pinky.




When his soft yellow beam lights switch back to the standard blue tint, Jensen scoops up his earnings, smiles sincerely, and clutches his payout to his naked chest while he hurries backstage.

He stuffs his shit into his locker, layers on Jared’s favorite rotten-cherry lipstick, and hustles out of his getup, tugs a tight, short tankdress over his head. He leaves the nude fishnets on, skips the panties.

Jared’s got a scared rabbit way of life, Jensen’s figuring. From what he’s seen of the dude so far, it’s all pleasure and pullouts. So he runs like his dick is on fire.

It kind of is.

Jared’s done some fucked shit in his twenty-three years.

He’s drunk-danced across the old train tracks over in Bywater. Snorted habanero pepper seeds on a dare. Given himself a Prince Albert out of boredom.

But he has never, never, fucked someone in the ass under a dark awning tucked off the side of Dauphine street, up against hot brick and a dinky mounted mailbox.

Jared knows what the word yes looks like, even when it’s puffed and panted and the mouth is nearly pressed to the wall, cheek flat to the side. Jared doesn’t have to hear it to know. He can feel it in the frantic motions of the bubble-peach butt humping back on his dick, the milk of muscles around him, the scrabble of pretty pink nails trying to clutch at stone.

He also knows harder and god and please please.

Her second-skin black dress is hiked up around her waist and Jared’s just got his cock slipped out of his nice dress pants, nailing into her frantically while she shivers and clenches and reaches back to grab his ass with steel-strong hands and Jared still isn't quite sure on how he fucking got here.




Still in the club lobby when his real-life centerfold floated into the room on a cloud of perfume and looked at him, walked past him, and then waited at the door, glanced back once to see if he’d follow.

They walked down past the Marie Laveau shop, deeper into the thick of the neighborhood blocks, away from the street performers and tourists and pick-pocketers. Jared bit the scab on his lip a lot, watched her ass bounce with each step, didn’t say shit while they trudged on into the night smog.

When it seemed like she might finally say something, Jared thumbed back behind his ear, noticeably turned the volume up high as it would go.

She opened her vampire mouth, looked around like someone might be watching, then pulled him over to an only-barely shaded spot.

Fuck me?

She bled him dry.

And Jared's still dripping.




Her innocent fishnets have a big hole in them now, torn open in a crude circle to expose her to him, and his knuckles catch and snag in the little broken strings of it, rough-yank to split it wider. It gives a satisfying rip and Jared’s hips snap hard, fucking her back onto him.

The thought of his huge cock bruising her tender little pink is just—

He bows forward, touches his chest to her back, scents her silkspun hair, closes his eyes like happy death.

Anyone could walk by. Anybody.

And they’d see her purple heels dangling off the spike at the end of the low gate. They’d hear her moans that Jared can feel against his fingertips, along his big, wet dick stuffed in her insides. They’d smell their sex, those helpless wanderers, and Jared doubts even then that he’d be able to stop.

Overcome, he bends her lower. Hauls her hips back out into a lewder shape, a perfect L like love. He pulls needily at the straps of her dress until it's off the taut-tense line of her shoulders. He drags the material to sit under her ribs.

Too much of her is hidden under the bulk of him but she’s almost flesh-only, dress pulled up and yanked down, mostly just a little band of black along the center of her waist. He melts out a sigh, fucks and fucks and fucks, and his clumsy-huge hands slide up her body, cup around her breasts.

The shock of it is exquisite. And unexpectedly hot.

Jenny—she’s got. It's all soft and sweet — and flat. She's so small and insignificant there, tiny training bra tits that devastate. That have Jared coming in big, disgusting rushes and so, so abruptly that he can’t even pull out and splash the concrete.

His dick gets bigger and harder in a way that makes her give a cute, panicked little yelp when it flexes her hole out. He didn’t ask and she didn’t say, but they didn't wear a condom.

He’s out of breath and still pulsing ineffectually in her when she looks at him over her shoulder. Her wet eyes shine so green out here and Jared smiles weakly, nervous. She writes her number on his wrist, neat crisp lines like his other inkwork.

He drifts home on chartreuse waters, after.

“I think I’m in lust,” Jensen says softly, hunched over the register counter, clicking around on his laptop.

He’s mostly talking to himself while he fiddles with fonts and photos for a new promo flyer, just dicking around until Manny decides to splurge on something a little more professional.

