Transgressive Affection

Afker the Party

TransgressionAffection

Summary:

When newly successful theater actor Wayne Emison finds his castmate and roommate, Julien Crowe, unresponsive following a wild night, things take a macabre turn as Emison is forced to confront desires previously unthinkable to him in moments of shock and grief.

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! HEAD THE TAGS

Notes:

DISCLAIMER: This work of fiction contains material that may be found disturbing, controversial, or morally offensive. The author does not endorse any actions depicted in their work. All characters, events, situations, and lines are fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: The following is original work dabbling in dark eroticism using OCs. The wider OC background is not important for these dark transgressive PWP stories, as they are written tond entirely on their own. Any necessary context is provided as needed.much context as needed. Different one-shots set in this universe are not in continuity with one another unless otherwise indicated.

As of 08/2025, I have re-edited the story for length and do to some small writing issues I didn’t catch the first time. The original version is archived on my writing website here https://transgressionaffection.blog/2025/06/27/after-the-party-original-work/. The updated version of this story without pics is on AO3 here.

More notes at the end of the story.

Work Text:

“After the Party” – Original Work

Set in Theaterverse/Actorverse, but not necessarily compliant with other canon. 

Tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Necrophilia, Male OC, Male Original Character/Male Original Character, Character Study, (for some reason), Grief, Graphic Description of Corpses, Limp Play, Rigor Mortis, Blow Jobs,  Jobs, Death Fic

When newly successful theater actor Wayne J. Emison finds his castmate, roommate, and (complicated) friend, Julien Crowe, unresponsive following a wild night, things take a macabre turn as Emison is forced to confront his shock and grief alongside sudden desires hithro unthinkable to him. 

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! The tags tell you EXACTLY what to expect!!! This work of fiction contains material that may be found disturbing, controversial, or morally offensive. The author does not endorse any actions depicted in their work. All characters, events, situations, and lines are fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: The following is original work dabbling in dark eroticism using OCs.  The wider OC background is not important for these dark transgressive PWP stories that are written to stand entirely on their own with only as much context as needed. Most of the characters in this so-called “Theater Verse” are supposed to be connected through either working in theater on a production together and/or connections to organized crime. Different one-shots set in this universe are not in continuity with one another unless otherwise indicated.

More notes at the end of the story. Please see my WordPress for full NSFW pictures and credit for images used here: https://transgressionaffection.blog/2025/06/27/after-the-party-original-work/ 

“After the Party”

Emison woke up that morning greeted by the sunlight streaming through his closed eyelids, illuminating every micro-artery, and a pounding hangover.  He groaned and rolled back over. He was not 20 anymore. He couldn’t drink the way he used to, and normally, he didn’t. Over the past few years in particular, he had become something of an introvert the more that his 30th birthday ceded into the past. In the past year, however, his newfound success as a Broadway actor (welcome as it was after years of struggling for work and faulty nepotism accusations when he got it) had forced him to adjust to the pace of the new public world into which he had been thrust. 

pThat shift had been both aided and complicated by his friendship with his castmate — flatmate — Julien Crowe. Emison had had so many issues with his previous roommate, Raymond, that he had been relieved to sublet Raymond’s former room in their two bedroom apartment to Julien. Though living with someone you worked with, especially so closely, could be fraught, they had signed on only for the summer — just until the actors learned for certain that their play’s run had been extended through the fall season; allowing the promise of financial security for Julien and Emison to live alone again in just a few weeks.

Besides, Emison liked Julien very much, though he could admit his proud, pretentious, fiercely funny but equally sharp-tongued colleague and friend could be an “acquired taste.” Emison’s hesitance to live with him was not rooted in not enjoying his company, but precisely because Emison had come to like being around Julien. Part of him had worried that “too much of a good thing” would ruin any progress he had made in their personal, off-stage relationship. However, as both were introverts at heart (as much as Emison tried to mask it), the two tended to stay out of each other’s way when both were at home. Emison was even a little proud the more aloof Julien seemed to adapt to his presence like a suspicious, but affectionate cat. After they had moved in together, Juline was seemingly more distant at first (much to Emison’s frustration, as he had thought after months of rehearsal they had worked past this), but, later, re-warmed up enough to Emison to be content spending quiet evenings in Emison’s company without the pressure to talk. 

