I had recently had some bouts of dizziness and nausea with vertigo like feelings and I could not figure out what the problem was. It would happen randomly and didn’t seem to be connected to something I may have eaten. But I think I know what the issue is, all the times it’s happened I’ve missed my antidepressant dose the day before. I usually take it before bed and if I forget it, the next day I start feeling sick. I’ve connected the dots.
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by the way it’s so important to me that Minthara is, at least comparatively to Lae’zel, vanilla and tender. like, canonically. i can’t remember what it was exactly that she said, but when she came on to me and i turned her down for Lae’zel in my first playthrough she got sooo like. “don’t you want some tenderness? a gentle caress? i can give you that.”
idk it’s just very cute to me. like yeah she’s a domme but she’s a soft domme <3
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They’re loud enough coming into the motel room that Sam would feel bad for the neighbors, if this weren’t a total dirtbag no-tell. $39 a night and worth every grimy penny. Dean’s still telling him about the plot of Metalstorm. At volume.
“Dude, and then Hurok—I told you about his backstory, right? With the Two-Eyed Queen?”
“Maybe,” Sam says, dropping to the nearer bed. “I think I lost the will to live somewhere around the killer shrapnel tornadoes.”
A raspberry. Dean stows the six-pack they bought on the way back from the bar in the mini-fridge and pulls out two bottles. “Telling you, no appreciation,” he says, but he’s not pissed. He’s grinning at Sam, weirdly cheery like he’s been all day.
“What’s with you,” Sam says, accepting his beer. Dean cracks it for him with the ring, plops down on the other bed. His boots stretched out around Sam’s legs. “You’re like—a kid cracked out on birthday candy.”
“Hey, this is a good day, man,” Dean says, expansive. He waves a hand, vaguely encompassing the dingy room and Hollywood and the whole world, possibly. “Got to go to a legit movie set, met two movie stars, and the case isn’t even really a case, which means no dead guy, which means no digging up a grave, which means: we got the night off, hombre.”
He says it with the h. “Pretty sure Gerard St. James doesn’t count as a movie star,” Sam says, but it’s hard not to smile back at Dean when he’s being—ebullient, practically.
Dean grins, knows he won. “You’re not ruining this for me,” he says, pointing at Sam. Then—it’s strange, how quick—his grin dips, turns. His lower lip bitten, lopsided. “I know you wanted a—a distraction, or whatever. We can find another job. Here or we could go south maybe. TJ?” His eyebrows pop. “Could get a show.”
“Spare me,” Sam says. Dean leans forward, looking all over Sam’s face, which heats. God, Dean. So annoying Sam could kill him, but also… “Thought you wanted to go to the Hard Rock Cafe, anyway.”
A second, two. Dean finishes examining his aura or something and then his grin gets dirtier, which is impressive because Sam thought he’d found a new depth before. “Hey, we can get hard as a rock right here,” he says, and Sam rolls his eyes, says, “That doesn’t actually—work,” and Dean surges forward not fast but inevitable as plate tectonics, pushes Sam down to his back on the bed, crawls up with his knees on either side of Sam’s hips, makes Sam hold his beer wide and to the side so it doesn’t spill, grins down into Sam’s face. Purely—glad.
“Does too,” Dean says, the dingy light riming him like a halo. Sam has no idea what he’s responding to but so what. Dean takes a swallow of his beer, throat bobbing, and then takes Sam’s out of his hand so they clink together, reaches down and sets them on the carpet. Leaves Sam free to grab his hips, his waist. Familiarity of what feels like his whole life taking over. This unseating at the back of the brain, like being drunk, except he only had two at the bar and it’s really just the wild spinning reality of—being Dean’s brother. What that means, when they’re together, and things are good.
But—“I don’t need a distraction,” Sam says, sliding his hand up Dean’s stomach. No hair, just the soft warm give of his skin. Options flickering in his gut, knowing how the night’s going to go, but he wants to be sure. That Dean knows, that it’s not—
But Dean knows. Sam can’t trust that Dean knows every swirling doubt in him, especially in these days of strange terror, but on this, with this, Dean might as well be in MENSA. “Good,” Dean says, warm. He gets his hand between them on Sam’s crotch, on where he’s swelling up the denim. Sam’s hips flinch, curving up. A crooked smile, and then his tongue touching the point of his tooth. All the blood in Sam’s brain drains abruptly to where it’s needed. Dean leans down, close, so Sam can smell his beer-breath and his skin. Salt. Sam’s mouth waters and Dean looks between his eyes. Making it easy. “Wouldn’t want you distracted.”
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