“Oh? Who this time?" Lilah wanders past him, carrying a mountain of shiny but ancient costumes and worn out wigs they’re donating to a high school drama club.

Lilah’s one of the only other performers who, like Jensen, works shifts during the day, readying the club for the night’s festivities, working on bookkeeping, cleaning up the dressing area. Someone’s always dropped a shimmerbomb in some unfortunate place. True love fades, but everyone knows that glitter is forever.

Her schtick for the paying crowd is a murder victim flapper girl. Sometimes an oozy-wet slit throat, sometimes half her face is in chunks with extensive special FX makeup that Jensen usually helps her with.

She’s a sweet girl no bigger than five feet, born, bred and fried in Looziana. She’s probably the dearest friend he’s made since moving out of his parents’ house. A too-pretty eighteen year old boy hitchhiking states with a backpack, a lip-printed makeup bag, and a new grab-life-by-the-balls outlook. Which just gets him back to honeydreaming about—

“His name is Jared,” he says, voice all weird and wrong. Little girls’ bathroom at school, fainting over a cute new boy asking to borrow a sheet of paper.

Jensen always had special stationery. Blush-hues, scented like wildflowers when you rubbed the corners. He tries to picture his ten year old self, doodling Jared's name in big bubble letters and star shapes. Jared — Jared something.

He hasn't got two clues of the guy's last name, but he's probably still got bits of his DNA clinging to his secret body.

Jensen's ass feels like it was fisted for 3.5 hours.

Lilah lifts a sparse eyebrow, goes back to rummaging through the pile. She’s over at the high heel chair now, listening but not looking. Jensen is free to stain his cheeks at will.

“He’s so—“ god. “Big.” Everywhere. And Jensen had fucking known it would be true. “And quiet. Haunted? If you saw him. He’s got these hands, like. Long and skinny, bolts for knuckles. And his fucking face—“ Jensen chokes, just remembering. “I have sex bruises around my elbows.”


She gives a teeny ballerina spin to see him, for Jensen to shove at his sleeves, extend his arms with glee. Jared left a couple of dark splotches along the inner muscles, yanking him back with a brute force Jensen doubts he was even aware of at the time. “Wait. Ya already fucked him?” Smirky, but not surprised.

“You already fucked him?” Manny says, too, like a faulty record skip. But this one is surprised, colored red from shock. “That grungy kid?”

They hadn’t heard him come down.

Jensen doesn’t know what a broken heart feels like but he knows how one looks.

“Have we found a new sax player yet?” Jensen says, just to get that soul-dead stare out of Manny's eyes. His mind off the visual of Jensen and ‘that grungy kid’ doing that god knows where. God knows where. Jensen’s dick jerks in his pants, merciless.




Lilah wants to know everything. Every inch, she says.

Jensen fidgets, says that could take a few weeks. Jared is made up of lots and lots of beautiful measurements.

Manny’s gone. To lunch, he said. But it’s four in the afternoon and he always brings paper sacks. He's probably gone to one of the shitpoor bars down the block, something not tacky enough for out of towners. Pouring dollar shots on his woes. He reacts to Jensen’s conquests the same way he does writing his alimony checks.

“He works 'cross from the market?”

Jensen nods, helping her untangle necklaces.

“Over by Café D, huh?”

He flicks her a look, goes back to battling a stubborn bolero tie.

“You take him there yet?”

He's quiet, and that tingles her kitty curiosity. She stops what she's doing and Jensen knows if she studies him too long, if she just starts to dissect, unflap him even a little, she'll see—

“Nah,” he says, brushing it off. He grins. “We didn’t really—“ they didn’t—“we just fucked kinda in an alley and he walked me home. That was it.” There was no morning after. No parading the newest thing in a string of cute things around the outdoor coffeeshop he favors. His friends call it Café D for a reason. That's not actually its name.

“In an alley?” she spits, dropping her baubles.

“I said kinda in an alley. I mean, there were street signs. It was just – quiet. And dark.” Special.

“He walked you home?” she says, ignoring him, like this is just as outrageous.

Jensen shrugs, the sounds of hollers and bumping beats from the open windows of the club not doing as much to distract him as he wishes they were. “He’s just – cute. I don’t really know him know him, but he’s kind of got a low startle point. And I think he’s mostly deaf.”