What Emison had not expected was that this same serious and guarded person would be more of a partier than Emison himself. In contrast to the impressions given off by Emison’s seemingly outgoing nature versus Julien’s more reserved one, Emison tended to prefer to come home and crash with a book, while Julien could stay out in the city until very early the next morning, coming home wired up slightly more manic than usual and speaking quickly in a way that Emison did not believe was entirely attributable to his prescribed Adderall. But there was plausible deniability enough for the two to navigate this new, uncharted territory in a close but complex relationship. As long as there was that deniability (and no evidence), and as long as it did not interfere with the work Julien, Emison, and everyone else in the cast and crew had put into the play, it was enough for Emison to patiently ignore until he had a reason to be concerned. 

However, Emison and Julien had also learned to compromise in how they shared their small living space in Manhattan. For instance, that previous night, Julien and Emison had hosted a small cast party to bid farewell to one of their castmates and friends in the ensemble. The cast rarely had a chance to party hard, due to the eight-shows a week schedule. That particular night, however, fell before the day that most of the main cast would be replaced by the understudies in previews to make sure that the swing cast were prepared to go on for a normal matinee. Though most of the cast had bid farewell before midnight, those that remained, some crew members, and a collection of assorted friends Emison had not bothered to catch the names of stayed drinking and …indulging, probably….well until the early hours of the morning. 

Emison himself had clocked out around 2:00 am. He had drifted briefly awake near dawn at the sound of a loud “thump” that seemed to come from the living room or kitchen. Probably the last of the guests slipping out, though the noise sounded both louder and duller than a door slamming. But Emison’s mind was still hazy with alcohol, so he rolled over and immediately drifted back to sleep.

He did not think about the noise again until after he managed to drag himself out of bed, shortly before noon, when his growling stomach won over his post-hangover fatigue and longing to sleep in. Emison had completely forgotten about the thump in the night (or any other worrying memories from the party at all), as he pulled on his sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt before making his way to the kitchen to fish out any leftover pizza from the night before.

Until he found Julien Crowe sprawled face-up upon their living room floor. 

Julien’s thin, narrow-shouldered, long-legged frame lay eagle spread on the plastic hardwood floor. The petite actor was wearing only his glasses, a pair of blue, checkered boxers, and a thin gray undershirt; more bare than Emison had ever remembered seeing him. Stripped of his characteristically dark-toned, meticulously sharp (often designer) outfits, the body sprawled before Emison’s gaze was like a recently plucked bird, as vulnerable in its stillness on the floorboards that it might have been nude for the flush that spread through Emison’s cheeks.  Julien’s thick-rimmed, hipster-esque glasses tilted slightly askew on his thin, straight nose, as his head leaned  slightly to the side. Behind those stylish lenses, his large, pale eyes stared  dilated and slightly bulging, clear gray irises like shards of glass within a glazed, unblinking stare. Julien’s proud cheekbones, prominent in his heart-shaped face, seemed even sharper than Emison had ever seen them, as if the thin cheeks were slightly sunken in more than usual and his lips and slender fingers had taken on a cerulean hue.

Immediate panic sent Emison’s mind into overdrive. He felt his knees sway and buckle a few yards away. Then he felt his bare knees slam into the floor as he began to shake his friend. First tapping Julien’s face, then shaking, then finally slapping his cheek in desperation. Julien’s head just lolled to the side, his jaw open and slack in a way Emison had never imagined possible on his guarded, dignified friend — posing the face in an expression almost comical,  if Emison had not been terrified. Emison would probably tell him how ridiculous he looked later, once he was sure that Julien would be alright. 

Emison’s own larger, broad-fingered hands grabbed Julien’s wrist in search of a pulse,  only to recoil instinctively at the chill of his skin. The dropped hand plopped to the floor, simultaneously limp and oddly rigid in the fingers. Emison’s own hands were quaking so hard he could not feel a pulse in the lukewarm crook of Julien’s exposed neck or his chest, pressing his hand over a cotton undershirt so thin that traces of light, curling body hair and even the outline of a small nipple were visible through the cloth.