“He’s deaf? Okay, stop, pause.” She chops her hands through the air. “How y'all even communicate? You ain't known the first thing 'bout sign—“

Jensen yanks off his beanie, respikes his matted hair. He sighs, says wryly, “Not a whole lot to say when your guts are being pounded by a horsecock so big it kisses your tonsils, Li.” Her blue eyes are balloon-big. “And it was nowhere near my mouth. Ya feel?”

“God,” she says, after an age. “I ain’t been fucked in too long.”

It sounds jealous, lustful. Jensen grins and they keep sorting junk jewelry.

Then she says, later, like she’s been thinking on it, “He’s a market kid with great big hands and a dick to match, gorg in the face, y’all ain’t say much, and he’s tall. I got everything?” Pretty much. Jensen nods. “Taller’n you?” Nod twice. She smacks her lips, considering Jensen’s size. “Fuck. That’s a big one.”

Jensen drapes a strand of dollar store diamonds around her wispy neck, waltzes and spins her around the room. He whispers in her ear, secretish, “I can’t even sit down right.”

“Lord,” she says, and they twirl and twirl.

Jared hates rules.

Cut that muppet hair of yours, boy, look like a homeless. Oh baby, don’t be pokin’ needles every which way in that handsome face I made.

Like fuck is he waiting that bullshit 3-day rule to contact her. He figures that's just for dates. They definitely didn’t go on a date. Jared’s been on a slim few of those. Every other eclipse. And none of those ended in wild magic looks under the moon. Or unprotected anal sex.

He goes for something unobtrusive, direct. There’s no flirt in Jared. He’s too much of a bottled ship.

do you work tonight? this is jared and then, just incase, from last night

He clicks send as a new wave of knick-knackers come loping in, huddled in twos and threes, taking selfies with the merch in the background, flipping over little objects to check the prices. Jared pockets his phone and shows them shirt designs.




The only reason he doesn’t bust right on her face is because he likes her eyeliner.

He enjoys the fluidity of it, the exaggerated flick off the corners, thick towards the middle and tapered to a stabby point. Jared’s prone to enjoying art and Jenny’s like the entire Louvre in one shockingly pretty girl. Her cheekbones, her nose, the smeared cupid’s bow of her lips that make his dick ache, even now, even after.

He thinks he could probably get hard again just looking at her squatting at his feet, his white wet sopping down her sharp-curve chin.

"Sorry I got lipstick on your cock," she says, under a streetlamp in Audubon Park, big and obvious so he can see. The back of her throat's probably still coated with him.

Jenny's holding her heels in one hand, careful barefoot steps, and Jared grabs at her other one as they skulk out of the shrubbery, ribbons their fingers together corset tight.




Twice more that week. Once she’s all done dancing.

They walk the town, poke their heads into a tavern, a cig shop. Jenny shows him how she likes to smoke two poles at once. Jared ruins her mouth some more. And the back of all her flimsy g-strings.

He can’t believe he’s finally met a girl who likes it up the ass so much.

She’s a porcelain doll that never breaks, only wants to be crushed harder.

Jensen’s got his lunch sitting in front of him on the counter, munching on a carton of curry noodles when Jared comes into the club unannounced, in the hot bright glaze of daylight.

The Hotel hasn’t ordered anything. Jensen almost gags on a berry.

Jared looks around like he’s casing the joint, undressing the old gal with his eyes. He turns to Jensen, helpless, frowning. He looks like he wants to say something and Jensen holds his breath so he doesn’t miss it. Jared only really speaks in violent hands and belly-deep sighs. He points to the poster of Jenny, approaches Jensen a little more amiably.

As though maybe the two times they’ve met before helped forged an invisible, infant friendship.

Jared has no clue that he held his hand over Jensen’s mouth last night and shaped out the words swallow it, as if Jensen wasn’t absolutely going to. Like always, like forever.

He writes on a business pad: she doesn’t work days

Jared reads it, stares like it’s some 3D puzzle that'll reform to something new with a head tilt, and he picks up the pen. Writes. she’s not answering her texts

He forgot his phone at home today, woke up late with a sore jaw and boozy-bitch brain.

or her door

Jensen must make a face. Jared must interpret it as skepticism.

I know her, he writes, and Jensen smothers a grin. Yes Jared does, intimately, internally. But it fades anyway – because no Jared doesn’t.

It's almost a good thing when Lilah and Manny materialize from behind the curtain in back, bringing out extra folding chairs. Saturday shows usually go to capacity. They mostly ignore whatever’s going on between Jared and Jensen; people stroll in and out constantly, looking to see something rated R, easily shockable. It's rarely worth a glance.

Jensen tells him on the page, a full conversation going, wouldn’t worry about it. she’s probably out shopping? i’ll tell her to call you

He goes back to his spicy shrimp, tries not to notice Jared’s jeans with the ripped out knees or his Creepshow tee or the newly buzzed sides of Jared’s hair, how prettily it brings out his model bone structure, almost grossly faultless. Jensen licks his lips like the food is what makes him whine.

Jared watches him for a minute, seems placated enough, and nods. Leaves.

“That wasn’t—?” Lilah is beside him in a beat, ghosting him on all sides somehow despite her tininess.

He hangs his head full of shame. He’d thought they were ignoring him anyway. But— “It was.”

“Is he always—I mean, not that he ain't a beaut." Jensen waits. Rather let her do the math anyway. “Kinda unfriendly, ain't he?” Jensen grabs his noodle box for something to do.

Manny blinks. “He doesn’t know who you are, does he?”




Jared fucks his face only hours later, right after closing time.

Jensen did his mime act tonight, so his foundation is a little paler, lips a little more overdrawn. He’s still in his polka dot tights and red suspenders, little striped crop top. Jared knocked his bolo hat off as soon as he got his hands on Jenny, on Jensen. The chin-length black bob is still in place though, despite Jared’s graceless enthusiasm and worming fingers.

Like he really missed her, so much, and has to show her the way he knows best. It's probably right, actually.

Jensen groans, thick on his dick, and Jared pulls it out all stringy and spitty, holds it away, lets it go, smacks him right across the mouth with it. Then spit-hot against the side of his cheek. The front of Jensen’s scrappy underwear is blurted with precome, and the shock alone makes the rest of the mess inside them.

Carefully, almost romantically, Jared slides it back into Jensen’s mouth and holds the back of his head as he fucks in smoothly. Back and deep and all the way down until he’s done, happy.

Jensen coughs wet and sighs quiet.

He's got a baby-sized cherry-colored heart drawn under one eye. A single black teardrop beneath the other.

He doesn’t ever want to stop being Jenny.

She loves his cock. Like, really loves it. She tells him I miss it when they’re apart.

An older couple comes in, seeking shelter from an unusually sweltering day. Jared lifts a hand in bored greeting, tick-ticks on his phone. Decides. i'm coming over

He clocks out, tells Sanjay he's taking a long lunch. Jenny doesn't respond again and Jared thinks that's almost an answer.




"Rose? Rose? One dollar for love. Just a buck."

It's the same old man from before, the one on Bourbon that Jared bought from last time. Jared skids on the sidewalk, slows down. He thinks about it, really thinks about it, but doesn't do it. He gives the guy all the change in his pockets anyway.




They’re at the little outdoor seating area of a busy pizzeria, a tiny table between them, sat on brightly colored chairs, reading the menu like it’s not uncomfortable as fuck.

Their server comes by, a tall girl with long braids and green lipgloss, and she doesn’t try to chat about the soup specials or the Saints or the hellish midday temps, just takes their order and goes. Jared gets a truly savage gumbo pizza; Jensen gets the tortellini. And Jared had to actually ask the guy what his name was on their walk over.

Jensen. Jared doesn’t say it out loud, but he will later, he thinks.

He’s a dollfaced boy, soft-boned; clumps of lashes and a usable mouth. Caramel candy-dots kissed onto his nose, his eyelids, his long (unpolished) fingers. Jared’s almost ashamed he didn’t see the whole thing sooner.

Jensen slides the straw in and out of his to-go cup, picks at his pasta, and sets the fork down with finality. He takes care to not be chewing on anything when he looks up and says, “So how long have you known, then?”

Jared thinks about Jensen’s heartbreak face back at the club, how all the soft peach color under his freckles just fled his cheeks, drained shock-white, how his eyes went from normal to oversized behind his glasses when he saw Jared standing there heaving like he’d run the whole way, when he realized what Jared standing there meant.