Julien’s chest was still warm under his hands — possibly cooler than usual, but wasn’t Julien always cold? Emison thought Julien had complained often enough of being cold. Often enough that perhaps it was not unusual that his hand was cold to the touch when Emison tried to check his wrist for a pulse that Emison was surely shaking too hard to accurately feel.  As soon as he got Julien breathing, he would let the paramedics deal with that. Emison vaguely tried to recall principles of CPR he had heard of…he had never been trained. He knew that you were supposed to pound on the chest in some way to the beat of a setlist of songs, but no concrete thoughts could form in his head.  In a weak imitation of the CPR he had seen on TV — the exact kind of medical dramas that Julien used to mock for inaccuracy — he placed his own large hands on Julien’s chest and began to try to press down in what he hoped was a vaguely heart-like rhythm. Every few pushes, Emison ducked down and clumsily breathed into his friend’s mouth, pinching Julien’s nose closed as Emison had seen on TV. With each of Emison’s breaths, Julien’s thin chest ballooned, but refused to respond on its own. 

For a distorted timeless stent, Emison felt as if he was standing outside his own body ,watching himself pushing hard on his friend’s chest without response.  It occurred to Emison to close Julien’s eyes so they wouldn’t dry out, so Jules wouldn’t feel discomfort when he finally woke up. He took off Julien’s vintage glasses and folded them on the nearby breakfast table, lest they become bent at this angle. They were expensive glasses, and Julien would probably thank him later. Emison closed Julien’s eyes with a gentle swipe of his hand. He held down the eyelids for several moments, until he was sure they would stay closed on their own. This was a bit harder than Emison had anticipated — it was as if his friend’s eyelids were actively pushing against him. Even when unconscious, he thought, Julien somehow managed to be stubborn.  Closed, Julien’s eyes seemed slightly sunken into his face, framed  by eyelashes so dark and thick that they always seemed to be caked with mascara beneath the slender arches of his perfectly groomed eyebrows.

Emison had only seen the gesture of closing another person’s eyes before in movies and TV shows. It was a gesture both automatic as if he had done it before, yet foreign enough that doing it heightened his sense of unreality. It could just be another scene in another play. Still, actually doing it — even through the haze of the thought of “saving his friend discomfort” — made the reality of what (on some level) he knew had occurred feel unavoidable. After pressing them shut, he froze mid-thrust over his roommate’s unconscious body, as if his own body understood the futility of the gesture before his mind could process it.

Emison fell back from his kneeling position to sit on the ground, suddenly lightheaded, propped back on his own shaking arms. His mouth ran dry and his own heart pounded in his ears, his pulse threatening to burst from his suddenly aching chest. In numb shock, he found his arms pulling the smaller man’s body close and draping him over his lap A’Pietà style.  He was heavier than Emison expected. Julien Crowe was an actor’s 5’10 — no more than 5’7 in Cuban heels, at most, though he seemed even smaller somehow in Emison’s arms in a way that went beyond Emison merely standing around 6’1 and being generally broader in the shoulder, arms, and barrelled chest. He noted through a haze that Julien’s hands were cool and limbs maybe stiffening, but his torso was warm and more malleable. Vaguely, his brain formed the thought he should keep the body warm. His body found itself cradling Julien in his arms, as if to transfer his heat. 

As he rocked his unconscious friend in his arms, he stared into the stunningly peaceful face of Julien Crowe. Without his glasses, his lips parted as if asleep, he looked so vulnerable in Emison’s arms that Emison felt equally soft-bellied and helpless in the presence of such vulnerability. Yet the intricate muscles in Julien’s face seemed to have started to harden in that oddly slack position, leaving the familiar face mask-like and less recognizable. Fragments of the face were recognizable as Julien’s. The large, wide set eyes. The  flare of his delicate nostrils. The underside of his lips and sharp jaw. The arch of his cheekbones. Yet all together in that vague expression, there was a sense of the uncanny — unheimlich, the familiar unfamiliar. The longer Emison stared into that tranquil face, the more the reality materialized that there was no longer a life behind it.

The sob that bubbled up in Emison’s chest burst forth without warning. First, it broke in a shuddering moan — then, began to wrack his tall, broad shouldered frame in full, even as he still felt out of his body, as if watching someone else sob.  His tears swarmed in his eyes as he pulled Julien Crowe’s limp, unresponsive body into a tight embrace, muffling his growing sobs by burying his face in the crook of his friend’s neck, while that lifeless, vacant gaze stared over Emison’s shaking shoulder. Rocking the body back and forth in his arms as he cried, Emison felt even the sudden grief that made him, uncharacteristically, weep almost from a distance as if critiquing another actor’s performance on the stage. He did not know how long he watched this stranger weep. How long he held the body more real than his own. There was no such thing as time.