He looks at Jensen’s phone meaningfully, grabs his own, types. Quicker for him this way, better. just since the other day when I couldn’t find her

It feels a little pathetic, but sometimes Jared is. Lots of things make him panicky. Carousels, disruptive change. Ethereal girls with satin for skin and knees that bow out to a heart-shape.

How did you know? Jensen types, like this is better for him too, not looking up. His thick Adam's apple protrudes like a wishbone. He’s got more little honey drops dancing along his philtrum.

Jared clears his throat, waits to see those big wetgrass eyes he knows in deep and longing ways, looks pointedly at Jensen’s shoulder, the elegant curlicues of black ink, the filmy butterfly dreaming away on top of it. Sends you had james dean rolled sleeves. Shrugs, sips his 7-Up.

Jared can make out a minimum three hickies flirting their way up Jensen's jaw right now, underlined by dents from Jared's incisors.

“So? How’d it go? He mad?” Lilah says, soon as his foot crosses the threshold. She’s talking to Jensen, eyes all gossip-wide but she’s staring over his shoulder where Jared’s big wide back is dissolving into the afternoon herd. She narrows globby mascara eyes. “Did he just—“

“He walked me back,” Jensen nods, pushes up his saggy glasses. “Took it pretty well, I guess.”

Really well actually. Jensen didn’t leave with a busted nose anyway. That’s about as much as he was hoping for really. Panstick and layers of powder can only hide so much.

But Jared had been pretty freefall about it, didn’t pull any no homo cards or whatever the fuck, just let Jensen take his time explaining that – I, I really like you Jared, that’s all – and accepted that Jensen wasn’t mocking him, he just really wanted to get fucked, ‘m real sorry.

“We’re going out for beers tomorrow.”

He could've died when Jared said he would've known just from seeing Jensen sucking on that piece of shrimp the other day, that his lips did things like nobody else in the world.

“As—as you?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling when he’s still not sure he should be. Nothing’s this simple. “As me.”




They do a pub crawl, pint for pint, try to outdrink each other, outdrunk each other. Separate trips to the bathroom, okay.

Blowjob buddy to beer buddy. It's a shift, but Jensen has more than one face. He adapts.

They go back to Jared's, eat leftover jambalaya and mudbugs. Suck dem haids 'n pinch dos tails. They watch Misery with the subtitles on.

Jensen has a whole lot of faces. In jars and tubes, tight tape at his temples. Only got one heart, though.

The stone lions are endearingly out of place. Jared waits for size-twelve footsteps on the other side of the door, rests his hand on one of the cats’ heads.

Jensen lives in a small green shotgun house near Marigny and Jared’s been here half a dozen times now. He’s got a cheap case of Milwaukee’s Best under his arm. Sometimes he gets nervy, like he did those first times he saw Jenny Jade and her serpent-body.

Then Jensen opens the door, says, “Hey, man”, just like—

“Hey, man,” Jensen says, pulling it open, pushing the screen out. Like that. And Jared’s deadpulse calm again, good for some couch-toking or some moon-watching out back. Whatever Jensen wants.

Holt Cemetery isn’t very big. It’s got a lot of child graves and only a couple of older, shady trees but it’s still easy to lose a person when it’s four in the morning and you had to hop a high fence to get in, when the night is so black it’s almost oily, only the wandering tree-critters witness to your proclivities.

They’re collecting gravedirt in little lidded cups and zip baggies, wandering the plots like a hedge maze because it has to be a particular kind. Of dirt.

This is freaky, even for Jensen. But Jared was adamant, gave him a set of guidelines. Nothing disturbed, no pebbles, no bugs, powder consistency is okay, mudslop is not, and nothing that belonged to anyone else first. Don’t take anything too close to the headstones.

Jensen’s got a few cupfuls of carefully selected and accumulated dirt already and he can see Jared over by the low-hanging branches now, kneeled on the ground next to what was probably once a little bench, sifting.

It’s all for Jared’s altars, which Jensen doesn’t really understand but wants to.

He’s seen them before at Jared’s house; a couple of them set up in different rooms, a small one on his porch. Candles and leaves and some glass charms on strings wrapped around, burned incense, money. Some have cakes and sweets on them. Framed photos of dead musicians.

Jared likes older bands. Music he used to hear back when he more or less could. One day soon he won't at all. It's progressive, he says, and doesn't seem real bothered.