Eventually, his sobs subsided and he found himself numbly cradling Julien’s limp form in his arms.  Emison continued to hold the body in the silence. The only sound in the apartment was the buzzing of the old A/C unit that their landlord was too cheap to fix and the hum of New York City in the summertime outside their apartment window. 

Arms aching, Emison pulled back to reposition Julien in his numb arms; shifting the slack, limp weight of his friend across his lap and perching Julien’s head on Emison’s muscular thigh as a pillow, instead of letting it lie in the crook of his sore elbow. With his hands now free, Emison smoothed back the dark curls plastered against his friend’s brow and, tucking them gently behind a small, pierced ear, while his other hand rested flat against Julien’s sternum, marveling at its utter stillness.  Moving as if on its own accord, Emison’s hand allowed itself to slowly trail across the cooling chest, as if sucking in any last traces of residual warmth. Numbly, Emison processed what he was holding — felt the stillness and the silence underneath his own shaking breaths. Felt the coolness of Julien’s skin through his shirt. Felt a hardened nipple clearly through the cotton barrier, the curve of a slightly budding breast directly beneath Emison’s suddenly sweaty palm. 

His hand continued to roam across the slender body in his lap. With Julien’s head resting on his thigh, the proximity of its pale, open mouth to Emison’s suddenly perking cock could no longer be ignored.

Emison gulped. His mind was all whirling wheels, like a car in overdrive in mud unable to gain traction. But what he held in his arms was compliant and silent. 

His heart pounded in his ear drums as he stared at the young man in his arms, a bewildering, wretched, sickening urge welling up inside his gut.  The heat that coursed through his body in the absence of any heat in Julien’s suddenly wrecked him with an unexpected and unprocessed sense of shame that he dared not give a name. Or, at least, the vague sense that he should be feeling shame — would be ashamed — whenever the unimaginable grief he also knew (vaguely) lay ahead finally broke through the dam of shock. In a daze, Emison took Julien’s limp hand in both of his own, pausing to feel its oddly plastic texture, before kissing it gently and carefully positioning it across his friend’s still torso. 

With suddenly shaky hands, on instinct without thought, Emison reached out and touched the closed eyelids. The dry, cool skin felt as delicate and brittle as a butterfly’s wing beneath his finger tips. With the same tenderness with which he closed them, Emison carefully reopened Julien’s eyes. 

Emison kept his own eyes equally open as he finally surrendered to the siren’s song of kissing his friend’s cooling lips. 

Tentatively, he glided his own hot, wet tongue across Julien’s dry, stiffening one. The feeling of a cool and motionless tongue on his own set his cock twitching and Emison heard himself stifle a moan into that dead mouth as his own eyes fluttered and slammed shut. The cool, now moistureless roof of the unresisting mouth was begging to be explored with Emison’s tongue, which snaked down as far as he could push it, as he carefully caressed Julien’s jaw while  he forced it farther open for access.

His hands gingerly slid across Julien’s delicate collarbone down to his navel, feeling the cool skin through his undershirt; the thin hip bones, gliding over the still body almost worshipfully. Pressing a tender kiss on the forehead, and then the still-soft cheek, Emison then slipped out his tongue to taste a clean-shaven throat that still bore the traces of last night’s aftershave.

A thought stirred vaguely in Emison’s head that he should not leave Julien lying on the hard floor like this. Hoisting the smaller man in his arms, Emison lifted the body up bridal style to move him to the couch merely a few feet away. 

In Emison’s capable arms, Julien’s body swayed with its stiffening limbs, awkward and unwieldy in death as Emison had never known his roommate and castmate to be in life. Julien had claimed to be “not much of a dancer” — though as always with his false humility, there was the unspoken caveat of “by Broadway standards” — but he had always walked with a ballet dancer’s grace, shifting his slight weight to the ball of his foot with each step, moving like a cat. Still, Julien was heavier than he looked, and Emison barely managed to plop his body down on their couch without dropping him, more roughly than intended.

Julien’s limp form immediately flopped sideways onto the cushions in an awkward position, its feet still resting angled on the floor. Apologetically murmuring, Emison carefully straightened out Julien’s slender legs by resting his friend’s bare, ice cold feed on the couch’s other arm rest. A slender, pale arms dangled off the side of the couch, the tips of its long fingers dangling a millimeter from the hardwood floor.  Emison delicately lifted Julien’s head and moved a small couch pillow firmly behind the neck in order to provide more support. Tilted at that angle, the already parted, slate-blue lips further opened to reveal a violet tongue resting on a row of perfect teeth.

Not allowing himself to think about what he was doing, Emison raised the body’s arms over its head and pulled off the undershirt to reveal a flat, white, nearly hairless chest.  For the first time, an uneasy guilt filled Emison’s stomach at the sight of his friend’s vulnerable, naked body. He had seen glimpses of his castmate naked before in the changing room. Yet never had he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to see the great Julien Crowe so utterly limp and dependent upon him, completely at his mercy. Somehow seeing it open eyed and as nude as an autopsy scene in TV and plays would bring home that the body was dead. 

 Pushing back the sense of taboo further in his mind, Emison finished stripping the body entirely, With a careful yank, he did away with the  boxers to reveal a flaccid, still-pink cock nestled in a clump of well-groomed brown curls in between otherwise hairless legs. Julien’s body was meticulously hair free aside from the groin, even in the underside of his arms and pits, save for a trail of lightly colored hair running between his groin and belly button. It occurred to Emison that Julien’s body hair was noticeably lighter than the black curls on his head, suggesting that black was not his natural hair color. That was something Emison had never thought to consider before. Perhaps he had not known Julien as well as he had thought. 

Now Julien lay naked before him, turned awkwardly on the side until Emison reset the body supine again.  Though Julien had always been pale, the skin of his entire body, laid out before his eyes, was more pale than Emison had ever seen it; white to the point of asheness in the natural light streaming through their apartment windows.

The sheer surreality of seeing Julien lying nude before him, as he gently caressed his bare chest, was as surreal as processing that that same chest was so still. The sudden desire to be close to Julien welled up in his chest again and, almost in aggression to push away grief (and maybe more so the shame at how Emison was resisting that grief). Emison’s mouth and hands began to explore every forbidden inch of that body, moving slowly over the cooling flesh as if to commit each touch to memory. Planting kisses along the underside of Julien’s hairless, slender arms, he marveled at the onset of rigor, bending the wrist and elbow to force the long, thin fingers to fondle Julien’s own unusually small nipple, before letting the arm fall undignified to the side. He was kneeling on the floor next to the couch, his own tanned, guitar-calloused hands running down the length of the body sprawled before him. Emison’s hand paused above Julien’s pubic bone…drawing out the moment before he crossed a bridge he could never return from or forget. He let that hand slip down so slowly…to take the bloodless, wilted penis and testicals into his hand. 

Cupping them, stroking them, caressing them in his palm … Julien was annoyingly well-endowed for such a slender person, who may not have used that gorgeous body, anyway. The details of Julien’s sexuality was a mystery to Emison. Though Julien identified as queer, as a nonbinary person who was “fine with all pronouns,” that label could have as easily clarified their gender while keeping their sexual preference a mystery. Emison had assumed Julien was gay, until an offhand hint that he had had a relationship with a woman of sorts sometime in his theater career. Yet before that he had always seen Julien as vaguely asexual. That is, until the few times they were drinking together, early in their friendship. Julien had been unable to hold back suggestions and tales of his wild, wild years in his 20s at college, after he had escaped his fundamentalist Christian home. Emison had always seen himself as straight, though he had thought he was comfortable enough in sexuality that if that had changed, he would “go for it.” Yet he could not really say he had been attracted to Julien before….had he? Aside from agreeing that Julien was an undeniably beautiful person, as many successful actors often were, Emison could honestly say he had never fantasized about touching his body like this. Never even imagined it. But then again, touching Julien like this at all was blasphemous to think about, until desecrating his body was holy. Emison definitely knew he had a lot to psychoanalyze about himself later. The fact that the body — the dead body — he lusted after was male was the least of his concerns. 

So Emison took the corpse’s flaccid cock in his mouth just to feel its weight. His dark eyes fluttered shut and rolled back in desire at its utter lack of resistance. Emison had kissed many men on stage over the years in acting, even had some intimate scenes in bed in Angels in America, but never had he taken another person’s cock into his mouth before. Never even imagined it. As he took the full member as far down his throat as he could, his nose brushing against honeysuckle-smelling pubic hair, Emison forced his eyes open to stare at the underside of Julien’s jaw, as he rested his cheek on Jules’ smooth thigh. 