They hang out a lot – which is almost unsettling because it’s so great, he really enjoys feeding off Jared’s mood-ring energy, his inner aura. Likes his bleak humor, his Stephen King hard-on. Stuff that's got nothing to do with doggy style or deepthroating.

They still fuck like they'll die for it – but only when he’s got waxy watermelon lips, something delicate and pink under his skirts.

Jensen is the friend that Jared slams shots with, shows his book collection off to, takes to graveyards in the middle of the night for private-life things.

Jenny is the girl he sinks inside, plays with her soft synthetic hair, nips her tummy, holds her head down into the pillow because she likes the threat of a smothering.

Jared only holds Jenny’s babygirl hand, but not Jensen’s same-shaped one.

Jenny likes to suck at the metal ball-screws crowning his dick. She clinks them between her teeth, drools on it the way porngirls foam out loads.

Jensen asks how bad that shit hurt, looks like he wants to flick it with a hearty middle finger to see if the pain's still there, tauntingly boyish.

Jared leans back and graciously allows both to happen.




He’s a watcher, of course.

Of old sunrises and new funerals, if he’s passing by and happens to see either one.

Other people’s profiles when they’re unaware.

Parades while he’s up on a balcony.

Sleeping heartbeats.

The way creatures cry in a thousand different languages.

He’s watching Jensen sew another costume. He does this sometimes.

Messes with garnet silks and lacy webbing when he thinks Jared’s still dozing in a fuck-coma. His face washed, his wig gone, Jensen sitting cross-legged in front of the TV with a needle and thread and glasses that look charming only on him.

He keeps the TV on mute. Jared can see the little red letters at the corner of the screen.

Not because he thinks he’ll wake Jared. They both know he won’t. Jared thinks it might be because Jensen wants to hear what Jared hears. The sometimes-sweet fog of nothing.

Jared watches Jensen like this and hardly breathes at all.

“Mm,” Jared says one blister-bubble weekend morning, the most Jensen gets out of him on a better day. Each sound is different somehow. Jensen’s learning the vocabulary of all of Jared’s mms. This one sounds like you fuck it, you feed it.

Jensen’s right. Jared’s lip-chew starved.

When he rolls over in Jensen’s bed, the sheet clings to the heavy lift of his dick, thick and mouth-sized, if you've got the guts for it. And it’s Jensen this morning, close crop of hair, every trace of last night gone. Jared’s face almost creases in relief when he sees the look in Jensen’s eye.

But Jensen still goes under the covers, letting Jared have the illusion of feminine things. Jensen's starting not to mind. He thinks it's maybe okay if Jared just has a big #1 Crush on Jenny. She's Jensen. He's her.

He presses his face between Jared's thighs and breathes deep. Jared smells so sweat-dirty after a night spent in the deep-pink of Jensen. There's no candle sweeter.

Twenty minutes later, Jared's finally ready to eat. He brushes his teeth, filthily doesn't shower, throws on the clothes he wore yesterday and walks with Jensen down the street, downtown to pick up his paycheck.

It’s actually Jared’s suggestion since they’re so close by, but Jensen just can’t do it.

Jared grabs his wrist, and Jensen stiffs up, close, close, almost, wanting desperately to hold hands in public like an asshole, like Jensen’s never wanted to before. Before Jared. Just Jared. He tugs at Jensen to get him moving, kicks at a bottle of water with a label around it, taps his boot against it for Jensen to see.

The green and white wrapper speaks for itself. Jared wants beignets and coffee, and Jensen just crumples.

“Later,” he says, big lips but small voice.

The idea of walking into Café du Monde like he’s done every other time, with every other boy he’s met in the sewer streets and taken home – gives him the urge to puke.

Thinking of Li saying ‘Café D’. Of Manny hoping Jared'll be gone soon. Of the kind, quiet ladies in their black bows and paper hats seeing him, seeing them together, and figuring Jared’s just another bead on the rosary, common Saturday night, that he’s not the most beautiful thing to touch Jensen’s life ever, ever. It’s revolting.

The ladies are sweet, some grandmotherly. He knows they wouldn’t really care, but he does. Jensen does.

At the Camellia Grill they sit at the one long square-snaked countertop, spinning on bar stools and ordering waffles with pecans. The grill boys probably look at them and think nothing, or think Quarter queers, think the freckled kid at seat eight's got bad, bad marriage-eyes.




It's Padalecki, the name he writes in the margins of his child heart in chocolate-scented washable marker, sprinkled with obsession and sealed with baby's first-kiss.




Not even Lilah understands this. She’s acting like he’s just come down with a nasty virus, like she’s looking for symptoms. He has them, but they aren’t the visible sort.

They’ve been an unofficial something for over a month now. Attached like breeding dogs, howling at the pry-apart. Comfortable like curled puppies, rubbing tear-wet noses together.

Jensen wonders if this is how twins in the womb feel, if birth and life and separation feel this unnatural. He's sick in love and he wishes he was contagious. Then he’d know Jared had it too for sure.

Jensen’s piecing together a new ensemble. Says, it’s kinda a secret, dude, don’t look.

But Jared does anyway, of course. Jensen is his favorite specimen to slide under the microscope.




The material looks soft like babyskin. Peach-nude, thinly like Jared imagines Jensen was as a young love, all lips and eyes and birdthin snappable, dewy in a way that made bad teachers thrum with repressed want.

Jared hums softly to himself and Jensen looks over at him in the mirror. Jensen’s twelve-bulb Old Hollywood mirror.

Jensen sits at his old skirted chair that Bette Davis herself probably took perch on, black and white boudoir, and he folds delicate curls to the front of the wig on the mannequin head. It’s the rosegold one Jared first saw him in, but loose now. Slut loose like someone’s sweetheart. Like Jared’s sweetheart.




It’s kind of too much. It’s been too much for too long.

He’s not just Jared’s covet-dream. Jensen is surely that to everybody he meets, who meet him. Who are graced by all that green and pink and soft-sun yellow.

Jared can't ever unsee the stares Jensen gets just walking down Royal handing out club flyers and pinning light up buttons that Jared sells in his shop onto the bossom of delighted, bed-lidded men and women when they get a load of what’s standing in front of them.

Jared chews his killer-thoughts against his thumbnail, sucks until it tastes like a penny. He puts down the paperback he’s been not-reading all afternoon.

It's not a decision he has to make. Compulsion moves his feet.

Jensen watches his reflection approach but he doesn’t startle. He’s very trusting of Jared’s sheer size. And Jared uses that wounded-animal faith like a brandished weapon.

He kisses Jensen long and nasty, one arm holding Jensen down so he can’t flit away, one hand clamped around Jensen’s windpipe, not squeezing – but there. Very there. Jensen thaws beneath him, all blood and no meat, and his arms come up, curl around Jared’s head, tarantula into his hair, pull out the messy bun.

They knock over a little tiara, and Jared pulls back to see it fall. Jensen spits in his open mouth and hugs Jared like he's a secret wish to keep safe. It's very much a deathkiss.




There’s no soft spill of breasts when he undoes the front clasp of the black padded bra.

“You sure?” Jensen asks, before anything else. Jared nods yes, heart all big in his chest, dick all fat in his underwear. He’s not even sure if Jensen’s saying anything out loud anymore, sometimes it seems like he’s just silhouetting syllables for Jared, ghost-flicker and gone.

Yes, Jared's sure. His predator-brain has been carving it out, craving it.

Seeing Jenny tonight, lounged on a wood-and-velvet antique divan, lip-synching to a song Jared couldn’t hear. She had curlers in her hair and a pearl choker strangling her neck, nothing else on. Folding fans intentionally placed.

Meanly, Jared is glad she doesn’t actually sing. He knows Jensen can. He’s said as much before.

Jared doesn’t want anyone else hearing the one voice that he himself struggles so hard to receive.

He wants to have things that are just his. Greedy and gorging, he thinks he needs this last piece to swallow.

The bed is shivering with their weight.

It feels so good, having Jared wrapped around him like this, licking the side of his mouth, Jared ten feet tall and tendering Jensen like something newborn.

Jensen’s been hard for so long, always flooding wet for one boy.

Jared doesn’t go slow and Jensen doesn’t want him to. Not tonight. He wants to be obliterated. Left spit-sobbing into his pillowcase, jellybone legs toppled awry, sad weak little things. He’s halfway there.