After he sucked on the member long enough for his knees and neck to start to ache in that position, but not long enough to sate his desire, he let the limp cock slip from his mouth, slimed with his spit. He planted a tender, reverent kiss on the veiny underside of the flesh before he got to his feet.

Panting, sweat now gathering on his own brow and chest, Emison found himself standing up over the couch. He spat on his own palm and dropped his sweatpants. He lifted and kissed Julien’s hand with the respect of greeting royalty, before laying that cold hand against his own hardening penis. With some effort, Emison wrapped the rigid fingers around himself and began to fuck that hand in slow, careful thrusts; unable to suppress another shameless moan at the motion of the cold, unresponsive fingers around his warm and very responsive cock. He pushed himself across the delicate palm, the body jostling sideways with each jerk of the dead hand’s grip around his half-erection. As he began to accelerate pace, he had the sudden desire to go further inside the lips that fell further open with every tug of the hand.  

He then impulsively dropped the hand without thinking and seized the body by its nearest leg and arm to yank it closer to him. He then repositioned the head over the edge of the couch edge, forcing its mouth further open. With one hand firmly tangled in Julien’s dark curls and using another to pry open the jaw, Emison managed to twist the head at an odd enough angle to insert his throbbing shaft into Julien’s mouth, taking care not to scrape against its teeth.  

lThe cool, dry feel of the inner cheek of a dead mouth around his cock was, truth be told, not comfortable. But the sight of Julien’s tantalizingly blank face bobbing complacently down Emison’s erection turned him more than anything he had ever seen. Yet the sensation was beginning to feel too rough. Carefully, almost tenderly, Emison flipped the body at an angle so that Julien’s head dangled practically upside down off the edge of the couch cushions, further explored the lovely arch of his throat.

At this angle, Emison’s erection could sink fully into the un-gagging throat.  Seeing that elegant throat bulging from the inside…coupled with the knowledge it was  his own dick that made it so …God, that went straight to his groin. One hand continued to guide his passage into the mouth while his free hand continued to roam across the entire body, feeling the cold contours of its taunt skin. The head of his cock brushed against the final traces of the body’s warmth at the back of the throat, even as the rest of Julien’s graying skin was now cooler to the touch than Emison had remembered it being when he first walked in the room.

Yet it was not enough to defile the body with a holy reverence. Emison needed to see the eyes. To know the body in his arms was indeed Julien Crowe’s and that Julien was there no longer.  To try to process the death, but also to almost reassure himself of it — reassure himself  it was not Julien he was violating with this tender touch.  Julien was beyond pain, humiliation, guilt, or dread — quite unlike Emison knew he would be, once the shock and desire wore off and the realization of what he did, what he was currently doing, finally hit him. 

Suddenly impatient, his penis now as stiff as Julien’s limbs, Emison pulled back from the mouth with a shuddering sigh. He then rapidly stripped off his own remaining clothes, tossing his t-shirt aside near where Julien’s discarded clothes lay on the floor. It felt right, he decided, that they should be equally naked.  He wanted to be the last one to feel the warmth fade from his dead friend’s flesh.  Emison craved the image of the dry, cold corpse glistening with his own sweat. 

He allowed himself to plant a kiss on Julien’s chilly, still parted lips before climbing completely on the couch to re-mount the dead body. He flung both its slightly-stiffening legs over his shoulders, the sensation of its knee caps’ rigidity sending wonderful, repulsive little shudders of arousal through his every nerve.  He sunk his hard cock into Julien’s unresisting, slack hole with a low moan. At first, Emison moved in deliberate, careful thrusts. After a long time that felt like an instant, he let the skinny legs fall from his shoulders to cup his waist, so as to better lie down closer to the body and take it in his arms. In missionary position, his arms around the thin corpse, he could fully press its naked coldness against his own warm, flushed flesh from chest to groin.  

Now situated in the missionary position, Emision began to kiss the still lips with all the tenderness of kissing a living lover. His hands dug into the corpse’s lower back and shoulder blades to keep a grip as his rhythm increased. As he pummelled the body faster, his kisses grew increasingly sloppy and frantic in tandem with his building orgasm. His forehead bumped against the still, cold one with each escalating thrust. His hand holding up the body’s shoulders  rose up and clenched and pulled the head’s dark hair. The only sounds in the apartment were the slapping of Emison’s balls against the body’s flat pale cheeks and thighs beneath his rising groans.  