It’s gonna happen. With Jared’s unknowing grunts and shaky presses of his hipbones into the meat of Jensen’s ass, Jensen faced up to the wall, whore-clutching at the headboard when Jared fucks inhuman noises out of him.

Jensen reminds himself that Jared asked for this, that he wants this.

His lips taste of lavender makeup remover and his breath still smells like Jared’s cock from earlier. Jensen’s mouth smells like his cock all the time.

He leans his wigless head back on the knot of Jared’s shoulder and pulls Jared’s hand off his waist, spreads out his thighs. His knees knock Jared’s wider and they sink lower onto the bed.

Jensen shoves a boy-thin big hand right down between his legs where it’s never ever touched before. And he waits.

Jared does him harder.

And he holds it, jacks it, rubs a thumb over the runny tip and lays his mouth against the throb in Jensen's neck.

Wraps fingers so big they seem like they'll go 'round twice over Jensen's crying little dick.




Jared laughs a little after, says actually heard you in that choppy fragile way he has of half-speaking, impressed with Jensen's slut-screaming.

Jensen thinks he probably raised the dead even in Baton Rouge.

Jared said "Jensen" when he spilled.

In the bathroom, Jared takes Jensen’s face into his hands and picks up a tube of red.

Uncaps it one handed, twists the bottom until it dances up. Jensen swallows but doesn’t blink. He reacts perfectly, glass-eyed fear Jared knows is arousal. Jensen is naked and his dick is a runny mess.

Jared paints creamy color onto Jensen’s creamy mouth, Valentine-shade, deceitful heart.

When he’s done, he leans down and puts his lips there. Holds Jensen’s jaw so he can’t kiss back just yet. All his now. He swipes a thumb through it, spit-smeary across his pale cheek. Jared's art.




It’s the last lady of the night and Jared showed up only for this, folded neatly into his favorite seat up front, reserved with his name on a card. Free admission if you're banging a dancer. Jensen formally requested his presence, gave him a little handwritten invitation, embossed with twin hearts.

To the littlest detail, there's a ballot sitting on each glass tabletop. Flutes of bubbly frothy drinks, confetti all around.

The little circle stage is transformed tonight. Starry-night blue, SENIOR PROM bolded across in chunky glitter letters, and he doesn’t get it until Jensen comes fawn-footing out, shaky steps and gentle-bodied, harmless in the little floorlength slipdress Jared peeked on.




The silver crown on his head is tiny and intricately jeweled, but Jared knows it's cracked in the back.

Jensen's not wearing a bra this time. It makes Jared think about touching his cock under the tablecloth. Just a little, where no one will see.

Bride-white sash, Prom Queen 1979. Jensen hasn’t got a dollop of makeup on, not counting the little girl gloss wetting his born-pink mouth. He’s holding a dozen long-stemmed roses just like the one Jared gave him.

Jensen smiles like a darling at him, at the room, shapes his brows into helpless disbelief. He floats the stage like a barefoot hallucination, cloudsoft and made only of air and girl smells. He stops in the center, tears like diamonds in his eyes. Jensen's an incredible performer.

There’s a rope, a bucket. Jared knows how Carrie ends.

Jensen’s looking at Jared when the first well of crimson splishes the side of his nose, his paperthin chest. He smiles big love as it overtakes him, red globby puddles, ruining the pretty hair he worked so hard on.

Jensen shrugs out of the dress's embrace, wet silk to the floor, drops his bouquet like his lifegrip is gone. He stands very still, child-naked, and bleeds viscid all the way down to his long, pretty toes.

Jared is shaking.




He bathes Jensen in the clawfoot tub that belonged to someone's long-mummified aunt.

Sponges Jensen's little belly with lemon-scented water, soaps over his furiously pounding heart.

Jensen leans back against his chest and lets Jared scrub him until he's pastel pink again, slippery from Jared's thorough hands.

In the room, on dryer-warm quilts, Jared fits Jensen's knees to his shoulders, thumbs him where he's all bathsoft and open, looks down at it like he wants to kiss there. Jensen's cock jumps against his angel tummy and Jared knows how I love you looks on a mouth now.

Jensen says it over and over when Jared dicks him deep, buries his load for Jensen to find later. Or Jenny.

They kiss and don't stop.




Jared's girlfriend is a devil that leaves the toilet seat up. Jared's boyfriend is a doll that wants to play with him forever.

made by the lovely lovely Zee487