All the while Julien’s lifeless face thudded along impassively, expression serene, its vacant, glassy stare fixed but unfocused on the apartment cheap staccato ceiling. Those dead eyes were the hottest thing Emison had ever seen and he could not remember being more turned on. 

“Oh God, Julien…” Emison moaned “Oh Jules…you feel soo good…so cold and good…”

Too overcome with lust to continue kissing the lips and thrusting on rhythm, Emison’s mouth dropped down to sloppily pelt the pulseless column of its neck. The kisses then progressed harder to nipping a neck he knew would never bruise again. The way Emison moaned and pleaded and cried would have been humiliating if Julien had heard them (never mind what Julien would have thought about what he would never know).

When Emison finally came with a shout, he collapsed on top of the body with all of his weight. Nestling his head on Julien’s flat breasts as if listening to a nonexistent heartbeat, lost in post-coital glow, Emison drank in the stillness and new silence that seemed to take the room. Beyond their living room window, a car alarm honked rhythmically alongside the distant shouts of their neighbors as the outside world materialized in the backdrop of Emison’s shuddering breaths.

Emison eventually raised his head and — still lying completely flush against Julien – keeping his own gaze glued on the ashen face, his cock now flaccid inside Julien’s cooling hole. He began to stroke his dead friend’s hair and brow, resting one broad, tanned hand on Julien’s forehead while still caressing the still body with the other. 

There was an intimacy at being alone with Julien’s  dead body — an intimacy so present that, paradoxically, made the abscence of Julien himself more stark. Something about trespass of touching his haughty, reserved friend deep from his sacred inside, while kissing his throat with a gentleness that Julien would have never allowed in life — a tenderness he knew his friend had craved but never knew 

Suddenly Emison became aware of the soreness in his lower back and knees — as if indulging grief and shock and pleasure at once had numbed him from all other sensations. He needed to stretch before he got a charley horse in his leg. Drinking all night was not the only thing he could no longer do in his 30s

Thus Emison finally pulled out, kissing the dead actor’s lips in gratitude. After savoring that final, chaste kiss to cold lips still glistening with his own cum, Emison finally turned around and stumbled towards the kitchen. He needed a drink of water, he decided. Then, he needed to pee. The body would still be waiting for him on the couch when he returned.

Later, of course, he would wash the body in his own bathroom. Reclothe it. Reposition it in Julien’s bed. Close its eyes. Replace its glasses on its bedside table. Finally call 911.

Yet there was no rush. Julien and Emison were not due to be present at the understudies’ performance that manintee or evening. Even if they had been, the evening show was hours away. By that time, he would be reasonably “awake” enough to “find” his roommate in Julien’s own room in bed. Emison would “find” him after a long day of “assuming Julien was not home” — not unlike him — only to become worried in the evening when “he had not come home yet.” By then, Emison would have removed evidence of his sweet transgression. Any remaining DNA on the skin or inside the mouth could be explained by a haphazard attempt at CPR. 

But until that moment came, nothing could stop Emison from returning to lie with Julien’s smooth body in his arms and feel his corpse stiffen under his weight, to take advantage of this limbo state where the grief had not fully hit him (alongside the no-doubt upcoming shame still yet to sink in).  

Calmly, he walked into the kitchen without a backwards glance at Julien Crowe, sprawled still on the leather couch.  What would come would come, and he would meet himself and the world when it did. There was still time to spend uninterrupted. 

After the party, the calm before the storm.

***

Author’s Note: 

EDIT: An earlier draft of this story had Emison have a different name — Emison Waylon Thomas — but I had too many character OCs with some similar names that I switched it to Waylon Emison and decided to have him go by his last name as a term of affection by his friends and how he thinks of himself for characterization reasons. 

Also,not that it is too relevant here, but Julien’s cause of death is an accidental overdose due to a preexisting heart condition here. This is hinted in the beginning paragraphs regarding his partying habits and recreational drug use. Also Julien is supposed to be nonbinary and use all pronouns, so that Emison’s inner monologue calls Julien a “man” a few times is a slip up and not representative of how I would refer to a nonbinary person. (Apparently I can’t help but do characterization even when it’s an OC in a PWP dark kink fic. Will come up if I continue this verse.